Thread Closed
A Beach
She remembered a curious moment from the island before. It was strange because after that woman appeared, not much came to mind. Shapes and sounds, colors, heat, thirst. It wasn’t so much that she couldn’t pull from those memories, but that she never had a will to do so. She could tug endlessly and every time the string would simply grow more lax.
A man, haggard, beset by gout, black hair like sodden, rotting leaves, curled over his fishing rod. Like a coastal arch, battered by waves, waiting to erode fully. But it was a long wait. His pot was far from empty. Every once in a while, the silver-backed fish inside brushed against its earthenware walls in a glint of light. The girl understood this man had more than one stomach. His was the least important among them. That was why she could see the bones in his cheeks.
That was also why she knew he’d be there a long while. That his pot would keep her full. The sun began to fall, and his head nodded for the first time. Her hands, gritty with sand, pulled her forward from the underbrush. Too much distance. Had to make it shorter. Even a single blink’s worth of distance needed to disappear on time, or she’d be covered in bruises, or worse, by nightfall, too weak to avoid much larger, healthier ones. The sand was still warm, but the sun had already grown red. He was turning, then, his sluggish body struggling to realize the sound of four limbs pawing at the earth was approaching him, of all things, upon this insignificant dot on the map.
Why had he come here? How did he use that curious stick? For what reason did he feed his stomach last? There wasn’t any need to consider those questions, for she had no mind, no thoughts to spare him. She remembered the shapes, the sounds, the sensations. Hands tore at dried, bloody skin. Teeth closed around foul tasting, sweaty flesh. All of her meager weight was on his broken shoulders. She could feel him struggling under her, already lifting. The pot teased her from below; he only needed to tumble and it’d be hers, it’d be hers in an instant. Her thick, callused fingers fingers found a soft spot around the wrist and dug in, pushed deeper, pushed in, pushed through…
The thunder lady, frozen in time, eyes wide with disbelief, crumpled in front of her. An untrained body, unaccustomed to the concussive force force far in excess of what a small fist could do, collapsing in upon itself like she was a paper doll. A gun in black steel, ungainly and small. A toy? Did children play with little things like that in the Empire? Expressions filtering a thousand confused demands, desperate questioning, trickling through an expression she was unable to truly see. What the mind forgets, the hands remember. So she was taught. Her hands remembered it then, the journey through flesh and bone. She didn’t see her face then, couldn’t see it now. Wouldn’t see it. It was shapes. Light and shadow birthing color between their entwined forms. Behind her, she could feel a man’s eyes pinning their bodies together. He had to flee far away, no matter how strong he'd made himself, from what the small girl was doing before him. He had to be anywhere but there. But his eyes wouldn’t allow it. It was a familiar sensation, one typically unworthy of attention. She noticed it.
It flowed somewhere from behind her sight, through her veins and nerves, through the twitching of her muscle, deep into the recesses of her fingertips. The same sensation of her hand breaking that woman. Her nostrils flared, though she knew there was nothing but salty air to greet them. From someplace unseen, the fragrance of apricot blossoms came creeping back. She became acutely aware of the rushing of blood in her ears, a roaring to shame the rolling evening tide. The smile that wasn’t followed her from a place far out of sight, warbling in a way that could perhaps be mistaken for laughter.
When she realized where she was, Virara found herself with a porcupine’s hand. Galien’s fishing rod lay in two pieces at the sides of her lap, the splinters deep in her thick skin. It was a characteristic of her people, her Master had told her once, though she was a stranger to them, to have rather soft skin. The calluses never stayed long. A shame. It would make it easier to hit without feeling undue feedback. That she had any at all was a mark of her diligence.
Virara pursed her lips and set about picking the wood from herself, more troubled by the waste than the pinpricks she’d long stopped feeling. The island had a way of distracting her. She’d neglected her stone-wheel training, digging deep furrows in the earth with the load she dragged by mooring rope, but unless she decided to play aurochs for the locals, it was off the table. She cast her gaze across the water, skipping it across the waves, watching the rise and fall of the surf against unfamiliar sands, rockier and less comfortable, but also cooler to the touch. They were not like pearl dust, like the white sands of her better known beaches. The trees weren’t covered in ivy creepers, their forms deciduous and gnarled, but rather stormswept coastal pines. The waves had a different sound, the grass a different scent. The people weren’t constantly looking to disappear. And all of it would be occasionally ruined by the stench of blue slag, as well as its constant companion: that smog Imperials were so fond of.
“Not like my island.â€
She murmured under her breath. Virara had never been loud, but her voice naturally favored a whisper, and she oft needed to repeat herself. Of course, she didn’t, unless she had a mind to be heard. But much more could be accomplished simply by doing. Virara recalled the sensation of a warm palm upon her head. There might have been greater meaning in Leanne noticing something in her. That surely was why she asked her aid, before and now. Like the time with the Garlean woman. She recognized Virara had a specific sort of usefulness. It made sense. Things needed to.
The calm that set over Gloam might have been a sign that it was time to resume the normal schedule. Move, fuel, rest. Never stay in one place. Always observe the schedule. Honor all debts. She had fulfilled her request, and it was now time to resume normal function, like she always did. She was a ray, forever pushing onward in the same direction, without deviation. It was time for her to take care of her final business upon the land she’d expended needless effort to keep intact and teeming with strangers who talked a great deal about pointless nonsense Virara had no use for. Time to get up. Keep moving.
But the beach’s sand was soft, and her body remained still, hand clutched firmly at her side, raw and throbbing with the traces of splinters left behind.
