[Geist] Vortex
Apr. 22nd, 2011 09:43 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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writing_shadowsThe plasm roared in his ears and scraped at his eyes, an ethereal maelstrom of the essence of death, spiralling around the room like a sinister mirror of water draining down a sink. He tightened his eyes and raised a hand to his head, his own plasm leaking out of his pours and membranes, forming a hardy coat that rendered him immune to the searing potence of the whipping torrent. He stepped forward, across the flagstones of the dank cellar room, to the epicentre of this cyclone, his vision glancing up to watch the plasm vanish through the ceiling.
In front of him, staring out in its pitiful, monochrome state, lay the gate to the Underworld.
He hadn’t opened the gate, but he knew they were all open; every gate across the city, flung open by that ship and its terrible, relentless return. The doors were not open for long, but long enough for some horror to bubble out and escape. Who knew what monsters had been released into the world this year?
He closed his eyes, blocking out the gate’s maw, and focussed on the ritual. His hand tightened on the artefact, bathed in the terror of a 99-year-old night. Imbued with the death of thousands. Then his lips began to babble the words.
Its image flashed in his mind; the proud bow seeming to drive forth like a razor’s edge. He felt the pressure of the watery grave, his skin turning to gooseflesh as the chill waters numbed him into shock. He trembled, sealed his eyes and continued with the rite. The spirit continued its march.
Of course it was powerful. Of the 685 crew that had died in the North Atlantic, almost all had come from Southampton. Every home had been touched by the tragedy. The city still wept in its grief, and that made the connection all the more potent.
At some point, his skin numbed with cold, his body wracked by the supernatural forces beyond his control, he realised it was too powerful. The voice of his Geist knew as much, too. It had always known. But he had still needed to try.
He closed his eyes, knowing it was for the last time.
A tear trickled down his cheek. And then he was gone.
In front of him, staring out in its pitiful, monochrome state, lay the gate to the Underworld.
He hadn’t opened the gate, but he knew they were all open; every gate across the city, flung open by that ship and its terrible, relentless return. The doors were not open for long, but long enough for some horror to bubble out and escape. Who knew what monsters had been released into the world this year?
He closed his eyes, blocking out the gate’s maw, and focussed on the ritual. His hand tightened on the artefact, bathed in the terror of a 99-year-old night. Imbued with the death of thousands. Then his lips began to babble the words.
Its image flashed in his mind; the proud bow seeming to drive forth like a razor’s edge. He felt the pressure of the watery grave, his skin turning to gooseflesh as the chill waters numbed him into shock. He trembled, sealed his eyes and continued with the rite. The spirit continued its march.
Of course it was powerful. Of the 685 crew that had died in the North Atlantic, almost all had come from Southampton. Every home had been touched by the tragedy. The city still wept in its grief, and that made the connection all the more potent.
At some point, his skin numbed with cold, his body wracked by the supernatural forces beyond his control, he realised it was too powerful. The voice of his Geist knew as much, too. It had always known. But he had still needed to try.
He closed his eyes, knowing it was for the last time.
A tear trickled down his cheek. And then he was gone.
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Date: 2011-04-22 12:16 pm (UTC)Nicely written