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Time [Alex Mood]
#1
Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.

The day is irrelevant. The time? The sun has yet to reach its zenith but there won’t be long to wait. Late morning, then. The sky? Is clear. Blue. Gorgeous.

The place, then. That would be a little more relevant. The place is somewhere to the east of Denver, along route 287. The place is, looking at it, pretty nondescript. There isn’t really any reason to stop here; it’s just one point of many points along the route between Montana and Texas. Its only real purpose is to hold the points on either side apart.

There is something of interest, though. A bike, parked up at the side of the road. No, parked well off the road. Trucks hurtle past here. Occasionally their drivers aren’t paying much attention, or they’ve fallen asleep, so there’s a risk of accidents. Of falling under the wheels and...

There is a bike, safely parked. Its paintwork and metalwork, previously scratched and scraped after it slid along the asphalt here, repaired and shining like new. The bike’s rider is also nearby, also safely away from the edge of the road and warily checking each way. Just in case. A jacket hangs off one of the handlebars and a helmet occupies the saddle. The bike’s rider is sat in the dirt, dust covering his boots and leather trousers. He’s sat watching, although there’s nothing much to see. Not now, and not even to those who have the ability to see what was there before.

He’s here to think. Did he expect to find anything here? Not really. There was some shredded tyre half-buried in the dirt, but that was all. There’s no thread hanging in the air, tying this world to the other side. No voices calling to him, luring him in. Asking him why he won’t help. Help how? He still doesn’t know who that voice was, where she was, what she wanted him to do. Only that she’d been quiet ever since. Maybe she had been a spirit, attracted when he’d woken up and torn the hole open between the worlds.

He’s here to think. How long has he been here? He neither knows nor cares. How long will he stay? He doesn’t know that either.

He watches. There’s the occasional vehicle passing by. Swirls of dust thrown up by their passing, dancing in the breeze until the individual grains lose their fight with gravity and fall to the ground. There are the leaves of the plants eking out an existence here, swaying in the breeze and the backdraught.

Time flows.

And it does flow, like a stream. It follows its well-worn path, moving ever onwards. Only hadn’t he already proved to himself that it’s not a completely irresistible force. He had frozen time. Accidentally, unintentionally, uncontrollably. It had stopped flowing around him. Then Sera and Kalen had shown that it’s possible to look at what had already flowed past, even if it was centuries ago. They’d all seen the death of the Archmage Anastasius some 500 years before, trapped all alone in a corner of the Umbra. (The thought of being alone for so long... How long before his hope of discovery and rescue faded? How long until the only thing he had left was to give up the last of his life to create the Sending that would become The Message so that his remains could be recovered and put to rest?)

How to do it, how it works, is still beyond him. But he does know that he has the potential to do it again. At some point in the future. If he survives that long.

So he sits there, absent-mindedly running dust through his fingers while he watches the effects of the flow of time around him. Someone had told him: You need to see the world. Look for things. Take it apart and put it back together and feel the way if moves inside you, again and again and again. He told her that he would try. So he is here, trying.

It starts with feeling of the sand through his fingers. Again and again and again. The way the grains move, react, flow. Watching the little piles build and spread as more of it falls before he scoops it up and does it again. Again and again and again until he’s no longer concentrating on it, until it’s almost muscle and sensory memory. Then it’s trying to open himself up to what’s around him. Trying to feel the flow of that stream against him, around him, through him. Trying to reach out and find what there is to grasp, even if he doesn’t know how to take hold of it yet.

He tries. He feels what he can feel.

And he feels each second, minute, hour as they flow by. He’s standing in the stream and he feels its passage.



Vesta @ 12:43PM
[So we're trying to Sense Time. Coincidental, TN4. Taking time, -1. And throwing in a WP, because they're there to burn]
Roll: 1 d10 TN3 (9) ( success x 2 ) [WP]

Ix @ 12:45PM
Witnessed! Smile
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