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+--- Thread: Stimulus (IC, Past) (/showthread.php?tid=15484)
Stimulus (IC, Past) - Serebane - 03-08-2016
~
The rank stench was undeniable. Like a thick gloom it blanketed the air and lined her lungs with each breath. She was no more than thirty fulms from the singular as they quietly grazed... one could smell them long before they were spotted in the tall grasses as the gentle plains breeze carried their scent. While the wild boars were relatively easy to track, bringing them down was another matter entirely. Such a hunt wasn't permitted for the weak or young, and often had to be coordinated in groups.Â
Without comrade or companion, the small miqo'te was on her own. But this was not out of the ordinary for her in this day and age. In the absence of aid the work was doubled. It was an improbable task for many when the slightest error could cause great injury.Â
Lying low in the swaying grass, eyes pale as the moon peered out, staring at their prey beyond with an otherworldly patience. A dark red tail, tipped with white strands shifted back and forth in anticipation, body otherwise motionless. Darkness cloaked the land save for the faint glow of a starry night. Shallow breaths and pounding heart were masked by the winds, and her shadowed silhouette suggested to be an inanimate lump in the dirt. For five minutes this continued as she waited for the right moment.
The hunt was not unknown to her. She had fought for blood and mercilessly tasted it upon her lips. It was the way of survival. The way of her people. To fail was to die. The fittest and brightest continued their legacy, passing down wisdom, strategy and experience. Who better to learn from than those that lived to tell the tale? The dead did not often speak, if only to murmur their regrets and shame.Â
A heavy grunt broke the redhead from her moment of thought. Her marquise pupils dilated, focusing more intently upon the location from which the noise was emitted. The beasts were tired from a day of rooting, but ever were they ready to spring at a hint of danger. Now was the hour when fortune would be most in the predator's favor. She scanned the line of bristled backs, settling her attention upon the nearest one. A healthy boar of moderate age, nose pressed to the dirt as he continued to search for edibles and completely unaware of her presence. Blade in hand, she gripped its handle tightly.Â
With a defining leap she sprung. The distance was closed within seconds by powerful legs tearing through the grass. A killer in the shade, brought to light by the glow of the moon as she fell upon her prize. Like a wave, shrieks of surprise erupted among the singular as they darted away in multiple directions, obsessed only with personal survival. Without time to appraise the danger, there was no consideration towards protection. The final boar spun on short yet strong feet, attempting to send the attacker flying as the blade pierced its hide. Claws dug into the skin, fastening themselves to the beast as both prey and predator kicked dirt up in clouds about the area. Carefully did the miqo'te twist her body, evading the deadly tusks that swung about threateningly. To fail was to die.
The tussle continued, each creature strong in their own right. But with the advantage atop the boar, the miqo'te finally retracted her blade, deftly slicing along the soft skin of the left elbow pocket. The beast squealed, lurching forward onto the ground as it struggled in desperation to regain its footing.
Her head pulsed at the sound. Its sharpness raised the hairs on her neck. She knew this noise - this howl of terror - not just as the shriek of a dying pig. Promptly did she grab for a tusk, tugging it back harshly as she delivered a final skillful cut along the throat, silencing the piteous cries for help. The meaty body sagged, its life draining away. Yet the pulse continued in her skull... a throbbing sensation that forced the miqo'te to catch herself on the now limp body of the boar. Her vision blurred, and with a wince she brought her free hand up to her head. What was this...? Why did she suddenly feel so sick?
Her mind grew distant, fading beyond images. No, not just images. Memories. Something that pulled itself forward insistently. So unwelcome and unknown was its presence that it rattled her head. This sensation. It was wrong. She did not choose to remember. This act was like an intrusion, she thought through gritted teeth. One that seemingly could not be stopped as it took control of her head.
Similar cries echoed as visions flashed behind closed eyes. Shrill they were.. and as pitiful as the stuck pig. "No!" They shrieked, the words tangible through the inflection even as the language was incomprehensible. "I don't want to do this anymore! Please!" A hand blurred over watery eyes, snatching at the humanoid shape just out of reach, its garb colors a dull blue.Â
Then, unexpectedly, the point of view altered. Someone else struggled in place of the previous one. "Enough! Stop!" Their vision was red, merging shapes making sense of only shriveled, bloodied hands grasping at glowing strings.Â
"It will work!" A voice reassured, an eerie confidence amidst the anguish. But they were only met with further wails. Their words died beyond the vision as her pulse drummed endlessly in her ears.Â
What felt like minutes was only seconds as the heavy, weighted burden of memories subsided. The cold of the night air tickled her ears, reminding the gasping, panting miqo'te that she was in fact still alive. She blinked herself into focus, peering about into the darkness searchingly as she remembered where she was. Ever so slowly did her racing, terrorized heart fall back into a gentle rhythm, calmed by the collection of her true thoughts and the reassurance that she was in fact still herself. The plains were silent, all trace of the other boars long gone as they likely startled nearby beasts in their loud effort to escape.
Her eyes drew down in recognition to the still warm body beneath her, and her blood-soaked trousers as she sat in the pool of death that had slowly seeped around her legs.
Those linens were going to be a bitch to clean.
