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WorldofWar.Net Member
Join Date: Nov 2004
Posts: 11
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Lavender, Black, and White.
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Water was all that occupied the thoughts of the human splayed along the beach. How long he had been at sea, and how long he had lain there eluded his thoughts. Water… the sound of it, the taste of it, the cruel sting of it in his eyes was all he could bring to mind, or at least what mind he was still aware he still had possession of.
Light was next in an obfuscated succession of sensation, the light of a sun that was burning far brighter than he had once known in what little past he could recall. Though this familiar but subtly distant force blinded him with a torrent of crimson, it did cast a rejuvenating glow upon his sea-soaked form. And that, for the moment at least, gave him a certain subconscious hope.
The sounds were the last notable entry, as the alien calling of tropical birds, and the wailing of obscure creatures unknown was more than enough to cause the man to stir to the measure needed to awake fully. Groaning, this wounded, wearied traveler moved his arm to post himself up from the damp sand. The world in which he had awoken failed to be fully accepted as reality, or even reasonable imagination.
A line of impossibly lush trees of deep green standing as an inverse shadow against the golden dunes of opalescent sand was all he could make out for what he knew must be miles. The visibility was astounding, and though there was a host of foreign clouds overhead, no hint of foul weather was on the horizon. The scent of a paradise wafted to our traveler’s sand-scraped face, and in effect, a somewhat pleasured expression made its way through the formerly somber tone.
Footprints, the nearest of which had become little cups in the sand playing host to the now-rising tide, trail off into the distance. The traveler was slightly taken aback by the nature of these prints: Perfectly rectangular. What sort of footwear would create such an impression? Who had been so close? These simple thoughts haunted the moment, and made him increasingly fearful of his situation.
As if by miracle, the traveler felt his strength return to him in a second wind. ‘Cannot lie here forever, Valden, you cannot drown yourself here!’ A voice of reason tittered from just beyond what our traveler identified as himself. ‘An explorer would never give in so easily… the Venerable Valden of the Graftises, laid out on the beach like a stuck threshadon!’
‘What a view!’ this time, Valden’s voice was most definitely his own, as he spoke into the tropical breeze that had been gradually intensifying. This streak of typical Graftis enthusiasm was then violently severed by the report from his wound, which he had only now had the pleasure of inspecting.
He had been clutching his side, and now he knew why: A snake of a gash lay along his waist, which had by strange fortune seemed to cease bleeding a long while ago. It was not long after that Valden realized that his injury also had the appearance of having undergone a proper cleaning, but how could that be? ‘The water…? Illogical, I am certain I have not deviated from my side…my visitor?’ he rationalized with as much calm as he could garner, as was his way. ‘Alcohol.’ The breeze seemed to aid his deduction by bringing the scent to his attention. Curiosity overwhelming, the man ran two fingers gingerly along the edge of his finger-nail deep cut. Raising them to his lips… ‘Brandy?’ Valden had not been a discerning drinker, and he could admit that he had little certainty, but this was his best reasoning, and that suited him as well.
Eased that the visitor had been benevolent and not otherwise, the traveler decided to perhaps accept his fortunes and attempt, as any good explorer, to make contact and find out just where the seas saw fit to deliver him.
Teeth clenched, Valden forced himself to his knees. The pain was nigh unbearable, but knowledge that his gash appeared superficial allowed him to carry on. By this time, the sun took a slightly more angled approach. His expert mind theorized that it must be about half-past six o’clock… such a clear ocean horizon did not make for much error.
His path was the swerving speckling of slightly less outstanding footprints that still occupied the sand that had not been overtaken by water. This was his only hope, to seek out whoever created these tracks. Valden was fearless in this regard, he, after all, could ‘track a rat in the Ironforge commons.’
You see, the Graftises were a noteworthy family of intrepid explorers with long history. Valden’s father had been a dear friend and long-time companion of the illustrious Hemet Nesingwary, lacking the same social caliber, though certainly equal of merit. The Graftises also had a notorious history of exploring areas and events that were considered risky, to put it in the best light. Graftis patriarchs tended to meet their end by middle age if luck was in their favor. Always allowing the thrill of the exploits to cloud his reason, the most recent of the lineage did not even consider that he may very well be ending his thirty-two years in this place.
The edge of the jungle was well in sight, a few dozen meters at the most. The trail traced a path that seemed to bore directly into an especially thick area of vegetation. Though, as Valden continued along he could make out a sort of gateway, or more correctly a rude parting of fronds tied sparingly with a crude rope. This is where the steady pattern of rectangles became indecipherable, or at least so to the untrained eye.
Spectacular sounds overwhelmed the explorer the moment he entered what seemed like a solid tunnel of green. To his close flanks and mere feet above his head, the jungle encased him, allowing none but sparse quota of evening light pass its guard. For the first time since his first realization of the footprints on the beach, Valden felt true uneasiness. The beach had been open, free, and admittedly inviting, but this was foreboding of something wicked, or so his gut pleaded.
The trail continued in this manner for what seemed to the traveler like miles, but this was no doubt due to the sudden halts at some sharp screech, or exemplary rustling. Valden, despite his explorer’s blood, was overcome with jitteriness. He had good reason: He was unarmed aside from a mostly ornamental stiletto that occupied the designation of a slightly dulled, glorified letter-opener.
Valden was also unarmored, in fact, mostly unclothed, save a torn half of a tan linen shirt, and his trousers which had previously been in good repair and a fetching shade of olive, which now could not be referred to as either. Ironically, the bleeding dyes had arranged a sort of camouflage, though Valden felt less than invisible. He was indeed thankful that his boar’s hide belt held true in whatever tragedy he had undergone.
As if the entirety of the ‘tunnel’ had been a passage through a hedgerow, the clearing that the stranded man found himself surrounded by was relatively spacious, and revealed a higher canopy of multi-tiered trees, distinctly different from anything he had witnessed before. Towers of bone-white bark snaking upward with eager hands, their fingertips ending in full tufts of miniscule leaves. Valden’s documentation of his new environment would have to wait, as a flash of a very unnatural lavender stole the corner of his eye.
‘Wait…!’ was his instinctive response, ‘Please!’
Valden cannot recall having sprint quite as rapidly as he did that evening, whatever this was, he had to catch it. Futility made itself known within seconds. His quarry had been supernaturally swift, or equally crafty, for it was nowhere to be found. The distinct fragrance of lady’s perfume betrayed its complete escape...
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Last edited by Brer Fox; 30-11-2005 at 11:33 AM..
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