museums of fear
—
The island is a fever dream; she is the dreamer; but there is no midnight serenade, no nighttime interlude . The dream is a day-dream, and the sun does not set. For three days time does not exist.
It is slightly ludicrous, the tilt of the sun, the stillness of the sea. There is something unsettlingly clear about the sky, and the sharpness of leaves and brush. The grass slants at a certain angle, wildly, mockingly, and everything within the island exists as though off-kilter. Almost, as though, frozen as the day was frozen. Without a breeze. The air is oddly stagnant, especially in the way it smells of thick island humidity, a sweaty, thick, earthy odour. An odour of contradictory natures; the sea, the brine, the soil, the foliage. There are no strange birds now; no glowing luminescence. The wildcats of the past weeks had slunk somewhere into the brush, and disappeared. Fetid. Not quite rotting… not quite… but the island is a corpse left too long in the sun, and something, something must give way.
The mare trots along the beach with all the wild restlessness of a tigress. She is striped and vicious, and the sun beats down upon the slicked copper of her head to make her seem at once monstrous and strange. Her tail lashes her sides, and it is clear the island magic has seeped thoroughly into her blood. The same fever dream exists within her mind, within her heart, and there is a restless beating that propels her forward, forward, forward. To an observer, her searching has lost its beauty. It has, instead, taken on the ragged desperation of starvation: it is an empty stomach within her, growling, craving sustenance. What could possibly fulfil such a void wanting? Such an aching dissatisfaction?
She is blood red and sooty black. She is the sun and the gleam fo garnet and the bars of midnight stripes. She is at once the fire of the day and everything that belongs to the jagged, jet-black cliffs of her homeland. Her hooves meet the water of the sea with the ferocity of a mortal attempting to change fate—her head tosses with the pride of every feral thing, and when she begins to run, it is after the footprints of a god.
Boudika hunts. She does not know what possesses her or why, but the claws of compulsion have etched themselves deeper and deeper into her heart. The compulsion is deep, consuming—and again and again, with increasing intensity:
WHAT favour would you ask a god? What FAVOUR would you ask a god? What favour would you ASK a god?
WHAT FAVOUR
WOULD YOU
ASK A GOD?
And her tongue is dry, her mind is alight with something hopeful, ecstatic, addictive. She would ask him everything: she would ask him for time because more and more she knew, Time was Everything.
And so she runs. She runs with the fear of an animal chased; she runs with the courage of the pursuer, the huntress. She tears through the underbrush and doubles back, finding again and again the weave of the tracks, the trail that will lead her to the end, and the promise of an answer is so tantalising she cannot help herself. The idea—the hope—is such a bright thing she feels seared by it, as though the sun itself is a reflection of her ambition, as though time has stilled for her and she thinks, again and again as she runs and her heart thunders within her chest, I can change the past—
She is there.
She is there.
Breaking through the underbrush, the trees, to stumble panting into a meadow. Sweat foams off her skin. She is terrible action within the fever dream; a picture of startling life, and clarity, and awake. Her crimson eyes are the colour of arterial blood. Her mane sticks to the wetness on her neck, and her haunches nearly drip with the humidity of the still island. She steps forward; and forward still; and there is a young girl, with an ax, and August, with all his golden colour. There are many others she does not know.
But what matters is the relic, gleaming from the center of a sand mound. She steps toward it. Closer. Closer.
And stops.
Because it feels wrong to take from a god.
But she is hungrier than she has ever been before, so she follows the ax-wielding child, a step behind.
@Boudika "speaks"
It is slightly ludicrous, the tilt of the sun, the stillness of the sea. There is something unsettlingly clear about the sky, and the sharpness of leaves and brush. The grass slants at a certain angle, wildly, mockingly, and everything within the island exists as though off-kilter. Almost, as though, frozen as the day was frozen. Without a breeze. The air is oddly stagnant, especially in the way it smells of thick island humidity, a sweaty, thick, earthy odour. An odour of contradictory natures; the sea, the brine, the soil, the foliage. There are no strange birds now; no glowing luminescence. The wildcats of the past weeks had slunk somewhere into the brush, and disappeared. Fetid. Not quite rotting… not quite… but the island is a corpse left too long in the sun, and something, something must give way.
The mare trots along the beach with all the wild restlessness of a tigress. She is striped and vicious, and the sun beats down upon the slicked copper of her head to make her seem at once monstrous and strange. Her tail lashes her sides, and it is clear the island magic has seeped thoroughly into her blood. The same fever dream exists within her mind, within her heart, and there is a restless beating that propels her forward, forward, forward. To an observer, her searching has lost its beauty. It has, instead, taken on the ragged desperation of starvation: it is an empty stomach within her, growling, craving sustenance. What could possibly fulfil such a void wanting? Such an aching dissatisfaction?
She is blood red and sooty black. She is the sun and the gleam fo garnet and the bars of midnight stripes. She is at once the fire of the day and everything that belongs to the jagged, jet-black cliffs of her homeland. Her hooves meet the water of the sea with the ferocity of a mortal attempting to change fate—her head tosses with the pride of every feral thing, and when she begins to run, it is after the footprints of a god.
Boudika hunts. She does not know what possesses her or why, but the claws of compulsion have etched themselves deeper and deeper into her heart. The compulsion is deep, consuming—and again and again, with increasing intensity:
WHAT favour would you ask a god? What FAVOUR would you ask a god? What favour would you ASK a god?
WHAT FAVOUR
WOULD YOU
ASK A GOD?
And her tongue is dry, her mind is alight with something hopeful, ecstatic, addictive. She would ask him everything: she would ask him for time because more and more she knew, Time was Everything.
And so she runs. She runs with the fear of an animal chased; she runs with the courage of the pursuer, the huntress. She tears through the underbrush and doubles back, finding again and again the weave of the tracks, the trail that will lead her to the end, and the promise of an answer is so tantalising she cannot help herself. The idea—the hope—is such a bright thing she feels seared by it, as though the sun itself is a reflection of her ambition, as though time has stilled for her and she thinks, again and again as she runs and her heart thunders within her chest, I can change the past—
She is there.
She is there.
Breaking through the underbrush, the trees, to stumble panting into a meadow. Sweat foams off her skin. She is terrible action within the fever dream; a picture of startling life, and clarity, and awake. Her crimson eyes are the colour of arterial blood. Her mane sticks to the wetness on her neck, and her haunches nearly drip with the humidity of the still island. She steps forward; and forward still; and there is a young girl, with an ax, and August, with all his golden colour. There are many others she does not know.
But what matters is the relic, gleaming from the center of a sand mound. She steps toward it. Closer. Closer.
And stops.
Because it feels wrong to take from a god.
But she is hungrier than she has ever been before, so she follows the ax-wielding child, a step behind.
@Boudika "speaks"
STAFF EDIT***
@boudika has rolled a 6! She has been awarded a brittle horseshoe which can be traded in for an extra roll.
