Search Results
5/24/2025, 3:01:50 PM
5/24/2025, 2:51:10 PM
>>6245854
>Argia's using her own head
perhaps Willow has unleashed something even she did not understand...
# # # # # #
You walk as if in a dream, uncertain if this will turn into a nightmare.
Soralisa and Rubida’s presence become faint as you walk through the crowd, the people parting before you — even as tired and as weakened as you are by your recent travel through the spiritual realms looking for Willow, you must be an imposing figure with your white, tasselled armour, Carnaval’s feather glowing crimson against your hip, your sword… and the weight of the cameo upon your breast.
A true shining example of the might of Ansàrra — or at least that is what you would like to say about yourself.
The recent events weigh like hooks upon your shoulders, dragging them into a hunched posture while you slip through the Thronelanders, aiming for the area behind the harbour.
It’s so different from the piers of Madua, as well as the small fisheries your remember from childhood. In your infancy, boats were always white, shiny and pretty, coasting off the murky waters of the shoreline or wafting off into the distance of the Mar da Candéa, where its waters regained some of their famed lustre, a deep blue.
Here, you walk amidst low bridges and dark narrow streets, so much at times you scrape with your shoulder against the masonry, like the one you saw at the Asterite’s mansion. The air smells like salt, like brackish water left to rot in the darkness. Even the light of the stars above seems far and forgotten from here, beneath the choking passages of the harbour barracks, where the only brightness is the orange glow off burning lamps.
And there is something else — a smell like rotten eggs, which you can’t place.
It’s akin to what Willow used to say, describing the smell from her home (you are even less sure you would ever want to visit her home world, if it reeks like this all the time), and it seems to come from the metal chimneys sticking out of the houses, casting veils of black smoke to blanket the starry night.
Your feet clang against the metal sheets of the harbour and you hesitate. You are now alone in the darkest part of the harbour, and when you turn your head there is no way to tell which of the zig-zagging streets will bring you back to your friends.
[cont.]
>Argia's using her own head
perhaps Willow has unleashed something even she did not understand...
# # # # # #
You walk as if in a dream, uncertain if this will turn into a nightmare.
Soralisa and Rubida’s presence become faint as you walk through the crowd, the people parting before you — even as tired and as weakened as you are by your recent travel through the spiritual realms looking for Willow, you must be an imposing figure with your white, tasselled armour, Carnaval’s feather glowing crimson against your hip, your sword… and the weight of the cameo upon your breast.
A true shining example of the might of Ansàrra — or at least that is what you would like to say about yourself.
The recent events weigh like hooks upon your shoulders, dragging them into a hunched posture while you slip through the Thronelanders, aiming for the area behind the harbour.
It’s so different from the piers of Madua, as well as the small fisheries your remember from childhood. In your infancy, boats were always white, shiny and pretty, coasting off the murky waters of the shoreline or wafting off into the distance of the Mar da Candéa, where its waters regained some of their famed lustre, a deep blue.
Here, you walk amidst low bridges and dark narrow streets, so much at times you scrape with your shoulder against the masonry, like the one you saw at the Asterite’s mansion. The air smells like salt, like brackish water left to rot in the darkness. Even the light of the stars above seems far and forgotten from here, beneath the choking passages of the harbour barracks, where the only brightness is the orange glow off burning lamps.
And there is something else — a smell like rotten eggs, which you can’t place.
It’s akin to what Willow used to say, describing the smell from her home (you are even less sure you would ever want to visit her home world, if it reeks like this all the time), and it seems to come from the metal chimneys sticking out of the houses, casting veils of black smoke to blanket the starry night.
Your feet clang against the metal sheets of the harbour and you hesitate. You are now alone in the darkest part of the harbour, and when you turn your head there is no way to tell which of the zig-zagging streets will bring you back to your friends.
[cont.]
Page 1