- Pronoun
- they or she
-
Welcome to The Cave of Dragonflies forums, where the smallest bugs live alongside the strongest dragons.
Guests are not able to post messages or even read certain areas of the forums. Now, that's boring, don't you think? Registration, on the other hand, is simple, completely free of charge, and does not require you to give out any personal information at all. As soon as you register, you can take part in some of the happy fun things at the forums such as posting messages, voting in polls, sending private messages to people and being told that this is where we drink tea and eat cod.
Of course I'm not forcing you to do anything if you don't want to, but seriously, what have you got to lose? Five seconds of your life?
Whisperwind Combs
- Thread starter Jackie Cat
- Start date
[Ch06] Finale ~ Isidora
New
- Pronoun
- they or she
Isidora would feel absence first. An unaccountable coldness, an unfilled void. As if she'd lost something...
Then, she would hear a soft crunching beneath her feet, and feel a creeping chill up her limbs that even her Ice-typing couldn't deter. Around her was a vast, white expanse. Almost like a blank page... but her senses would prove it to be pristine, endless snow.
Next, the Sneasel would feel a dampness on her face. Not tears, nor blood...
Ink.
Her face was leaking black, liquid ink.
Then, she would hear a soft crunching beneath her feet, and feel a creeping chill up her limbs that even her Ice-typing couldn't deter. Around her was a vast, white expanse. Almost like a blank page... but her senses would prove it to be pristine, endless snow.
...where are you...
The whisper came from nowhere....can't see anything...
Indeed, there wasn't really... anything in the white expanse. It would hurt her eyes to look at, but there was nothing but the winter blankness to see...Next, the Sneasel would feel a dampness on her face. Not tears, nor blood...
Ink.
Her face was leaking black, liquid ink.
It wasn't as if Isidora expected everything to go right when she came along. If the Comb was truly as dangerous as every source made it out be, it would've been far more surprising if it just let them on through.
This however, was way outside the bounds of her imagination.
The whiteness was unnatural and wrong. She had never felt so exposed before: like a dark blot on blank canvas, impossible to miss. Don't let it get to you... She needed to ground herself, and process the few things she could sense. She still had all her stuff: belt, hat, sandals, and most importantly her bag. There was a voice, except it sounded to her ears as if she hadn't really heard it. The intense cold reminded her of shadow, though it was likely just mundane cold, as she couldn't feel it's presence in her (yeah like that, hi). Her face felt wet for some reason, so she brought her right paw up to wipe it off her cheek...
And it returned painted in black.
"What...?" Her left paw hit the other cheek, and returned with the same blackness. "Wh-what?!"
Her instincts took over in a panic. She brought her paw up to her mouth and tried to lick her unsheathed claws clean, only to cough and sputter the moment her tongue made contact. It only brought temporary lucidity. What's happening to me?! Am I dying?! Am I-?
The realization snapped her out of it, quickly replacing all of her panic with claw-curling spite. No, this was an illusion. What the hell was the dungeon trying to pull on her? She growled and trudged forward. Whatever it is, you're not gonna get me that easily.
But now that she was stuck here, what was she supposed to do? She didn't even know where she was going. If there was anywhere to go. As she tried to flick the ink off her claws, the thought of using it to write in the snow occured to her. Yeah, because the dungeon has a screwed up sense of humor and is tryna get at me with some stupid puzzle...
Maybe the key was that voice? She tried calling out. "Hello?! Anyone there?!"
This however, was way outside the bounds of her imagination.
The whiteness was unnatural and wrong. She had never felt so exposed before: like a dark blot on blank canvas, impossible to miss. Don't let it get to you... She needed to ground herself, and process the few things she could sense. She still had all her stuff: belt, hat, sandals, and most importantly her bag. There was a voice, except it sounded to her ears as if she hadn't really heard it. The intense cold reminded her of shadow, though it was likely just mundane cold, as she couldn't feel it's presence in her (yeah like that, hi). Her face felt wet for some reason, so she brought her right paw up to wipe it off her cheek...
And it returned painted in black.
"What...?" Her left paw hit the other cheek, and returned with the same blackness. "Wh-what?!"
