The sunken city at sunset, vast and beautiful. Golden light spills and splashes through the abandoned aqueducts and balconies, illuminating the skeleton of the once-grand civilization and casting lacing shadows across the beautiful falls of glimmering sand that feed the underground below.
::It makes a lovely tomb.::
The remark comes from the hooded lips of a straggler, perched along one of the many overlooks of the city. His tattered scarves drift lazily in a gentle evening breeze as he makes his way closer to the edge of the balcony.
::It is odd…:: He continues to himself, paying no mind to his lack of company. ::…That amidst the voices of the thousands of trapped souls in this place…::
::…I find myself drawn ever onward.::
Pausing for a moment as he reaches the edge of the balcony, he looks out over the breadth of the city and muses what might be calling to him.
The call was quite distinct from those that plagued his dreams and pined for release beneath the sands. It was not the cry of a spirit in duress, not the baleful mourning of a soul in turmoil. It was something stronger, the likes of which he was unfamiliar with.
And it frightened him. But not as much as it intrigued him.
Standing in the face of so great and unfathomable a force was akin to standing at the mouth of a bottomless chasm. He was perched on the precipice, gazing into the abyss and preparing to stride headlong into it.
His spine recoiled from the notion, but he could not help himself.Since his return to the Valley of Rebirth, he had changed. His very being felt weaker, as though he were being held together by mere strings.
He felt like a phantom.
Phantom or no, Nephilis presses on through the fallen city. Clambering over toppled pillars, scuttling up the walls of abandoned buildings and leaping across divides in the crumbling architecture towards his destination.
The wall of a temple inlaid along the border of the rushing sands. It was the source of the emanation that beckoned to him.
As he grew nearer, he could feel something inside of him shifting. Each step sent him another mile into this mysterious plane and by the time he was up against the wall, his breathing had become strained and sharp. He was flickering. Not literally, but he could feel his very essence leaping about like the surface of boiling water. The dead emptiness within him was excited by this place and it would not be refused entry. Plunging his sharp legs into the stone wall, he began to scale it in typical arachnid fashion.
When he reached the summit, he could no longer stand. It was inside of him. Inside of his head.
He plunged himself over the side of the wall and into whatever lay beyond without a second thought.
Atop some towering ruins amidst those of the crumbling city was a large, enclosed area. It once was apart of the temple, but most of it has fallen in on itself. It did not even look like it connected to the temple any more, but if one searched closely they will find a single, small entrance towards the bottom of this large area. Leaking from this entrance was the sparkling, golden energy that fills the temple, and it filled the bottom half of this area. Other than that, the only way to enter this was by scaling the wall, which still stood tall and firm.
In the corner of this sectioned off part of the temple was a raised structure, with broken remnants of stairs clinging to the walls. Though it looked like one large building, it was really just a carved piece of the mountain with a small, single room atop it. There were paintings covering each and every wall; some were in the style of old, and some looked incredibly modern. No wall was exempt. Even inside the small room at the top, where pillows, blankets, and various art supplies littered the floor, the walls were covered.
These, however, were no works of art.
One step inside the room was all it took to notice the complete change; instead of grand paintings, what looked to be the scrawlings of a madman littered the walls top to bottom. Some writings were in different, lost languages; some wrote of where to find broken relics or buried graves; some were complete nonsense; all, however, were in different handwriting.
It was here that the spiritual energy was heaviest. Only those sensitive to such things would be aware – and /oh/ would they feel it.
Sitting before the back wall of the room was a girl, her white cloak draped over her shoulders and her poofy hair spilling out from it. Though she had a dazed look on her face, she was completely engulfed in what she was doing – writing even more on the wall, in yet another style of handwriting. The other’s presence remained unacknowledged by her, and she wrote on.
((aahaha i hit ask limit so i may as well open up my own askbox! i still have some left over, and i plan to get to them today after i work on some stuff, as well as the other asks in my inbox.
which - i agree with neph! it’s always nice to get asks, tmi/meme or not, so once my ask limit clears i’m gonna send around some non-tmi asks uwu ))