~
RE: Stimulus (IC, Past) - Serebane - 04-17-2016
[youtube]1vXj-eT3rF4[/youtube]
~
With a final hoist the miqo'te successfully snagged the stone foot of the statue above her, disturbed dust and dirt wafting into the air around her movements... the dust of a millennia that danced about to settle elsewhere. She rubbed her illuminated goggles across her arm with a small grumble, wiping away the excess grime. Textured gloves allowed her grip to remain firm while muscles and ropes did the rest to assist in her ascension of the towering monument. Slowly the process continued, each tug of the rope and readjusted footing bringing her ever closer to the prize above.Â
The temple was dark and damp; flora collected around the cracked floors that flooded with still water, bringing forth a new life to this untouched corner of the realm. Beyond crumbling walls, filtered rays of sunlight barely reached the inner sanctum. Yet it was not enough to shed visibility upon the silent, standing guardians within who remained ever cold and ever vigilant. They were left hidden, cloaked in eternal shadow. Forgotten champions of old, safeguarding the paths leading deeper into the ancient structure.Â
But even as they stood the test of time, adventurers new and old courageously advanced upon their home, combating the ancient traps and deciphering the complexities of archaic language to open secret chambers. Much of the temple had been picked clean. Often the redhead wondered just how much gil they earned with such plunder. Shortly did it always follow with a disappointed shake of her head.Â
Nay, she did not sell her prizes like the greedy children of this age. Neither did she collect, unless they could be protected upon her very person. What benefit did artifacts and relics serve to sit upon some wealthy man's mantle, pried from their home and displayed as stolen rewards? Was it the accomplishment, the daring feat of coming back alive? Or was it the display of blatant wealth? Once more would her head bob with displeasure.Â
It was a challenge, certainly. So few found success in their ventures, and even fewer managed to return with proof of their deeds. The diminutive miqo'te reveled in the challenge. It was one of the few pleasures in her life she could work towards unobstructed by societal demands. It oft came at the price of loneliness that she worked in solitude, hiding away from prying eyes as she delved deep into dungeons of old. It was a small price of course, save that a fatal mistake would leave her fending for herself.Â
Enough practice permitted her the revelation of new skills. By her first decade into the business of treasure hunting, she was her very own veritable party of one and a jack of all necessary trades.Â
A pebble tumbled down the length of the statue as she continued her climb, the sound echoing off the stone walls to break the otherwise peaceful silence. One velvet ear twitched as silver eyes roamed, searching the area with a hint of suspicion before refocusing on the head of the guardian. Releasing her hold on the grappled rope, she pulled herself atop his shield arm, tail twisting about to assist in her balance as she scrambled to the top. Once there she sighed heavily, allowing herself a moment to rest her taut limbs.Â
She sat with her back against the shield, facing the stern features of the immortal effigy to silently admire the faceted blue gems that were his eyes. He stared onward into the distance beyond her form, watching for those who had yet to return, lips pressed thin and straight as the masculine jaw framing them. Stoic was the word she would use as she contemplated his angled features. While his face was otherwise bland, the crystals resting as eyes in his sockets were topped by a pair of heavy eyebrows that drew downwards into a furrow. Unconsciously she reflected this stare, pondering inwardly about the choice of such an expression. Was he once a creature lost deep in thought, or did he disapprove of being made into a timeless object?
Contemplation was met with silence as he continued to stare ahead, looking ever forward for eternity. Her eyes faltered, moving away from the unwavering gaze before she pushed herself back onto her feet. Carefully she climbed up his shoulder to gain a better view of his skull. A helmet had been carved atop it with intricate details lining the edges. He was once a man of status, she deduced, a man of their army who had earned his keep. Perhaps this is why he scowled for eternity.Â
She scanned the decorated helm until her keen eyes noticed a visibly cut triangle resting at the center of his helmet, just atop the glabella bone. The miqo'te gently pressed it with two fingers, and with a grating click it slid deeper into the stone head. Both hands moved to pry open the lid, pushing it away carefully and just enough to reach inside. Eagerly she adjusted her goggles, directing their illumination into the pitch blackness. A glint of reflected metal shown from within, and thus did she reach in, attempting to lift up her prize.Â
A simple, forged case, no larger then her forearm was procured and placed carefully on the edge of the statue's cranium. Words had been carved into the top, wrapping around the simple leather strap that kept the lid in place. By all accounts, this item was left unprotected due to its surprisingly secret spot. A small smile curled the corner of her lips as her eyes glittered with delight. It had taken her several turns of the sun wandering the temple's open halls, examining the statues and studying their engraved hints. None had thought to consider that their metaphors could be taken so literally.Â
Gently the redhead pried open the lid to retrieve the only object within: a scroll wrapped and tied about a wide wooden spool. Fascinated, she eased herself down onto the shield arm once again. The temple's history was written within a multitude of tomes and even carved into the very walls themselves. Only upon the rare occasion were parts of their chronicled events stored away. Her eyes scanned the first visible lines, translating with an ease and familiarity known only to a select few.Â
“Memoir,†she uttered aloud whilst withdrawing a hideous journal from her satchel. Its edges were frayed, and the leather was weak and faded. The first several leaves were dried and flimsy, and only as the parchment continued to the back did it visibly progress to newer writing material. Pages upon pages were adhered to the inner spine over time, filling out the old journal as much as possible to the point that it was overflowing. The leather band keeping it tied together was a thick strap, binding down the leaves so as to avoid an accidental explosion.Â
Opening it to the newest page, the miqo'te rested it upon her lap for note-taking as she began to read the scroll... immersing herself in its hidden wonders. What did the stern man have to say that it was so carefully housed within his head? It played upon a cruel irony that his words were locked away in his own mind never to be revealed to the world. But this redhead would eat her fill of his thoughts, and restore his true immortality beyond the cold prison of a statue.
~