Welcome to Gaia! ::

Magnolia was not averse to using the occasional mushroom or herb to punch through the veil between the spirits and herself. And while today wasn't one of those days, precisely, it was always good to know what kind of mushrooms helped and which one hindered...

Heavy-lidded, she sways, as the surroundings around her melt like rain washing down a coat of fresh paint. The colors run in long streaks that mix and muddy until she is left in a gray morning over coils of brown that encircle her. She purses her lips as if to speak but only ends up blowing raspberries which makes her giggle low and breathy as she totters slightly forward. It's with her forelegs bent, her head low, and her rear high in the air that she notices the mud seems to breathe.

Inhale. Ssssssss. Inhale. Ssssssssssss. Inhale. Sssssssssssss. Inhale. Sssssssssssssssss.

She tries to open her eyes further, wonders who is wheezing or snoring so oddly as her ears pivot forward. She blinks, closes one eye, and promptly falls over as the mud begins to undulate. Up and down, up and down, like angry water. She manages, barely, to push herself up and as she does so the mud breaks form to reveal to dark, glittering eyes. So, not mud then.

It isn't until the creature's head is in full view, mouth gaping open to reveal fangs, that she knows what it is. Well crap.

"I don't like you," Magnolia huffs. And she decidedly does not like how it has her surrounded with its girth. Or how its coils are sliding closer to her. Nor is its hissing even nice. This is not a fun trip. Which prompts her to saunter up to the hissing snake that could likely fit three -- she tilts her head up, squints her eyes -- make that five of her into its mouth, and, "The least you could do is be colorful or musical or talk. All this hiss sssssing business is boring!" And as if to prove her point, she drags one hoof across the ground and runs at the hissing monstrosity. Strangely, the more she runs, the further away the snake becomes.

"Stop running away, you coward!" she yells. She takes a mighty leap, in one last attempt to close the distance. Only, to her surprise, she leaps clean over the hissing snake and straight into the sky.

Magnolia flies over the swamp. Wind dances along her fur and through her hair. A flock of geese flap their wings beside her. And she starts to sink, fatigue seeping into her legs and the thinness of the air impeding her ability to breath. She tries to power through it as the geese leave her behind but she only ends up feeling exhausted. The tip of a hoof skims a treetop and she plummets like a stone.

She lands in a tangled heap, quite literally. Strands of hair drape over her back, around her neck, and have knotted gently around tail and hooves. She sighs, too tired to do anything but slowly attempt to n** at the mounds of hair that hold her captive.

"This'll be awhile," she frowns.

"Hah! Why don't you try standing here, dear."

She lifts her head and gapes as one of the trees before her speaks. Its bark splits into a jagged mess of triangles. And just as she wraps her head around the fact a tree has a mouth--

"Oh, shut up, Hazel. I'm far older than you are and you don't hear me complaining!" This tree's mouth is rounder.

"Maple, your sap is so thick your mouth gets stuck shut."

Magnolia stares as the trees around her all begin to speak. Hazel, Maple, Dogwood, Apple, Ash, Elm, Willow, Mangrove.

"No one will ever believe this story," she mutters, even as she remembers its all the mushroom. Next time, maybe only a nibble. This one is far too strong. Best enjoy it though, "You lot probably have lots of stories no one listens to..." she smiles.

Of course, there are seven trees. And thus...

"Oh, I do, I do! Once upon a--" "No, no. You always get to tell stories. My turn. There once was--" "Not that one again! A very long--" "You're an awful story teller! You'll put her to sleep!" "Oh, you're one to talk. Your voice is so horrid, she'll go deaf." "Shut up, all of you. Dogwood, dear, you tell a story."

"Not so long ago, just a stone's throw away..."

Rob wasn't big on experimental hallucinogens, but with two tokens on the list she volunteered to be put on the roster. She tried a furry blue one, not because it looked harmless, but she thought as long as she was going into this thing she might as well go all the way.

She couldn't distinguish the moment she lost consciousness (or gained it) but the world around her dimmed, and shifted, and wobbled, and suddenly she was seeing soft, glowing spots. Not insects, too vague for that, and they made small, haunting noises. Like soft cries or whispers.

They hovered just out of reach.

When she followed them, there was a tree. And at that tree was another kin. Proud, colored boldly, very fair, with a strong gaze. Her coloring was like a male bird's. Rob smiled, but found her repertoire more stumbling than usual, and felt like maybe words weren't all necessary. The other kin, who was...sometimes a friend, looked (for once) soft and inviting.

Running out of jokes about it, Rob lie down beside her.

