04-21-2019, 04:51 PM
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<center><div class="Wennycontain"><img class="Wennyimg" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/ea/37/69/ea3769a9996075ca9173f6b7facc065a.jpg"><div class="Wennyname">Eurwen</div>
<div class="Wennyquote">the secret of walking on water<br>is knowing where the rocks lie</div><div class="Wennygrad"></div><div class="Wennytext">
Instinct saves her, when nothing else can. If to be saved is preferred over simply tumbling down with her objects, she will only question later. Now, the stone mountain which she is still connected to, breaks open and she hurries backwards to avoid a fall.
It was the last moment of her connection with the trait.
While the fairies pulled all their magic from the corners of the world as she knew it, a strange thing happened to the helpers gathered on the Mountain - especially the young one still connected to said rock. The earth split and so did her earthen magic - rocks and debris flying freely in a tornado of mad stones, of hardy material shards seemingly designed to kill the unwary. Eurwen doesn’t think much about it, her mind confused and disappointed in herself still, again, who is to say. She cannot grasp the rocks that fly about, fly around her. She only hopes the fairies did not mean for this to happen, and that the others had already gone ahead and would not be hot by the byproduct of her incapability to control her own gift.
The rocky box has broken, yet the cures within still cling to her like a magnet. At least they had not been harmed. At least they still came with her when she moved towards the endless-looking pit.
A narrow path lies before her, down down deep into the split mountain. It’s surprisingly hot now, perhaps the mountain’s rocks had held warmth all along, but it never made it to the surface. But she can’t linger on such mysteries - down is where she must go.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she is glad that her father and brother stayed behind. At least they can have a good life even if she perishes now, she thinks. Her thoughts linger on her mother and twin then; no, it’s fine. Surely she will be missed, but they can survive without her if necessary. After all, she has found herself pretty useless. A sacrifice like hers wouldn’t be too troublesome on the rest of the world.
The path is hard with rocks flying and the earth still trembling. Is it her magic that went awry? Such destruction… it might be best if she failed. If she stops here.
If she doesn’t hinder the others, they may succeed.
But they are far ahead of her, she sees. She can safely try, she assumes, and so she finally makes a move. Her mind and body so tired, she trembled each time she takes a step, and with every step of hers, the very ground shakes.
Shocked, she looks around, every bit a foal again, a filly scared of the path she’s on, no different from when she first went on a quest for the fae. No, it is different: this time she is already an adult, this time she is already sick.
Dull dark eyes scan the ground, which shifts and takes a different shape every other blink. In doing so, she no longer avoids the rocks and stone flying around, and earns a larger share of cuts and bruises. But by now, the sickness has come so far that she can hardly notice if there’s more pain than before, hardly notices anything at all, except the ingrained knowledge that she has to go down, down, down.
Sometimes the rocks spike towards her, cutting her legs. Sometimes the path becomes rugged and she has to move carefully to avoid breaking her leg. In one moment, the magic within her changed the path into a small bridge to the other side, but before she set a hoof on it, it was back in it’s former place, a narrow winding along the wall. Rocks sometimes hit her head, though most simply bruise her side and back or cut her legs. But the cure ingredients at least stay, as if glued to her side. A last remnant of fairy magic no doubt.
Or rather - she doesn’t doubt anything at the moment. In fact the trip, once begun, is one she barely remembers.
And so she reaches the bottom. Some would say this is the easy part - down takes less energy than up. And to be fully delusional while doing it, makes it easier perhaps too. She’s not thinking. Hardly creating any memory on her way.
The storm of rocks finally dies when she sinks down near the heart of the split Mountain, the place where her cures join the others’, the place where the blood from her wounds and her throat mingle.
Beqanna’s Plague started with the blood of the tainted, but healthy. Perhaps with the blood of the untainted and unhealthy, something might yet be done to stop it. But the magic is everywhere, and the magic is fickle, and perhaps she no longer has it. The magic of the land and the fairies mingled with her own is something she can’t unravel. The rocks of the Mountain are not hers to command, but she can feel them still, in the chaotic way of their existence.
