I don't generally keep logs of my rp, which is a bad habit, and the ones I may have are several years old and probably on my old computer that refuses to operate. I do have something from a piece of writing I'm working on, though, so I'll put that here instead; hopefully that counts.
excerpt thingy starts below:
The world is cold. Leaves crisp and brown, adorned with the first dustings of white crystal. The snow is as ephemeral upon the leaves as the leaves are upon the frozen, lifeless earth.
A semicircle of narrow, pointed cliffs eclipse the darkening horizon, and it would not be difficult to confuse this place for a giant gaping maw, ice layering everything – thin now, but soon to thicken. Any passing group of clouds a tongue, tasting the dying light and icy, scouring wind.
A breath of some other wind sends them scattering, both the clouds and the leaves driven away by a wind alien to this place – far too moist and carrying with it a tinge of warmth.
Step.
The world flips. Then it flips again. Then it is spinning, sky becoming ground becoming sky, until the colors blur into one another, and rearrange themselves into…
The top of a hill. Cyan grass, each individual blade nearly tall as a man and sharp along the edges. One hill among many, the landscape forms a wavy pattern, like a turbulent ocean of grass.
The black sky gleams like oil, the space between it and the grass tinged a faint luminescent blue. The impossible sky ripples, and through that semi-transparent medium floats a large blue sphere. It drifts lazily, only to collide with an identical orb. The muted explosion produces another set of ripples, and suffuses the air with more glowing blue mist.
Each ripple produces a wind, stirring the blue air in a circular pattern away from the impact sight. That wind feels not fully gaseous, as if filled with microscopic raindrops.
Suddenly the wind picks up, the feeling of being battered by raindrops too small to be seen becoming the feeling of a sweeping current. Moving becomes difficult for an instant.
Step
The world shifts strangely, then blurs, spinning backwards like an unrolling scroll. Similarly, its features flatten, sky joining land, blending and melting into one another, until none are distinguishable from the rest, leaving behind a featureless, perfectly smooth whiteness. There is no wind here, at least, none that is natural to this place. But somehow the air carries with it a hint of that same empty whiteness that composes the ground, a thing that becomes more pronounced the closer the air is to the earth, to the point where it is difficult to tell where land starts and mist ends.
There are a surprisingly large number of places like this, places that go on forever, unchanging, or that are quite literally only a common footstep or two in width, but looping back on themselves in a blatant disregard to the rules of geometry, places where nothing ever happens, and nothing ever will. Like forgotten toys, they litter the plainscape, set down by some careless maker, never to be tinkered with again. Each one makes me think about what thing might be strange enough to become bored of manipulating the unadulterated fabric of reality itself.
The mist-saturated air shifts unnaturally, pushed by some force as alien to this place as I. When it moves it does so with a slowness not suiting vapor, and with enough protest to make me curious as to its level of sentience. When it does eventually move though, it peals back to reveal a limitless blackness, empty in every definition of the word. Again, I wonder as to the actual sentience of that air, for, in comparison to this void, it does not feel quite so empty.
Step
It is as if the mind can instantly adjust to each world as it opens, pushing away the elements that it does not need and sharpening those it does. Depth perception shifts subtly with the step, returning to a more complete state. I had not noticed the absence until that absence was itself absent. At the same time, things compress, white fading naturally into a glossy black, despite the lack of transition.
Here the floor falls away; or rather, there is none to begin with. Tracing the edge of the world is like following a curve, but one so gradual in its slope that it could be mistaken for a straight line with touch alone.
Falling here is less a conscious sensation and something more like breathing. Somehow, it does not impede movement in other directions. There is no friction either; or perhaps it is simply the material from which the edge of the universe is wrought. It feels like glass, if glass were as thin as paper and harder than diamonds.
At first the end of the universe appears as just that; the end of the universe, a featureless expanse of black, different from the colorlessness in other directions. But staring at the glass is like staring into a fire. After a while the solid blackness parts, breaking apart into different kinds of black, edges of shapes which once seemed distinct expanding, pushing others, to give the illusion of full movement. Square fuzz into rhombi, becoming rectangles, the latter a triangle. Circles become faceted polygons, baring infinite sides. And they all seem to move sideways with the falling, and sometimes they seem to switch directions, the movement of the patterns creating patterns that stretch into what at first seems like nothingness. The wall encircles the universe, and the patterns are projected into the bubble within. Doubtless this will become a jewel of creation in the future.
Again I think back to that whiteness. Was that other plain so much different from this one? Perhaps there was something I had missed there, something that made it seem like nothingness in all directions.
For a split second, the patterns speed up in their flow, as if pushed by something. That too, will have an effect on this world’s evolution. They spiral unnaturally, twisting back on each other and fracturing into fractals within fractals within fractals. The shards stir in whirlpools the size of galaxies, and slowly knit themselves back together. I have to look away. But the entrancing image is a crucial split-second delay.
Step
The wall flips sideways, and sight expands back into a two dimensional focus. With the step, something happens to the glittering black glass. It becomes not so cold and far more pliable, expanding to fill the world. It becomes an almost-fluid, or an ultra-thin cloth, something that takes the place of void.
Hollow tubes, silver as far away stars, are threaded through the black material, twisting and knotting like branches. Within the thicker clusters are tiny glass beads, brighter than the light from a thousand supernovae.
