05-01-2024, 11:20 AM
The portal had not made itself directly known to Sophist, not before he had passed through it.
Upon quickening his pace toward the familiar river in his dark, forested home, he had slipped obliviously past its threshold.
Oblivious, that is, until the strange sensations overtook him.
The initial impression of having stepped through a gigantic spider’s web is purely unsettling. It tickles across his nose, sends shivers across his lithe neck and narrow torso. He flattens his ears against it in time for a heavier feeling to overtake him, as if the air were pressing close upon him. His next step pulled him through what felt like a heavy pressure, as if he were deep underwater or swaddled tightly in binding cloth.
It felt difficult to breathe in that moment – whether that was because there was no air around him or because his lungs were so restricted, he could not tell.
The initial tingling had not stopped, either, though the closeness made it impossible for him to shake it away. Sweat breaks out across his plum-colored body and mats his short star-white mane to his crest. Sight has been stolen from him by a pitch darkness the likes of which he has never experienced. He cannot even open his mouth to bleat in alarm at the odd, twisting sensation overtaking his skinny body.
Somehow, he manages another step forward through the squeezing of the portal, then another. Ever so slightly, the pressure eases. One final step frees him from the heavy netherworld and he takes a deep breath. The web-like feeling slips at last over his shoulders and then his haunches and he stamps upon the ground with an offended snort, tossing his head and huffing through his nose at the sheer inconvenience he’d experienced.
But then reality strikes him hard: he is no longer in the darkness, no longer surrounded by the dank earthen scent of the forest.
Rose-gold sunlight gilds the world around him. The trees have largely vanished and the sky seems level with the ground at his feet. He is standing out in the open and a hardy gust of wind tousles his dampened forelock upon his brow, his tail against his hocks. He is wracked by a full-body shudder, overwhelmed by the strangeness of the view around him and the anxiety of being thrust into clear view for anyone to behold. Except he is quite alone now.
The earth beneath his feet, woven with lush grass dyed a pinkish-blue hue by the sunset, seems solid enough except for the fact that, upon closer inspection, it appears to drop sheerly away from view when Sophist observes this new locale. Carefully, he wanders nearer to the edge of the visible ground and peers downward.
His stomach drops.
The ground does not continue – not with a sharp fissure-like cliff or even an unseen lower level. He is standing on the edge of an island suspended in the sky, many leagues above some distant land below. Whether or not that land is the Beqanna that he calls home is unclear; the view of it from this height is foggy and unclear, unrecognizable.
Sophist’s young heart leaps and he scrambles backward away from the edge, abruptly slammed with the realization that falling is a very real danger. He retreats toward the center of his small island where a meager cropping of trees sprouts heartily upward and plays host to a party of chattering songbirds much larger than seems usual. They leap from among the branches – each one sways softly beneath their abnormal weight – and consider the new arrival with bright, hungry eyes. Sophist pays them little heed for now, too enraptured by the way the clouds seem far too close, as does the open expanse of the sky, and he swallows thickly.
Nearby, in the not-so-far-distance, is a further sprawl of land. It is wider and more welcoming, though he can see that it retains the same major feature of being isolated as it floats just beyond his current habitation. Other islands of similar appearance accompany these initial two, suspended in the sky at varying heights.
Only now does he register a rushing sound generally associated with the movement of water. It is nearby but unseen at the moment, and Sophist smacks his lips at the memory of how parched he had been just a short while ago. So, after taking another few moments to steady his pounding pulse, the violet colt urges himself to move again.
Circling to the other side of the trees (the birds watch him with a mild rise in their chorus), he searches for the source of the familiar whooshing. Shakiness still pervades in his movements as he places one trembling foot in front of the other, his head held low as if frightened of being swept away from this relatively tiny piece of solid ground. He keeps his ears perked and his nostrils flared, focused in his pursuit. From the sound of it, he should be able to smell the water of the river he’s certain he hears, but only the scent of clear, fresh air greets him.
And soon enough he finds out why: the river is not one of water.
It is one of clouds.
Dense, gold-tinted and incredibly thick but very clearly intangible, they rush through the wide gap between Sophist’s island and the next. Originating from a ‘fall’ pouring off of another nearby island that floats higher than these two, stationary as it feeds its subordinates with this very curious feature, the river’s terminus is unknown as it falls somewhere further downstream into obscurity.
The neighboring plot of land at the same height as his own is much larger, as Sophist had already seen, and lies far out of his reach. Not even the spritely leap of a long-legged yearling like himself would clear the distance between the two levitating velds. Physical ability aside, the strange eddying and rippling and rapid movement of those condensed clouds (alongside his inability to see beneath them, whether they were cradled somehow or were open to the sky below) rather deterred Sophist from even contemplating such a jump.
But there, on the other island, sparkled a lovely lake of vivid blue water. Real water. The allure of it is more than the thirsty youth can resist, but the considerable challenge still looms: how would he reach it?
With a slightly defeated sigh, he lifts his head again and looks back toward the trees. A single bird has hopped to a lower tree branch so that it sags down closer to him. Finding no other option, Sophist indignantly asks aloud to the creature: “What do I do now?”
Except his voice is not his own, and his words are not words. Foreign to his own mouth but familiar to his ears, he ‘speaks’ in the same chirps as the birds had been using. A trill equally soft and sharp, his tongue flexes as if wholly familiar with the language; similarly, the bird tilts its head as if only slightly surprised while it considers its answer. With a song-like purr from its throat, it spreads its brilliant wings of green and silver and takes flight straight over his head. Sophist turns to follow its path, watching as it swoops a little low over the ‘river’ and flaps its wings with purpose.
Previously hidden by a foggy sort of mist above the surface of the clouds, a crossing to the other island is revealed. Perhaps not all hope is lost.
