the missing ghost | an introduction

[jianwai]

❝Hold him gently in your hands. He has been cracked enough as it is, and his heart is more shattered than he lets on.❞

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name: Atiya Nepenthe// meaning: Gift of the medicine for sorrow. // gender: Male// username: hanzo.

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Soft the drip of water once was, from stalactite to stalagmite, where eons of drip have made the maws of caves and intertwining, twisting tunnels night impossible to navigate even when one was equipped with equipment unrivaled with the next; such was the feeling of loneliness, a parasitic attachment bred from forgotten rocks, which would from the abyss of thought and stand teetering over the precipice of inaction-- fear to drive into the minds of all, child or adult, and as the name to concept would entail, it would be a frightening experience.

Water does not often pool in caves, it would be a game of chance, roll the dice of wandering ancient halls and pray to Gods that have long since forgotten their hand carved castle, that you would find relief of a burning throat by way of stagnant water; with sickness layered an oil film atop the water, and beneath blind fish swim beneath in families too small to be useful. To eat would be to condemn, to drink would be to poison, but life was precious and fate would push and shove where she wished ones life to go-- fate cared naught, it was suffer and live or suffer and die, and with tight held grips of life she would urge for the former than the latter.

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General Introduction:
The poor mans' natural treasure.
The Unsealed Hollow; never wise
to go alone, experienced thief
or not.

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Such a cavern is truly world-class, a stunning array of calcite crystal formations; where helicties are found in an extreme abundance, an ever forming meal ticket for the brave, for such helictites were rare in purity and complexity. So densely packed with them, such a cavern could only charmingly be referred to as the most indescribably beautiful cave in the world, where its beauty could not be exaggerated, but forgotten when all one is capable of knowing is a cavernous, never ending system of monstrous teethed formations.

Research is an ever important key to understanding, to spelunker, to thievery; the cave had been formed in a hundred million year old stone, formations of the cave through water occurring neatly five million years ago. Formed primarily along a fault line, which allows gases to rise from the depth and infect certain chambers of ever twisting and stretching tunnels, the gases mixing with the water in the water of the aquifer. How disgusting, although truly natural, and a somber note for any to be trapped within the cave and seeking liquid relief. The water highly acidic, dissolving limestone, forming even larger caves and burning throats, though true harm coming from a never-ending consumption of the liquid without medical intervention; though the water begins to drain from certain chambers, escaping its gaseous prison, filtered through rocks, become only a little more healthy to drink.

The effects of being trapped in a cave, beyond the starvation and dehydration threat faced ever moment one was not walking in search of the more physical necessities of life, branch with gentle hands to the metaphysical. It would be more akin to a sensory deprivation study, losing connection with the world outside, losing weeks of ones life-- thought to be at one time but would find themselves thrust weeks, even months, ahead of what was believed. Isolation prove to tamper not only on the sleep cycles but anxiety, hallucinations, and a decline in mental performance.

❝Never trust a survivor,❞ my father used to warn me, ❝until you find out what he did to stay alive.❞

[jianwai]

Desolation overwhelms me.

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┌“Oh, the king
Gone mad within his suffering
Called out for relief Someone cure
him of his grief.┘

☤

His only son
Cut down, but the battle won
Oh, what is it worth
When all that's left is hurt.

☤

┌Like the stars chase the sun
Over the glowing hill, I will conquer
Blood is running deep
Some things never sleep. ┘

➣P E R S O N A L I T Y ▪ 300/300. Atiya is an oddity; not in the sense of experiencing the strange or unnatural, the supernatural, or even the gifted ability of enhanced mental performance. Rather he is an oddity of countering ideals, a beautiful concoction of too much and not enough, whose balance teeters back and forth, never truly settling. He is a man of adventure, the desperation to be someone a heavy scent that burns, but he had long since become accustomed to it that, through no fault of his own, he does not see that his desire of adventure leads himself along a path of broken relationships and dreams shattered like shards of smashed glass. Yet, such a need for adventure would certainly have been damped, smothered sweet by the kiss of anxiety the moment she lay her claws within the mind, for Atiya was an anxious young man, who could worry all night about the strength of climbing ropes or the processes of airport security; the very same man who would climb the top of a mountain in search of the frozen and forgotten to loot the once-men, and the man whose main pay of income involved spelunking-- robbing the forgotten, such a peculiar trope. Further than that, than the crippling anxieties that crush bone, than the adventurous spirit that lulled him into sweet securities of riches, Atiya is man lacking of morals. Little consideration for others, he is a plucker of the heart, the musician of one's own sorrow song, who would write a thousand symphonies before the days end not because he truly cared for those he passed, but rather because he felt the need to pluck and pick and hear the melancholic harpsichords of crushing life. Of course to think him rude, think him mean, would be just as wrong as he was.

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➣B A C K S T O R Y▪ 500/500. When Atiya was born, he was such a sweetness to his family; a young boy born to parents who, if there was ever a universal truth to be found within the world, worked their hardest in order to secure both safety and security for their son. Although they failed in their latter attempt, both in regard of finances and emotional support, an onlooker would never harbor the audacity to avert their eyes from such a loving family, and spout the proclamation that Atiya was unloved, neglected, or forgotten by his parents. He was loved, so deeply by his parents, and despite this love, or rather in spite of this love, Atiya found himself a peculiar concoction of seclusion and rebellion.

