The Last Refuge Of A Dreamer [Open/Mod]

[Mn`dharrowrynn]

TS: Immanis, 30th Brightening; Winter

The winds were blowing cooler this time of the era, collecting the last of autumns warmth and dispersing it across the chilly fathoms of twilight. The forest moaned with age, tirelessly serenading the night with the soft rustle of leaves. By sweeping zephyrs sweet with the scent of dew, the branches wept green and faint yellow to usher in a winter that was surely to be recognized. The thick of the woods chattered with alien life, thriving in a nocturnal world where sound was so very much important to the great ecology working beneath the layers of survival. Insectivorous melody chirped in the brush, and frogs belched a croak from pond-side-- a thrush darted overhead, fluttering from one branch to the next. Nature was in the midst of her candid moment, goading the midnight mushroom rings to rise around the base of trees, while adding a second coat of moss to the scattered boulders and rocky woodlands. The calliopes cog wasn't missing a tooth, the satyr chased the nymph, and all the rhythm of the forest seemed in perfect tune. Every element met with balance till feather steps sent the rabbit bolting through the channels of bending and winding tall grass. Footsteps cracked sticks and crushed fallen leaves, making the snake cringe with every thud that slammed the earth. The animals made a dash, and it appeared nature drew her skirt up at the sight of one lone being, deciding to spend this night in the earth alone.

Mn`dharrowrynn wished more than ever she could walk on leaves.

She had made her sojourn eastward to the Forest of Dreams, coming out of Zinn'Sunn the brightening before. Thoughts whirled with absolution, longing to make some earthly connection with the ancient Telath; or with unseen companions of the spirit and dream- to be free of city confines. More than anything- she longed to give an offering of meditation and prayer to the primal world. To dream, and to venerate those feelings pure and sacred to the elf. Her unflinching strides fleeted through the city gates as if she were a phantom. Eyes of obsidian strafed over the horizon, veering east; settling on the cluster of forested haunts. Her thin lips pursed, and the triple sun was nearly faded. The glory of a midnight moment was her longing. The solace of night would open veiled eyes, and were the mists willing to part, then perhaps the ancient beings of elm and oak would join and partake of this lone rest. She freed a laugh that was all too innocent and trod forward with a dutiful gait. Her soft steps would carry her through fen and rush, on toward the destination of a woodland edge where the meadow and emerald walls kissed-- and the music in her mind would compel her every move. It was all she had to charge the electricity inside her- warming against the winds that howled. Lost to another place, another time, and perhaps another world more beautiful and omnipotent then the one she found herself in, it was only a matter of time before the power of the forests beauty held its iron-fast grip upon the seelie, cursing the elf with immediate awe upon seeing the haunts of Zinn'Sunn.

Magical. The tendrils of a sigh quickly flowed upon her lips, dancing into the air like a cloak in the wind.

She ruminated on the lost green age, and drifted back to fond memories where the elves danced to a communal song- when the tribes and houses gathered under the moon.

Determined steps kept the elf afloat in the expansive Outlands. She could look back and still see the walls enclosing Zinn'Sunn. Looking ahead, she could see the emerald walls nearing closer and closer. Her eyes glossed over, and her chest throttled with an eager heart. Dark portents loomed in her breast, and the elven spirit steadily evaporated. Silrosia was the last elven bastion, but the Veil stagnated her feelings of a green utopia. To the sphere of dreams, she thought travel this night. To Carmelya- to Phedos. She had an offering to make. She had a silence to still herself with. Sleek and feral, the elf-become-apparition crossed the threshold, delving into the wooded copse. Beneath the veil of green she felt tension subdued. Her body relaxed, her shoulders cascaded like waterfalls, rolling in to comfort, and her hips swayed instead of merely support her weight. Thighs, hamstrings, toe-to-heel, switching heel-to-toe. Light steps became precision, planting down on the ground with a manner that seemed like the rite of passage, of dance, instead of simply pushing forward through the forest.

Those eyes of elvar skirted from one sight to the next; flora and fauna. Beautiful. The climax of Telaths moon eclipsed the elven wanderer, bathing her form in a luminous glow that enhanced her spirit- she felt dressed in the robes of a celestial being, and stood straight, dignity leaving unseen trails of essence flowing off her shoulder like folded wings. Her aquiline nose tilted to the sky, and those dark eyes faced the bleary heights of a thousand stars like a lover. Tenderness and warmth transcended into purpose and focus. In the end it came full circle, and with reverence she humbly came down to one knee.

The air is so sweet here. She felt driven by unseen hands, pressed by a force that surrounded her. She could taste all manner of flavor upon her lips, and felt tingling beneath her skin. The omens that summon the minds silence commanded her to make a ceremony of these sudden, and welcome changes in the air.

Her hands came up to the locks of raven and midnight blue, animate tendrils that concealed glimpses of cyan under the right light. With a leather cord she ensnared them, tying them into several fanciful braids. Her movements were slow and deliberate, swaying, cradling unseen elements within the breath between her slender arms and her gently heaving lungs. Her spine twisted once, twice, reverberating a symphony of soft cracks, each explosion beneath flesh seemingly synchronized to a discharge of breath. Her serene expression seemed to bask, and it was coy pleasure that painted itself across her elven visage. She looked upon the forest like a fire- with distance and respect; wanting like a child, to participate in the subtle tapestry of such an advanced and important adult world woven by natures delicate precision and intensity-- a demonstration of the ultimate passion burning to be felt; and Mn`dharrowryn wanted only for a daughters first real feeling of affection from the ancient haunts, her only real family. Hands, like vines, with fingers as leaves slithered down from a swan's throat, clasping each other into a simple pyramid atop her lap.

