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Snippet #901

located in Life, a part of Almost an Allegory, one of the many universes on RPG.


The container of experiences that a living creature goes through, whether asleep or awake.


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Thickening clouds melt the sky into a bronze basin, the molten fumes lapping tumultuously along the edges and daring light to break beyond the turgid brim. Sporadic, lucent breakthroughs ebb away within the hour, and tiny orbs of rain cast long, thin tethers from vault to vale, as through in a sort of melancholic proxy to the bright bands that did dominate the landscape beforehand.

Beneath all this sits Hunter, still bewildered and transfixed by the sheer audacity and falsity of his title; after all, he does not track beasts, nor slay nor skin them, nor anything even remotely similar. The fact he had, an hour hence, been curiously pursuing the click-clack of hind’s feet was merely a coincidence. One he had put behind him the moment of his failure in executing even that menial task. Now his cloak, already burdened with the sweat of the hunt, is further laden with precipitation. Still, the evening is warm, young, and the rain is not wearisome, nor the blinding shards of plasma exploding to leave vaporous pillars in their wake. He lies on his back in the wet grass and lets the now-heavy globules strike his face.

Disgruntled with the name Hunter, he casts it aside, and elects instead to call himself Sod, for he is sodden and, in his own hazy mind, fits the innumerable meanings that word presents.