11-26-2022, 03:41 AM
i have been bewitched by the sweet song of darkness and the wine of solitude..
It seems that the two antagonistic countries of Baltia and Stratos are not the only changes to rise from the ‘natural’ catastrophes as of late.
Where, exactly he is, even he is not sure. Though the benefits of his immortality are such that even inadvertent entombment (during yet another previous reshaping of Beqanna’s lands) couldn’t rob him of life, there is no omniscience to go with his life everlasting. Thus, he lays far beneath the crust with no knowledge of time’s passage, let alone the goings-on of his home. Occasionally, additional rumblings cause subsequent shifts in his location, driving him further from Beqanna each time. He begins to wonder if he will ever escape his earthen prison.
Eventually, something cleaves an opening in his resting place (though looking back, he would never know what, how, or why). Though the earth refuses to fully surrender her grip on him, it’s just enough for him to work with. It begins with the smallest of movements in his limbs, which results in gradual displacements of the soil. This time, instead of sinking him deeper into the quagmire, subsequent earthquakes aid his bid for freedom. Until they don’t.
The most recent rending of Beqanna’s gravelly garments wholly breaks open the fissure and he immediately feels relief. The relief is short-lived though, as water begins to rush into the newfound depths. “Well, fuck,” he thinks. His lament is not wholly founded this time; for yes, while the deepening of his now-aquatic trench poses a formidable obstacle, it ends up being the last major player in this series of unfortunate events.
So, he swims for an achingly long time. Long enough for the inches of dust to turn to mud within his lungs. Long enough for the water he slowly rises through to then replace the mud. Were he not so numbed (both mentally and physically), he might wonder how he could manage to continue breathing under such circumstances. At times, he longs to have inherited the magic of his father, which surely would expedite this torturous ride. Alas, no wishes are to be granted along the way.
Though there is no risk of his dying, fatigue still seeps through his body at ever-shortening intervals and there are times that he stops to rest and drift; thus, the dishearteningly long duration of his water-bound flight. Indeed, though he does not realize it, it takes years to climb from the depths of the abyss. At some point, he is dimly aware that he has finally reached waters touched faintly by sunlight, but this soon fades entirely from his mind, as there is still significant distance to cover. Then, so suddenly that it takes him by surprise, his nostrils encounter pure air once more.
His body desperately needs rest, but he thrashes and flails just enough to keep his muzzle above the water as his lungs violently expel their contents. As he greedily sucks in the appropriate replacement, he realizes that he is also becoming more buoyant with every breath. His body is finally granted respite as it slowly equilibrates to life at the surface and he becomes content to drift along the with the lazy currents.
Again, there is no telling how much time passes as he bobs and whirls in the waves, but land eventually peeks through the horizon. Landmarks become somewhat distinguishable before true awareness returns to his brain. Intrigued by this and what seems to be a horse-shaped figure, he now begins to actively propel himself in the water. As he draws nearer to the shore, he finds himself wondering whether or not he’s made it back home.
The figure turns out to be Adriana, standing at the water’s edge, and she is what raises the question in his mind. There is no denying that she cuts a lovely silhouette into the landscape, but her outward appearance is startling to him, as it is unlike anything he’d previously encountered in Beqanna. At the time of his disappearance, wings and horns were more common than rare, but he had never seen wings of water, nor these unnatural colors. He cocks his head inquisitively as he emerges from the water near (but not too near) where she stands.
“What is this place?” His voice is rough and quiet from disuse and he is genuinely surprised that it works at all. In contrast to Adriana’s beauty, he stands quite unkempt before her. Tufts of hair create unsightly clumps throughout his water-darkened coat and his mane and tail are quite tangled with strands of seaweed and other ocean debris. Though not as sinewy and virile as in his (much) younger years, he still carries himself quite grandly and hints of his natural handsomeness still linger in his appearance. Something flits across his face as he realizes that his manner is brusque and may not be well-received. He dips his head slightly and adds, “Pardon, I am called Assailant. And you are…?”