In the final moments of her descending stillness she felt reassurance swell inside her. The feeling was awe-inspiring, and she loved nothing more than to shed skin and be with the lost places where ancients and spirits dwelt- where legends frolicked, and where primal beauty swirled unchecked. There was one last thing to do. With care she fashioned a small altar out of heaped dirt, and whatever loose stones she could muster. In her pouch was a single bowl, and from her own rations a honey comb. She set the offering before her with the methodical persuasion of a shaman getting closer and closer to the doors. Kneeling in complete prostration, it was time to vibrate her presence. She meditated on the intangible feelings inside, and gave release to the emotions that whirled over her. Her mind replayed ancient songs, haunting drums, cooing flutes, and violent strings. Her thoughts became supple and alluring- or shifted to intensity and focus. She opened herself to the slumbering essence that comes from the hollows of trance.

Are we breathing dreams..?

The rich hummus of Terra began to seep between her fingers as she smoothed her palms into the forest floor. She openly invited the sudden geyser of hallucinogenic electricity to send a shimmering storm of consciousness billowing up her arched spine. Warmth was an unjust way to describe it.

"More than anyone, the lone elf in exile can claim to an honor, that it is nature whom chooses elf..."

Did she hear that? The words rang distantly familiar, echoing with a profound voice that seemed neither male nor female, but infinitely kind.

"Impelled by a power they cannot resist, often after a succession of dreams, they withdraw from the superficial society to live and writhe in the wilds of their mind--. Wheeing, fasting, and ascending. Soon they may become prey to terrible visitations. They may believe themselves to be undergoing many incarnations in the space of a few moments, culminating into some dreadful act of symbolic self-immolation." There is a pause for breath, and where there was a shadow for the elf's thoughts, a light had grown painfully brighter. It was as if a form or presence had leaned away, when just a moment ago they were the only shade from a sun as radiant as the twins of Arakmat. "...at last they will reach a state of ultimate reunion." Her head hurt a little, but she continued straining to listen.

Mn`dharrowrynn felt that longing for the lost green shrine of home--. When the Empire was more of an afterthought to the elves, rather than a dominant presence to yield to. "...a reunion with the spirits of the soil, the elm, sky, and stream. They will have emerged from a trauma, infused with life...Thus reborn their first companions will be the solace of their conviction, their release, their kindred spirits. THEY will see with eyes unclouded- passionate, but free from nostalgia."

There came a feeling of something far closer and understood. The memory of the voice kindled fire in Mn`dharrowrynn's veins, parading a chill across her stilled form. The touch was a celestial omen and massaged the weariness from her heavy laden hurt.

"Were we not meant to make manifest natures flawless beauty through the metaphor of life? The answers are always the simplest Little Wisteria, it is just a matter of our guilt, or ignorance, and the action we take to amend."

"The first companions will share in these revelations through secrecy..."

The elf might have stirred, and there was no mistaking the crease upon her brow. Aware of what she thought she felt, she struggled to grasp the words before they dissolved in the air. More than anything, she wanted to ask why?

"The people will always mock at things easy to be understood; It must have impostures. Spirits that love wisdom and contemplate truth close at hand, are forced to disguise it, in order to induce the multitude to accept it. Fictions are necessary to the people, and Truth becomes deadly to those who are not strong enough to delve it in all its brilliance. In fact, what can there be in common between the Vile Multitude and Sublime Wisdom? Some truths exist in secrecy and thus the masses need a teaching proportioned to their imperfect reasoning." She shook her head and fought the logic of this sort of fraudulent duality. Despite the lack of a certain ethos, she wondered if she should wear a mask, hide her spirit away, or transcend her differences into oneness with the moving world. Freed of restraint, existing in a constant state of reinvention, puncturing the sanctimony of narrow-minded tradition, would she lay an ancient arrogance to rest? Gone would this undead system of meritocracy and the maladies of feudalism be, that beings may advance, evolve, and feel free to address their own lives.

"There is a grand compromise that encourages others to evolve and chameleon with their surroundings-- enriching themselves through first experience. In ages past we've all come to learn that we can change no one, but we can exchange for the greater good. Perceive that we walk all sorts of paths, but the destinations are seldom that much different. Go with resolve and grace; but even beyond any elf, go with severity and compassion."

The climax rose with a distorted breath, shaken but not weakened, Mn`dharrowrynn felt her hands falling off her lap and into the soil.

"Where did you come from?"

"I came from High Peak. I was trying to save friends and family, who had been missing since their insertion into Vortex. I was journeying to Vortex to ensure that the Vysstichi are better monitored for future prevention, as were my orders, but I hoped to find and save my kin if I could." She felt cold and sterile, but her head was beginning to hurt and to focus her eyes seemed deceptive. Something in her stomach turned as well, and she begin to feel a defensive hesitation rising in her. Warmth turned to heat exhaustion, and her hands felt for the water at her side, but she didn't feel capable of following through with all of her actions because her thoughts became so oppressive.

"Still furthering your own interest?" She felt something changing around her, and the sense that she was cornered, trapped or held thrall suddenly coiled around her sense of survival like a viper ready to strike the first alarm.

