On this day, however, that world, glimmering and glorious as it is, finds itself looked upon many a new set of eyes—the gazes of those denied its splendor. Those children of a Goddess of a far darker inclination than those lauded divinities of kingdoms and fiefdoms from afar.
This is their story.
N-V
Spoiler (click to show/hide):
To say your eyes snap open to an all new world would be a lie, for you find, as your consciousness swims from the depths of some queer darkness, that you find yourself surrounded by just that; darkness. For it seems, wherever you are now, whatever you are now, you have nary such an organ to glance into the light that you seem to intuitively understand the presence of. The world is, for the time being, a great void of nothing, through which you interface by way of the baser senses: touch, primarily. Experimental attempts to move see the cold, smooth ground beneath you made clear.
And then, as you squirm about, locomotion not beyond you but thoroughly unfamiliar in this new state, a sort of gyration necessary to see you shuffle from one place to another, you find the first glimmering of something substantial. It is faint, a mere wisp in the periphery of your metaphorical vision, but present all the same. It takes a moment for you to really focus in on it, really lock in, but once you do, once that little kindling flame in the far off becomes more clear, you realize what it is; not a light, nor a fire, but an emotion. You can feel it as much as you 'see' it. It tastes of something... familiar.
A mixture of ennui, and bitterness, and the least little bit of loneliness. A ghostly, withering flame, but a flame all the same. And it acts as a beacon of sorts, as you orient yourself in what you can only imagine is some sort of clearing. Stimulation where there is none. A goal.
And just as soon as you begin to squirm your way through this strange new world, like a moth drawn to that flame, another springs up. Then another, and another. You realize, as you squirm, that there is more to this world than mere darkness and the occasion flicker, here or there, or half-captured emotion. Weariness, elation, angry, simple-minded delight. There are many such presence, many such feelings, filling this strange vision of yours. As more and more appear with every slimy squirm, you're left with a choice; which of these phantoms will you pursue first, and to what end?
So many lights, so little time: who do you pursue first?
[] A dreary, sad little light, flickering in and out of existence. It tastes of a bleary sadness and jealousy.
[] A bright, cheery haze that seems to light up everything around it, however temporarily. It feels optimistic and welcoming.
[] A wild aura that seems to jump at every little thing, dancing away at the edge of your 'sight'. It seems nervous and excited all at once.
To say your eyes snap open to an all new world would be a lie, for you find, as your consciousness swims from the depths of some queer darkness, that you find yourself surrounded by just that; darkness. For it seems, wherever you are now, whatever you are now, you have nary such an organ to glance into the light that you seem to intuitively understand the presence of. The world is, for the time being, a great void of nothing, through which you interface by way of the baser senses: touch, primarily. Experimental attempts to move see the cold, smooth ground beneath you made clear.
And then, as you squirm about, locomotion not beyond you but thoroughly unfamiliar in this new state, a sort of gyration necessary to see you shuffle from one place to another, you find the first glimmering of something substantial. It is faint, a mere wisp in the periphery of your metaphorical vision, but present all the same. It takes a moment for you to really focus in on it, really lock in, but once you do, once that little kindling flame in the far off becomes more clear, you realize what it is; not a light, nor a fire, but an emotion. You can feel it as much as you 'see' it. It tastes of something... familiar.
A mixture of ennui, and bitterness, and the least little bit of loneliness. A ghostly, withering flame, but a flame all the same. And it acts as a beacon of sorts, as you orient yourself in what you can only imagine is some sort of clearing. Stimulation where there is none. A goal.
And just as soon as you begin to squirm your way through this strange new world, like a moth drawn to that flame, another springs up. Then another, and another. You realize, as you squirm, that there is more to this world than mere darkness and the occasion flicker, here or there, or half-captured emotion. Weariness, elation, angry, simple-minded delight. There are many such presence, many such feelings, filling this strange vision of yours. As more and more appear with every slimy squirm, you're left with a choice; which of these phantoms will you pursue first, and to what end?
So many lights, so little time: who do you pursue first?
