• Logout
  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    Island Resort: Round 3
    #1
    ROUND 3
    She can understand the temptation of the right path — the structures are strange and intriguing in a plain sort of way. They are of old Beqanna, before magic plagued the land and its inhabitants, back when one was good or evil and life was black and white. Although the structures are ancient and ordinary, a magic lurks beneath.

    Something rumbles underneath the sand where the structures stand; angry, perhaps, at the disturbance. The island begins to shake until It is released: a monster, a spiral of sand shooting up from directly in front of the structures. Those closest — the most curious among them — are swept up in the tornado of sand, lifting them off their feet, even grabbing the one who had chosen to fly. Then, suddenly, they are awakened at the foot of the Mountain where a sweet, blue face greets them. “Thank you for trying,” she says — voice like an ocean breeze — “you did your best.”

    Back on the Island, the effects of the monster are still present; although those who took the path to the left are too far to be swept up from the tornado, a sandstorm still wreaks havoc on the beach. The five who remain know they must be quick to catch the shells before they, too, are swept away.

    Rules
    -Round 3 entries are to be posted in Island Resort in the Quest thread no later than March 2nd at 7 PM CST.
    -No word limit.
    -@[Persea], @[Lochwood], @[brigade], @[Vadar], @[Eva], @[Leander], @[bright], @[Aten] have been eliminated. They will have the 0-space aesthetic trait of “seashell mane/tail”, which can fade over time or remain permanent, whichever you choose. If you want your character to have any injuries from their run-in with the sand monster, that’s fine with me.
    -@[Hestoni], @[Kagerus], @[Aodhan], @[Nocturne], and @[naia] have chosen the correct path. Your post should start on the path to the empty beach. They must find 3 different types of seashells (I want to know the different types specifically) through the sandstorm and describe their return to the top of the mountain.
    -Failing to respond on time or at all without notifying the officials will result in a permanent defect.
    may the odds
    be ever in your favor

    Reply
    #2


    kagerus
    and in my dreams, i kissed your lips a thousand times
    Each step towards the beach is agony.
     
    Blood from the puncture wounds in my hind cannon trail tellingly behind me, dirtying the pure white sand below with its crimson droplets. The sight of it upon retrospection makes me glad that the foal I glimpse a moment ago struck out before me, such that he or she might not be subject to the gore of my fateful injury. The child's life will inevitably be full of misery and disgust, but that I might avoid initiating that cycle of pain presents a small thread of hope to which I desperately cling. 

    We can make it.
     
    Fuck. Ironically, I trip just as I decide on this hope, resulting in my hind leg pressing to the earth to catch my falling weight. Pain shoots from the marrow of my bone into each of my nerves; though I manage to keep my footing, what was left of my clear headedness disappears. Panthera growls next to me, trying to warn me of something in the baritone of her vocal chords as my fractured psyche fails to interpret her telepathic communications. Bleary-eyed and close to vomiting, I cast my eyes in the direction which my familiar indicates.
     
    A veritable fortress of sand seems to float not far off on the horizon, obscuring the arcane structures which had evidently stood there moments before. For a moment I admire the billowing brown cloud.

    Eerily, I become aware of a bead of sweat as it slides from the top of my skull to the bottom of my jaw; for a moment, my entire self exists solely in that droplet, as excluded from this reality as death is from life.
     
    Salt.
    Water.
    Fear.
     
    Sandstorm.
     
    SANDSTORM!
     
    At last I re-enter my corporeal form, the combined chaos of Panthera screaming in my mind, the angrily crashing waves not far off, and the rapidly approaching wall of sand leaving me hyperventilating and chalk full of adrenaline. Despite the agony of my cannon bone I leap toward the open beach, only now noticing that I have fallen behind from the rest of the pack; distantly I glimpse their four figures, already rooting amongst the pale granules, though for what I can only guess. Sobbing as my tongue tastes the air becoming dusty, I force myself to gallop towards the beach.
     
    Though my skin is only punctured, I suspect far worse damage as the pain of weight bearing strikes deep into my gut and into the bone itself. A hairline fracture, I suspect - easy to fix in a dream, but what surrounds me now presents much more of a nightmare than anything sweet or simple.
     
