92 Vhalar 722
Tried's Mouth ✲ halftrial from Almund
The past trial had been an interesting one for the Biqaj, flush with the blunders and calamity befitting a misadventure. It might have aged him ten arcs, but he had managed to pull off the one thing he had set out to do the previous trial - and that was to careen his stricken sloop.
The only issue now was that he had seriously underestimated the length of the tides and the amount of work needed just to accomplish a small - and, by all accounts, temporary - patch job. Now, with Dithlánis kissing the horizon and the sky painted in brilliant shades of red, orange, pink, purple and deep indigo, Pyrre still found himself on the same sandbar he had not so expertly navigated the Shiver onto over a trial ago looking no closer to leaving than he did the previous evening.
However, having inspected his ship thoroughly and deemed it in no immediate danger from being beached for yet another series of tides, he had entered into a state of acceptance, rolling with what would come like the gentle waves that lapped at the sandbar he and his ship currently occupied.
Located within a tidal inlet just inland from Tried’s Mouth, it was a windswept and desolate stretch of beach, the red sand interspersed and broken up by crags and patchy scrub. It was as beautiful as it was isolated, and he swore, with the skies as clear as they were and minimal sea spray, he could see the outline of Immortal’s Tongue out in the distance. This place filled him with a sense of nostalgia even though he had never set foot here before.
The sand bar had been nothing but difficult for the Biqaj - from navigating over it to beach his ship, to navigating around it now that it was low tide and the sand was dry and clear of the water. The red sand sucked at his crutch, wooden peg and boot, making manoeuvring around the stretch of sand surrounding the ship difficult, and so he had long since abandoned his footwear and had been strongly debating forgoing the crutch, as well.
He had managed to get around without it before - usually within his ship where he had access to support within the narrow hold if he so needed it - but only for very short spells. The site where his leg had been shortened and stitched was still angry, chaffed and sore, his remaining limb still weak and easily fatigued and the prosthetic still didn’t feel like it fit quite right - a combination which severely limited his ability to move about, unaided, on just his two legs. But, given the conditions and the isolated nature of this place, he decided to give it a shot.
He eyed the ship as it towered above him, resting at a precarious angle, and decided to simply lean the crutch against the exposed hull rather than make any attempt to reboard the thing. The trial had already been taxing and he didn’t feel the need to push himself when he didn’t have to. Then, tentatively, he took a few experimental steps across the dryer sand.
Unsteady as he was, he didn’t fall. He did feel just about every muscle in his body flexing and straining to keep him upright, though, and he knew it wouldn’t take long for him to tire - and that he would feel the effects of his exertions in the coming trial.
‘It will be worth it’, he thought, feeling more confident by the beat.
It was as he was wobbling along the sand gingerly that he noticed something peculiar that he swore hadn’t been present trills before: the sand of the neighbouring beach was no longer the distinct red he was familiar with - but a mix of every colour he could imagine, sectioned into neat lines..
‘Is that-’ He narrowed his eyes that were now the same colour as the crystalline waters that surrounded him, brow furrowing deeply in consideration as he stared long and hard at the multicoloured sand, wondering if it was just a trick of the light due to the dazzling display of the setting sun.
He took a few cautious steps, his body stiff and swaying accordingly and weak leg having to work extra hard to pry the wooden peg from the sand’s grip each time, before he reached the shallows that fed the small channel that served to separate his sandbar from the main beach. He paused, unsure if he should attempt the water with his peg, unaided, but the cold sand felt sure beneath his foot and toes. Hebent to roll up the leg of his trousers and pulled it up above his knee before he ventured forward, each step slow as he made sure to have his balance before proceeding further into the cold water.
It was only as the water reached his knees that he felt a stab of regret, the salt water enveloping the whole of his prosthesis. He felt the damp creep into his trousers there and press against his shortened limb. It urged him onward until, at last, he reached the beach.
And the rainbow sand.
He ignored the biting cold that seized his legs and knelt to take up a handful in each fist before bringing it to eye-level. Even with the sun sinking beneath the horizon, he could still see the striations of different colours clear as day. Mesmerised by the sight, he pocketed the handfuls in his sealskin coat like some raven claiming a shiny trinket. His eyes swept the beach in wonderment, seeing how the stripes of colour stretched as far as his eyes could see.
With a smile on his face, he dropped languorously to the sand and settled, arms draping over his knees as he turned his face to the sky and felt a laugh bubble up and out his lips in disbelief of it all. Despite the increasing cold and hunger pains that plague him, he felt oddly buoyant. It was a strange, fortuitous feeling, and he was wary of embracing it. But once he opened his vivid aquamarine eyes and took in the scene above, of brilliant colours anew, of greens, blues, indigos and purple, of stars winking and dancing and racing across the darkening sky.
The sight delighted him but what caught him most was… the sound.
Was that… singing?
He collapsed to his back, arms splayed bonelessly as they fell, and allowed himself to be overcome by a wave of bewildered laughter as collections of stars began to move and take form. A turtle. A mighty tall ship. Something that reminded him of a leviathan with wings.
