Re: Mini-Grand 5106 [Round 2: The Graben]
09-06-2011, 07:00 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by XX.
this is the day that a ghost became queen.
she does not mind the cats that come to see her or the kittens that sit on her back. she does not mind that her legs are draped in beads and her head is dressed in paint, black white blue but mostly red, red red red all over the white ghost. the den of cats in the green trees is quiet as a ghost, the cats wear red as well little cats, quiet cats on quiet paws. silent cats Silent cats these cats are hers, these cats belong to a ghost.
their kittens cry that she is a sign, good sign good spider very good spider Spider sends them good things in their forest of green and brown and not-white. but her forests are white, she tells the cats, and they all laugh. the queen of ghosts is puzzled but they tell her not to worry, she is safe so safe in their nests in their forests in their trees. they will kill all her enemies and tear them apart and the Spider will lead them to victory. the ghost does not need fear doesn’t fear at all she tells them. there is no fear in silence and the cats just laugh
she is not a Spider, this ghost, but silence is all she knows, all she knows, all she’ll ever know
_________
Morokh of the Tribe of the Red Spider held his spear lightly in his hand as he stalked the undergrowth, keeping his ears trained for any sound of singing. The White Spider had told them that the singers weren’t dangerous, even going so far as to call them mice, but he preferred to be cautious. The sharp chunk of obsidian bound to his spear had ended the lives of seasoned warriors; surely it would be enough for the feeble creatures the Spider spoke of.
The sound of the river grew in strength as he approached it, a dull roaring that drowned out the birdcalls and rustling of the forest. He’d lived with it all his life and knew better than to stop and listen, yet somehow he heard it calling out to him through the tangled foliage. As always, it seemed to almost form a voice that whispered to him of unlimited potential, unending youth, an eternity of glory and… a book?
Morokh frowned. That couldn’t be right. Slowly he crept forward, obsidian spearhead parting the leaves with quick jabs. The jungle was full of illusions, but this particular one seemed out of place. The river’s roar filled his ears as he slunk through the undergrowth, careful not to create any more sound than was necessary as he crept past the riverbank. The strange voice grew louder and louder as he went until he was able to tell it apart from the rushing water. It was masculine, of indeterminate age, and it sounded rather upset.
“…All of them. I suppose it’s only a matter of time until one of them comes back and does me in…”
The warrior froze. The speaker’s accent was strange, and not of his village or the heathens that lived across the river. Outsiders in the jungle were rarely a good thing; granted, the last stranger that had come into the forest had been a manifestation of his god, but that didn’t mean that they were all so fortuitous. This man could very well be an ally of his enemies or any of a hundred other dangers.
Erring on the side of caution, Morokh sprang through the undergrowth with spear ready for casting, landing gracefully at the mouth of a muddy-looking cave. A pair of startled eyes stared back at him, hidden behind queer transparent things that wrapped around a mussed head of pale hair. Their owner was dressed in strange clothing that seemed completely impractical for traveling through the jungle. He blinked at the obsidian blade leveled squarely at his face.
“Stranger,” Morokh said, “Are you a friend of the Spider?”
this is the day that a ghost became queen.
she does not mind the cats that come to see her or the kittens that sit on her back. she does not mind that her legs are draped in beads and her head is dressed in paint, black white blue but mostly red, red red red all over the white ghost. the den of cats in the green trees is quiet as a ghost, the cats wear red as well little cats, quiet cats on quiet paws. silent cats Silent cats these cats are hers, these cats belong to a ghost.
their kittens cry that she is a sign, good sign good spider very good spider Spider sends them good things in their forest of green and brown and not-white. but her forests are white, she tells the cats, and they all laugh. the queen of ghosts is puzzled but they tell her not to worry, she is safe so safe in their nests in their forests in their trees. they will kill all her enemies and tear them apart and the Spider will lead them to victory. the ghost does not need fear doesn’t fear at all she tells them. there is no fear in silence and the cats just laugh
she is not a Spider, this ghost, but silence is all she knows, all she knows, all she’ll ever know
_________
Morokh of the Tribe of the Red Spider held his spear lightly in his hand as he stalked the undergrowth, keeping his ears trained for any sound of singing. The White Spider had told them that the singers weren’t dangerous, even going so far as to call them mice, but he preferred to be cautious. The sharp chunk of obsidian bound to his spear had ended the lives of seasoned warriors; surely it would be enough for the feeble creatures the Spider spoke of.
The sound of the river grew in strength as he approached it, a dull roaring that drowned out the birdcalls and rustling of the forest. He’d lived with it all his life and knew better than to stop and listen, yet somehow he heard it calling out to him through the tangled foliage. As always, it seemed to almost form a voice that whispered to him of unlimited potential, unending youth, an eternity of glory and… a book?
Morokh frowned. That couldn’t be right. Slowly he crept forward, obsidian spearhead parting the leaves with quick jabs. The jungle was full of illusions, but this particular one seemed out of place. The river’s roar filled his ears as he slunk through the undergrowth, careful not to create any more sound than was necessary as he crept past the riverbank. The strange voice grew louder and louder as he went until he was able to tell it apart from the rushing water. It was masculine, of indeterminate age, and it sounded rather upset.
“…All of them. I suppose it’s only a matter of time until one of them comes back and does me in…”
The warrior froze. The speaker’s accent was strange, and not of his village or the heathens that lived across the river. Outsiders in the jungle were rarely a good thing; granted, the last stranger that had come into the forest had been a manifestation of his god, but that didn’t mean that they were all so fortuitous. This man could very well be an ally of his enemies or any of a hundred other dangers.
Erring on the side of caution, Morokh sprang through the undergrowth with spear ready for casting, landing gracefully at the mouth of a muddy-looking cave. A pair of startled eyes stared back at him, hidden behind queer transparent things that wrapped around a mussed head of pale hair. Their owner was dressed in strange clothing that seemed completely impractical for traveling through the jungle. He blinked at the obsidian blade leveled squarely at his face.
“Stranger,” Morokh said, “Are you a friend of the Spider?”