Post by Crow • ᚴᚱᚬᚴᛦ on Feb 17, 2024 15:17:06 GMT
The boy is frozen where he stands, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He should be looking at a reflection, but it is not a boy, rather a man who looks back at him. The man is leaning on a staff, as though time or the world or both have worn his bones down. Yet the stare he gives from under his ragged hood with one dark eye — his other eye hidden behind a loop of black leather — drills into the boy, seizing the breath in his throat.
Two large crows sit on the man’s shoulders. When the boy’s gaze moves to them, their beaks open in a wordless cry. Many more crows arrive in the space behind the man, darkening the already dark room until the space is filled with beak and feather.
A cold shiver creeps down the boy’s spine. Goosebumps rise on his skin. This can’t be.
And in the mirror, out of the maelstrom of black, there is a flicker of brown and grey. The crows on the man’s shoulders take off, digging their claws into his shoulder so hard that the boy raises his hand to his own shoulder in sympathy.
The newcomer arrives on silent wing, and with a few steady flaps, lands softly on the man’s shoulder. The great horned owl blinks a few times, steadily, moving to preen its feathers before stopping and staring at the boy once more.
Out of the corner of the boy’s eye, he notices that his swarm of crows has stopped to stare as well. A few hop forward towards the glass, their beaks nearly touching. Two — Mary Carrina and Mute Zenith — approach with hesitation, leaning in to each other. Others stand still, unable to look away. Others refuse to look at all.
The boy jolts forward. He dashes at the crows gathered in front of the mirror, waving his arms in wide arcs, yelling his voice out. They scatter away into the air, back into the shadows. The others — “Velek”, Matches, Frigus, Forfeit, and Melody — look at him like he’s gone mad. The boy, with his pale cheeks flushed, can only turn his face away.
The dormitory room in the Harbour that has been assigned to the boy is not luxurious, but it’s by far the most comfortable accommodation he’s ever had. Dark emerald upholstery, plush cushions, soft carpets — it’s as cosy as a reading nook should be. The only flaw the room has is that it’s windowless, giving no view of the Starless Sea.
Though he’s sure he shut the door before they could enter, the crows are here. He sees flickers of movements in the shadows cast by the furniture and the lone candlelight reflecting in the black beads of their eyes, and he hears the sound of claws clicking and scraping against wood.
He resigns himself, as he has for a countless number of times, to the fact that he will never be rid of them. Then he figures that he may as well ask what they saw in the mirror.
“Oh lad, it was just like the ol’ days,” Mary — or rather, the crow that speaks with her voice — says. “We were right at the edge of the Angelbark watching the creek go by. The sheep and the goats were out grazing. It was perfect. Can’ look too long, though. That’s then, this’s now.”
Zenith quietly speaks up after her. “It wasn’ like then, too. Was like it never happened.”
The others gave more varied responses. Some of them report seeing a past; not always an exact moment, but a scene that could have been. Some of them speak of seeing a future; a few even saw the boy as he saw himself. And a few saw nothing at all, not even their own reflection.
It makes no sense to the boy. Why did they see different points of time in the mirror? What was he supposed to make of what he saw? He thinks about the adventurers’ reactions to their own reflections: Frigus and Matches seemed to like what they saw, whilst Forfeit and “Velek” became deeply upset. Was the mirror a kind of seiður, or just some cruel trick?
The boy decides he needs a walk to clear his fogged up head. He walks out of the room, down some random corridors, past rows and rows of towering bookshelves, until he runs into Melody again.
He asks the acolyte where he can see the Starless Sea. She points him in the direction of a balcony.
On the other side of the rail, there is…nothing. Just inky blackness stretching out into the void. Below his feet, the edge drops off after the balcony in a sheer cliff. He strains to see how far it goes, but it too disappears into shadow. However, he does spot some crystalline lines in the stone, as though water had once lapped away at it. He knows these marks well — it reminds him of the sea-battered rocks on the hostile shores of Norheim, only visible when the tide was low.