    By the time I stumble to a halt beside the others, the sandstorm hits.
     
    Panthera! I call silently as her tawny figure disappears completely in the onslaught. Momentarily, however, I forget completely about my familiar, utterly disposed of any semblance of functionality as my lungs entrap mouthfuls of sands along their mucosal linings. The sensation of coughing without being able to hear the sound of the wracking bellows above the din of the sandstorm is otherworldly, an eldritch kind of hell where my pain is invisible even to myself. Stumbling blindly, I find my way to the oceanside, and collapse there with a frightening immediacy.
     
    When I dip my nose into the water, all I feel is sludge; mud; silt. Any hopes of clearing my mouth of sand disappear, and I recognize even in my pain-altered state that to dream myself clean water and fresh air now would almost certainly result in my death as my corporeal form suffocates in the dust. Dimly, I feel the pain of my leg, though it is nothing now in comparison to the ache and cry of my lungs.
     
    Kagerus, I hear distantly; a voice. Its character is indecipherable. Logically it ought to be Panthera but in my delusional state, I imagine it to be Solace.Kagerus, please stand up. A belly-ached moan slips silently from my mouth, a mouth which now rests hopelessly against the silt. Let me die, I think back, eyes and eyelashes crusted with sand and the like. The blackness closes in around me as the storm piles its debris overtop my prostrate figure. Let me sleep.
     
    Beneath the weight of the rapidly accumulating muck atop my skull, the loose sand below it gives way - and before I can lift my head in response, something cool and smooth presses softly against my skin. Where it touches, a calmness radiates. Spreading slowly throughout my pain-addled body, the acute consciousness of psychic awareness rouses me from my stupor. A purification, of my lungs and (infinitely more importantly) of this land.
     
    My head lifts and my eyes find the smooth shape of the curled, opalescent moon snail shell. In a heartbeat it would once again be hidden by the billowing sand, but I gingerly lip it into my mouth before that can happen. Tucked safely between my teeth and my cheek, the lunar magicks of this shell remind me that the final chapter of Beqanna's story has yet to be written.
     
    (Life is ever unfolding, developing, and progressing. In the ancient spirals of the shell are these laws written; and with them come gifts of psychic awareness, purification, and peace. Beqanna would need these gifts sorely, when the time came to heal).
     
    Within seconds, I am upright, facing the brutality of the island's wrath though my pain levels have far from lessened. The shell resting safely in my mouth reminds me that all is not lost, and that each step will bring me closer to completing the story which has already been written by the fates. My teeth grind together, sand gritting between them. I will find the other shells - I will do my part.
     
    The journey down the coastline is slow and made slower by the inextricable mixing of sand and water. In places the storm-produced mud replicates the smoothness of a seashell, causing my hope to rise and fall with the crash of the distant, tumultuous ocean waves. With a dire rarity, water from these self same waves finds its way to my mouth - and though it is a relief to rid the soft pink membranes therein of sand, I must fight with all my strength not to swallow the salty sea water which would surely kill me faster than any sandstorm.
     
    Minutes later, another stray wave laps at my muzzle. As I desperately slurp up its trickle of relatively clear water amidst the destruction of the storm, something clinks against my teeth, and it is not the moon snail shell which I have carefully kept at the back of my jaw. Shocked, I nearly drop the thing - but just as it falls, I click my mouth shut, catching the shell against the back of my front teeth whilst allowing the rest of the water to flow away. Whatever the thing is, whatever its shape or meaning, it has been given to me by the gods for a reason; and that reason fuels me, lends my agonized body the strength to live for my principles, even to the death: to fight for what I believe in, even if it kills me. My eyes flash a righteous gold, no longer obscured by the sand.
     
    (A fighting conch, small but sturdy; its many prongs present a scrappy appearance, its burnished edges lending it the air of an underdog. True to its name, the magick imbued in this shell lends its bearer the will to defend that which they believe in; to fight for what matters most; and to stand up in the name of their principles. Beqanna would need this drive to fight back against the onslaught of the plague; the resiliency of the shell would remind Her of the resiliency of her people. A reminder of what once was, and of what would be again, after the final battle).
     
