Post by Fasdeus on Mar 7, 2011 19:06:07 GMT -5
They say the ruined places of the world are holy to the Raven King.
Even the house of the magician Absolom, when he had died, was left to his daughter and left to decay. Even broken dishes were left on the floor, the roof was given over to moss and ivy, the garden let to run wild as mortar and brick gradually gave way to the feral green. When she had died, they said, it was in her bed, covered in the flickering shadows of leaves caught in sun, through the holes of the collapsed roof. A crazy old woman, who let her house fall to ruin, but some would say, she knew what she was doing.
These places, the ruined places, they say the world is pale there, this world, that it ebbs and flows into other worlds, other places, other realms. They say the magic grows strong here, and that the barriers are broken here. They would be right.
This place is one of the ruined places. Here, the green world threatens to grow through, crack and crumble the foundations of an apartment complex, burned and condemned years ago, the stars shine down on the blackened cement, you can almost hear the tolling of a bell in the distance, something funereal, but to someone, something welcoming. If you were to stay long enough, you could hear, and feel, the shapes of a darkened wood, climbing and growing through broken pavement. Not the bright bucolic woods of human fancy, oh no. Something more old. Something all the more menacing, fed on the rotting blood and bones of war.
The rats hurry here, escaping the malice of the ghostly wood, and the bell continues to toll. Humans hurry, too, more prey than the rats.
And it is here, he steps through.
Golden hair, yes. Golden irises too, to match the hair, of course. Silken sleeves and pants the colour of storms, golden boots. And the jewelry. Of course. Pale skin, soft, regal.
Fasdeus lifted his face to the stars, breathed deeply. He felt the wind ruffle his hair, and stretched out his arms, his hands, his fingers. The breeze picked up again, rustling the skirt of his pants, and he took a step from the ruins into the alley pavement, and reveled in the idea of the click of his boots against the cement. The predatory trees ebbed back to let the ruins have their prominence, for now. The bell tolled one last time before its echo faded.
He opened his eyes, to gaze at the stars.
"Ave," Fasdeus said. "Hello." He let his gaze drop down to the shattered building, and the wonder of his expression faded into disgust.
Even the house of the magician Absolom, when he had died, was left to his daughter and left to decay. Even broken dishes were left on the floor, the roof was given over to moss and ivy, the garden let to run wild as mortar and brick gradually gave way to the feral green. When she had died, they said, it was in her bed, covered in the flickering shadows of leaves caught in sun, through the holes of the collapsed roof. A crazy old woman, who let her house fall to ruin, but some would say, she knew what she was doing.
These places, the ruined places, they say the world is pale there, this world, that it ebbs and flows into other worlds, other places, other realms. They say the magic grows strong here, and that the barriers are broken here. They would be right.
This place is one of the ruined places. Here, the green world threatens to grow through, crack and crumble the foundations of an apartment complex, burned and condemned years ago, the stars shine down on the blackened cement, you can almost hear the tolling of a bell in the distance, something funereal, but to someone, something welcoming. If you were to stay long enough, you could hear, and feel, the shapes of a darkened wood, climbing and growing through broken pavement. Not the bright bucolic woods of human fancy, oh no. Something more old. Something all the more menacing, fed on the rotting blood and bones of war.
The rats hurry here, escaping the malice of the ghostly wood, and the bell continues to toll. Humans hurry, too, more prey than the rats.
And it is here, he steps through.
Golden hair, yes. Golden irises too, to match the hair, of course. Silken sleeves and pants the colour of storms, golden boots. And the jewelry. Of course. Pale skin, soft, regal.
Fasdeus lifted his face to the stars, breathed deeply. He felt the wind ruffle his hair, and stretched out his arms, his hands, his fingers. The breeze picked up again, rustling the skirt of his pants, and he took a step from the ruins into the alley pavement, and reveled in the idea of the click of his boots against the cement. The predatory trees ebbed back to let the ruins have their prominence, for now. The bell tolled one last time before its echo faded.
He opened his eyes, to gaze at the stars.
"Ave," Fasdeus said. "Hello." He let his gaze drop down to the shattered building, and the wonder of his expression faded into disgust.