[] A dreary, sad little light, flickering in and out of existence. It tastes of a bleary sadness and jealousy.
[] A bright, cheery haze that seems to light up everything around it, however temporarily. It feels optimistic and welcoming.
[] A wild aura that seems to jump at every little thing, dancing away at the edge of your 'sight'. It seems nervous and excited all at once.
Eskel
Spoiler (click to show/hide):
You only briefly grasp the notion that there is, in fact, nothing all about you when suddenly, there is much all around you. In the instant it takes your eyes to snap open, you are jolted from peaceful oblivion to the sudden realization that you are very much alive, very much present. And with that acknowledgment comes with a sudden need to understand just where your presence has ended up. It takes but a few moments for your eyes to adjust to your surroundings, a cave of sorts, with a dim sort of light filling it by way of smoldering, dying torchlight. As you push yourself up from the slump from which you have awoken, you find it easier to move than you remember; too easy, in fact, as if your body has somehow shrunk beyond measure. Something you find to be true, as you realize, at your full height, you barely rise into the cramped interior of the cavern. A cursory inspection of why that is produces startling results; you are no longer you. Instead, when you look for your hands in the faded light, you find only clawed digits at the end of thin, scaly arms. A snout sprouts from where a nose might once have been, and your jaws snap like those of some sort of alligator when you open and close them to vocalize your surprise.
Indeed, you are quite the reptile, as you examine yourself closer, dream-like in your haze. A thick, relatively dexterous tail, digitigrade legs ending in similarly sharp hooks as your fingers, and... well, for a moment, you find yourself shocked by the lack of maleness between your surprisingly strong hinds, but a cursory inspection indicates the presence of quite a maleness, simply tucked away in a slit-like opening where it might have previously hung free. At least you remain a male, in this strange new form.
Your self-inspection is cut somewhat short when you realize that you are, in fact, not alone in this cave, as if the presence of a lit torch is not enough evidence of this. Your ears, now flush holes on the sides of your head, pick up the chattering of something, or perhaps someone, not far from where you hide. A sweep of your little patch of this cave system leads you to realize there are three forking tunnels leading each away from the others all around you. The first tunnel, the source of the chatter, seems better lit than the others, another flickering light somewhere towards its end. The second, so dark as to be cold, perhaps indicating it is uninhabited, giving you room to think. The last, much like the second, seems abandoned at first, but you strain to hear, further off than even the chattering of the first path, a constant, rhythmic thump, as if something is hammering on the rock itself.
Three paths before you. Which do you hurry to in this strange time?
[]The first path, lit and lilting, surely hosts others of sapient bearing. Friend or foe, it is hard to say.
[]The second path, cool and calm, seems an easy place to gather your thoughts, but you cannot help but sense something foreboding about its silence.
[]The third path draws you in with the rhythm of its song, the staccato of stone and steel like music to your ears.
You only briefly grasp the notion that there is, in fact, nothing all about you when suddenly, there is much all around you. In the instant it takes your eyes to snap open, you are jolted from peaceful oblivion to the sudden realization that you are very much alive, very much present. And with that acknowledgment comes with a sudden need to understand just where your presence has ended up. It takes but a few moments for your eyes to adjust to your surroundings, a cave of sorts, with a dim sort of light filling it by way of smoldering, dying torchlight. As you push yourself up from the slump from which you have awoken, you find it easier to move than you remember; too easy, in fact, as if your body has somehow shrunk beyond measure. Something you find to be true, as you realize, at your full height, you barely rise into the cramped interior of the cavern. A cursory inspection of why that is produces startling results; you are no longer you. Instead, when you look for your hands in the faded light, you find only clawed digits at the end of thin, scaly arms. A snout sprouts from where a nose might once have been, and your jaws snap like those of some sort of alligator when you open and close them to vocalize your surprise.
Indeed, you are quite the reptile, as you examine yourself closer, dream-like in your haze. A thick, relatively dexterous tail, digitigrade legs ending in similarly sharp hooks as your fingers, and... well, for a moment, you find yourself shocked by the lack of maleness between your surprisingly strong hinds, but a cursory inspection indicates the presence of quite a maleness, simply tucked away in a slit-like opening where it might have previously hung free. At least you remain a male, in this strange new form.
