RuneScape Forum Archive | Suite of Seasons

Sick Stakes

Posts: 38 Bronze Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

Hi, sorry if this needs to be related to Runescape, please read and comment, I haven't written a story here before. Thanks.

1. "Autumn": Page 1, Post 2
2. "Winter": Page 1, Post 8
3. "Spring": Page 2, Post 4
4. "Summer": Page 2, Post 9

22-Dec-2014 02:40:47 - Last edited on 22-Dec-2014 02:50:10 by Sick Stakes

Sick Stakes

Posts: 38 Bronze Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

To Autumn

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-bre(c)ast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
--John Keats

A deluge of light cascaded in from atop the dale as the sun peeked over, ensconcing a million emerald grass blades in a temperate embrace; dew drops turned to beads of a chandelier. The trickle of a crystalline stream was disrupted only by the call of a lark, which reverberated throughout the geological trough. On a passive wind, leaves of brown-orange were whisked away, tumbling over themselves in perpetual fall until they greeted a blind vista. There was a chill lingering on the horizon’s breath.

A woolly heap, organised in asymmetry so as to mimic a cloud’s form in high winds, stumbled down a rocky outcrop on the foot of an ascent, disturbing innumerable pebbles which fell and sank to the shallow depths of the rivulet. Once it regained its balance, it too traced the movements of the diminutive stones. The water nipped mildly at undressed ankles, but a greater portion of fleecy coverage facilitated a suitable majority for braving what became a frigid beverage, as cracked lips were irrigated with an otherwise incommodious rate of flow. Following this, the mass—now heavy with inordinate sums of encumbrance—allowed itself to travel downstream.

22-Dec-2014 02:41:01 - Last edited on 22-Dec-2014 02:51:58 by Sick Stakes

Sick Stakes

Posts: 38 Bronze Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

Early on its venture, evidence of a panorama nearing fruition presented itself, squirrels scurrying hurriedly from scrub to scrub up on the far bank, cavorting amongst piles of organic litter, briefly camouflaged before they emerged back on to the vibrant green pastures. Intermittently, any one rodent would disappear into the heights of a tree, fossick momentarily, and re-emerge as though fleeing a house on fire, each leaf on its limb shivering and twisting and slowly shrivelling as they succumbed to the searing frost of the seasonal skyline, turning celadon to umber in their final moments of conflagration.

Among the river shallows, swarms of small insects orbited each other ceaselessly, rolling over and then back under another, bouncing on and off the water’s surface in orchestrated rhythms. Atop the rolling bass, the undulating tone of vast counts of propellers whirred like well-trained sopranos, applying controlled vibrato to the chorus. Then, marching to the steady pulse, a flock of sheep descended on the stream, allowing the lone animal to merge with them on the water’s fringe.

The constancy of bleating drowned the fragile sounds of the air. In a colossal mass of wool, the congregate stumbled down the subtle incline, sending smooth pebbles skipping across the watery surface, soles perambulating daintily until a clumsy submergence. Occasionally, an individual would wobble precariously and fall heavily off the fringe of the causeway, where it would splash sporadically to regain its footing and stay with the crowd.

After some time had elapsed, a figure appeared in the distance, caught between the deep blue of the sky and the verdant landscape, slowly making its way across the face of a hill which followed the trough down to the water. In its step seemed a predisposition for haste. As it grew in salience, features became more distinguishable.

22-Dec-2014 02:41:29

Sick Stakes

Posts: 38 Bronze Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

It was a man, of no greatly imposing stature, attired in a thick brown coat and off-colour pants, voiding any chance of skin being exposed to the elements. On his head was a widely brimmed hat, curled up faintly on the edges, in a steadfast pose, as rigid as the stick he carried in his right hand. With it, he supported himself on the rushed descent.

At the point where the flock were finally intersected, a considerable distance had been formed between their point of origin and where they now stood. Even still, the man required some deal of time to impose his authority over the animals, and by the time of their eventual pause, they had dispersed themselves over a large section of the stream. Aided by his stick, the man assembled the throng.

The sun, even now at its apex above the rolling scenery, served little warmth to the silent cold dwelling in the permanent shadows of the surrounds. On an intensifying breeze, the gathering swallows’ twitter in the sky commanded great clouds of auburn leaves which continued to pirouette and waltz their way from the ground to the air in fixed undulation. The tributary at this point, closer to its termination, coursed quicker than could previously be acknowledged; any creature caught in the current would struggle with futility far above that of previous encounter.

