04-13-2020, 07:42 PM
What was it that his family had told him? Thorn would know if his ears were not constantly ringing with the sharp echoes of their curses. He’d been spit from the leviathan’s mouth some months later. Time had little meaning in the old god’s body, a fact that has made Thorn’s readjustment to this reality an even harsher one.
Nevermind the gaping the hole in his chest.
“They’re dead,” he whispered to himself every few hours. At night, he tossed and turned as nightmare after nightmare plagued him. Thorn would do anything to clear his mind of each echoing murmur, every word articulated with such care that they feel like whispered secrets; and that is exactly what finally brings him back to Tephra.
Through the haze of exhaustion and delirium, Thorn treks from his hallucinogenic wanderings in the Common Lands to the border of Tephra. It’s a trip that lasts a couple of weeks while in his state, arduous and tiring in ways he won’t be able to describe if he ever recovers. Every one of his steps is dragging, from the pain of others and his own unmatched dread. He knows what awaits him in Tephra: the looming presence of his dead family and one plunge over a cheerily colored tropical cliff.
At least in the crashing ocean he won’t be able to hear so many others mindless suffering.
Thorn doesn’t hesitate like one might think he will when he crashes over the Tephran border. Blood drips from the wound in his chest, painting morbidities over the yellow and orange undergrowth. Parrots and toucans call from the jungle’s canopy above, adding cacophony to Thorn’s already clustered brain.
They’re part of the reason Thorn knows himself to be hallucinating when Nightlock’s form lingers between the puzzling array of trees. Above the birds swoop and call, panicked enough by the pair’s presence that their flybys become aggressive enough to pull Thorn’s gaze from his father’s distant form. He droops his head and continues weaving between the foliage away from Nightlock.
Nevermind the gaping the hole in his chest.
“They’re dead,” he whispered to himself every few hours. At night, he tossed and turned as nightmare after nightmare plagued him. Thorn would do anything to clear his mind of each echoing murmur, every word articulated with such care that they feel like whispered secrets; and that is exactly what finally brings him back to Tephra.
Through the haze of exhaustion and delirium, Thorn treks from his hallucinogenic wanderings in the Common Lands to the border of Tephra. It’s a trip that lasts a couple of weeks while in his state, arduous and tiring in ways he won’t be able to describe if he ever recovers. Every one of his steps is dragging, from the pain of others and his own unmatched dread. He knows what awaits him in Tephra: the looming presence of his dead family and one plunge over a cheerily colored tropical cliff.
At least in the crashing ocean he won’t be able to hear so many others mindless suffering.
Thorn doesn’t hesitate like one might think he will when he crashes over the Tephran border. Blood drips from the wound in his chest, painting morbidities over the yellow and orange undergrowth. Parrots and toucans call from the jungle’s canopy above, adding cacophony to Thorn’s already clustered brain.
They’re part of the reason Thorn knows himself to be hallucinating when Nightlock’s form lingers between the puzzling array of trees. Above the birds swoop and call, panicked enough by the pair’s presence that their flybys become aggressive enough to pull Thorn’s gaze from his father’s distant form. He droops his head and continues weaving between the foliage away from Nightlock.
thorn
under your skin, over the moon
don't let me in, I don't know what I'd do
roses are fallin', roses from fallin' for you, ooh