Post by Whispers of the Delirium on May 12, 2007 17:37:12 GMT -5
The moon had risen above the trees, illuminating the tiny village below. It was a set of buildings, many of which were extended precariously into the sea. Soft waves broke upon the raised platforms, cresting the steps of the front doors with ease. Numerous shells and plant life adorned the planks, making the small huts look like driftwood amongst the ocean.
There was one dwelling that stood out among the others; it was tall, white, and forbidding against the cold darkness of the night. Waves frothed at its sides, and it emitted quiet groans of protest. Windows, elongated holes that bore no cover, played host to shadows that danced and teased within. The place was cold, lifeless.
A figure stood on the desolate pathway that converged on the dwelling, casting a forlorn shade across the brilliant white of the sandy escape. He was tall and lean, and the wind whipped at his waist-length mane of white hair. Eyes, as blue and clear at the summer sky, emerged from sunken sockets, staring with suspicion at the structure. His lips were pursed, his expression distant and thoughtful as he stumbled with bare feet. Already, his breath was drawn and ragged, rising before him in a misted cloud.
Every night at this time, he would walk the paths that met here and he would rap his knuckles politely on the open doorway. The house, open and honest, would smile down upon him with tender warmth, bidding him welcome. A woman would appear at the threshold, her cheeks flushed a delicate red that breathed of compassion and mirth. Every night, he would bow lowly and ask her to forgive him for his visitation at such a late hour. She would simply smile, her lips tinged with a grin and her eyes alight with humor. She would beckon him in and he would enter into a world where fear and cowardice did not exist, in which he would dine and converse with the leader of his people: the Chaska. Every night. Until this night.
As he grew closer, the wind pitched and howled, encasing him in a blanket of piercing cold; rain had mingled with the gale, hitting his flesh like sharp needles. Dark and forboding, the archway stretched into a cavernous mouth that he nervously strode into, swallowed into the gaping maw to escape the raging storm.
Barren. It was void of life, the shadows drinking in the light and engulfing the usually lit room with an embrace of cruelty. A single window released a long, brilliant thread which cast a morose pool of light on the floor. In the middle was a fragment of cloth, diaphanous and white. Rustling in a light breeze, it was the only moving thing in the lifeless house. Even with the walls around him, shielding him from the forces outside, he shuddered violently with a moan.
Falling to his knees, he clutched it in his hands as a scream tore his throat raw with ferocity. Into the night, it echoed with finality. Outside, the village awoke with trembling tones that were lost beneath the the wind that bit savagely at their faces. They left their homes reluctantly, bracing each other so that they could walk in the midst of the snarling rains. Occaisionally one would fall, and the one next to them would haul them to their feet. Collectively, the crowd shivered and held one another tight, yelling over the noise to make themselves heard. Questions touched their lips, most of it lost.
They emerged upon the path that lead to the desolate tower. It stared balefully down at them and murmurs thundered a protest at entry. The storm gave them nowhere to turn, and as one they retreated into the encompassing gloom. There was an audible gasp among the gathering as they stared at the stark white figure on the floor. Teeth chattered and feet scuffled the floor, but they turned to face the heralder of the tormented cry.
He was murmuring incoherently, his phrases lost beneath the scattering of rain across the groaning architecture. They gained strength and began to rise, fierce against the powerful gale that assaulted the walls.
"She is gone. The Chaska is gone. Oh, Arethiel," he moaned the name with a fervent desire, a wish for her to emerge from corners unseen. Yet she did not appear.
A solitary figure sniffed, withdrawing from the crowd to stare disdainfully upon the man. His voice was high-pitched, underlined with a petulant tone. However, he straightened himself into a formiddable stature and rubbed at his cold arms, his face strained between dislike and fear.
"Stohrn Zark," he hissed, "why do you wake us with your distress? Not to mention in the middle of this," He added this with emphasis, a nervous growl beneath his breath as those small, darting eyes shifted. "The Chaska is probably out, attending business on the shores of the Chein. She often goes. You should expect nothing less of her."
Zark clenched the rag in his hands, looking up at the speaker with blatant hatred. He spat. "She is gone, I tell you. I always visit her at this time, and she is always here. Yet do you see her? No."
The circumstances under which the house was found empty died on his breath, but the others felt it and gave way to paniced mutterings.
"She is the Chaska. She does not have to tell a Xorastyn of her actions," he replied with a sneer. Behind him, the crowd was shifting uneasily, glancing at the door that led back to their warm beds and cozy fires.
"You are a fool, Perst." Zark returned to staring at the line of cloth, snarling furiously as he gripped it tight.
"Suit yourself," Perst replied, lifting a hand and waving it airily. He did not bother to fight the man, and instead he gathered himself and his lover, departing the room with a small amount of others in tow. They faced the hurricane with a stoic resolve, and huddled together as they forced their way beneath the sheet of rain.
The rest, pity in their stares, paused to look and him and offer their apologies. But they only had warmth in mind as they started the arduous trek back with the others.
"In the morning, perhaps we will continue this. The currents do not favor this season, and we are afraid of what harm it may cause if we stay too long in its poisonous breath. Do not fret, Xorastyn brother," the last man rumbled, his voice a small comfort in the bare room. Zark cast him a glance, but he had already faded into the darkness beyond.
Alone, Zark was left with his fury. Waves continued to break upon the edge of the revered shelter and silence ticked by, marking the time with nothing but impatience. He let out a whistling sigh, standing with a grunt. Boards creaked beneath his weight and he turned to the door. Usually reluctant to release his gift, he did not bother now. His right palm opened and a small sliver of light flickered into existence, consuming his hand and bathing his path with clarity.
