- Pronoun
- they/them
When the sea had last closed its eyes, it had been within the embrace of the deep. The world above was streaked with the fires of endless conflict, turmoil, and unpredictability, much like the roiling of waves within a storm. But the deep held only calm, sweet silence and solitude. A moment's respite from the turbulence of the world above. A sacred retreat which none could encroach upon.
And yet, somehow, inexplicably, that solitude had been broken.
The crushing depths were gone, replaced with cool, dry air, and just a hint of frost evaporating underneath the morning sun. Sun that should not have been visible from the deep. Eyes squinted at desert trees that stretched high overhead. Far higher than normal, as if everything were bigger than it should have been. Or rather...
Talons clicked on the garden tile. Everything felt... airy. Light, far too light, as if all the weight had gone. A heavy tail swished irritably, except the motion was imagined, a phantom sensation drawn from what should have been, instead of the feathers flicking from side to side.
Buried beneath the overwhelming sense that this was all wrong was the inexplicable sensation that this was... expected. As if this turn of events had been foreshadowed by that voice, the golden voice that had spoken through its dream. As if anyone would believe that.
But the reality of the situation could not be denied. And the foreign sensation of every minuscule movement. Maddening.
The sound of flowing water filled the air. With the flutter of wings—too quick, too jittery, what is this—the aqueduct was within sight.
The black-helmed visage of a Rookidee stared back.
And yet, somehow, inexplicably, that solitude had been broken.
The crushing depths were gone, replaced with cool, dry air, and just a hint of frost evaporating underneath the morning sun. Sun that should not have been visible from the deep. Eyes squinted at desert trees that stretched high overhead. Far higher than normal, as if everything were bigger than it should have been. Or rather...
Talons clicked on the garden tile. Everything felt... airy. Light, far too light, as if all the weight had gone. A heavy tail swished irritably, except the motion was imagined, a phantom sensation drawn from what should have been, instead of the feathers flicking from side to side.
Buried beneath the overwhelming sense that this was all wrong was the inexplicable sensation that this was... expected. As if this turn of events had been foreshadowed by that voice, the golden voice that had spoken through its dream. As if anyone would believe that.
But the reality of the situation could not be denied. And the foreign sensation of every minuscule movement. Maddening.
The sound of flowing water filled the air. With the flutter of wings—too quick, too jittery, what is this—the aqueduct was within sight.
The black-helmed visage of a Rookidee stared back.