[open] there is never a day that goes by; any - Printable Version +- Beqanna (https://beqanna.com/forum) +-- Forum: Explore (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=1) +--- Forum: The Common Lands (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=72) +---- Forum: Forest (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=73) +---- Thread: [open] there is never a day that goes by; any (/showthread.php?tid=13883) |
there is never a day that goes by; any - Hurricane - 03-14-2017 He trembles, awakens. Awareness comes slowly, like a thick fog is clearing from his brain. Eyes blink open, steely and dark as ink. One would expect them to be sleep fogged, but they are sharp, focused. Slumber lifts slowly from a pale frame as he shifts, stretching limbs that have been still for far too long. He rises stiffly, shaking years of dust from his pelt, from large, thickly feathered wings. The years fall away easily, sloughing off like so much dead skin. The advantage of being immortal, of partaking in the immortal sleep. But this world is different, strange and new in a way he has never before encountered. Not in all his very long years. --- He had awoken on the mountain, a strange place he has no memory of. The descent had stripped him of his wings, ripping them from his body and replacing them only with a smooth expanse of white pelt. His invisibility is gone too, and only time would tell if the immortality that has kept him on this earth for so long is still his to claim. He finds the meadow, the forest, the field. These have not changed. But the Tundra, it is gone. Wiped from the earth as though it had never existed. Since the moment of this discovery, a hollow pit has churned inside his gut, loss and confusion and anger roiling inside of him in a tangle of emotion he does not wish to acknowledge. He had fallen asleep in the snowy north and woken atop a desolate mountain. And now, he is empty, stripped of all that he had been. So he lingers in the forest, a pale shadow slipping through the trunks. His life (not for the first time) has lost all meaning, all purpose. Even so, he cannot bring himself to go to the field. He cannot bring himself to start over. There is never a day that goes by that is a good day to die. Hurricane RE: there is never a day that goes by; any - Offspring - 03-14-2017 something has been taken from deep inside of me; the secret I've kept locked away no one can ever see. He longed to once against tuck himself within the arctic tundra, to savor the icy wind against his thick, muscled skin, to thrive within even the harshest blizzard – he yearned for the many days he had once wasted, loitering in the frigid wasteland that had become every bit a part of him as his own heart, as his own soul. The fiery ember of pyrokinesis that burned deep within him held no comparison to the way wielding ice once made him feel – the fire is scathing, burning and he loathes every part of it. It is as if some higher power had sensed what small bit of comfort he had taken in the ice and bestowed him with fire as a way to mock, to taunt him. There is nothing (nothing) left for him now – it is all a distant memory, and yet – And yet. A grunt rumbles from the tense restraint of his throat as the ridge of his brow line furrows, the darkened rims of his red eyes narrowing in disbelief. A pale, flightless figure – lingering in a small clearing, flesh and bone - a small reminder of what had once been, of what was. ”Hurricane,” his voice is rough from disuse, reverberating off of the dense foliage surrounding them as he presses through the thicket, emerging from the west. ”a pleasant surprise, brother.” A pause, as his gaze studies the carved lines of his broad cheek, of his weary and frustrated eyes. A man, lost as he had been. As he always would be. ”I miss it, too,” he says, knowingly. wounds so deep they never show; they never go away. like moving pictures in my head, for years and years they've played. Offspring RE: there is never a day that goes by; any - Hurricane - 03-16-2017 He had grown so accustomed to the frigid winters of the north that this late winter chill seems as spring in comparison. The air cools in his lungs, but it does not bite or sting. The wind is never more than the barest breeze, nothing one must hunker down against lest one be blown from their feet. It is all so very tame in comparison, and it reminds him far too much that his home, inhospitable though it might have seemed, is gone forever. Ripped from the earth as though it had never been. there is never a day that goes by that is a good day to die Hurricane |