Upon quickening his pace toward the familiar river in his dark, forested home, he had slipped obliviously past its threshold.
Oblivious, that is, until the strange sensations overtook him.
The initial impression of having stepped through a gigantic spider’s web is purely unsettling. It tickles across his nose, sends shivers across his lithe neck and narrow torso. He flattens his ears against it in time for a heavier feeling to overtake him, as if the air were pressing close upon him. His next step pulled him through what felt like a heavy pressure, as if he were deep underwater or swaddled tightly in binding cloth.
It felt difficult to breathe in that moment – whether that was because there was no air around him or because his lungs were so restricted, he could not tell.
The initial tingling had not stopped, either, though the closeness made it impossible for him to shake it away. Sweat breaks out across his plum-colored body and mats his short star-white mane to his crest. Sight has been stolen from him by a pitch darkness the likes of which he has never experienced. He cannot even open his mouth to bleat in alarm at the odd, twisting sensation overtaking his skinny body.
Somehow, he manages another step forward through the squeezing of the portal, then another. Ever so slightly, the pressure eases. One final step frees him from the heavy netherworld and he takes a deep breath. The web-like feeling slips at last over his shoulders and then his haunches and he stamps upon the ground with an offended snort, tossing his head and huffing through his nose at the sheer inconvenience he’d experienced.
But then reality strikes him hard: he is no longer in the darkness, no longer surrounded by the dank earthen scent of the forest.
Rose-gold sunlight gilds the world around him. The trees have largely vanished and the sky seems level with the ground at his feet. He is standing out in the open and a hardy gust of wind tousles his dampened forelock upon his brow, his tail against his hocks. He is wracked by a full-body shudder, overwhelmed by the strangeness of the view around him and the anxiety of being thrust into clear view for anyone to behold. Except he is quite alone now.
The earth beneath his feet, woven with lush grass dyed a pinkish-blue hue by the sunset, seems solid enough except for the fact that, upon closer inspection, it appears to drop sheerly away from view when Sophist observes this new locale. Carefully, he wanders nearer to the edge of the visible ground and peers downward.
His stomach drops.
The ground does not continue – not with a sharp fissure-like cliff or even an unseen lower level. He is standing on the edge of an island suspended in the sky, many leagues above some distant land below. Whether or not that land is the Beqanna that he calls home is unclear; the view of it from this height is foggy and unclear, unrecognizable.
Sophist’s young heart leaps and he scrambles backward away from the edge, abruptly slammed with the realization that falling is a very real danger. He retreats toward the center of his small island where a meager cropping of trees sprouts heartily upward and plays host to a party of chattering songbirds much larger than seems usual. They leap from among the branches – each one sways softly beneath their abnormal weight – and consider the new arrival with bright, hungry eyes. Sophist pays them little heed for now, too enraptured by the way the clouds seem far too close, as does the open expanse of the sky, and he swallows thickly.
Nearby, in the not-so-far-distance, is a further sprawl of land. It is wider and more welcoming, though he can see that it retains the same major feature of being isolated as it floats just beyond his current habitation. Other islands of similar appearance accompany these initial two, suspended in the sky at varying heights.
Only now does he register a rushing sound generally associated with the movement of water. It is nearby but unseen at the moment, and Sophist smacks his lips at the memory of how parched he had been just a short while ago. So, after taking another few moments to steady his pounding pulse, the violet colt urges himself to move again.
Circling to the other side of the trees (the birds watch him with a mild rise in their chorus), he searches for the source of the familiar whooshing. Shakiness still pervades in his movements as he places one trembling foot in front of the other, his head held low as if frightened of being swept away from this relatively tiny piece of solid ground. He keeps his ears perked and his nostrils flared, focused in his pursuit. From the sound of it, he should be able to smell the water of the river he’s certain he hears, but only the scent of clear, fresh air greets him.
And soon enough he finds out why: the river is not one of water.
It is one of clouds.
Dense, gold-tinted and incredibly thick but very clearly intangible, they rush through the wide gap between Sophist’s island and the next. Originating from a ‘fall’ pouring off of another nearby island that floats higher than these two, stationary as it feeds its subordinates with this very curious feature, the river’s terminus is unknown as it falls somewhere further downstream into obscurity.
The neighboring plot of land at the same height as his own is much larger, as Sophist had already seen, and lies far out of his reach. Not even the spritely leap of a long-legged yearling like himself would clear the distance between the two levitating velds. Physical ability aside, the strange eddying and rippling and rapid movement of those condensed clouds (alongside his inability to see beneath them, whether they were cradled somehow or were open to the sky below) rather deterred Sophist from even contemplating such a jump.
But there, on the other island, sparkled a lovely lake of vivid blue water. Real water. The allure of it is more than the thirsty youth can resist, but the considerable challenge still looms: how would he reach it?
With a slightly defeated sigh, he lifts his head again and looks back toward the trees. A single bird has hopped to a lower tree branch so that it sags down closer to him. Finding no other option, Sophist indignantly asks aloud to the creature: “What do I do now?”
Except his voice is not his own, and his words are not words. Foreign to his own mouth but familiar to his ears, he ‘speaks’ in the same chirps as the birds had been using. A trill equally soft and sharp, his tongue flexes as if wholly familiar with the language; similarly, the bird tilts its head as if only slightly surprised while it considers its answer. With a song-like purr from its throat, it spreads its brilliant wings of green and silver and takes flight straight over his head. Sophist turns to follow its path, watching as it swoops a little low over the ‘river’ and flaps its wings with purpose.
Previously hidden by a foggy sort of mist above the surface of the clouds, a crossing to the other island is revealed. Perhaps not all hope is lost.
Sophist
if you take my nights will you leave me my days?