How entirely ironic that he should wake up to an epic adventure the likes of which he's spent his life pulling apart at the fictional seams and be solely occupied with thoughts of home, just like every voyager doomed to look behind them, no matter what the inhuman ferryman has to say about looking forward. Stumbling from the vessel as if from a womb into a new world, he can only greet the fantastic with a fluttering feeling of lighthearted nausea that sinks into heavy-hearted dread.
Wariness, too. Wary not just that this unearthliness might be real, but that it might not be real... and that he might have left the parts of his mind that could tell the difference behind in that dank cell stained with his and Louisa's blood. At worst, he wonders if he ever left at all, and this is the trick of a broken mind while his body remains. There are worse ends to being lost between the lines of a story--far brutal, far bloodier ends.
Fitfully, the daemon spends the disembarkment toying with the band on his wrist, tracing and rubbing the edges, the smooth disc, orange flashing insidiously between his fingers. The city overlooking the harbor is a striking jewel, glinting in the distance like one of the Seven Cities of Gold, but it's the High Temple that whispers something beneath his skin, strumming a chord that rings in tune with the metal secured to his wrist.
The wordless tugging puts him on the path to the latter, and after a long and breathless time gazing up at the exterior--evocative of some beautifully wrought monument to the old faiths but of no clear composition he can put a finger on--he finally shifts. To the person nearest, he says, "Well, shall head in?"
As if they were invited and this is not every bit a step into the absurd.
— II. CITY
[He resists the first few days, skittishly keeping close to the High Temple and its sanctuary, losing hours to running fingers through his hair in solitary thought and only his most basic needs. But inevitably, Carcosa calls to him and anyone with an ounce of curiosity--a siren's song to explore the unknown and the strange and the marvellous.
For one thing, he can't wear a single robe forever. And for another... Kit can't deny, underneath weariness and a desire to put his head down and not lift it again, there's a spark of excitement blooming in the dark. A new world. He can languish any day, anywhere on Earth, but who can say they've passed through a door to somewhere entirely else?
He can't be the only Traveller with the idea to trek into the city limits, and he can't be the only one stop and gawk at the sights and sounds of the future distilled into glass-fronted buildings and motor cars gliding along paved streets. He might not even be the only one to think to seize upon an abandoned newspaper on an outdoor cafe table and blanch at the date at the top.]
— III. MASQUERADE
[He little likes the enchanted mask that affixes to his face with the suddenness of a dream, but he finds he likes the yellow pin even less. To his distaste, it brings to mind the Jews' yellow badges, worn in plain view--though in this case what the marker adorning his perfectly fitted black evening wear is exposing and to what extent, he's not yet sure.
(He's not sure of much. People can lose their hold on what's real and true in a dream half as substantial as this, a chill warning to keep in mind.)
Satisfied neither are coming off without the key to this magic, he tries to keep abreast of the rising tide of unease in him by playing the role, taking a seat at the bar with the other men and women in their suits and indecorously-draped dresses. To try and learn, to trace the mask's shape with his fingers until he understands it. To listen. To take whatever drink is on hand--a white lady, he's told--and swallow it down, welcoming its scald, and remind himself he can't afford to lose what wits he has left to blind panic.
Over the course of taking the room's measure, his attention falls on someone looking as though they're experiencing same struggles he had upon feeling the mask on his face. Another who's wandered into this honey trap, it seems, perhaps freshly arrived. Or else fed up with feeling at the mercy of magical mischief.]
You might find more use in a drink than in trying to pry that from your skin.
[He speaks lowly on approach. Call it pity; call it shared interest; either way, he pauses in his circling of the party to offer a light remark.]
no subject
How entirely ironic that he should wake up to an epic adventure the likes of which he's spent his life pulling apart at the fictional seams and be solely occupied with thoughts of home, just like every voyager doomed to look behind them, no matter what the inhuman ferryman has to say about looking forward. Stumbling from the vessel as if from a womb into a new world, he can only greet the fantastic with a fluttering feeling of lighthearted nausea that sinks into heavy-hearted dread.
Wariness, too. Wary not just that this unearthliness might be real, but that it might not be real... and that he might have left the parts of his mind that could tell the difference behind in that dank cell stained with his and Louisa's blood. At worst, he wonders if he ever left at all, and this is the trick of a broken mind while his body remains. There are worse ends to being lost between the lines of a story--far brutal, far bloodier ends.
Fitfully, the daemon spends the disembarkment toying with the band on his wrist, tracing and rubbing the edges, the smooth disc, orange flashing insidiously between his fingers. The city overlooking the harbor is a striking jewel, glinting in the distance like one of the Seven Cities of Gold, but it's the High Temple that whispers something beneath his skin, strumming a chord that rings in tune with the metal secured to his wrist.
The wordless tugging puts him on the path to the latter, and after a long and breathless time gazing up at the exterior--evocative of some beautifully wrought monument to the old faiths but of no clear composition he can put a finger on--he finally shifts. To the person nearest, he says, "Well, shall head in?"
As if they were invited and this is not every bit a step into the absurd.
— II. CITY
[He resists the first few days, skittishly keeping close to the High Temple and its sanctuary, losing hours to running fingers through his hair in solitary thought and only his most basic needs. But inevitably, Carcosa calls to him and anyone with an ounce of curiosity--a siren's song to explore the unknown and the strange and the marvellous.
For one thing, he can't wear a single robe forever. And for another... Kit can't deny, underneath weariness and a desire to put his head down and not lift it again, there's a spark of excitement blooming in the dark. A new world. He can languish any day, anywhere on Earth, but who can say they've passed through a door to somewhere entirely else?
He can't be the only Traveller with the idea to trek into the city limits, and he can't be the only one stop and gawk at the sights and sounds of the future distilled into glass-fronted buildings and motor cars gliding along paved streets. He might not even be the only one to think to seize upon an abandoned newspaper on an outdoor cafe table and blanch at the date at the top.]
— III. MASQUERADE
[He little likes the enchanted mask that affixes to his face with the suddenness of a dream, but he finds he likes the yellow pin even less. To his distaste, it brings to mind the Jews' yellow badges, worn in plain view--though in this case what the marker adorning his perfectly fitted black evening wear is exposing and to what extent, he's not yet sure.
(He's not sure of much. People can lose their hold on what's real and true in a dream half as substantial as this, a chill warning to keep in mind.)
Satisfied neither are coming off without the key to this magic, he tries to keep abreast of the rising tide of unease in him by playing the role, taking a seat at the bar with the other men and women in their suits and indecorously-draped dresses. To try and learn, to trace the mask's shape with his fingers until he understands it. To listen. To take whatever drink is on hand--a white lady, he's told--and swallow it down, welcoming its scald, and remind himself he can't afford to lose what wits he has left to blind panic.
Over the course of taking the room's measure, his attention falls on someone looking as though they're experiencing same struggles he had upon feeling the mask on his face. Another who's wandered into this honey trap, it seems, perhaps freshly arrived. Or else fed up with feeling at the mercy of magical mischief.]
You might find more use in a drink than in trying to pry that from your skin.
[He speaks lowly on approach. Call it pity; call it shared interest; either way, he pauses in his circling of the party to offer a light remark.]