There was a trick her aunt showed her once. A trick in the correct sense of the word, something a magician might do. She'd called the birds from the sky, and they'd flocked down in a mass of flapping wings, feathers coming loose in the fury, startlingly loud, and by the time they lifted, she was gone. Benji had been young when she'd seen that (and young, too, when Eileen had been killed some time later), and willingly to believe that she really had been carried away by the birds, perhaps in pieces.
These birds are black, catching blue in the light, and seem to take pieces of Benji as the world turns to pieces as well. She goes tumbling as the great ridges in the earth curve downwards, pulling her towards it centre, and with a sound that is like tearing fabric, the surge of flapping avian bodies-- rooks, in this case, not very American but neither was Eileen-- burst into the air and leave nothing behind. They flock in a panic, spiralling, calling to one another in higher, thinner notes than their more famous, American counterparts. If given a chance, the tighter their coil, the more claws and beaks snag at feathers, and by the time one bird has tumbled, bleeding, the world is falling away.
And then there's nothing, as the land gently crumbles to reveal the vastness it was masking.
The birds are gone, too, which is good, or else perhaps the shape may have followed them here. Abstraction is not unfamiliar to Benji, but right now--
Blackness glimmers, ripples, across a flat plane of space that Benji has deduced to be horizontal, at least from her immediate, mysterious vantage point. What glides lazily across it is an old trawler, not large for its kind, a dated recreational boat that she knows well enough for it to be an easy thing to summon, as simple as remembering. They are boats built for endurance, for roaming destinations, and possibly not the High Umbra, but it seems to be faring well for exactly the same reason that Benji is breathing and corporeal.
She lies on her back on the foredeck, getting her bearings. She isn't sure if the danger has passed, but it's certainly a lot more peaceful, and she is aiming for peace. Dressed ridiculously, also, in a black gown with feathered trim, as if taking a cue from the rooks she'd ridden, her avatar as ever severe in her glamour. Reluctantly, she sits up, pulling herself up to stand.
"Are you alright?" she asks the ether, managing to not sound shaken. She is on edge, waiting for something to go wrong again.
no subject
These birds are black, catching blue in the light, and seem to take pieces of Benji as the world turns to pieces as well. She goes tumbling as the great ridges in the earth curve downwards, pulling her towards it centre, and with a sound that is like tearing fabric, the surge of flapping avian bodies-- rooks, in this case, not very American but neither was Eileen-- burst into the air and leave nothing behind. They flock in a panic, spiralling, calling to one another in higher, thinner notes than their more famous, American counterparts. If given a chance, the tighter their coil, the more claws and beaks snag at feathers, and by the time one bird has tumbled, bleeding, the world is falling away.
And then there's nothing, as the land gently crumbles to reveal the vastness it was masking.
The birds are gone, too, which is good, or else perhaps the shape may have followed them here. Abstraction is not unfamiliar to Benji, but right now--
Blackness glimmers, ripples, across a flat plane of space that Benji has deduced to be horizontal, at least from her immediate, mysterious vantage point. What glides lazily across it is an old trawler, not large for its kind, a dated recreational boat that she knows well enough for it to be an easy thing to summon, as simple as remembering. They are boats built for endurance, for roaming destinations, and possibly not the High Umbra, but it seems to be faring well for exactly the same reason that Benji is breathing and corporeal.
She lies on her back on the foredeck, getting her bearings. She isn't sure if the danger has passed, but it's certainly a lot more peaceful, and she is aiming for peace. Dressed ridiculously, also, in a black gown with feathered trim, as if taking a cue from the rooks she'd ridden, her avatar as ever severe in her glamour. Reluctantly, she sits up, pulling herself up to stand.
"Are you alright?" she asks the ether, managing to not sound shaken. She is on edge, waiting for something to go wrong again.