Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by Minibit, Jan 15, 2015.

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  1. Dawn was breaking on the bay shore when the wreckage began to move. The broken rowboat had washed up silently the previous night, brought in by the tide. The bow was splintered; probably dashed against one of the rocks where the wide river fed into the bay. Fallen half out of the boat with legs in the water, a form shivered as the slow onset of consciousness made him aware of the morning chill. Scrunching his eyes shut, he dimly wondered where his blanket had got to, and turned his head to better bury it in his folded arms.

    The motion caused the abrasion on his left temple to graze against the side of the boat he was leaning over, and two very pale turquoise eyes shot open at exactly the same speed as the bedraggled, brown and white feathered wings on his back reflexively spread out; sending the same shock of a bone re-setting down from the top of his spine. He found his lungs empty, or he would have cried out as he floundered to straighten his stance, stars swimming before his eyes as another wave of the morning tide propelled him and what was left of his craft to the shore, where the boat thudded into the sand and his chest thudded into the boat. It didn't help much that his hair had fallen into his face and he couldn't see hardly anything. His pulse pounded in his ears, and his senses became fuzzy as he sank back down on the boat. He felt cold, he felt confused, he felt battered and sore, and far too dizzily occupied with these concerns to make another attempt at standing up or looking around.

    He groaned quietly, his fingers tingling as he dropped to the side of the boat, still in the water up to his waist. He kept his eyes closed, sparks still dancing under his eyelids. On his temple, a wound was trickling blood, although most of it had clotted, staining the white-blond, matted hair along the side of his face. His apparel wasn't much better off; ornate shoulder guards made of some iron-like material - one dented - partially covered a simple shirt, made of a simple white cotton. There was a belt and scabbard at his waist, the latter caught on a bit of wood from the boat, but the weapon it had once held was nowhere to be seen. His feet were bare, as were his hands, arms, and one leg from the knee down where his trousers had torn. Most of him was bruised, some of him was cut, all of him hurt as he inhaled the smell of wet sand and waited for the world to stop spinning.
    #1 Minibit, Jan 15, 2015
    Last edited: Jan 22, 2015
  2. Ujarak, white
    The brown-skinned man pulled the string of his bow back, and, taking a deep breath, loosed it a second later, watching the arrow fly through the trees of the forest, lodging into the head of the Elk he had been tracking for the last couple of days, and signalling that the hunt was over. The rest of the herd were gone before his prey had even dropped to the ground. No matter. This animal will provide enough food for at-least another week, he thought to himself, leaving the patch of purple-grass he had been crouched in, placing his bow over his shoulders. The extremely dense trees and humid temperature made the forest a hard place to hunt in. But also made the animals much larger than in surrounding areas, not only the herbivores, but countless meals made from nothing other than various fruits and berries had made this tribesman desperate. He slumped the beast over his bare shoulders, and checking the position of the sun in the sky, pulled the arrow from it's head and began to head back to the village.

    A small ball of misty light materialized in front of his outstretched hand and began to crudely circle around him as he chanted one of the many incarnations he had been taught as a child. This particular one provided light in times of need. Although the sun was shining high in the sky, it was barely strong enough to penetrate the guard which the thick leaves provided from high above. The trees themselves seemed to twist and turn into one another the higher up his eyes climbed, every time he entered the forest it seemed the roof had grown higher than it should.

    To his relief it was not long before his feet found the dirt path which led up along the beach and into Amaki village. He reached down and scratched the bottom of his back, murmuring under his breather every time the feathers which decorated his spear stroked against it. His sharp eyes caught the village wavering like a mirage along the horizon, but something else drew the gaze of his tattooed eyes. There were large chunks of foreign wood, strewn along the beach, along with other strange artefacts.

    Slowly he approached the wreckage, dropping his kill in the sand he began trying to piece together what had happened here. There were feathers along the shore-line, much like the ones which decorated his spear. Ahead, limping, fumbling around, ahead of him was some kind of bird.... Man? The creature looked like a man, but had wings attached to his body, and was covered, or at-least, partly covered in metal. He called out to the creature, it stopped. He wasn't completely sure it understood his language. ''You seem badly hurt'' he called again, as he approached the figure. ''Come, the village, on the horizon.'' He pointed. ''We can heal you there, you must come.''

  3. A voice filtered through to his ears, but it was fuzzy, as if there were wads of something soft wrapped around his head. Still, there was an instinctive urge echoing in his mind telling him not to fall asleep; sleep was bad, sleep was death. Forcing his eyes open again, he saw stars, and blinked slowly until they cleared enough for him to see. Down the beach, there was a figure approaching. A person; a great, hulking person with impossibly huge shoulders and no head to be seen. Terrified, adrenaline brought life to his arms and he pushed his slight but heavy-feeling upper body out of the sand, squinting at the approacher.

    shading his eyes, he could see that the person was much smaller than he'd thought; the form of an animal slung over his shoulder made him appear bigger with the sun at his back. The person spoke again, gesturing to something in the distance. The ringing had mostly faded from his ears, but it took concentration to follow what he was saying. Something about a village, and healing. He seemed to be offering help, and upon realising this, relief washed over the marooned avian, as he pushed himself to a kneeling position and sat back on his heels, looking up as his wings slumped behind him, heavy with seawater. He opened his mouth to speak, wanting to assure the stranger that he wasn't a thread, that he didn't want to hurt anyone, but found himself choking on his dry tongue; it took a moment to get over the subsequent coughing fit, but he managed to choke out "I don't want to hurt you" as he caught his breath
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