Fantasy RPG Forum - Standing Trials

Continued from here.

Hart stepped into the doorway.

He wasn't sure what he had been expecting. He had been too caught up in what had happened thus far to have considered what might be past the door. Coming into the trial, then, he supposed he hadn't had expectations. Or rather, his expectations had been nothing. And it was nothing that he got.

Hart stepped through the doorway, and he couldn't feel, see, hear, smell, or taste. All sense had left him, and he might have smiled grimly at that had it not been so disorienting.

Because it was dark, Hart put out a hand and tried to step to the nearest wall. But there was no wall. He understood a handful of trills later that it was useless. He couldn't tell if he was standing. He couldn't feel his feet or the floor. He couldn't tell if there was a floor. He couldn't tell if there were walls. He couldn't feel his hands. If there were walls, he couldn't feel them either.

If he fell stumbling around in the dark, he wouldn't be able to feel it. But that didn't mean he couldn't hurt himself. As far as Hart could tell, it was best to do nothing.

At least he couldn't feel how much pain he was in.

But without his senses, how was he to do anything?

Hart stood for a moment, or he thought he stood, and did nothing.

And then abruptly, he could taste.

He tasted a kiss.

The kiss itself didn't last long, and Hart pulled back slightly when the taste of the kiss did the same. She was a woman, he thought, and she was here with him.

"Lust?" he asked, but he couldn't hear himself speak. He couldn't be sure he had even spoken.

But no. It hadn't been Lust.

There was only a lingering sense of taste.

Hart tasted some sort of fruit he couldn't quite recall. He tasted when it rained on the sea. He tasted desire, and sex. He tasted something like metal. He tasted a stale beer.

There were many, many tastes, and all of them his. And then there were more.

There was sunrise, like light on skin. A flower bud, green and bitter. A broken heart, dull and sharp, and without description. Unknowing happiness, like ginger candy and powdered sugar.

These were tastes Hart didn't know, and could only loosely attempt to quantify. They belonged to her.

Caitlyn, he thought of a sudden, though he didn't know why. Her name is Caitlyn.

He almost smiled.

For moments longer, he stood and thought.

Without sight, sound, or touch, he wouldn't be able to communicate with her. And Hart needed to communicate. His abilities would be able to do it, but he was in poor condition and using them would surely hurt him later. He didn't want to have to use them again.

But he saw no other option. Wincing, he closed his eyes and looked around with his sixth sense.

Caitlyn's Need came to him and Hart paused.

She Needed to complete the trial. And

The taste of everything needed Hart to let it in.

Hart frowned. Even with his mouth closed he suddenly tasted everything. It was a million million tastes, and yet it was singular. If he thought about it, it was like paper and ink, like magic and thought and need and song. It was tastes that shouldn't have been able to be perceived and yet were.

Hart hadn't sensed its Need. Rather, in its own manner, its need had been portrayed to him. Whatever it was, the everything was here, in this place. It was with them. And it wanted him.

It wanted in.

Hart frowned more deeply, shutting his mouth tight. But he had to ask.

"What are you?" he asked the taste of everything.

"Caitlyn," he said, but he couldn't hear himself speak. And if he couldn't hear himself, could she hear him? He knew vaguely where she was because he had sensed her Need. And because of the kiss. But where was hard to define when there was nothing.

Hart grimaced. He needed more than nothing.

But all he had was his sense of taste.

That would have to do.

Hart stood firmly where he was, though he couldn't be sure he was standing. Fuck that, he thought, fuck being uncertain, and with determination he brought to mind the four cardinal directions and put them in place around him.

North, he decided, was the direction he was facing; south was the opposite. West was to his left and east to his right. To each direction he assigned a taste. North was like snow, icy and fresh. South was like dirt, earthy with a hint of vegetation. West was how perfume tasted, floral and bitter and like soap. East was like dark chocolate when it melted. He made the directions go far, far away from him, until he could hardly taste them at all, to give himself a sense of distance.

