too light to leave imprints
Characters: Yosuke and Chey!!!
Where & When: Alpine District, some day recently...
Rating & Why: Cold because it's cold
Summary: finding little aliens in the snow does not grant good luck, just hand rashes.
Cold cold cold cold coldcoldcoldcold...
There had never been such cold before. There were no temperature extremes in Chey's life naturally - only those imposed by others. It made the ascension new in more ways than he would've cared, and nothing about it was proving good.
He'd seen the white right at the edge of a noisy and maze-like block, known its chill right there at the start, but it wasn't the same. There, he could back away onto concrete and the sun was there as a friend. It was probably an unusually sudden transition, but Chey could appreciate it. The frightening qualities of snow were less so that way. Here, though, far from that border...not so much. And all the resolve in the world couldn't convince him to try something like this again.
He was too light to leave imprints atop the snow, which he was grateful for at first, but was coming to lament it with the prickling of his skin and the slowness of his limbs. The key that dragged along behind him had been a fairly useful thing keeping his feet close to the ground as he moon-bounced his way here and there, but it became weightier and weightier as he trudged up; gravity still held rule over it. Twice he took to carrying it in his arms and twice he gave up, needing his hands to scramble up stones and steeper places.
Small as he was and with the rate he was going, it took hours to even clear the height of one low-lying cabin. It wasn't very encouraging.
He'd been too numb and disoriented to notice the start of gentle snowfall (why is everything so white?) until it blurred out his vision, landing on his face. That sent him into a flailing fit, cowering left and right of the stuff until it was clear it was just more of the same. Most of his panic watered back down to misery then, more certain than ever that he was going to die well before ever clearing the summit. It wasn't very fair, but he had no mind to be outraged. This was life, wasn't it? He was too small, always too small. That was how things went. The fact that he'd tried to do something so big was more outrageous than the scale of the thing he was trying to do. If any of his kind were there, he was sure they'd remind him that it was crazy and that he must be crazy because of it. Maybe he was crazy for imagining them calling him crazy. It was just too cold and too big and too cold.
His hands stopped hastily slapping snowflakes off his shoulder and head, and he stopped yanking the ribbon dragging his key along. For a moment, Chey was practically trudging in place, no longer bounding as lightly as he could. When he landed on a knee he stayed there, coming to sit with his palms flat on the snow. He didn't understand why his limbs felt so hot when it was obviously so cold; maybe he was adapting. Maybe snow just stopped being chilly after a while. Maybe he was dying. He couldn't think hard enough on it to know. He was just tired.
Turning onto his side, Chey lay down and drew his arms and knees up toward himself, staring at nothing but white and things that were steadily becoming white. He'd have a rest, maybe, and try again in a little bit.
Where & When: Alpine District, some day recently...
Rating & Why: Cold because it's cold
Summary: finding little aliens in the snow does not grant good luck, just hand rashes.
Cold cold cold cold coldcoldcoldcold...
There had never been such cold before. There were no temperature extremes in Chey's life naturally - only those imposed by others. It made the ascension new in more ways than he would've cared, and nothing about it was proving good.
He'd seen the white right at the edge of a noisy and maze-like block, known its chill right there at the start, but it wasn't the same. There, he could back away onto concrete and the sun was there as a friend. It was probably an unusually sudden transition, but Chey could appreciate it. The frightening qualities of snow were less so that way. Here, though, far from that border...not so much. And all the resolve in the world couldn't convince him to try something like this again.
He was too light to leave imprints atop the snow, which he was grateful for at first, but was coming to lament it with the prickling of his skin and the slowness of his limbs. The key that dragged along behind him had been a fairly useful thing keeping his feet close to the ground as he moon-bounced his way here and there, but it became weightier and weightier as he trudged up; gravity still held rule over it. Twice he took to carrying it in his arms and twice he gave up, needing his hands to scramble up stones and steeper places.
Small as he was and with the rate he was going, it took hours to even clear the height of one low-lying cabin. It wasn't very encouraging.
He'd been too numb and disoriented to notice the start of gentle snowfall (why is everything so white?) until it blurred out his vision, landing on his face. That sent him into a flailing fit, cowering left and right of the stuff until it was clear it was just more of the same. Most of his panic watered back down to misery then, more certain than ever that he was going to die well before ever clearing the summit. It wasn't very fair, but he had no mind to be outraged. This was life, wasn't it? He was too small, always too small. That was how things went. The fact that he'd tried to do something so big was more outrageous than the scale of the thing he was trying to do. If any of his kind were there, he was sure they'd remind him that it was crazy and that he must be crazy because of it. Maybe he was crazy for imagining them calling him crazy. It was just too cold and too big and too cold.
His hands stopped hastily slapping snowflakes off his shoulder and head, and he stopped yanking the ribbon dragging his key along. For a moment, Chey was practically trudging in place, no longer bounding as lightly as he could. When he landed on a knee he stayed there, coming to sit with his palms flat on the snow. He didn't understand why his limbs felt so hot when it was obviously so cold; maybe he was adapting. Maybe snow just stopped being chilly after a while. Maybe he was dying. He couldn't think hard enough on it to know. He was just tired.
Turning onto his side, Chey lay down and drew his arms and knees up toward himself, staring at nothing but white and things that were steadily becoming white. He'd have a rest, maybe, and try again in a little bit.