Logs:Radioactive Fever Dreams - Revision history

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2015-04-09T22:47:07Z

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2015-03-10T07:28:18Z

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Bot at 23:14, 26 January 2015

2015-01-26T23:14:22Z

Bot at 07:56, 5 July 2014

2014-07-05T07:56:44Z

Ceawlin at 18:49, 27 February 2013

2013-02-27T18:49:14Z

Ceawlin at 18:49, 27 February 2013

2013-02-27T18:49:00Z

Ceawlin at 18:14, 27 February 2013

2013-02-27T18:14:23Z

Ceawlin: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Ceawlin | where = High Reaches Weyr | what = What the dark, deep hallways contain. | when = Day 9, Month 2, Turn 31 | gamedate = 2013.02.27 | quote = I'm waking..."

2013-02-27T17:23:07Z

Created page with "{{ Log | who = Ceawlin | where = High Reaches Weyr | what = What the dark, deep hallways contain. | when = Day 9, Month 2, Turn 31 | gamedate = 2013.02.27 | quote = I'm waking..."

New page

{{ Log
| who = Ceawlin
| where = High Reaches Weyr
| what = What the dark, deep hallways contain.
| when = Day 9, Month 2, Turn 31
| gamedate = 2013.02.27
| quote = I'm waking up to ash and dust
| weather = A blanket of cold, dense fog fills the bowl with its oppressive presence and obscures vision.
| categories =
| mentions =
| ooc = Little explanation here: I wanted to try something different that might or might not have succeeded! I wrote this vignette while listening to the song, Radioactive, by Imagine Dragons. It was the perfect 'feel' for Ceawlin. However, I didn't want to do a traditional vignette; rather I wanted to challenge myself to do something through the eyes of someone else observing something. Long story short, I'm hoping it is evocative to the song (which I included because I tried to pace the vignette to the lyrics). Hopefully it works!
| icons = ceawlin_silhouette.png
| log = A girl-child's laughter is like silken soap bubbles bouncing after the patter of running feet; skinny legs pump, racing through the warren of the weyr, the velvety streamers of the black sash stream behind her. The grey fabric of her dress is middling tier of afforability; the boy who chases her good-naturedly is of a lower class, dressed dingier, dirtier. Bend of knee, pull of tendon, the push of muscle and bone, and he's following the dirty-blond of her hair. A handprint to the corner of a sharp bend...

<div style="text-align: center;">''I'm waking up to ash and dust''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''I wipe my brow and I sweat my rust''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''I'm breathing in the chemicals''</div>

<div style="text-align: center;">''I'm breaking in, shaping up, then checking out on the prison bus''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''This is it, the apocalypse''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''Whoa''</div>

... and the girl-child's laughter is the last echo before she's racing down and deeper into the weyr. Dodging left, then right, then left again, she avoids the lower caverns workers who tolerate her presence. Their presence. A child's play rings with sweet innocence that's hard to ignore in the weyr's current climate, and it's infectious. A matronly woman with a large bust and even larger girth pushes herself against the cold stones and raises her laundry basket as the girl-child ducks beneath it. The girl’s laughter touches upon the matronly woman, popping the soap bubbles of happiness near enough that when the boy comes careening around the corner, irritation is not even an emotion felt in the dim recesses of her mind. Instead, she calls after him, “She went that way!”

The girl’s progress takes her deeper into the weyr….

<div style="text-align: center;">''I'm waking up, I feel it in my bones''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''Enough to make my systems blow''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''Welcome to the new age, to the new age''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''Welcome to the new age, to the new age''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive''</div>

… The boy almost catches her. They both fall against the stones of the opposite wall of the hallway. The girl falls with explosive laughter, high pitched and infectious. Her dress gathers some of the dirt of the hallway down the back of her legs, its fine fabric losing some of the purity of luster. The boy’s trousers don’t suffer much indignity when he scrambles on all fours and pushes up off the floor and chases after the girl-child. One rough, tiny hand barely feels the touch of velvet sash before the girl’s off.

<div style="text-align: center;">''I raise my flags, don my clothes''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''It's a revolution, I suppose''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''We're painted red to fit right in''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''Whoa''</div>

<div style="text-align: center;">''I'm breaking in, shaping up, then checking out on the prison bus''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''This is it, the apocalypse''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''Whoa''</div>

<div style="text-align: center;">''I'm waking up, I feel it in my bones''</div>

She turns a corner and suddenly the shadows seem more real, having reached a depth few people venture into without something other than play-time in mind. The boy is no longer behind her, veering the wrong way so the girl-child stands alone in the hallway. In the near distance, the sound of raucous laughter and shouting draws her attention. Hesitantly, she steps further down the hallway in her shiny black leather shoes with the wooden soles. Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack. Anger, cheers, jeers; the many male voices scare the young child with the soiled dress and the stringy dirty-blond hair.

