(no subject)
The cane that slides against the ice is not my own. It's heavier and bulkier, with a curved hook on one end to serve as a grip. I've paid attention to the warnings -- that the weather would turn cold. That some of the topography and architecture could transform with the coming of December. But as I walk through the snowy streets of a city I do not know, in a time that feels far from modern, I would be a fool not to consider if I haven't just hopped through dimensions a second time.
(Getting up had been disorienting, to say the least. The lightweight cotton pants I'd worn to sleep were replaced with an itchy wool set of footed pajamas at some point in the night. If I'd been gifted with my senses, perhaps I would have perceived the change as it happened, the rough material against hypersensitive skin enough to jar me out of sleep. Dreams bled into reality as I searched my new surroundings for something to wear, and the only reason I knew I wasn't still in bed was the darkness that enveloped me whole. It remains the one constant.)
Smells, tastes, sounds. They're all different. The island has a certain rhythm, an ebb and a flow that is as predictable as the tide, but this is nothing short of disruptive. Like a storm of new information to process and assimilate, with nothing more than sheer force of will to help translate. The ground crunches beneath my feet. The air is crisp and sharp. I'm bundled up in clothes I've never worn, but inexplicably fit about as well as anything else I've acquired over these past few months. I can't even begin to guess at their color.
(I stayed away from anything made from wool where possible, but wasn't entirely successful in the endeavor. When I tried to find my Daredevil costume among my things, I stumbled across a pliable leather ensemble instead, embroidered with the familiar interlinked D's. I don't wear it now, but presuming I ever find my way back inside, I'll consider it as a more serious option. If nothing else, the overcoat I found shoved in the back of a wardrobe is a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, lined with silk and satin, and surprisingly warm against the chill.)
Snowflakes cling to my lashes and melt shortly after, my eyes for once unhidden by cowl or glasses. (Those, I couldn't find, but then, they weren't among my highest priorities. Getting outside, and quickly, had seemed more important.) My face stings, slightly, from the wind. I don't know that it's much colder than New York is this time of year, but my body's grown accustomed to the tropical heat, and it will surely take a few days to get used to the plummeting temperature -- provided this lasts.
There's chattering up ahead, though the voices are indistinct, no single word sticking out above the others in a way that strikes me as strange. “Excuse me!” I call out to them, intent on asking for (Heaven forbid) directions, but my request goes ignored. Once I’m close enough to demand attention, a hand outstretched... I find no trace that anyone was ever there.
(Am I imagining things? No. Don't go there, Matt.)
A breath escapes me, colored by an indignant note. Frustration sits hot in my throat, my mouth drawn in a frown. Far be it from me to shy away from an adventure, but some idea of what the hell is going on wouldn't be remiss. It's that overwhelming desire for answers that finds me wheeling around when I hear someone else approaching, this time from behind. Footsteps are almost impossible to mask entirely with this type of weather; I know they're there.
"You," I say, tone sharper than I've had cause to use in a very long time. I hold my cane out in accusation. "Where am I?"
[CLOSED TO NEW TAGS.]
(Getting up had been disorienting, to say the least. The lightweight cotton pants I'd worn to sleep were replaced with an itchy wool set of footed pajamas at some point in the night. If I'd been gifted with my senses, perhaps I would have perceived the change as it happened, the rough material against hypersensitive skin enough to jar me out of sleep. Dreams bled into reality as I searched my new surroundings for something to wear, and the only reason I knew I wasn't still in bed was the darkness that enveloped me whole. It remains the one constant.)
Smells, tastes, sounds. They're all different. The island has a certain rhythm, an ebb and a flow that is as predictable as the tide, but this is nothing short of disruptive. Like a storm of new information to process and assimilate, with nothing more than sheer force of will to help translate. The ground crunches beneath my feet. The air is crisp and sharp. I'm bundled up in clothes I've never worn, but inexplicably fit about as well as anything else I've acquired over these past few months. I can't even begin to guess at their color.
(I stayed away from anything made from wool where possible, but wasn't entirely successful in the endeavor. When I tried to find my Daredevil costume among my things, I stumbled across a pliable leather ensemble instead, embroidered with the familiar interlinked D's. I don't wear it now, but presuming I ever find my way back inside, I'll consider it as a more serious option. If nothing else, the overcoat I found shoved in the back of a wardrobe is a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, lined with silk and satin, and surprisingly warm against the chill.)
Snowflakes cling to my lashes and melt shortly after, my eyes for once unhidden by cowl or glasses. (Those, I couldn't find, but then, they weren't among my highest priorities. Getting outside, and quickly, had seemed more important.) My face stings, slightly, from the wind. I don't know that it's much colder than New York is this time of year, but my body's grown accustomed to the tropical heat, and it will surely take a few days to get used to the plummeting temperature -- provided this lasts.
There's chattering up ahead, though the voices are indistinct, no single word sticking out above the others in a way that strikes me as strange. “Excuse me!” I call out to them, intent on asking for (Heaven forbid) directions, but my request goes ignored. Once I’m close enough to demand attention, a hand outstretched... I find no trace that anyone was ever there.
(Am I imagining things? No. Don't go there, Matt.)
A breath escapes me, colored by an indignant note. Frustration sits hot in my throat, my mouth drawn in a frown. Far be it from me to shy away from an adventure, but some idea of what the hell is going on wouldn't be remiss. It's that overwhelming desire for answers that finds me wheeling around when I hear someone else approaching, this time from behind. Footsteps are almost impossible to mask entirely with this type of weather; I know they're there.
"You," I say, tone sharper than I've had cause to use in a very long time. I hold my cane out in accusation. "Where am I?"
[CLOSED TO NEW TAGS.]