It felt like hours passed this way, hours and hours, with the warmth and vibrant beat of her heart as very near, and very alive, and very full. The fur was pleasant. The kin curled more closely to her. She lost track of how long they stayed this way, talking more softly than they had ever talked.

Sootstriped selected a mushroom with a bold and fragrant smell, like damp earth and flowers. The first thing he noticed was the blotches and splotches of colour in his vision, and a persistent odor of basil. Then the streaks of color merged and lengthened, seeping into the shadows of the trees. Soot wandered about in a daydreamy sort of haze, watching the...watching the shadows merge and lengthen, and an enormous dark shape that smelled like death and caiman, and roared like a screeching gryphon rose up out of the shadows and pounced for him!

Bellowing in dismay, Soot galloped away, dodging left and right between Kindred who moved as if in slow motion, heedless of the threat behind him.

After a time, the buck was certain that the shadow monster was not chasing him--he was in an open grove now, and it could not reach through the shadows to touch this circle of sunlight. He was incredibly thirsty, and hungry, and, what was this? A little pool and a flat stone piled high with summer fruits and delicious-smelling roasted meats. He moved forward to partake of a little bit of the feast when the very ground began to shake and rumble underneath him. The stone, the stump, the very earth of the grove was shifting and twisting under him. As the dirt fell away Sootstriped saw the scales of a enormous python writhing under his hooves. Suddenly too fascinated to eat or drink, he stood still, stumbling a little to keep his balance, starting back and forth between the great snake he stood astride and the fascinating lands it travelled past.

Part One:

Ramble On took a bite of the mushrooms and blinked. Before him stood a kin he knew well from these experiences. "Hello, grandfather," he said, though the kin in front of him wasn't actually his grandfather. He was far older than that, a distant ancestor; but one look at his flea-bitten spots and his dreamy gaze and it was obvious that the two were kindred. He knew the buck only as Fool, though that wasn't his full name, and while he might be called Fool, he really was rather wise. "Did you know," said the older buck, "that it's a good day for bees?"

He had to think about this for a moment. "Why yes, it is. Not too cold, not too gusty. They can fly today."

"Bees are talented at flight."

"Yes, yes they are."

"You know, they shouldn't be."

"Really?"

"According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way a bee should be able to fly. Its wings are too small to get its fat little body off the ground. The bee, of course, flies anyway, because bees don’t care what anyone thinks is impossible."

"But if they shouldn't be able to fly, then why do they have wings in the first place?"

Ramble's ancestor looked uncomfortable. "I have to go now. There's some squirrels singing. I must tell them about the bees."

"Farewell, grandfather!" Ramble On rambled on a bit, humming to himself. He thought more about the bees. If bees could fly, why couldn't he? He leaped and gamboled, attempting to generate lift- but it was no use. Bees at least had wings.

"Bees at least have wings, you idiot."

"Who said that?"

"I did," said a voice Ramble also knew well- his own. It always sounded so strange to him to hear it coming from another; higher, more nasal, but definitely his. "You're an idiot and you eat far too many mushrooms." The version of himself that now approached was shadowy, foggy around the edges. "What's more, your spots are ugly and I just want to kick you in the face!" His doubled self kicked out at him, knocking him backwards. Yelping, Ramble rose to his feet, just as a rainbow touched down and completely obliterated the shadowy figure. What a beautiful sight, the motes of sunshine dancing and twinkling in front of him. He paused to drink it in, before a gentle gust of wind pushed him away.

Part Two

Ramble wandered away, eyes screwed shut. He wandered straight into a small knot of kin with a blissful smile. One of them, Lizard Kisses, knew immediately what was going on. She was well aware of mushroom peace, but he was pointed towards a rather dangerous-looking stand of dead trees. "Watch it buddy," she said, gently trying to nudge him away. "Go commune with the swamp over there- it's not super safe where you're heading." She butted at him a little, trying to wake him from his walking slumber- but to no avail. He pressed on, still heading towards the dead trees. He smacked straight into another kin, a big burly totoma who was rather alarmed by his state. "SIR," shouted Smash-and-Mash, "please be CAREFUL! The area you're headed towards isn't exactly safe!" But her warnings were to no avail, as he pressed on... right as a huge tree groaned and fell, sending whoofs of dry rotted wood into the air. It missed him by less than a foot, but he didn't seem to notice- instead, he simply stared into the middle distance before the totoma led him away, shaking her head and muttering.

