From Ruin - [2/??] - Alpha Dave + Alpha RoseundersaffireskyMay 5 2012, 01:33:21 UTC
I
This is an entirely different type of darkness from the kinds Rose is used to. This isn’t the midnight shade common to the night hours of the temporal world, nor is it the inky blackness that verges on purple that she can sometimes envision when she closes her eyes and is neither asleep nor awake. This is certainly not the dark she finds when she strains her ears and tries to catch the singing whispers of guttural voices that she can sometimes understand. The darkness here is not so much black as it is a hazy gray gradient that bleeds into almost darker but not-quite-black gloom around oddly circular edges. The greys in the middle are fluid and remind her of shadows, but are fuzzy and less defined.
She tries to categorize the shadow-shapes into something recognizable, but her mind feels fragmented and scattered and she thinks she tastes copper around her mouth and on her tongue. There’s a heavy, sharp weight pressing hard against her chest but she can’t identify its source, nor can she pinpoint the origin of the noise that’s growing louder as the static ringing filling her ears recedes into something less muffled but still not quite right. Even so, a harsh note seems to be commanding her to breathe.
Interesting.
She does, and the air sears through her like thousands of paper knives.
She can sense something else in the atmosphere now, something enveloping and static and burnt like ozone. The air is now hot and fleeting and stubborn, not entirely willing to be forced inside her throat and eaten by her lungs. She finds it frustrating that she cannot place any of it to something concrete. Something that would make sense and paint her a picture.
She wonders, then, like she would any idle curiosity, how many breaths she has left before the air decays from whatever energy besides her that is consuming it.
The answer that comes to her, the one that snaps across her synapses with almost supernatural vigor, is many and yet none at all.
This is an entirely different type of darkness from the kinds Rose is used to. This isn’t the midnight shade common to the night hours of the temporal world, nor is it the inky blackness that verges on purple that she can sometimes envision when she closes her eyes and is neither asleep nor awake. This is certainly not the dark she finds when she strains her ears and tries to catch the singing whispers of guttural voices that she can sometimes understand. The darkness here is not so much black as it is a hazy gray gradient that bleeds into almost darker but not-quite-black gloom around oddly circular edges. The greys in the middle are fluid and remind her of shadows, but are fuzzy and less defined.
She tries to categorize the shadow-shapes into something recognizable, but her mind feels fragmented and scattered and she thinks she tastes copper around her mouth and on her tongue. There’s a heavy, sharp weight pressing hard against her chest but she can’t identify its source, nor can she pinpoint the origin of the noise that’s growing louder as the static ringing filling her ears recedes into something less muffled but still not quite right. Even so, a harsh note seems to be commanding her to breathe.
Interesting.
She does, and the air sears through her like thousands of paper knives.
She can sense something else in the atmosphere now, something enveloping and static and burnt like ozone. The air is now hot and fleeting and stubborn, not entirely willing to be forced inside her throat and eaten by her lungs. She finds it frustrating that she cannot place any of it to something concrete. Something that would make sense and paint her a picture.
She wonders, then, like she would any idle curiosity, how many breaths she has left before the air decays from whatever energy besides her that is consuming it.
The answer that comes to her, the one that snaps across her synapses with almost supernatural vigor, is many and yet none at all.
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