Rounding the corner, wide-eyes of silvery-blue find the glow-light of a cavernous room. Peering like a waif, she catches sight of a table, a group of males, and the hint of ash and soot. The table is decorated in the adult’s play-time activity of cards, dice, and bones. She slinks through the room, hoping to draw no attention, spying another hallway adjacent to the door. The group of adults are too in tune with their betting to pay attention to a slip of a child with a dirty dress. The hallway yields another smaller room with an exit upwards. A hard swallow catches in her throat, but it’s the farthest corner that draws her eyes…

<div style="text-align: center;">''Enough to make my systems blow''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''Welcome to the new age, to the new age''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''Welcome to the new age, to the new age''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive''</div>

Shining blond hair – initially, jealousy colors her silvery-blue eyes green, the young girl envious of hair much prettier than her own – catches the light that spills into the darkened hallway; an older boy stands, head tilted backwards up to a much taller cloaked figure. Sun-browned hand has reached out and got the boy by the throat, menacing whispers coming from the shadows that feed an imaginative young girl’s mind. She sees teeth and monsters in this simple act of the cloaked figure forcing the younger boy to eat something. Red eyes glow from the depths of the cloak, and a tail and wings sprout behind the man; all seen by silvery-blue eyes made round by the mal-intent in the act between the two males.

A hand clamps hard on her upper arm…

<div style="text-align: center;">''All systems go, the sun hasn't died''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''Deep in my bones, straight from inside''</div>

A yelp catches in her throat, but luckily for her, it does not escape. She turns, expecting the monstrous tunnelsnake of the cloaked figure to have appeared behind her. Fumbling, her nails dig into the sponginess of skin, raking deep enough to draw blood. The fight hasn’t died within; the primal urge for freedom and life is buried deep within this girl-child. Another hand just barely manages to latch onto her other arm, stopping the damage done by little-child nails. Finally, her friend’s face swims in front of her vision, the edges hazy with the almost detrimental small-child fear that had gripped her bones…

<div style="text-align: center;">''I'm waking up, I feel it in my bones''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''Enough to make my systems blow''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''Welcome to the new age, to the new age''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''Welcome to the new age, to the new age''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive''</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">''Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive''</div>

… “What’s gotten into you?” the boy-child hisses, concern showing impure on an expression blended with irritation. The loss of fun is not appreciated.

The girl peers over her shoulder, but the monstrous tunnel-snake is gone and the older, pale-haired boy is left to lean against the stones, one hand plastered behind him to press against the wall. The malevolent glare he gives the young girl enough to give her the strength to yank out of her friend’s grip.

“Nothing,” she pants, and beings the race anew. Each step is true flight, the flight of seeing things a child’s mind cannot help but turn to imaginative monsters, not understanding what the eyes tell the brain. Soon enough, the males around the table are remembered as fabric-and-woven puppets with crazy hair and teeth as well; for a precocious, imaginative child the world is malleable to the senses. So when she returns home, dirty and bruised, and with her stories of monsters, puppets, and a shining bright-star, her mother just frowns, concerned.

Another story, she’ll sigh, worried about the child’s mental health. Perhaps even to be sent to the healers, where they will confirm that she just has an overactive imagination and convincing day-dreams. Never could it be true.

{{#ifexist: Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}} | <hr><hr><br><h2>Comments</h2>{{Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}}}} |<hr><hr>}}

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← Older revision		Revision as of 07:56, 5 July 2014
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← Older revision		Revision as of 18:14, 27 February 2013
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	“Nothing,” she pants, and beings the race anew. Each step is true flight, the flight of seeing things a child’s mind cannot help but turn to imaginative monsters, not understanding what the eyes tell the brain. Soon enough, the males around the table are remembered as fabric-and-woven puppets with crazy hair and teeth as well; for a precocious, imaginative child the world is malleable to the senses. So when she returns home, dirty and bruised, and with her stories of monsters, puppets, and a shining bright-star, her mother just frowns, concerned.		“Nothing,” she pants, and beings the race anew. Each step is true flight, the flight of seeing things a child’s mind cannot help but turn to imaginative monsters, not understanding what the eyes tell the brain. Soon enough, the males around the table are remembered as fabric-and-woven puppets with crazy hair and teeth as well; for a precocious, imaginative child the world is malleable to the senses. So when she returns home, dirty and bruised, and with her stories of monsters, puppets, and a shining bright-star, her mother just frowns, concerned.

−	Another story, she’ll sigh, worried about the child’s mental health. Perhaps even to be sent to the healers, where they will confirm that she just has an overactive imagination and convincing day-dreams. Never could it be true.	+	Another story, she’ll sigh, worried about the child’s mental health. Perhaps even to be sent to the healers, where they will confirm that she just has an overactive imagination and convincing day-dreams. Never could it be ''true''.

@@ Line 14: / Line 14: @@
 | quote = I'm waking up to ash and dust
 | weather = A blanket of cold, dense fog fills the bowl with its oppressive presence and obscures vision.
-| categories = Vignette
+| categories =
 | mentions =
 | ooc = Little explanation here:  I wanted to try something different that might or might not have succeeded!  I wrote this vignette while listening to the song, Radioactive, by Imagine Dragons.  It was the perfect 'feel' for Ceawlin.  However, I didn't want to do a traditional vignette; rather I wanted to challenge myself to do something through the eyes of someone else observing something.  Long story short, I'm hoping it is evocative to the song (which I included because I tried to pace the vignette to the lyrics).  Hopefully it works!

@@ Line 1: / Line 1: @@
-{{ Log
+{{Log
-| who = Ceawlin
+|type=Vignette
 | where = High Reaches Weyr
 | what = What the dark, deep hallways contain.

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 | where = High Reaches Weyr
 | what = What the dark, deep hallways contain.
 | when = Day 9, Month 2, Turn 31
 | gamedate = 2013.02.27