Re: Mini-Grand 5105 (Round 1: Bernal Sphere Upsilon)
07-25-2011, 07:19 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan.
The Bernal Sphere was large, but then again their group were many. Raiders, thieves, children, races of incomprehensible shape and customs. There was magic and science, flying through the air, a secret blend of hot and dry, cold and wet.
It was yin and yang, not balanced, but empedoclean shapeshifting. There laid knowledge in his every step. The life he led was his, and he walked it with the flair of one who mastered it. It rooted in him. Rituals, tradition, progress, the world, the village, blocks and dust that both built lives.
His steps were his, but they belonged to something greater. Something golden. Honey that dripped steadily, with the flow of time and soul. They called it culture in days before space. Where stars were light, when the sun was god.
Caution in his moves. An intricate, neverending dance. Such fumed his being. With lines and roads and stories that took their time to become themselves again. Folklore wrapped his arms in circles, smoke drafted in the air, suffocating that which wasn't air.
Dances with the world, you are so intelligent.
Every clap, every jump, every way his sound died and refracted in the world he called his, it was prepared long ago. Treasure of the Pentecost. Divine rite of first contact. Then, he stood. Faceless and voiceless, tamed after a primitive high. A black bubble, his spring of youth.
He saw a young girl. The tiles danced around her, ticking clock that shaped her will. Azure sands, lakes that became seas. She carried an oasis in the back of her head. She had eyes in her heart alone. When those eyes met his face, the butterflies stood fast. Snakes that curled and rustled hid with Alicia. She giggled and hid.
And confusion slithered back at Miasme. He paid her no heed, this land was as young as she was. There was no need for plague.
It was then he spotted the strange creature peering at him.
Cadan was pretty sure that a god, if he was, or rather whether he was benevolent, was of no intention to have mercy on those who dared venture past the sky. Already his mind raced to come up with an excuse that probably didn't sound – that didn't sound coherent as much as it sounded apologetic. He'd feel compose (I have no idea) act lowly around the god of smoke, which he assumed to mean night, but just in case he wasn't lowly enough yet, he took a breather moment to gather his thoughts, or rather pick himself up again. Preferably behind a wall.
His tail however, thistle leaf denoting his presence.
To Miasme the Tremendous Rumble was a xenotokos. Carrier of cultures unlike his own. He drew wrong conclusions, lines in the sand, an approach that lasted no longer than the fickle wind could blow it. Multicultural tumbleweed.
Since that's apparently how they greet people here, Miasme responded to the classy lady in white down the corridor by hiding behind a wall.
The Bernal Sphere was large, but then again their group were many. Raiders, thieves, children, races of incomprehensible shape and customs. There was magic and science, flying through the air, a secret blend of hot and dry, cold and wet.
It was yin and yang, not balanced, but empedoclean shapeshifting. There laid knowledge in his every step. The life he led was his, and he walked it with the flair of one who mastered it. It rooted in him. Rituals, tradition, progress, the world, the village, blocks and dust that both built lives.
His steps were his, but they belonged to something greater. Something golden. Honey that dripped steadily, with the flow of time and soul. They called it culture in days before space. Where stars were light, when the sun was god.
Caution in his moves. An intricate, neverending dance. Such fumed his being. With lines and roads and stories that took their time to become themselves again. Folklore wrapped his arms in circles, smoke drafted in the air, suffocating that which wasn't air.
Dances with the world, you are so intelligent.
Every clap, every jump, every way his sound died and refracted in the world he called his, it was prepared long ago. Treasure of the Pentecost. Divine rite of first contact. Then, he stood. Faceless and voiceless, tamed after a primitive high. A black bubble, his spring of youth.
He saw a young girl. The tiles danced around her, ticking clock that shaped her will. Azure sands, lakes that became seas. She carried an oasis in the back of her head. She had eyes in her heart alone. When those eyes met his face, the butterflies stood fast. Snakes that curled and rustled hid with Alicia. She giggled and hid.
And confusion slithered back at Miasme. He paid her no heed, this land was as young as she was. There was no need for plague.
It was then he spotted the strange creature peering at him.
Cadan was pretty sure that a god, if he was, or rather whether he was benevolent, was of no intention to have mercy on those who dared venture past the sky. Already his mind raced to come up with an excuse that probably didn't sound – that didn't sound coherent as much as it sounded apologetic. He'd feel compose (I have no idea) act lowly around the god of smoke, which he assumed to mean night, but just in case he wasn't lowly enough yet, he took a breather moment to gather his thoughts, or rather pick himself up again. Preferably behind a wall.
His tail however, thistle leaf denoting his presence.
To Miasme the Tremendous Rumble was a xenotokos. Carrier of cultures unlike his own. He drew wrong conclusions, lines in the sand, an approach that lasted no longer than the fickle wind could blow it. Multicultural tumbleweed.
Since that's apparently how they greet people here, Miasme responded to the classy lady in white down the corridor by hiding behind a wall.
quidquid Latine dictum sit altum videtur.