[The fingers that break the surface of the loamy soil and curl around a root for purchase are long, elegant... and pitch black, like they had been coated in night. Though the being beneath has no need to breath, and therefore does not fear suffocation beneath the weight of the collapsing dirt... it needs to get out for an entirely different reason. There is someone that should be by its side, and yet is not, ripped away by the end of a "dream"... When it has not dreamed for years. Not since the curse.
By the time it emerges fully from the impromptu grave the dirt has somewhat sullied its suit, smeared over the skull-like face with a ripped tangle of thin roots caught on a long, spiraling ebon horn. Looking around does not immediately provide an answer for the location of what had been stolen, but all around it... There are more. More graves, more burial plots, and there, right beside it... another hand bursts into sight, groping for any sort of leverage or support to help its owner break free. And yet, even though it should be so, so easy to just reach out, to assist...]
I cannot take your hand. I am sorry.
[The black creature speaks, its voice deep and loud despite how it does not seem to really move any sort of mouth. Adjusting, it begins to rise, getting to one knee as it directs, merely having to hope that their words were audible through the crumbling bits of soil.]
To your left is a root anchored well in the soil. Left-
⓶ 🆁🅾🅾🆃-🆀🆄🅰🅺🅴🆁
[The transformation into a Black Child robbed a being of more than humanity. First one's sense of touch, then sensations of heat, cold, and pain. The need to breathe, sleep, or eat. Anything but the barest recollection of what those things felt like were lost along the way, and now... Perhaps it is an advantage, unknown and unappreciated. In the depths of the Tree a man (if it could be a man, with a face seemingly formed from the upper half of an animal skull) trudges steadily on, even, perhaps, after other newly birthed shard-bearers begin to flag or feel the effects of the miasma on their bodies. After all... it is not breathing the poisonous substance in, slowing the main method of absorption, the other properties in its black body dulling the rest...
But they are creeping in still. It (he?) may not feel pain, but... the images are gradually coming faster. Stronger. Enough so that it finally stops and clutches at its skull, fingers spasming a moment and pure white eyes shutting as if to try and block out the intrusive images and thoughts.]
Nnn...
[Fire. Pain. Something exploding, ripping... and when the eerie white eyes set in a black skull open, someone else is there, who was not before he (it?) became lost in the Tree's memory. How long had it been? Had it been an entire night? Hours? Minutes? There was no telling here in the root-woven maze of darkness, but-]
Who are you?
[The shard recently embedded in the hollow of its throat is doing... something. It cannot identify the sensation of heat. But it does know... it cannot allow the other person to get much closer. (And more than who, what are they? Where are they-)]
Stay back.
⓷ 🆃🆆🅾 🅲🅸🆃🅸🅴🆂
[A tall, ink black figure now stalks the streets of Highstorm. They avoid all physical contact with others, sticking to shadows and turning back whenever they encounter crowded alleys or vibrant markets. When they can locate a safe vantage point, they seem to watch the goings on around them with wide, unnaturally pale eyes... but more than that, they seem to be searching. Searching here, searching there, sometimes following pale-haired children who grow skittish or run, leaving them behind.
They need to know more. They need to know what happened, where one single soul is, and yet the informational meeting at Yima's manor is a challenge that cannot be measured. To risk exposing all of those people... ? It must. So if you attend the Highstorm meeting, you may notice... there is someone standing in a corner decorated with potted plants. Not by the plants... partially in the plants. A pair of stylish loafers are visible, a suit pant... a pair of leather gloved hands holding a drink they did not ask for, but could not refuse without causing more of a scene.
If you look closer... the shape of its skull is just slightly visible between leafy fronds.]
⓸ 🅲🅾🅼🅼🆄🅽🅸🅾🅽
Shiva?
Shiva, can you hear me?
[No. But everyone else can, potentially.]
⓹ 🆆🅸🅻🅳🅲🅰🆁🅳
[Teacher will be largely in Highstorm, searching for a certain child and trying to avoid people and crowded areas. I welcome any wildcards, PM to plan if you like! One request, please contact me if your character plans to try and make physical contact with Teacher's skin! Cheers!]
