#heprotecc

LOOK AT MY BIG FLUFFY BOI His name is Haku owo

A broad sunrise glinted off shimmering waters, endless in every direction. Whispy, distant clouds made way for the great expanse above, remaining relegated to a sky with corners which did not exist. The ship had a sun-bleached texture and a contour that gave it the appearance of having been crafted from a single, very large piece of wood. A half-dozen small portholes along each side were the only interruption in the continuity of an otherwise monolithic wooden vessel. The youth, leaning upon a carved railing wore a tan tunic, weathered to the same shade as the ship’s wood. The faded fabric of his pants ballooned out from a belt about his middle, vanishing into tall leather coligae. His instrument, a lute-like stalk, hung from a fine braided strap, its rounded belly singing softly beneath fibrous strings crafted from lamb's gut. Fingers meandered up a thin neck and nimbly down it again. A blankness permeated the air as those notes met with the continuous lapping of waves. An unusual linear shape appeared just above the horizon, instantly grabbing the youth's eye. There was no mistaking it after so much time spent on the water-scape. The soft, saturated sand swallowed his feet as he leapt from a dinghy onto land for the first time in untold months. His body moved slowly, inhibited by the depth and wetness of the shoreline. He slogged carefully in the water, the lute strapped tightly to his back. One person’s length and he would be on easy, dry beach. With the ease of walking that the ship afforded him, exerting this effort to lift a leg was almost alien. At last, he pulled loose, nearly stumbling in the surf and reached a shallow point, the water lapping at this calves through trousers now dark and heavy with seawater. Seagulls wheeled around above him as surf crashed and frothed at his back. The strong, saline smell of his garb both disgusted and enticed him. Feet caked in sand, he looked up. What he faced now was a thick, verdant jungle. Nothing ahead of him was familiar, as his young life before the voyage had been spent roaming the labyrinthine stone roadways of the arid seaside city-state where he was born. A father log absent, a mother who sent him aboard to flee cruelty. A dense cropping of vined, mossy trees ahead hinted at the mystery of what they contained. His wide-bladed scythe hung from his belt, glinting with pure, brilliant daylight. The hacking became arduous after the first 100 paces. Healthy vines, strong trees, and thick brush obscured any reasonable pathway through. The scythe’s sharpness prevailed, but fatigue was also a certainty. A pathway through a stand of baobab was hacked away with the most concentrated blow of force the youth could muster. Sweat soaked through his tunic and dripped down from his brow and long, slender nose. And then with the final hack appeared a new sight entirely. An arena presented itself. A completed, perfect stone oval crafted by man, something he had not seen since days when he was only as tall as the lute was long. The war the limestone here had waged with nature seemed to be at a standstill, vines and desiduous forest neither enveloping nor abating from its sides. The structure stood about half a mast high, and three or four lengths greater than any amphitheater he had beheld. Stepping beneath a tall archway, he entered cautiously, secured his hacking tool, and moved silently forward. Standing in the center, a haze could be seen across the thinly vegetated dirt field, a visual feature caused as much by the human limitation of sight as by the humid air. He loosened the braided strap and brought his instrument across his chest, positioning his hands deftly on the sinewy strings. The chord he strummed was not heard, at first. The sound seemed swallowed up in the vastness of space the arena offered. Then, seconds later, a reverberating wave cascaded back from the far-off hazy depth of the rounded stone walls. The notes that played back at him had distorted slightly, gained an impossible and ethereal character. He strummed a second time, and the resounding response took longer still to return to his ears. At once, the youth noticed that the only sounds around were his own. No insects from the surrounding jungle could be heard. No wild creatures squawked, prowled, growled, or flew overhead. From the surrounding treetops, however, he was observed. The red-tailed hawk moved with terrible swiftness and intent. Its talons hung beneath it, flaunting a deadly appearance of two human hands grasping wide. Its shriek filled the concave stonework and boomed, deafening. The lute's strings snapped as the raptor initiated its attack. A beak designed for death hooked his right arm, and the youth spun away, yanking with primal desperation. His hands clutched at the scythe by his waist to free it. Crimson blood began to run down his wounded arm and his slick fingers could not protect him swiftly enough. The hawk's immense wings beat and the youth collapsed backwards, scuttling on the once tranquil, now dusty amphitheater's floor. The tussle continued as the dustclouds were stirred up around two struggling forms. Shielding his eyes and face, the youth managed to roll away beneath an archway that resembled his entrance. He glanced about frantically but couldn't glimpse his predator. Taking stock of his injuries he found the tunic had been torn and he tore it further to wrap his freshly seeping wound. As dust settled before him, the regal bird became visible once more. It remained still. Its gaze spoke a warning. Another animal's interference was not welcome. Any kingdom found here was not to be disturbed. Scrambling a path through the jungle thickness he emerged onto the beach and collapsed. Seagulls no longer circled, the gentle tide lapped at his boat. The solitary sun was still crossing, making its way to be a glorious centerpiece in a nearly cloudless sky.

Thor is the protector of Jersey Mikes! #heprotecc #thor #lookatthislilnug