[Incomplete]
Who: Gemma (
sorcerously) and Claire (
regenerable).
When: Today, dusk.
Where: Edge of the forest. She likes it there, okay.
Rating: PG, subject to change.
Warnings: Lots of thinking. And... she’s homesick.
Summary: When doesn’t she go out on her own when she’s not supposed to? It’s a bad habit, really. But she’ll never break it. ):
The forest was dark at nightfall, and yet, there Gemma sat. The trees were big; they had grown tall into the sky, towards the darkness hanging there. The last, invisible-pale rays of the sun should have bewitched the leaves and the tree trunks with a golden hem. From a pale blue-over-gold, pink and blood-red, eventually the sky should have changed to a dark shade of violet, where only at the horizon a streak of crimson peeked above the edge. But there was only murky cobalt above her, quickly darkening to black.
The illusionist sighed and leaned back against an old oak. This tree was old, she felt that. For perhaps nearly one thousand years its roots had been here, from a seed to a little tree and now to this majestic tree-king with a crown of leaves. Just for one moment, it seemed as if the bark was more, as if there was a face. Two dark eyes in the wood, but... Gemma blinked, and as she opened her eyes again, it was just a tree. A normal tree.
Damned be this homesickness! It tore her apart. She sank to the ground, and a flick of movement caught her eye; a squirrel, it looked like. For a second, the redhead’s gaze followed it, and then she faced the almost-sky.
In the make-believe sunset in her mind, the scarlet looked as if it was becoming a dark blue; she thought she could imagine the distant glittering of the stars already. She preferred night over day. Better than the day, which showed her in all its malicious ways the dull, bland colors of this new world, worse than all nightmares. During daytime, she felt the cold even more; the nonexistent sunlight did not warm her up as it should have. Like before, when she...
This world was cold and cruel, crowded with abominations made of twisted flesh and misdirected hate. Crowded with dead things, broken machines which could crush nature, which suffocated earth under grey stone and could chop down the trees. It made her sick to only think of it.
Living at night was easier. It did not seem as bad, at night. The night drew the world smoother, robbed it of its sharp roughness.
At night, there were less people on the street, there was less noise. Almost a peaceful quiet, at night. But the sky usually comforted her most. The stars would seem more distant than in her home, if she could have seen them, but they would be the same ones. And the moon, it was still the disc of bright silver-shine in the starry ceiling.
But... she could not see any of that, for the blasted metal hanging above her head.
Who knew what this world really was? If, perhaps, she was only a character from, say, a book... what about all the books from her world? Were these figures as real as she was? Was she real? Was she made from ink and paper, or from flesh and blood? What about these people here? What about Master Hannibal? Could it be that he himself was just a character from a book? Was he real? What if he wasn’t? What if the author of her book was just a book-character, like her, like him, like them? What was real? Did it matter?
Gemma shook her head lightly, smiling wryly. Close to her, an owl called. "Shoo-hoo," it sounded like. A plumy flapping could be heard, just faint. Slowly, the girl closed her eyes. Not far away from her, a little river splashed, the wind flew rustling through the treetops. And behind her, another small animal crawled over the ground.
The redhead took a deep breath. It did not reek of the wrong world, here; she could almost imagine being in the Realms. She stroked lithe fingers over the deadened grass. It still felt odd to the touch. How she missed the warm winds...
But she was captured in this world that was not her own, and never would be.
How Gemma wished this to be a dream, summoned by a cheeky leprechaun, a nasty faerie, or even a malevolent wizard. If she could only awaken. If none of this was real, none of it...
In the Realms, there were monsters; terrifying trolls, man-eating giants, devilish centaurs. But right now, she would have given her right arm to catch a glimpse of the most gruesome beast from that world. A thousand days of her own life to see something besides these eyesores from metal, un-things made of glass and beasts made of stone and more. Their screaming, hissing, snarling, roaring and growling scared her.
She was not made for this world.
A teardrop, stolen, slipped down her cheek.
Deep black was the half-sky; ink black. Gemma closed her eyes again. Among all those sounds of the forest, this heavenly peace under the fantasy-induced silvery moonlight... she could almost imagine being home.
sorcerously) and Claire (
regenerable).