    Clarity and a revived need to finish this quest fill me with a suddenness I could not have anticipated, but which I eagerly welcome. With my ears pinned against the howl of sand, I raise my head and look through painfully squinted eyes for a sign of any of the other horses who had come here with me - but the figure which emerges from the claws of the storm is not equine at all. She, too, has felt the spirit of the fighting conch fill her soul with the energy required to defeat this storm; she, too, has come to see the light.
     
    Panthera.
     
    She stalks to me as though weighed down by the ocean itself, but she comes nonetheless. Her tawny hide no longer bears the telltale prints of the leopard, and her eyes blend too perfectly with the sand that covers her heavy pelt. At first I can only express my joy to her in wordless telepathy, my head bending to press against hers as the storm swirls around us, threatening to put an end to our gratitude. Pressed there and with a searing cough, I realize that it is too late, now, to find a third shell; I will have to teleport us out of here and call the mission failed, else sacrifice our bodies to the murderous nature of the storm. Part of fighting means fighting to stay alive; means fighting, and bringing what one can to the table instead of admitting defeat. The Faeries will make use of two shells, even if the third is sorely missed.
     
    We tried, I keen to Panthera, falling to my knees as sleep tugs at my consciousness, insisting that now be the time we depart, reminding me ceaselessly of the sand as it lines my lungs and threatens to dab out my life once and for all.
     
    We tried.
     
    --
     
    From this far, the stars, too, look like grains of sand.
     
    The dreamers float as a celestial entity of their own through the cosmic dust. What remains of their worldly psyches fails to resemble what one might call consciousness, though there exists an undeniable energy surrounding their nameless star. Their radiance presents a beauty unmatched from afar, but from within the core of their own making, a heat of unimaginable degrees tears at the very fibers of their beings.
     
    After all, the stars may glimmer, but up close, they burn.

     
    --
     
    With a gasp (followed by heavy, painful coughs which shake me to my core) we awaken on the mountain top, standing in shambles side by side. It is only a moment before my fragmented mind forgets the celestial dream and remembers, desperately, that I hold precious items in my maw. Trembling, I bend my aching neck and set the shells at my obsidian hooves, reminders of that which has already come to pass during Beqanna's slow return to health.
     
    I blink, pained, at the sight of the two beautiful shells; but as I look away, Panthera zips her head to the pile and drops something vaguely ellipsoidal in shape, and decidedly ugly in color.
     
    And oyster shell, unopened; that which casts spells of good fortune, and banishment. Its lips remain sealed, failing to reveal whether it holds a pearl in its gut - but I do not need to see it, to know that form its depths, something beautiful shall undeniably be born.
     
    (As good fortune settled on Beqanna's shoulders, the plague quaked; the dawn of its final banishment drew near, and it hadn't anything more to fight against the awesome powers of its motherland. Brandishing the pearl of the oyster on a ring set in moon gold and conch rose, Beqanna pointed the plague towards eternal damnation; and yet, those afflicted by the contagion remained, healed. After all, the oyster's greatest message is this: to take one's irritants, and to make them into something beautiful. Something whole).
     
    Looking up, I submit myself to the game of waiting, exhausted beyond reason but not trusting myself to fall back to sleep. The stars call strongly, and I mustn't give in to their siren-like summons. Luckily, the now-dull pain in my cannon bone aids me in this conquest as I await the finale of what has come to be the four most important quests of all time, throbbing incessantly through the night. Leaning against Panthera and looking ahead to where the others and the faeries shall soon join me atop this mountain, I wait.
     
