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I
[Inactive] Aboleth
Guest
A small opening by Ballisticannon
Time to make your Father proud.You awaken to the sensation of the ground being torn away. Your eyes open just in time to be blinded by a brilliant emerald gleam that erupts from below, locking your vision shut as you tumble down through the raucous clamor of humming engines and whistling winds. Thoughts race in a desperate attempt to make sense of your circumstances, and come up with nothing; yet, that droning mechanical rhythm - it clings to you, worming almost intimately through the holes in a perforated memory. The notion is once again forgotten as the earth comes up to meet you. The next time you come to your senses, they are not so viciously assaulted. You rise now from a bed of warm soil and pillowy green; your fingers catch the edge of a broad, tapered fiber as the term "grass" floats gently to the top of your mind, and you cling to the thought as you push yourself to your feet, noticing the weight on your left arm. A device is strapped there, wrapped about the base of your wrist like a shackle, but as you look it over, the intricacies of its operation filter into your mind, drip-fed from some past life. This is a survival tool, one purpose-built for this place - and yet, as your ears pluck the faint echo of a volley of thunderous blasts from the softer sounds of nature around you, you find yourself wanting. You will need far more to survive here than a knife and a plucky attitude. But, better to have that than the knife alone.