between two lungs it was released
Throughout all his life's adventures, Atlas had banked too much experience with the harrowing and dangerous to be afraid of the dark. He was, after all, a scholar of the stars; most of his nights were spent in near-complete blackness, with only the glow of the heavens above radiating off the golden wheels and spokes of his father's intricate astrarium to light his surroundings. Even the desert, so vast and bleak to the untrained eye, was never completely dark; on the rarest nights when the clouds rolled in with the promise of rain and smothered the constellations, the atmosphere was alive and charged with flashes of lightning. Unhindered, these great, desert thunderbolts would cover the whole world in flashes of cyan light, illuminating the area for miles around.
Nashira, he remembered, could navigate the world without her eyes, using her other senses to direct her without running into obstacles or ending up in danger. It was a skill she practiced and mastered, at the behest of her mother, when she was young. Such techniques were necessary for survival as a brothel slave, to escape the dark rooms of ruthless 'clients'; but for Atlas, whose life at the top of the social and economical chain meant he never had to struggle, it was nigh-impossible to grasp. It was, apparently, something children learned quickly, or so Nashira told him, and adults often struggled with till well into their older years.
She had drilled him by walking the hallways of the Al-Tazarad estate blindfolded. Even traversing pathways he knew by heart was difficult without the use of his eyes, and his clumsiness had resulted in the destruction of a number of priceless vases or pieces of glasswork.
Still, his family was rich-- the third richest family in all the land-- so nothing was too priceless to replace.
Even now, long years after Nashira's disappearance from his life, he held everything she taught him, every word she'd ever said, close to his heart. And so, as he left the confines of his safe Terrastellan bunkhouse to delve out into the darkening night, the grey and torn remnants of Nashira's once-great cloak-- her last, and potentially most important, gift to him-- resting on his neck, he went not with a madness or illness, but with purpose. He went, quietly, and with intent to start training this 'blindsight' skill again, into that good night.
The night was thick with darkness and the heavy weight of summer heat. The closer he drew to the swamp, the less it felt like he was walking, and the more it seemed he was swimming through the dense, humid air. Screaming tree frogs, buzzing cicadas, and the incessant chirping of a chorus of crickets filled his ears; now and then the raucous hoo-hoo-hoo-AW of a Barred Owl would ring out, sending the larger insects and smaller rodents scurrying for safety.
Atlas picked his way along the very edge of the swamp; normally, Nashira would have preferred him blindfolded for such training, but Atlas hoped she would be okay with him simply using the night to dampen his visual senses. Still, she was never one to urge him into danger without proper preparation, and the swamp was a dangerous enough place to begin with.
He found a thin ridge of higher ground with sides that sloped down into thick much leading into the swamp proper between rows of dangling cypress and followed it, paying close attention to the sound his hooves made on the solid ground, and the way the air smelled and felt in his nose and lungs over earth versus over water.
His path led upwards to the trunk of a thick mangrove; on the opposite side, it sloughed downwards to a sludgy, slow-moving creek. He paused at the trunk of this tree, near blind in the lightless space, and was considering his next moves when out of the corner of his eye he spotted a flash. It reminded him so much of desert lightning he lifted his nose and scented the air, but there was only the claggy, hanging stench of stagnant water, and no smell of a fresh, rain-laden incoming storm.
It was also not a flash, he realized, as the light emerged from beyond a gnarled, dead tree trunk and continued onwards, but a static, horizontally shifting beacon of light. In his mind, his curiosity was waging a battle with his sense of self-preservation; it was an oft-repeated struggle his wondering mind always won.
Using the beacon-- which was fading in size but not in brightness-- as a guide, Atlas moved forward through the swamp.
It was slow-going. The ridge he was walking on frequently dipped into potholes of sinking, sucking sludge; rotten stumps and chunks of rock were invisible barriers in his path that he didn't know were there until he was clacking his hooves against them.
Eventually, he drew close to the light; he realized it was moving forward... through the water? He high-stepped through the reeds at the water's edge, peering close to the surface of the swamp so as to make out the shape. It seemed to him vaguely equine... he squinted, and in doing so, caught a brief motion out of the corner of his eye.
In a flash, he launched his golden body out of the way of the lunging caiman. His front legs slid in the mud and he splashed at the edge of the water, wrenching his back half to jump out of the way of the predator's attack. He crashed haphazardly in the water, back end pressing up against the muddy bank, front half completely submerged up to the lin where his chest met his neck.
The reptile paused with its mouth open, its eyes gleaming in the faint cyan glow. They eyed each other for a moment, the panicked stallion with his chest heaving and the hunting caiman with its teeth glimmering blue in the mysterious light. It only took a few moments for the reptile to realize it may have underestimated the size of his prey, and with a hissing gurgle, it pushed itself into the water and paddled slowly away.
