( ensconced deep within the labyrinthine tangle of immense roots at the base of the Tree of Life, all is still and quiet. the air is just as thick and heavy with cool damp as it is with the gloom that fills the caverns as if they were submerged in it. but for the very first that arrived from horos — among which makoto had briefly been included — all Shard-Bearers find their way into the world at the end of all worlds here. they scratch and claw and emerge to cling to life as a drowning man would any piece of suitable flotsam, or perhaps at the expense of another poor soul lost to the heartless waves. for some time, if one was to travel beneath the Tree and search the tunnels, there is nothing to indicate that any new life has come to join them.
that changes rather abruptly.
after taking a sharp turn, scene of fresh activity becomes apparent, eerie in its contrast against the dark quiet. in between two roots, a wound opens in the earth; it has been rent with all the frenzied violence of a rat scratching and gnawing its way through the gut of a medieval torture victim as it tried in desperation to escape the flames that licked at its tail. the subject of this emergence is not immediately visible. instead, there are tracks within the soft soil, seemingly staggering in exaggerated zig-zag further down the tunnel — it seems that their instincts on which way led out of this place weren't strong enough to divine the correct direction.
the tracks don't lead very far. soon enough, they disappear, and it might lead one to cast their gaze around in the low light to try to figure out where the new Shard-Bearer managed to have gone. but it's just around this time that a voice preempts that confusion, cutting through the silence with all the precise severity of a thrown dagger, ) Well, it took you long enough.
( a familiar voice, though one worn thin with exhaustion.
the body tucked into the shadowed fossa tucked into a curling root looks for all the world like a corpse, given the deathly pallor of the skin, streaked with grit and dirt. the Tree of Life did not decide to grace him with clothing, but it's not as though makoto spares even a partial thought for modesty — this having been said, it's fortunate for his rescuer's sensibilities that he's crumpled in such a way with one ankle crossed over the opposite knee that he's not immediately scandalizing him. the demon rakes his fingers through the birds' nest that his emergence here has made of his hair, trying in vain to bring order to the chaos. he stares out at who has come across him, but he can't see many details in the gloom.
not that it mattered. he can already tell by the silhouette that it's not J, nor any other demon that he might recognize. in his exhaustion, his mind and his memories dull and leaden and indistinct, it means their only use is to (hopefully) get him out of here.
he heaves a dramatized sigh before he continues, ) I was beginning to think I'd wither away down here before I even got the chance to see where the hell I've ended up this time.
for dextera | late pelu | tree of life
that changes rather abruptly.
after taking a sharp turn, scene of fresh activity becomes apparent, eerie in its contrast against the dark quiet. in between two roots, a wound opens in the earth; it has been rent with all the frenzied violence of a rat scratching and gnawing its way through the gut of a medieval torture victim as it tried in desperation to escape the flames that licked at its tail. the subject of this emergence is not immediately visible. instead, there are tracks within the soft soil, seemingly staggering in exaggerated zig-zag further down the tunnel — it seems that their instincts on which way led out of this place weren't strong enough to divine the correct direction.
the tracks don't lead very far. soon enough, they disappear, and it might lead one to cast their gaze around in the low light to try to figure out where the new Shard-Bearer managed to have gone. but it's just around this time that a voice preempts that confusion, cutting through the silence with all the precise severity of a thrown dagger, ) Well, it took you long enough.
( a familiar voice, though one worn thin with exhaustion.
the body tucked into the shadowed fossa tucked into a curling root looks for all the world like a corpse, given the deathly pallor of the skin, streaked with grit and dirt. the Tree of Life did not decide to grace him with clothing, but it's not as though makoto spares even a partial thought for modesty — this having been said, it's fortunate for his rescuer's sensibilities that he's crumpled in such a way with one ankle crossed over the opposite knee that he's not immediately scandalizing him. the demon rakes his fingers through the birds' nest that his emergence here has made of his hair, trying in vain to bring order to the chaos. he stares out at who has come across him, but he can't see many details in the gloom.
not that it mattered. he can already tell by the silhouette that it's not J, nor any other demon that he might recognize. in his exhaustion, his mind and his memories dull and leaden and indistinct, it means their only use is to (hopefully) get him out of here.
he heaves a dramatized sigh before he continues, ) I was beginning to think I'd wither away down here before I even got the chance to see where the hell I've ended up this time.