"Teacher" | The Girl from the Other Side: Siúil, a Rún
[The fingers that break the surface of the loamy soil and curl around a root for purchase are long, elegant... and pitch black, like they had been coated in night. Though the being beneath has no need to breath, and therefore does not fear suffocation beneath the weight of the collapsing dirt... it needs to get out for an entirely different reason. There is someone that should be by its side, and yet is not, ripped away by the end of a "dream"... When it has not dreamed for years. Not since the curse.
By the time it emerges fully from the impromptu grave the dirt has somewhat sullied its suit, smeared over the skull-like face with a ripped tangle of thin roots caught on a long, spiraling ebon horn. Looking around does not immediately provide an answer for the location of what had been stolen, but all around it... There are more. More graves, more burial plots, and there, right beside it... another hand bursts into sight, groping for any sort of leverage or support to help its owner break free. And yet, even though it should be so, so easy to just reach out, to assist...]
I cannot take your hand. I am sorry.
[The black creature speaks, its voice deep and loud despite how it does not seem to really move any sort of mouth. Adjusting, it begins to rise, getting to one knee as it directs, merely having to hope that their words were audible through the crumbling bits of soil.]
To your left is a root anchored well in the soil. Left-
⓶ 🆁🅾🅾🆃-🆀🆄🅰🅺🅴🆁
[The transformation into a Black Child robbed a being of more than humanity. First one's sense of touch, then sensations of heat, cold, and pain. The need to breathe, sleep, or eat. Anything but the barest recollection of what those things felt like were lost along the way, and now... Perhaps it is an advantage, unknown and unappreciated. In the depths of the Tree a man (if it could be a man, with a face seemingly formed from the upper half of an animal skull) trudges steadily on, even, perhaps, after other newly birthed shard-bearers begin to flag or feel the effects of the miasma on their bodies. After all... it is not breathing the poisonous substance in, slowing the main method of absorption, the other properties in its black body dulling the rest...
But they are creeping in still. It (he?) may not feel pain, but... the images are gradually coming faster. Stronger. Enough so that it finally stops and clutches at its skull, fingers spasming a moment and pure white eyes shutting as if to try and block out the intrusive images and thoughts.]
Nnn...
[Fire. Pain. Something exploding, ripping... and when the eerie white eyes set in a black skull open, someone else is there, who was not before he (it?) became lost in the Tree's memory. How long had it been? Had it been an entire night? Hours? Minutes? There was no telling here in the root-woven maze of darkness, but-]
Who are you?
[The shard recently embedded in the hollow of its throat is doing... something. It cannot identify the sensation of heat. But it does know... it cannot allow the other person to get much closer. (And more than who, what are they? Where are they-)]
Stay back.
⓷ 🆃🆆🅾 🅲🅸🆃🅸🅴🆂
[A tall, ink black figure now stalks the streets of Highstorm. They avoid all physical contact with others, sticking to shadows and turning back whenever they encounter crowded alleys or vibrant markets. When they can locate a safe vantage point, they seem to watch the goings on around them with wide, unnaturally pale eyes... but more than that, they seem to be searching. Searching here, searching there, sometimes following pale-haired children who grow skittish or run, leaving them behind.
They need to know more. They need to know what happened, where one single soul is, and yet the informational meeting at Yima's manor is a challenge that cannot be measured. To risk exposing all of those people... ? It must. So if you attend the Highstorm meeting, you may notice... there is someone standing in a corner decorated with potted plants. Not by the plants... partially in the plants. A pair of stylish loafers are visible, a suit pant... a pair of leather gloved hands holding a drink they did not ask for, but could not refuse without causing more of a scene.
If you look closer... the shape of its skull is just slightly visible between leafy fronds.]
⓸ 🅲🅾🅼🅼🆄🅽🅸🅾🅽
Shiva?
Shiva, can you hear me?
[No. But everyone else can, potentially.]
⓹ 🆆🅸🅻🅳🅲🅰🆁🅳
[Teacher will be largely in Highstorm, searching for a certain child and trying to avoid people and crowded areas. I welcome any wildcards, PM to plan if you like! One request, please contact me if your character plans to try and make physical contact with Teacher's skin! Cheers!]