Pretty Worlds and Pretty Hooves - IV

GingerNut's picture

The abyss was different this time. With an impaired sense of sight, one would think that Pert would be able to see even less of the inky oblivion that was his dream world. He had gone through a familiar memory laden dream beforehand with his monochrome vision. Why would it be different?

Perhaps his brain had needed time to adjust, or maybe it hadn't been his eyes at all... but the process of reorganizing lost memories was complete. Of course, he could still not truly 'remember' them, not until his own subconscious was able to dig them up itself.

The servants that were to escort him and Turkey had not arrived by nightfall, and the handsome stag had offered that they get some shut-eye for the inevitable trip in the morning. Of course, he had said so in such a sickeningly innocent, childish manner that Pert couldn’t help but trust him. Still, he had to admit to being a bit paranoid about the prospect of having an antler prong stuck in his throat while he slept.

If anything else, the piebald had to admit that he was eager to go through another auditory trip into his memories.

He would regret that delighted anticipation later on, along with the morbid curiosity to learn more, be it about Jergens or otherwise.

...

...

...

It was no longer black. No longer a sense of falling. No longer did the smoky will-o-wisps clot his nostrils and snake about his body. There was merely a sensation of a steep drop before his hooves came into contact with soft earth, their tips digging into rich soil.
Grass immediately licked at his ankles, eager to taste his fur. Pert refused to open his eyes, preferring to lift his head and experimentally sniff the 'air'.

Cloying flowers, sweat and smoke. The rich, polluting scents of society clogged his nostrils.

This was a lucid dream in its purest form. That his brain could emulate such detail astonished him. Then again, this wasn't really a dream. It was a recollection of lost experiences, his own sick subconscious way of filing them away based on raw emotional value. Flashbulb memories, as they were called.

As if on an impulse, Pert cracked open his eyes, keeping his gaze to his hooves. Grey. Memory or not, the whole scene was painted in it, adapting to the stag's new eyes like most memories adapt to how we want to remember them.

"What would you like me to call you then?"

The sound of his own voice caused him to snap his head upwards, ears tilting every which way. The sound had no discernible source. It seemed to echo all around, eager to be heard by interested ears.

He was standing in a cemetery, lined to the brim with its occupants. Not that Pert minded any; he had been expecting something as sullen as this. It went with the territory knowing how his mind worked. Slowly, keeping an ear on the apparent conversation ‘he’ was in, the piebald picked around the graves. His eyes scanned the surfaces of the stone, reading the dates and names with mild to little interest. He couldn't have possibly have known all of the graves by heart... perhaps his brain was merely filling in the gaps.

"Hm... it doesn't matter to me, you know? But maybe 'Cry' is the easiest way."

That voice... Pert stopped dead in his tracks, eyes clenched shut in concentration. It was the voice of the man he had beaten up from a few dreams ago, that much was certain. The light tenor and softness... it was a clear match. A new breed of questions sprouted in the stag's mind, and he continued his search with greater fervor. All the while he kept a sharp ear on the conversation.

"May I ask you what caused the sudden headache you got at the florist?"

A reluctant pause. No wonder; Pert hated talking about his illness. It was much better to pretend that it didn't exist...

"I'm a diagnosed schizophrenic... I don't think that's whats wrong with me though. A lot of times I don't even know that I'm seeing things. They're so real that I can touch them... "Colorful objects, paintings, patterns... things like that give me migraines and make me dizzy. Sometimes I get hallucinations when that happens, sometimes I get them without the pain at all..."

Pert found himself nodding along with his own explanation. He couldn't have said it better. Then again, it was himself saying all this. All of it felt so surreal... And he couldn't for the life of him remember the person that he was talking to. Apparently his name was Cry, that had to be a nickname of sorts though, but for what Pert had no idea.

"My mother thought that they were imaginary friends or something, since a lot of them kept coming back more and more... but then..."

His mother... Not since his letter to her that anything new had sprouted from her. Probably with good reason as well.

"Then one day, my 'imaginary friends' started to order me to do things for them. Terrible, terrible things..." he seemed to pause, not for dramatic flair, but to regain his composure. The stag could hear the subtle sounds of breathing from both parties.

"Pert... you can stop. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to... I'm sor-"

"You know why we ran away, right?" his voice cut through the man's own, frantic to say as much as possible. The piebald continued to search all through this, but could find nothing no trace of the voices' sources... perhaps they didn't exist. His mind was merely giving him a playground to listen by. Still, he kept wandering, looking behind gravestones and fences alike.

"No... not really. Jergens never told me."

"It wasn't because we loved each other..."

...What?

The silhouettes of the surrounding town were beginning to fade to black, a sure sign that the memory was ending. But why? Why was it closing down so quickly?

"Hey PerPer! Wake up!"

...Of course. Turkey was jostling him awake. That explained it then. Pert didn't think he could possibly be angrier at any one person or stag. He couldn't wake up yet! He needed to think, to question the context of what he had meant by 'loved'. It was such a broad term, after all... Brothers? Friends?

There was no longer grass at his hooves, and the intricate graves had long since faded away. The voices had left as well, mere echoes against a fabricated breeze that soon grew stagnant as well.