Your self-inspection is cut somewhat short when you realize that you are, in fact, not alone in this cave, as if the presence of a lit torch is not enough evidence of this. Your ears, now flush holes on the sides of your head, pick up the chattering of something, or perhaps someone, not far from where you hide. A sweep of your little patch of this cave system leads you to realize there are three forking tunnels leading each away from the others all around you. The first tunnel, the source of the chatter, seems better lit than the others, another flickering light somewhere towards its end. The second, so dark as to be cold, perhaps indicating it is uninhabited, giving you room to think. The last, much like the second, seems abandoned at first, but you strain to hear, further off than even the chattering of the first path, a constant, rhythmic thump, as if something is hammering on the rock itself.
Three paths before you. Which do you hurry to in this strange time?
[]The first path, lit and lilting, surely hosts others of sapient bearing. Friend or foe, it is hard to say.
[]The second path, cool and calm, seems an easy place to gather your thoughts, but you cannot help but sense something foreboding about its silence.
[]The third path draws you in with the rhythm of its song, the staccato of stone and steel like music to your ears.
Direfang
Spoiler (click to show/hide):
The world comes to you in a rush, blood hammering behind your ears as your body realizes it is not where it once was. No longer do you bleed and suffer, forgotten and alone. Even disoriented as you are by this sudden onrush of feeling, you realize you are very much not along: even through the crinkling of the leaf litter beneath you, life is abundant around you, in the trees all around. The chirping of birds, the rustle of rodents all about the undergrowth, even the odd buzz of insects. As your vision adjusts, you realize, through murky gray, that you are far from the urban decay which haunts your fleeting memories. You are in the forest, where you feel, in your heart, you belong. And the urge to mark that belonging is strong in you as you press yourself up on four slender limbs and stretch a wiry body that is much unlike the one that dances in the reaches of your dreams.
Your ears and eyes, sharper though they once were, pale in comparison to the sharpest of your senses: a new world of smells floods your nose as you sniff, almost instinctively, at the wind, scents from afar brought to you on the breeze. There are many, here in the woodlands. Some of them sweet, some of them foul, many of them far off, but some close enough to almost taste. You relish in the most prominent of them for a time, tilting your muzzle this way and that to try and catch them at their best angle. Many of them are close enough, you seem to know, that you would have no trouble flexing this strange new body of yours and working your way through the underbrush like a wraith, seeking them out for purposes you still need to work out. A choice only you can make for yourself.
The wind brings you a smattering of strange scents, and with them, feelings both old and new
[] A hot, coppery scent seems to linger to the north. It is thick enough to your senses to almost taste; a primal, irony stench that seems to bring your stomach to growling.
[] To the west, something acrid and sweet in equal measure. It tickles at your nose, threatening to make you sneeze, smoky and rich. Fire, you know.
[] A stranger scent to the east, almost tangy in your nostrils. Once you've gotten a few good sniffs, the scent seems to stir a strange desire in your loins, musky and pungent as it is.
The world comes to you in a rush, blood hammering behind your ears as your body realizes it is not where it once was. No longer do you bleed and suffer, forgotten and alone. Even disoriented as you are by this sudden onrush of feeling, you realize you are very much not along: even through the crinkling of the leaf litter beneath you, life is abundant around you, in the trees all around. The chirping of birds, the rustle of rodents all about the undergrowth, even the odd buzz of insects. As your vision adjusts, you realize, through murky gray, that you are far from the urban decay which haunts your fleeting memories. You are in the forest, where you feel, in your heart, you belong. And the urge to mark that belonging is strong in you as you press yourself up on four slender limbs and stretch a wiry body that is much unlike the one that dances in the reaches of your dreams.