Atiya wished to go forth into the world and be rebellious. He wished to carve a path into the world quicker than he read that rivers did to mountains, and to canyons and caves, and an assortment of other natural phenomenons he would find himself, once grown and equipped, looting for profit. Yet, hesitance played a key factor of life, each step would be gripped tightly with fear. He would fear the looks, the strangers, the way he would play an oddity in life by the way of his alabaster fur and a mouth too filled; metaphorically and literally filled-- with gnashing teeth, and words soaked heavy in a beautiful concoction of toxic spat and honeydew whispers. He wished to be seen as a marvel of kalmanity, but shuddered at the mere thought of hatred or disgust based desires directed to his name.

Perhaps that would be his reluctance for group activity, but enjoyment of activities as he aged; he would be the one constantly out, always exploring, seeking the next piece of treasure or adventure to fall through the palms of others like silk, only to then be scooped up with a avarice delicacy of the aging kalon. As he aged he would find himself spending a greater time shadowing the people around him, listening to their whisper lashed tongues, desperately consuming all that there was to beat them. Physically, mentally, location based-- none of this mattered to Atiya, as long as he were capable of beating someone at something, he would see the day successful, and harbor no regrets towards thought or action.

Then it would be: the caves, the spelunking, the stealing, the devastation, the corruption, the weathered rock, and a shaking rope.

He would become trapped, yet would not find his need for escape to begin itself a life on the border upon desperation. While ribs shone through alabaster skin as ray kissed moonlight, and mouth became a house of cotton, he would only find himself thankful for the lonesome nature of collapsing caves and interlocking tunnel systems. Would welcome it with a kiss, and find a companion in a mouse as pale as himself; untouched by the rot of the cave system. His companion, a small squeaking friend, to assure him as darkness enveloped all.

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[Kyar]

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t h exxxxm i s s i n gxxxxh u n t e r

Corvid Endalez - Male - 24

"The recurve design is credited to the Mongolians, who used the bow on horseback. The bow’s design has two distinct advantages. One, it’s short stature allows one to easily pass the bow from one side of the horse to the other, thus allowing the archer to shoot on the horse’s left or right. Most other bows are too long for this, limiting the archer to shooting from the horse’s left (if the archer is right handed). Secondly, the curve of the bow’s limbs form pads that stop the string in a more sudden fashion. Thus, the impulse delivered to the arrow is higher, giving the arrow a high initial velocity."

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P e r s o n a l i t y - (275/300)

"my home is in the trees.
my home is with silence.

take up my bow, and you will know me."

Corvid, a steady hand embracing silence.
Amidst the treetops, he soaks in the peace
of a silent world. The winds are his company,
the soft sound of dancing leaves at his side.
While quiet, a bold and capable young man–
determined to seek out his own understanding
of the world around him. Solitary by nature,
but prone to deep connection with a select
few. His passion for archery reigns supreme,
and his desire to share his knowledge and
skills drives him in his prideful quest for
absolute perfection. No single moment can
encapsulate the drive he feels with a bow in
hand, arrow at the ready, as his breath slows
and vision narrows to his quarry. The
singularity of his existence in a world away
from society has made his relationships few,
but the inescapable need to share his travels,
his adventures, leaves him ever longing for the
perfect audience. A man of few words and
fierce self-evaluation, he wishes for a world
where each accomplishment spoke for itself,
and his own aggravations with himself could be
washed away. He is quick to criticize, though
only of his own abilities. Every momentary
mistake, imperfect shot, weighs on him
relentlessly.

So often alone in the trees, his unending quest for success
leaves little room for developing relationships, and his penchant
for isolation has left familial ties in tatters. Still young and naive,
Corvid is violently insistent that he can manage entirely on his own.


Not until after the accident did he realize: No one thrives in isolation.


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B a c k s t o r y - (475/500)

Steady.
The world narrowed as breath caught in his chest, time
slowing until the moment began to stretch, bending
into an achingly intense instant. No room for hesitation.
Release.

The arrow carved a tunnel of sound through the dense
space, rocketing down from the vibrating bowstring
with deliberate aim, arching, spiraling, and planting
with a thunk. Grass crackled, leaves and twigs
shattered under the hooves of the young buck,
four points darting in a panicked daze to the edge
of the woods, and disappearing, crashing into the
underbrush.
Pennies of red began the trail, for a moment,
catching the last breath of sunlight in a call for the
hunter to claim his prize.

A perfect shot, exactly in line with Corvid's careful
aim.

The cheeky grin that spread across his face, even a
comparatively thundering laugh, rolled across the field
from the tree stand where the hunter had waited hours
for a shot. Four points may not be the monster he was
hoping for, but an excellent shot was a greater prize.

His eyes closed to the air of twilight, a thin breeze
carrying his own scent, that that was not already held
at bay in preparation for the hunt, gently away
from the waves of grass before him. The spot was a
favorite, a familiar place. He'd been up before sunrise,
out on the limbs by eight, and ready to strike at any
given moment, any perfect moment that arrived.