The flock was fully re-established. The man, whose posture had slumped, took a fist full of a sheep’s coat and dragged it forward to lead the drove, which followed in turn. The swallows still diving and circling the firmament saw the gradual surge of what could have seemed a head of animate cauliflower, making a heavy crawl towards the higher part of the slope from which it had first descended. Now early afternoon, the evening was closer than the return of the day’s commencement.

22-Dec-2014 02:41:43

Sick Stakes

Posts: 38 Bronze Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

On the horizon, carried by the strengthening wind, curled black fists bloomed the soft-dying day, lunging out in the direction of the dale. Sporadic grumbles served as additionally portentous remarks on the accelerated curtailing of a day otherwise picturesque. The man—too incisive to the encroaching misfortune—began to holler at the following band of sheep, staggering forward with a false limp facilitated by the leisureliness of his contingent. The shouting fractured the crescendo of the continued symphony.

Unperturbed by the perceivably derisive cries, the man continued his ushering of an increase in the pace they were travelling. Swinging the stick, gently at first, and then with greater intensity, sheep at the front of the pack received short wallops, forcing a brief skip and subsequent surge of the animals, before again dying to a laboured measure. This labour was exacerbated by the eclipse of the sun, and then the dense drops of rain which soaked in to the fleecy coats.

The distant rumble had grown less distant, and the intervals between each had become fewer as the clouds swirled into a single frame, as though a poorly lit mirror of the image of the flock below it. The arbitrary flash of white briefly illuminated the landscape in perfect clarity before resuming a shroud of darkness. Finally, as though the sky could no longer hold on, airborne dew leaked with a sudden rise in frequency, the cracks whence it came bulging and spilling open with the intensity of pressure.

22-Dec-2014 02:41:56

Sick Stakes

Posts: 38 Bronze Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

The movement of the contingent had come to an effective standstill. From their orientation, on the edge of a steep valley wall leading to the stream, the torrent of water flooding down the incline resisted any ease of effort contravening the direction of the slope. Where it collected at the trough of the meeting gradients, the stream swelled with water far too surmountable for the tranquillity it otherwise preserved. Already swept with it were the ostensibly singed autumnal leaves which bled in to a crimson inundation.

Coruscating knives fell from the sky, each serration digging in to the ground and sending mud exploded outward, brief wafts of smoke dissipating with the wintry air, each accompanied by a guttural crash which reverberated throughout the local environment, like rolling timpani in a percussion ensemble.

The man took pause. Surveying his flock, one side of his mouth upturned with a furrowed brow, he took his hat off and pressed it to his chest, revealing sodden brown hair glued by the rain over temples. Without counting, he could ascertain that already a small portion of the sheep had disappeared, lost irrevocably to the bulging and gushing waterway, carried away like leaves.

The water level against the walls of the trough grew rapidly, every volume of water fallen funnelled down the intensifying deluge. The ascent had become too slippery of mud to navigate, each attempt of escape by man or beast carving out new, steeper walls, galvanising the predicament. In some manufactured alcoves, roots of willow trees stretched out towards the gorged stream, allowing the man to pull himself above the raging flood, sustained only through the durability of the sorrowful tree.

22-Dec-2014 02:42:15

Sick Stakes

Posts: 38 Bronze Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

Few sheep remained, the flock halved and then quartered. The remaining animals bleated desperately, kicking out to hold on to the disappearing bank, suffering now from the chill of the water and the weight withheld in their coats; one by one, they withdrew from the refuge of their contrived homes, swallowed by the enlarging mouth of the torrent.

It was around sunset when the thick clouds withdrew from the ominously opaque azure. By this time, the rain had already ceased for some hours, and the flood level diminished substantially, such that the man, who had lapsed into a state of disrepair between exposed tree roots above the raging flood, would have pass to retire to his abode. Rays of vermillion sunlight pierced the rain droplets lingering on the willows and maples, giving dim radiance to the fleeting day.

Night fell silently.

In the morning, a deluge of light cascaded in from atop the dale as the sun peeked over, ensconcing a million emerald grass blades in a temperate embrace; dew drops turned to beads of a chandelier. The rushed trickle of a crystalline stream was disrupted only by the call of a lark, which reverberated throughout the geological trough. On a passive wind, sodden leaves of brown-orange were whisked away, tumbling over themselves in perpetual fall until they greeted a blind vista, never resting upon the boggy marsh. There was a chill lingering on the horizon’s breath.