Then he turned towards Caitlyn.

Caitlyn tasted of more. There was no other way for Hart to describe it. She was northwest of him, and when he turned that way he was bombarded with many, many separate and distinct tastes. The strongest was the taste of her kiss. Lavender and cinnamon and pleasure. It was a warm, grateful taste. And just underneath it was the zing of the taste of everything.

Hart took a half-step forward, towards the lavender and cinnamon. And then another. The taste strengthened.

She was close to him. Perhaps, for a moment, there was the taste of her lips. Thank you.

Hart smiled, though she couldn't see it. You're welcome.

They still had no true way to communicate with each other. Hart had figured out a method of navigation, but he didn't know if Caitlyn had. Besides for the brief moments when their mouths touched, Hart had to know if she was able to distinguish when he was near.

So he took a couple steps away from her.

When he turned back, she was there, the taste of lavender and cinnamon just as strong. Hart smiled at her in the dark.

Good. She was able to tell where he was.

They could stay together, and together they could complete her trial.

Hart turned and, using his north, south, east, and west, he oriented on the taste of everything.

If they could locate it, he was sure the trial would be complete.

OOC: Forgot to say, so just added this in:

Hart used Fulfillment on Caitlyn. Because I need to keep track, that will be the 43rd use of it in this event.

extra line here
There was nothing, nothing but taste, and then there was the feel of her hand. Hart held onto it tightly. Caitlyn took a step forward and as Hart followed, he was aware again of his feet, of the floor. And then Caitlyn dropped to her knees. At the same time, Hart stumbled and cried out, though he didn't know whether in ecstasy or pain.

He felt

everything.

There was the good, the too good, and the good that mixed with the bad. There was
--so much-- and he started to tremble. He wondered if this was what Bliss felt like, and then the thought was gone and he shuddered, and it was hard to think.

And then there was Caitlyn.

In the midst of all of the pleasure, Hart felt himself burned. A woman was on top of him; he was running his hands over her, and he was being branded. He was somewhere he couldn't recall, his pleasure coming to a climax, and someone was cutting into him; there was a knife pressed to his throat. He was on his stomach and a man arched over him, and there were so many drugs, too many, and he was being brutally beaten. He wasn't sure what was happening anymore. He was kissing someone deeply, and he tasted whiskey and smoke and iron as the whip lashed down upon him. He screamed as he was flogged.

Caitlyn.

Hart staggered until he bumped into her. She was on her knees where she'd fallen and Hart felt the tears on her face. He tasted her fear. It was sour. The sour wasn't fresh like lemons, but dirty and curdled, expensive food gone rank. Hart dropped down next to her, seeking her hand. He got hold of it and held it very tightly in his own.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, panting, though she couldn't hear. "I'm sorry."

It was hard to think of anything but how good it felt and how much it hurt. Hart tried to bring to mind the four cardinal directions but he couldn't. He gasped and panted as pleasure and pain ripped through him, the feeling of an orgasm and of someone holding him, holding them, roughly down. "No," he said, and tried to focus on taste.

Fear, growing sharper and more foul and more desperate. Please. Please. Stop this. She was begging. "I will," he muttered, still gripping Caitlyn's hand. "I will."

He tried again to focus on the cardinal directions, but he just couldn't. Okay, he thought, okay, and focused instead on the pleasure and the pain that spiked through him. "Be small," he hissed. "Be small." He took both of Caitlyn's hands and squeezed. "Just this," he panted. "Just like this."

Just their hands.

Hart felt hands running through his hair. He felt hands on his neck, pressing tighter, tighter. There were hands light and lingering against his body. Hands hitting him hard across the face. Hands fisted in his hair to keep him still. Hands clamped on his wrists, the nails curled against his skin. Hands punching him hard and then again, again in the stomach. Hands against his, fingers entwined.

"There," Hart said. "Stay there."

"Okay," he whispered, and held onto her hands.