"Furthering our own interest?!" Mn`dharrowrynn snapped. The voice that spoke with an obvious harsh tone struck a thinly concealed patch of raw surface on Mn`dharrowrynns heart. "Where were the gods in all this upheaval? It would be very -human- to view this as an isolated incident." She felt heavy-handed and abrupt with her wording, but reason was sacrificing a moments calm to the altar of burning passions and emotional unrest. "Through elven eyes you would see the imperceptible connections in everything from everywhere, and how it stretches back to the beginning, and you don't even have to be of a mind who clings to the past to somehow know that the past sweeps over you and everyone else like a disease, embedded... It is the illusion we are all living now. You can continue to call this Empire, a kingdom, a colony, a sanctuary, a capitol, a city, but it will never really look like us!" She wanted to see who she was arguing with now. She wanted to see their face, but she was afraid, for the voice sounded so very familiar and melodic, elvish even, but she denied that possibility.

"What do you want? What beyond peace, and the will to seek our own existence out, can we truly offer you as tribute for this life we live?" Tears began to from at the edges, a salty rush of ephemeral fire that was warm with the river-running rivulets down her sharp countenance. "I am grateful for each moment, but I cannot sleep through the world turning beneath my feet! There is much to answer for, and I know it will consume my existence. I sacrifice myself to the need to participate. What more is there? I am tired of the illusion, the game, a self-styled, self-proclaimed crawling for meritocratic competition." There were old wounds that seemed to grow tender at a certain way of life that eclipsed all others, thriving by invoking a fever for power within so many souls. "One competes to the fullest extent of their capabilities, in the moment, but they do not deny the other access to food and water, nor do they wage total war. Gazelles can remain within the proximity of a lion feasting upon one of their own. There is an understanding between every animal that is so clearly defined, that were they to exercise a sentience as us, they would laugh if we attempted to convince them their way is best left to the 'animals' while our 'civilized' way of life answers the most poignant and painful questions." Her eyes were bent earthbound, barely able to understand the floor beneath her damp palms.

"You have claimed us! Can we not have the right to believe there might be another destiny out there for us, one where we are of a mind to judge for ourselves, and exercise cooperation-- improvisational-- devoted to the moment, constantly re-inventing, changing, allowing our borders --which remain closely defined-- to touch, and make new culture, and more diversity?" This lone leaf stood on a very physical urge to crumble.

"Diversity. Why -- why," she swooned, "... why do you want our culture to disappear? What does your culture truly breed? What do you feel, if anything? What in you makes life so much more real, that you insist we live it, and feel it in us? When will it be enough for us to quietly pretend to be ourselves behind closed doors, that you'll finally withdraw this Veil and level it upon power mongers, whom we've long since prayed to you to visit such a lesson upon. Where were you then? Battling one another? Are we lay to the thunder that roars in heaven, or do the ancients dispute from time to time, as we pedestrian flickers of existence do? Do I see my face in you, or is the reflection of life something forever far away; a torment, a mockery, a constant striving upward, that the substance of life is simply forgotten? I have much to share with the gods. I am here to answer for my sins, if you can call them that. You would know what they look like, my supreme predecessors."

Her throat clenched and suddenly it was harder to breathe. She had said too much in profane outrages, resonating a real fear behind her dark mirrored panes.

I just want to go home. The pain in her stomach was rolling in conjunction with the very real ripples bending light and matter before her weary eyes. She could no longer voice aloud anymore delirious responses to the ether.

[Amarillo]

I have tried … in my way … to be free.

To the traveler’s right, the ghostly outlines of Lauryllian hillsides glimmered as the starlight reflected from the slight dusting of snow they had received sometime in the last brightening or two. Beyond them, he knew, lay the brighter haze of the City of Song. In fact, if one was careful and knew where to look, the City’s lights glowed dimly between the tallest of the hills, providing a pale echo to the ephemeral status of the heavens. Ahead, somewhat east of the capital proper, lay a darker bulk. He’d noted it earlier, while the suns still stood some distance above the western horizon; it appeared to be a glade of some sort, still green even though the plains were firmly gripped in winter’s chilly embrace.

He wasn’t ready to enter the city that was his ultimate destination – not yet, at any rate. The symphony of sound that had been present for almost every single one of the last several dozen brightenings hammered at his soul and psyche in equal measure. At times the majestic anthem was uplifting – at others, the sheer weight of the rhythm threatened to crush him into the dirt of the river’s shoreline. That tuneless magnificence had been with him, ever since …

…Ever since that gathering back at the croft. The reason for it had been simple; the celebration of Primeheims was one of the more successful events of the calendar. Everyone had completed the autumnal harvest, with those who finished early lending a helping hand to those who were struggling to bring the crops in before the first of the killing frosts. Several of the neighbors had gathered at the Lu holding, as they had since before he was birthed; local crofters and their families, huddled against the onset of winter. Each participant would raise a glass in praise of the season just completed – and another in defiance of the season to come. And those who had been birthed in the second half of the era would celebrate their name-days; this was to have been his twentieth.

