(no subject)

[un_fallen]

A light rain is falling onto the wastes of Jubilee; still falling, if indeed it has ever stopped. The ground is beyond saturated, colorless mud and desolation as far as the eye can see, and the rain only promises to intensify. A bleak horizon is broken only by a low, equally colorless fueling station nearly invisible in the murk.

Raguel stomps around in it, his shoes making schlock, schlock noises in the mud, and if he realizes it's raining he pays it no attention. He felt something: perhaps no more than the stirrings of a wildly overactive imagination, but this was oddly familiar. By long practice he's learned to sort the instinct from the white noise and confusion that clouds most of his mind, and Raguel has always trusted his instincts.

Comments

[aj_crawley]

There are places where the world is heavier. Sometimes it's the place itself (a tower, a road, a path); other times it's something that's there, something that gently warps reality around itself (a rose, a little scrimshaw turtle). And then sometimes, it's who's there - the people that press down just a little harder against the metaphysical rubber sheet of the universe.

Or, if you want to put it another way: like calls to like.

Somewhere out in the thick swirls of fog, someone draws in a deep breath, and then spits it back up in a loud, ragged cough.