An Unassuming Archive | The Walking Lands

[Hiccup392 724]

“This wasn’t what I meant, all those times I pleaded for a different life."

 

[Date Unknown]

 

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- Prologue -

“Sorrel.” An echoing statement, one that had been meant as a warning. The name of that only witness, that dear friend who had already put up with so much. Sorrel. The last utterance he’d heard, before nothing.

 

 

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 - Act I: Awakening -

Had it been only minutes since that disappearance? Had it been hours, days, if not longer? Awakening hadn’t been easy, in fact the elf wasn’t so convinced she was awake, as if kept in stasis by a horrific nightmare. An experiment gone awry, or a strained soul finally weighed down ‘pon until it shattered? Unbound emotion wracked her form, switching between shades of confusion and anger. Where was she? Where was he? Though without Sorrel, the unknown would have to be her savior - or her demise. With a low prayer to a deceased, nigh-forgotten Aengul, time had come to writhe out from beside a chipped wall of… keratin and move forth.

 

‘Unity is Salvation,

Salvation is our Liturgy’

 

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- Act II: Exploration -

Setting out had produced a realm formed of… FEET? An unending expanse of flesh laid beneath her own, the ground rumbling beneath steps of titanic legs, legs lacking a body - each seemingly a different size, as if they forwent a fated pair. Of varying colors, some were marred with scars with others unblemished, some bore additional digits or growths, and some seemed to limp or trip over one another. A stench so strong to rival that of the Hells permeated her nostrils, flared as each passing moment a battle to breathe was fought. The malodor was inescapable, clinging to that woman no matter how many attempts were made to wash it off with what few supplies were brought.

 

Beneath an egregious, natural affront, that wanderer sought a place to rest - sanctity under something of a ‘tree’ brimming with fungi. A lilted tongue swore to the Heavens and back at that predicament, as a divine meal of crusty bread toasted over summoned flame was drummed up, and washed down with a flask of lukewarm whiskey. A rotten miasma of fungi-spores rained down from the perturbing canopy every so often, peppering a drawn cloak as if a light snow sent only to taunt. Entertainment was found in the form of reading the same book, over and over again. How many times could one read Potions and Paramours volume 6? Too many. Able to recite the story within her mind after the fifteenth or sixteenth pass, it accompanied her during the most perilous of times whilst traveling.

 

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- Act III: Survival -

Thump | Th-wump

Light thumping echoed around that makeshift campsite within what one may only assume to be the late hours of the night. | Thump | Again, yet it wasn’t that tired still-beating heart of hers. Nay, though she checked thrice to be sure of it, as that thumping grew louder. What had turned to heavier thudding, it soon came to resemble… Hopping. Something was hopping towards the woman, and quickly. What else was in this realm, but feet? A foot it was, attached to the end of a towering leg - far past the cap of the fungus did it stretch. 

 

Upon encroachment, seconds seemed to drag on as minutes before that extremity suddenly pushed itself into the sky, aiming to crash down atop that of the camp. With an earth-shaking | BOOM |, a mass wave of spores had been ejected before a sickening crunch remained in place of those ‘shrooms. Where Leithril once was, only an indent left behind - the disgruntled witch having shifted into the distance rather than joining that ejection. Handy in the moment, though not a repeatable feat in a dazed state - onset by the sudden act. Instead of propelling itself upwards, the limb appeared to ‘bend’ at the knee, and swing a wild quick forth. One that would connect, the nail tearing into an unarmored form, before she was flung into a mass of fleshy shin hills. 

 

The foot had begun to hop its way over once more, thus the disheveled figure desperately scrambled upright in attempts to flee. Slowed from a few disruptive injuries, there was hardly a reason to attempt to fight the behemoth. Ducking between flesh-formed hills and stumbling through forests of fungi, escape was harrowing at the moment. Every so often a thud could be heard, urging her to push on without what rest she could bear.

