"Merry Christmas; shèngdàn kuàilè, Xiao Brie!"
"Ah, shèngdàn kuàilè, auntie...oh, a book. That's nice. I mean, xièxiè."
Scorching sunlight, sunscreen on sweat-gleaming skin at the beach, sausages spitting and sizzling on the grill; the Christmas festivities of Australia were entirely alien to Brie. Though they'd much rather be left alone to work on their manuscripts at home, the pressganging of their visiting uncle and aunt had to reach an endpoint one way or the other.
Now, how to keep the beach sand from getting all over this thing...
For whatever reason, the first thing her uncle had considered as a gift for Brie was a self-help book with a perfectly coffee-table title that was about as forgettable as that tub of Greek yogurt in the fridge nobody bothers to have for breakfast because Weetabix bowls were way easier to make. Not helping that front was Brie's ongoing obsession with her Terrasphere character's journey through the High March region; though they now sweltered and sweated in the merciless December heat, the world where she resided faithfully echoed the white Christmas of the northern hemisphere.
But as with Brie themselves, what she was most interested in was not the seasonal festivities. Never had been, not even before Terrasphere. If Brie had to attribute something to that apathy, it would definitely be largely their cultural upbringing, but also their innate aversion to the commotion and bustle of the season. When all they wanted was to be left alone at the busiest time of the year, events of visiting folks and consecutive family-friend-hosted dinners always made things varyingly severe kinds of awkward. At least they had no friends to further complicate matters.
Even though this very coerced outing proved they weren't free quite yet, Brie nonetheless infinitely preferred the greater freedom that they had to themselves, being an exchange student. Not that they resented their family; in fact, they had nothing but gratefulness for this entire opportunity in the first place. The fact was simply that their best intentions were a little different from what Brie needed, which simply translated to a long breath of relief every time time could be reserved for themselves and themselves alone.
No need to hold that breath anymore. Mostly.
Breaking from the self-reflective reverie by their cousin dragging them to 'grab a snag off the barbie', Brie scrambles to reapply some sunscreen before getting up from their shaded reading spot under the gently flapping beach umbrella. Nasty, greasy stuff, but at least somewhat offset by the tickle of the ocean breeze.
Taking their sliced sandwich loaf 'hotdog' and excusing themselves on account of how easily sunburnt they happened to be (which wasn't entirely a lie), Brie tries not to think about how incredibly incorrect their uncle's sauce-on-bread-first approach is as they retreat to the sunshade to have lunch. Taking a leaf out of their maternal grandparents' book, their cousin's parents felt that stuffing Brie with various 'Australian classics' every time they met was an appropriate way to introduce the national cookout culture. Once again, not a complaint Brie would make, but none of her exertion in Terrasphere carried over to Brie's mostly sedentary self.
Although...this hotdog does taste very good.
Thoughts turning back to Terrasphere, Brie can't help but shiver a little at the realisation that something had happened to them when she had died for the first time. Brie's vision was specifically of an extremely hard-to-kill her in the first place, which made the first death all the more surprising. Had the decision to engage in that lethal gluttony been her own, not Brie's? If so, then what could this...psychosomatic echo, for a lack of any better explanation...what could the cause be? That underground-ish blog that they found recently had some interesting reads but no answers to that. Perhaps it was time they asked a question of their own on the comment site?
As their cousin flops down onto the deckchair next to them and promptly dozes off in the sun, Brie tries to ignore the slowly growing volume of their snoring, something they and Brie's uncle quite clearly shared. Soon, though, the sound of the ocean almost overwhelmed by their 'snork-mimimimi', Brie stands up from their seat and takes in the situation. With the cookout mostly finishing, their aunt and uncle had gotten on with the business of sunning themselves (in this weather?); sensing a moment of respite, Brie makes their hasty escape to the rocky shore around the far side of the beach, shaded by the jutting cliff overhead. The unremarkable self-help book is, of course, left behind.
