Autumn mists hung like cobwebs, or strands or raw silk--
Characters: Huo (getsome_sleep) and Hawk (crimson_seeker)
Date/Time: [BACKDATED] Sunday 9 October, early evening
Location: Ancient Chinese House, Melee Island
Rating: PG-ish
Summary: It starts with a discovery in the Scavengers' Yard and will probably again spin off into parts unknown. Likely destinations include the abduction plot, Orca, the Sphere's fate, and other such things.
------
It was not, at first glance, such a remarkable sight.
Hawk had ventured down into the Scavengers' Yard on a whim more than out of any need. The Wilderness was stable for now- He'd even taken down one of the horses to try and see how far it stretched, but had finally found himself looping back to the elevator without any significant change in the terrain. It seemed a strange point of security when even the Yard was unravelling. Tattered tears hung in the air here and there, stretches of white void gaping in the tapestry of the world. He gave them a good wide berth as he roamed between the junk heaps, looking for nothing in particular. It was a spell of quiet, to be alone with his thoughts and marvel at the strange objects that washed up on the lowest level of Edensphere.
When he saw the haft of the weapon, jutting out from the top of a trash mound at a slant, he found himself stopping, his breath still in his throat and his heart leaping.
He scrambled up the side of the hill, until he could tug the spear free. It dislodged lightly: a resilient, smooth-grained length of wood as tall as him, shod with iron and weighed at the blunt end. The fine iron head, in the shape of a lotus leaf, was marred with red rust, but a careful oiling and sharpening would restore it. A tasselled cord was bound under the tip, to decorate and distract--an addition that was at once achingly familiar, but he that had not seen anyone in Edensphere use. He lifted one of the frayed tassels and realised something was tangled in the twine: his hand caught a fan, made from the whole wing of a bird of prey. The size and brown-speckled plumes suggested a hawk or a kite, rather than an eagle, but his mind would not supply a closer identification. A few of the feathers were askew; otherwise, it seemed intact.
The spear, as he hefted it, claimed the better part of his attention. It fit there, unquestionably, as if the notched grain of the haft were meant to slide against his palm. He'd fought with a sword and two different spears in the last year. None of those had ever suited him as well as this weapon did at first touch.
Tucking the fan on top of his bag, he turned his steps homeward. Sunset shimmered through the rain-misted air as he made his way across Melee Island, walking the familiar path lost in thought. It was as if the spear had called to him; as if he'd been meant to spot it. The make, the length, the weight of it in his hand--all spoke in the whispering voices of his blurred memories that he knew this weapon.
Perhaps that was what left him sitting on the porch, out of the thinning drizzle, under the lit glass-and-metal lamps, with a whetstone and a flask of clove oil and squares of fine, absorbent cloth, working off the sheen of rust from the spearhead in the failing light. He'd noted Huo was home, the same way he remarked upon where the horses were in the penned meadow or how the yard looked; a quick, but for now, perfunctory assurance that all was well. His breath began to mist in the air, and the chill crept into his fingers. All the same, he had a task to finish.
Date/Time: [BACKDATED] Sunday 9 October, early evening
Location: Ancient Chinese House, Melee Island
Rating: PG-ish
Summary: It starts with a discovery in the Scavengers' Yard and will probably again spin off into parts unknown. Likely destinations include the abduction plot, Orca, the Sphere's fate, and other such things.
------
It was not, at first glance, such a remarkable sight.
Hawk had ventured down into the Scavengers' Yard on a whim more than out of any need. The Wilderness was stable for now- He'd even taken down one of the horses to try and see how far it stretched, but had finally found himself looping back to the elevator without any significant change in the terrain. It seemed a strange point of security when even the Yard was unravelling. Tattered tears hung in the air here and there, stretches of white void gaping in the tapestry of the world. He gave them a good wide berth as he roamed between the junk heaps, looking for nothing in particular. It was a spell of quiet, to be alone with his thoughts and marvel at the strange objects that washed up on the lowest level of Edensphere.
When he saw the haft of the weapon, jutting out from the top of a trash mound at a slant, he found himself stopping, his breath still in his throat and his heart leaping.
He scrambled up the side of the hill, until he could tug the spear free. It dislodged lightly: a resilient, smooth-grained length of wood as tall as him, shod with iron and weighed at the blunt end. The fine iron head, in the shape of a lotus leaf, was marred with red rust, but a careful oiling and sharpening would restore it. A tasselled cord was bound under the tip, to decorate and distract--an addition that was at once achingly familiar, but he that had not seen anyone in Edensphere use. He lifted one of the frayed tassels and realised something was tangled in the twine: his hand caught a fan, made from the whole wing of a bird of prey. The size and brown-speckled plumes suggested a hawk or a kite, rather than an eagle, but his mind would not supply a closer identification. A few of the feathers were askew; otherwise, it seemed intact.
The spear, as he hefted it, claimed the better part of his attention. It fit there, unquestionably, as if the notched grain of the haft were meant to slide against his palm. He'd fought with a sword and two different spears in the last year. None of those had ever suited him as well as this weapon did at first touch.
Tucking the fan on top of his bag, he turned his steps homeward. Sunset shimmered through the rain-misted air as he made his way across Melee Island, walking the familiar path lost in thought. It was as if the spear had called to him; as if he'd been meant to spot it. The make, the length, the weight of it in his hand--all spoke in the whispering voices of his blurred memories that he knew this weapon.
Perhaps that was what left him sitting on the porch, out of the thinning drizzle, under the lit glass-and-metal lamps, with a whetstone and a flask of clove oil and squares of fine, absorbent cloth, working off the sheen of rust from the spearhead in the failing light. He'd noted Huo was home, the same way he remarked upon where the horses were in the penned meadow or how the yard looked; a quick, but for now, perfunctory assurance that all was well. His breath began to mist in the air, and the chill crept into his fingers. All the same, he had a task to finish.