Surely this mortal coil was playing tricks on him.
The only issue now was that he had seriously underestimated the length of the tides and the amount of work needed just to accomplish a small - and, by all accounts, temporary - patch job. Now, with Dithlánis kissing the horizon and the sky painted in brilliant shades of red, orange, pink, purple and deep indigo, Pyrre still found himself on the same sandbar he had not so expertly navigated the Shiver onto over a trial ago looking no closer to leaving than he did the previous evening.
However, having inspected his ship thoroughly and deemed it in no immediate danger from being beached for yet another series of tides, he had entered into a state of acceptance, rolling with what would come like the gentle waves that lapped at the sandbar he and his ship currently occupied.
Located within a tidal inlet just inland from Tried’s Mouth, it was a windswept and desolate stretch of beach, the red sand interspersed and broken up by crags and patchy scrub. It was as beautiful as it was isolated, and he swore, with the skies as clear as they were and minimal sea spray, he could see the outline of Immortal’s Tongue out in the distance. This place filled him with a sense of nostalgia even though he had never set foot here before.
The sand bar had been nothing but difficult for the Biqaj - from navigating over it to beach his ship, to navigating around it now that it was low tide and the sand was dry and clear of the water. The red sand sucked at his crutch, wooden peg and boot, making manoeuvring around the stretch of sand surrounding the ship difficult, and so he had long since abandoned his footwear and had been strongly debating forgoing the crutch, as well.
He had managed to get around without it before - usually within his ship where he had access to support within the narrow hold if he so needed it - but only for very short spells. The site where his leg had been shortened and stitched was still angry, chaffed and sore, his remaining limb still weak and easily fatigued and the prosthetic still didn’t feel like it fit quite right - a combination which severely limited his ability to move about, unaided, on just his two legs. But, given the conditions and the isolated nature of this place, he decided to give it a shot.
He eyed the ship as it towered above him, resting at a precarious angle, and decided to simply lean the crutch against the exposed hull rather than make any attempt to reboard the thing. The trial had already been taxing and he didn’t feel the need to push himself when he didn’t have to. Then, tentatively, he took a few experimental steps across the dryer sand.
Unsteady as he was, he didn’t fall. He did feel just about every muscle in his body flexing and straining to keep him upright, though, and he knew it wouldn’t take long for him to tire - and that he would feel the effects of his exertions in the coming trial.
‘It will be worth it’, he thought, feeling more confident by the beat.
It was as he was wobbling along the sand gingerly that he noticed something peculiar that he swore hadn’t been present trills before: the sand of the neighbouring beach was no longer the distinct red he was familiar with - but a mix of every colour he could imagine, sectioned into neat lines..
‘Is that-’ He narrowed his eyes that were now the same colour as the crystalline waters that surrounded him, brow furrowing deeply in consideration as he stared long and hard at the multicoloured sand, wondering if it was just a trick of the light due to the dazzling display of the setting sun.
He took a few cautious steps, his body stiff and swaying accordingly and weak leg having to work extra hard to pry the wooden peg from the sand’s grip each time, before he reached the shallows that fed the small channel that served to separate his sandbar from the main beach. He paused, unsure if he should attempt the water with his peg, unaided, but the cold sand felt sure beneath his foot and toes. Hebent to roll up the leg of his trousers and pulled it up above his knee before he ventured forward, each step slow as he made sure to have his balance before proceeding further into the cold water.
It was only as the water reached his knees that he felt a stab of regret, the salt water enveloping the whole of his prosthesis. He felt the damp creep into his trousers there and press against his shortened limb. It urged him onward until, at last, he reached the beach.
And the rainbow sand.
He ignored the biting cold that seized his legs and knelt to take up a handful in each fist before bringing it to eye-level. Even with the sun sinking beneath the horizon, he could still see the striations of different colours clear as day. Mesmerised by the sight, he pocketed the handfuls in his sealskin coat like some raven claiming a shiny trinket. His eyes swept the beach in wonderment, seeing how the stripes of colour stretched as far as his eyes could see.
With a smile on his face, he dropped languorously to the sand and settled, arms draping over his knees as he turned his face to the sky and felt a laugh bubble up and out his lips in disbelief of it all. Despite the increasing cold and hunger pains that plague him, he felt oddly buoyant. It was a strange, fortuitous feeling, and he was wary of embracing it. But once he opened his vivid aquamarine eyes and took in the scene above, of brilliant colours anew, of greens, blues, indigos and purple, of stars winking and dancing and racing across the darkening sky.
The sight delighted him but what caught him most was… the sound.
Was that… singing?
He collapsed to his back, arms splayed bonelessly as they fell, and allowed himself to be overcome by a wave of bewildered laughter as collections of stars began to move and take form. A turtle. A mighty tall ship. Something that reminded him of a leviathan with wings.
Surely this mortal coil was playing tricks on him.
Commonxxx Rakahi