 

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- Act IIII: Escape -

Exhaustion overtook the Elverhilin, tears framing crimson cheeks as effort was finally expended in self-pity over self-preservation. With no witnesses, humility was hardly a concern. She had no guide here, no Ilphar, no Oijin, no Richard, nor that strange pallid cave-elf. All that remained was autonomous flesh - and that wasn’t reliable, nor was it good company. Running would only carry Leithril so far with everything appearing similar, avoiding feet here and legs there as a cacophony of squelching rang out with every step. 

 

Time, time, it all revolved around time. How long had the mali’ame been stuck sneaking past extremities? How much longer could she keep it up? A soldier's stride carried that poor woman onwards, left only with her thoughts - thoughts of the immensely disturbing scenario at-hand. Moz’strimoza at least had meaning, usage as the Hells - the home to demons and devils alike, the summoning point for horrific chitinous creatures. What was the point of a realm filled with dirtied FEET?

 

Mindless travel was halted abruptly, no sooner had a blurred gaze lifted before Leithril tripped over a hard surface. Yellowed, thickened, outlined in a flaking crust, it was another raised collection of keratins. The upper edge of the NAIL was chipped and jagged, but it seemed to… move with that impact. Disembodied, as any other amalgamation on this land, it seemed connected to a protruding toe that wriggled; akin to lapping shores of an ocean.

 

Desperation reigned over disgust in the moment, as an unusual air surrounded this display. A frayed sandal met the surface of the nail, prodding it to test how much give it had. More than it should, she soon found, with a racing mind. Crawling skin onset as a possibility was made known, the longer she observed that scene. Within hand came a flash of brilliant amber - followed as a weapon seemed to drag itself out of the mist. A long-bladed polearm, glistening beneath what light was allowed within that realm. Amber hues continued to coalesce as Leithril found focus, wrapping over the shaft of that weapon and up towards the blade. Perseverance met flesh in one horrifying, angled swing, where the blade was forced through that nail with an adrenaline-induced frenzy of flame. Writhing, that toe continued to move despite the cleaving. Was it capable of feeling pain, or was that simply how it existed, unable to still? 

 

Crraack

Crraack-Crrck-Crr-ack

 

One strike after another, the grating noise of that nail being shorn from skin rang out. A burning, bleeding nailbed wept, spattering the flesh-formed ground with each swing and push. Leverage gained where all else was lost, until enough was broken and cast aside to see clearer now - a darkened pit. Something unseen previously within that realm. Would it lead to a tunnel further into that hell, a fall that may allow for a swift death, or a way back to where she belonged? An option not thought of. Who was to say, except Leithril? A repeated prayer was hissed from that devout, before nothing short of a disgusting dive of faith tossed her into that newfound pit.

 

‘Unity is Salvation,

Salvation is our Liturgy’

 

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 - Epilogue -

The feeling of weightlessness twisted and churned within the confines of that fall, before another sudden wave of sluggishness weighed down the bemused woman. An unbelieving laughter echoed around that hurtling form as a suffocating darkness enveloped all else. It was paralyzing, a body frozen as far-off thudding once more turned to close thumping.

| Bah-dum |

Too close, there weren’t any feet here, it was too close. From that disheveled heart pounded a melody, this time. A sound reminiscent of weeping somber skies melded with the angry hissing of strong winds.

 

Drumming that only grew louder with each passing second, before Leithril jolted awake to the clap of thunder - beneath a hateful storm on land made of earth and stone. Tall trees reached towards the sky within a lush forest, vegetation littering the ground and moss clung to bark. The moon seemed to hang low that night, dim lighting filtered by the blanket of nature. Pelted by raindrops and a flurry of soggy leaves, a migraine-laden head tossed back against muddied ground as she faded into unconsciousness once more. The sequence had seemingly come to an end…

 

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Please do not metagame this post, this is something to be explored in-character.

 (shoutout to @karina !)

[Unwillingly 18096]

The pale, rosy thumb of the young Elvenprince drifts across a frayed parchment, one plastered with Leithril's name in light of her disappearance. His head hung low, face framed by snowy tresses that clung to his brow and wisped down his back.

Although Galahad knew Leithril to be a woman of bravado, fire, and iron, and many things burdened his mind during her disappearance, there lingered one simple, but so unanswered question.

Where did she go?