And it was all going away because that pretty, dim-witted stag wanted him to wake up.

Pert's lips curled back in a snarl, his anger jolting to boiling levels. As mellow as he usually was; he had a temper. Of course it usually died down as quickly as it came, but by that time, damage would already be done. Apology or not, Pert had always come across as ‘troubled’.

"Oi Turk! Thaat ain't hoo yoo do eet! Ya need to be moor aggressive. Loke thes!"

Though very faint, Pert felt a sharp jab being dealt to his nose, and even more of the landscape faded as a result. Tears dotted his eyes, obscuring his view of the fading world. Not like it mattered, there wasn't anything interesting left to look at. He didn't even have time to think the memory over, what his words had meant, who 'Cry' was.

...

All of a sudden, a hideous black crow was staring at him in the face, beady black eyes knit in concentration. "Oh look. We goot im' oop Maastah!" it harshly called, its voice completely jumbled to Pert, who simply glared at it in response. Birds didn't normally speak, and with good reason. With no lips to enunciate their words, most of their speech was completely lost to ignorant ears. It took a lot of practice to understand them alone… and even more so to gain their trust.

"I didn't ask you to do any such thing…"

Pert flinched in surprise and forced his head up, bleary eyed, only to see a peculiar looking buck sitting a respectful distance away. What, more of them? At least this one sounded like he had half a brain to work with, unlike the long-haired stag that practically bounded over to his side. "Oh yay! You're up! See, I've been up for... for..." he looked over at the new, unfamiliar deer. "...How long you been here Master?"

The buck shook his head, lips pursed in annoyance. "None of that Turk. I won't have you scaring him off." he murmured, practically whispered. His voice was light and airy, almost breathless to Pert. It sounded as if the deer were about to fall over. Looking him over, such an assumption didn't seem unlikely. He looked deathly thin, his skin taut around his bony frame.

To call this 'master' frail would have been a much too polite term to use. Frail, yes, but not in a charming or appealing way. Pert eyes were immediately drawn to his hooves, daintily crossed in front of him as if he were at a tea party. They reflected against the rising sun, casting an uncomfortable glare in the piebald's eyes. While Pert couldn’t tell what color they were, it was obvious that they weren’t of a normal material.

There was something embedded in the skin on his neck, but as to what it was, Pert didn't know, nor did he want to. He had small, modest looking antlers, the tines dotted with half-melted candles, their molten wax carelessly dripping upon his back.

...At least it would have, had not a strange, white beaked crow conveniently perched itself on the buck's scrawny back, wings unfurled as it caught the stray drops of wax upon its feathers. From what Pert could see, it looked positively miserable, its wings trembling as it strained to hold itself up. There was that other crow stood so closely in front of the piebald as well, its wingtips white rather than its beak.

Come to think of it, Pert could almost distantly recall having seen such markings before...

"You seem dazed."

Pert snapped back to attention upon being addressed, looking back over at the candle-burdened deer with a forced, tired smile. "Uh, well..." he dumbly stammered, never one for words. Even so, wasn't Turkey going to take him to this so-called master? "Look... I'm in a bit of a hurry." he finally mumbled. He didn't even seem to care anymore. All of this seemed so fruitless now.

"No... We have all the time in the world."

The buck's breath seemed to rattle in his chest, his purely visible ribs gently expanding and collapsing. Pert flinched and bit back an instinctive apology, and stared up at the master's face.

Unlike Pert, he carried a classic deer muzzle, its tip a lighter shade of grey than the base. His eyes were a deep olive, though they had no spark, no real life to speak of. Maybe it was sleep deprivation, judging from the unsightly russet circles underneath the buck's eyes.

"You okay...?" the piebald asked tentatively. Something seemed off... like the buck wasn't completely 'with' him. "I mean, you have a name, right?"

The ashen grey deer blinked slowly, seemingly lost in his own little world. He lightly swayed back and forth, the crow upon his back constantly losing his balance.

"Faith." he finally murmured, a few small tears bleeding at the corners of his eyes.

"I don't care who you are... please just... call me Faith..."

Broken at last.











---

Originally much longer. I accidentally lost the word document to this and had to rewrite it from scratch. Still pissed. Blah. Still, I think this is your break for wading through the last long-ass part c: Something short and sweet~

Crybaby's dialogue is purely Munk's, save for the second to last line, which I added just to give some balance to the conversation.

Act II is over. Now Act III.... oh God... Act III... Depending on how I pace it, there may be no need for an Act IV. Who knows? We'll see when we get there. It’ll be the most fun though, and the most spoilerific

Bear in mind; nobody will be leaving this unchanged.
Skitties's picture

*smacks into screen trying to

*smacks into screen trying to get as close as possible* ...ow.

I want to know more. *stares at screen* @-@

Signature by Roo ♥
Munkel's picture

Uhuhu, can't wait for the

Uhuhu, can't wait for the next act~
You, your characters and writings are simply great ;3;
GingerNut's picture

Skits; Huh... perhaps I

Skits; Huh... perhaps I should make the font larger, so that you don't hurt yourself. Thanke<3

MunkaDunk; Noooo this is so bleh compared to what I originally had ;; lol ilu<3