The Xiangs – even tiny Qing, the newest of that clan – had come first, hauling casks of the tea and ale for which they were famous. The Shengs had come as well, a great pair of oxen dragging their wagon over the rutted lane. Darling Shala, dressed in the softest silk, had offered to sing the first prayer to Prensia. Old Master Lu Wen, the patriarch of the holding, was there tending the blaze where his prize goat roasted over an open hearth. And Mistress Li Ying – that matron of matrons – held sway in the smaller cabin off to the side of the yard wherein the youths ran and fell and otherwise entertained themselves. From that same cabin’s window the odor of fresh-baked pies and other trifles carried on the darkening’s breeze as the twin suns fell ever so slowly beneath the taller eastern peak that shaded the narrow vale. Indeed the mouth-watering scents carried exceedingly well; with only the slightest breeze to aid them. Perhaps too well …

I have tried … in my way … to be free.

The young man had just gone into the croft proper in search of another small tun of last era’s winter wine to broach when the thunder of hooves split the idyllic scene asunder. Within the tight-battened walls of the croft, the first inkling he had had that anything was amiss was the smell of burning thatch as a tossed firebrand found purchase amid the carefully piled straw next to the building’s only doorway. This had been followed swiftly by the screams of trapped animals, wildly fighting their restraints in an attempt to bolt. Unfortunately there had been nothing within to use to douse the growing blaze; anything he could have taken from the stoppered casks and tuns would have only added more fuel to the already-eager flames.

Instead, he had done the only thing he could – he had grabbed a fork from the pile of tools clustered against the far wall. They’d been piled there to provide a clear area for the dancing that would have come after the meal – dancing that now will never happen again. As the dark-haired young man had strained heroically to move the burning thatch from where it had blocked the entrance, several of the captive animals had managed to break down their enclosures and had run rampant within the building’s relatively small confines. Gasping hoarsely in the acrid stench of the smoky croft, pummeled by panicked beasts of burden, and haunted by the cries of those who remained outside within the raiders’ grasp, he had still tried to clear a path to freedom. Even as he worked, a single high-pitched scream broke through the haze that had been clouding his vision and impeding his mind.

Shala! I have to reach her! Although he had never been party to an event such as this in his short tenure under the suns of Telath, there had been no doubt in his young mind what spectacle had awaited him on the other side of the burning pitch. Struggling onward, he had been pushed off-course by the remaining animals. The walls had hissed their own pain as the inevitable heat had begun to warp the supporting beams and rafters. Rivets had popped under the stresses resulting from weakened materials. And from without, another cry had broken through the cacophony besetting the youth’s hearing.

A woman’s cry, cut short by the meaty thud as if a mailed fist had collided painfully with yielding flesh. A man’s hoarse shout of objection was stilled by the even more damning sound of a heavy object meeting some form of resistance. These were followed by the roaring laughter of the raiders, and …

Blackness. Cold, unyielding, relentless blackness. A darkness so deep that even Io and Torek – in all their combined glory - had no means to best it. Yet something must have, for it was out of this mire that the first notes of that incredible symphony had come.

He had had no idea how long he had lain there, half-buried amid the ruins of what had once been a thriving croft. He only knew that when he had finally raised his aching head, the suns had been once more dipping below the western peak. Grimly, he had placed a battered hand against one of the half-burned timbers and had levered himself more-or-less erect – a gaunt caricature of a phoenix, risen from the ashes of his past.

I have tried … in my way … to be free.

He’d never laid eyes on even one of the raiders. That was what galled him the most, actually. Not the destruction of the croft, not the bodies that had been under the ministrations of the carrion crows for too long. Nor even the loss of what had passed for an immediate family. The lack of a face upon which to focus his vengeance was the by far the worst. He had no idea of the passage of time as he stood there, leaning awkwardly on the wooden stock he had used to first reach his feet. However, as time passed, he became aware of the aches in his joints and extremities; similar pangs to those undergone when limbs had been left in a position of discomfort for too long. The cracking of his lips and the gnawing hunger that ate through his torso and ripped at his backbone also spoke to a lengthy period of exposure.

He wandered carelessly around and between the ruined half-walls of the once-happy home. He picked up a woolen sack that one of the raiders had not found – or more likely, had dropped when better pickings had presented themselves. His meandering path eventually brought him to the rock marking the family’s hoarded cache; pressed into the dirt beside it lay a wooden key. Gazing at it with red-rimmed eyes, his unkempt locks whipping in the increasing breeze, he drifted into reverie.

Legend has it that the old man had had it passed down through the generations. It’s supposed to open a path to untold wonders. As a child of ten patterns, he had had his first glimpse of the fabled heirloom. Even now, his blackened fingers found the flowing Kemish script inscribed along its haft … 12 Lauryl Way, Chinthe. Shaking his head in bewilderment, he’d scrabbled at the half-frozen soil beneath the rock and retrieved what little remained of the family’s wealth. Twenty-five score coins of Empire mint, a pair of new black boots that presumably were to have been his name-day present, and a new tunic. That was it; no deed, no jewelry, no weapon, nothing.

He scrambled then; a few bits of bread and meat missed by the scavengers – of whatever ilk – and a crumb of one of the pies that had somehow miraculously survived the blaze found their way either into his meager sack or flew roughly over his parched lips to lessen the pinch existing between ribs and backbone. Darkness was coming, and with it an urgent need to be gone from this place. As the last glow of the last sun disappeared, the young man found himself striding southward out of the vale … the symphony in his head sussurating quietly in the less-used areas of his mind.

I have tried … in my way … to be free.

