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Entry tags:
159 » everything i've seen twice
[The world beneath the surface of Fontaine's great sea is an artist's dream, washed in soft light, smeared in brilliant color, fields and forests of sea plants that undulate with the tide rather than the wind. Much like the world above the waves, its caverns, thickets, valleys, and ruins hide a great many secrets, most entirely inaccessible to the humans who call dry land their primary domain. There are always whispers. Fish tales, they say, that grow with every telling, rumors of things that can't be found, can't be caught.
None of these things are on Neuvillette's mind as he pushes his way through a tight cluster of snaring sea grass. Deft, careful fingers disentangle a Bubbly Seahorse from the uncooperative stems and leaves. Its cohort waits warily nearby; Neuvillette has only a smile for them as he gently works their friend free and releases it into the water.
As he turns to leave, already probing the ripples of the nearby currents for a new destination, a flash of blue against the greens and oranges of the sea grass stops him. Soon enough the otter slows itself. At a respectable distance it turns in frantic circles, squeaking, combing over its own hands one after the other. Familiar as he is with the otter's signals of distress, Neuvillette lifts a hand in farewell to the seahorses - a gesture of the overworld - and swims slowly closer. Clever black eyes meet his.
You have my attention.
He cannot truly say whether the soft little creature understands, but it turns another few circles and swims away, stopping to look over its shoulder.
Neuvillette glances upward, gauging the light from the surface, the distance between himself and the place where water meets air. The next nod is for only himself, and he swims deeper down, to follow the otter at the level of the sand bed. If he loses the creature among the sea stalks, he trusts it will be able to find him again. After all, he cuts a noticeable figure, even as he tries his best to mar his silhouette with the natural distractions of the world below.
Soon enough they glide together over the sinking depths of the Elton Trench. Luminescent plants - and Neuvillette's softly-glowing blue fins - only enhance the darkness of its shadows. Down there are many wrecks, of overworld ships and special diving automata and research vessels and clockwork data collectors. Some of them he has dealt with personally. Neuvillette is all too aware of the less ethical practices the researchers from above employ in the farce of "environmental regulation".
He slowly trails after the otter, down into the depths. They are friendly, social creatures; he often sees them in small groups, sunning themselves on the surface or playing with shells in the shallows. Perhaps one of its companions is in trouble - ensnared, as the seahorse was.
It's murky, the deeper they go into the trench, and even his eyes take time to adjust to the change in light. He recognizes the faint red glow of human-laid clockwork traps. Often, they release nets or floating cages, the better to contain and note the wildlife underwater "without causing it undue harm". Yet - as he carefully avoids a piece of torn metal, the skeleton of an old long-dead ship - he knows that sometimes those nets are unusually large. Heavy. An otter would struggle to free itself of something so cumbersome, and they are rather deeper down than any prefer to venture-
Neuvillette stops. He draws back, there at the evidence of one such sprung trap.
For what is contained inside is, instead, a man.]
None of these things are on Neuvillette's mind as he pushes his way through a tight cluster of snaring sea grass. Deft, careful fingers disentangle a Bubbly Seahorse from the uncooperative stems and leaves. Its cohort waits warily nearby; Neuvillette has only a smile for them as he gently works their friend free and releases it into the water.
As he turns to leave, already probing the ripples of the nearby currents for a new destination, a flash of blue against the greens and oranges of the sea grass stops him. Soon enough the otter slows itself. At a respectable distance it turns in frantic circles, squeaking, combing over its own hands one after the other. Familiar as he is with the otter's signals of distress, Neuvillette lifts a hand in farewell to the seahorses - a gesture of the overworld - and swims slowly closer. Clever black eyes meet his.
You have my attention.
He cannot truly say whether the soft little creature understands, but it turns another few circles and swims away, stopping to look over its shoulder.
Neuvillette glances upward, gauging the light from the surface, the distance between himself and the place where water meets air. The next nod is for only himself, and he swims deeper down, to follow the otter at the level of the sand bed. If he loses the creature among the sea stalks, he trusts it will be able to find him again. After all, he cuts a noticeable figure, even as he tries his best to mar his silhouette with the natural distractions of the world below.
Soon enough they glide together over the sinking depths of the Elton Trench. Luminescent plants - and Neuvillette's softly-glowing blue fins - only enhance the darkness of its shadows. Down there are many wrecks, of overworld ships and special diving automata and research vessels and clockwork data collectors. Some of them he has dealt with personally. Neuvillette is all too aware of the less ethical practices the researchers from above employ in the farce of "environmental regulation".
He slowly trails after the otter, down into the depths. They are friendly, social creatures; he often sees them in small groups, sunning themselves on the surface or playing with shells in the shallows. Perhaps one of its companions is in trouble - ensnared, as the seahorse was.
It's murky, the deeper they go into the trench, and even his eyes take time to adjust to the change in light. He recognizes the faint red glow of human-laid clockwork traps. Often, they release nets or floating cages, the better to contain and note the wildlife underwater "without causing it undue harm". Yet - as he carefully avoids a piece of torn metal, the skeleton of an old long-dead ship - he knows that sometimes those nets are unusually large. Heavy. An otter would struggle to free itself of something so cumbersome, and they are rather deeper down than any prefer to venture-
Neuvillette stops. He draws back, there at the evidence of one such sprung trap.
For what is contained inside is, instead, a man.]