Harmony Sturm - the storm before the calm
Oct 12, 2019 21:16:40 GMT
Grimes, Milo Brightmane, and 5 more like this
Post by Harmony Sturm on Oct 12, 2019 21:16:40 GMT
The storm lashing down on Port Ffirst was one of the worst anyone could remember in recent years.
The driving, horizontal rain drenched any citizens foolish enough to be caught outdoors; the water pooling and puddling in the gutters and uneven paving that marks Old Town’s winding, narrow streets. Sheets of irregular, white-hot lightning throw the town into stark relief, quickly followed by booms of thunder that split the atmosphere with a noise like the snapping of some gigantic leviathan's bones. Churning waves crash against the low stone harbour seawall, sending up thick spray and mist to blanket the shopfronts and stalls long-since closed up in the face of the building storm.
On one nameless empty beach lining the shore, strong tides strip away sand and discarded detritus, scouring clean the blackened dirty ground. Rhythmically, hypnotically, the angry green-black waters rush up to cover the land before pouring away to rejoin the mass of the roiling ocean. A whip-crack of lightning illuminates the deserted beach for a split second - and reveals the figure lying prone in the wake of the most-recent ebbing tide.
Tall, thin, and lean, the humanoid stirs in time with another heavens-shattering peel of thunder. Rolling onto their back, they open rheumy eyes the colour of dark seaweed and blink slowly. Sitting up, they turn this way and that, taking in their surroundings. Their body is incased in armour crafted from the overlapping light-blue scales of a Plesiosaurus; where the skin does show through - bare hands and feet, face and neck - it is silvery-green, almost translucent in places. On each calf and forearm plate, a gap is crafted into the armour, allowing small fins to protrude, gossamer-thin and tinged with red. Just behind each ear are three tiny folds of skin, moving slowly in time with the creature's ragged breathing.
Lying on the sand next to them is a long, vicious-looking trident, almost as tall as the creature itself. The three prongs each have small, regularly spaced holes bored into them. Using the weapon as a crutch, they pull themselves upright and turn to face the rain-lashed town. As they stand, a coral-pink shell tied on a fishing line around their neck swings and clatters against the plates of their armour. Behind them, the tides rush up to cover the beach once more - but seem to part and form a dry, circular void around the feet of the creature. As they swing the trident up and over their shoulders to rest in a kelp sling on their back, the air pours through the crafted holes in the blades, adding a low screaming, singing sound to the clamour of the weather, a melodic counterpoint to the storm chorus. They start to walk up the beach towards the flickering lights of Port Ffirst...
The driving, horizontal rain drenched any citizens foolish enough to be caught outdoors; the water pooling and puddling in the gutters and uneven paving that marks Old Town’s winding, narrow streets. Sheets of irregular, white-hot lightning throw the town into stark relief, quickly followed by booms of thunder that split the atmosphere with a noise like the snapping of some gigantic leviathan's bones. Churning waves crash against the low stone harbour seawall, sending up thick spray and mist to blanket the shopfronts and stalls long-since closed up in the face of the building storm.
On one nameless empty beach lining the shore, strong tides strip away sand and discarded detritus, scouring clean the blackened dirty ground. Rhythmically, hypnotically, the angry green-black waters rush up to cover the land before pouring away to rejoin the mass of the roiling ocean. A whip-crack of lightning illuminates the deserted beach for a split second - and reveals the figure lying prone in the wake of the most-recent ebbing tide.
Tall, thin, and lean, the humanoid stirs in time with another heavens-shattering peel of thunder. Rolling onto their back, they open rheumy eyes the colour of dark seaweed and blink slowly. Sitting up, they turn this way and that, taking in their surroundings. Their body is incased in armour crafted from the overlapping light-blue scales of a Plesiosaurus; where the skin does show through - bare hands and feet, face and neck - it is silvery-green, almost translucent in places. On each calf and forearm plate, a gap is crafted into the armour, allowing small fins to protrude, gossamer-thin and tinged with red. Just behind each ear are three tiny folds of skin, moving slowly in time with the creature's ragged breathing.
Lying on the sand next to them is a long, vicious-looking trident, almost as tall as the creature itself. The three prongs each have small, regularly spaced holes bored into them. Using the weapon as a crutch, they pull themselves upright and turn to face the rain-lashed town. As they stand, a coral-pink shell tied on a fishing line around their neck swings and clatters against the plates of their armour. Behind them, the tides rush up to cover the beach once more - but seem to part and form a dry, circular void around the feet of the creature. As they swing the trident up and over their shoulders to rest in a kelp sling on their back, the air pours through the crafted holes in the blades, adding a low screaming, singing sound to the clamour of the weather, a melodic counterpoint to the storm chorus. They start to walk up the beach towards the flickering lights of Port Ffirst...