22-Dec-2014 02:42:27

Sick Stakes

Posts: 38 Bronze Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

Frost at Midnight

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbre(c)ast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Waves of a lake lick the bank, assuming all resplendence as they mirror the argentine gaze of cosmic luminosities. Branches snap and trunks jeer at the mercy of a potent wind, howling like the wolves which prowl the perimeter, dichotomous to waltzing snowflakes which pause and then plunge into the swirling mass, holding form briefly before amalgamating. A palpable mist chokes the trees, every entity a dropped cone on a wasteland of dessert, frozen syringes pointing in uniform haphazard as they defend each host from their cannibalistic colleagues.

Fleeting fits of colossal gusts, thick with shards of ice, plague the backdrop too often for serenity to be declared more than tersely, each rising and falling with the accompaniment of a vast percussive discussion. The erratic hoot of an owl is the only melodic contribution to the cacophony.

A woman clad scarcely in thin, ragged clothing stumbles through the thick snow fall of many weeks’ fury, her footsteps indistinguishable as she pulls herself through the powdery snow. She hopes it will not become her grave. Her hands, left exposed to the bite of the raw air, grow stiff and discolour gradually as blood can but freeze at icy fingertips. Her breaths—short, rasping intakes—mature shallower with each effort, a foggy veil escaping her mouth as she exhales.

22-Dec-2014 02:43:50 - Last edited on 22-Dec-2014 02:52:10 by Sick Stakes

Sick Stakes

Posts: 38 Bronze Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

A forceful bout of strong wind and large hailstones punctuates the ambiance. The latter punches the woman who falls to the ground, bruised and battered, disappearing under chilled sheets. For an extended period of time, the elements rage beyond her existence, blissfully unaware of the presence of the woman, if ever she were there. The frozen miscellany falls at such a rate that the cave transposed by the lady’s fall cocoons and seals over, insulating its contents above the temperature of the surroundings.

Away from the tempestuous proceedings of the world above, the stillness abetting the woman captures a profound eeriness, everything slowed in time behind a celestial mask. There is no sense of day or night. Instead, the cold darkness which stares at the lady facilitates the production of one’s thoughts, and it is that assistance which spurs clarity to forge forth, to usurp the tyranny of the frozen inhospitality.

The forest front of pine trees lies metres ahead of her, and after she unveils herself to the night, she makes a ginger crawl toward their distant asylum, every reach of an arm an agonising salvation, a continued resistance of the foul workings of the weather. The crunch of the snow concurs with the intense cold that has framed the icing drifts of the preceding weeks. Under the cover of the forest, the wind is far less severe, stealing less warmth from the woman and allowing blood to gradually return to her extremities and thaw the senses.

She comes to a stop where the lake meets the forest in a small inlet. The water’s surface mirrors the clearing sky in explicit detail, every transient flake of snow doubled until they collide, dissolving into nothingness as the window of stars above gaze longingly upon them. Each speck waltzing to the earth glints in the embracing moonlight, its gaze fixated on the woman who views only one dimension of the silent light, forever unaware of the hundreds of other postcards, each a paragon of splendour.

22-Dec-2014 02:43:59

Sick Stakes

Posts: 38 Bronze Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

It is the sweeping stare of the lady’s admiration which draws her eye to the position of a cabin on the far bank of the lake, enclosed by the edge of a forest parallel to her own, exposed on either side by an expanse of open land. If it were not for the lake’s surface prepared to yield to any who tried to pass over it, the log haven would be on the tip of a breath’s condensation; removed from that impossibility, however, the perimeter of the icy lagoon made an arduous proposition to one who had struggled to crawl mere metres.

Before the woman made any commencement of an attempt, she forced herself to the water’s edge and, kissing the surface cautiously, took truncated sips, making brief pause to avoid notion of hypothermia before continuing to hydrate herself. Then she steadied at her feet. Her legs had grown rigid with the cold and in the absence of movement, her pants, torn below the knees and coloured an offensive brown, trapping little heat in to warm her legs. On her feet, badly conforming socks were the only protection between her skin and the snow, and a developing hole on the smallest toe of her right foot revealed a digit turned a deep green, the only trace of such hue in the forest.

Making guarded steps in the thinner snow, the lady—her face scrunched up into a ball—gradually worked herself into some form. Her knees, previously without any hope for movement, began to limber, and the gaucherie that stalked her progress to where she had been moments ago began to dissipate.

22-Dec-2014 02:44:09

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