Timestamp: 8th Winter 511 A.V. One of these days the sky's gonna break, and everything will escape, and I'll know One of these days the mountains are gonna fall into the sea, and they'll know The storm had left an open wound across Nyka, too ugly to ignore and too painful to confront. Buildings crumbled, people vanished, and everything had been thrown into chaos. The monks tried to maintain order, which was hard enough with all of the monster spawned by a stirring Aperture running around in the streets, but they did their job well. They kept the citizenry in line, dealt with an enormous monster that had threatened them after the storm had vanished over the horizon and many others, and had even organized a descent into the Aperture in search of answers. They were admirable for their zeal in face of this disaster. But still, people couldn't help but despair. That is, all but one. Volans was by no means a native of the city, but after his seasons of living here it felt like home. And, truthfully, he had nowhere else to call that. Nyka was the only place he'd ever been in this life, and Leth's realm was all but closed off to him until Dira finally came to recollect. The pain had ripped through him as the ethaefal had seen a fiery holocaust break over the city, lighting and thunder mingling with the wild djed that rained down on the streets. His horror and grief had been just as fresh and gripping as any, and perhaps it was in this inconsolable senselessness that had compelled him to delve into the secrets of the Aperture. But then, something had changed all that. For, despite all his time spent in Nyka, it wasn’t until three days of Spring 512 that Volans first experienced what the Nykans called a lance. That you and I were made for this I was made to taste your kiss Volans had been helping Ren repair structural damage to the Nine Staves at the time, as it was only them that were able to do it, a certain taboo preventing any others from helping even in those dire times. The voice that spoke in his mind was so startling he had nearly dropped the wooden plank he was carrying at the time, causing Ren to cry out in resultant alarm. But he barely heard her; for all the ethaefal could concentrate on was the strange voice in his head. The voice was female yet oddly husky, very much unlike his own. The one you gave your life for approaches, it had warned. Life runs in strange circles, indeed. And then the voice had disappeared, leaving Volans with no answers, no explanations, merely that cryptic statement. He had thought long and hard on that message the past couple of days. The words sparked a memory in his mind, but it was like a fly buzzing around his head: he tried to grab it, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t catch it. All Volans could tell was that the memory was important to him. Or to who he had been. He hadn’t made a conscious effort to respond to the lance, but a day after Volans found himself loitering around the Gates, hope kindling at the pit of his stomach for the arrival of someone he didn’t even know. He told himself no, he didn’t even know if anyone was appearing – lances were enigmatic, according to those he talked to, and what the voice said could easily have been symbolic in nature. And, even if it was speaking about a living being, what said the voice was telling the truth? But, despite himself, Volans made an effort to travel to the Gates every day. And so he had for four days now. On that particular morning, the sun was just about to reach its apex in the sky. Warm spring light shone down on a dark form, propped against a storefront and head bobbing in tranquil somnolence. Accusing glances were paid this unhelpful man, but he was not paying attention to any of the passerby. His earthbound form was robust and stocky, the Vanthan skin better prepared for the winter chill of the north rather than the warmer temperatures of Nyka. Volans was drowsy, that much was clear. The head dipped once more, the auroral eyes closed in a provisional nap. In his half-awake, half-asleep state, Volans didn’t even hear the words that pierced his lips. “Hurry up, my love...” We were made to never fall away Never fall away... |
| Yes, to my everlasting shame, those are indeed song lyrics you see there. The song I picked out is Letters from the Sky, by Civil Twilight. Good song, good song. |
