46 Ashan, 723
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The abruptness of a crack of thunder nearly caused him to jump out of his skin. He was lying against the sandy shore of a beach when a high-voltage zig-zag connected against the ground a mere metre or two from his head. The impact sent a pile of sand directly into his face. The entire situation was surreal, but all that which happened within a dream, stayed within a dream, as probably no one importantly specific ever said. So Kotton spent a moment or more expelling the salt from his mouth and removing the minerals that coated his chapped lips. Choking, he fought to spit out the foreign elements before enlisting in a war waged by phlegm and expectorate. Up came the phlegm and with it came the remaining water that coated his lungs from when he almost drowned.
“Shit.”
His memory was a ticking time bomb- he had nearly died! He didn't know what happened if you died in your dreams, in Emea, or if it was even possible, but he thankful beyond measure he was still alive and kicking, if not without the addition of a building migraine. Addressing the pain only appended an indulgence of bitter in his mouth. He propped himself up on an elbow before managing himself to his knees. He needed to get away out of the lightning's path before it struck again. He crouched in a strange position before hoisting himself up… with ease? This facilitation came from the tender hand of the lad with butterfly wings.
He blinked in a hurry, ridding the last particles of salt and siliceous objects from his vision. He looked into the boy's eyes, scrutinized how they seemed to glitter in a sunlight that was no longer there. To hell with the worry that came from being caught in a lightning storm, the liquids pools of gold that surrounded the tiny black holes of his pupils were magnetizing. It felt like being sucked into those aforementioned black holes. The boy's wings were of similar beauty. They shimmered and shone in invisible sunlight, hues of amber, bisque and beige, bronze and burnt umber. Kotton had never seen so many different shades of brown in the same place. But they weren't simply colours- there was more value to them than that. It was like a thin glaze coated the boy's wings, giving way to a mirror effect that triumphed the aesthetic quality of the everyday butterfly. Upon closer analysis, the boy's wings appeared to be made up of a collective of thin flakes similar to schist. And when he touched the appendages, his theory was found correct: the wings were not only beautiful but strong.
Another boom penetrated deep into the sand, reminding the young man of the need to be anywhere but here where a storm was brewing. There were clouds swiftly decorating themselves amidst the sky, gloomy puffs just like the ones that had chased him during his initial expanse across the beach. His eyes met those golden orbs once again and established the feeling of his insides cooling with the pleasantry of calm.
Latent waves of energy began to spring from the lad's enchanting wings, and they danced like northern lights along his backside. The iridescent scheme of browns brightened and began to glow, illuminating a small bubble around the two men as the sky quickly continued to darken. Kotton sighed inwardly, agreeably entrapped in a never ending epiphany of bafflement. The sight of something so marvy enough to declare another (in this case the array of colours into that of glowing colours), had him thinking prayers of gratitude for his ability to see. His migraine preternaturally subsided. His mind had been on fire- vexation blistering the matter inside his skull- but now there was nothing more than the slight discomfort of an itch.
AKotton wondered whether there was more to this person than the physical appeal of a set of wings. Was he also able to fly?
He had just started to mutter to himself when the butterfly man took off to embellish the skyline with his lustre and lumine.
Perplexing as it was, this particular encounter wasn’t over with. The half-blood dared to follow the flight-pattern of his newly acquainted friend, whether he was a figment of an imagination or not. In fact, he had been so intent on trying to manoeuvre his way around boulders, piles of dead jellyfish, and sharp fish bones that he had abandoned his inherent desire to be curious. He rooted his feet into the sand and focused until he was able to manipulate his astral projection into that of a creature gifted with the talents of aviation. A bird was the first thing to come to mind, so he chose the image of a raven to use as the framework of his transition.
His arms rapidly began to fatten, flesh turned to feather; his nose quickly grew, bone turned to beak; and his legs swiftly shrunk into two thin stalks of keratinized skin. Soon, air currents began to lift the young man up from the ground just like he were a lantern being let go into the sky during a seasonal festivity unbeknownst to him. And all too handily as the signs of another announcement of lightning made itself known. Apparently, when your hair stands up on its own behalf, it means there's an unusual detection of electricity in the air, also known as the plausibility of being a lightning strike's next target.
