Brave New World

NOITCERRU Well well well. Noitcerru was used to seeing his fair share of the Rift's decay. He could not escape noticing that his home was falling to tatters, was tearing along the seams. Perhaps it was just one rip at a time, one tiny shred in a moment, but all of those cuts were beginning to gape into a wound of epic proportions. Add infection to the mix and you had a dying realm, on the brink between existence and the void that was the alternative. Since then it was a steep decline to nothingness, and none of the Riftians could say otherwise. How could they, when it was all around - unavoidable, and just a part of everyday life? Their reality was tearing to strips around them, cut in grisly ribbons of what should be and what should not and what simply was. Except when it wasn't. And it was this and nothing else that Noitcerru was distrustful of. An island, perfectly formed - a piece of fallen Heaven amid the mires of what might've been Hell. It stuck out like a sore thumb above, startlingly bright against the darkness. Even when drenched in the rain of this season, even when being tainted by the very weather of this realm, something was different about it. It was not splintering off like the rest. If anything it was one of the sole lone pieces of entirety. The birdman, flying low over the strip of beach running a ring around the round eye of green in its centre, couldn't help looking for some proof that this part of the land was exactly the same as the rest. But there was none. None at all. This place was untouched, left whole, by the presence of the Rift. And he couldn't help liking it and warming to this region, despite its strangeness. It was a good sort of strange. Noitcerru was treading air so low that his limp hooves touched the sand, the strange sensation running an electric pulse over his body - and then the cold wash of the sea. He tossed his head, his wings extending to their full wingspan and staying there, letting each feather become dappled with the rain. His feathers were coming into full growth around this time, ready to withstand the seasonal hardship of Freeze, but the uneasy prickling that usually accompanied this was gone, for a time. The air felt purer here - lighter, looser. And so did he. As his wings flapped his hooves began to trail through the sand and he looked down, cocking his head at the line he'd made. A line. An idea sprung into his head and an infectious smile wormed across his lips. He angled his wings and slowly began to move across the sand in different directions, carefully, with minute movements, letting his hoof drift across the sand in different directions. Simple pleasures. "Talk." @{Dreadnaught} run boy run this world is not made for you

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