She remembered a curious moment from the island before. It was strange because after that woman appeared, not much came to mind. Shapes and sounds, colors, heat, thirst. It wasn’t so much that she couldn’t pull from those memories, but that she never had a will to do so. She could tug endlessly and every time the string would simply grow more lax.
A man, haggard, beset by gout, black hair like sodden, rotting leaves, curled over his fishing rod. Like a coastal arch, battered by waves, waiting to erode fully. But it was a long wait. His pot was far from empty. Every once in a while, the silver-backed fish inside brushed against its earthenware walls in a glint of light. The girl understood this man had more than one stomach. His was the least important among them. That was why she could see the bones in his cheeks.
That was also why she knew he’d be there a long while. That his pot would keep her full. The sun began to fall, and his head nodded for the first time. Her hands, gritty with sand, pulled her forward from the underbrush. Too much distance. Had to make it shorter. Even a single blink’s worth of distance needed to disappear on time, or she’d be covered in bruises, or worse, by nightfall, too weak to avoid much larger, healthier ones. The sand was still warm, but the sun had already grown red. He was turning, then, his sluggish body struggling to realize the sound of four limbs pawing at the earth was approaching him, of all things, upon this insignificant dot on the map.
Why had he come here? How did he use that curious stick? For what reason did he feed his stomach last? There wasn’t any need to consider those questions, for she had no mind, no thoughts to spare him. She remembered the shapes, the sounds, the sensations. Hands tore at dried, bloody skin. Teeth closed around foul tasting, sweaty flesh. All of her meager weight was on his broken shoulders. She could feel him struggling under her, already lifting. The pot teased her from below; he only needed to tumble and it’d be hers, it’d be hers in an instant. Her thick, callused fingers fingers found a soft spot around the wrist and dug in, pushed deeper, pushed in, pushed through…
The thunder lady, frozen in time, eyes wide with disbelief, crumpled in front of her. An untrained body, unaccustomed to the concussive force force far in excess of what a small fist could do, collapsing in upon itself like she was a paper doll. A gun in black steel, ungainly and small. A toy? Did children play with little things like that in the Empire? Expressions filtering a thousand confused demands, desperate questioning, trickling through an expression she was unable to truly see. What the mind forgets, the hands remember. So she was taught. Her hands remembered it then, the journey through flesh and bone. She didn’t see her face then, couldn’t see it now. Wouldn’t see it. It was shapes. Light and shadow birthing color between their entwined forms. Behind her, she could feel a man’s eyes pinning their bodies together. He had to flee far away, no matter how strong he'd made himself, from what the small girl was doing before him. He had to be anywhere but there. But his eyes wouldn’t allow it. It was a familiar sensation, one typically unworthy of attention. She noticed it.
It flowed somewhere from behind her sight, through her veins and nerves, through the twitching of her muscle, deep into the recesses of her fingertips. The same sensation of her hand breaking that woman. Her nostrils flared, though she knew there was nothing but salty air to greet them. From someplace unseen, the fragrance of apricot blossoms came creeping back. She became acutely aware of the rushing of blood in her ears, a roaring to shame the rolling evening tide. The smile that wasn’t followed her from a place far out of sight, warbling in a way that could perhaps be mistaken for laughter.
When she realized where she was, Virara found herself with a porcupine’s hand. Galien’s fishing rod lay in two pieces at the sides of her lap, the splinters deep in her thick skin. It was a characteristic of her people, her Master had told her once, though she was a stranger to them, to have rather soft skin. The calluses never stayed long. A shame. It would make it easier to hit without feeling undue feedback. That she had any at all was a mark of her diligence.
Virara pursed her lips and set about picking the wood from herself, more troubled by the waste than the pinpricks she’d long stopped feeling. The island had a way of distracting her. She’d neglected her stone-wheel training, digging deep furrows in the earth with the load she dragged by mooring rope, but unless she decided to play aurochs for the locals, it was off the table. She cast her gaze across the water, skipping it across the waves, watching the rise and fall of the surf against unfamiliar sands, rockier and less comfortable, but also cooler to the touch. They were not like pearl dust, like the white sands of her better known beaches. The trees weren’t covered in ivy creepers, their forms deciduous and gnarled, but rather stormswept coastal pines. The waves had a different sound, the grass a different scent. The people weren’t constantly looking to disappear. And all of it would be occasionally ruined by the stench of blue slag, as well as its constant companion: that smog Imperials were so fond of.
“Not like my island.â€
She murmured under her breath. Virara had never been loud, but her voice naturally favored a whisper, and she oft needed to repeat herself. Of course, she didn’t, unless she had a mind to be heard. But much more could be accomplished simply by doing. Virara recalled the sensation of a warm palm upon her head. There might have been greater meaning in Leanne noticing something in her. That surely was why she asked her aid, before and now. Like the time with the Garlean woman. She recognized Virara had a specific sort of usefulness. It made sense. Things needed to.
The calm that set over Gloam might have been a sign that it was time to resume the normal schedule. Move, fuel, rest. Never stay in one place. Always observe the schedule. Honor all debts. She had fulfilled her request, and it was now time to resume normal function, like she always did. She was a ray, forever pushing onward in the same direction, without deviation. It was time for her to take care of her final business upon the land she’d expended needless effort to keep intact and teeming with strangers who talked a great deal about pointless nonsense Virara had no use for. Time to get up. Keep moving.
But the beach’s sand was soft, and her body remained still, hand clutched firmly at her side, raw and throbbing with the traces of splinters left behind.
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AV by Kura-Ou
Wiki (Last updated 01/16)
My Balmung profile.
AV by Kura-Ou
Wiki (Last updated 01/16)
My Balmung profile.