Since the last round is over
Since the official stories are done and judged
Here is the start using the same art as the Rodrigo/PCat round
A WIP
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Creative Deletions
CDM Post loss Writing just cause
© 2008 June 8, 2008 beginning
Stories tell of entities, beings, dreams made manifest in the flesh to those untoward enough to encounter them. Mostly they stay to themselves, dealing in their spheres and worlds that interest them. On occasion one might, as legend tells it, take an interest in a member of some location, and spend a time with them. Children most often are a result of this, and if the legends are correct, these are the heroes and villains of all the long many ages.
If the stories are to be believed that is. But we cannot believe everything we read, see, hear, taste, smell, only touch is the real sense that is true in the sense of humanity. The rest lie but the fingertips, they tell the tales that need to be remembered in electrochemical reactions fueled by the inertia of the main motive forces so far discovered, even if the role of frequency is misunderstood, keeping mankind as blind as his ancestors dreamt they were.
Instead all that can be trusted is what lies at the ends of the fingertips. What moves and vibrates
All her peers moved in their realms as well, something stirring them like a hornets nest of things moving in darkness almost obscured to her eyes, certainly to most any other entity, they would all be, the peers, unnoticeable. But like her kin, she could see in the darkest of time, piercing the camouflage that they wore to live in the places they like the best.
The Dark Fae and some Ancient Principles all are overlapping one and another, drinking into the various excesses common to all sentience that arise in all manner and hue of formats.
There where senses of reality lap and overlap, rivulets and torrents of beliefs all conflicting and working within the pages of what should never have been in the first place, were it not for the interference.
Still there are some that straddle these elements, discrete
He and I take out time, let the kinks work out of the car, old one, back before most of the world was born, far back in the days when cars were made to last and had steel in them as the main safety component. The vinyl is cracked, stained with life as well as death, never mind the affirmations. None of that really matters, only how large is the tank, how well will it run on unleaded and will it make it to the destination days away or will that be too much to ask of behemoth? Time, fluid as she is, shall tell the tale along with the main facets carved into the jewel of breathing.
Driving along the mountain road, heading up and over it to reach the city that the clues had led, too, there was a sudden need for braking. There is a traffic tie up, perhaps a truck jackknifed or run partially off the road, some such thing as that to delay progress, taking longer to climb over the mountain and start the long descent into the valley where the clan meeting is to be held at.
Their car reaches the delay, inching past a turn off that seems to have fallen off the side of the mountain. It curved to the right and a few blocks worth of distance down the stretch the road no longer exists, the whole side of the mountain at that spot looks like it fell away into thin air, it must have impacted below on the side of the granite edifice.
The voice inside gloats once more, “The goggles, dear one, notice how the goggles are not just on their faces, they are an essential element of their faces, just as your eyes and brows and nose is essential to your face. Their goggles are not accessories; they are their means to interact with all that is before and behind them. Those are not what you think they are in deed no, oh no, they are not that at all.” It pauses in the endless tirades, really an extension of electrical impulses given a purer form in this instance, “See how they are blockading off the crack, some power walked here and only a few notice the reality, you not being one such as I and so unable to recognize the truth, even if it were to sting you into enlightenment.” It stopped for a while, easier to think when it was not spouting off like that inside the skull, should never have had that implant put it, knew there was something screwy about it, dammed all to the thirteen corners of the world.
Leaving my hands on the wheel, not staring too long at the two cops manhandling the sign stating, Error 404, Road Not Found, why the hell does it say that, that is a TCP error, not a roadway sign, still the two cops glare at the car as it cruises past in the line with the others circumventing the slicing of the mountain side.
Past there and up along the many switchbacks, they increase the higher and darker it becomes, night having fallen and with it the illumination that comes with the message from the Sun, now it is down to human intuition and faulty Halogens to light the way across the top. The road slowly putters out devolving into a rude dirt track the car has issues in negotiating. Art and part of the quest to conquer, there are hopefully no more obstacles to truly stand in the way.
Still more comes, flittering night shapes, hollow men echoing the tree trunks they are made out of. With skin sloughed branches and leave lined ways to dot the stars dangling there, while veils fall away with each turn of the tires echoing the past that is surmounted even as the ridge steepens the last few thousands of yards, no way to push the steel beast up and over, it has to make the crossing on its own, gas running low with the incline, slid to the rear of the tank, good thing it is old and beater, a veritable tank without the armaments.
Up up up and over, and the sailing smooth’s out, time to head down and the road appears, still older than the rest, parts being wooden planks shaved by hand, and other parts being the cobblestones common to the Dark Faerie Queens delight, still running smoother than just minutes before.
It took Forever and a Day to make the crossing, not yet tomorrow even as the Hour had passed and the wings flow up and outward in droves to drive the currents, aiding the brother best they can in the careless task laid out behind them.
The Queen of the Foxes stalks along the forgotten roads, dancing to her own tunes, humming along to the melodies of the hunt and the escape as well, her children all too often on the receiving end and that is one thing she cannot change, nor would is she could.
Without being on the other end, how would her progeny ever have learned the fine arts of stealth and love for their families, with a keenness that few others realize lurks behind such lupine eyes.
Family is the one and all for The Queen, and she is reminded every day of the gentle nature to one and another her get show.
Yet there far above the forest paths trod in the mind of The Queen, the Owl Mistress also muses on many similar notions, taken in slightly slower and more sublime directions.
Four spoken five times, making it a total of twenty, then twenty taken to that strength of five becomes one hundred, with the number being the total of what is needed to complete the tasking.
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