All souls know what is good for them. There was a calling in all of them, down below as well as above. The height of the hooves did not matter, only the willingness to follow in the meandering path of the wanderer. All Noitcerru knew was his own - the moments of epiphany amongst the carousel of places he had already been, the pause amid a hundred reasons to travel onwards elsewhere, the long curling smile snipping away at his mouth that wasn’t entirely under his control as familiar memories of dim and distant places, a kaleidoscope of colour and noise and light, converged into one space under one label: home.
Or home for a moment, a minute, an hour, a day. He would decide later - that, in itself, wasn’t important. He hovered above ground with steady, pulsing beats and took in the sight before him. This part of the Rift is new to him - or was it? Ghosts of what he had once seen lingered before the birdman; he shook his head, attempting to free himself of past journeys. Perhaps this place had the spark of familiarity because of its similarity to other places - the wild, the wicked, but never the dismal. Because when he saw the Summit, it was with the rush of relief for space, for expanse, for a great turret for him to climb - regardless of whether he had seen this place before. Even through the screen of rain, that torrent of a downpour, the great mount rose ahead of him promising freedom and security, somewhere free of the restrictive branches overhead and the tangled, creeping vegetation that could trap him like a snare - that which only grew more catching and knotting with the new life of the Rift, with the new presences leaping into life. There was the wash of pine trees down the flanks of the mountain but at least there was a mountain there unto itself, a rising peak, an exclaimation mark amongst nothing but the passage of sea and beach and forest and wood.
The Rift was shifting, and this mountain could be gone in less than a day if that was what the presences wanted. Noitcerru snorted, a sharp exhale. His decaying homeland had suddenly accelerated; even the winds were different, more unruly than usual. It did not occur to him to answer why, only how; how to survive in a shifting world of a thousand landscapes. The answer was that there was no time to waste. The birdman circled the lake - first and then the second time. His wings were languid, gliding on the wider winds this open space had to offer as he surveiled the land below. Quick brown eyes hopped feverishly from each feature, one after the other after the other. Threats and sights of other horses - the other other horses, the Helovians, those strange new beasts in a class of their own - were nonexistent. But that wasn’t all he was looking for, the predatory look in his eyes not yet sated. Angles, corners, gradients and slants came to light to him like physical objects, invisible signposts for the winged kind like him.
A decision.
And then, in a steep dive, he descended upon the lake. The rolling, pitching descent made his lips strain back towards his teeth, his inward ears flattened tightly against his skull with the dizzy euphoria of flight - and with sheer glee a free-spirited whinny-like call came tumbling from his jaws, loud and piercing and shredding into the alpine air. The water was getting closer and closer, dizzily enveloping his vision in a panorama of the deepest blues and purples and greens. And, too, the ripples in the deep, the shifting of light beneath the surface; the knowledge that he was not alone, that the lake was thriving with life of its own. But he kept going, and going, and going, as the wind slicked his feathered body and rain threatened to slow his descent -
His wings tilted then, a minute change in a practised move adapted for his shortcomings. He equaled into a level strip across the mirror-like surface, painting a perfect reflection above and below as he reached forward, angling downwards for his whiskery lips to brush the cool water. Sweetness enveloped his tongue and washed down his dry throat, saving his gullet from the cutting winds. He coursed down the length of the lake swiftly to avoid awakening the sirens, gulping down water as he went, limp legs flecked with spray.
08-03-2017, 09:40 AM (This post was last modified: 08-03-2017, 11:43 AM by Rift Presence.)
Suddenly a strange light appears in the air. Everything around you gets a tint of sickly purple. If you look to the skies, you will see that the clouds have turned lilac and heavy with even more rain. The wind picks up and the cover of clouds begins to churn.
A flash! Somewhere in the distance lighting stuck and shortly after comes a rumbling - loud enough to make your teeth click together. The clouds churn still and the wind shows no sign of slowing. You will be caught in a perfect storm. Small tornadoes will form, not strong enough for trees to fall, but they will easily make you stagger and take your flight from you. The rain will beat down and lighting will flash all around you.
As of now, you are experiencing the calm before the storm, but soon it will be upon you. And The Rift looks on, anticipating and malicious.
The water was cool against the back of his throat - so cool, so sweet, against the harsh snaps of rainwater he was used to. The stallion cruised along the length of the lake. His hooves skimmed the surface, leaving a strike dissipating into the water - like the mark of a claw against bark, like a scratch into the very surface. He risked going down lower, letting not just his hooves but risking his weak fetlocks dip under the water. It was so cool and so refreshing that he let them stay there, letting his legs hang freely. Water across his legs was so rare because of the risks, because of the dangers - couldn't he just enjoy this, for a moment? Noitcerru closed his eyes, lulled by the silence, the peace of the place.
No. Something was wrong.
When his eyes flashed open it was like he'd entered another world. Everything was tinged violet, a sickly sweet plum coating everything in his vision. Wait, what? Noitcerru's stomach churned with the familiar prickling of instinct, a primal awareness of the Rift. Overhead the clouds were changing, something shifting in the skies above. The birdman expanded his wings to their full span, feathers reaching in all directions and ripples casting down his plumage. He flapped his wings once and then twice and then three times, great blows to the wind and water and dragging a tide behind him until he scraped to a stop, his hooves flailing amid the indigo air. The wave washed over his lower body. As it dissipated Noitcerru looked up at the flash of lightning, the jagged blade of light striking across the sky.
That wasn't all. The once peaceful day was quickly deteriorating, falling apart as quickly as it had formed. Clouds were gathering, dominating the clear sky and lying flat against the lake and the mountain. It was a single ceiling, pushing down as if suffocating the land. it was heavy, like a physical weight slamming down on what lay below - and it was all bathed in that sickly purple, a deep stifling indigo that robbed him of breath.
The crest running down Noitcerru's face began to rise, flaring red feathers in alarm. The birdman didn't speak, not if there wasn't anyone to listen to him, but a sharp cry emerged from his jaws nonetheless, a recognition of the danger he had put himself in. It was like the screech of an owl. His wings hadn't touched the water - yet. But being submerged once would be enough to render them useless, too heavy and bogged down to achieve flight or to lift himself out. And he couldn't swim. A dagger of fear twisted in Noitcerru's chest and the birdman beat his wings again and again, his eyes anxiously scanning the skies. The sirens were the last of his problems. He lifted himself up one beat at a time, the rumbling deep in his chest. He couldn't hurry - the winds were picking up, and they could easily drag him down to the lake's edge. He knew this but he struggled anyway. His heart pounded in his chest. He had to be up in the air - had to be away from the water.
He looked up overhead, seeing the white form of someone else. Against the clouds he couldn't identify who it was, whether they were friend or foe, Helovian or Riftian. But Noitcerru screeched at the stranger anyway - part a call for help and part a command to leave. Did they know that it was dangerous? That in a few fragile moments they'd be facing a storm?
Siren's Summit
