Its eyes reflect the strange fractally place, turn round and take a look, unless it keeps ducking behind you.
She watches the Mist pulsate.
Alive and flowing, changing,
different with each passing flash.
The space between worlds and times.
Ether in its truest form.
Most Are Many, Adrift In
the branches of the World Trees.
Bound Nigh Imperceptibly
By The Tendrils Of The Mists.
You Are Not. The Enforcer
Has Killed Your Ones Before Birth.
And You Must Do Like To Him.
Originally Posted by Jacquerel
Woah its eyes are, like, holes
stick your hands down in there
Intrigued by the spirit's eyes
she reaches out to touch them,
giving into a very
silly and childish notion.
The image below is a link.
And the pattern of sevens wanes,
as her sleeping consciousness
starts to rouse itself again.
It is night, but only just. The anniversary of the Girl's seventh year in existence. The smell of dusk fills the air, sweet with the smell of the shadegrass. The smell of a day gone by in the shadow of the forest. Cool, spore-filled fog is pushed by gusts of wind, scouts running before the blustery night sure to come upon the land. They push the luminous canopy, dislodging spores and blossoms into the air, small acrid particles that drift and glow in the breeze. It is a spring of beauty and life, and one befitting the beginning of a tale.
The girl is lucky that she was not discovered in her sleep by the denizens of the day, but she thinks nothing of it. She wipes the sleep from her eyes, and reorganises her thoughts. She forces the words back to their place.
And the words move to obey.
And she awakens again.
But she knows that she cannot
stay here, for she hungers and
a cramp has rooted itself
against her side, where she lay.
She must find someone to help.
She is still very afraid.
She knows this land well enough.
She knows that north there dwells a
mechanist, a friend of her
father, and his son. Her friend.
She knows that to the west stands
the digging place, where they went,
her father and the dayling,
to dig for the things of old.
And to the south, her own home.
The village of purest bone.
Or, at least, what's left of it.
But she does not know where she
must go, for the spirit in
her dreams did not specify.
whoooooo I am terrible at flash :3
Last edited by Dalmationer; 02-13-2012 at 07:02 PM.
And she climbs, through the tendrils.
Through the pointed leaves of light.
To gaze upon the forest,
To find her way in its midst.
But in its branches, forlorn
she sits. For a while she thinks
of the last night's events. She
ponders as the wind bites her.
And holds her. And steadies her.
The frozen faces, the fire
the light, the screaming mass of
men, of women, of children.
The trudging gait of the things.
The scalding pain of colour.
Originally Posted by autoglassmasterclass
head over to that bone dude
Originally Posted by Mibbs
Every true journey begins at the start
go to the village of bone, your home, your heart
Originally Posted by Shadow Phoenix
Go home for calming thy hunger :3
Originally Posted by ProfessorLizzard
>Visit thy father
She turns her eyes to the south.
She detects it instantly
Sau-sa. The city of bone
And light and song and forest.
Or, at least, what's left of it.
Smoke rises up from the light
Melting into the wind's breath.
A harrowing, fearsome sight,
A shining beacon of death.
Sorry for the incomplete update. I wanted to do more, but I only have like one other panel, and on its own it doesn't fit here. Regardless, I made a backgroundy thing I guess, which kinda almost makes up for it? Here.
Anyway the rest of this should be done soon. I trust you guys to hold me to it. :3
In the meantime, I will probably still be accepting commands and stuff, because they're cool.