One brightening had passed into another, unremarked, as the slender male passed southward. He had attempted to follow the banks of the Laroo for a time, thinking that anything that ran in the same direction as this … pull … he felt was a good thing. The first time a troop of armored riders had approached, though, had had him huddling within the nearest revetment and shaking uncontrollably. From that point forward, he’d kept within hearing of the river but had not used either the river road or any of the local trails that branched to both sides. He’d kept to the same pattern of behavior - even resorting to traveling by darkening’s starlight instead of during the brightening in an attempt to miss the heavier traffic along the shores of the Lylles as his path trended eastward toward the provincial capital.

Eventually he’d come to this stretch of the plain, somewhat to the north of the city proper. And though the siren song was calling ever louder, battering at his senses with heightened power, still he resisted. He wasn’t ready to enter Zinn’Sunn … not yet. Not unless it was on HIS terms.

Therefore he kept to his eastward track, inching closer to the darkened grove that lay to the east. Every step grew more difficult; at times it seemed as if he was not striding forward at all, but instead pushing the huge mass of Telath in a westward direction by sheer muscle alone. His booted feet crunched through the shallow layer of snow to crush the winter-brown shoots beneath. His breath came in ragged gasps, the grey fog of his exhalations rising cloud-like above him to be broken up by the fickle breezes. Each limb moved stiffly, as if breasting a raging river’s flow.

Ultimately, he managed to reach the edge of the grove’s sanctity. Branches slapped at his uncovered flesh, further scratching already inflamed lesions and redoubling the agony. Skin rubbed raw bled freely, creating a small sloshing puddle of life-giving fluid within the soft leather covering his feet. Still the music thundered in his skull, drowning out everything except its own harmony. Eventually the hardships of the road took their toll. Literally between one stride and the next, the youth fell sideways. Unable to catch himself, he landed in the sparse greenery of one of the copse’s thickets. One thought burned uppermost in his mind, the lyric that had ridden the glittering heights and ravening troughs of the symphonic majesty within his mind. The same thought that had kept him moving, one foot in front of the other, for approximately eight full cycles.

"I have tried … in my way … to be free."

The young man didn't know it, but his strength had betrayed him when he was no more than a score of yards from the elfess exhibiting such inner turmoil - the one whose whimpers went unheeded as he sank into unconsciousness.

[Brine]

As the eve descended upon the woods, a great entity flowed through them, moving ever so slowly, but surely moving swiftly to a smaller being's rate of motion. The large creature, a guardian of the Forest of Light, made it's way through the woods, with no current destination at hand, nothing that would keep it within it's worldly bounds of life. It made its way moving slowly, and leisurely, its bark creaking as it moved. A guardian of the forest, a Treant, was the type of creature it was, and it stood tall, close to 22 feet in height.

The moon let it's light gleam off of the dew that happened to have formed upon the treant's leaves, the full head of leaves, giving it an ethereal glow through the night as it made it's way forwards. Taking one step after the other, uprooting, and rerooting into the soft velvety earth, careful though, not to injure any of the flora or fauna that rejoiced around it for it's passing. They knew what it was, but not of where it was going, or why its destination happened to be wherever it was, the outskirts of Zinn'Sunn.

A second Treant moved along with the first one, it's bark much smoother as it was younger, but this Treant stopped before the first, and then said telepathically into the other's mind. Brine, Why are we heading out this way? What purpose does it serve? it asked, curious as to the first Treant, Brine's thoughts and reasoning for making its way out here. Brine turned his head, hollow eyes looking towards Sorn, and then said, I am unsure, but with as much time as we both have, its always nice to take a leisurely walk through the woods, wouldn't you say?

As he asked this, he continued on his way. Sorn, whom was always stricter about their duties than Brine was, looked forwards towards the older Treant, and then said, I shall stay behind here... I wish to tend to some of those fallen trees... the ones that we are supposed to be protecting for an eternity... As he said this, he turned towards a grouping of trees that looked to be hollowed out, and needing help. Brine looked at Sorn, and then a long exhasperated sigh was released from his wooden frame. I shall stay and help as well, he said, moving forwards to join Sorn's side.

It was then that he heard a small whimper, perhaps someone sheding tears for something somewhere near them. I shall go take a look and see what it is... said Brine, a bit relieved to get out of the duty of helping the forest for once, although, it is something he delighted in doing, but not every brightening of his entire life. Making his way through the forest, he stopped to see an elf, a female one by the looks of it, and not quite knowing what to do or say, became very still, rooting himself deep within the earth, his bark stopped creaking as he stopped moving, and the only remote sound that came from him was a slight breath or two that sounded like the wind rustling the leaves on his arms and head...

[Badb]

It was a lovely day in the Forest of Dreams. It was warm for winter, though, by Zinn'Sunnese standards, but maybe that was because of the geysers, or the ecosystem and properties of the Forest itself. The vapors and mists, well-renowned for their 'effects', drifted through the flora, giving the place an otherwordly feel.

While Mn`dharrowrynn may have originally entered the Forest seeking nothing but to commune there with its spirits, she likely realized by now that she was no longer alone, if she really had been in such a wondrous place from the start. The words coming from the Forest began to change, losing clarity. It became a dull hammering in the back of her head. Every so often, she could make out a word or two from the ceaseless pounding that occasionally reached towards a crescendo, getting louder and louder all the time, but none of it was particularly distinguishable. Except for those words, and unlike the drumming, the strength of the words was fading fast.

Help. Pain. Help... pain... help...

Amarillo, too, felt his head begin to pound, at about the same time as Mn`dharrowrynn was affected. This, however, felt rather reminiscent of the beginnings of a monster migraine, as he was less in-tune with nature than the Elf. His head ached, his vision was alternatively fuzzy and clear as a chorus of voices and sounds, none of them clear or definable, screamed at him. If he focused, he could pick out raw emotions of pain and betrayal.