Her instincts took over in a panic. She brought her paw up to her mouth and tried to lick her unsheathed claws clean, only to cough and sputter the moment her tongue made contact. It only brought temporary lucidity. What's happening to me?! Am I dying?! Am I-?
The realization snapped her out of it, quickly replacing all of her panic with claw-curling spite. No, this was an illusion. What the hell was the dungeon trying to pull on her? She growled and trudged forward. Whatever it is, you're not gonna get me that easily.
But now that she was stuck here, what was she supposed to do? She didn't even know where she was going. If there was anywhere to go. As she tried to flick the ink off her claws, the thought of using it to write in the snow occured to her. Yeah, because the dungeon has a screwed up sense of humor and is tryna get at me with some stupid puzzle...
Maybe the key was that voice? She tried calling out. "Hello?! Anyone there?!"
Last edited:
- Pronoun
- they or she
The ink stuck to Isidora's fur, staining it black. Where she flicked it from her claws, it left dark spots on the snow. A minute differentiation from the stark blankness of the white expanse. An aberration. If she tested it, she'd find the stain persisted – any change to this place would seem to stick around. Real or unreal, it was no fleeting dream.
...I'm here...
Another whisper from nowhere.
...I can't find you...
From no-one.
...who's there...
The ink continued to drip. Blackness splattered on the white – a clumsy calligraphy.
...I'm here...
Another whisper from nowhere.
...I can't find you...
From no-one.
...who's there...
The ink continued to drip. Blackness splattered on the white – a clumsy calligraphy.
Isidora couldn't tell if the voice was answering her or not. And she couldn't even begin to guess the owner. One of the others, Brisa, some third party... or just the dungeon being a jackass.
It wouldn't hurt to call out anyway. "Isidora! Who's there?!" she repeated back.
As she waited for a response, she found herself looking down at her stained paw, then at the impossibly bright snow. It wouldn't be to solve some puzzle, it just made sense to leave a marking behind to keep herself oriented.
So, she got to her knees, wiped her cheek with a paw -- Feel like I'm goin' insane -- and carefully used it to draw out a single character as large as her head. 'Beginning.' That should keep her from getting lost. Or, any more lost than she already was...
It wouldn't hurt to call out anyway. "Isidora! Who's there?!" she repeated back.
As she waited for a response, she found herself looking down at her stained paw, then at the impossibly bright snow. It wouldn't be to solve some puzzle, it just made sense to leave a marking behind to keep herself oriented.
So, she got to her knees, wiped her cheek with a paw -- Feel like I'm goin' insane -- and carefully used it to draw out a single character as large as her head. 'Beginning.' That should keep her from getting lost. Or, any more lost than she already was...
- Pronoun
- they or she
...Isidora...
The whisper again, as Isidora bent to write. Faint, directionless, like it was coming from inside the Sneasel's head. More like telepathy, or inner monologue, than like someone physically present, nearby.
...it's me...
The ink spelled out beginning just fine, if imperfectly. Spots of blackness leaked from Isidora's eyes and mouth, threatening to spoil the lines, but it endured.
Against the vast pale, it looked like the first word of an unwritten essay. It wasn't enough.
Nothing will ever be enough.
...where are you...
The light dimmed and yellowed. As Isidora's eyes adjusted, and the initial brightness diminished, the snow field took on some meagre features. Rises and dips came into view with faint grey shadow to cling to them. In the distance, the faint hint of angular shapes.
You won't make it there. Better not to try.
This wasn't an outdoor space, there was no sky or sun – not even the false-sky that some dungeons enjoyed. Either that was a pale off-white cavern-roof up there, or a vast, thick cloud, heavy with snow. Looking upwards for very long, and it almost seemed to look like calcite formations. Boxwork fins, like honeycomb...
...is anyone with you...
Isidora was alone. Her calligraphy, that unaccountable sense of absence, and those gentle whispers were all her company now.
The ink continued to flow.
The whisper again, as Isidora bent to write. Faint, directionless, like it was coming from inside the Sneasel's head. More like telepathy, or inner monologue, than like someone physically present, nearby.
...it's me...
The ink spelled out beginning just fine, if imperfectly. Spots of blackness leaked from Isidora's eyes and mouth, threatening to spoil the lines, but it endured.
Against the vast pale, it looked like the first word of an unwritten essay. It wasn't enough.