Everything was purple as Ramble On sat on his haunches and listened politely to a tree. "Once upon a time," the tree began. "There was an ugly owlcat. He was so ugly that everyone died. The end." Ramble On stamped his hooves on the ground in applause. "That was a wonderful story!" he cried. "Will you tell me another?" The tree nodded, then began to speak again, but Ramble's attention was taken by a kin he'd seen before- that shadowy, elusive-at-the-edges version of himself who danced just out of reach and called him horrible things. Though he couldn't quite make out what these insults were, he knew they were terribly rude regardless. "I'm sorry, tree friend," he said, "but if this foul mouthed fellow won't stop insulting me, then I must go elsewhere." But where to go? Fortunately, his haven wasn't far away. A sweet little kiokote beckoned to him and patted the ground nearby. He snuggled up to the kind stranger and fell asleep, where he dreamed of the fine sights he'd seen at the winter market.

Part Two

Ramble reared up on his hind legs, jamming his face into a tree hole to investigate something. He was knocked backwards by the swarm of bats that streamed out of it. A passing kin tried to help him; he looked rather startled, after all, but he was having none of it and instead sprinted off into the woods. He found a tree trunk on the ground; a big, fallen mess of what might have been a beech, dripping with sticky honey- because it was of course infested with bees. Strangely, he didn't mind and instead curled up next to it to take a nap.

And then it was all hums and bees and stinging again.

This time she'd stumbled around a bit and bleated.

She didn't have any of her dignity left, and they were closing up shop on the mushrooms anyway. Maybe she'd just...talk to Gallant in...person. Although she doubted Gallant would be up for....for whatever she kept hallucinating that Gallant was doing.

He's heartsick with longing and is easily conjoled into trying a mushroom. A grimace of disgust -- he's a wolf, not a rabbit -- contorts his furry face as the pungent tang so like dirt coats his tongue. He coughs and sputters but he has already swallowed. It's only a matter of time until it begins to bend his mind...

Heritage stumbles on legs that bend like saplings in a breeze. Around him the swamp glimmers in sunlight and murmurs. Voices rise up around him like wisps of smoke and it takes him an extraordinary amount of time to realize its Matope, the swamp itself, talking to him. The ground's voice is a low growl that urges him to watch where he walks, while promising sweetly to hold him up. Snow giggles around him like children, whoops with excitement to come and play. The sprawling trees creak in a foreign tongue of wisdom that he is not yet ready to know. Water gurgles, slurring its words into a cacophony of life lessons. And then there are the animals, the beat of wings and the chirp of insects, howls and mewls. It takes a moment for all of them to come together in one voice.

"You're a cute little s**t, ain't ya?"

"What?"

"You heard me," Matope chuckles. "Shed a lot and look a sight mopey but cute."

"T-thank you?"

"Now, best get going. You ain't gonna find your fellow wolves just lying there."

Heritage gives a stilted nod. He would have expected the swamp to be...well, different than complimenting his looks. The sound around him fades. And he rises. Or attempts to. The weakness of his legs has grown exponentially and he can do little more than crawl on his belly, flailing his -- he screams at the loss of his legs. No longer fur, muscle, and bone but vines, braided tendrils that slither forward. He manages a yell of warning as the vines attempt to curl around the tail of a squirrel. He flops uselessly as his vine-legs curl around a young tree, the force snapping its trunk. It's the only when he's been ceremoniously strung up, each limb being pulled in another direction that something seems to give. The weight of his body pulls him down and soon, a chorus of cracks echo through the swamp as his legs break.

He lands hard; bones shattering and a trail of crimson blood threading out onto the snow. He is alive, ragged breaths puff out in a foggy cloud as he opens his eyes. He leaps upward, scrambles back until his back hooves slip and his rear smacks into the ground. The snow is black and his lost blood is glittering like eyes lost in shadow. And he watches, terrified, as the snow morphs and grows into a grotesque reflection. There is fur, black as night, and blood-red eyes. And he swallows thickly as his mouth goes dry.

"Ah, hello, myself." The blackheart shakes his midnight fur and stalks forward, "You say you're a wolf and yet look at you cowering like a mouse."

Heritage's voice refuses to work as his ears flatten back.

"Wolf got your tongue?" It croons, mocking. "Maybe you really are nothing but a kimeti swathed in thick fur."

"No," he manages, weak and breathy. He shakes his head viciously, "No, I'm not."

"You sound so convincing," It snorts. "You're nothing but a pretender. I bet you can't even howl!"

"You aren't real and I am a wolf. I am."

"Are you really?"

Heritage sinks down, a low whine emanating as he tries to shut out the blackheart. He sinks and sinks until he is nothing but a puppy chasing a rabbit through his dreams.