Heart gushing with the thrill of victory, a boastful
smirk laid waste to the peace of the forest. Now,
uncontested, his ego rose up in mountains, towering
above the day filled with so many doubts.

He'd done it a hundred times. Two hundred. More.
The tree was as simple as a slip-free staircase,
a trip from the kitchen to the couch. It was familiar,
unchanging, and in that consistency, entirely
unexpected.

What he felt first was air.
His eyes, detached from the world, himself, in
such an odd an inexplicable way, found purchase
only on the rippled shape hovering overhead.

The bow, so strangely framed by sky of twilight,
spiraling downward in singing arcs, dancing above
and only inches out of reach. Branches thrashed,
leaves scattering. But how odd, he thought, that
the bow fell so slowly that it seemed to keep time
with the delicate leaves.

For a moment, he even thought in a panic that
his beloved weapon, his trade, could be damaged
upon impact.

He only had an instant to think of himself. Hands
darted for branches, tearing leaves and skin,
unsuccessful. A gasp, he thought must have come
out of himself, though it sounded like a crow calling
somewhere on the horizon.

In that instant, too, he felt the pang of stupidity.
Falling from a tree he knew so well. Idiotic.

When he hit, three pulses of color,
then darkness.

[Kyar]

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M e e t i n g - (798/800)

Rain. The sound is simultaneous joy and irritation. Joy, because it reminds me of the days I spent getting rained on in the tree stand. Irritation, for the same reason. Right now, it's pounding down on the grimy 15th floor hospital window that never gets enough sunlight or janitorial attention. It still looks like it was last cleaned off with a hack of spit. "Cleaned."

A part of me wants to get up and look out to see more than gray sky. But here's the thing. If my foot touches floor, that'll be step 6,426 from the time I woke up. Some messed up brain injury, stamping a step counter into my head. I literally can't stop paying attention to every single footfall. It's enough to drive a guy mad, on top of the headaches and exhaustion.

I look up in time to see the nurse who's been helping me these past four weeks. She isn't alone. She's wheeling in the palest, gauntest, dirtiest looking creature I've ever seen. It takes me a second to realize whoever he is, he isn't actually 101 years old. I'm doing my fair share of staring, and he seems to be staring right back. I raise a harsh eyebrow, a scowl quick to cross my face. I really don't want company. The one blessing this hospital room had was peace at night. I look to the nurse now, pleading. Take him somewhere else.

She doesn't, of course, and he's helped up into the bed next to me. It takes everything I have not to audibly groan. But I stare over at him, honestly hoping my gaze is enough to cause some kind of discomfort. Get out, my mind urges. Go.

"Am I alone?"

His voice startles me, and I stare at him blankly. My right hand waves about two feet from his face. Hello, I'm right here?

"No, you have a roommate. His name is Corvid," the nurse explains. His head turns, but now he's looking away from me.

"Hi," he mumbles, and I hear now there's a rasp to his voice like he either had his vocal cords burned out, or he hasn't used them in years. In that instant, I realize two things.

1. Whoever he is, he's blind as a bat.

2. I don't think he wants to talk any more than I do. Perfect.

"Hi." My voice cracks too.

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"I couldn't breathe," Atiya explains, his voice getting softer again. "Whatever was in that tunnel wasn't air. I had to get back out by swimming through another tunnel. I didn't know if there was going to be air on the other side of that, either."

I'm listening to a story I couldn't have dreamed up. This guy, Atiya, he went into this cave planning some great expedition. For the last two hours, I've been hearing some pretty horrible stuff. Stuff about getting lost, surviving on next to nothing, and I'm sitting right next to this guy. I don't even know how he's still alive.

"But you came back up?"

"I came back up and I took a breath, and I started crying," he admits, and I chuckle lightly. He's smiling, maybe out of nerves, but I feel like we're getting somewhere.

"I would too," I assure him. I don't know if I really would. But I think he might need it.

"Yeah," he shuts down, and I realize that's it. His voice is shaking again, so I take his hand.

"Here," I explain, pulling his limbs up into the position I'd go to for teaching someone to use a bow. I know he can't see. But he can feel. "Like I was saying," I begin again, trading off for my story, "you have to hold everything in your entire body perfectly still."

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"Come visit?" Atiya asks, his voice cracking, and mine does too.

"Yeah, yeah," I promise. I guess I'm alright to go home now. Aniya still has some work to do. Turns out malnutrition and prolonged isolation can be worse than a head injury. Who knew?

"I'll be waiting." His voice is almost a whisper now, and I hate it, but I start to tear up. I'm so glad he can't see me, but I kinda wish he could.

"I'll come back. I'll shoot something. I'll bring you a turkey feather," I grin. He smiles too.

"Aim straight."

"Get better."

We embrace, and I grab my bags. I've got a long ride home.

I sit in the back of the taxi with a tune stuck in my head. I've got my footstep counter going as I tap my foot, but I don't think it's so bad anymore.
Inside a cave, turns out your own echoed footsteps sound like company. And now, there's some company I don't mind having.

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