RUSH MILKY CHANCE LYRICS PATCH
Adrenaline courses through his veins, warming his cheeks and chasing away the glacial kiss of the icy water against his skin.Īt last, he reaches the patch of rocks and clings to it as though it’s a lifeline, hoisting himself up with his weak arm muscles and sprawling across to look at the open world around him. The water grows the slightest bit clearer, and the sea floor rises rapidly as he races ever nearer the stone. Wilbur swims towards it, heart in his throat, breathing heavily still as he has not adapted to the open, unfiltered oxygen quite yet. If one were to really squint, they might make out a faint cluster of rocks that rose from the shallows to just a few feet from the beach’s sand. Not too far in the distance, the coastline rises in chalky, streaky cliffsides, sharp and serrated but beckoning all the same. Fish aren’t much for friends, but it’s all Wilbur’s got, so he says his goodbyes and parts ways. He splutters in the air, hacking up like he’d just choked. Wilbur breaks the water’s surface, and the transition from using his gills to gasping through his lungs hits him like a brick. The Wash, the Fens, he knows these places by name from years of lessons and poring over maps, but it is near impossible to picture them just from the faded lines of jagged writing sprawled across yellowed scrolls. It is only a ten minute’s swim from it to the land and while, yes, technically Wilbur is forbidden from even thinking to journey on land, he has a hidden spot on a beachside where no one has ever caught him before. The palace is not far off the English coast, hidden to those above through the use of discreet stone as its foundations and ridiculous amounts of enchantments. Tonight, he wishes to sing the stars to the sea. Prince of wasted dreams and perhaps insomnia, but also the prince of song. Wilbur Soot is the prince of the North Sea. Leaving the motionless castle behind him, he ventures out into the murky waters which will one day become his domain. Milo doesn’t seem to hear, though, and the prince gives up with a huff of air, sliding back into the current and letting it take him far away, the yellow goatfish hot on his tail. The fish spins in happy, ignorant circles around his index finger. “ Milo,” he hisses, but there is no maliciousness, just light-hearted concern. He skids around a corner and promptly collides with a fish. Better to be born like them than to be born royal here.Īfter the evening’s lessons- taught by a single, wilted sack of bones and scales he calls Grumps- and just as his father thinks him sealed in his bedroom chambers for the night, he sneaks between the palace’s pillars and gates, and swims as fast as his fins can carry him. Poseidon, he wishes he could follow them, wishes he could leave this hollow realm of shadow and mud and seek out the enchanted lives of the restless, lively, travelling civilians elsewhere. The prince envies the free-roaming merfolk. Only the most loyal of servants float through the hidden stairwells and passageways, seemingly either remaining in service out of the hopes of recognition or out of pure stupidity.
A king of nothing and a prince of even less sit atop their opaque, glassy teal thrones. And the inner workings of the castle are even emptier. The stone slates of the walls are devoid of carvings or runes. The North Sea is just a place to waste away your days and eventually return to seafoam.Įven the central palace is dull. The mer there don’t celebrate like their English Channel brethren or their settled, blissful Norwegian Sea neighbors. Skies of unceasing grey roll above like a carpet, choking out the sun and leaving the water freezing and dark.
The water between the two, though, is murky and muddy. And to the North, the Norwegian Sea holds peaceful and serene, a paradise of sunrises and sunsets that stun even the most ancient mer. The English Channel lies South, a hub of mer communication, underwater high society, and endless nights of parties that never rest. A crown on your head and ancient bloodlines are as good as shackling you to the sea floor, binding you in the promise of here you shall stay ‘till the end of your days. The North Sea is cold, gloomy, and colorless, making it quite possibly the worst possible place to be a mer born into royalty. Words cannot express my love Stats: Published: Updated: Words: 23976 Chapters: 6/? Comments: 135 Kudos: 599 Bookmarks: 152 Hits: 10943 References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore.more tags will be added as story progresses.all of these are characters not creators btw.Other DreamSMP characters mentioned - Character.Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson.
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