When: Today, dusk.
Where: Edge of the forest. She likes it there, okay.
Rating: PG, subject to change.
Warnings: Lots of thinking. And... she’s homesick.
Summary: When doesn’t she go out on her own when she’s not supposed to? It’s a bad habit, really. But she’ll never break it. ):
The forest was dark at nightfall, and yet, there Gemma sat. The trees were big; they had grown tall into the sky, towards the darkness hanging there. The last, invisible-pale rays of the sun should have bewitched the leaves and the tree trunks with a golden hem. From a pale blue-over-gold, pink and blood-red, eventually the sky should have changed to a dark shade of violet, where only at the horizon a streak of crimson peeked above the edge. But there was only murky cobalt above her, quickly darkening to black.
The illusionist sighed and leaned back against an old oak. This tree was old, she felt that. For perhaps nearly one thousand years its roots had been here, from a seed to a little tree and now to this majestic tree-king with a crown of leaves. Just for one moment, it seemed as if the bark was more, as if there was a face. Two dark eyes in the wood, but... Gemma blinked, and as she opened her eyes again, it was just a tree. A normal tree.
Damned be this homesickness! It tore her apart. She sank to the ground, and a flick of movement caught her eye; a squirrel, it looked like. For a second, the redhead’s gaze followed it, and then she faced the almost-sky.
In the make-believe sunset in her mind, the scarlet looked as if it was becoming a dark blue; she thought she could imagine the distant glittering of the stars already. She preferred night over day. Better than the day, which showed her in all its malicious ways the dull, bland colors of this new world, worse than all nightmares. During daytime, she felt the cold even more; the nonexistent sunlight did not warm her up as it should have. Like before, when she...
This world was cold and cruel, crowded with abominations made of twisted flesh and misdirected hate. Crowded with dead things, broken machines which could crush nature, which suffocated earth under grey stone and could chop down the trees. It made her sick to only think of it.
Living at night was easier. It did not seem as bad, at night. The night drew the world smoother, robbed it of its sharp roughness.
At night, there were less people on the street, there was less noise. Almost a peaceful quiet, at night. But the sky usually comforted her most. The stars would seem more distant than in her home, if she could have seen them, but they would be the same ones. And the moon, it was still the disc of bright silver-shine in the starry ceiling.
But... she could not see any of that, for the blasted metal hanging above her head.
Who knew what this world really was? If, perhaps, she was only a character from, say, a book... what about all the books from her world? Were these figures as real as she was? Was she real? Was she made from ink and paper, or from flesh and blood? What about these people here? What about Master Hannibal? Could it be that he himself was just a character from a book? Was he real? What if he wasn’t? What if the author of her book was just a book-character, like her, like him, like them? What was real? Did it matter?
Gemma shook her head lightly, smiling wryly. Close to her, an owl called. "Shoo-hoo," it sounded like. A plumy flapping could be heard, just faint. Slowly, the girl closed her eyes. Not far away from her, a little river splashed, the wind flew rustling through the treetops. And behind her, another small animal crawled over the ground.
The redhead took a deep breath. It did not reek of the wrong world, here; she could almost imagine being in the Realms. She stroked lithe fingers over the deadened grass. It still felt odd to the touch. How she missed the warm winds...
But she was captured in this world that was not her own, and never would be.
How Gemma wished this to be a dream, summoned by a cheeky leprechaun, a nasty faerie, or even a malevolent wizard. If she could only awaken. If none of this was real, none of it...
In the Realms, there were monsters; terrifying trolls, man-eating giants, devilish centaurs. But right now, she would have given her right arm to catch a glimpse of the most gruesome beast from that world. A thousand days of her own life to see something besides these eyesores from metal, un-things made of glass and beasts made of stone and more. Their screaming, hissing, snarling, roaring and growling scared her.
She was not made for this world.
A teardrop, stolen, slipped down her cheek.
Deep black was the half-sky; ink black. Gemma closed her eyes again. Among all those sounds of the forest, this heavenly peace under the fantasy-induced silvery moonlight... she could almost imagine being home.