    (Unbeknownst to the dreamers and the stars, a fourth shell burrows secretly into the moon snail shell. Nearly parasitic but simultaneously unavoidable, the worm snail shell stuck stubbornly to where it had lodged itself long ago in the inner spirals of the moon snail shell long ago. Crude and ugly, the brown twists of its ragged edges spun the tail of life, a cycle as constant as that of the tides; fitting, that it would find itself in this moon snail shell, in one destined to remedy this land of a terrible sickness. Despite its secretive ways, the worm snail shell whispered forgotten truths to its mother Beqanna from where it lay, burrowed; a reminder:
     
    That all is not lost; that life, and death, shall continue; and that in the end, beauty pervades all else)
    .
    [Image: kag]
    dreamweaver
    Reply
    #3
    For the fourth time in his short life, the whole world hinged on a simple, spur of the moment decision. This time it boiled down to left or right, exploring strange landforms or making his search on an empty beach. They were teaching their lesson well; small choices could have untold consequences. He ambled along the beach, silver eyes on the lookout for any shells at all, skipping the smooth sand of the shoreline and sticking to the line of debris that marked the last high tide. Odds were if he was to find any shells, they’d be somewhere the waves hadn’t been licking and pulling them back into the water, right? Somewhere just out of reach?

    He didn’t get far before the ground beneath his feet rumbled angrily, the island shaking and quaking and kicking up a strange swirling storm that swept up and devoured those who had chosen to head the other way. All he could do was silently wish them the best and keep moving, because a sandstorm tore its way toward them, kicking up particles of sand and winging their way. Eyes wide with fear, Nocturne picked up his pace, launching into a gallop, eyes still on the ground searching for shells they so desperately needed. This time, he wouldn’t fail. Three shells, he could find three. You know. While running from a sandstorm that wanted to eat him up.

    No big deal.

    The first shell* he spotted was grey and white, the dark grey forming a crescent moon as it curved outward toward the edge of the shell. He lowered his head and snatched it up, still running and working to wrap ice around it and freeze it into his scruffy little mane to carry back up the Mountain. He made the mistake of glancing back, only to see the sandstorm getting bigger and rushing closer. Fuck. Running out of time, two more to find. Okay.

    On he ran, scouring the beach for any sign of shells that were inexplicably few and far between. Rock, rock, seaweed, more damn rocks, that was two quests ago and not this beach! Aha! There! A flash of brown in between the...well, the other brown and white and sandy hues and the piles of random not-shells, but this one looked like a shell, okay, spiky little edges that weren’t rock, so he got excited. Sue him. He reached down to snatch this one up too and--ow! Fuck! Nope! Owwwww still occupied, that was definitely a crab, not a shell. Fuck, dammit, ow! He shook his head, dislodging the crab, staring after it for a second as it flew through the air, wondering if that counted as a shell?

    Best not to risk it, he couldn’t fuck this one up.

    So he ran on, until he spotted a little white oval that he was prettyyyy sure was actually a shell this time? He dipped his head to pick it up, a nervous little jolt running through him as he made contact. Oh good, this one didn’t hurt though, just a shell** this time, a flattened oval with white and a soft sort of uhhh sandyish off-white beige color? Look, he didn’t have a whole lot of time to analyze and describe it, the sandstorm was closing in and if that debris started burying shells or kicking them up too he’d be good and screwed! He’d leave the critiquing to the fairies, thanks. Ice wrapped around this shell too and gently pulled it up to his mane to join its buddy as he kept right on running.

    Sand was starting to obscure his vision, filling the air and getting in his eyes and clinging to his coat and his nostrils, but he still had to find one more. He couldn’t really see much by way of the soft, quiet colors anymore, but as he ran, a tiny flash of deep red caught his eye, almost blood or cherry red that bled into white stripes, leaving the low points a reddish-pink color, look, it was bright and pretty and he saw it, and that had to be good enough. He ground to a halt, letting the sandstorm swallow him down as he picked up the tiny shell***, wrapping ice around it as he reached for it so he wouldn’t break it. Eyes scrunching closed against the sand, he guided the ice-encased treasure to his mane to join the other two shells.

    Blinded by the sand, he turned left and ran for the shore, choking on the tiny, clinging particles that made their way into his nose with every breath. He snorted, shaking his head to try and dislodge some of the sand, and dashed into the water, relief washing over him as it splashed up his chest and his belly and washed away some of the sand that clung to his moonlight pale coat. The deeper into the water he got, the farther he’d leave the sandstorm behind, right? So he kept powering on, dunking his head under the water and shaking it to get some of the damn sand off his face, blowing again to get it out of his nose. Shit, and focusing on the ice, keeping it nice and cold even though it was stuck to his warm body and risking melting into the sea and all. No big deal. Got this.

