Illarion Albireo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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deercountry2022-03-02 01:14 am
unsheathedfromreality) wrote in deercountry2022-03-02 01:14 am
Entry tags:
Real & Half-Real: Prologue | closed to Sayo
Who: Illarion Albireo and Sayo Yasuda
What: Attempting to heist their way out of the horse plinko dimension. It doesn't exactly work.
When: ~Feb 25 - early March
Where: Illarion's pocket dimension time-out corner
cw: Wartime imagery, potentially gore, potentially trauma, eventual murder.
Somewhere, Illarion is written out of reality.
In another place, he is written back into it, and someone else with him. He's much as he left--corrupted, soaked, a feathered horror in gold and fuligin and dawn-pink--though by the time he's staggered a step and gone to a knee the eyes andeyes and feathers are gone to leave behind the much-diminished elf. Complete dislocation from the icy shallows (the shattering grief) of the Pthumerian Sea hits him with all the crushing weight of shock, eradicating thought, eradicating feeling. They are not where they had been.
Some slow instinct finally stirs him to determine where they are. He tips his head back and stares at a sky he can't see. One moon's setting, another's rising, and the planetary ring that braids between them catches the light of the distant sun. The stars are too close, too blue, the largest of them haloed in ephemeral lines of force. A thin high spire of a mountain rises somewhere behind him, its base lapped by the shallow waves of a warm sea. Something about it demands attention; something about it speaks significance.
Noise begins to filter through. The omnipresent rattle of gunfire and the screams of men and horses rend the evening air, too much and too close.
It isn't these he recognizes--he can't--but a feeling beneath his breastbone, a glow of reciprocated devotion that's turned to magic. It is a miracle that should have died with his dead Prince.
It is the potency to protect through more ways than violence. He blinks once, thought restarting, and turns toward Sayo. "Are you injured?"
What: Attempting to heist their way out of the horse plinko dimension. It doesn't exactly work.
When: ~Feb 25 - early March
Where: Illarion's pocket dimension time-out corner
cw: Wartime imagery, potentially gore, potentially trauma, eventual murder.
Somewhere, Illarion is written out of reality.
In another place, he is written back into it, and someone else with him. He's much as he left--corrupted, soaked, a feathered horror in gold and fuligin and dawn-pink--though by the time he's staggered a step and gone to a knee the eyes and
Some slow instinct finally stirs him to determine where they are. He tips his head back and stares at a sky he can't see. One moon's setting, another's rising, and the planetary ring that braids between them catches the light of the distant sun. The stars are too close, too blue, the largest of them haloed in ephemeral lines of force. A thin high spire of a mountain rises somewhere behind him, its base lapped by the shallow waves of a warm sea. Something about it demands attention; something about it speaks significance.
Noise begins to filter through. The omnipresent rattle of gunfire and the screams of men and horses rend the evening air, too much and too close.
It isn't these he recognizes--he can't--but a feeling beneath his breastbone, a glow of reciprocated devotion that's turned to magic. It is a miracle that should have died with his dead Prince.
It is the potency to protect through more ways than violence. He blinks once, thought restarting, and turns toward Sayo. "Are you injured?"