Unfortunately, Kotton had never before manifested his body into that of a bird. That being said, the mechanics to operate wings so that they actually worked were a bit foreign to him. Gravity was still an important player in this game, so it was understandable that the fear of falling remained. The moment of panic was over as he located that of his insect-like companion. The boy was riding clouds like waves of the sea. The sight was something that helped Kotton to slow his breathing. Instead of surrendering to concern, he diligently explored every technique the butterfly employed and dared to copy them.
The way the boy's wings flapped propelled him higher and the way they folded against themselves allowed him to cruise through the clouds. When they ceased moving and accompanied by a slight dip of his chin, he descended. He tried to do exactly as he saw. He fluttered his arms several times and noticed an increase in elevation. And when he drew them together, but still had them raised, he funneled through the gloomy clouds with ease. When he dropped his arms completely, he began to experience that gut-wrenching sensation that came with free-fall.
He was so wrapped up in himself that he didn't recognize the cold hands that wrapped around his waist until it was too late. His astral projection faltered with the loss of concentration and he was forced to feel everything in human form.
Falling felt indescribably surreal, but the feeling of fear was far more prominent. He clawed for his ability to change shape, but his mind was blank as to the image of what shape to change into. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, soldiering himself to accept the turn of events that would inevitably come. Even the pain flashed before his eyes as he fought to choose against the feelings of dread. He exhaled, his lungs shrivelling up and falling off, his body tearing itself apart, the stitched seams splintering akin to the popped tops of bottles of champagne. His stomach even exploded, he could feel it. The collateral damage that ensued permitted every singular butterfly to escape from their captivity inside his chest. Every thought, every doubt and every dream disappeared as he continued to sink further and further towards the beneath with the belief that his grave stone would say nothing other than "friend".
However, before his heart could evaporate and with it his soul, there was something more than a sad ending. Whilst it would hurt- a lot- beneath his falling body was the ocean and it graced his presence with calloused hands. He wasn't dead. He hadn't died. But he would drown if he didn't think of something quickly. So, he used the remaining energy he had after such a panic-induced situation, to exude his celestial convexity into the mirror image of a fish. Specifically, he had imagined a rainbow trout, an animal his adoptive father was so keen on catching from a local lake down the stream.
With the advantage of breathing underwater, time was no longer an enemy, but Kotton still rose to the surface via flapping his flippers until he was safely against solid ground. Just because he had made it ashore didn't mean he wasn't short of breath and boy, did he need to breathe. But it just wouldn't come until he woke-
---
There was nothing for Kotton's return into the waking world apart from a sudden jolt like that of being struck by lightning. His heart pounded, his breathing erratic. Yet here he was, lying atop the sweaty sheets of his bed, harbouring a headache that smarted with ridiculous intensity. He placed his fingers against his temples and gradually made circular motions, hoping to discourage the headache from becoming any worse than it already was.
Shivers raced up his spine as a form of kickback of his recent dream. That had been some dream, he registered, quickly throwing his legs out from beneath the warm comforter. He jumped from his bed and brushed himself off of all the ick of a poor night's sleep. He could recollect having met someone, someone who had such a profligate ability, a super power you could say, that enabled them to ascend past the winds of the world, and careen themselves off angry clouds. Specialty of any nature was held in a comfortable spot in his heart; his dreams enabled him with the ability to articulate inspiration which he often used as fuel for themes of his writing. Fiction, paranormal, supernatural, fantasy, those were the elements he worked best with. And his travels to Emea regularly supplied him with excitement and theory- motivation essential for an author to emerge successful in front of those naughty pests of writers' block. And Kotton unfortunately had many. That's why he relied on his dreams. They posed as catalysts to his creativity, sparks towards his goals, and mechanisms destined for something above and beyond a normal destination.
