Entry thread for this contest. No chatting please!
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It's been long two years. They know that.
Even if it feels like it's barely been a single day and like it's stretched on for an eternity...
But still, even now...
Even after everything's finally getting back to 'normal' for the s̶e̶c̶o̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶r̶d̶ fourth time-
They don't feel right.
They haven't for a while, not since this- all this has been going on.
The fighting. The mistrust. The betrayals. The executions. The Tragedy. The-
At least they still remember when- what it felt like to feel right.
At least they have their memories.
r̴̛͈̳̲̋͒̈́̈́͑͛̋̄̐ę̸̖͎̣̞̣͉͚̙̘̜̝͑͜ť̵̢̧̛͖̩̳̲̣̝̩̦̘̤̪̭̉̽͠͝u̵̘̓̆͋̈͌̒̂̂̓̏̾̓̍͒̕r̵̼͈̩̯̟̲̳͎̦̭̫̥̗̯̈̓͌̀́̔̀͝ͅn̴̨̜̬̞̪̱̻̼̗͍͆̇̀̂̈́̈̌͗ ̴̞̦̹̻̭̎̅͗̑́̔̓́̂͌͂̓̄ḫ̸̢̦̪͆̋͆͊̈́ơ̷̧̧̛̮͚̠̭̖͓͖͆̐͛͆̅̒̀̇̕͝m̴̢̰̳͎͉̻̰̐̾͋͆̾̿̕͜e̵̡͇̝̳̖͎̺̼̲̰͎̎͆͌̈́̀̾̉́̍͐̚͜
Their fins silently glide through the water, deeper into the depths. Silence, now, is key to survival. If you can't be silent- well then you might as well be dead.
Something screeches and they instantly freeze, claws ready, fins tensed, ears alert.
Nothing leaps out to attack them and they hover there, barely breathing, stiller than a statue.
The screech echoes out again, fainter, further away and they relax by a fraction of an hair, slipping away deeper into the depths.
The water gets murky and murkier where it used to be clear, almost crystal clear and bright. The colorful sea blooms that used to adore every inch of this area are withered, coated in a black sludge as an dark festering algae creeps between the drooping
stems.
r̸̭̦͆͐̒̅͛̄͌͝͝ẽ̶͓́̈̿̓͠t̴̠̞̼͌̒́̀́û̷̧̡͔̠̪̪̝͓̽̈̍̅̐̀͊r̸̘̦̓͂̐͛̔͊͋̄n̸̢͕͓̭͔̙̞̦̖̐̓̈́̈̎̊̑ ̶̛̛̞̤̈̌̂̽h̵̨̨͎̓̈͐͛̏͌́̋̚ó̷̧̟̭̣̿͗̒͒̚͜ḿ̸̨̨̡̧̠̺̬̗́͋͆̈͆͑̔̚e̷̘̳͈̎͘͘
They cautiously flicker their light scales, the gentle blue barely breaking through all the murk but there, ahead is the vague silhouette of the Academia.
The once proud walls of marble and shell are dark, covered in festering plants. The tall glass windows are shattered, a few pieces clinging determinedly in their frames while shards lie haphazardly across the floor. If the sun still reached down here like it once did, they'd catch the light ever so beautifully, but they lie, barely glinting by the light of the scales in the depths of dark sludgy sea grass, already too long for how little time has passed.
They check around them, to ensure they're alone. They always are but- it's necessary now.
The entrance hall is devoid of life, too empty-
the hall was always full of the hustle and bustle of students, rushing to and from, full of laughter and chatter. The students in such a hurry, dart around and over, taking leaps of flight as the attendance lady laughs, her pale gold light scales flickering in response, having long given up on managing them.
Moss of some sort has begun to sprout up on the floor, broken up by strands of slimy looking seagrass. The walls are blackening and something drips, somewhere. It's quiet in a way that feels wrong, that feels wrong here, in this place. The attendance desk sits... almost empty. A pale golden flower, of twisted petals and warping flesh that pulsates ever so slowly.
ŕ̷̰̱͍̝̃͠͝é̷̺̲͍̣̉̏t̷̝̝͖̝̜̒͆̓̕͝ṷ̷́̆̈̌̔ŗ̸̪̩̼̄n̶͖̱̥̈́ ̷̧͋͘̚h̷̗͗͑̍͆̉o̴͕̔ͅm̴̩̟̎̈́̿̆̚͜ͅȅ̵̢͖̥͌̌̕
Their tail brushes against the floor as they swim, slowly through into the hallway, wincing at the feel of the thick black sludge they made contact with.
