55th of Zi'da, Arc 718
He was floating. Alistair had never floated before, not... not even in dreams. But right now, he could feel the wind watching him, as his arms outstretched to each side, and his legs helplessly followed the flow of the wind. Even though he was falling at incredible speeds, he felt no tension or strain. He was content in the falling motion, even as he plummeted to the vastness of the world below.
And what appeared before him? Blackness. The ocean was a wide void of pure dark, a sea of nothings. The shoreline was covered in black sand, and the cities and towns wore black walls, with black lights escaping from their windows. It was difficult to really discern anything. What was what, or where he was, or how he ended up falling from the clouds. If he could turn his neck to look above, he knew that he'd see a black sky, too... but why was everything so dark?
Instead of falling into the sea, his movements veered in the last few trills, forcing him to land hard against the shore. His impact was mighty, and resounding; he felt every bone in his body break, as the limbs of his arms and legs flopped against the floor, held together by only a mere strand of flesh. He sputtered out a series of coughs, and then rose, pulling up his neck with the muscles of his core, as he looked beyond the shoreline to see a cabal of white-eyed faces staring at him. Slowly, his body began the process of mending. The incomprehensible pain remained, however, as his heart rate multiplied from the swell of fear that seemed to occupy his chest.
He was isolated, broken, against the shoreline... and the locals were already supplying him an array of negative emotions. The man forced himself to pull his body back together; the muscles reeled back in, the flesh re-joining. Quickly thereafter, he stood hastily to his feet, glaring back at the people who'd looked to him -- malice clear and demonstrable from their eyes.
But there was no intellect to fighting them, or risking their company, or falling into the lull of their silent expressions. They were a danger to him, and he was on their turf. The man instead began to run along the black shore, chasing after the silhouettes in the distance, as the ambient light of grey provided what little vision he still had. He could hear rumbling from the shoreline, the hum of a growl following after, from what felt like everywhere and nowhere. The very edge of the waters, and the deep ocean floor.
This place was a true pit. His instincts called on him to escape, but did not provide him an idea of where to go. Everything in the world seemed equally bleak, and if even the other mortal wanderers looked upon him with such ire, there was truly no hope. After so long running, he could feel his feet begin to give. But the town still laid quietly behind him, and the growling still echoed from the surface of the sea, in a way calling to him.
He was floating. Alistair had never floated before, not... not even in dreams. But right now, he could feel the wind watching him, as his arms outstretched to each side, and his legs helplessly followed the flow of the wind. Even though he was falling at incredible speeds, he felt no tension or strain. He was content in the falling motion, even as he plummeted to the vastness of the world below.
And what appeared before him? Blackness. The ocean was a wide void of pure dark, a sea of nothings. The shoreline was covered in black sand, and the cities and towns wore black walls, with black lights escaping from their windows. It was difficult to really discern anything. What was what, or where he was, or how he ended up falling from the clouds. If he could turn his neck to look above, he knew that he'd see a black sky, too... but why was everything so dark?
Instead of falling into the sea, his movements veered in the last few trills, forcing him to land hard against the shore. His impact was mighty, and resounding; he felt every bone in his body break, as the limbs of his arms and legs flopped against the floor, held together by only a mere strand of flesh. He sputtered out a series of coughs, and then rose, pulling up his neck with the muscles of his core, as he looked beyond the shoreline to see a cabal of white-eyed faces staring at him. Slowly, his body began the process of mending. The incomprehensible pain remained, however, as his heart rate multiplied from the swell of fear that seemed to occupy his chest.
He was isolated, broken, against the shoreline... and the locals were already supplying him an array of negative emotions. The man forced himself to pull his body back together; the muscles reeled back in, the flesh re-joining. Quickly thereafter, he stood hastily to his feet, glaring back at the people who'd looked to him -- malice clear and demonstrable from their eyes.
But there was no intellect to fighting them, or risking their company, or falling into the lull of their silent expressions. They were a danger to him, and he was on their turf. The man instead began to run along the black shore, chasing after the silhouettes in the distance, as the ambient light of grey provided what little vision he still had. He could hear rumbling from the shoreline, the hum of a growl following after, from what felt like everywhere and nowhere. The very edge of the waters, and the deep ocean floor.
This place was a true pit. His instincts called on him to escape, but did not provide him an idea of where to go. Everything in the world seemed equally bleak, and if even the other mortal wanderers looked upon him with such ire, there was truly no hope. After so long running, he could feel his feet begin to give. But the town still laid quietly behind him, and the growling still echoed from the surface of the sea, in a way calling to him.