He thought about his and Caitlyn's hands, warm, together, and made everything else small. He thought about how hard he was holding onto her, and how he didn't want to hurt her, and his fingers loosened. Slowly, so carefully, he brought to mind other feelings. They were pleasurable feelings, but pleasure that was gentle and nonsexual.

Warm rain on his skin. He squeezed Caitlyn's hand.

She was trembling, trembling, and her response was late. But he thought he felt her squeeze back.

Swimming in the ocean. Feeling the the salt in the water lift him with each wave. He squeezed her hand, and Caitlyn squeezed back.

The feeling of a ship's line, strong and resistant as he pulled it taut. He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back.

The feeling of their mouths touching.

Caitlyn squeezed his hand, and Hart squeezed back.

The sun radiating into her skin. She squeezed his hand and Hart held tight.

A happy stomach, content with good food. She squeezed his hand and he pulled her to her feet.

A good stretch in the morning when she woke. She squeezed his hand and they took a step.

And then another.

They walked together. It took them away from the sex and the pain, and Hart pinned those feelings down in place as he, as she had been pinned down by them. With every step they were further away from it. With every step, they left it behind. Hart turned his head and relocated the cardinal directions. Ice and snow, earth and leaves, floral perfume, dark chocolate. They were all still there. He and Caitlyn had gotten confused but it was over, it was over, and he turned his face towards the taste of everything.

Caitlyn squeezed his hand and Hart squeezed back. They continued on.

A hot cup of tea, the steam rising towards his face.

A head on her shoulder, belonging to someone she cared about.

Lying in a soft bed, bundled up in the blankets.

The feeling of grass underneath her feet and the sky far above her.

Dancing with someone slowly, their head tucked into his neck.

A hot bath with plenty of soap and bubbles.

Sore muscles after a hard day's work.

Her heart flittering when someone was kind.

Like that, they went on.

extra line here
The trial filled to the brim with sensations, and Hart kept hold of Caitlyn's hand. It was hard to describe, this place-- it had been made into somewhere unlike any other, both indefinite and defined. Here Hart was both unfeeling and feeling; deaf and hearing; anosmic and smelling; ageusic and tasting; blind but with sight.

New sensations came to him with every thought and movement-- the smell of bread baking, the sight of the stars and moons in the dark clear night, the hot-warm feeling of melted wax on skin. And with each new sensation, others spiralled into being.

The smell of bread spiralled into its components of ground flour, of water, of salt and honey and yeast and butter. And of a sudden

Hart could feel the wheat flour germinating, he could feel it as it broke through the soil; feel it growing and flowering and ripening;

could hear the water trickling down through a stream; hear it bubbling and boiling before it was cooled to warmth and kneaded into to the flour;

could smell the sea where the salt had originated, and the distant sweat of the men who had labored to refine it in the sun;

could feel the yeast awakening with heat as it broke down the sugar and caused the bread to rise as if with life;

could taste the pollen and nectar and wax of the honeycomb;

and see the mother cow, heavy with milk to be separated and whipped to fresh butter, and her pealing, newborn calf.

The sensations spiralled and ran ahead and fell back upon themselves, and it seemed to Hart that they were conversing with him, telling him any and all knowledge that they could impart, if only he might be able to understand.

He looked over and saw Caitlyn, and looking at her in this place was like looking at all of the world. She smiled tentatively, reached out a delicate hand to touch his shoulder, and Hart stared at her with eyes alight. "We need to go," she said, and he heard all the notes of her voice, and in that music and in her touch he understood what she said without saying. She wanted to leave, but never to leave him.

"Okay," Hart said, almost a whisper. "Okay."

Caitlyn took his hand and through a thousand sensations --the lightness of her fingers, the quiet hesitation in her step, the weakness in her grip, the sound of her slight breath, the exhaustion she hid in her eyes-- Hart understood what she was saying and he stepped up beside her. Gently, he put her arm around his shoulders and his arm around her back. He didn't need to speak either; she understood as if he had spoken. Hold on. Hold onto me.

Together they went through the door.

Continued here.