Difference between revisions of "1-1-2015: The beginning"

Revision as of 03:03, 3 February 2015

<<That place is forsaken now,>> Hawk had warned her. <<Come, you will see for yourself.>>

He led her to Dearborn, where he bargained with Magpie for a spare pair of loaner wings which itched like nothing else as they were jammed into Maya's back. Magpie even threw in the memories of Icarus' flying lessons - on the condition of: you break it, you bought it. The implication was that the value was very high. With her knowledge of how to soar on thermals, how to build altitude with strength, and then trade that in for speed, she was able to better follow Hawk as he took to the sky, eastbound.

This region of Michigan was once deeply holy; Maya can see that from the reflections, the things that Gaia's spirits remember of Her, despite the touch of development. The closer they get to the city's outskirts, however, the more human development intrudes. Roadways, railroads long since turned under, even suburban tract developments are often remembered as the here-and-there victorian farm houses that cropped up first.

"I thought it would be worse, somehow... we're still far out?" Maya squints against the cold wind. She's left her worldly goods in the care of another spirit, a guardian Dog she called-- inexpert flight with borrowed wings, plus the frame pack, would be a recipe for disaster. So she carries only her knives and a smaller medicine-kit: drum, matches, sage.

<<We are. This is as close as it is safe to travel. From here, we must be cautious. Fly higher and further from the strands than I do. When the Enemy is alerted to our presence, I will distract them while you flee.>> He continues his course, for now, and soon the meaning of his words becomes clear.

Distance means less in the penumbra, so it's hard to say where the actual line that is material Detroit would be, but the line for spirit Detroit is drawn out sharp as a razor.

At once the streets are remembered in crisp detail, down to every little crack; not as they were a century ago, but as they likely are now. The buildings are outmoded, mostly art deco and modern era architecture - from what she might've seen in pictures on her way here, few of these buildings actually exist anymore, and some are completely falling down. Choking it all out, however, is a carpet of thick, white strands, some the width of a tennisball can, some the width of an old elm tree. They criss-cross in perfect geometries, blanketing the entire city, darkening the streets below. They hang, a heavy blanket held up on the backs of the city's skyline, steel and glass Atlases groaning under the weight.

<<Behold,>> Hawk says in her mind, <<The beginning of the end.>>

Appalled, Maya nearly falters on the wing--forgetting for just an instant, before snapping the wings into strength against the updraft again.. 'The Weaver's madness? What-- what is here, that isn't... everywhere else? What *is* this?' The tears in her eyes are no longer only from the wind.

<<There is more. This cancer is just the symptom.>> Hawk dives suddenly. <<Follow! Do not touch the river's waters...>>

The warning is, perhaps, unnecessary. As Maya follows Hawk in his dive, the force of the wind on her face a steady, powerful press, the force of her weight as the maneuver completes straining the wings until she might suspect they will simply pop right off. The dive converts their considerable altitude into tremendous speed, which serves to protect them from the horrors that lurk just below the river's surface, raising barbs and lashes in vain to pluck them from the sky.

<<This river was once a Warrior's proving ground.>>

Now, the woven blanket of webbing from the city extends to touch the surface of the water itself, nearly along the entire length - there, battle ensues. The water's brutally acidic nature blackening and searing away the web, even as more and more web is constantly pouring into the water, seeking to spread out and choke the corrupt waters to death.

Maya glides after him, her face tightening at the sight. She's learning quickly to handle the wings, but she follows his instructions--flying a little more cautiously, her agility and maneuverability nowhere near his own.

<<Those who should have kept this in check have fallen, slain or worse. An ancient secret was found here by one who's heart was given to the Weaver.>> Hawk banks to the left, around the perimeter of the city. <<Every day, this chokehold grows stronger.>> He lands now, in the suburbs somewhere northeast of the city center. <<Take your knife, cut into this strand, and be prepared to flee.>>

The Dreamspeaker nods, shadows of worry behind her eyes. 'You'll be able to outrun them? It?' She draws the sacred blade from the small of her back--blessed again, at the beginning of this long journey, and waits for his affirmative answer before making the stroke.

<<You are the one who must not be caught here,>> Hawk answers, <<But I am the stronger flier.>> No judgement, just fact. <<Cut away from yourself, and to not get any on you.>> The tip of her knife reveals that the webbing is vascular, and dark, putrid river water spills out immediately, and with some pressure. There is a sharp, almost electronic cry of agony that echoes through the nearest parts of the city. At once, crystalline spider-spirits, painted white and black, eyes glowing alternating blue and red, begin to swarm out of the web, towards the injury.

Maya strikes hard, nearly hitting the top of her Magpie-wings on the backswing--and then taking a sprinting start toward the nearest... well, anything that has some height. Fire escape, maybe.

Hawk follows, and the fuzz have a long enough distance to make up that attaining flight is fairly easy, the spiders largely impotent thereafter. As cops are wont to do, however, they seem to have called in air support. What follows next is three individual clusters of small birds rising from various buildings nearby. <<The enemy's eyes! Climb and soar! They cannot fly as high as we can, there are too many to fight.>>

Perhaps Skylar warned her about this, perhaps someone else did, perhaps no one did. But the birds that rise up to swarm at Hawk and Maya as they climb away into the sky are mottled brown, black things with stubby beaks and peaked eyeridges. Their cries are a soft, low note followed by an up-tempo rising-then-falling trill. Maya's afinity (and presumed interest) in avians names them: Whippoorwills.