HomeWhispering Storm (New Character Vignette)
Page 1 of 1
Whispering Storm (New Character Vignette)
by WORLD_ENGINE Thu Jun 06, 2019 4:42 pm
I wrote this up to get a handle on my 3.0 Redwater Lascarian. She's coming together slowly in my head. <3 I'm definitely looking for ties. (This is Shan, btw)
________________
“Still-as-Stone suggests I keep journal. To help me with Above-speech. I will do this thing because he is wise but also because I think keeping journal will appease him.
I am Whispering Storm. My name in tongue of my people has no place on pages or written with common ink. Is creeping fog of late evening when sunwalkers are caged and comfortable in huts. Is quiet clouds that pass over moon. Is silent heat lightning in distance. My name was given to me by Wisest and Strongest and for them I am far rumble over mountaintops and I am careful mist that pokes at mouth of Hold and protects our land from prying eyes. I am Whispering Storm and I roll across Lands Above like haze of early morning in wynter.”
--
The charcoal pencil in her grip breaks, shorn cleanly in two by the white knuckled grip she’d adopted as her fingers began to ache from the unfamiliar motions inherent to scribesmanship. Whispering Storm’s palm is black and sooted from where the pencil cracked, dust in the delicate wrinkles of her hands. She wipes it off on the sturdy canvas of her leggings and tries again.
--
“I am Renak’i, a Runner. This is my sect and my calling. This too was given to me by Wisest and Strongest and for them I will run from horizon to horizon under noonday sun. My heart strong and full of purpose though my shoulders sag with weight of expectation, I hear even now thunder of distant footfalls as the Above-born make their way Below. I wonder if they see us as we see them. Mythkin, arcane and distant from comfortable teachings of our elders. If we are to them denizens of underworld intimate with Mortiskin and eaters of manflesh I wonder if they are knowing that they step out of myth and live in world that kills us like fish gasping for air when he bakes on lakeshore.”
--
The pencil breaks again. This time it is too small for Whispering Storm to keep writing. So she tosses it aside, disgusted and throws her hand up in a complicated gesture .
The hulking figure across from her sighs. His fingers are long and expressive, and they weave patient ephemera in the way they clench and unclench. [You are holding the pencil too tightly] He explains with muttered word and arch gesticulation, [It is a writing implement, not a shovel. Just finish this entry.]
Whispering Storm sighs and picks up another stick of charcoal, resigned. Her expression blank, her hands convey the nuance of her attentions in the way she twists her wrist quickly twice, as if displacing a fly. [Fine.]
--
[i]“Today I am made to scout blastlands for cartographers to follow after. Blood-of-Oaks accompanies me to this place that is new but also old. I fear radiation that twists and mangles, mist that is not me that raises boils on skin and makes bones brittle. I fear sulfur skies and heat that is not radiation but born of fire that burns below blastlands. Oil and peat smolder for eternity and make ground feel like walking on top of barely contained inferno. I fear all these things and I fear Above-born who have already made this broken place their home.
But I am Whispering Storm and my name is a traveling mist that rolls over the whole world. I am Renak’i and I will run nightwards and daywards till the dawn comes for me and the Last Sleep takes me further Below. I am hoping tomorrow I will have fingers for writing, and eyes for seeing.”
--
Whispering Storm stops her writing, shakes out her hand and folds the hastily bound pages into their proper shape before setting her journal aside. She gestures dismissively at it [i] and snaps her fingers smartly.
The figure nods and rises and Whispering Storm does that same. She comes up to about his chest, his shoulder if he is tired and slumped. Wandering Eye has been home for long enough, she thinks, that he should not look so exhausted anymore.
Nonetheless she follows after, her trim and deliberate steps echoing his plodding ones in a kind of discreet harmony. Wandering Eye does not look behind himself but his hand moves through several complex and practiced gestures [Look out for the things I have asked], he reminds her.
“I will.” She replies in the common tongue, the shape of it still unfamiliar in her mouth.
When they reach a fork she takes a corridor leading Skywards. For a moment, Wandering Eye gazes after her pensively. But he shakes himself out of whatever quiet revelry her receding back evoked in him and turns to take a path that will lead him further Below.