Atlas, still gasping for air, pulled one stock-straight leg from the muck at the bottom of the water with a great effort and a horrendous sucking noise. He peered down at the water, cringing.
This may have been his worst idea yet, to date.
Nashira, he remembered, could navigate the world without her eyes, using her other senses to direct her without running into obstacles or ending up in danger. It was a skill she practiced and mastered, at the behest of her mother, when she was young. Such techniques were necessary for survival as a brothel slave, to escape the dark rooms of ruthless 'clients'; but for Atlas, whose life at the top of the social and economical chain meant he never had to struggle, it was nigh-impossible to grasp. It was, apparently, something children learned quickly, or so Nashira told him, and adults often struggled with till well into their older years.
She had drilled him by walking the hallways of the Al-Tazarad estate blindfolded. Even traversing pathways he knew by heart was difficult without the use of his eyes, and his clumsiness had resulted in the destruction of a number of priceless vases or pieces of glasswork.
Still, his family was rich-- the third richest family in all the land-- so nothing was too priceless to replace.
Even now, long years after Nashira's disappearance from his life, he held everything she taught him, every word she'd ever said, close to his heart. And so, as he left the confines of his safe Terrastellan bunkhouse to delve out into the darkening night, the grey and torn remnants of Nashira's once-great cloak-- her last, and potentially most important, gift to him-- resting on his neck, he went not with a madness or illness, but with purpose. He went, quietly, and with intent to start training this 'blindsight' skill again, into that good night.
The night was thick with darkness and the heavy weight of summer heat. The closer he drew to the swamp, the less it felt like he was walking, and the more it seemed he was swimming through the dense, humid air. Screaming tree frogs, buzzing cicadas, and the incessant chirping of a chorus of crickets filled his ears; now and then the raucous hoo-hoo-hoo-AW of a Barred Owl would ring out, sending the larger insects and smaller rodents scurrying for safety.
Atlas picked his way along the very edge of the swamp; normally, Nashira would have preferred him blindfolded for such training, but Atlas hoped she would be okay with him simply using the night to dampen his visual senses. Still, she was never one to urge him into danger without proper preparation, and the swamp was a dangerous enough place to begin with.
He found a thin ridge of higher ground with sides that sloped down into thick much leading into the swamp proper between rows of dangling cypress and followed it, paying close attention to the sound his hooves made on the solid ground, and the way the air smelled and felt in his nose and lungs over earth versus over water.
His path led upwards to the trunk of a thick mangrove; on the opposite side, it sloughed downwards to a sludgy, slow-moving creek. He paused at the trunk of this tree, near blind in the lightless space, and was considering his next moves when out of the corner of his eye he spotted a flash. It reminded him so much of desert lightning he lifted his nose and scented the air, but there was only the claggy, hanging stench of stagnant water, and no smell of a fresh, rain-laden incoming storm.
It was also not a flash, he realized, as the light emerged from beyond a gnarled, dead tree trunk and continued onwards, but a static, horizontally shifting beacon of light. In his mind, his curiosity was waging a battle with his sense of self-preservation; it was an oft-repeated struggle his wondering mind always won.
Using the beacon-- which was fading in size but not in brightness-- as a guide, Atlas moved forward through the swamp.
It was slow-going. The ridge he was walking on frequently dipped into potholes of sinking, sucking sludge; rotten stumps and chunks of rock were invisible barriers in his path that he didn't know were there until he was clacking his hooves against them.
Eventually, he drew close to the light; he realized it was moving forward... through the water? He high-stepped through the reeds at the water's edge, peering close to the surface of the swamp so as to make out the shape. It seemed to him vaguely equine... he squinted, and in doing so, caught a brief motion out of the corner of his eye.
In a flash, he launched his golden body out of the way of the lunging caiman. His front legs slid in the mud and he splashed at the edge of the water, wrenching his back half to jump out of the way of the predator's attack. He crashed haphazardly in the water, back end pressing up against the muddy bank, front half completely submerged up to the lin where his chest met his neck.
The reptile paused with its mouth open, its eyes gleaming in the faint cyan glow. They eyed each other for a moment, the panicked stallion with his chest heaving and the hunting caiman with its teeth glimmering blue in the mysterious light. It only took a few moments for the reptile to realize it may have underestimated the size of his prey, and with a hissing gurgle, it pushed itself into the water and paddled slowly away.
Atlas, still gasping for air, pulled one stock-straight leg from the muck at the bottom of the water with a great effort and a horrendous sucking noise. He peered down at the water, cringing.
This may have been his worst idea yet, to date.
@Below Zero @Rhone | ahh i was too late and already a million words in so i hope u dnt mind me dropping this dumbass in | atlas wanders in the dark
