x - skipping waves
fcxanon:
He never loved the sea, never became enamored with the permanence of the ocean. Once, or twice, curio did strike him in cords when composing, saline twisted into the compellation of notes scribbled upon ragged parchment, stories of bitter liberation and drowning lovers. The reality stung, as if rock salt lodged itself into vulnerable tissue, burning and dehydrating organs when he breathed in, and his heart only experienced ephemeral feelings near the enigmatic ocean, a fable tangible and callous. Stories of Poseidon and a man named Odysseus whispered their tired adventures against the membranes of memories as he meandered, hair blond and skin pale and brow crinkled towards the horizon, the blues separated by a thin line, and he traversed the beach, shoes in hand, feet submerged in the shallow shore.
It entirely was unwise to wander while in a maelstrom torpor, like a sleepwalker, a vagabond evading sleep and stress. The Academy was not a toxin but the walls felt as such, constricting, yet here it was still difficult to breathe quite right, and an uncertainty brewed in quirks and agitation, his fingers flexing, thoughts astray. The sea seemed distant to him, a concept, a sentience that made him a foreigner, as if he was on another planet instead of mere miles away from the Academy.
Something was calling him, a voice muffled or a desire to return, and he focused, concentrated tired and lost pupils upon bodies among bodies, people congregating without smiles on their faces, not thankful for mild weather and a respite from their obligations. Again he was perceptive in hindsight, should have stayed at the academy, instead the witness to violent hands and hysteria, a woman dragging an emaciated man to the ocean, the crowd’s uproar and victim’s pleads static against the assailant’s biblical sermon, taciturn, the roar of a wave. “Their children also shall be dashed to pieces before their eyes … and their wives ravished.” Propaganda? Released at Sea of Japan’s mouth is he, and the prey scrambles, clothing soaked and embraced by sympathetic members of the crowd, and as they do he stands still, paralyzed by the woman dressed in white, calves immersed and scream an ancient verse.
“I will stir up the Medes against them … Their bows also shall dash the young men to pieces; and they shall have no pity on the fruit of the womb; their eyes shall not spare children.”
Ah…what do we have here? The air is electrified with unspoken tension, becoming more and more vibrant around her with every step she takes closer to the scene. There’s a conglomerate of people and among them she can sense the wrath, the passion, the greed. Hell, she can sense all the seven sins, letting them channel through her like a feast. Amusing what a mass of people could do together, although she can’t tell if it’s a cult or a bunch of lunatics. Either way they were being stupid to her advantage.
She glances to her side lazily to see a boy who doesn't emit as much od the emotions which evoke the other crowd members. Someone drawn in just like her, or maybe not like her. Well, probably not like her. But either way trapped between the bumbling people he can't leave either. One thing is for sure, she holds no pity for this mishap that's befallen him. Ulterior motives encourage her to get closer to him.
"Do you know what's happening? " She whispers to him once within ear shot. Crossing her arms she looks up at him expectantly for an answer. "A new religion? "
