quork: A sketch of a raven, black on white. (Default)
The thing was free. "Loose" or "amok", some might say, but perspective is a fickle thing. Matters were different here, the grasping draw of the earth's bulk less oppressive. Out here the air was thin and clear and gratifyingly motile. Perhaps it was a good thing to be out of that hole. While the mountain had been a protection for some centuries, fleshy little vertebrates had wormed their way down into the thing's lair, disturbing the silence of the ages. It was not the first time they had been drawn below; the place's distinctive energy [and free flow of the same] often attracted them. This time, however, it was not a few respectful antlings, wrapped in their dried mammal-husks, here to vibrate the air and writhe about for a few short days before creeping back upwards... this time had been different. These antlings brought metal, brought sharp-smelling earthsblood, brought sand seared into crystalline tubes and bulbous shapes. These antlings itched and burned like biting insects. They had woken the thing; gotten its attention; tried, at some point, to communicate with it -- though their thoughts were too disorganized, too alogical, to succeed; only the barest shreds of equations of to them! -- and they merely irritated, an abrasion at the periphery of the thing's awareness.

And then they had come. They spoke not true language; no, their thought-ripples were as chaotic as their antecedents', but they sang against the grain of the world, etching their personalities' signatures 'cross the weft of the cosmos, and through those grooves had the thing stretched out and spread its mind to fly...

And so it flew. Things were thinning here, at the edge of the Tellurian. Fewer particulates bouncing noisily off its carapace, though that made it harder to maneuver. Ahead of it, a void; perhaps it would prove an interesting place to explore. Perhaps there could be other beings of logic to find, out here, out here where no air pattered against the brain and where no stone crowded overhead. Perhaps it would be different.
quork: A sketch of a raven, black on white. (Default)
Things was bad here; real bad. They been gittin better, though, specially since thems strangers was through here. Those ones what spoke all fancy and falutin' like they was on stage in one of Doc Strangetian's prancin' plays.

Least there weren't no worms no more. I could be fair set for the rest of my life without a goldurned worm, even a bittie one like Pa used to git the crawdads with. Not even a goldurned bittie one. Nope.

First there had been the dreams, then the screams, screams fit to chase a girl right outta her own head, shriekin' straight out an ear-hole. Or maybe the nose. I ain't rightly sure which way minds fix to leave the brainmeats, once they can't take it no more. Doc'd know. After the screams had come those flapping bits, then the worms. Then the strangers, loudest goldurned strangers you ever done heard. Some with shootin' and some with hollerin' and some what was so quiet an' dark that they mighta been just sittin' on yer shoulder an breathin' in a body's ear.

Then came the shakes, and the fires, and that was the worst time of it all, and the rain came. And things was gettin' better, by mites an' fits an' starts. I was pleased things was to be better.

We'd set up the 'apoff ick erry' like the hollery man had said, and cleared out the streets like that hatty man says to. That bird statue we done built took fair longer, but we done shipped up a bell-caster from Sandy Eggo. That man done poured bits of metal into his fires and out the other end he pulls a metal crowbird, neat as you please. We set our bird up like that bird lady said us to do. Our bird's makin' things better now. Mayhaps it's so that things couldn't get goldurned worse, may be, but we like our bird. And, you never know, maybe she's helpin' us. Our bird.

Things was bad, but they been gettin better.
quork: A sketch of a raven, black on white. (Default)
The horse was content. It ran in fields, it rolled in the dew-rich grass, and it frolicked through British copses. An idyllic life, for this horse.

It avoided the stone paths on the far sides of the hill, there. Those stone roads brought to mind places where everything was stone. No smells worth smelling, nothing to be eaten worth eating, no places to run worth running. That was a while ago.

So, too, did it avoid the deep waters in the bottom of the shallow, scooplike valley. Deep water was a source of fear. The horse did not remember why or how, just that it preferred to drink from the more shallow runnels and streams. Deep water was not good water. Deep water had precipitated a long, long run, though; out of the stone paths, to here. Here was not-stone. Here was good.


quork: A sketch of a raven, black on white. (Default)
Croárc ná Corvain

May 2012

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