Life is but a dream (AB/SB) May 31, 2014 20:49:41 GMT -6
Post by Deleted on May 31, 2014 20:49:41 GMT -6
- At first glance, the world may look much like it does in truth. The mind can tell the lie before it can place it, though once seen, it is impossible to miss. Our hero would find herself in a field, surrounded by structures that seem to trees, standing upon what seems to grass and dirt. But there is no life to these constructs. All around stand pillars of iron, their features melted and warped into imitations of the life-giving flora the Apple Family takes their name and living from. Where the fruit should be hang red diamonds, which catch the dull smile of an uncaring sun. Under her hooves, she would find these leafy blades are nothing more than thin, frail cloves of steel wool. The ground beneath an inexplicably fine shred of rubber.
There are no animal sounds to be heard, nor any sounds other than those made by the hero as she moves and the rickety swaying of the pillars. Despite the somewhat varied environment, the only smell in the air is that which comes from the pillars. It is pungent and clings to the nostrils, not unlike the smell that hangs on after a bloody nose. There is no escape from the nonliving world. While the pillars move, no breeze can be felt within the open field.
There are three clear trails, however each is not equally appealing. Two go in a northern direction, one slanted east and one slanted west. To the south is a single choice, but it marked with a foul red coloring and is uneven, as if by a terrible earthquake. To the northeast, the field of cold wool gives way to a road of pale white brick, the split abruptly marked by a fence. A figure stands upon this fence, its features unable to be discerned from this distance, other than an unnatural and unbalanced posture. The northwest is simply a pass through the unreal orchard. A clearing of rubberized dirt where the false trees are parted.
Within the clearing there are no immediate dangers. While strange and even a little bouncy, the ground would be found to be traversed easily enough. The faux wool would not scratch overmuch, either. As bizarre and repellent as it is, nothing other than the travesty it reeks upon the senses calls for any rush. The sky lazily shifts from blue to an equally light gray and back again as time passes, working at regular, predictable intervals for any astute enough to take note of the pattern. The sun's stand in, on the other hoof, would not move no matter how much time was spent within this area.