[ there's a relatively good-sized collection of letters—looking for anyone in particular? they're nearly all from people you know from Imeeji, although there's several from someone named Lark.
The volume she seems to be reading is a volume of the poetry of Sara Teasdale. A bookmarked page opens to a poem called "There Will Come Soft Rains."
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
Robins will wear their feathery fire Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn, Would scarcely know that we were gone. ]
[ The grasses sway quietly in the wind, a sea of green and brown and greenish brown... a soft, dull color under the greenish-grey sky. It's peaceful, to be surrounded by this, even though rain's on the horizon. A little lonely, but in the way of a dull, barely-obvious ache instead of a stabbing pain.
There's sort of a slight whispery quality to the way the grasses rustle that makes you... feel uneasy, maybe. Like someone's whispering in your ear but you can't quite tell what they're saying.
[ You're still trying to move on when a stick or a root or something in your path sends you sprawling face-first into the ground, nose slamming into solid earth with a crack.
[ The sword seems to have a singular, wicked mind of its own, and when you reach to pick it up—somehow it's turned in your hand, somehow you approach it wrong, and...
...it buries itself in your gut, lancing all the way through. It hurts—it hurts so terribly, so badly, and you can feel blood soaking into your clothing, and the shifting of your guts. You cough, and there's blood that spatters there, too.
And yet, the life doesn't feel like it's leaving you. You're just also beset by the sharp, burning pain of a stomach wound. ]
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Re: SHRIKE'S BEDROOM
Re: SHRIKE'S BEDROOM
The volume she seems to be reading is a volume of the poetry of Sara Teasdale. A bookmarked page opens to a poem called "There Will Come Soft Rains."
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone. ]
Re: SHRIKE'S BEDROOM
[No, actually, he doesn't need to poke through the letters, after all. He thinks he knows plenty about this place, now]
[With one final glance around, he lets himself back out the door to explore outside]
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where outside? there's the road, the garden and yard, the tall grass... ]
Re: SHRIKE'S BEDROOM
Re: SHRIKE'S BEDROOM
There's sort of a slight whispery quality to the way the grasses rustle that makes you... feel uneasy, maybe. Like someone's whispering in your ear but you can't quite tell what they're saying.
Continue? ]
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Continue, or turn back? ]
Re: SHRIKE'S BEDROOM
[Continue]
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You're pretty sure your nose is broken. ]
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[Takes hold of his own nose]
[Breaks it back into place and keeps going, fuck you especially, root]
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...a sword.
This is a huge sword, forged of dark metal that shines like an oilslick. It almost feels like the air around it is... colder, somehow. ]
Re: SHRIKE'S BEDROOM
[Fuck you, then, sword]
[...but he picks it up]
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...it buries itself in your gut, lancing all the way through. It hurts—it hurts so terribly, so badly, and you can feel blood soaking into your clothing, and the shifting of your guts. You cough, and there's blood that spatters there, too.
And yet, the life doesn't feel like it's leaving you. You're just also beset by the sharp, burning pain of a stomach wound. ]
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[fuck]
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it bleeds, and bleeds, the blood soaking into the ground, but—curiously, you still don't feel like you're dying. shouldn't this kill you? ]
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admittedly, it hurts even worse to not have that perfectly sharp barrier holding things in, but. there you go ]
Re: SHRIKE'S BEDROOM
[Fuck]
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also, there's a rumble of heavy thunder, and the sky is darkening rapidly around that pure black crack that runs across it now. ]
Re: SHRIKE'S BEDROOM
[cool]
[Give him a sec to get it together, a sword wound in the gut is not as easy to shake off as a broken nose,]
Re: SHRIKE'S BEDROOM
Re: SHRIKE'S BEDROOM
[okay]
[Time to get back up]
[Can he keep pressing onward?]
Re: SHRIKE'S BEDROOM
the grasses are thick, and rough as he pushes through... and well above his head. it could be easy to get lost out here.
the farther he goes, the scratches turn to scrapes turn to tiny stinging cuts. ]
Re: SHRIKE'S BEDROOM
Re: SHRIKE'S BEDROOM
Re: SHRIKE'S BEDROOM
Re: SHRIKE'S BEDROOM