    From there it was honestly a matter of routine at this point. It was the fourth time he’d attempted to gather ingredients for the cure, and he was getting well acquainted with the trek back to the Mountain from anywhere on the continent. He swam back to the mainland, raced through the volcanic paradise of Tephra and along the border between two clashing forests, one evergreen and the other ever autumnal. Over the hilly scape of the land beyond, followed another border between forest and rugged foothills, over the river that felt like nothing next to the swims he’d taken across the sea. And then back up the Mountain once again, back to the fairies. Once again, he collapsed in an exhausted heap as he reached them, letting the ice melt to reveal the three small treasures he’d gathered for them.

    Hopefully it would make a difference. He tried not to think too hard about what would come next, when his whole life so far had been this, one quest after another to try and gather the ingredients they needed for a cure. If this was the last one, maybe he’d have to face the nightmares and the loneliness, the empty days that had only been offset once by a girl with fire in her eyes that helped melt the stone his body had become in the belly of an ancient beast. She must be out there still, maybe even back at Silver Cove. If the fairies didn’t need him anymore...maybe it was time to see what else life could hold in a world he’d helped make safe again.

    If it worked, of course. Shit. He really hoped it’d work. “Is there anything else you need of me?” he asked, panting and staring up at the fairy who had sent them on this quest. “Anything else you need for the cure, any other way I can help?”

    *Decatopecten noduliferum, grey and white sunrise shell, also called moonrise shell when found in the darker colors like this, (ring finger) with a pattern that looks like a dark crescent moon
    **Patella vulgata, limpet shell, oval and looks like a flattened volcano, white and a sort of soft beige.
    ***Muricopsis (Risomurex) rosea, pink drupe/rose murex, paralectotype
    Reply
    #4

    I'll be sitting here with a song that I wrote, saying
    love could change the world in a moment
    My crab friend had it right all along! First of all he knows how to get out of the sand. Second, he likes walking sideways and he liked the open beach more than the structures. So, of course I love the open beach too!

    I do enjoy the sights; and I might have enjoyed the view around the weird structures too, but my childish mind perhaps didn’t think them more out of the ordinary than anything else - this sand is white and it is warm and so here, it is so much different than anything back home… surely this place has the bestest of shells to find!

    But the good weather doesn’t stay so very good for very long. My first clue is my new friend abandoning me; suddenly, he buries himself back into the warm sand and I am dishearted. Then finally, I look up. I have just about time to find the gaze of the russet stallion, the black-based girl with spots just like mine, a spotted and -antlered- mare who would otherwise have caught all my interest, and a younger stallion with colours like my sister Sheen’s -

    ...but it is the sandstorm that catches my eye, behind them.

    A pitiful whine is the first thing to escape me; just about the same time, my wits seem to have fled as well. I stand like a frozen statue, glowing with heat and light as my only defense mechanism (which unfortunately does nothing against being buried in sand); my emerald gaze wider than the moon at spring-tide as I watch the sand-monster take his revenge for not eating me - it’s coming back to eat me!

    Terrorized, I take a few steps back, until the sea beckons at my hocks. No, wait, I can’t go yet! I need to find shells! Hastily, I look around, spying a few other people running around. I can’t help but whine once more, but then struggle to get back on the beach. It’s an adventure, it’s supposed to be scary.

    In retrospect, I’m lucky to be so naive at this moment.

    Blue is gonna be my new favourite colour. I remind myself while I look over the beach. The only - only - positive thing in this situation is that the sand getting swept up means the shells become visible. Hidden, I thought so all along!

    Blue - something black and bluish shines to me, and I run towards it. A blue mussel shell, which I gingerly collect between my lips. It’s a sharp one, this one, I feel, and I’m very careful. Blue - another shell nearby is nearly blue, though if I look close I see that it’s because the prickly cockle is actually grey striped with white. But I can’t be picky now, and most of all, it caught my eye so it’s gotta be good, right?

