Post by Kolava on Dec 19, 2004 20:06:42 GMT -5
The Mysts were empty on that bitterly cold night, and the even the new moon dared not venture from behind its blanket of low clouds. The air was filled with howling of wind and promise of coming sleet, and in the frosty darkness trails lay pristine, unmarred by traffic. As good sense dictated (and the body was quick to remind), this was not a night for traveling beyond the hearth's glow.
But, as all who see through the veil of optimism know, soundness of sense and body are luxuries that not all can afford. The Heart knows not the weather. Circumstance feels not the cold. And "good sense"? Those who dream beyond it are as often called genius as fools.
On this night there was such a dreamer: a small creature with a glazed stare who walked, as he did every night, as though in a trance. His path carried him in great circuitous sweeps, past trees and trenches and trickling streams. His wide eyes took in everything but saw nothing. His steps were halting and random, as if each was second guessing the previous, and the posture he assumed in rare moments of rest suggested that he actively avoided thinking about the destination.
"Grass was big...bigger than Trees; no matter where you jumped Grass would always be underneath you. Sky was also Always. Sky would change or disappear sometimes...but always come back."
The sleet started in earnest now, thundering down and covering all surfaces like a rain, but without the hurry to flow away. Startled by the sound and sensation of falling droplets, the shivering wanderer seemed to stir from within his walking dream for a few moments, and rushed to seek shelter in a thicket. He curled up there, unsure, as he always ways when he woke, of where he was or how he had come to be there; also, what the bitter taste in his mouth was.
"--They are gone."
Sleet dripped from the creature's nose and ears as he turned his head skywards. Those eyes squinted as they stared into the oncoming drops. Language lingered like an unwelcome guest in his simple thoughts, like one that was invited under friendly terms but which, afterwards, could not be persuaded to leave.
"No...can't be gone. Still somewhere. Grass can't be gone. I can still go there...am just lost. I can still go there."
He squints into the sunlight which filters through slowly rustling leaves. The wind, warm and sweet, carries sounds of birds nearby. Turning, he is greeted by a rush of fur; his brothers and sisters dart playfully around him, pouncing him and chittering with excitement before rushing off across the endless grass. He follows thoughtlessly, carried through the pattern of dancing shadows by his small legs. The newborn pants with every stride, his heart fluttering in his chest, and as he approaches the top of the knoll he catches another scent in the air...it's Her.
Several things happened at once: The creature's paw snagged a root and he tripped, sliding on his shoulder across the sleet; His eyes shot open, pupils tiny; and the gravity of reality once again squeezed his chest. He laid on his back for a few moments as sleet caked on his heaving torso, just blinking. Eventually, things started to coalesce.
"...GoldenMyst...but I'm...
...that time I was sure...
...it was real."
Feral eyes shut tightly, and the creature crawled to its feet. He could barely feel his body, but with his good forepaw he checked the lumps in his vest where the vial was; it was intact. In his dazed run he had come into a large clearing, and the thicket from before was nowhere to be seen. After a bit of searching, though, he found shelter under a rocky outcropping where he could lean against the stone, out of the downpour. He pulled the vial out and checked along it, counting each interval as he tapped it. Fourteen doses. His shoulder was sore and his head throbbed, but his grip was still steady enough to undo the lid. He paused to turn away from the bitter smell, then quickly counted out a double dose.
"...maybe this one will be real."
But, as all who see through the veil of optimism know, soundness of sense and body are luxuries that not all can afford. The Heart knows not the weather. Circumstance feels not the cold. And "good sense"? Those who dream beyond it are as often called genius as fools.
On this night there was such a dreamer: a small creature with a glazed stare who walked, as he did every night, as though in a trance. His path carried him in great circuitous sweeps, past trees and trenches and trickling streams. His wide eyes took in everything but saw nothing. His steps were halting and random, as if each was second guessing the previous, and the posture he assumed in rare moments of rest suggested that he actively avoided thinking about the destination.
"Grass was big...bigger than Trees; no matter where you jumped Grass would always be underneath you. Sky was also Always. Sky would change or disappear sometimes...but always come back."
The sleet started in earnest now, thundering down and covering all surfaces like a rain, but without the hurry to flow away. Startled by the sound and sensation of falling droplets, the shivering wanderer seemed to stir from within his walking dream for a few moments, and rushed to seek shelter in a thicket. He curled up there, unsure, as he always ways when he woke, of where he was or how he had come to be there; also, what the bitter taste in his mouth was.
"--They are gone."
Sleet dripped from the creature's nose and ears as he turned his head skywards. Those eyes squinted as they stared into the oncoming drops. Language lingered like an unwelcome guest in his simple thoughts, like one that was invited under friendly terms but which, afterwards, could not be persuaded to leave.
"No...can't be gone. Still somewhere. Grass can't be gone. I can still go there...am just lost. I can still go there."
He squints into the sunlight which filters through slowly rustling leaves. The wind, warm and sweet, carries sounds of birds nearby. Turning, he is greeted by a rush of fur; his brothers and sisters dart playfully around him, pouncing him and chittering with excitement before rushing off across the endless grass. He follows thoughtlessly, carried through the pattern of dancing shadows by his small legs. The newborn pants with every stride, his heart fluttering in his chest, and as he approaches the top of the knoll he catches another scent in the air...it's Her.
Several things happened at once: The creature's paw snagged a root and he tripped, sliding on his shoulder across the sleet; His eyes shot open, pupils tiny; and the gravity of reality once again squeezed his chest. He laid on his back for a few moments as sleet caked on his heaving torso, just blinking. Eventually, things started to coalesce.
"...GoldenMyst...but I'm...
...that time I was sure...
...it was real."
Feral eyes shut tightly, and the creature crawled to its feet. He could barely feel his body, but with his good forepaw he checked the lumps in his vest where the vial was; it was intact. In his dazed run he had come into a large clearing, and the thicket from before was nowhere to be seen. After a bit of searching, though, he found shelter under a rocky outcropping where he could lean against the stone, out of the downpour. He pulled the vial out and checked along it, counting each interval as he tapped it. Fourteen doses. His shoulder was sore and his head throbbed, but his grip was still steady enough to undo the lid. He paused to turn away from the bitter smell, then quickly counted out a double dose.
"...maybe this one will be real."
