fandomsecrets | [ SECRET POST #2751 ]

[ SECRET POST #2751 ]

⌈ Secret Post #2751 ⌋

Warning: Some secrets are NOT worksafe and may contain SPOILERS.

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Notes:

Secrets Left to Post: 02 pages, 043 secrets from Secret Submission Post #393.
Secrets Not Posted: [ 0 - broken links ], [ 0 - not!secrets ], [ 0 - not!fandom ], [ 0 - too big ], [ 0 - repeat ], [ 1 - tar fields, I assume. No more linking after this. If you want to play a character, do it in the Games thread or a roleplay community, please ].
Current Secret Submissions Post: here.
Suggestions, comments, and concerns should go here.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I would give you that attention, if I can, dear anon. Alas, the fires burn hot today and my fingers blister as I type. My touch screen does not well register the bones that peek from my my peeling flesh. However, I am typing with my nose, which is not as much a mean feat as you might suspect. As a youth my mother had my nose extended by the village healer. Better to hang her laundry from, she said, though I suspect it was more for my own sake than hers. The metal extension in my nose is the perfect divining rod, and in the burning days I use it to seek out water lest I die of thirst. My mother, god rest her soul, did not lack the gift of foresight. It's too bad her number was drawn. I miss her.

I'm so thirsty, anon. But, I can not leave my hut while the fires burn.

Please, tell me stories to distract me. Happy stories.

26/F/spud hut

My rural cousins, I salute you, and thank you for providing the tar, cabbages, and spuds, that support us here in the Capital. Your thankless lives resound with the gratitude of my own and that of my fellow theohistrionicians. Crab season is upon us here in the City, and the marine biologists are calling for a chance of kraken this month. It has been many blood moons since I last saw the chartreuse skies full of falling, screaming, squid, as the aurorae sang to the dying crustaceans in ethereal glory.

I, too, long for the days when the blood moon dances consumed us all, young and old alike, as the bookshop owners hung their posters of the old classics, and we danced under the skies full of seafood. My rheumaticulitis prevents me from dancing with the others, this night of nights. Alas, for I am old, my umbrella is too tight, and I have forgotten how to dance.

Alas, for I am old, my umbrella is too tight, and I have forgotten how to dance.

is that a Babylon 5 reference?

shhhhhh ;-)

lol, sorry. I just loved it so much. :D

I am sorry that you are not able to dance, my friend. And, I thank you for your gratitude and your story. I have never seen a sky filled with seafood, nor danced as squid and crab plummeted to the ground, but in my imagination it is a wondrous sight. In my mind's eye, the stench of dying marine life fills my nostrils, a welcome smell as I grow tired of the smell of burning. I can feel the squish of the squid under my feet and between my toes as I dance wildly under the blood moon. In my fantasies my feet and hands still have flesh with which to feel the thump of a falling crab or the squelch of a squid.

In reality, I will have to wrap my bare bones carefully with mother's flesh before returning to the harvest. The leather of her dried skin does not feel.

The Capital sounds like a wonderful place, my friend. I wish you could spirit me away from this smoke filled hut. Here, the boiling tar is impassable the majority of the year and I can not leave even if I really wanted to. I can not abandon my duty, as the cabbages don't harvest themselves, but it might be nice to escape for a time.

Let me tell you of one of our festival times, my friend. After the spud have been harvested we gather in Town's Square. The next week is the drawing, so we all celebrate heartily as this week may be our last. We sew masks of potato skins and dance (we all share a love of celebratory dance, it seems) and when our bodies are slick with sweat under the heat of the sun, we play Slip. We strip down to just our potato masks and chase after each other, trying to catch one another as we slip and slide from each other's sweaty grasp. Afterward, we drink Spud Wine and eat our fill of spuds prepared many different ways. It is my favorite festival, I think.

What other activities do you have in Capital, friend?

Ah, my young friend, your festival tales remind me of my own long-ago and far-off times and seasons. We do not have the burning times, here in the Capital (as we have no need of it). The blood moons not only bring with them the blood fever, which calls us to the primal dance our race shares, regardless of geography, but after the rains of crustaceans have ceased, and our twin moons have returned to the colour of pale-grass in the twilight dew, then, my young friend, oh, then! Our hearts are lifted, and even as we trudge through our wearying days of endless sums and quantum statistics, we look ahead with joy and with hope, to the Singing!