"I am coming, Arethiel."
Outside, the gale had turned vicious, tearing at the ground with unsheathed claws.
There was one dwelling that stood out among the others; it was tall, white, and forbidding against the cold darkness of the night. Waves frothed at its sides, and it emitted quiet groans of protest. Windows, elongated holes that bore no cover, played host to shadows that danced and teased within. The place was cold, lifeless.
A figure stood on the desolate pathway that converged on the dwelling, casting a forlorn shade across the brilliant white of the sandy escape. He was tall and lean, and the wind whipped at his waist-length mane of white hair. Eyes, as blue and clear at the summer sky, emerged from sunken sockets, staring with suspicion at the structure. His lips were pursed, his expression distant and thoughtful as he stumbled with bare feet. Already, his breath was drawn and ragged, rising before him in a misted cloud.
Every night at this time, he would walk the paths that met here and he would rap his knuckles politely on the open doorway. The house, open and honest, would smile down upon him with tender warmth, bidding him welcome. A woman would appear at the threshold, her cheeks flushed a delicate red that breathed of compassion and mirth. Every night, he would bow lowly and ask her to forgive him for his visitation at such a late hour. She would simply smile, her lips tinged with a grin and her eyes alight with humor. She would beckon him in and he would enter into a world where fear and cowardice did not exist, in which he would dine and converse with the leader of his people: the Chaska. Every night. Until this night.
As he grew closer, the wind pitched and howled, encasing him in a blanket of piercing cold; rain had mingled with the gale, hitting his flesh like sharp needles. Dark and forboding, the archway stretched into a cavernous mouth that he nervously strode into, swallowed into the gaping maw to escape the raging storm.
Barren. It was void of life, the shadows drinking in the light and engulfing the usually lit room with an embrace of cruelty. A single window released a long, brilliant thread which cast a morose pool of light on the floor. In the middle was a fragment of cloth, diaphanous and white. Rustling in a light breeze, it was the only moving thing in the lifeless house. Even with the walls around him, shielding him from the forces outside, he shuddered violently with a moan.
Falling to his knees, he clutched it in his hands as a scream tore his throat raw with ferocity. Into the night, it echoed with finality. Outside, the village awoke with trembling tones that were lost beneath the the wind that bit savagely at their faces. They left their homes reluctantly, bracing each other so that they could walk in the midst of the snarling rains. Occaisionally one would fall, and the one next to them would haul them to their feet. Collectively, the crowd shivered and held one another tight, yelling over the noise to make themselves heard. Questions touched their lips, most of it lost.
They emerged upon the path that lead to the desolate tower. It stared balefully down at them and murmurs thundered a protest at entry. The storm gave them nowhere to turn, and as one they retreated into the encompassing gloom. There was an audible gasp among the gathering as they stared at the stark white figure on the floor. Teeth chattered and feet scuffled the floor, but they turned to face the heralder of the tormented cry.
He was murmuring incoherently, his phrases lost beneath the scattering of rain across the groaning architecture. They gained strength and began to rise, fierce against the powerful gale that assaulted the walls.
"She is gone. The Chaska is gone. Oh, Arethiel," he moaned the name with a fervent desire, a wish for her to emerge from corners unseen. Yet she did not appear.
A solitary figure sniffed, withdrawing from the crowd to stare disdainfully upon the man. His voice was high-pitched, underlined with a petulant tone. However, he straightened himself into a formiddable stature and rubbed at his cold arms, his face strained between dislike and fear.
"Stohrn Zark," he hissed, "why do you wake us with your distress? Not to mention in the middle of this," He added this with emphasis, a nervous growl beneath his breath as those small, darting eyes shifted. "The Chaska is probably out, attending business on the shores of the Chein. She often goes. You should expect nothing less of her."
Zark clenched the rag in his hands, looking up at the speaker with blatant hatred. He spat. "She is gone, I tell you. I always visit her at this time, and she is always here. Yet do you see her? No."
The circumstances under which the house was found empty died on his breath, but the others felt it and gave way to paniced mutterings.
"She is the Chaska. She does not have to tell a Xorastyn of her actions," he replied with a sneer. Behind him, the crowd was shifting uneasily, glancing at the door that led back to their warm beds and cozy fires.
"You are a fool, Perst." Zark returned to staring at the line of cloth, snarling furiously as he gripped it tight.
"Suit yourself," Perst replied, lifting a hand and waving it airily. He did not bother to fight the man, and instead he gathered himself and his lover, departing the room with a small amount of others in tow. They faced the hurricane with a stoic resolve, and huddled together as they forced their way beneath the sheet of rain.
The rest, pity in their stares, paused to look and him and offer their apologies. But they only had warmth in mind as they started the arduous trek back with the others.
"In the morning, perhaps we will continue this. The currents do not favor this season, and we are afraid of what harm it may cause if we stay too long in its poisonous breath. Do not fret, Xorastyn brother," the last man rumbled, his voice a small comfort in the bare room. Zark cast him a glance, but he had already faded into the darkness beyond.
Alone, Zark was left with his fury. Waves continued to break upon the edge of the revered shelter and silence ticked by, marking the time with nothing but impatience. He let out a whistling sigh, standing with a grunt. Boards creaked beneath his weight and he turned to the door. Usually reluctant to release his gift, he did not bother now. His right palm opened and a small sliver of light flickered into existence, consuming his hand and bathing his path with clarity.
"I am coming, Arethiel."
Outside, the gale had turned vicious, tearing at the ground with unsheathed claws.