Once the beach is just on the periphery of their view, Brie stops picking their way through the great eroding boulders, standing as close to the waterside ledge as they dare. Thinking that perhaps taking some footage of the rolling seagrass being tossed by the coming tide would better their mood, Brie looks towards the ocean and reaches for the phone in their pocket.
"...hehe~"
Whipping about with a gasp, Brie finds nothing where they expected to see a figure - that figure, that lilting voice they recognised so well. After all, had they not crafted it themselves, each pitch and sickly-sweet note? But no, no such thing was present here. The only signs of life that Brie could see were the sparse fly-fishers across the coast casting their rods and scuttling rock-crabs hiding in the crevices below. Then where-
"Below."
As though pulled forward on a leash, staggering towards the edge, Brie's hands jerk to attention but seem lost for commands. Clenching and unclenching, their knuckles whiten and nail-divots mark the palms of their fists despite their efforts to stay calm in the face of the nauseating fear rising in their gut. Fear, fear, that thudding; surging bile and adrenaline sent tingling needles of heat through their body, sealing their throat until all that struggled against their terror-clenched teeth was a single desperate word as the shimmering dark depths consumed their eyes.
"You..."
There, staring back from beneath the waves of vivid blinding blue, her face, her smile, her endless shadow rolling with the raging crash of each current against the outcrops.
Ludmilla Orphys.
Hallucination. Heatstroke. Food poisoning. Stroke. Aneurysm. Anything sane. Anything at a-
Squirming, writhing, her mouth opens. Inside is the opening, the
eye of the eye of the black star in hunger that consumes tragic ligament for an Ozymandias when woe of weal looks upon me looks upon me the sun as blinding noise of six five three five nine heaven pierce her and sing so sweetly the remains at the interval one one one bisect to advise known unknowns restrict of constrict gelatinous had ruin of an unexpected keep in louse on membrane of bend and bleeding dream mouth to feel juxtapose half fleche dissemble the affidavit
"Ah, shèngdàn kuàilè, auntie...oh, a book. That's nice. I mean, xièxiè."
Scorching sunlight, sunscreen on sweat-gleaming skin at the beach, sausages spitting and sizzling on the grill; the Christmas festivities of Australia were entirely alien to Brie. Though they'd much rather be left alone to work on their manuscripts at home, the pressganging of their visiting uncle and aunt had to reach an endpoint one way or the other.
Now, how to keep the beach sand from getting all over this thing...
For whatever reason, the first thing her uncle had considered as a gift for Brie was a self-help book with a perfectly coffee-table title that was about as forgettable as that tub of Greek yogurt in the fridge nobody bothers to have for breakfast because Weetabix bowls were way easier to make. Not helping that front was Brie's ongoing obsession with her Terrasphere character's journey through the High March region; though they now sweltered and sweated in the merciless December heat, the world where she resided faithfully echoed the white Christmas of the northern hemisphere.
But as with Brie themselves, what she was most interested in was not the seasonal festivities. Never had been, not even before Terrasphere. If Brie had to attribute something to that apathy, it would definitely be largely their cultural upbringing, but also their innate aversion to the commotion and bustle of the season. When all they wanted was to be left alone at the busiest time of the year, events of visiting folks and consecutive family-friend-hosted dinners always made things varyingly severe kinds of awkward. At least they had no friends to further complicate matters.
Even though this very coerced outing proved they weren't free quite yet, Brie nonetheless infinitely preferred the greater freedom that they had to themselves, being an exchange student. Not that they resented their family; in fact, they had nothing but gratefulness for this entire opportunity in the first place. The fact was simply that their best intentions were a little different from what Brie needed, which simply translated to a long breath of relief every time time could be reserved for themselves and themselves alone.
No need to hold that breath anymore. Mostly.
