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Des Arpents de neige... Chapter Two
A way to survive
~ 2000 B.C.
Europa never came back to see his sons in the end. He never got the chance
None of his people went on Damga's land again, never giving him the opportunity to go back himself. The people he "gave" Damga so long ago had long since became Damga's people and, now, none of the power emanating from her land made it possible for him to meet her again. Europa was an old spirit, one of the second generation ones. They weren't able like their heirs to travel from land to land by themselves. Without at least one of his people to bring his energy with him on the journey, he wouldn't be able to survive on another's land, if he was able to get to it that is. He couldn't force humans to travel; he could only hope they would want by themself. As a Land Spirit, he was there to assist his humans, not force them in anything even if it meant that they would never know about the faraway lands to where some of their forme
Des Arpents de neige... Chapter One
Not meaning to keep you...
~ 10 000 B.C.
"Are they not supposed to be here yet?" whined the toddler.
The giggle of a young woman went mixing with the cold breeze that had just appeared at that very moment, cooling smoothly the face of the two figures sitting in de bright summer light. Mother and son were covered in many fur and skin clothes, trying to keep warm in this July afternoon of the ending Glacial Era. Much would say that another way to keep warm would have been to leave the shore of the sea, but they had a reason to affront the freezing wind coming from the calm waves. They were waiting for some VERY important people.
"Patience little one, patience. They will be here sooner or later. The great sea is no challenge for Magtogoek. She is the best to travel on the roads of water. She is their mother after all." she affirmed, turning her head too look at the water from where her friends, her family, was supposed to arrive.
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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