But these marks on the Harbour’s stone are old and worn and faded. If there was a sea here, it hasn’t been for some time.
With lots of help from the poet Alex
Two large crows sit on the man’s shoulders. When the boy’s gaze moves to them, their beaks open in a wordless cry. Many more crows arrive in the space behind the man, darkening the already dark room until the space is filled with beak and feather.
A cold shiver creeps down the boy’s spine. Goosebumps rise on his skin. This can’t be.
And in the mirror, out of the maelstrom of black, there is a flicker of brown and grey. The crows on the man’s shoulders take off, digging their claws into his shoulder so hard that the boy raises his hand to his own shoulder in sympathy.
The newcomer arrives on silent wing, and with a few steady flaps, lands softly on the man’s shoulder. The great horned owl blinks a few times, steadily, moving to preen its feathers before stopping and staring at the boy once more.
Out of the corner of the boy’s eye, he notices that his swarm of crows has stopped to stare as well. A few hop forward towards the glass, their beaks nearly touching. Two — Mary Carrina and Mute Zenith — approach with hesitation, leaning in to each other. Others stand still, unable to look away. Others refuse to look at all.
The boy jolts forward. He dashes at the crows gathered in front of the mirror, waving his arms in wide arcs, yelling his voice out. They scatter away into the air, back into the shadows. The others — “Velek”, Matches, Frigus, Forfeit, and Melody — look at him like he’s gone mad. The boy, with his pale cheeks flushed, can only turn his face away.
The dormitory room in the Harbour that has been assigned to the boy is not luxurious, but it’s by far the most comfortable accommodation he’s ever had. Dark emerald upholstery, plush cushions, soft carpets — it’s as cosy as a reading nook should be. The only flaw the room has is that it’s windowless, giving no view of the Starless Sea.
Though he’s sure he shut the door before they could enter, the crows are here. He sees flickers of movements in the shadows cast by the furniture and the lone candlelight reflecting in the black beads of their eyes, and he hears the sound of claws clicking and scraping against wood.
He resigns himself, as he has for a countless number of times, to the fact that he will never be rid of them. Then he figures that he may as well ask what they saw in the mirror.
“Oh lad, it was just like the ol’ days,” Mary — or rather, the crow that speaks with her voice — says. “We were right at the edge of the Angelbark watching the creek go by. The sheep and the goats were out grazing. It was perfect. Can’ look too long, though. That’s then, this’s now.”
Zenith quietly speaks up after her. “It wasn’ like then, too. Was like it never happened.”
The others gave more varied responses. Some of them report seeing a past; not always an exact moment, but a scene that could have been. Some of them speak of seeing a future; a few even saw the boy as he saw himself. And a few saw nothing at all, not even their own reflection.
It makes no sense to the boy. Why did they see different points of time in the mirror? What was he supposed to make of what he saw? He thinks about the adventurers’ reactions to their own reflections: Frigus and Matches seemed to like what they saw, whilst Forfeit and “Velek” became deeply upset. Was the mirror a kind of seiður, or just some cruel trick?
The boy decides he needs a walk to clear his fogged up head. He walks out of the room, down some random corridors, past rows and rows of towering bookshelves, until he runs into Melody again.
He asks the acolyte where he can see the Starless Sea. She points him in the direction of a balcony.
On the other side of the rail, there is…nothing. Just inky blackness stretching out into the void. Below his feet, the edge drops off after the balcony in a sheer cliff. He strains to see how far it goes, but it too disappears into shadow. However, he does spot some crystalline lines in the stone, as though water had once lapped away at it. He knows these marks well — it reminds him of the sea-battered rocks on the hostile shores of Norheim, only visible when the tide was low.
But these marks on the Harbour’s stone are old and worn and faded. If there was a sea here, it hasn’t been for some time.
With lots of help from the poet Alex