Breaking from the self-reflective reverie by their cousin dragging them to 'grab a snag off the barbie', Brie scrambles to reapply some sunscreen before getting up from their shaded reading spot under the gently flapping beach umbrella. Nasty, greasy stuff, but at least somewhat offset by the tickle of the ocean breeze.
Taking their sliced sandwich loaf 'hotdog' and excusing themselves on account of how easily sunburnt they happened to be (which wasn't entirely a lie), Brie tries not to think about how incredibly incorrect their uncle's sauce-on-bread-first approach is as they retreat to the sunshade to have lunch. Taking a leaf out of their maternal grandparents' book, their cousin's parents felt that stuffing Brie with various 'Australian classics' every time they met was an appropriate way to introduce the national cookout culture. Once again, not a complaint Brie would make, but none of her exertion in Terrasphere carried over to Brie's mostly sedentary self.
Although...this hotdog does taste very good.
Thoughts turning back to Terrasphere, Brie can't help but shiver a little at the realisation that something had happened to them when she had died for the first time. Brie's vision was specifically of an extremely hard-to-kill her in the first place, which made the first death all the more surprising. Had the decision to engage in that lethal gluttony been her own, not Brie's? If so, then what could this...psychosomatic echo, for a lack of any better explanation...what could the cause be? That underground-ish blog that they found recently had some interesting reads but no answers to that. Perhaps it was time they asked a question of their own on the comment site?
As their cousin flops down onto the deckchair next to them and promptly dozes off in the sun, Brie tries to ignore the slowly growing volume of their snoring, something they and Brie's uncle quite clearly shared. Soon, though, the sound of the ocean almost overwhelmed by their 'snork-mimimimi', Brie stands up from their seat and takes in the situation. With the cookout mostly finishing, their aunt and uncle had gotten on with the business of sunning themselves (in this weather?); sensing a moment of respite, Brie makes their hasty escape to the rocky shore around the far side of the beach, shaded by the jutting cliff overhead. The unremarkable self-help book is, of course, left behind.
Once the beach is just on the periphery of their view, Brie stops picking their way through the great eroding boulders, standing as close to the waterside ledge as they dare. Thinking that perhaps taking some footage of the rolling seagrass being tossed by the coming tide would better their mood, Brie looks towards the ocean and reaches for the phone in their pocket.
"...hehe~"
Whipping about with a gasp, Brie finds nothing where they expected to see a figure - that figure, that lilting voice they recognised so well. After all, had they not crafted it themselves, each pitch and sickly-sweet note? But no, no such thing was present here. The only signs of life that Brie could see were the sparse fly-fishers across the coast casting their rods and scuttling rock-crabs hiding in the crevices below. Then where-
"Below."
As though pulled forward on a leash, staggering towards the edge, Brie's hands jerk to attention but seem lost for commands. Clenching and unclenching, their knuckles whiten and nail-divots mark the palms of their fists despite their efforts to stay calm in the face of the nauseating fear rising in their gut. Fear, fear, that thudding; surging bile and adrenaline sent tingling needles of heat through their body, sealing their throat until all that struggled against their terror-clenched teeth was a single desperate word as the shimmering dark depths consumed their eyes.
"You..."
There, staring back from beneath the waves of vivid blinding blue, her face, her smile, her endless shadow rolling with the raging crash of each current against the outcrops.
Ludmilla Orphys.
Hallucination. Heatstroke. Food poisoning. Stroke. Aneurysm. Anything sane. Anything at a-
Squirming, writhing, her mouth opens. Inside is the opening, the
eye of the eye of the black star in hunger that consumes tragic ligament for an Ozymandias when woe of weal looks upon me looks upon me the sun as blinding noise of six five three five nine heaven pierce her and sing so sweetly the remains at the interval one one one bisect to advise known unknowns restrict of constrict gelatinous had ruin of an unexpected keep in louse on membrane of bend and bleeding dream mouth to feel juxtapose half fleche dissemble the affidavit
and is heard no more.
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