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Entry tags:
memshare; abyss
The howls have never been this loud before.
The roaring of the bears is fading now, but the winter winds still howl, sharper than the shortsword in his small hand. And the wolves are close, getting closer, undeterred by the weapon he'd brandished at them, untempted by the bread he'd left behind in the satchel he'd dropped. It all looks the same; just blinding white snow and dead trees. The smell of the sea is distant and faint; he's strayed too far.
There's a whole pack of them after him, but it's impossible to tell how many there are, and he's been running for so long. The snow is still falling, always falling, rapidly obscuring his panicked footprints, as if there was ever a chance he'd be able to follow them back home anyway.
His father's voice, and his mother's: warning him about this very thing. The dangers of the forest, the dangers of winter.
But I--
I just wanted--
The growls are louder now, but wolves tread softly in the snow, unlike frightened, desperate teenagers. He has no Vision, yet, only the instincts of a village boy. He can't fight off a wolf pack by himself, especially not when they take him by surprise.
One catches him by the leg, and he screams, tumbling into the snow. The sword slips out of his hands, and he claws for it, but his hands are too stiff with cold to grasp it properly. So he clutches at it, dredging up the last of his strength to kick back, as hard as he can. His blood mars the snow as he scrambles back to his feet, but he's unsteady, now. He won't make it far, if there's anything ahead of him besides endless snow anyway.
Still, he staggers to his feet, chest heaving with the pain. He backs up, shaking, but they're relentless, now. They have their prize.
They lunge again-- he stumbles back, and slips--
--And in his pain, and fear, he barely has time to be confused about the ominous rift he falls into. He only has the strength to reach out, grasping frantically for something, anything to save him, before he hits solid ground, and darkness consumes him.
It's still very dark, when he comes to. But this is a darkness he's never experienced before. It's oppressive, unnatural. The sky, if it can be called that, is coated in bizarre clouds, with dark spires of some alien stone stretching up towards them. Here and there, he can see eerie purple light, and the plants scattered around glow enticingly in a way that sets him on edge. Humans don't belong here: this is intrinsically clear. There's the sound of high-pitched laughter, and a distant growl, but it's impossible to tell where they're coming from, let alone how near or far they are.
He's still so tired. So cold. He closes his eyes.
A glow approaches, then, along with new footsteps, more solid and steady than the ones elsewhere. They approach him, where he lies, but he doesn't have the strength to scramble back or flee. He trembles as the newcomer kneels beside him, squeezing his eyes so hard that stars burst across the darkness of his vision. The hand that rests on his back is icy cold, and distinctly inhuman.
"A human? How did you get here?" A woman's voice: Cold, but quiet and calm. "What's your name, boy?"
He does not answer. (How is he supposed to answer?)
"If you seek death, I won't bother to linger."
He isn't even sure if he's still breathing.
...But.
The people of Morepesok are stronger than this. An Adventurer would be stronger than this.
Papa would be stronger than this.
So he cracks open his eyes to see a woman, a sword in her hand, watching him with a stoic expression. It takes more energy than his small frame seems capable of possessing, but he forces his lips to move. (If he makes any sound, he can't hear it past the fog in his head.)
"Ajax?"
A beat. She watches him, and the shadows behind her move, curling around her.
Finally, she speaks again. "You can't survive here alone." There is nothing gentle about her tone--she is simply stating a fact. He does not stir in response to it.
He hears a distant, low, rumble. For a moment, he thinks it's thunder--but his body shudders involuntarily, in a way that indicates it's nothing so familiar.
"Get up, and walk with me. If you can do that, I will save you."
It sounds like an insurmountable request. Blood oozes from his injured leg, and his limbs are just as stiff as they were earlier, hands scraped raw. Exhaustion and hunger have already begun to blanket him; he can't truly move, not like this.
...But if I relent to that... doesn't that make me weak?
No. It can't mean that.
(His father's voice, again--"Weak men don't have big dreams like you do, Ajax. You'll be a brave hero someday, I just know it.")
So he drags in a breath, and pushes himself up to his feet. His legs shake, but he looks at her, determined. She doesn't smile, but he wants to think there's something like approval in her eyes.
"Come with me."
---
The scene blurs--shifts. It's impossible to tell day or night, if such things exist in this place, but time has undoubtedly passed.
In age, the young boy--Ajax--looks the same. But there is nothing resembling that frightened, dying child in his demeanor. His eyes, which had been so bright with youth and fear, are dark, now--the same lightless blue that they are in the present. He does not yet have the easy, solid aura of a trained soldier, but he carries himself with confidence as he traverses the dark paths, as if he's lived in them his entire life. The sword sits comfortably in his hand, and the shadows that curl and writhe still whisper dark things, but they seem almost--affectionate, now. Familiar.
(There is still a bite to their whispers, though. He is not one of theirs--not truly.)
There is a beast, in the distance. It's difficult to tell what, precisely, it is, but its shape is lit by a black and purple aura, and it is large--much larger than Ajax. Nonetheless, he stops and studies it, curious and unafraid.
Go, the shadows say. Fight it and grow stronger, or die trying. Isn't that what you want? What you seek?
The woman's voice, in his head: warning him about this very thing. The dangers of the abyss.
Is this not what you were made for?
