03-21-2017, 05:31 PM
Makoto opened his eyes, only to involuntarily shut them again in a vain attempt to shield his corneas from the searing, oppressive white that assaulted him from every which way.
When he gathered the strength to open them again, and when had his eyelids gotten so heavy?, a marble statue of a beautiful woman greeted him. Clear, shimmering water cascaded from a jug wrapped in a masterfully carved embrace, collecting into a pool purer than he'd ever seen.
It was a fountain. No, it was The Fountain. He must have died. How? No idea. The clearest memory he could muster was that of a falling airplane. What was he doing on that thing again? It must've been him helping someone, that's going to get him killed someday.
Actually, it has. More than once, he begrudgingly conceded to himself.
The teen chose a random direction and started walking away from the only recognizable landmark in what he'd now realized was a sea of grey, not white. His eyes had just been too sensitive that time. It couldn't possibly get him any more lost than he already was.
He was lost.
The bluenette had walked for what must have been hours, made all the more unbearable by the utter blankness suffocating the place. His aimless wandering only came to an end when he'd spotted several large stones, roughly cut and sloppily piled on top of one another, in the center was what could only be described as a gate, a rectangular frame hewn out of cobblestone surrounding a window into another world, one thankfully filled with color.
That was more than three hours ago, and while he'd been thankful for the scenic route, cotton white clouds floating lazily above a canopy of greens and browns, broken only by the grey of the paved road he's been following ever since, too much of something can be just as boring as too little.
His salvation came in the form of a wooden beam jutting out of the ground to one side of the well used road, the faded paint on the single rickety sign hanging off of it read "West Aberdeen."
People! A farming community, if those tilled fields by that river were anything to go by. Maybe they had some food to spare? Farmers were supposed to be generous, yeah?
All that thinking about food reminded his stomach that it was really quite empty, and his feet that they'd been walking nonstop for more than a few hours.
It was on sore legs and a growling stomach that he stumbled into a facsimile of a village, thatched homes surrounding a central square, in which a great deal of shouting was taking place.
He just couldn't talk a break, could he?
A vague sound of sorrow floated up from his abdomen.
When he gathered the strength to open them again, and when had his eyelids gotten so heavy?, a marble statue of a beautiful woman greeted him. Clear, shimmering water cascaded from a jug wrapped in a masterfully carved embrace, collecting into a pool purer than he'd ever seen.
It was a fountain. No, it was The Fountain. He must have died. How? No idea. The clearest memory he could muster was that of a falling airplane. What was he doing on that thing again? It must've been him helping someone, that's going to get him killed someday.
Actually, it has. More than once, he begrudgingly conceded to himself.
The teen chose a random direction and started walking away from the only recognizable landmark in what he'd now realized was a sea of grey, not white. His eyes had just been too sensitive that time. It couldn't possibly get him any more lost than he already was.
___________
He was lost.
The bluenette had walked for what must have been hours, made all the more unbearable by the utter blankness suffocating the place. His aimless wandering only came to an end when he'd spotted several large stones, roughly cut and sloppily piled on top of one another, in the center was what could only be described as a gate, a rectangular frame hewn out of cobblestone surrounding a window into another world, one thankfully filled with color.
That was more than three hours ago, and while he'd been thankful for the scenic route, cotton white clouds floating lazily above a canopy of greens and browns, broken only by the grey of the paved road he's been following ever since, too much of something can be just as boring as too little.
His salvation came in the form of a wooden beam jutting out of the ground to one side of the well used road, the faded paint on the single rickety sign hanging off of it read "West Aberdeen."
People! A farming community, if those tilled fields by that river were anything to go by. Maybe they had some food to spare? Farmers were supposed to be generous, yeah?
All that thinking about food reminded his stomach that it was really quite empty, and his feet that they'd been walking nonstop for more than a few hours.
It was on sore legs and a growling stomach that he stumbled into a facsimile of a village, thatched homes surrounding a central square, in which a great deal of shouting was taking place.
He just couldn't talk a break, could he?
A vague sound of sorrow floated up from his abdomen.