Post by Motoya Kizuki on Apr 3, 2016 18:30:40 GMT -5
5:54 P.M - An uncharted island on the Coela Coast – Thursday.
This would never get old. Flying without a plane, through sheer force of will. He barely flapped his wings on these coastal breezes. He could glide, feel his wings swell up like sails and savor them carrying him. He left practice early today for this. Well, not just this. Hushed whispers were the real cause of his visit to the coasts, families of digimon (they even have families, that’s novel) have been getting more and more worried as the days went on as some never made it back home. They all had one thing in common: they had all made a beach trip recently and liked the sand and sea a little too much. He heard that most of them were young, although how do you tell age in digimon? He didn’t really get that concept yet. There was a lot he was curious about, but more importantly this was a mystery of missing perso-Digimon. Plus, the look in their eyes when he said he helped. It made the sunset at his back feel warmer.
The sight that seemed to instantaneously appear before his eyes sent that warm feeling cold. It wasn’t a terribly awful sight, but just something about it. He angled himself down, clumsily at first but slowly getting the hang of it as he righted himself to touch bare feet on to muted green grass. That was one way to describe the scene, everything was muted, like it was covered in dust. It was cold. Not even just that it was empty. You can move your arm and feel the wind you create. That breeze from the ocean was gone. And so was any ability to make wind….alright, this was strange but not really the strangest thing he’d seen. They could have swam this way from the shore, gotten scared, and hunkered down somewhere. He put his bangled hands to cup around his mouth and started yelling for them. But no sound came.
No wind. No sound. But he could steal breath. This day just kept getting stranger and stranger. And made his job harder. Time for the door to door approach, he surmised. It looked like some discarded playground, with the hull of some derelict ship rising from the sand. Scattered about were some busted instruments: mostly drums and horns. They were very worn, well loved most likely. Why would he think that? His head was getting fuzzy as his toes dragged through the stiff grass towards the center of the island. Up ahead were tee-pees, he’d read about native culture before, but these seemed artificial. Something you’d see in a children’s museum. There was a fire pit between them, full of ash and none of it new. They…they couldn’t have gone through here. Nothing looked to be disturbed. He looked behind him. There were no bent blades in the grass. He looked further back, and there were no footprints in the sand.
This was not right. He first thought it strange. This was unnatural, even in a world he first thought was unnatural. He had to leave. He forced his wings down, but he couldn’t fly. His wings went heavy and limp; his bangles felt like training weights, then boat anchors.
“Selfish, selfish, selfish boy,” lulled the tune. Each word a different voice, each voice from a different tee-pee. It began to be accompanied by drums. Slow, tribal beats that sounded against his pulse, trying to drown it out. “Treats the people like his toys.” Those words, over and over. Beyond the muted color, a small cove began to emerge, a cave in its center. It sauntered out, boots walking on nothing as the grass peeled away to let it through. In white gloved hands it spun knives around and around, clashing them together to create a counter beat. From them, as it came closer, flew a spark into the fire pit and materialized an unsaturated fire. The only source of color was it. Emerald greens, golden yellow, crimson red. The fire parted, it stepped beyond and stood over him. The weight had grown with every step and forced the small cherub down.
“You want to be like that, yes? A king?” It was colder than everything else. The sunless sky, the steely grass. They were cold. This…this was absolute zero. It stopped all. Motoya couldn’t think. He could muster no strength. “No…no,” he crowed. “You fancy yourself one already, don’t you? Sorely mistaken, chum. I’m the king here. I control this. I control you. How does that make you feel? To feel all your little mistakes weigh down the child perfectionist? You can’t bring yourself to be selfless, you couldn’t save the digimon that were lost here. You failed.”
Motoya could feel a little bit of strength as the fairy continued to speak. He started to chuckle, slowly melting the cold that had creeped over him. The drums died down and he took a breath. Oh, this little game. “Th-That’s where you made your mistake,” he rasped. His throat felt like it had been dry for hundreds of years. “I don’t make…mistakes. I haven’t finished yet.” He had to go over every word carefully, the laugh had already worn him down.
“You have power in your world. But you mistake my territory as your domain. I’ll have none of that.” He slowly crawled to knees, wings outstretched to the fairy. All it took was a small brush of the feather and it began to bleed color. Grey turned to vibrant white angel wings and raiment. His locks returned to their golden hue. His markings turned to royal purple. The fairy’s eyes went wide, horrified. Where did his crown go? Poor Fairy King, scared of the angel that clipped his wings. “You must steal your power. But you are strong. I could use you. We could create something great. Or I will. When I’m done with you.” He was on his feet now. He ascended slowly, feathers glowing and arms outstretched. His glory began to wash away this child’s plaything of a world.
“Angel Rain.” The shower commenced and a small whisper of doubt that was the Fairy King was silenced.
Motoya, returned to his human form, awoke in a cave littered with small digimon, slowly awaking from a long nap. In his arms was an…egg. Forest-like green wrapped in a scarlet feather.
