Ayatan (They/Them) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ayatantreasure) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
nexus_crossings2022-02-23 08:12 am
ayatantreasure) wrote in nexus_crossings2022-02-23 08:12 am
+1 Space Ninja
This place reminds them of Cetus, a little. Not quite as bustling and busy with the snow blanketing the walkways, but the closed shopfronts and toned-down open air markets suggest that the dry seasons might be comparable - surpass it even. They've been doing recon for several days now, first by observing from rooftop perches, then mingling among the pedestrians. It seems odd to walk among people of so many different sizes and shapes, and almost never be looked at twice. Never recognized for what they are.
No fear. No adoration. They can just... be.
It's a start.
The warframe is tall as an adult human, metal skin glinting slightly in the faded winter sunlight, hoof-like feet stepping lightly despite the metallic scrape against snow-dusted concrete. The long ribbon-like syandana attached to their back flutters softly in the breeze, a playful contrast to the weapons they carry on their back - a sword, some kind of rifle, a pouch of throwing knives. Their hands are empty, though, flexing yellow fingers absently as if trying to grasp something intangible.
Finally, they choose a perch on the edge of the walkway that passes by the Plaza, balanced effortlessly in a crouch atop a low wall. They raise one hand, projecting an image of words in a swooping script, which the Nexus then translates:
Have you ever dreamed so deeply you forgot who you were?
No fear. No adoration. They can just... be.
It's a start.
The warframe is tall as an adult human, metal skin glinting slightly in the faded winter sunlight, hoof-like feet stepping lightly despite the metallic scrape against snow-dusted concrete. The long ribbon-like syandana attached to their back flutters softly in the breeze, a playful contrast to the weapons they carry on their back - a sword, some kind of rifle, a pouch of throwing knives. Their hands are empty, though, flexing yellow fingers absently as if trying to grasp something intangible.
Finally, they choose a perch on the edge of the walkway that passes by the Plaza, balanced effortlessly in a crouch atop a low wall. They raise one hand, projecting an image of words in a swooping script, which the Nexus then translates:
Have you ever dreamed so deeply you forgot who you were?
no subject
Perspective. The word lingers on their fingertips, their other hand fidgeting a little, tapping fingers against their leg. Thinking, cautious. I dreamed of something real.