Brine, being a Treant, received the most clear messages of all. Something, the forest itself, maybe? or someone, somewhere... was in agony, and needed help. Did the two he was watching have anything to do with it by chance? the spirits of the forest whispered to him. One did not normally see people this far in, after all... what could they be doing there?

Perhaps it would behoove Brine to find out.

[Mn`dharrowrynn]

OOC: Brine has informed me he isn't feeling well, and focusing on moderation duties. The verse is open-ended, so hopefully he'll decide to re-enter at another point in the thread when he's feeling better. I'm thinking it's time to move forward.

IC:

Yes, she wanted to exclaim. Cry for help! She heard the voice in her mind. It was so painful, pushing up from trembling arms, touched by the earth upon bended knee. I have to get out of here, I have to run for my life. This pain! Her thoughts vied mightily to render the best of her, she even lunged from her cage, pushing through some proverbial canyon of bars, until that breathless squeezing, nauseated by some unearthly venom crept hypodermic beneath her flesh and into her own breath. She was free from the delusional cage.

Mn`dharrowrynn vomited. It was a wretched display at first, but it began to feel cleansing, and she gathered sense enough to grip her flask and chase the fire with a long overdue gulp. The bota was half drained before she tied it back and shook her heard, wiped her lips and pawed at the earth a moment, ill-equipped to take this forests environs in so deeply. With a short passing, she realized she could muster the will, and rising, she managed to ride these ephemeral and wild sensations out, walking, remembering, feeling into her own essence and body, despite the intoxicating presence of the forest. It was a frequent test of will, but she had experienced this before, and unafraid, she had to remember there were ways to discern reality.

"Where are you!?" She called. Her ears strained for the voice again. The cry that came of the ether, telling of pain. Suffering. Help. Something told her that when she last heard the voice it was a voice she felt within her breast. It came to her when she breathed.

Where was it coming from now?

"Where are you?!" She repeated, more urgently now, determination and genuine concern in her volume.

[Amarillo]

Apparently the dubious solace of unconsciousness was not to be his – at least, not quite yet. As Amarillo’s bare hands and forearms contacted the forest’s loamy base layer, a tremendous pressure began to hammer at his temples. The indeterminate force pressed firmly behind his now-closed eyes, throbbing in time with some rhythm known only to those who dwelt among those who called themselves Aeternals. He squeezed his eyes tighter, trying to stem the flow, but to no avail. With a wail of anguish all his own, he opened his eyes and thrashed his way to a sitting position …

… and abruptly silenced his own cry, as the delicate traceries of branch and leaf and vine transformed themselves into blurred replicas of an unknown and opaque substance. Confused, he slowly stretched out a slender hand to his left – only to draw it back quickly as his fingertips grasped a branch laden with heretofore unseen thorns. Putting the bleeding digits to his mouth, he felt the rawness of his own physical pain overlaid with something else … something that smacked of an even deeper, more interminable pain. The very depth of it was nearly overwhelming to the Kemite youth; he flailed his hand away and hoarsely uttered another wordless cry of anguish.

Were his ears deceiving him? Was that a voice, calling out from nearby? The language was unknown, as was the cadence … but the intent was unmistakable. Betrayal – a feeling with which he was all too familiar, given his recent past. He turned to where he thought the voice originated … only to have his vision suddenly clear and the voice transmute itself into the more traditional sounds of a primeval wood. The shock toppled him to the loam once more, as his mind reeled under the twin impacts of the unrelenting pressure upon his temples and sudden reversion to a normal depth and sharpness of vision.

He struggled forward through the otherworldly vagaries of the shifting mists, past obstacles more felt than seen, between trunks that alternately twisted out of his path and seemingly jumped directly before him. His passage was more of a crawl than anything else; his breeches soon stained with the residue of winter’s dampness and the ever-present detritus of a woodland’s incessant changing. His hands scratched and scrabbled at the twig-strewn soil, pulling himself onward even though nearly every fiber of his being cried out in agony.

Suddenly, a more coherent sound broke through the Lauryllian’s perceptions … a high-pitched voice that was clearly not an imagining! Working harder than ever against the offending forces that held him Telath-bound, he scrabbled another few meters toward the latest impingement on his sensibilities. He couldn’t quite recognize the language - but he was certain that it came from … there!

Through lips that were by now cracked and bleeding from abrupt contact with whipping branches and rough bark-covered forest giants, the young man called out in Kemite, in a voice roughened by lack of moisture. “Onek illa yantu? Andke … oklatu mix!” (Which, translated to the common tongue, would be: ‘Where ARE you? I pray – stop the pain!’)

He still couldn't guarantee his vision or his hearing would serve him correctly in time of need; he'd have to trust that whoever was out there was not intending him serious harm.

[Badb]

OOCThat’s just fine. No problem. We’ll leave it open in the event Brine is able to come back.

The unholy racket kept up, but as time passed, she found herself acclimatizing to it. Still, it gave the Syl’rosian quite the headache. Light played on and off of the foliage of the Forest, casting shadows here and there, as if dancing to some unheard melody. The mood of the Forest that had been something akin to happy, before, and it had raced down the spectrum to a much darker ambiance. There was still the urgent undercurrent of pain, agony, and Mn`dharrowrynn seemed to be getting closer and closer as she continued on.

