in progress ♡ - scene 1: The dirt is so soft here. The wind doesn't blow here. Everything is permanent here. The footsteps of all who have walked there are marked, layering over one another, creating a history in the boot tracks of the road. The people are laughing and shouting happily to one another, the hustle and bustle providing a strange feeling of home in the midst of chaos. The Vendors had been up since dawn, hawking their candles and spices and charms. People had been pouring into the Walled City for hours, gasping and gawking at the abundance. And abundance was the perfect word for it. Of course, where there is abundance, there are thieves. Turn a corner, duck under a wooden post, push aside a worn woolen cover, and you'll find The Den. A few young boys are crouched there, splitting the spoils of their most recent steal-and-sell. Only a few bronze coins, hardly anything, but coins are coins. The youngest is bouncing on his toes in excitement, but the oldest and most burdened thief sighs in relief. Another day of food for his siblings. The quiet of The Den is broken quickly when the sounds of chaos- true chaos- break out in the market. The youngest thief peeks his little head out to see what the hullaballoo is. His boyish face contorts in confused fear, as though the expression is new to his muscles. Of course, it is well suited in this situation. The wind is blowing. Powerfully. (246 words) (Collab section here <3) Dual Timeline (intense de@th warning ^^) -- In the East, the water falls. In the West, it never does. Linna in the East draws water from the barrel as the rain falls on her shoulders, getting caught in her hair, and weighing her clothes down. A curse. Plants cannot grow there. They all drown. The river overflows. The riverside homes are washed away. The sky never lets up. No one leaves the safety of their roof for the rain. Linna knew what caused the curse. She did. In the West, the only water is Eliel's cries. The rain hasn't fallen in months. The well is nearly dry. Plants cannot grow there. They dry and crack. The river is dry as sand. The riverside homes crumble off the cracking ground. The sky never weeps. Everyone leaves the safety of their homes in search for a land with water. Eliel knows there is a reason for the curse. Eliel knows the reason is him. Linna ducks into her home, squeezing the rain from her hair and onto the floor. A year ago, this would have bothered Mother to no end. Now, it's no matter. There is water everywhere in the house- leaking through the roof, puddling on the floor. Mother tries, but nothing can keep the non-stop torrent from affecting their home forever. Linna thinks for a moment in the doorway. She turns and peeks outside the door. It was a desert before it rained. It's still feels like a desert, with its lack of green and sense of dread. The only difference is a rather important one. The never ending water. Linna never thought of drowning. Now she knows it almost as intimately as if she had been born suffocating. Eliel walks back home, fearful to run and increase his thirst. He closes the door softly, careful not to wake his parents, who are still asleep on their rough cotton pallets. He leans his head against the door. It aches. It screams. It can't be silenced. He's never felt the thirst this acutely. It chokes him. - a month later - Linna's parents left with her and her three sisters for a town in the West where it never rains. Eliel's parents left with him and his brother for a town in the East where the rain always falls. They crossed paths only once on the main road. Linna and Eliel locked eyes for a moment, one dreaming of breath, the other of liquid safety. The first day in the dry town, Linna's parents found her drowned. Water had crept unseen into her lungs in a land with none. Cursed by, killed by water. Destined to be. The first day in the pouring town, Eliel's parents found him choked. He had fainted from lack of water. Cursed by, killed by thirst. Destined to be. In the North, a baby is born with strong breath. Rain begins to fall. (478 words) Pacing --- Nillae ran, gasps shaking her chest, shaking her arms, shaking her legs. She almost fell, but only the stress of what would happen if she hit the floor kept her from giving up and letting gravity take her. A surge of willpower overtook her, and she leapt. In midair, she choked down a singular small bead of glass. A rush of energy overtook her, and she ran a little faster. The Monster of Grey was still behind her, its voice shaking the halls of the manor. Nillae turned a corner, the energy of the glass still pulsing through her. She stopped in the room, the echoes of the Monster dying in the halls behind her. He was blind, and if she could just keep her breaths silent enough, she would be safe, just for a moment. Sighing, relieved into her hand, muffling the traces of sound, she leaned against the door. The silence was calming.
