Illarion Albireo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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deercountry2022-05-16 04:23 pm
unsheathedfromreality) wrote in deercountry2022-05-16 04:23 pm
Real & Half-Real: Chapter 2 - Nephele-That-Isn't
Who: A brave party of rescuers and their intrepid support staff
What: Pocket dimension shenanigans to save a missing Sleeper
When: Two insane days in May
Where: Nephele-that-isn’t, which isn’t Deer Country either
All at once–one day, in early May–the portal’s finished, and the planning is as near to done as it will ever be. All at once, it’s time to venture into Nephele-that-isn’t, and retrieve not one but two Sleepers who’ve gone astray.
The team assembles in the clearing by Argonaut’s abandoned shrine, in a darkness lit by glowing CRTs and the green, green moon. The portal itself, and the world beyond it, casts a light all its own–and one by one they step over that rune-etched silver threshold, and one by one vanish into another story than Trench’s own.
Like being sieved through strands of glass and fire. Like being picked apart thread by narrative thread as the Words themselves that write the universe flash before stunned eyes in the seconds before they’re erased and something worse substituted. Moments of fleeting alignment between passager and host-creator come in stopped heartbeats and empty lungs, in the memory you’ve been dead for years and the cold slide of steel between ribs.
Then that second-that's-years is over and deposits its captives beneath an alien sky, with sun and ring and stars and moons foreign as any far-flung land. Some travelers wear skins and magic to suit those stranger heavens; some have been changed by the logic of the half-world half-story to better fit its weave.
With a changed nature come changed senses and abilities–and those in the skins of shrikes, with eyes to see, may notice much more if they look.
All can see one grim fact, however, on entering the world: Any clock, any watch, any Omni now displays 48:00:00 or its analogue equivalent... And begins at once to tick down.
[[ Part of the Real & Half-Real player plot! Navigate to other plot posts: [OOC] Interest Check | [IC] Prologue | [IC] Iskierka's Notes | [IC] The Portal & the Plan ]]
What: Pocket dimension shenanigans to save a missing Sleeper
When: Two insane days in May
Where: Nephele-that-isn’t, which isn’t Deer Country either
All at once–one day, in early May–the portal’s finished, and the planning is as near to done as it will ever be. All at once, it’s time to venture into Nephele-that-isn’t, and retrieve not one but two Sleepers who’ve gone astray.
The team assembles in the clearing by Argonaut’s abandoned shrine, in a darkness lit by glowing CRTs and the green, green moon. The portal itself, and the world beyond it, casts a light all its own–and one by one they step over that rune-etched silver threshold, and one by one vanish into another story than Trench’s own.
Like being sieved through strands of glass and fire. Like being picked apart thread by narrative thread as the Words themselves that write the universe flash before stunned eyes in the seconds before they’re erased and something worse substituted. Moments of fleeting alignment between passager and host-creator come in stopped heartbeats and empty lungs, in the memory you’ve been dead for years and the cold slide of steel between ribs.
Then that second-that's-years is over and deposits its captives beneath an alien sky, with sun and ring and stars and moons foreign as any far-flung land. Some travelers wear skins and magic to suit those stranger heavens; some have been changed by the logic of the half-world half-story to better fit its weave.
With a changed nature come changed senses and abilities–and those in the skins of shrikes, with eyes to see, may notice much more if they look.
All can see one grim fact, however, on entering the world: Any clock, any watch, any Omni now displays 48:00:00 or its analogue equivalent... And begins at once to tick down.
[[ Part of the Real & Half-Real player plot! Navigate to other plot posts: [OOC] Interest Check | [IC] Prologue | [IC] Iskierka's Notes | [IC] The Portal & the Plan ]]
no subject
Not these demons, anyway, and not in Nephele-that-Isn't; and Augustin's experience with demons is
different, and sometimes worse, and sometimes betterthankfully limited, as any sane wood elf would limit his exposure to such creatures — even in a life spanning so many millennia — as much as he can."One last thing," Ize's ancient uncle says absently, over his shoulder, just before he'd definitely have to raise his voice to be heard over the clamor they're approaching. "Whatever you do, don't let them touch you, after you kill them. They'll be every bit as happy to wear your skin as those poor animals' — or more, perhaps."
A faint movement of his shoulders may be meant to indicate a shrug.
"Not that I suppose you'll care much more, if you do."
And with that confidence boost of a pep talk, he pushes on that last little way — leaving them at the edge of chaos, and battle, and mayhem, and doom: and all of these overseen by the eye-searing, impossible form of the angel, phlegmatically observing it all without movement or interference in the slightest detail — even when those demons fall, or falter, to try to trick a foe closer in the fight, that they, too, might be forced to Fall —
"God damn, I hate these things," Augustin might be heard to mutter, sounding resigned and philosophical about it, if anyone's kept up closely enough — perhaps to realize he's the reason no small number of these demonic-beasts falter, foundering on shattering limbs, in some cases just before their blows might land on the arms (or armaments) of the intrepid rescue party's members; perhaps not, as Augustin's gaze sharpens (like a gyrfalcon ready to stoop for its prey) on that Angel.
"You," he hisses, with a fury that brings to mind a snake ready to strike, perhaps, more than something raptorial.
And he stalks across the battle in the clearing, apparently careless of the danger, sending friends and foes alike flying out of his path (although those who are not born of a decaying Court-gift will find, at least, that they can keep their feet underneath them, and whole and attached besides) to stare at it, as face-to-face as could be most charitably defined. "You utter bastard, to think you could claim a bind on him —"
(The angel does not seem inclined to interrupt his tirade, as yet — no more than it was inclined to interrupt the slaughter of the innocent-turned-corrupt animals, at the hand and command of this young Prince and his apparent Court.)
By the time the last demonically-possessed animal falls, Augustin is barely more than an arm's length away from the angel, and the air around them is ice-cold and vibrating with a heat-shimmer, all at the same time.
"You are in my way, you — you freezer-burned, tinfoil-wrapped, mystery-meat nuclear harbinger!" Would it have been, had he chosen any other approach toward that tree? (Too late to say, now.)
Now, at last, he draws his blade — his blades, rather, two swords like brothers, one larger, one smaller — and stands before the Angel, unflinching, a ready threat.
"Open that tree and get him out here, this instant," he orders, in a voice
(but alas, not a Voice)that Will Not brook disobedience. "And don't try to deflect me, either — I have rights!"no subject
That is to say: hardly a physical fighter.
Swatting at the creatures with his staff, it was all that he could do to keep them at bay. Hanging in the wake of the elf whose plumage reminded of snow-capped mountain tops, where the reach of the creatures faltered, was the safest bet. However--
There was no following him when he approached the angel with a fury that was on par with a force of nature.
On instinct, Oscar-as-Sweetroll sought out cover and laid in wait... watching, listening. His role was in information, not in combat.
Something might still be gained from all of this.
no subject
From a distance, they rise over the treetops like smoke.