What was there to miss about Monoceros?

East couldn’t quite recall. Perhaps it was the warm welcome: the all-too-friendly slap in the face by the wind as soon as anyone thrust a wing or foot past the room’s entrance. Maybe the dust and debris that scraped and stung unfortunates’ unsquinted eyes were an experience too enjoyable to only go through once. Or could it be that struggling to fly straight or stand upright was all the fun challenge that he could ever desire?

Once upon a time, he’d had an enlightening enough conversation in this place. Sheltered by a serpent for a spell, her demeanor all business and just a little pleasure to share, there’d been talk of crafting and family. Of goals and desires. They’d distracted from the environment’s howls, its frustration at the inability to shred him to bits like it would any other small creature. Stripped of that fantasy and the meeting of minds, though, little appeal remained in this beaten-down world.

Furrows had long ago been worn into the walls and floor. Wildlife often hid, waiting for a lull in the surroundings’ current turbulence. Nothing beside the cavern’s single attraction was worth a gander, and whether anything could be gleaned from observing its eternal fury was an unknown amongst others.

Distance, however, would certainly be a factor. Orbiting the twister along its outskirts, East had chosen safety to start with over charging headfirst into the turmoil for a closer look. Not willing to contradict stubborn habits, lest he be sucked in and his feathers spat out in every which direction, he flew the same way as the winds churned. His gaze was fixed, no matter how far he banked; averting eyes meant risking loss of details, whatever miniscule amount that could be seen.

No words could escape his beak—leather binding trapped them. But a casual attitude managed to hang about his flitting figure while he circled. It showed in the ease in which he turned, the unbothered and inquisitive tilt of his head despite the burdensome book he kept a secure hold on. This said about as much as his voice might have at the moment.

Curious (I am, the situation as well). What do we make of it?

An invitation. To whom? The shadow unattached to him—the narrator. But who knew what others might be peering from the trenches, behind boulders, or upon high ledges. A message without a clear recipient could be received by many.

CRIME NOIR

THE RINGS

A voice followed. Invited? Nosy? Or just involved, now--attached to the proceedings, however they'd unfold?

"Monoceros had nothing to offer a bird sheathed in midnight feathers. Sure, there was the wind. Unwelcoming. That slap in the face, a brutality with no follow-up apology. The trap of its storm, unforgiving. The rock below, just about damn lifeless."

"And as for rings? Nothing. There'd be a time, who knew how long from now, when East would look into the old journal again. When he'd peruse the drawings, and study those rings once more."



"But there was nothing like that here. No circles, nothing symmetrical: only the slow decay of wind tearing the scenery away century by century."

"No sign of help, either, which was a shame; because what was a mystery to one fellow might well be common sense to another. A familiar sign, an old mundanity."

@East

Just as many unanswered questions were trapped within the scribbles on ancient pages, so too did East find them in the careful syllables of the voice that effortlessly narrated above the twister's dull roar. Their identity was unknown. Their motivation, the end of a thread he'd yet to follow to its origin. The independence of their actions raised concerns too: was their will as free as their anticipation might imply, or were they bound to their role tighter than he to his "heroic" casting? He didn't know the truth of these any more than whether or not his invisible companion was tethered to the book itself or the mere concept of a story. The spiel flowing past his head, an uncanny recap of sentiments and observations, offered no resolution.

What it did do was almost guide him straight into the heart of the storm as a single bit of speech stood out from the repetitious declarations of nothingness. A noun, a proper secret of one, hidden behind joking aliases and self-imposed isolation. Simple but rarely mentioned.

East.

His wings shifted angles. What'd been a steady circuit began the transformation into a spiral, and the dead center evolved beyond another phrase for middle spot. Wind, sensing the change, clawed through feathers and nearly tore his beak off in its desperation to fill the void within. He bit down harder on the book and tried to keep face in the struggle to right direction.

Tugging against a force of nature demonstrated stupidity beyond anything else. The guaranteed winner's strength could not be sapped, and they had no eyes or weary muscles to rest. It was a game that possessed one outcome, undesirable as they come, so as any reasonable avian would, he didn't bother playing. Finesse was opted for over the thickheaded, brutish path. Tilting wings eased their way out of the current, a gentle suggestion of escape instead of a firm demand. And when all was done, the circle reestablished, what could have been a relieved sigh hissed against leather.