They swim down the halls, missing how they used to walk down these halls, paws padding gently as they walk to their class, passing others in session, in rooms brightly-lit, voices full of passion talking, of enthusiasm and desire to learn, to know in the very fibre of the Academia, seeping from the halls, the classrooms, the students themselves.
They make a turn to the left and stop, memories broken by the sight before them. The roof has come down, blocking the way forward with shattered chunks of marble, dark seagrass already making its claim. The right wall is crumbling down slowly, exposing the greater sea, waters dark and murky, shadows twisting within. Even though there's just enough room for them to make it through and onwards... it's too exposed, too risky even if they still vaguely remember the layout of the Academia.
r̵̗̬̹͓̊̈́͘͜͠è̷͖̪̓̀̓͑ț̶̡̛̪̆̅̉̕ṷ̷͌͆r̵̮̈́n̷̻̊ ̶̀̈́̾̽̄͜h̸̦̝͚̜̞̾͑̾ō̴̙̅̒̌͘ͅm̷̯̺̱͛̆͂̇̐e̷̫̩̣̾̅̃̇
They take the longer way, turning down corridors dark and engulfed by plants and reclaimed by the sea and turning down corridors ruined and crumbling with a sense of urgency.
They head up the stairwell, first one, then another till they're barred by a gate, rust creeping up it from the damp but it's dry by some miracle. Please, please let my Library be.
r̵̖̂ë̴̲͖́t̴̠͖̊u̵͚͌̕r̷̬̄n̸̲̼̿̋ ̴̹̦̀̈ĥ̶̥̘́ō̸͕͝m̵̺̪̕ḛ̸̄̈́ͅ
Their key is long since lost and they ram their shoulder into the gate, once, twice and it gives, rusted bars falling apart and they swim, as fast as silence will let them.
The large oaken doors stand tall, marred by deep angry claw marks but unopen. They push the doors open to find- disappointment.
The walls drip with heavy coils of a strange plant, mingling with blackish moss, leeching damp, damp, damp and mildew. The desks are scattered across the room in pieces, thrown about... by someone. Pages, damp and curling and torn lie limp and lifeless. A light scattering of ash coats the floor by the former reference shelves, painstakingly hand carved by a former student, it's rich oak once inlaid with abalone shells now sits empty, of both books and shell. How did a Firebreather make it down here?
It's been thrown into utter disrepair, books and artifacts and writing gone, stolen, burnt, hidden- lost.
It's so far from what it used to be.
h̵̢͈͈̫̗͛̿́̈̕ǫ̴̞̥̬̌̌̑m̸̯͂̑̎͘͝e̸̤̗͗̏̓͛
The marvels of their Library are now only preserved in their memories.
Their Library is no longer the sanctum of learning it once was.
They sit, no longer minding the plants, tail falling over a broken desk.
They sit and they observe, taking it all in,
and they sit,
and they fall still, already silent
and their body does not rot as they fade
and their body warps, twisted petals of a strange fungi clawing it's way out from beneath their light scales,
they curl up and around,
slowly,
with all the time in the world,
it blooms,
into
pale blue flower,
of twisted petals
and
warping flesh
that pulsates
ever
so
slowly
___
A.N:
- for anyone confused: the character has been taken over by a fungi parasite, that is basically compelling them to return home in order to bloom
- the themes are mainly shown through change in the environment and the way the character feels and reacts to it
(Edited by QueenPeril)
(Edited by Senseless Existence)
(Picture wouldn’t load)
Silversight // NightWing // They/them // Ghost
The Fall.
A height tall enough to usually deter one away. The creaking as the machine is set up around their body. The jump, their rise, and then the panic as it fails, falls, and brings them down with it. Breaking bones. Tears in the scales, in the limbs, in the muscles. And a booming sound as the body hits the chipped rocky ground.
The Awakening.
The sweet relief that they've regained consciousness, and the swift confusion with the strange lack of the pain that most likely should have come. But it never does. Not after one minute, not after 5 of them lying with their eyes tightly shut. And only once they stretch and move to rise, but what should have been solid ground underneath tiny talons is now no more than air. And. That. Is. Not. Good. So once they look down with wide eyes and see not only their star-touched self, but also the broken body of their past mistakes, it's cemented. Well, Silversight, you are officially dead.
