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UFF
And now for something completely different.
Cosm: The Unrelenting Song. OC-centric.
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Year [ ] AGZ; local date, [ ] AD-ex.
Nirvana stands atop the high peak, goggles tugged firmly in place against the dusty winds that whirl around her. Below her, the broken red plains stretch for miles, not a building or a living soul in sight. Above her, the night sky spreads out like a master’s painting; the Sistine chapel ceiling done with astronomy instead of angels. The thin atmosphere of the planet makes it appear as though the stars were close enough to cup in her hand. Nirvana thinks of snowflakes despite the evening's heat.
She throws herself up and out, wings snapping open. The wind catches her, and she let it carry her along. It whips through her thick hair, tugging it away from her face, caressing her limbs like a lover. Her skin is thick enough to protect her from damage by the occasional sand-laden gusts, provided she gives herself a proper rest between each session.
Iron-rich towers of sculpted rock seem to fly by, and she pretends, for a moment, that they truly are- that she is the one remaining still, and it’s the world that moves around her. She cants her wings, and briefly goes into free-fall; the winds are strong enough that she drops sideways instead of straight down. She throws her arms wide, embracing the adrenaline rush, the way her senses jump alive. In her mind, she laughs with the sheer joy of the moment.
Nirvana knows the dangers of being here alone; she’s not stupid. She has a weapon on each thigh, and attached behind the holster on her left leg is a pouch containing a sheet of material big enough to use as a tent if needed, able to withstand extreme heat, cold, and weather conditions. She doesn’t wear it in flight, not only because it would be difficult to deal with it flapping all around her and interfering with her aerodynamics, but simply that she loves the feel of the rough air against her skin. If a true sandstorm kicks up, she can land and ride it out; besides that, the occasional “burns” it gives to her wings always heal up after a day of sleep.
Behind the right side is a rebreather, a miniature life-support system capable of recycling air almost indefinitely. Part of the process itself keeps the unit fueled. Her comm system and locator are strapped to her wrist; she has a back-up slotted under her ankle wraps. And a grav belt around her waist, of course. It pays to be prepared.
It’s so beautiful here, she thinks, this world of stone and silica. She loves and values trees and green growing life, but the wonder of this red world will never cease to amaze her. Venus will always be home, but Mars is special to her in a way she can’t describe in any of the handful of languages she speaks. The closest she can come are “hh’reth’o,” “karisettineyokotozhalshran”, “seinaru”, and “sacred,” but those terms all lack a connotation of the visceral pull she feels.
Here, in this moment, soaring above a terrain that matches her skin tone perfectly, she feels like this world belongs to her, and her alone. Like she’s the god of this place- no, not a god, but a piece of the planet’s soul cut free to move on its own. Never mind that she hadn’t so much as visited Mars until she was already in her late adolescence, or that neither of her parent’s species were native to this universe.
She doesn’t truly belong in the cosm she’s been raised in, but for fleeting moments buffeted by the winds of Mars, Nirvana feels as though she does.
Cosm: The Unrelenting Song. OC-centric.
.
.
Year [ ] AGZ; local date, [ ] AD-ex.
Nirvana stands atop the high peak, goggles tugged firmly in place against the dusty winds that whirl around her. Below her, the broken red plains stretch for miles, not a building or a living soul in sight. Above her, the night sky spreads out like a master’s painting; the Sistine chapel ceiling done with astronomy instead of angels. The thin atmosphere of the planet makes it appear as though the stars were close enough to cup in her hand. Nirvana thinks of snowflakes despite the evening's heat.
She throws herself up and out, wings snapping open. The wind catches her, and she let it carry her along. It whips through her thick hair, tugging it away from her face, caressing her limbs like a lover. Her skin is thick enough to protect her from damage by the occasional sand-laden gusts, provided she gives herself a proper rest between each session.
Iron-rich towers of sculpted rock seem to fly by, and she pretends, for a moment, that they truly are- that she is the one remaining still, and it’s the world that moves around her. She cants her wings, and briefly goes into free-fall; the winds are strong enough that she drops sideways instead of straight down. She throws her arms wide, embracing the adrenaline rush, the way her senses jump alive. In her mind, she laughs with the sheer joy of the moment.
Nirvana knows the dangers of being here alone; she’s not stupid. She has a weapon on each thigh, and attached behind the holster on her left leg is a pouch containing a sheet of material big enough to use as a tent if needed, able to withstand extreme heat, cold, and weather conditions. She doesn’t wear it in flight, not only because it would be difficult to deal with it flapping all around her and interfering with her aerodynamics, but simply that she loves the feel of the rough air against her skin. If a true sandstorm kicks up, she can land and ride it out; besides that, the occasional “burns” it gives to her wings always heal up after a day of sleep.
Behind the right side is a rebreather, a miniature life-support system capable of recycling air almost indefinitely. Part of the process itself keeps the unit fueled. Her comm system and locator are strapped to her wrist; she has a back-up slotted under her ankle wraps. And a grav belt around her waist, of course. It pays to be prepared.
It’s so beautiful here, she thinks, this world of stone and silica. She loves and values trees and green growing life, but the wonder of this red world will never cease to amaze her. Venus will always be home, but Mars is special to her in a way she can’t describe in any of the handful of languages she speaks. The closest she can come are “hh’reth’o,” “karisettineyokotozhalshran”, “seinaru”, and “sacred,” but those terms all lack a connotation of the visceral pull she feels.
Here, in this moment, soaring above a terrain that matches her skin tone perfectly, she feels like this world belongs to her, and her alone. Like she’s the god of this place- no, not a god, but a piece of the planet’s soul cut free to move on its own. Never mind that she hadn’t so much as visited Mars until she was already in her late adolescence, or that neither of her parent’s species were native to this universe.
She doesn’t truly belong in the cosm she’s been raised in, but for fleeting moments buffeted by the winds of Mars, Nirvana feels as though she does.