    My two shells get carried in my mouth and I with my Mama would be here to tangle them into my mane. I probably am dripping saliva as I try to see through the storm (I gave up on hearing or having any clue about my directions long ago). When I’m near desperate and want to give up, I spy a little movement behind a rock. It’s my crab friend! (Or maybe it’s a totally different crab, but I instantly decide this is my crab friend anyway.) I hurry towards him, dropping my two blue-like shells to see if he’s okay.

    The crab is in its natural habitat, and seems not to care much about the storm. But next to the crab is a very pretty dog whelk shell - all white and curly and with traces of gold in it. That’s mine, I think, the crab must have brought it to me!

    I adore my three shells - they may be normal looking, but they are whole, and I think they’re pretty. One is like me, two are for the fairy. My collection couldn’t be better fitting, and so behind the rock I take them back in my mouth. The muscle stings a bit, and I might have a cut in my lip now, but I can’t care right now. I have to go, and soon. I breathe deeply through my nostrils - and find myself surrounded by sand.

    I nearly drop my shells when I realize this, eyes teary-watery. I’m still, or again, glowing, a beacon in the storm but what I need is someone else to guide me. But nobody comes, at least not that I can see; I can hear something in the distance that might be growling, and I may as well go in that direction, but I don’t know if the sea growls or if it’s the sand monster trying to lure me. Hesitantly, I peer through the storm, my head low by the rock and the crab.

    There’s one last break in the clouds of sand, and I spy something blue once more.

    I make a break for it and run - faster than I ever did before, faster than I will again for a long while. My young legs aren’t made for this, but if it’s any luck, I do know my way around a sandy shore. Never mind that it isn’t grey or cold out here. It might as well be - and so I run, until I make it off the island and into the water. It’s blue - blue water - and if I weren’t carrying three shells so carefully, I would have shouted with joy.

    It’s funny how the way back seems always easier than the way to. Or maybe it’s because I know that I’m leaving the sand monster(s) behind, and will never have to see them again. Maybe the tide is in my favour as well (it probably is, since it had been against me on the way towards the island - with the water lowered, I find more places to rest).

    Completely dehydrated, slightly bleeding where the sand and the mussel have cut me open, and way out of breath, I reach the mountain with my shells. I drop them next to the antlered mare and the sister-coloured male, and then I drop myself to the ground because honestly, nobody ever told me I needed to be standing while I waited for a fairy. I’m exhausted and I want to be home.

    (And I want my crab friend to visit me, where there is no sand monster.)
    but what do I know?
    Aodhán
    little fire
    Reply
    #5

    you are miles away but i still feel you

    All things considered, it’s a happy day on the island. The sun is warm and bright on his shoulders, easing away the ache from the encounter with the siren and drying his red skin. There are only a few clouds in the baby blue sky, but they are not angry clouds. They’re unblemished ivory, wispy on their underbellies and bundled together on their backs like the curls on a colt’s mane. Songs of wildlife echo from beside his right shoulder — creatures of the air and creatures of the wood taking part in the pleasure of the nice day as well — and Hestoni finds the tiniest of smiles briefly dancing across his face. The symphony of animal noises reminds him of the Jungle, even if Island Resort’s wildlife are vastly different from the Amazon’s.

    The easiness of the day brings a softness into the russet’s chest that he hasn’t felt since he had last spent a night nestled with his lover (before she had turned her lips toward the slick, whispering face of lust and made love with the rusty, fire-angry body of betrayal). It encourages him to move along the beach with long strides, covering a decent amount of distance while thoroughly searching among the tangled clusters of slippery seaweed and the tide-washed faces of hardy rock formations. The pale sand is still damp under his feet and Hestoni hopes that means there are shells nestled among the places where shells get stuck, unwilling to retreat into the unknown of the ocean.

    He doesn’t have much time to search; by the time he is truly absorbed into the routine of looking for the precious shells, a great roar and a rumble beneath his feet force the titan to pause in his great steps and seek out the source. A great plume of sand looms in the distance, swallowing the sight of the structures and the other shell-seekers. The billowing granules are angry and mighty, growing from a snake in the sky into the broad shoulders of a dragon. For a moment, Hestoni admires both the shape of the storm and the rightness of his decision. The storm begins to loom closer, eating up the distance between the strange structures and the innocents scattered along the beach, and it shatters Hestoni’s peaceful enjoyment of the sight.