The Ghost.
The shock of the thought. But the proof is right there. Along with the screws and bolts of the machine. And as much as they were excited for it once before, they hate it now. It fuels their body enough for them to take their eyes away from the carnage and look at the mountain. The contemplation of the situation. That was a ridiculous way to die. They need something else to fill their mind. Instantly. So looking down, they remember that they float. Their old scars and injuries are repaired by shining stars, similar to those on the wings of their tribe. (They are swiftly reminded of an unfulfilled promise.) An attempt to move is made. Walking is nearly impossible, swimming motions are much more effective, even upward. It's not difficult to master and soon they manage to reach the edge of where they first jumped. And there?
The Newcomer.
She stares at them with twinkling eyes. They dislike her already. With her tired position and her quick assessment of them, she's not one they would usually associate themselves with. They open their mouth to shoo her away but no sound appears. And they realise the horrible sensation of the cold silence around the two of them. She only turns. They both overlook the kingdom. Vague shapes, some more faded than the others wander around, and they realise with a mixture of horror and fascination that they're a part of this now.
The Fading.
The rapid movements of her talons. Some sort of secret ghost tongue. (They still refuse to accept this reality but they might as well entertain it.) She's midway through a gesture before she seemingly remembers that they haven't yet been introduced to the club and an exasperated expression crosses over her face. They only stare at her and she makes what could have been a sigh and motions for them to follow.
The room is small. She's at the base of the stairs, tinkering with herself. She twists and turns, rays of light jumping in and out her form. A small dragonet appears. (He reminds them of someone they miss.) She makes one last attempt to twist her body and the light rays don't escape. (They are rather annoyingly reminded of their science class), and a curious look at the dragonet reveals he can see the ball of light before him. And she very gently points towards a small crevice. A shining piece of gold illuminated by her. The dragonet picks it up. The key. And she moves to twirl around him, the glow gone. Something is different. With her. They don't understand what she means but they can tell this show was for a purpose. She only floats away from them, seemingly her duty fulfilled.
The Understanding.
A flash of inspiration. Their straying mind fixed into place. It all makes sense now. They know what she meant, and what they have to do. And so they head to the busiest place they know. The prime location for simple and gullible minds. (Not somewhere they thought they'd ever have the displeasure of entering again.) The Academy.
The Action.
They are at work for days, months, years. Playing with light here, starting small licks of flame there. The younglings quickly spread the rumours. They all talk about a vengeful spirit haunting the school which won't stop until every last room is burnt down. What is the motive behind all this? It varies between stories but they find it rather entertaining. It's become interesting how invested some are in the ghost, in THEM. Their small minds haven't been at ease in a while, not since they started this fiasco. But it's for a good reason. (Self preservation. And yet, something still feels off. Dragonets.) The bright realisation they had so long ago was the reason behind the fading. Memory. And what better way to be remembered, not just by friends but by everyone? Become a legend.
The Understanding, Reprise.
(Well this is awkward.) It’s been a strange few days. The sarcastic dragoness has gone now. Faded. Maybe that was the final grain of sand that landed on the boulder that is their thought process, because there was no way that what had happened to her correlated to their idea of how the ghost realm works. Memory isn’t connected to the fading. Evidently, scaring young dragonets had done nothing. Even if the other ghosts had tried to tell them, they had never listened. Not until now. To learn more, they had watched another pale ghost who approached their dying friend, almost as a welcome, and then faded together. A promise. And they stop. To remember. What they were missing. No, who they were missing. ‘Wherever you are, I will watch over you-’
And so with a decisive blink, they turn. They haven’t had the courage to approach the house yet. Their childhood house. Guilt washes over them, both for that fact, and for their past mistakes in order to preserve their form. Inside there is a small dragonet, barely half a year old. She stares at a doll with a broken tail, whispering sweet words into its limp ear. (If only they could hear, they can’t remember what her voice sounds like, only that it’s soft.) I will watch over you. Their mouth moves with the silent sounds. It feels right. Even if they are still afraid of the fading, they will stay. For her. For their purpose. Even from here, I will protect you. And even if I’m scared of what's beyond this, I only hope I can guide you in this world.