And clearly, she was going in the right direction. She passed found a trail of some sort of shiny white fluid. It was almost unnoticeable, except for the fact that it was so shiny it was glowing. Closer inspection would show that it was thick, viscous… like blood in all aspects except for the strange thickness, color, and luminosity. It started as a trickle, and then there was a lot of it, like a wound had gushed open. It coated moss and leaves and bark alike.

The voices came even harder. “This way…” Mn`dharrowrynn might have been able to work out despite the voices in her head. It was thin, weak. Did it belong to the source of the blood? Was it a trap?

The voices in Amarillo’s head were alternatively louder and softening as he made his way through the Forest of Dreams. The ground was cold and unforgiving, except when he hit a patch of springy moss. He did run over a few of those. One such patch gushed an almost euphoric vapor straight into his face. The warm mist temporarily absolved him of the pain wracking through his senses, but not for too long, as the feeling began again.

If Mn` wasn’t careful, she nearly tripped over the body of a young Kemite man who was directly within her path. He had been crawling, apparently seeking the same source she was. He didn’t seem to be the source of the voice nor of the white blood, though…

[Mn`dharrowrynn]

Mn`dharrowrynn found a freedom from the flickering shadows, playing her own game of dancing dark effigy against the wooded haunts until that feather foot returned to her anew. Still shaken, she kept her breath minimal, settling her abyssal gaze into the inherent low light vision born to the high elven, discerning shapes and dimensions, colors and variations from a hundred foot vantage. Gloved digits peered from branch to branch, knifing her forward to the synchronization of precise steps, banking her fears of the ephemeral forms playing at the corners of her eyes. The livid movements struck her as real until she attempted to face them, at which point they fell into a tapestry of interwoven colors and patterns, forcing her to not focus, but keep her vision alert and unsettled. She'd shake her head, taking short breaths, while giving herself to the purification of a good exhale; her emerald scarf now doubled tightly over her face to obstruct any further contamination. It was all she could do to assail the wild whims of this potent presence.

The pathless trek seemed like more of a deer trail, rather than something regularly used. She had to keep reminding herself where the moon was whenever it revealed itself betwixt the few pockets of open emerald canopy. The voice crept against her skin, and she felt the rising of her hairs, a surreal sensation of words that curled around her flesh like a quivering touch. It was followed by a new voice, an unknown that claimed male in tone, but perhaps an older man? It called aloud something haggard and rasped. She strained to hear but even her gifted ears eluded the moments deeper meaning. It was a summoning of pure will to keep her love for the forest at hand; fear kept gripping at her, heightening her with an illusion of regret.

This was always a dream.

She searched a way to let go. It would've been a glorious release to see her muster the personal power, but it was omens outside her control that came to the rescue. When the lunstice glow of her circling moons traced archaic nothings across the dappling dew, it was drops of phosphorescent ichor that seemed to radiate her daughters light. Unhinged by the moment, she lent toward the first patches of brush, examining trickles of the glimmering substance, where curiosity led her to follow the trail toward more coagulated pools. Her brows crossed, and a mind at work wondered what to think of it. It could have been some sort of substance involved in the forests effects, but then why didn't the other plants have it, even the other species of similar kind? She might have conceded to the logic but it had a particular pattern, demonstrating points where a path of the substance traveled, paused, as if obstructed..? Or resting--- and the patterns. The first sighting marked of a design likened to arterial spray, even some of the trees were coated just as much as the ground. Eyes alert and ears pierced to the wind, she let herself open to the immanent forces of nature, reminded of the highest oath an elf is held to. The rite of duty seemed to draw a defined boundary around her heart, contesting the encroaching fears that compelled her to feel a prey amongst the wilds of the woods.

It saddened her a moment to think what she may have slowly become during her hallucinations, for the stories of this place scarcely matched the experience she dwelt in now, making her question the spaces of void that dotted her soul an umbalat shade against the emerald beating irradiate and vibrant within. Losing hope was easy when you were alone, when everything around you seemed to change.

She gave too much to her thoughts, ignoring a chance to let her busy gaze find the floor, but that sure step nearly lost itself when a kemite kissed face-first to the ground moaned from their first contact. The brush was thick, and the haze in her eyes, while recovering steadily, was thicker still. She banked her blade hands eagerness when a second groan came, one that betrayed more injury than meets the eye. Taking a panoramic glance of the wooded premise, she crouched low, surveying the loose details that spotted his countenance with soot, a slight of singe at the brow and hairline-- flames evidenced themselves, coupled with a jagged weariness and road-worn aura, she couldn't be certain if he had been mugged or was lost, or perhaps a victim of woods by a name that seemed to convey mixed messages to the elf. Compared to what she'd learned of this sacred demanse, every fiber in her body focused intent on the possibility that something was amiss now.

"Shhhhh..." she whispered wearily, a hidden gentleness in her coo.

He moaned again and she felt a restless apprehension unclench itself, letting her reach out to touch his brow in a single breath that escaped her pursed lips. Her eyes could allow themselves to soften, and able hands were fast to find the waterskin at her belt. When the forest crackled in its midnight verse she knelt fully and hovered closer, one hand outstretched; her maternal bear extending its one fang; a particularly sharp and near-surgical fang nearly three feet in length and forged of finest elven steel-- the way a hand feels when it swings a cattail wand.