Where does Beqanna end, and where does she begin?</div></div></center>
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<center><div class="Wennycontain"><img class="Wennyimg" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/ea/37/69/ea3769a9996075ca9173f6b7facc065a.jpg"><div class="Wennyname">Eurwen</div>
<div class="Wennyquote">the secret of walking on water<br>is knowing where the rocks lie</div><div class="Wennygrad"></div><div class="Wennytext">
Instinct saves her, when nothing else can. If to be saved is preferred over simply tumbling down with her objects, she will only question later. Now, the stone mountain which she is still connected to, breaks open and she hurries backwards to avoid a fall.
It was the last moment of her connection with the trait.
While the fairies pulled all their magic from the corners of the world as she knew it, a strange thing happened to the helpers gathered on the Mountain - especially the young one still connected to said rock. The earth split and so did her earthen magic - rocks and debris flying freely in a tornado of mad stones, of hardy material shards seemingly designed to kill the unwary. Eurwen doesn’t think much about it, her mind confused and disappointed in herself still, again, who is to say. She cannot grasp the rocks that fly about, fly around her. She only hopes the fairies did not mean for this to happen, and that the others had already gone ahead and would not be hot by the byproduct of her incapability to control her own gift.
The rocky box has broken, yet the cures within still cling to her like a magnet. At least they had not been harmed. At least they still came with her when she moved towards the endless-looking pit.
A narrow path lies before her, down down deep into the split mountain. It’s surprisingly hot now, perhaps the mountain’s rocks had held warmth all along, but it never made it to the surface. But she can’t linger on such mysteries - down is where she must go.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she is glad that her father and brother stayed behind. At least they can have a good life even if she perishes now, she thinks. Her thoughts linger on her mother and twin then; no, it’s fine. Surely she will be missed, but they can survive without her if necessary. After all, she has found herself pretty useless. A sacrifice like hers wouldn’t be too troublesome on the rest of the world.
The path is hard with rocks flying and the earth still trembling. Is it her magic that went awry? Such destruction… it might be best if she failed. If she stops here.
If she doesn’t hinder the others, they may succeed.
But they are far ahead of her, she sees. She can safely try, she assumes, and so she finally makes a move. Her mind and body so tired, she trembled each time she takes a step, and with every step of hers, the very ground shakes.
Shocked, she looks around, every bit a foal again, a filly scared of the path she’s on, no different from when she first went on a quest for the fae. No, it is different: this time she is already an adult, this time she is already sick.
Dull dark eyes scan the ground, which shifts and takes a different shape every other blink. In doing so, she no longer avoids the rocks and stone flying around, and earns a larger share of cuts and bruises. But by now, the sickness has come so far that she can hardly notice if there’s more pain than before, hardly notices anything at all, except the ingrained knowledge that she has to go down, down, down.
Sometimes the rocks spike towards her, cutting her legs. Sometimes the path becomes rugged and she has to move carefully to avoid breaking her leg. In one moment, the magic within her changed the path into a small bridge to the other side, but before she set a hoof on it, it was back in it’s former place, a narrow winding along the wall. Rocks sometimes hit her head, though most simply bruise her side and back or cut her legs. But the cure ingredients at least stay, as if glued to her side. A last remnant of fairy magic no doubt.
Or rather - she doesn’t doubt anything at the moment. In fact the trip, once begun, is one she barely remembers.
And so she reaches the bottom. Some would say this is the easy part - down takes less energy than up. And to be fully delusional while doing it, makes it easier perhaps too. She’s not thinking. Hardly creating any memory on her way.
The storm of rocks finally dies when she sinks down near the heart of the split Mountain, the place where her cures join the others’, the place where the blood from her wounds and her throat mingle.
Beqanna’s Plague started with the blood of the tainted, but healthy. Perhaps with the blood of the untainted and unhealthy, something might yet be done to stop it. But the magic is everywhere, and the magic is fickle, and perhaps she no longer has it. The magic of the land and the fairies mingled with her own is something she can’t unravel. The rocks of the Mountain are not hers to command, but she can feel them still, in the chaotic way of their existence.
Where does Beqanna end, and where does she begin?</div></div></center>