Nothing will ever be enough.
...where are you...
The light dimmed and yellowed. As Isidora's eyes adjusted, and the initial brightness diminished, the snow field took on some meagre features. Rises and dips came into view with faint grey shadow to cling to them. In the distance, the faint hint of angular shapes.
You won't make it there. Better not to try.
This wasn't an outdoor space, there was no sky or sun – not even the false-sky that some dungeons enjoyed. Either that was a pale off-white cavern-roof up there, or a vast, thick cloud, heavy with snow. Looking upwards for very long, and it almost seemed to look like calcite formations. Boxwork fins, like honeycomb...
...is anyone with you...
Isidora was alone. Her calligraphy, that unaccountable sense of absence, and those gentle whispers were all her company now.
The ink continued to flow.
Isidora growled her frustrations at the voice. "Me? Who's ME?!"
Forget it, the voice was useless. It was better to just ignore it for now and figure this out herself. The dungeon had gained a definition and clarity it didn't have before, with figures (buildings?) off in the distance and the implication of a ceiling far beyond her ability to see clearly. All seemingly triggered just by writing something. This was a puzzle. Screw you.
Isidora wanted to rub away the ink leaking from her eyes, but fear of making things worse kept her paw at her side. Okay, fine, I'll play along. As she moved to do so, she became increasingly aware of the empty feeling, as if the dungeon had taken something from her. Except it hasn't taken anything. It's fake. The ink is a gimmick.
She continued her sentence. '...with a question. Where am I?'
That didn't feel sufficient. She already knew where she was: some big, empty room in the Comb. But she had no other ideas, and she wasn't sure how this worked yet. Suddenly, she felt deeply stupid. Why was she expecting an answer to begin with? Was the dungeon even literate?
Frustration compelled her to add another question. Shifting around in the snow, she kept her head at an odd angle to keep the ink from spilling onto her work. Instead, it flowed down her torso, soaking the strap of her bag and streaking over her belt. She wasn't crying but it felt like she was, and she hated it. Her writing came out shakier with each word.
'What do you want?'
Forget it, the voice was useless. It was better to just ignore it for now and figure this out herself. The dungeon had gained a definition and clarity it didn't have before, with figures (buildings?) off in the distance and the implication of a ceiling far beyond her ability to see clearly. All seemingly triggered just by writing something. This was a puzzle. Screw you.
Isidora wanted to rub away the ink leaking from her eyes, but fear of making things worse kept her paw at her side. Okay, fine, I'll play along. As she moved to do so, she became increasingly aware of the empty feeling, as if the dungeon had taken something from her. Except it hasn't taken anything. It's fake. The ink is a gimmick.
She continued her sentence. '...with a question. Where am I?'
That didn't feel sufficient. She already knew where she was: some big, empty room in the Comb. But she had no other ideas, and she wasn't sure how this worked yet. Suddenly, she felt deeply stupid. Why was she expecting an answer to begin with? Was the dungeon even literate?
Frustration compelled her to add another question. Shifting around in the snow, she kept her head at an odd angle to keep the ink from spilling onto her work. Instead, it flowed down her torso, soaking the strap of her bag and streaking over her belt. She wasn't crying but it felt like she was, and she hated it. Her writing came out shakier with each word.
'What do you want?'
Last edited:
- Pronoun
- they or she
...Isidora...
Still faint. Fainter, even, now that it had been rejected. Muffled, unclear, missing context. An echo of an echo of a voice.
As Isidora wrote her questions, the snow field lurched a little. The Sneasel's aura resonated with it – that same sixth sense any dungeoneer got after enough trips, that the dungeon was changing. Reacting, to her actions.
The snow itself shifted, rearranging the ink. Not into words, or even a glyph, but into a crude pictogram. A bipedal figure, rendered in blocky ink scrawls, with claws, a tail, and a head distended and hollow. Save for a small black figure within – was that Isidora? There really wasn't any way to know for sure.
Psyche-dungeons were strange things, influencing and influenced by the minds of those that entered. Perhaps all that mattered was that Isidora had any interpretation of the symbol...
...here...
Where was 'here'? Still the Comb, on some level, but if every 'mon who entered it had to go through this, it would have come up. This was a personalised dungeon floor. It meant something.