    The russet stallion turns back toward his searching, turning his pace from a stretching walk into a long canter. The length of his legs had given him some distance from the others, but Hestoni knows that if he moves too quickly the beach will become a blur under his legs and he will miss any delicate pieces of decoration. His chest pounds with the ache of a quick heart, but there is calmness in his mind. That’s unsurprising for the titan anyway; he has served Carnage and worried over the labor and delivery of all his children and yet the shadow of a looming sandstorm does little to shadow those panic-filled memories.

    His first discovery is only about an inch in size, sunbathing against the side of a rock only a few inches larger. The nucleus scallop is patterned in stripes of cream, yellow, and deep orange — a tiny tiger of the beach — and its back has small, smooth ridges across it. The stallion nearly laughs aloud (and how silly to think that he is enjoying himself among the fear that dances on the other’s shoulders; he truly thinks he has nothing to lose, having already lost his wife to the dances of evil) at how petite the shell is… Would his eye have caught it if he had been moving quicker?

    Slowing to a manageable jog, Hestoni presses the dainty shell beneath the hold of his tongue. He doesn’t dare risk swallowing the tiger-striped fighter and the weight of it in his mouth is a comfort. The russet casts a glance over his shoulder while picking up his pace again. The storm is looming closer, sweeping the antlered mare into its darkness and seeming to pick up speed as the empty beach provides it the distance it needs to do so. Hestoni races toward the clear waters this time, hoping to find a smooth shell as the waves roar in and whisper out.

    He doesn’t find just one shell; he finds more than he can count. A particular rocky outcropping provides the perfect hiding place for a mass accumulation of the very gold he has been looking for. They are shaded in the protection of the rocks and their colors look dim against the backdrop of bright, happy shades of the beach. Yet Hestoni knows the chosen shell is among the gathered and he nudges his nose against their weight, searching for the right one.

    He isn’t sure exactly how he knows, but he does. The milk conch is about four inches in size, pale in color, and smooth with a pointed end atop its head. It feels like ice in his mouth compared to the warmth of the beach, but Hestoni doesn’t even dare to let go of it. His brown eyes drop to search for another in the treasure box of shells, but the sandstorm hits him so passionately that he stumbles away.

    The fierceness of the sand clouds his field of vision and plagues his nostrils and Hestoni instantly knows he will not find the rocky outcropping again. There is no right or wrong, up or down, left or right among the force of the storm. It is only there that he begins to panic; his feet churn in the sand as he runs blindly, lost in the swirling oblivion of endless stinging flecks of grain. He wonders how he’ll ever be able to find a final shell when he cannot even find the refreshing coolness of the ocean.

    So he picks a direction and runs there, hoping to encounter either the shade of the forest or the clarity of the sea. Perhaps he can wait out the danger of the sandstorm, nestled among wave or shadow until its anger wanes and it dives below the ivory shoreline. It doesn’t take long before Hestoni hears the fearful cries of the island’s wildlife and he realizes he’s been running inward. It does take him a moment, however, to realize that a shape is looming out of the darkness and that he will run into it in only a moment.

    The shape of the palm tree’s trunk will leave an impression on both his chest and his head (a deep bruise will blossom, aching with every respiration until it fades) but at the moment the wind is swept from his lungs and he is startled by the tree among the sand. It’s a lone palm tree, standing apart from its brothers just past the true treeline. Hestoni tips his head back to look at its branches, where the faint shape of a bird’s nest quavers among the anger of the storm. Something falls from the nest just as he is looking up, seemingly fed up with the wind and torment that has been brought upon it.

    It is a flamingo tongue, a little under an inch in size with a pale underbelly and a bright yellow-orange back. Hestoni stares at it for a moment, even with sand filling his lungs and burrowing among the slices and scrapes upon his skin. A vicious cough shakes him away from his stupor, triggered by the irritants of the storm infiltrating his throat. As the titan is snatching the shell off the beachfront and turning to stretch into a long gallop toward the beach, he hears a bird’s cry of grief shout from the nest.

    A prized possession lost from one becomes a prized possession gained by another.

