[P] A Stranger in a Strange Land

[Orias]

M

aybe it comes to no surprise to the wandering mind, that beauty attracts those who are intimately acquainted with it. The nature of it is as varied as the individual who is often posed the question, what do you find beautiful, some will follow the inevitable and often tragic trend of following the masses. Subscribing to the trend of popular, in order to conform and seek appropriate and objectively manufactured approval by those who would sooner watch paint dry than attempt to obtain a name to a carbon copy face.

Beauty is subjective, and Orias finds the abstract even more so. Things and souls whose magnificence is sharp and startling, otherworldly. Things which persist to defy the conventional, make the mind question whether the depths of the universe's creativity and diversity have an end. Whether the being in front of them is truth or the sum of a magnificent illusion. They wouldn't question the validity of the latter, as they wind through crystal formations, their gait smoothe as silk. Hair flowing as the maiden of the sky's angora tips liquid starlight into the cosmos.

At the beginning of their excursion into this palace of mirrors and wonders, they had seen only reflections of themselves. Winking back at them, others no more than a smirking countenence of mirth and curiousity. Judging, they'd like to say, measuring the sum of their adventures. Briefly, he hopes that it's rather bland on their palate, even if reflections typically do not have taste for fine things and adventuring. Slowly however, as the crystals had changed shape, so too had their own reflection staring back. There are glimpses of his younger self, bounding out of view and back again, all long legs and no coordination.

Then of course, there are glimpses of their future self — arguably the most tragic thing of all to find in an otherwise pristine palace of glass — eyes listless and legs crooked, there is no orb between their gold crown to glean the secrets of the cosmos. Just them, stripped back, watching the sand in the hourglass turn to dust. Orias has only an annoyed huff of breath for those mirror images, at least they keep their cheekbones. It's somewhat of a palm, the same way one shadows their face as they slip away from a rather unsightly altercation. Orias walks until they're surrounded by crystal structures. Some smooth, others jagged, each one strange and brilliant by design.

They gaze deep, and watch as their life gazes back. A gilt hoof raises upon it's sharp tips as they play the image of a relaxed adventurer, but they're anything but. There are secrets here.

"Why?" Spoken a tthe end of a wondering exhale, an ear crooked in thought. An ever changing island is a mystery to be sure, but islands don't just change shape and if it is the work of the Gods, seldom do they often do things on a whim. But what do they know, these Gods are not theirs by design, by blood and by loyalty and the Gods of their homeland are far more tempestous. Playing with an island seems rather quaint.

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TAG: @Ruth
NOTES: brb yelling rusty at clouds.