2020-05-20 TPC: If Birds Could Make Faces
TPC: If Birds Could Make Faces
Participants: David
Storyteller: Nate
Location: The Umbra, over the ocean near Santa Monica
Date and Time: May 20th 2020
Summary: Bad air, bumpy and smelly. What could it be?
Flying over the umbral ocean isn't quite the same as in the tellurian. There are waves for sure, but more than water; crashing waves of raw energy and potential, of creation and destruction, churning motions made by vast spirits and even stranger creatures within the depths. No scent of brine or fish greets the nose, instead a myriad of aromas - acrid filth from spilled oil or garbage, sparkling elation from gafflings and jagglings racing the tides, deeper musings from creatures unseen that yet brush the senses.
Banking towards shore, though not quite over the ports and harbours and piers just yet, a handful of spirits can be sensed. A few zephyrs darting this way and that, spiralling over the warmth of the land. A lone bird or two riding those same thermals, and there, a third bird. A spiritual Harris' Hawk, not usually seen over the ocean as they don't eat fish, its body-language.. uncomfortable.
David thinks it's weird. And Corax like going into the Umbra, so much so that a few get Sun Lost. But he lives out here, so sometimes he just goes flying in the alien expanse. Well ABOVE the ocean mind you. you never know what's in there.
A hawk gets his attention. His instinct, such as it is, is to be careful. So he'll fly closer. But carefully, and ready to break away in an instant.
This particular hawk is a gaffling, not quite so large as the material birds on the other side of the gauntlet. Nor is it flying with other hawks of the same kind, these birds tending to hunt in groups of four or five. The pattern of flight is quite erratic; not hunting, nor particularly seeming to be looking for something. More, taking advantage of unfamiliar ocean thermals as a staging point.
It glances, banking so that it has the raven in sight, though not coming too terribly close. Just close enough for a warning, one bird to another. Its beak opens it conveys images of caution, of fleeing something uncomfortable, of being lost in a cloud or plume of smoke. The gift allowing interpretation adds layers of direction; the mainland, the long flat.
David takes this sensation. and starts keeping up with the spirit if possible. Matching speed, flying along side as well as he can. He then invokes the gift he has to speak out. "Hello. I take your warning and thank you. Can I help? I have friends."
The hawk is naturally faster, but on these thermals is much less certain, so the speed difference is negligible. "Bad air on the long flat," it reiterates, sounding both disgusted and confused. "Unable to see prey. Air is bumpy and smells bad." It reiterates the warning. If birds could pull faces easily, it almost certainly would be.
David flaps for a little extra speed, working. "Thank you. Be safe." He then breaks away, and tries to get higher. Getting nearer the shore, going back toward home. High, trying to get a view of the city. Looking for anything... unusual.
Though there are many roads leading to and from the coast, serving the various beaches and marinas, most of them run off into the city and away fairly directly. There is one - the 405 - that runs more-or-less parallel with the coast, just about visible from here. And yes, there is a section which seems to be under a miasma of some kind, a mile or so in length.
David isn't going to get close. Ooooh goodness no. But he is going to fly up and down the coast, looking for landmarks, trying to get an approximate location of where the problem is. Because that's the important thing to do, just know where it is in order to report it.
One immediately recognisable landmark, a solid and thickly-woven lump of silver webbing with notoriously nasty air-currents nearby is the Santa Monica Airport, just beyond it is the intersection between two 'long flats', the 405 and the 10. The miasma stretches south and east from there towards - and just beyond - a large building that radiates patriarchal power, shaped with towers and onion-domed roofs.
David hops back into he real world from the umbra, using his Mirrorshades on his ankle. Eyeballing it, he figures he needs to fly out toward Culver City, maybe north Inglewood for where those unusual shaped buildings might be.
The flight from coast to city is both more and less pleasant; the air currents here are more predictable and there is less danger, though the smell isn't any better. The heat rising from the concrete below is stifling, the sound of horns and the roar of traffic, but hey. It's home.
Fortunately, one doesn't have to go quite as far as Culver City, though that's in the right direction. As wings sweep over the 405, a large mosque - King Fahad Mosque - in Clarkdale is easily visible. Smaller here than in the umbra, where its spiritual importance bloats its size, it sits in about the right place.
David starts sizing it up. So the 405 from Venice to maybe Santa Monica is where the disturbance is. Does that seem right? He makes one more fly-over in the real world to make sure, then flies BACK out past the Pier over the ocean before hopping back into the Umbra for one more look to make absolutely sure.
Back to the coast on sea-fresh breezes and back to the velvet shadow with its churning potential, with those landmarks in mind - yes, that adds up in terms of distance and direction, or at least as much as can be told from several miles away high in the air.
David isn't going to mess around getting close on his own. If the spirits are bothered, he's bothered. He commits this to memory, flies back to the pier to snag some leftover pizza, and then starts flying to Skid Row to make a report.