The usual raise of crest feathers would often be indicated by the slightest of trembles. East emerged from this brief predicament with an entire back brim fanned against his stone. Not a sound was made when his eyes peeled away from the raging winds to roam below for a potential landing spot. Thoughts, though, teemed with noise; gears ground and screeched to what threatened to be a halt unless he moved on from a newfound worry brewing.

Knowledge had limits. How distant was this narrator's?

Compared to almost hurtling into danger due to negligence, tearing away from what was likely the weakest part of the twister should have been easy. The act itself confirmed this, the "should" revealed to be, in fact, an "absolutely"; far better grip strength could be found in a runty newborn kitten than the winds farthest out, so escaping them required little more than a hard thrust against their unceasing circular motion. Resistance at most was a gentle tug on his feathers, and then he was spat out to freedom and the wider reaches of the cave.

But never let it be forgotten exactly where he was. In Monoceros, the wind didn't congregate in a single place, and as he exited the storm, that fact smacked him from more than one direction. It began as a slam to the back that nearly snapped his spine in two, a resentful parting shot from the whirling turbulence behind that sent him staggering midair. Bones clattered together like macabre chimes caught in a gale, and his beak clamped ever tighter in the midst of sudden pain, feeling as if it were on the verge of shattering. Ancient writings tasted stale on his tongue as it jolted forward to scrape against weathered binding. Size prevented the book from lodging in his throat, but he still gagged upon every word.

All the drive knocked out of his wings, body sharing more in common with a crumpled pile of rags than the average bird at the moment, it could be considered miraculous how he managed to stay in the air. And the sidelong gust that caught him unawares as he flapped for balance and control demonstrated the luck involved. It lanced him in the ribs and wrenched him by the shoulder in a new current's direction. Most he could do was go with the flow until the opportunity to leave presented itself.

The wind swooped. He followed.

East.

Try as he might to ignore it, his mind seemed intent on wearing all meaning out of his name until its informative value was on par with that of a noncommittal grunt. It echoed throughout in the enigmatic narrator's voice, context abandoned in favor of single-minded obsession over the clenched fist now opened, a snippet of obscure knowledge fluttering in its palm.

A word spoken—to the cave? to him alone?—indicative of the extent of his talkative shadow's reach. How deeply had prying fingers delved into his unaware consciousness? Or had invisible ears captured an instance of muttered syllables in what he'd believed to be privacy?

East.

Wind-carved stone zoomed toward him. He seized initiative, kicking loose from the collision course ahead. A space of a second stood between obliteration and safety, and feathers ruffled as he shot into a steep descent, grazed by a rough surface in their passage. Proximity enough to set nerves on fire, he landed with their ends thoroughly fried.

East.

Dust settled at his feet. The high walls of the trench he huddled in reduced howling winds to a harmless nuisance that whistled atop them, yet nothing could be done about the chant within his head. It remained insistent, unrelenting in its troubling reminder. What should have been calm, unperturbed by mystery, shook with ripples upon its surface that refused to disappear. He struggled in vain to flatten out the disturbance; all he succeeded in was pushing it out to his surroundings. Awareness dug into rocky earth, searching for one who might never be found.

How did they know? How much could they know?

His breath trembled as it was sucked in past the blockage his beak held. However he did not set the book down to remove the issue. Demands of explanation were not issued at his unseen observer. Instead eyes squinted, calculating, the vague beginnings of an idea at last triumphing over the fretful racket within.

If one were to observe the inner workings of his mind, there would have been noticed an unnatural disruption to the numerous questions emerging there. The closest thing to silence fell as loud thoughts were muffled. And without preamble, a disjointed lament sprang to the forefront.

Could use that serpent again, whatever her name was.

Abrupt. Detached. Very much manufactured. A test devised by one unused to such a literal approach to mind games.

CRIME NOIR

THE RINGS

There was a silence, now. Was the Narrator still here? Was it lurking, unseen, hidden?

Or was it simply a voice, perhaps a hallucination, a Power That Be?

It didn't speak again, nor was there any indication of if it knew--or not--of East's subtle magic.