"Shhhhhh amin'edan...shhhhhh," and she nursed the waterskin to his lips, her hand nervously and involuntary, but unerring as it found its way through the black mass crowning his unkempt brow. "All is well," she rocked him softly, "...but I'm not certain all is as it should be," she tried to distract the pain, and let him realize her intentions, to see and kn ow that the blade was held over him to guard his life, and not to apprehend it.

"Drink softly. This place is listening to us, and one cannot know what else might be listening-- watching." Her emerald swathe cloaked them both, a camouflage to drown their vulnerable forms.

"Can you travel?" Her eyes never left the dark hallows, but he could sense that she was neither cold nor uncaring when she spoke, even if she did not look him in his eyes; her gaze was seemingly owned to whatever shadow transgressed its flickering blur of passage.

[Amarillo]

Cold. The ground is so … cold. Even as the young man’s thoughts formed hazily within the confines of his mind, the pressure at his temples threatened to squeeze them into insignificance once more. His eyes followed suit, closing of their own accord in an attempt to block out the disorientation resulting from the shifting perspectives. He huddled, unknowing, hoping that succor would soon arrive.

The lengthy crawl had been unusual, to say the least. The mist-laden air and the ever-present debris littering the ground had played havoc with his sense of direction and, unfortunately, with his well-being. There were scratches and pinpricks a-plenty, cuts and abrasions that would have hampered many an individual in the prime of health; he, however, was certainly more injured than that due to his lengthy travels and simple exposure over the past several cycles and had – he thought - suffered the setbacks with stoicism. Already, the memory of the gasps of pain that he had emitted had been erased; likewise, the slight relief accorded by a vapor-shrouded mossy patch had diminished into imagination rather than reality.

Whether it was the subtle warmth exuded by another living, breathing being or the soft coo of an elven lilt borne gently on the winter air was immaterial. The slight pressure as a child of that long-lived race trod upon the same expanse of loam whereon Amarillo found himself was likewise irrelevant. The result of the action was what mattered most; the instinctual reaction of an injured soul to lean first toward succor and then scramble from the unknown, fleeing the possible depths of further pain and suffering. He heard the quiet shushing of the black-and-green-tressed lass, and inched closer even though her shape was naught but an indefinite blur of assorted colors. Yet even as the aid he so sorely needed approached in the guise of compassion incarnate, the perceptual shift resulting from whatever the wood’s shrouding mists had carried with them made it seem like an attack of horrific proportion.

Lying still face-down, one cheek pressed hard against the loam, he reached feebly for purchase in a vain attempt to escape the descending blade. Fingertips already bled by thorns, nails shredded by contact with unforgiving matter – still he struggled. A twitch of a leg as his foot sought a toehold amid the debris, urging his agonized self forward and onward in search of a cessation to the vexing anguish. A wriggle … which only served to roll him over so that now he faced skyward, unable to do anything other than watch as the harbinger of death came closer, guided by one who appeared as both angel and devil … and still the vapors danced and shifted beneath the greenery. His dark brown eyes, once opened by that feeling of closeness with another, now slammed shut in a futile attempt to ward off what was apparently his final moments.

They did not remain closed, however! The gentle touch of slim-fingered hand to brow and the tickle of life-giving water as a few errant drops trickled across the unshaven swell of his chin and neck sufficed to change his attitude from one of forlorn anticipation to one of greedy urgency. He suckled noisily at the offered skin, cracked lips barely feeling enough to direct the precious fluid inward, instead of allowing it to wash over his countenance and onto the waiting ground. It wasn’t that he begrudged a share to the plants and soil; it was that his thirst was so great that his focus was entirely on his own sustenance.

He even ignored the sharpened implement of war suspended so closely above him – at least momentarily. His immediate thirst slaked, he once again tried to edge away from that emblem of destruction. Resistance was futile, in his lessened condition. A gentle fanning of a green-hued cloak enfolded both of them into its embrace; he was unsure of the intent. Was this how the creature fed? Eyes widened in impromptu terror as he beheld the visage more clearly for a fleeting instant – sharply pointed ears peeking through an impossibly-colored halo of fine fur, dark brown orbs peering intently around as if daring whatever else lay beyond his ken to take a piece for itself. And still the glint of dim light from the exquisite edge of the hovering sword drew his gaze as a moth to a flame. He couldn’t make out what she ... it WAS a she, was it not? … was saying, but the cadences were almost certainly those of speech, not simply animalistic vocalizations. He struggled to understand, willing the meaning of the elven tongue to come to him clearly.

He thought she’d said that something else - something untoward - watched and waited; he wasn’t sure. His hand slipped toward the hilt of the decrepit bit of iron wedged into his belt; during his travels, he’d happened to find a poor excuse for a knife among the detritus of an abandoned campsite. He slowly drew it partway, levering himself somewhat more erect and beginning to search the gloaming with his own admittedly distorted eyesight. The inquisitive tone as she … he’d decided, at some point in the last few moments, to stand by that assumption of gender … finished speaking drove him to answer. He repeated himself, first in his native Kemish and then in the common language of the Empire, saying “Thank you for coming to my aid. I can mange … slowly … now.” His glance shifted from her face to her weapon and back quickly before adding “I don’t know if I can help in a fight … you might be better suited to such.” He winced, as his weight shifted onto yet another of the many bruises covering his body. “Besides, I’m having trouble seeing. I think it’s the mists …” His voice trailed off, as he wondered why he’d divulged so much – especially under the circumstances.