(cont) She traced her bare toes on the cold, soft marble floor and reached for a book. It contained vital information, but who can be rushed with a book in hand? She flipped open to the third page in the book, the table of contents. The grain of the page felt comforting under her fingers. She traced her pointer finger down the page, reaching to the words in swirled, fading script- The Monster of Grey. A sort of calm in the storm settles around her, lifting weight off her shoulders and reminding her that all this- the monster, the manor, all of it- is for the good of her country. It was easier to remember that in these sorts of moments. She opened to the marked page and ran her eyes down the page in a steady pace, careful not to miss a word. [i]The Monster of Grey is-[/i] Right behind her. The door was thrown open, and she was thrown onto the floor. The monster towered over her, all mottled grey flesh and scarred appendages. Nillae knew what she must do. She threw open the window of the library and leapt out without a second thought, down to the thornbushes below. She landed safely, only a little scratched, by a miracle- and the protection of the glass bead. A sound came from behind her. She clutched at the book beside her. The sound grew closer. And for a moment, the world seemed so very small. (401 words) Pt 5 (2 timeline / slow-fast pacing) -- The sky is on fire and I am at peace. The sky is on fire and I am at peace. The sky is on fire and I am at peace. The sky is on fire. The thought ends and jerks you carelessly, haphazardly back to reality. A reality that feels so very unrealistic. The sky is consumed by red, angry heat. It looks like a flipped over torch, the flames reaching down, as if desperately, to consume the earth and its people. People who were currently screaming. The sound is deafening. It rings in your ears. The sight of their shaking lingers behind your eyelids. The feel of the heat- oh, the heat! - is almost overwhelming. You know you must stop this... but at the age of eighty, you are no longer fit for world-saving or grand gestures of heroism. Your back or your hips or your bones would protest, and you yourself would be de@d and gone before you could come to the aid of anyone around you. The boy on your left is no more than eight years old, and clearly on his own in the world. He sobs shakily, the sound punctuated with hiccups and squeaks. You instinctively put a hand on the boy's shoulder and pull him close. The boy does not even blink; his eyes just stare up at the sky- the fiercely ruby-red sky. The boy leans into you, though he does not know you. He simply knows comfort. There is a strange beauty in the sky. So red, like the exotic birds owned by the man in the marketplace. So red. So beautiful. So very beautiful. - You are young, and that means you can run. Running, however, is not something you need to do. You have set upon the world a terrible danger, and you are responsible for fixing it. Your weakness. You can fix it. You will. It is coming. The sky is about to be on fire. No, no. That can't be right. You can already hear the screaming. The sky is on fire. Oh, how lovely, you think. The thought is brief, childish, selfish- stupid. And then the adrenaline hits. Now is the time to run. Now is the time to be brave, despite your youth, your stupidity, and all else that is holding you back and consuming the sky with every moment you delay. You run, pulling the shattered bits of the sky-globe out of your pocket. The little scraps of glass-like material make little cuts on your hand, the bl00d making your fingers the same color as the sky. The lovely, deadly, fiery sky. All your fault. You wrench yourself free of the thought. There is no thought. There is only fire. Fire, fire, fire. Your fault. Fire. You scream in rage at your own thoughts. An old man is holding a little boy close to him in the corner of your eye. The boy is crying. The man is pensive. Your skirts catch fire, and you stamp them out. The thoughts are gone. This time, they really, really are. You cast the bits of sky-globe down and pull a set of matches from your cloak. The time for your skills - magic, as foolish men of old would have called it- is now. Your hands- your ruby-red hands- no longer shake. The sky begins to pour fire. (559 words) Pt1Pt2 The balcony that held those waiting for the Trial seemed to grow taller as my nervousness increased. Behind me, the clock of gold struck noon. Twelve chimes. Each one sounded with a short echo, and with each echo, my drive increased. I had to do this. Only a short Trial. Today is just one day. I can tackle today, easy. I threw a short leather jacket over my shoulders and walked out. I held my head high, my chin tilted up and my eyes fixed firmly forward. I just had to survive through today. Just one day. To survive was to be the victor of the next twenty four hours. (Cont in comments) ♡