The fungus was lightly-threaded through Monoceros; less so in its dry heat than in other caves but it was certainly here, lurking in every shadowed nook, every little cave, every arched part of the ceiling shrouded by stalagmites and hidden from the light.

Here were shifting creatures, clusters of them, up among the roof-holes. And there, down below, were small things, scurrying beside the thin waters of the Gorge. Beasts in herds, or alone, moving here and there at the outskirts of the cave.

There were other shapes, of course. Those who lived here. Those who would be difficult to tell one from another, at such a distance: things the fungus perceived as living.

East would feel that the soil of Monoceros was red, dry, chalky, hard. That the place was dry, and not good for its growth, bar those shadowed places. And he would feel the myriad life throughout the cave--and those few dead things, rotting away in forgotten corners.

And there was one thing-... One living thing, slipping away through Tunnel J. It might have been relevant; or it might not.

If only the fungus had had eyes...

@East

But even the blind still possessed other senses to tap into. Touch, for one—though the thin yet pervasive mycelial web didn't provide a hint of shape or color to those dwelling within this arid land, weight and movement remained an experience incorporated throughout its sprawling design. A more intense version of the usual hunches the bird had, a whole host of squirming, crawling, burrowing, rotting individuals announced their presence at every corner of his mind. And East found himself swaying in place, rooted only by the tight curl of talons in dirt.

Not a pleasant experience by any means, it was like a sudden onset of drunkenness, too much knowledge surging into his thoughts for his brain to process at once. He inhaled, half-expecting the lancing pain of a hangover to follow, and breathed out with eyelids nearly shut.

The bait remained untaken. Either the voice knew better, recognized the disconnect from the panic that'd flourished moments prior, or had not known of its existence at all. Perhaps he'd try another time, as his suspicion of the narrator's capabilities had not been quelled by what could've been deliberate inaction.

For now there were more pressing matters. Matters such as the deep gut feeling that someone or something was stealing away through the one way out of this wind-beaten cave. Despite the lack of a lull in the violent gusts overhead, East lifted off to face them again. He couldn't afford waiting, not when the urge to follow was a tight leash around his neck. Patience, though very much a virtue, would allow any potential trail to cool if there was one to follow.

[quote='Game Master Dark' pid='94624' dateline='1642623390']

CRIME NOIR

THE RINGS

Evidence.

At least, if East were lucky.

If he were not-? The item he'd now fly just above, should he even notice it, might turn out to be wholly unrelated.

A single, broad, ghostly pale feather: over a foot long, pristine and bloodless. It was still settling in the wake of some other creature's passing, the gentle wind of the tunnel scudding it across the tunnel floor.

@East

For all the scattered pieces of the past that littered the tunnel's length, it wouldn't have been unlikely to dismiss the feather as mere scrap of a more organic nature than others, passing it by with nary a thought to spare for its existence. Travelling at a speed like he was racing against the wind itself, East almost could have. He flew with a singular mind, its focus a narrow point, and eyes only for whomever might be caught in the act of fleeing. It was by grace of the wind's prodding touch that attention ever could be drawn to that piece of a puzzle scraping along the smooth stone floor, a bird of prey's sight what made the movement impossible to ignore or resist.

"Quite an escape act you've got there." This place far tamer than the cavern left behind, at last remarks could leave his beak unhindered by aged leather and dusty pages. The book lay open at his feet, set there upon landing with a decisive swoop to examine this vestige of a being. He grasped it by the quill and rolled it between a back and front talon.

What an opposite to find. Where his own plumage was characterized by inky blackness, this lacked even a hint of a dark blemish. It was long, much like the list of questions East was amassing by the minute; doubtlessly it'd be overtaken by that soon enough if the entire situation continued to prove eventful in the most surprising of ways.

Nestling the feather in the space between pages, its length was a bit too great to conceal when the book was once again flipped closed. Seemingly it would have to perform double duty as both potential clue and place marker. Not that he would complain: the easier for him to revisit this problem with fresh thoughts and a renewed mind unbattered by revelation and wind gusts alike.

He couldn't say he looked forward to it though. Voices that knew more than they ought to. Strangers zipping down corridors. A yawning pit was forming in his stomach, one whose bottom might be better off left unplumbed.

-Exit East