What do you want, she'd also asked. That didn't seem to receive an answer – at first. Then a creaking, a mighty groaning of frozen water, drew Isidora's attention up from the snow and towards a wall of glacial ice in the far distance. Was that the answer? Isidora could barely make it out. Surely it would take... days to reach it, at least...?
...me... Laura...
So, so faint. Like all the words weren't making it through. Like a bad phone line, or a voice drowned-out by a thunderous silence.
...can't find you...
The ink flowed, and fallen splotches of it slowly obliterated the pictogram.
...keep looking...
Still faint. Fainter, even, now that it had been rejected. Muffled, unclear, missing context. An echo of an echo of a voice.
As Isidora wrote her questions, the snow field lurched a little. The Sneasel's aura resonated with it – that same sixth sense any dungeoneer got after enough trips, that the dungeon was changing. Reacting, to her actions.
The snow itself shifted, rearranging the ink. Not into words, or even a glyph, but into a crude pictogram. A bipedal figure, rendered in blocky ink scrawls, with claws, a tail, and a head distended and hollow. Save for a small black figure within – was that Isidora? There really wasn't any way to know for sure.
Psyche-dungeons were strange things, influencing and influenced by the minds of those that entered. Perhaps all that mattered was that Isidora had any interpretation of the symbol...
...here...
Where was 'here'? Still the Comb, on some level, but if every 'mon who entered it had to go through this, it would have come up. This was a personalised dungeon floor. It meant something.
What do you want, she'd also asked. That didn't seem to receive an answer – at first. Then a creaking, a mighty groaning of frozen water, drew Isidora's attention up from the snow and towards a wall of glacial ice in the far distance. Was that the answer? Isidora could barely make it out. Surely it would take... days to reach it, at least...?
...me... Laura...
So, so faint. Like all the words weren't making it through. Like a bad phone line, or a voice drowned-out by a thunderous silence.
...can't find you...
The ink flowed, and fallen splotches of it slowly obliterated the pictogram.
...keep looking...
A chill fluffed the fur along Isidora's spine as she watched her question rearrange itself into an answer. Some kinda painting. But what does that have to do with where I am? It almost looks like...
Her ears and tail stood on end at a loud groan, as the answer to her second question appeared in the distance, followed by the voice finally introducing itself. "Laura...? W... wait..."
When Isidora looked back down, the painting had been ruined by ink. "Shit!"
Still, she saw it, and that was enough to send gears turning. Was it trying to tell her she was inside Laura's head? It means that metaphorically, right? Either way, the voice must have been Laura the entire time.
The dungeon must've picked up on the complicated feelings between us. The talk we had recently might've had something to do with it too. But why does her voice seem so distant? Is it trying to tell me she's all the way over there?
And why's all this shit in her head? Is the ink a metaphor?! Does she just hate writing or something?!
The glacier was impossibly far away, but a goal in sight was all Isidora needed. "Hold on, I'm coming over to you." Now that she knew that the dungeon was listening, she crawled over to a new blank spot and began writing, unburdened by the doubt that had shaken her lines before. The first thing to try would be to ask directly.
'Take me to the glacier.'
Even with her newfound determination, she still felt miserable covered and writing in her own spit and tears. "Gonna make me hate writing too after all this..."
Her ears and tail stood on end at a loud groan, as the answer to her second question appeared in the distance, followed by the voice finally introducing itself. "Laura...? W... wait..."
When Isidora looked back down, the painting had been ruined by ink. "Shit!"
Still, she saw it, and that was enough to send gears turning. Was it trying to tell her she was inside Laura's head? It means that metaphorically, right? Either way, the voice must have been Laura the entire time.
The dungeon must've picked up on the complicated feelings between us. The talk we had recently might've had something to do with it too. But why does her voice seem so distant? Is it trying to tell me she's all the way over there?
And why's all this shit in her head? Is the ink a metaphor?! Does she just hate writing or something?!
The glacier was impossibly far away, but a goal in sight was all Isidora needed. "Hold on, I'm coming over to you." Now that she knew that the dungeon was listening, she crawled over to a new blank spot and began writing, unburdened by the doubt that had shaken her lines before. The first thing to try would be to ask directly.
