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rainbowfic2023-12-19 09:38 pm
thisbluespirit) wrote in rainbowfic2023-12-19 09:38 pm
White Opal #3; Tourmaline #18 [Starfall]
Name: Illusions in Ice
Story: Starfall
Colors: White Opal #3 (Reverie/daydream); Tourmaline #18 (sea/desert)
Supplies and Styles: Charcoal + Diptych + Photography + Postcard (2 x drabbles) + Chiaroscuro
Word Count: 200 (2 x 100)
Rating: PG
Warnings:
Notes: 1317(ish) Wastelands; the Ice Prince.
Summary: The man dreams he is a god; the god dreams he is a man.
The world explodes and reforms with the clarity of ice. Cold is the natural state of being. The world around him aches for the chilly perfection he's found. He releases the whole force within, covering the dead Wastelands with it. Pure waves of snow turn grey desert into a bright, glittering sea.
Everything is possible: he sees far in the sharp wintry light. If people are fool enough to fight it, he'll freeze them; make new creatures from the snow to do his bidding.
He's still human, though nameless, made anew—but closes his eyes and dreams himself a god.
A mortal frame cannot contain such power forever; his shell cracks. He gasps—will not let go. His skin tingles and glows blue-white.
He holds on in cold rage against people who won't let the world rest under the blanket of snow it deserves. He clings on till human heart and mind and soul evaporate. His skin frost-sheened, blue-white light in his eyes, he breathes out winter.
Yet sometimes, when the lights of the rift play above, their colours dancing on the white sea below, or he shapes new, fanciful forms in snow, he dreams he is still a man.
Story: Starfall
Colors: White Opal #3 (Reverie/daydream); Tourmaline #18 (sea/desert)
Supplies and Styles: Charcoal + Diptych + Photography + Postcard (2 x drabbles) + Chiaroscuro
Word Count: 200 (2 x 100)
Rating: PG
Warnings:
Notes: 1317(ish) Wastelands; the Ice Prince.
Summary: The man dreams he is a god; the god dreams he is a man.
The world explodes and reforms with the clarity of ice. Cold is the natural state of being. The world around him aches for the chilly perfection he's found. He releases the whole force within, covering the dead Wastelands with it. Pure waves of snow turn grey desert into a bright, glittering sea.
Everything is possible: he sees far in the sharp wintry light. If people are fool enough to fight it, he'll freeze them; make new creatures from the snow to do his bidding.
He's still human, though nameless, made anew—but closes his eyes and dreams himself a god.
A mortal frame cannot contain such power forever; his shell cracks. He gasps—will not let go. His skin tingles and glows blue-white.
He holds on in cold rage against people who won't let the world rest under the blanket of snow it deserves. He clings on till human heart and mind and soul evaporate. His skin frost-sheened, blue-white light in his eyes, he breathes out winter.
Yet sometimes, when the lights of the rift play above, their colours dancing on the white sea below, or he shapes new, fanciful forms in snow, he dreams he is still a man.
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That's so beautiful!
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Very good!
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