There used to be a time when only the Auditioners could hear the Singing, and even then, such blessed individuals were graced with such a portentous gift for only a brief period of their lives. The marine biologists say it is the climate change, the deepening of our inland seas, that has made the Singing audible to everyone under the heart of the aurorae, here in the Capital; I, myself, heard the first city-wide Singing, when I was but your age. Tender in years, I was, and not yet inured to the long view of life, the universe, and everything. I knew even then, that first night, that I was a true part of the living history of our worlds.

Have you ever heard the aurorae Sing to you, during the burning times, my young friend? They say that eventually, even our rural cousins will see the aurorae. Perhaps you will one day hear the Singing as well. Perhaps, one day, you will not need to dream of an "easy" life (I say with a tearful laugh) in a distant city; perhaps your burning times shall ease, and with that, your flesh shall return, and wax fat, never to melt from your thin bones again. I will pray to the Booksellers for that for you, my friend; to have peace, and respite in your home, without having to travel to a distant, strange land. Such peace, you will have, when you hear the Singing, my friend! Such joy, such rapture!

The Song is so pure that the screams of the dying crustaceans from the weeks prior become a mere memory, overshadowed by the beauty of the eternal music. The Singing does not call us to the dance, however. No, it is no primal act that we are called to, in the presence of eternity and bliss. As you know, we do not sleep, here in the Capital. Except during the Singing. Although many of us try to stay awake for as long as we can. When we do sleep, at last, the long, dry spells of wakefulness and the bloodlust of the blood moons, seem like the distant past, and our lives seem like they belonged to other people, in another Capital, on another world. Perhaps they did.

The aurorae are lightening the skies outside the window of my small room in the University's arcological apartments now. I can feel the beginning of the Song, thrumming at the base of my neck, and dancing along my skull, like the whispered touches of forever. The Song will begin again, soon. Soon, it shall be as though the Singing has never ended. Then, mercifully, peacefully, I, and the other citizens in the Capital, shall have a brief respite of sleep.

With the time difference and the dayside of the facing moon greeting you now, I bid you good morning, my young friend. And if you do not hear from me for the weeks that I may lay slumbering (for I am old, and prone to oversleep), then I bid you also good afternoon, good evening, and good night!

I love you, who ever you are.

Ah, the squid. I haven't seen them in some time. Nor have I seen a kraken. That would shake things up, certainly.

The crabs, however -- goodness me, the crabs! They fall here still, on the outskirts of the Capital. It is the time of the great migration, when the fliers drag themselves out of the mud pits and fill the skies with their wailing. In their wake, they leave the crabs, dismissed and dropped from their talons. It's good for the crustaceans, I suppose, in that they won't be eaten, but it is not so good for us, who wind up with them in our hair and clothes.

I now wait for this time to pass and hold my breath for that terrible moment when the tar shall give way to sea salt and the roads shall be flushed with jellies. For weeks we shall have to wear thick rubber boots lest we be stung, and I hate it so. My toes shrivel; the skin of my feet and calves turn white, even as the rest of my body grows tan. Is there nothing that can be done? I long to wear the sandals worn by those abroad, to experience the summer months as they were meant to be.

But there is naught that can be done. I take solace only in the knowledge that once the jellies have baked and cracked and died, there will be left behind the sweetest of morsels. The confectionery shops shall take the savory bits and transform them into candies and cakes, and we shall all have our fill during the eider month, even as we navigate the fowl and feathers.

It is so hot here you can wear sandals almost year round! The only time I wouldn't recommend it is during the crawling, as the scrabblers might take a toe or two off if you are without your protective footwear.

I admit, I am envious of the falling marine life you experience in and around the Capital. Aside from the occasional rain storm or gelluge (my favorite type of storm as the gelatinous material makes a great glue to bolster the supports of my hut), the only thing that falls from our sky out here in the farm wastes is ashes during the burning.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ SECRET POST #2751 ]

Re: Tar fields AU roleplay thread

Re: Tar fields AU roleplay thread

Re: Tar fields AU roleplay thread

Re: Tar fields AU roleplay thread

Re: Tar fields AU roleplay thread

AYRT: spud hut

Capital

Re: Capital

Re: Tar fields AU roleplay thread

Location: Spud Hut; Feeling: Burning