08-29-2008, 12:29 AM
Too tired for table.
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She had progressed so deeply into her reverie, it would be frightening to look at in retrospect. Nikita did not recognize trees and hills around her, but twisted and warped buildings made of rusted steel and rotted wood. All of her senses were malfunctioning, contributing to a dream that lingered onto reality. Memories were placed over reality like an opaque blanket — like a mask. A moving mask, a living mask. She could see time play against her surroundings in the shifting shadows and the moving clouds, and in the wind upon her face. She thought, however, she was still there. In the city. She could almost feel the palpable anxiety in the air, much like a storm about to break. And, judging by the clouds in the sky, it seemed like that might very well happen.
The coyote finally started to walk alongside a trickle of a stream — in her mind, a wandering trail of runoff from the rainwater collecting in the warped roofs of many of the buildings, though reality had it as a small tributary to the lake that was the centerpiece of the Esper Hollow territory. She walked there for some while, as her pace was barely better than that of a snail’s, until a silhouette against the dreary grays of her vision made her stop. Rain was falling again, piercing the mist slightly but creating a vision impairment all its own. Of course there was no mistake in her ill mind that the shape belonged to Patriot; who else would have it? Who else was in this world of hers? But what was she to think of him? She almost had a moment of total panic; was she angry at him, or not? Did she have reason to? What time did she lapse back into in the past?
Confusion gripped her — it totally blocked out everything. She almost lost where she was and what she was doing again (not that she had it to begin with), but she managed to stop thinking and focus on what she saw. She thought she saw Patriot’s tall, lean gray-white form through the rain and remaining mist, and that was enough for her. Her posture grew rigid, and her eyes grew sharp, though still clouded over slightly. Her hand twitched toward the hilt of her knife at her hip, but she refrained.
No. She would give him a chance to talk at least.
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The coyote finally started to walk alongside a trickle of a stream — in her mind, a wandering trail of runoff from the rainwater collecting in the warped roofs of many of the buildings, though reality had it as a small tributary to the lake that was the centerpiece of the Esper Hollow territory. She walked there for some while, as her pace was barely better than that of a snail’s, until a silhouette against the dreary grays of her vision made her stop. Rain was falling again, piercing the mist slightly but creating a vision impairment all its own. Of course there was no mistake in her ill mind that the shape belonged to Patriot; who else would have it? Who else was in this world of hers? But what was she to think of him? She almost had a moment of total panic; was she angry at him, or not? Did she have reason to? What time did she lapse back into in the past?
Confusion gripped her — it totally blocked out everything. She almost lost where she was and what she was doing again (not that she had it to begin with), but she managed to stop thinking and focus on what she saw. She thought she saw Patriot’s tall, lean gray-white form through the rain and remaining mist, and that was enough for her. Her posture grew rigid, and her eyes grew sharp, though still clouded over slightly. Her hand twitched toward the hilt of her knife at her hip, but she refrained.
No. She would give him a chance to talk at least.