Where, exactly he is, even he is not sure. Though the benefits of his immortality are such that even inadvertent entombment (during yet another previous reshaping of Beqanna’s lands) couldn’t rob him of life, there is no omniscience to go with his life everlasting. Thus, he lays far beneath the crust with no knowledge of time’s passage, let alone the goings-on of his home. Occasionally, additional rumblings cause subsequent shifts in his location, driving him further from Beqanna each time. He begins to wonder if he will ever escape his earthen prison.
Eventually, something cleaves an opening in his resting place (though looking back, he would never know what, how, or why). Though the earth refuses to fully surrender her grip on him, it’s just enough for him to work with. It begins with the smallest of movements in his limbs, which results in gradual displacements of the soil. This time, instead of sinking him deeper into the quagmire, subsequent earthquakes aid his bid for freedom. Until they don’t.
The most recent rending of Beqanna’s gravelly garments wholly breaks open the fissure and he immediately feels relief. The relief is short-lived though, as water begins to rush into the newfound depths. “Well, fuck,” he thinks. His lament is not wholly founded this time; for yes, while the deepening of his now-aquatic trench poses a formidable obstacle, it ends up being the last major player in this series of unfortunate events.
So, he swims for an achingly long time. Long enough for the inches of dust to turn to mud within his lungs. Long enough for the water he slowly rises through to then replace the mud. Were he not so numbed (both mentally and physically), he might wonder how he could manage to continue breathing under such circumstances. At times, he longs to have inherited the magic of his father, which surely would expedite this torturous ride. Alas, no wishes are to be granted along the way.
Though there is no risk of his dying, fatigue still seeps through his body at ever-shortening intervals and there are times that he stops to rest and drift; thus, the dishearteningly long duration of his water-bound flight. Indeed, though he does not realize it, it takes years to climb from the depths of the abyss. At some point, he is dimly aware that he has finally reached waters touched faintly by sunlight, but this soon fades entirely from his mind, as there is still significant distance to cover. Then, so suddenly that it takes him by surprise, his nostrils encounter pure air once more.
His body desperately needs rest, but he thrashes and flails just enough to keep his muzzle above the water as his lungs violently expel their contents. As he greedily sucks in the appropriate replacement, he realizes that he is also becoming more buoyant with every breath. His body is finally granted respite as it slowly equilibrates to life at the surface and he becomes content to drift along the with the lazy currents.
Again, there is no telling how much time passes as he bobs and whirls in the waves, but land eventually peeks through the horizon. Landmarks become somewhat distinguishable before true awareness returns to his brain. Intrigued by this and what seems to be a horse-shaped figure, he now begins to actively propel himself in the water. As he draws nearer to the shore, he finds himself wondering whether or not he’s made it back home.
The figure turns out to be Adriana, standing at the water’s edge, and she is what raises the question in his mind. There is no denying that she cuts a lovely silhouette into the landscape, but her outward appearance is startling to him, as it is unlike anything he’d previously encountered in Beqanna. At the time of his disappearance, wings and horns were more common than rare, but he had never seen wings of water, nor these unnatural colors. He cocks his head inquisitively as he emerges from the water near (but not too near) where she stands.
“What is this place?” His voice is rough and quiet from disuse and he is genuinely surprised that it works at all. In contrast to Adriana’s beauty, he stands quite unkempt before her. Tufts of hair create unsightly clumps throughout his water-darkened coat and his mane and tail are quite tangled with strands of seaweed and other ocean debris. Though not as sinewy and virile as in his (much) younger years, he still carries himself quite grandly and hints of his natural handsomeness still linger in his appearance. Something flits across his face as he realizes that his manner is brusque and may not be well-received. He dips his head slightly and adds, “Pardon, I am called Assailant. And you are…?”
assailant
they taste like bliss