'Take me to the glacier.'
Even with her newfound determination, she still felt miserable covered and writing in her own spit and tears. "Gonna make me hate writing too after all this..."
Last edited:
- Pronoun
- they or she
No immediate reaction to the Sneasel's written request this time. Maybe the dungeon had limited – if any – consciousness or will, maybe it just wouldn't oblige her. Maybe she was intended to walk the whole way, even if it took days...
...wait...
That wasn't the whisper. That was something else, more like a memory than a sound.
Isidora didn't get time to process – the dungeon lurched again, shifting its dimensions. The ink spread beneath her feet, drew her into the black, pulled her down...
The whisper, again. Blinking away the ink, Isidora would see the glacier into front of her, a sheer wall of ice a mile or more in height.
The ink pooled around Isidora's feet, more viscous than water. She could hear it, now – sloshing when she moved. Behind her, a thick stain of it extended into the distance, perhaps as far as she'd travelled. A widening river of it, cold and dark...
...wait...
...hold on...
That wasn't the whisper. That was something else, more like a memory than a sound.
Isidora didn't get time to process – the dungeon lurched again, shifting its dimensions. The ink spread beneath her feet, drew her into the black, pulled her down...
...keep trying...
The whisper, again. Blinking away the ink, Isidora would see the glacier into front of her, a sheer wall of ice a mile or more in height.
...I'll find you.
Louder, this time. Did that mean Isidora was closer...? Whatever 'closer' meant inside a rift in space-time.
The ink pooled around Isidora's feet, more viscous than water. She could hear it, now – sloshing when she moved. Behind her, a thick stain of it extended into the distance, perhaps as far as she'd travelled. A widening river of it, cold and dark...
Isidora rose from the ink panting and disoriented. She pushed herself to her feet and hissed when she saw the state of her bag. Finally, the dungeon had figured out how to drag it into this, and her hat too while it was at it, guaranteeing that every inch of her protected by aura was thoroughly soaked in ink. She was just a walking black stain now.
At least it worked. Though, it was unclear just to what extent. Those were Laura's memories that popped into my head. And right in time with the dungeon fulfilling my request. It was almost as if Laura was the one who triggered it. I guess that would make sense, but...
She put her focus on the glacier, trying to make out the top from its base. She wondered if she needed to get up there, and quickly wrote it off. Her claws were more suited for wood than solid ice, and the wall was far too tall to climb anyway. So far, the more direct approach had worked out just fine for her, so she had no reason to start doubting it now. As long as it goes along with what the dungeon wants, it seems like it should work one way or another. Given that, she had her next command in mind. She walked up to the wall and reached out to draw it...
Her claw hesitated before the ice. Those memories... The dungeon was dragging something of Laura's out into the open without consent. And while they weren't strangers, they still only barely knew each other. Whatever was beyond here, Isidora had no business seeing it. That fact alone made her far more uncomfortable than anything else here.
It was hard to take a deep breath with ink leaking out of her mouth. "Sorry Laura, I'm comin' in." And when I find you, I'm yellin' at you about the ink metaphor.
She drew one, single character on the ice. 'Open.'
At least it worked. Though, it was unclear just to what extent. Those were Laura's memories that popped into my head. And right in time with the dungeon fulfilling my request. It was almost as if Laura was the one who triggered it. I guess that would make sense, but...
She put her focus on the glacier, trying to make out the top from its base. She wondered if she needed to get up there, and quickly wrote it off. Her claws were more suited for wood than solid ice, and the wall was far too tall to climb anyway. So far, the more direct approach had worked out just fine for her, so she had no reason to start doubting it now. As long as it goes along with what the dungeon wants, it seems like it should work one way or another. Given that, she had her next command in mind. She walked up to the wall and reached out to draw it...
Her claw hesitated before the ice. Those memories... The dungeon was dragging something of Laura's out into the open without consent. And while they weren't strangers, they still only barely knew each other. Whatever was beyond here, Isidora had no business seeing it. That fact alone made her far more uncomfortable than anything else here.
It was hard to take a deep breath with ink leaking out of her mouth. "Sorry Laura, I'm comin' in." And when I find you, I'm yellin' at you about the ink metaphor.
She drew one, single character on the ice. 'Open.'