The End of the Fog [Open]

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deacan
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last seen Apr 14, 2012 1:04:32 GMT -5

The End of the Fog [Open] Mar 24, 2012 1:00:38 GMT -5

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Post by deacan on Mar 24, 2012 1:00:38 GMT -5

Not far from the poisoinous gases seeping from every factory in District 5, sits a field of red with a solitary white rose in the center. This field, maintained by generations of the family of Greaves, now falls to a sole man who escapes the electric fencing around the district. The sun is letting small rays of light through the clouds and smog, making patches of the red flowers shine. The sun is just rising, making a slight sting on Decan's pale white flesh. The air is thick and the wind blows the scent of flowers across the woods, petals being scattered as a lone white figure stands in the center, cultivating and taking care of a small patch of white carnations. Small animals scurry through the flowers, but generally run back out quickly, the sharp thorns creating their own defense as little insects fly around the flowers.

The man with the white skin stands there, his skin blending with the small patch of white. His white coat sticks out in the woods, but somehow seems to disappear when one looks at the fields, as if he were a transient existence that continuously faded in and out.

Such beauty and tranquility. So easily obtained by nature, but yet so shunned by the Capitol. The nature of the world tries to offer beauty, but yet those in the Capitol only want what they have absolute control over.
His voice rings out, a light voice that seems to be carried on the wind with the petals, weaving between the trees. It resonates with the chirping as he bends over and picks a white carnation, putting it on his white suit and it nearly vanishes, his gloves having slight stains of red on them and his shoes having small patches of brown and green.

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(Italics is thought, Bold is speech, normal is descriptions and actions, for Deacan)

Last Edit: Mar 24, 2012 1:01:32 GMT -5 by deacan

Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]
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The End of the Fog [Open] Mar 27, 2012 23:12:42 GMT -5

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Post by Baby Wessex d9b [earthling] on Mar 27, 2012 23:12:42 GMT -5

That flow, that spark, that crown, you looking at the king of the jungle now
Stronger than ever can’t hold me down

Dick Tucker hadn't much control over his assignments as of late, and that was unusual. Not irksome, just unusual. He went where he was told, did the best he very could, considered his actions, and went onward. Home was ever forward. It he wasn't moving, then something was seriously wrong. That philosophy had gotten him into something of a rut now and again, the now being of particular interest, just on this side of Five. He wasn't really sure what to look over, other than the fence, of course. That was obvious. Not a part of his job. Underlings saw to its mechanics, it maintenance, its electricity. No, his job was a little more nebulous, which made it perfect.

He tromped through the brush, heedless of fawning leaves and sprouts. His footfall was heavier than that of any animal, and he did nothing to disguise his gait. He wasn't even dressed traditionally; a bit of white in his handkerchief, a cravat at his neck. That was it. No pristine uniform, no shaved countenance. Dick Tucker didn't roll that way - especially when he had to be on that side of the fence, meandering the wilderness where few dared walk.

And then, there. Someone who dared. He stopped to listen to the poetry, his chin lifted, nose sniffed, heart stilled. Yes, it would do, although it was not quite what the forest had in mind. The trees were more subtle.

Still, he could not wholly disagree with the sentiment. Dick tromped a few more paced, shoved branches to the side, and revealed his five o'clock shadow to the pale stranger. "I say, quite the performance!" He gave a semblance of a clap, gaze flickering over the stranger. "Do you often give so private a performance? Or was it one too many?" He turned his index finger upon himself, wondering if he had intruded.

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Last Edit: Mar 27, 2012 23:13:09 GMT -5 by Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]

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deacan
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The End of the Fog [Open] Mar 28, 2012 21:32:24 GMT -5

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Post by deacan on Mar 28, 2012 21:32:24 GMT -5

Deacan turned as the wind itself turned, causing the flower petals to slowly flow before dying down. The breeze started to settle down with the flower petals falling around him, but none landing on him that were visible, except the white petals which were nearly invisible. He turned around slowly, but deliberately without a hint of fear in his body. His eyes and his posture made Deacan seem bigger than he was. He stood erect and noble, his eyes without a shred of fear, as if he could be staring at one of the Capitol's beasts of war without fear. Deacan had already lived a full life, well into his 60s and he had no family to be hurt by the Capitol. To be truthful, he was untouchable by the Capitol anymore, which is one of the reasons he exited the fence so regularly to tend to the flowers. He knelt down and picked up a single rose.

"No, there are many performances in this world by more than just me. Everyone gives private performances, even the Lords of the Districts and their so-called army of death. Many just refuse to listen to the stories or watch the performances, it truly is sad."

He smiled gently as the sun pierced the fog and clouds, engulfing the field in a light that was nearly blinding to anyone who had lived under the fog so long. Deacan glowed as if reflecting the light, much the same way the pure white snow reflects it. He took off his white gloves to reveal his ghostly white hands, an entire body that matched his outfit. He plucked the leaves of the red rose and watched the leaves drift, half swirling up into the sky, some swirling to the ground, and some even towards the peacekeeper. He smiled again, but a sort of smile used to hide sorrow.

"My name is Deacan. Deacan Greaves of District 5. Unlike many, I have not lost the art of listening to another's story solely for my own benefit. The art of truly watching and listening is being lost by people who fear only for their own safety, though I guess I should understand that fear. I was around when it was first started, though I suspect it will continue long after I become one with the Earth, like these plants."

He spread his arms out and spun a bit, his long coat brushing against the flowers. He turned back to face the man.

"Are you also one who has lost the art?" He asked as if it were obvious whether one had it or not. Deep inside his mind, Deacan thought of the District he grew up in. It changed from friends and families helping each other and listening to each other, to people focusing only on their own survival. People used their children's lives to gain grain and supplies. A tear rolled down Deacan's face from underneath his glasses at the thought and landed on one of the flowers, like a drop of rain.

Last Edit: Mar 28, 2012 21:41:43 GMT -5 by deacan