Flight Rising Discussion

More on light because I love my flight.
Tall libraries with open air windows and shelves that reach into eternity, stained glass windows up against white marble walls, In the dakr the beacon of a lighthouse sining out at sea, welcoming you home. The sound of waves crashing up against the cliffs as the sun slowly sets on another glorious day.
Light is so much more than just glitter.

@Joying That's very interesting according to my lore because a lot of clans genuinely do move from Shadow to Nature, it's not uncommon to fin Shadow/Nature lairs at all.

Personally, I love the feeling of decay in nature. I love the aesthetics of mushrooms, fungi, figs completely taking over other trees, the 'Kelpie' aesthetic for the Gladeveins. It's very interesting that Nature could have taken some territory from light, imagine all the ruins buried so deep under all that life no-one is ever going to find them.

Honestly, my Nature headcanons are pretty personal - I have SAD in the summer, which makes Light my personal hell. The depths of nature really do block out the outside world, like you say.

I don't think any Flight is truly safe for outsiders, not after all the deities left the Pillar - perhaps it's intentional? On that note, it doesn't feel like the deities actually have an awful amount of control over the land. You can see it in the hiccups and mistakes they make, the Emperors being one thing, the Ghostlight Ruins (Hewn City) another thing the Lightweaver can't erase. It feels like the deities are just as much denizens themselves, created out of energy that just continues to create on and on around them.

Aaa, I'm sorry for the deviation, I just find it so interesting to discuss

Unbelievably tall palaces of pale marble, likely sun bleached in the sweltering heat. Luckily there are orderly and well-kept gardens with plenty of shade underneath trellises of grape vines, and still, undisturbed pools of cool, clear water to help counter the blazing sun.
There are numerous attendants to provide visitors with bowls piled high with fruits and exotic meats, and interior lounges are covered in colorful silks and rugs, smelling heavily of incense.

You feel fallen pine needles under your claws, worn soft by moisture and footfall. A cool, silky breeze passes you, almost whispering: It smells of the crisp edge between Autumn and Winter, of rain-soaked earth, pine sap, and murky water, with undertones of an odd mustiness and rich, dark fruits fermenting into wine. The air is rich with fog, which gathers below you and envelops your path in an eerie chill. Looking up, the trees almost completely obliterate the sky, save for a few spots of darkness where the occasional star or beam of moonlight can shine through. (Wasn't it day when you first entered?) Ivy and thorns crawl up their rough, twisted trunks; you reach out and feel the frayed bark of a nearby tree, your claws grazing a patch of luminescent lichen. It's hard to see, but not pitch black; Bioluminescent fungi, mosses, and molds dot your path, with the occasional writhing glow worm catching the corner of your eye.

As you go on, you begin to see eerie lights floating just a few yards away, and your imagination runs rampant. You begin to step out of the forest floor and into the swamp, inky clay and icy water climbing between your toes. Fish shimmer in the low lighting, darting back and forth in the water. The scales on the back of your neck stand on end as another whispering breeze blows past. It's been oddly silent do far, save for the occasional cicada or cricket; Now, you hear chatterings, from birds or beasts, you can't tell. Wing beats brush your face as an owl swoops past; you jump back, startled, sending water rippling around you.

As you continue further, your claws snag on weeds as the water turns to mud, and you can feel thorns scratching at your sides. It's so dim now that you're nearly blinded, but you swear you can see eyes watching you in the darkness. Crows call in the darkness, and you shiver in the growing cold. Fear grips you, but you're enthralled, and must know more. There's little swampiness underfoot now, but your claws still dredge up algae-ridden sludge from time to time as they sink into the heavy clay. It's a fight to press on through the thorns, but the occasional whiff of a rose or soft touch of a leaf across your face makes it worth it.

As the thorns clear, your claws begin to hit not clay, but stone, sinking into moss every now and then. It's comforting to be on solid ground again, and the trees are fewer and fewer, letting moonlight shine into the Wood. The moon is full, and the sky is clear save for the rare wisps of cloud swirling about like the tendrils of a great beast. The stone underfoot begins to sink, and your feet slip into a viscous, inky substance- at first you shudder, but you find it much warmer than the cold ground, and take comfort in it as it swirls around you. A cluster of artifacts, half-buried in the muck, calls your name as a good place to rest, and you curl up on a moss-eaten game board in the shadow of an obsidian pillar. You breathe out, and your breath curls out its vapor form into the air. A crow's feather lands beside you, and you pick it up, soft and oily in your claw. Your lids begin to close into the welcome blackness of sleep, and you comfortably slip into the void, ready to dream. You finally feel at home.

I love this thread

Crimson skies and the sun burning hot and low; dead barren earth; hot dry wind, kicking up red dust; bones bleached white; claws and teeth; scars and bruised knuckles; old wet specimens floating in murky jars; the sound of crows and the shadows of vultures. A drum, somewhere, and the sound of marching feet. The weight of a weapon in your hands.

The emptiness of hunger; the triumph of achieving a hard goal when the odds are stacked against you; the heart-pounding, panting victory of running up a steep hill, when you're exhausted but fiercely alive; fresh water on a hot day running down your parched aching throat. Adrenaline. Beating the odds. Rare red meat.