However, during these post-dreamt thoughts, his mind lingered and it lingered on thoughts that dared make him uneasy. He didn't understand what the thoughts meant, nor the reason behind them (unless he actively explored them), but let's just say the iridescent reflection of a butterfly wing he had found lying on the ground and thereby hung in his bedroom window seemed a tad bit uncanny.
“Shit.”
His memory was a ticking time bomb- he had nearly died! He didn't know what happened if you died in your dreams, in Emea, or if it was even possible, but he thankful beyond measure he was still alive and kicking, if not without the addition of a building migraine. Addressing the pain only appended an indulgence of bitter in his mouth. He propped himself up on an elbow before managing himself to his knees. He needed to get away out of the lightning's path before it struck again. He crouched in a strange position before hoisting himself up… with ease? This facilitation came from the tender hand of the lad with butterfly wings.
He blinked in a hurry, ridding the last particles of salt and siliceous objects from his vision. He looked into the boy's eyes, scrutinized how they seemed to glitter in a sunlight that was no longer there. To hell with the worry that came from being caught in a lightning storm, the liquids pools of gold that surrounded the tiny black holes of his pupils were magnetizing. It felt like being sucked into those aforementioned black holes. The boy's wings were of similar beauty. They shimmered and shone in invisible sunlight, hues of amber, bisque and beige, bronze and burnt umber. Kotton had never seen so many different shades of brown in the same place. But they weren't simply colours- there was more value to them than that. It was like a thin glaze coated the boy's wings, giving way to a mirror effect that triumphed the aesthetic quality of the everyday butterfly. Upon closer analysis, the boy's wings appeared to be made up of a collective of thin flakes similar to schist. And when he touched the appendages, his theory was found correct: the wings were not only beautiful but strong.
Another boom penetrated deep into the sand, reminding the young man of the need to be anywhere but here where a storm was brewing. There were clouds swiftly decorating themselves amidst the sky, gloomy puffs just like the ones that had chased him during his initial expanse across the beach. His eyes met those golden orbs once again and established the feeling of his insides cooling with the pleasantry of calm.
Latent waves of energy began to spring from the lad's enchanting wings, and they danced like northern lights along his backside. The iridescent scheme of browns brightened and began to glow, illuminating a small bubble around the two men as the sky quickly continued to darken. Kotton sighed inwardly, agreeably entrapped in a never ending epiphany of bafflement. The sight of something so marvy enough to declare another (in this case the array of colours into that of glowing colours), had him thinking prayers of gratitude for his ability to see. His migraine preternaturally subsided. His mind had been on fire- vexation blistering the matter inside his skull- but now there was nothing more than the slight discomfort of an itch.
AKotton wondered whether there was more to this person than the physical appeal of a set of wings. Was he also able to fly?
He had just started to mutter to himself when the butterfly man took off to embellish the skyline with his lustre and lumine.
Perplexing as it was, this particular encounter wasn’t over with. The half-blood dared to follow the flight-pattern of his newly acquainted friend, whether he was a figment of an imagination or not. In fact, he had been so intent on trying to manoeuvre his way around boulders, piles of dead jellyfish, and sharp fish bones that he had abandoned his inherent desire to be curious. He rooted his feet into the sand and focused until he was able to manipulate his astral projection into that of a creature gifted with the talents of aviation. A bird was the first thing to come to mind, so he chose the image of a raven to use as the framework of his transition.
His arms rapidly began to fatten, flesh turned to feather; his nose quickly grew, bone turned to beak; and his legs swiftly shrunk into two thin stalks of keratinized skin. Soon, air currents began to lift the young man up from the ground just like he were a lantern being let go into the sky during a seasonal festivity unbeknownst to him. And all too handily as the signs of another announcement of lightning made itself known. Apparently, when your hair stands up on its own behalf, it means there's an unusual detection of electricity in the air, also known as the plausibility of being a lightning strike's next target.
