02-06-2022, 06:00 PM
T U M U L T
He has laid low since the events that transpired on the mountain.
There are parts of it that he is sure were a dream; the part where he had lived seemingly an entire lifetime in an alternate reality, where he could conjure and maintain control storms of every type and size. An overcast world that seemed to be designed just for him, where the sun was never strong enough to hinder his storm-cloud wings. Such a place could not have been real, but the dying had certainly felt real, though it had not gone the way he had always imagined it. He had thought dying might be like falling asleep; to drift off into black and either awaken in some form of an afterlife, or simply sleep in a cocoon of nothing for all of eternity.
Instead he had been torn from the dream and hurled back into reality—back to Beqanna, far away from the mountain he had last remembered being on. He remembers the earth shaking, and he remembers taking flight, as if he could out fly everything that had just happened and leave behind the memories.
And perhaps he could have forgotten if it had not been for the lingering effects—the lightning that flickered across the storm-cloud coloring of his skin, and the way he has found that he can almost shape and control water (but much like his affinity for storms the control is flimsy and loose). The new magic felt alien in his veins; if it was meant to be a gift, it did not feel like one, and he could not shake the stone of discomfort sitting in his gut.
He is in the forest now, alone, or so he thinks. It is here within the shadowed protection of the tightly packed trees that he stands staring at a mostly still pool of water—a small pond likely fed from the stream he could hear trickling nearby. Slowly, he lifts a slim thread of water upward, his gray eyes focused only on the task of keeping the water from plummeting back to the surface.
There are parts of it that he is sure were a dream; the part where he had lived seemingly an entire lifetime in an alternate reality, where he could conjure and maintain control storms of every type and size. An overcast world that seemed to be designed just for him, where the sun was never strong enough to hinder his storm-cloud wings. Such a place could not have been real, but the dying had certainly felt real, though it had not gone the way he had always imagined it. He had thought dying might be like falling asleep; to drift off into black and either awaken in some form of an afterlife, or simply sleep in a cocoon of nothing for all of eternity.
Instead he had been torn from the dream and hurled back into reality—back to Beqanna, far away from the mountain he had last remembered being on. He remembers the earth shaking, and he remembers taking flight, as if he could out fly everything that had just happened and leave behind the memories.
And perhaps he could have forgotten if it had not been for the lingering effects—the lightning that flickered across the storm-cloud coloring of his skin, and the way he has found that he can almost shape and control water (but much like his affinity for storms the control is flimsy and loose). The new magic felt alien in his veins; if it was meant to be a gift, it did not feel like one, and he could not shake the stone of discomfort sitting in his gut.
He is in the forest now, alone, or so he thinks. It is here within the shadowed protection of the tightly packed trees that he stands staring at a mostly still pool of water—a small pond likely fed from the stream he could hear trickling nearby. Slowly, he lifts a slim thread of water upward, his gray eyes focused only on the task of keeping the water from plummeting back to the surface.
CAN YOU TELL ME, WILL I BREAK OR WILL I BEND?