Your ears and eyes, sharper though they once were, pale in comparison to the sharpest of your senses: a new world of smells floods your nose as you sniff, almost instinctively, at the wind, scents from afar brought to you on the breeze. There are many, here in the woodlands. Some of them sweet, some of them foul, many of them far off, but some close enough to almost taste. You relish in the most prominent of them for a time, tilting your muzzle this way and that to try and catch them at their best angle. Many of them are close enough, you seem to know, that you would have no trouble flexing this strange new body of yours and working your way through the underbrush like a wraith, seeking them out for purposes you still need to work out. A choice only you can make for yourself.
The wind brings you a smattering of strange scents, and with them, feelings both old and new
[] A hot, coppery scent seems to linger to the north. It is thick enough to your senses to almost taste; a primal, irony stench that seems to bring your stomach to growling.
[] To the west, something acrid and sweet in equal measure. It tickles at your nose, threatening to make you sneeze, smoky and rich. Fire, you know.
[] A stranger scent to the east, almost tangy in your nostrils. Once you've gotten a few good sniffs, the scent seems to stir a strange desire in your loins, musky and pungent as it is.
Gloria
Spoiler (click to show/hide):
You awaken with a start, the world around you at once similar and very, very different. You were in the forest when your last thoughts fled your mind, and here you are, once more among the trees. Your connection to them, to this ecosystem you know you once cherished, seems so much deeper than before, however dedicated you once were. Perhaps because you are something much different now. Your perspective among the roots of great, ancient oaks is such that you know, physically, you are lesser. Your features, now plant-like and delicate, make you look more the kin of those same oaks than the people you once tended to. You are reborn, a seed in service of the wilds you so desperately loved.
But this wild is not so isolated as you might like. You can feel, through your connection to this place, the presence of others. Those who are not nearly as in-tune with the natural world as you were or are. And as your tiny, stump-like legs carrying you down the roots of the tree which seems to have bore you, you can feel through the roots, glimpse leaves and stones and soil bits and pieces of these invaders, however plentiful they might be.
Many souls inhabit your forest, not all of them friendly, but not all of them foul. Which shall you seek?
[] Iron meets bark, earth churns under metallic invader, seeded and watered to bring new life to replace the old. Something works the land in ways foreign to you and yours.
[] Feet meet underbrush like thunder, shouts and screams scattering birds through canopies so thick as to block all the sun. The loam is soaked in rich red where they go, and they melt away in its wake, admirable in their skills. For flesh-and-bone, anyway.
[] Tittering, clutching, fearing. Something skulks the brush with all the boldness of a mouse, but none of the subtlety. A lost fawn with no doe, left to the rules of the natural world it is ill-prepared to face. A tragedy waiting to happen. Salvation yet offered.
You awaken with a start, the world around you at once similar and very, very different. You were in the forest when your last thoughts fled your mind, and here you are, once more among the trees. Your connection to them, to this ecosystem you know you once cherished, seems so much deeper than before, however dedicated you once were. Perhaps because you are something much different now. Your perspective among the roots of great, ancient oaks is such that you know, physically, you are lesser. Your features, now plant-like and delicate, make you look more the kin of those same oaks than the people you once tended to. You are reborn, a seed in service of the wilds you so desperately loved.
But this wild is not so isolated as you might like. You can feel, through your connection to this place, the presence of others. Those who are not nearly as in-tune with the natural world as you were or are. And as your tiny, stump-like legs carrying you down the roots of the tree which seems to have bore you, you can feel through the roots, glimpse leaves and stones and soil bits and pieces of these invaders, however plentiful they might be.
Many souls inhabit your forest, not all of them friendly, but not all of them foul. Which shall you seek?
[] Iron meets bark, earth churns under metallic invader, seeded and watered to bring new life to replace the old. Something works the land in ways foreign to you and yours.
[] Feet meet underbrush like thunder, shouts and screams scattering birds through canopies so thick as to block all the sun. The loam is soaked in rich red where they go, and they melt away in its wake, admirable in their skills. For flesh-and-bone, anyway.
[] Tittering, clutching, fearing. Something skulks the brush with all the boldness of a mouse, but none of the subtlety. A lost fawn with no doe, left to the rules of the natural world it is ill-prepared to face. A tragedy waiting to happen. Salvation yet offered.
