quiet houses, lit up by candlelight
Atlas had come to appreciate the cover of the forest canopy like a lover drawing a blanket over one's sleepy head. He was more accustomed to the desert's naked sky and treacherous terrain, but, he had come to realize, he was nothing if not adaptable. His time in the Dusk courts had offered him the opportunity to learn much about new environs. While his homeland consisted of sandy wasteland, harsh rock, and was surrounded by the wicked open sea, here the land was lush and green, and warm in the summer and cold in the winter. He could now identify over a hundred new types of plants from root and stem alone, and his knowledge of the constellations was nigh unparalleled.
To Atlas, the trees concealing the night sky was perhaps the only drawback to the swamp. He loved the stars, and would always love the stars, and so he drove himself to discover a way to clearly see and map the celestial bodies above the Tinea Swamp. While Prastagia offered an unbeatable view of the night sky, Atlas found only by being securely centered in a place could he get the best grasp of the heavens.
Wandering was a crucial part of himself, and so it did not bother him to pick up and explore. A new camp every night was a refreshing break from the monotony of the Terrastellan citadel, which he frequently found stuffy and overcrowded. Years of harsh, open expanses had made him ill-suited for city living, even the impoverished type. He pressed his nose into an open swamp hibiscus bloom and inhaled. Absurd to think once upon a time he was a prince and slept on silk sheets.
The heat and wet of the day caused the tattered fragments of Nashira's cloak to stick to his skin; still, he bore not a thought towards taking it off. That bloodstained and threadbare relic would stay pinned to his throat till his dying day.
Atlas picked his way along the bank of a particularly murky stretch of water, his golden limbs caked in muck. He was a bit of a sight, mud-coated and more a dingy bronze than his true radiant tawny color. His hair was mottled and tangled and he stank of moons on the road. Still, every day brought him deeper into the swamp and closer to his goal-- but as he traveled, the tree cover became thicker and his hopes of finding a clear spot to see the stars from flickered and faded.
So focused is he on not falling victim to sink hole or massive snapping turtle that Atlas doesn't realize the strangeness in the trees until he is halfway up a trunk. Stairs, he realized at the absence of mud beneath his hooves, I am walking up a set of stairs. Around him, the massive tree bends and undulates in an unnatural fashion. It darkens the summer sun and the shade cools his dirty skin.
He presses on, driven by innate curiosity and the absence of fear that can only come at the disparaging of one's own life. Atlas climbed up as the trunk bowed in a half-circle, emerging in some semblance of a room. It smells of dank and wood and yet is comforting-- and, most importantly, the canopy above is broken enough to let the light come in from above. He can see the sky from here!
He keeps a cap on his jumping hopes as he explores a bit more and finds not all of the 'rooms', with gnarled walls and worn floors, are open like that one. Perhaps it is newer? He nudges himself across a threshold and jumps a bit at the sound of a voice; here, blending into the darkness of another chamber, is another equine. Their voice stirs the unfurling leaves.
"Your guess is as good as mine," Atlas says, friendly but quiet. He felt the mare's words were not meant for him as much as they were just a verbal thought, but he could not help but join in the wonderful camaraderie of confusion. "It's old, though. Very old. And it probably wouldn't be too far off to say imbued with some strange magic, as all this land seems to be." He came up beside the stranger, shorter than her by nearly a half foot. "Curiouser and curiouser, of course."
To Atlas, the trees concealing the night sky was perhaps the only drawback to the swamp. He loved the stars, and would always love the stars, and so he drove himself to discover a way to clearly see and map the celestial bodies above the Tinea Swamp. While Prastagia offered an unbeatable view of the night sky, Atlas found only by being securely centered in a place could he get the best grasp of the heavens.
Wandering was a crucial part of himself, and so it did not bother him to pick up and explore. A new camp every night was a refreshing break from the monotony of the Terrastellan citadel, which he frequently found stuffy and overcrowded. Years of harsh, open expanses had made him ill-suited for city living, even the impoverished type. He pressed his nose into an open swamp hibiscus bloom and inhaled. Absurd to think once upon a time he was a prince and slept on silk sheets.
The heat and wet of the day caused the tattered fragments of Nashira's cloak to stick to his skin; still, he bore not a thought towards taking it off. That bloodstained and threadbare relic would stay pinned to his throat till his dying day.
Atlas picked his way along the bank of a particularly murky stretch of water, his golden limbs caked in muck. He was a bit of a sight, mud-coated and more a dingy bronze than his true radiant tawny color. His hair was mottled and tangled and he stank of moons on the road. Still, every day brought him deeper into the swamp and closer to his goal-- but as he traveled, the tree cover became thicker and his hopes of finding a clear spot to see the stars from flickered and faded.
So focused is he on not falling victim to sink hole or massive snapping turtle that Atlas doesn't realize the strangeness in the trees until he is halfway up a trunk. Stairs, he realized at the absence of mud beneath his hooves, I am walking up a set of stairs. Around him, the massive tree bends and undulates in an unnatural fashion. It darkens the summer sun and the shade cools his dirty skin.
He presses on, driven by innate curiosity and the absence of fear that can only come at the disparaging of one's own life. Atlas climbed up as the trunk bowed in a half-circle, emerging in some semblance of a room. It smells of dank and wood and yet is comforting-- and, most importantly, the canopy above is broken enough to let the light come in from above. He can see the sky from here!
He keeps a cap on his jumping hopes as he explores a bit more and finds not all of the 'rooms', with gnarled walls and worn floors, are open like that one. Perhaps it is newer? He nudges himself across a threshold and jumps a bit at the sound of a voice; here, blending into the darkness of another chamber, is another equine. Their voice stirs the unfurling leaves.
"Your guess is as good as mine," Atlas says, friendly but quiet. He felt the mare's words were not meant for him as much as they were just a verbal thought, but he could not help but join in the wonderful camaraderie of confusion. "It's old, though. Very old. And it probably wouldn't be too far off to say imbued with some strange magic, as all this land seems to be." He came up beside the stranger, shorter than her by nearly a half foot. "Curiouser and curiouser, of course."
@MEPHISTO | 726 | ATLAS: MIND IF I MANSPLAIN