___________________________
________________
“Still-as-Stone suggests I keep journal. To help me with Above-speech. I will do this thing because he is wise but also because I think keeping journal will appease him.
I am Whispering Storm. My name in tongue of my people has no place on pages or written with common ink. Is creeping fog of late evening when sunwalkers are caged and comfortable in huts. Is quiet clouds that pass over moon. Is silent heat lightning in distance. My name was given to me by Wisest and Strongest and for them I am far rumble over mountaintops and I am careful mist that pokes at mouth of Hold and protects our land from prying eyes. I am Whispering Storm and I roll across Lands Above like haze of early morning in wynter.”
--
The charcoal pencil in her grip breaks, shorn cleanly in two by the white knuckled grip she’d adopted as her fingers began to ache from the unfamiliar motions inherent to scribesmanship. Whispering Storm’s palm is black and sooted from where the pencil cracked, dust in the delicate wrinkles of her hands. She wipes it off on the sturdy canvas of her leggings and tries again.
--
“I am Renak’i, a Runner. This is my sect and my calling. This too was given to me by Wisest and Strongest and for them I will run from horizon to horizon under noonday sun. My heart strong and full of purpose though my shoulders sag with weight of expectation, I hear even now thunder of distant footfalls as the Above-born make their way Below. I wonder if they see us as we see them. Mythkin, arcane and distant from comfortable teachings of our elders. If we are to them denizens of underworld intimate with Mortiskin and eaters of manflesh I wonder if they are knowing that they step out of myth and live in world that kills us like fish gasping for air when he bakes on lakeshore.”
--
The pencil breaks again. This time it is too small for Whispering Storm to keep writing. So she tosses it aside, disgusted and throws her hand up in a complicated gesture .
The hulking figure across from her sighs. His fingers are long and expressive, and they weave patient ephemera in the way they clench and unclench. [You are holding the pencil too tightly] He explains with muttered word and arch gesticulation, [It is a writing implement, not a shovel. Just finish this entry.]
Whispering Storm sighs and picks up another stick of charcoal, resigned. Her expression blank, her hands convey the nuance of her attentions in the way she twists her wrist quickly twice, as if displacing a fly. [Fine.]
--
[i]“Today I am made to scout blastlands for cartographers to follow after. Blood-of-Oaks accompanies me to this place that is new but also old. I fear radiation that twists and mangles, mist that is not me that raises boils on skin and makes bones brittle. I fear sulfur skies and heat that is not radiation but born of fire that burns below blastlands. Oil and peat smolder for eternity and make ground feel like walking on top of barely contained inferno. I fear all these things and I fear Above-born who have already made this broken place their home.
But I am Whispering Storm and my name is a traveling mist that rolls over the whole world. I am Renak’i and I will run nightwards and daywards till the dawn comes for me and the Last Sleep takes me further Below. I am hoping tomorrow I will have fingers for writing, and eyes for seeing.”
--
Whispering Storm stops her writing, shakes out her hand and folds the hastily bound pages into their proper shape before setting her journal aside. She gestures dismissively at it [i] and snaps her fingers smartly.
The figure nods and rises and Whispering Storm does that same. She comes up to about his chest, his shoulder if he is tired and slumped. Wandering Eye has been home for long enough, she thinks, that he should not look so exhausted anymore.
Nonetheless she follows after, her trim and deliberate steps echoing his plodding ones in a kind of discreet harmony. Wandering Eye does not look behind himself but his hand moves through several complex and practiced gestures [Look out for the things I have asked], he reminds her.
“I will.” She replies in the common tongue, the shape of it still unfamiliar in her mouth.
When they reach a fork she takes a corridor leading Skywards. For a moment, Wandering Eye gazes after her pensively. But he shakes himself out of whatever quiet revelry her receding back evoked in him and turns to take a path that will lead him further Below.
___________________________
WORLD_ENGINE- Posts : 1
Join date : 2019-06-02
Page 1 of 1
Permissions in this forum:
You cannot reply to topics in this forum|
|
|