    The bathing feeling of the water across his body is perhaps one of the most desirable things in life. Hestoni finds himself dipping his face in the water to clear his nostrils and his face. A trail of dirt sloughs off him and into the clear sea, but the titan does not look back. The shells are clutched against the crevices of his mouth — the two tiny ones beneath the weight of his tongue and the largest held in the pocket of his left cheek — and he doesn’t dare drop them throughout the journey to the Mountain.

    The trip feels like it happens in the blink of an eye. One moment he is climbing up Tephra’s sulfuric beach, free of sand but heavy with exhaustion, and the next he is arriving at the Mountain’s summit. Fatigue lines each tissue of his body as the stallion finally drops his precious cargo near the other scattered shells. It hadn’t occurred to him that Beqanna was looking for only three shells, yet they had several more than that. The beginning of a frown pulls at his eyebrows, but Hestoni pushes the expression away. His brown eyes search for the fairy who sent them on their quest, wondering if she would explain away the issue of the shells.

    hestoni

    Reply
    #6
    Somehow, she had made the right decision.

    Naia does not think she has particularly good luck, but signs were beginning to point her toward a kind universe or a vigilant guardian angel. If she is to be honest with herself (and she is beginning to do so), she will find that her life has dealt her Iittle joys to make up for the hardships. A father absent of hardly any fault of his own, a family she barely knows, a loneliness that pervades most moments -  all inconsequential to the quests of rescue and care she sets herself upon.

    Perhaps, and she thinks this very hesitantly, she possesses qualities that redeem her depressiveness - that will not be muted by mental illness.

    The sand storm comes quick - sudden - whipping those that were allured by the strange structures into a vicious whirlwind. Just as quickly as they are taken, they disappear, and the monster is screeching its way toward the struggling few that remain. Luckily, Naia finds that her wound is hardly more than surface, and she can hobble quickly to the shoreline for three seashells the fairy asked for. Panic wants so desperately to flood her brain but the logic the budding woman is so fond of comes first. All calamity comes second to her quickly passing thoughts: spot the shell, place in mouth, repeat twice over and then off into the ocean before the sand takes her.

    Without thinking, the appaloosa wraps her lips around a smooth, white-spotted piece. Oval in shape, bark brown, and lined with ridges upon its opening, it fits neatly tucked into the side of her mouth. The next is but a few inches from the first, each side spread wide like a butterfly’s wings - each side painted like a picturesque sunset. Like the one before, she hastily scoops it into the side of her mouth, maneuvering her tongue just so that the shell rests between her gums and her teeth.

    The sandstorm is closing in now: howling like the enraged werewolf it is, whipping dirt the teeth nipping at her heels.

    Naia rushes into the water without looking back, afraid the sight of the monstrosity breathing down her neck will cause her to falter. Fear poisons little corners of her brain: blurring the edges of her vision, setting a faster pace to her beating heart, balling faintly nauseous spit in the back of her throat. She thinks she will fail - bring back the only two she could find in the hopes it will be enough for the fairies.

    But she cannot bear the failure; nor has her warrior’s heart ever truly taken to defeat, even in her darkest moments.

    With a calming breathe, Naia plunges her head underwater and presses her maw to the shifting ground. Her eyes open wide for a moment - just a measly second long enough against the salt - to spot her last accessory. A creamy, smooth spiral: somehow so delicate and yet held intact despite the cruel nature of the sea. Upon her tongue it rests; Naia taking careful time to lift her head from the water without disturbing her precious cargo. Behind her the storm is furious (she thinks it cries for her; perhaps a sandy werewolf truly does take form).

    No matter: the woman finds a new strength today -

    She does not have to look back.

    Through the channel she travels, kicking up sand upon the shore, passing the Tephra volcano. Her trip is quick, thoughts no other need know (thoughts of redemption, of hope). Perhaps there is a new sway to her hips as she steps into the clearing of the fairies.

    Humbled in her newfound womanhood and in awe of the wisdom these fairies demand, Naia dips her head respectfully and drops her offerings on the ground.


    shell 1: measled cowrie
    shell 2: sunrise tellin
    shell 3: common spirula
    Reply




    Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)