Now…how do I use this thing?
This would never get old. Flying without a plane, through sheer force of will. He barely flapped his wings on these coastal breezes. He could glide, feel his wings swell up like sails and savor them carrying him. He left practice early today for this. Well, not just this. Hushed whispers were the real cause of his visit to the coasts, families of digimon (they even have families, that’s novel) have been getting more and more worried as the days went on as some never made it back home. They all had one thing in common: they had all made a beach trip recently and liked the sand and sea a little too much. He heard that most of them were young, although how do you tell age in digimon? He didn’t really get that concept yet. There was a lot he was curious about, but more importantly this was a mystery of missing perso-Digimon. Plus, the look in their eyes when he said he helped. It made the sunset at his back feel warmer.
The sight that seemed to instantaneously appear before his eyes sent that warm feeling cold. It wasn’t a terribly awful sight, but just something about it. He angled himself down, clumsily at first but slowly getting the hang of it as he righted himself to touch bare feet on to muted green grass. That was one way to describe the scene, everything was muted, like it was covered in dust. It was cold. Not even just that it was empty. You can move your arm and feel the wind you create. That breeze from the ocean was gone. And so was any ability to make wind….alright, this was strange but not really the strangest thing he’d seen. They could have swam this way from the shore, gotten scared, and hunkered down somewhere. He put his bangled hands to cup around his mouth and started yelling for them. But no sound came.
No wind. No sound. But he could steal breath. This day just kept getting stranger and stranger. And made his job harder. Time for the door to door approach, he surmised. It looked like some discarded playground, with the hull of some derelict ship rising from the sand. Scattered about were some busted instruments: mostly drums and horns. They were very worn, well loved most likely. Why would he think that? His head was getting fuzzy as his toes dragged through the stiff grass towards the center of the island. Up ahead were tee-pees, he’d read about native culture before, but these seemed artificial. Something you’d see in a children’s museum. There was a fire pit between them, full of ash and none of it new. They…they couldn’t have gone through here. Nothing looked to be disturbed. He looked behind him. There were no bent blades in the grass. He looked further back, and there were no footprints in the sand.
This was not right. He first thought it strange. This was unnatural, even in a world he first thought was unnatural. He had to leave. He forced his wings down, but he couldn’t fly. His wings went heavy and limp; his bangles felt like training weights, then boat anchors.
“Selfish, selfish, selfish boy,” lulled the tune. Each word a different voice, each voice from a different tee-pee. It began to be accompanied by drums. Slow, tribal beats that sounded against his pulse, trying to drown it out. “Treats the people like his toys.” Those words, over and over. Beyond the muted color, a small cove began to emerge, a cave in its center. It sauntered out, boots walking on nothing as the grass peeled away to let it through. In white gloved hands it spun knives around and around, clashing them together to create a counter beat. From them, as it came closer, flew a spark into the fire pit and materialized an unsaturated fire. The only source of color was it. Emerald greens, golden yellow, crimson red. The fire parted, it stepped beyond and stood over him. The weight had grown with every step and forced the small cherub down.
“You want to be like that, yes? A king?” It was colder than everything else. The sunless sky, the steely grass. They were cold. This…this was absolute zero. It stopped all. Motoya couldn’t think. He could muster no strength. “No…no,” he crowed. “You fancy yourself one already, don’t you? Sorely mistaken, chum. I’m the king here. I control this. I control you. How does that make you feel? To feel all your little mistakes weigh down the child perfectionist? You can’t bring yourself to be selfless, you couldn’t save the digimon that were lost here. You failed.”
Motoya could feel a little bit of strength as the fairy continued to speak. He started to chuckle, slowly melting the cold that had creeped over him. The drums died down and he took a breath. Oh, this little game. “Th-That’s where you made your mistake,” he rasped. His throat felt like it had been dry for hundreds of years. “I don’t make…mistakes. I haven’t finished yet.” He had to go over every word carefully, the laugh had already worn him down.
“You have power in your world. But you mistake my territory as your domain. I’ll have none of that.” He slowly crawled to knees, wings outstretched to the fairy. All it took was a small brush of the feather and it began to bleed color. Grey turned to vibrant white angel wings and raiment. His locks returned to their golden hue. His markings turned to royal purple. The fairy’s eyes went wide, horrified. Where did his crown go? Poor Fairy King, scared of the angel that clipped his wings. “You must steal your power. But you are strong. I could use you. We could create something great. Or I will. When I’m done with you.” He was on his feet now. He ascended slowly, feathers glowing and arms outstretched. His glory began to wash away this child’s plaything of a world.
“Angel Rain.” The shower commenced and a small whisper of doubt that was the Fairy King was silenced.
Motoya, returned to his human form, awoke in a cave littered with small digimon, slowly awaking from a long nap. In his arms was an…egg. Forest-like green wrapped in a scarlet feather.
Now…how do I use this thing?
