[ Nate gets caught up in it; he always has. Distractable and an easy target for getting too immersed in his work, Nate's evenings in bars as a younger man were usually spent nursing a single beer while trying to puzzle out something by himself, barely engaging the people next to him even when someone tried to finagle their way into his darting attentions.
He's gotten better with time, with age, but the candor and interest persists, naive only in his excitement and the possibilities of what he might find. ]
Yeah. Yeah, why didn't I think of that?
[ Stupid, slightly stubborn, already dragged elsewhere by his own imagination being reminded of the beyul near Everest. This is different, but close enough. Nate holds out his hand, palm and expression open.
When Ian takes it there's a gut-wrenching jerk, the kind of lurch in your stomach when going up the stairs at night and missing a step. The sudden pull of falling from a great height and then the realizing the floor was there beneath you the whole time. Exhilaration and freedom, the pulse of adrenaline a steady beat under the view of a long-forgotten place.
Borneo, dripping humidity and massive tree trunks blanketed with vines. The climate is sweltering and oppressive but the occasional breeze from the ocean pushes through, salty and sharp, a dark pit in the rich, black earth supported by carved columns. It breathes, washing dank air back that reeks of death and curiosity. A temple - a forbidden place - set high into the mountain in Tibet, yawning chasms chipped and draped in ice. Monstrous bells and prayer wheels creak along with the shifting of ancient gears, dread edging in on wonder.
Nate drags out before it delves too deep beyond the surface and pushes a memory of Shambhala as the trees spread and the city emerges from a blanket of mist, greenery bursting over every building, the remains of a civilization that never truly left. The air is dense and rich, heavy floral and damp stone and an undercurrent of gun smoke, a winnowing thread of fear and anticipation. The structures are intact and the foliage is thick, enormous roots spreading from the base of the central temple and burying themselves in the surrounding foundations without thought or mercy, reclaimed by nature.
Then he releases his grip, returns his hand to his lap, and the memories are gone. ]
no subject
He's gotten better with time, with age, but the candor and interest persists, naive only in his excitement and the possibilities of what he might find. ]
Yeah. Yeah, why didn't I think of that?
[ Stupid, slightly stubborn, already dragged elsewhere by his own imagination being reminded of the beyul near Everest. This is different, but close enough. Nate holds out his hand, palm and expression open.
When Ian takes it there's a gut-wrenching jerk, the kind of lurch in your stomach when going up the stairs at night and missing a step. The sudden pull of falling from a great height and then the realizing the floor was there beneath you the whole time. Exhilaration and freedom, the pulse of adrenaline a steady beat under the view of a long-forgotten place.
Borneo, dripping humidity and massive tree trunks blanketed with vines. The climate is sweltering and oppressive but the occasional breeze from the ocean pushes through, salty and sharp, a dark pit in the rich, black earth supported by carved columns. It breathes, washing dank air back that reeks of death and curiosity. A temple - a forbidden place - set high into the mountain in Tibet, yawning chasms chipped and draped in ice. Monstrous bells and prayer wheels creak along with the shifting of ancient gears, dread edging in on wonder.
Nate drags out before it delves too deep beyond the surface and pushes a memory of Shambhala as the trees spread and the city emerges from a blanket of mist, greenery bursting over every building, the remains of a civilization that never truly left. The air is dense and rich, heavy floral and damp stone and an undercurrent of gun smoke, a winnowing thread of fear and anticipation. The structures are intact and the foliage is thick, enormous roots spreading from the base of the central temple and burying themselves in the surrounding foundations without thought or mercy, reclaimed by nature.
Then he releases his grip, returns his hand to his lap, and the memories are gone. ]