Unfortunately, Kotton had never before manifested his body into that of a bird. That being said, the mechanics to operate wings so that they actually worked were a bit foreign to him. Gravity was still an important player in this game, so it was understandable that the fear of falling remained. The moment of panic was over as he located that of his insect-like companion. The boy was riding clouds like waves of the sea. The sight was something that helped Kotton to slow his breathing. Instead of surrendering to concern, he diligently explored every technique the butterfly employed and dared to copy them.
The way the boy's wings flapped propelled him higher and the way they folded against themselves allowed him to cruise through the clouds. When they ceased moving and accompanied by a slight dip of his chin, he descended. He tried to do exactly as he saw. He fluttered his arms several times and noticed an increase in elevation. And when he drew them together, but still had them raised, he funneled through the gloomy clouds with ease. When he dropped his arms completely, he began to experience that gut-wrenching sensation that came with free-fall.
He was so wrapped up in himself that he didn't recognize the cold hands that wrapped around his waist until it was too late. His astral projection faltered with the loss of concentration and he was forced to feel everything in human form.
Falling felt indescribably surreal, but the feeling of fear was far more prominent. He clawed for his ability to change shape, but his mind was blank as to the image of what shape to change into. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, soldiering himself to accept the turn of events that would inevitably come. Even the pain flashed before his eyes as he fought to choose against the feelings of dread. He exhaled, his lungs shrivelling up and falling off, his body tearing itself apart, the stitched seams splintering akin to the popped tops of bottles of champagne. His stomach even exploded, he could feel it. The collateral damage that ensued permitted every singular butterfly to escape from their captivity inside his chest. Every thought, every doubt and every dream disappeared as he continued to sink further and further towards the beneath with the belief that his grave stone would say nothing other than "friend".
However, before his heart could evaporate and with it his soul, there was something more than a sad ending. Whilst it would hurt- a lot- beneath his falling body was the ocean and it graced his presence with calloused hands. He wasn't dead. He hadn't died. But he would drown if he didn't think of something quickly. So, he used the remaining energy he had after such a panic-induced situation, to exude his celestial convexity into the mirror image of a fish. Specifically, he had imagined a rainbow trout, an animal his adoptive father was so keen on catching from a local lake down the stream.
With the advantage of breathing underwater, time was no longer an enemy, but Kotton still rose to the surface via flapping his flippers until he was safely against solid ground. Just because he had made it ashore didn't mean he wasn't short of breath and boy, did he need to breathe. But it just wouldn't come until he woke-
---
There was nothing for Kotton's return into the waking world apart from a sudden jolt like that of being struck by lightning. His heart pounded, his breathing erratic. Yet here he was, lying atop the sweaty sheets of his bed, harbouring a headache that smarted with ridiculous intensity. He placed his fingers against his temples and gradually made circular motions, hoping to discourage the headache from becoming any worse than it already was.
Shivers raced up his spine as a form of kickback of his recent dream. That had been some dream, he registered, quickly throwing his legs out from beneath the warm comforter. He jumped from his bed and brushed himself off of all the ick of a poor night's sleep. He could recollect having met someone, someone who had such a profligate ability, a super power you could say, that enabled them to ascend past the winds of the world, and careen themselves off angry clouds. Specialty of any nature was held in a comfortable spot in his heart; his dreams enabled him with the ability to articulate inspiration which he often used as fuel for themes of his writing. Fiction, paranormal, supernatural, fantasy, those were the elements he worked best with. And his travels to Emea regularly supplied him with excitement and theory- motivation essential for an author to emerge successful in front of those naughty pests of writers' block. And Kotton unfortunately had many. That's why he relied on his dreams. They posed as catalysts to his creativity, sparks towards his goals, and mechanisms destined for something above and beyond a normal destination.
However, during these post-dreamt thoughts, his mind lingered and it lingered on thoughts that dared make him uneasy. He didn't understand what the thoughts meant, nor the reason behind them (unless he actively explored them), but let's just say the iridescent reflection of a butterfly wing he had found lying on the ground and thereby hung in his bedroom window seemed a tad bit uncanny.