He steps forward, and the memory ends.
The roaring of the bears is fading now, but the winter winds still howl, sharper than the shortsword in his small hand. And the wolves are close, getting closer, undeterred by the weapon he'd brandished at them, untempted by the bread he'd left behind in the satchel he'd dropped. It all looks the same; just blinding white snow and dead trees. The smell of the sea is distant and faint; he's strayed too far.
There's a whole pack of them after him, but it's impossible to tell how many there are, and he's been running for so long. The snow is still falling, always falling, rapidly obscuring his panicked footprints, as if there was ever a chance he'd be able to follow them back home anyway.
His father's voice, and his mother's: warning him about this very thing. The dangers of the forest, the dangers of winter.
But I--
I just wanted--
The growls are louder now, but wolves tread softly in the snow, unlike frightened, desperate teenagers. He has no Vision, yet, only the instincts of a village boy. He can't fight off a wolf pack by himself, especially not when they take him by surprise.
One catches him by the leg, and he screams, tumbling into the snow. The sword slips out of his hands, and he claws for it, but his hands are too stiff with cold to grasp it properly. So he clutches at it, dredging up the last of his strength to kick back, as hard as he can. His blood mars the snow as he scrambles back to his feet, but he's unsteady, now. He won't make it far, if there's anything ahead of him besides endless snow anyway.
Still, he staggers to his feet, chest heaving with the pain. He backs up, shaking, but they're relentless, now. They have their prize.
They lunge again-- he stumbles back, and slips--
--And in his pain, and fear, he barely has time to be confused about the ominous rift he falls into. He only has the strength to reach out, grasping frantically for something, anything to save him, before he hits solid ground, and darkness consumes him.
It's still very dark, when he comes to. But this is a darkness he's never experienced before. It's oppressive, unnatural. The sky, if it can be called that, is coated in bizarre clouds, with dark spires of some alien stone stretching up towards them. Here and there, he can see eerie purple light, and the plants scattered around glow enticingly in a way that sets him on edge. Humans don't belong here: this is intrinsically clear. There's the sound of high-pitched laughter, and a distant growl, but it's impossible to tell where they're coming from, let alone how near or far they are.
He's still so tired. So cold. He closes his eyes.
A glow approaches, then, along with new footsteps, more solid and steady than the ones elsewhere. They approach him, where he lies, but he doesn't have the strength to scramble back or flee. He trembles as the newcomer kneels beside him, squeezing his eyes so hard that stars burst across the darkness of his vision. The hand that rests on his back is icy cold, and distinctly inhuman.
"A human? How did you get here?" A woman's voice: Cold, but quiet and calm. "What's your name, boy?"
He does not answer. (How is he supposed to answer?)
"If you seek death, I won't bother to linger."
He isn't even sure if he's still breathing.
...But.
The people of Morepesok are stronger than this. An Adventurer would be stronger than this.
Papa would be stronger than this.
So he cracks open his eyes to see a woman, a sword in her hand, watching him with a stoic expression. It takes more energy than his small frame seems capable of possessing, but he forces his lips to move. (If he makes any sound, he can't hear it past the fog in his head.)
"Ajax?"
A beat. She watches him, and the shadows behind her move, curling around her.
Finally, she speaks again. "You can't survive here alone." There is nothing gentle about her tone--she is simply stating a fact. He does not stir in response to it.
He hears a distant, low, rumble. For a moment, he thinks it's thunder--but his body shudders involuntarily, in a way that indicates it's nothing so familiar.
"Get up, and walk with me. If you can do that, I will save you."
It sounds like an insurmountable request. Blood oozes from his injured leg, and his limbs are just as stiff as they were earlier, hands scraped raw. Exhaustion and hunger have already begun to blanket him; he can't truly move, not like this.
...But if I relent to that... doesn't that make me weak?
No. It can't mean that.
(His father's voice, again--"Weak men don't have big dreams like you do, Ajax. You'll be a brave hero someday, I just know it.")
So he drags in a breath, and pushes himself up to his feet. His legs shake, but he looks at her, determined. She doesn't smile, but he wants to think there's something like approval in her eyes.
"Come with me."
---
The scene blurs--shifts. It's impossible to tell day or night, if such things exist in this place, but time has undoubtedly passed.
In age, the young boy--Ajax--looks the same. But there is nothing resembling that frightened, dying child in his demeanor. His eyes, which had been so bright with youth and fear, are dark, now--the same lightless blue that they are in the present. He does not yet have the easy, solid aura of a trained soldier, but he carries himself with confidence as he traverses the dark paths, as if he's lived in them his entire life. The sword sits comfortably in his hand, and the shadows that curl and writhe still whisper dark things, but they seem almost--affectionate, now. Familiar.
(There is still a bite to their whispers, though. He is not one of theirs--not truly.)
There is a beast, in the distance. It's difficult to tell what, precisely, it is, but its shape is lit by a black and purple aura, and it is large--much larger than Ajax. Nonetheless, he stops and studies it, curious and unafraid.
Go, the shadows say. Fight it and grow stronger, or die trying. Isn't that what you want? What you seek?
The woman's voice, in his head: warning him about this very thing. The dangers of the abyss.
Is this not what you were made for?
He steps forward, and the memory ends.