Sequence II: In the Wake of Dreams - In My Dreams, In Thy Dreams

[Kylerryth]

WARNING! This is a Sequence Complete: Kylerryth thread. There may be any and all of the following involved: physical, mental/psychological, emotional, and/or landscape/widespread violence; mutilation; threats; nightmares; sundry illnesses; and general strangeness.

ATTENTION: This scene is applicable to all A and B Level characters.

ATTENTION: I cannot stress this enough: If you are interested in participating, contact me before posting a reply.

* * * * *

I am but a man without meaning; a face without features; a word without context. In my dreams, however, I am reborn. In your dreams, too, I am something -- no, I am everything.

Here are some of my most recent endeavors. I hope you enjoy your perusal.

* * * * *

You are asleep.

You are dreaming.

You don't know how you know this, but you do know and have no doubts whatsoever about the veracity of the matter. You know you are clothed, but you possess no weapons, items, or accessories. This advance knowledge may slightly disturb you, but that sort of silly nonsense is none of my concern and will certainly do aught to augment the entertainment factor for our audience.

In this dream, the first thing you will notice is that there is a window just a few paces in front of you. I'm afraid this window is dreadfully plain: no draperies, shutters, or locks to adorn it, and its wooden panes are covered in chipping, flaking green paint. The window's glass is murky, as well, as though a heavy, rolling fog has pressed its face against the surface to peer through -- and whatever it sees must be awfully interesting, because the fog isn't giving any sign of leaving any time soon. The window is also suspended in mid-air at a height of comfortable reach for you, but is held by no visible means; it is not connected to any structure, either, which brings us to the next point of interest.

You are not standing on anything apparent, but you are indeed standing. You are in fact standing within something -- or, somewhat more accurately, nothing. Surrounding you is a white vastness devoid of sense and life -- save for your own, of course. Whatever you're standing on feels flat and solid, and, as far as you can tell, is totally featureless. And though you might not recognize this fact right away, you can walk around the great white space with impunity. The window, however, will always remain just a few paces away from you, whether beside or behind you, no matter how far or how long you walk, trot, or run. You may attempt circling the window if you're indulgent where your curiosity is concerned, but such an action will produce no results -- the window will turn with you and will always face you, leaving your options limited. If you attempt to walk to the window, however, it does nothing, and the fog visible on the other side of the glass gradually dissipates, presenting you with a view -- but of what?

Now, my friends, here is the dilemma...

How do you react to the window?

[Carnath-Emory]

Ariane Emory -- sellsword, drifter, streltsy by description, if not name -- is no stranger to odd dreams. Long ago, she'd made an attempt at nurturing chronic insomnia, instead; it had been an earnest and determined attempt, but all she'd gotten out of it was heavy fatigue and the occasional headache. So she'd become accustomed to sleeping restlessly at best, in the way that any woman naturally must, who most fears dying in her own bed.

As nightmares go, this one isn't so bad. Why, at first it's rather pleasant: a void in which to stand, and a nakedness by her side where the schiavona should hang. Escape, however, proves problematic. After all, she must eventually tire of the tedium of endless white, of a window which reveals nothing but a cloud of dull fog. Eventually, she must step around it, to take a long walk into the boundless light -- only to discover that the damned thing pursues her. It dogs her stride, becomes a constant, inescapable guardian, and when the frustration grows too great, she does what any reasonable person would: lifts her elbow and smashes it.

Glass, cool as ice and twice as fragile, shatters. There is an instant of glittering confusion...


His eyes are frosted malachite, cold and colder. His eyes have a glitter of sapphire to them sometimes, but that is a lie she knows better than to believe. Elegant man with the platinum halo, and she bends her head to whisper by his ear: "I know you." In the distance, the flutter of dark wings, some evening bird.

Nightingale.

His eyes sometimes burn like a cerulean sky, but this is only the facade, and all the most earnest truths hide beneath this cruellest lie. He is a lovely thing, long and lithe, and the supple perfection of him bypasses thought, to speak directly to her flesh. He speaks without speaking, weaves subtle currents of certainty through her silvery veins; the blood within them churns and surges, eager to greet him -- but it cannot, and envies her skin instead, when she touches palms to his bare shoulders.

Unclothed? But she hardly notices. In another it might be an obscenity; in another it might seem like vulnerability, but this is his most Perfect state, and she shares in it willingly. Circles him now -- Willing -- and his skin is cool beneath her burning fingertips, his shining hair like cobwebs, like fine-spun silk that tickles her nose and clings to her lips. "Fond,' she whispers. His taste is mint and ozone. "Fonder," she whispers.

Thadius Dhrin. Enigma. Tormentor. Fascination.

Their kiss is like summer lightning; it burns her lips, strikes a hunger deep into her flesh. When their lips part, there's copper on her tongue and crimson leaks over her chin, and is that realisation which sparks in his glorious ocean eyes? It must be, it must be, and she is without restraint. "The cost is mine," she breathes against his alabaster chest. "But you'll pay it too," and there is a singing in her ears when her teeth find his throat, a dissonant chorus of hunter and prey as she swallows down every bite.

Tattered swans bob and swim in the milky sea of his eyes. She doesn't see them until much, much later, when their bodies are slick with his blood: eager to feed her passion, her hunger, it's leapt to meet her hungry mouth, and flesh has come with it. It's sweet in her belly, feather-light and as heavy as certainty. He is a torn thing, frayed and ragged with arterial red for his halo, and she breathes "But I thought you liked me," to his pulsing heart, licking her lips as if she could swallow down his truths with every crimson spray. "I know you do. Little Wren." And plunges down upon him again, merciless.

He's screaming, by the end of it, but that just means he's enjoying it. It must, because she's screaming, too...



When she awakens, it's with a head that aches as if clubbed, and skin awash with cold sweat. But it's not until she sees the crimson in her sheets, the blood thick upon her hands, that her stomach convulses and she lunges from the bed.

[HeySeuss]

For the old man Proxenus, who'd made a life out of violence and war, a veteran of scores of campaigns, did not often have nightmares, but sometimes the worst of what he'd seen in real life, would come back to haunt him. He was used to such dreams, but far more used to the dreamlessness of sleep.

Here was something entirely different. He stood upon the insubstantial solidity without even bothering, in a leap of dream-logic, to question it. Rather, the focal point of his attention was the window and what lay behind it.

He stepped towards the window, watching as the fog receded, but unable to make out what was behind it. To open the window, he realized, carried the element of risk and folly, but he was not one to shirk from such challenges; down even his dream-state gut, he realized that this was something connected to what had been going on all along.

He reached forward a four-fingered hand and unlatched the window, and threw it open. He stared ahead, unflinching...

They'd finished sacking the town of Astelum, taken prisoner or killed the last defenders, and now came the looting. In order to stay alive through the long march, they gave the locals a choice; provide the mercenaries with food, or be sacked for it instead. After three years service among the Bronze Elders, he'd taken such a necessity for granted. He served in Boiscus' auxiliary company, as a peltast, rather than as a hoplite in the company of Charminus, his adopted brother, or one of the other line units as was his right as a full brother of the Bronze Elders. It was partially for his fleetness of foot, but also because he was still wild, even though he could handle the heavy shield and the long spear, he still preferred to fight lightly and unencumbered, as younger, hot-blooded men, so sure of their immortality, were wont to do.

Here and there, the town burned, even as the glaze-eyed townspeople, young and old, watched the bloody attackers move through their town, taking as they would. It was the captain himself, Boiscus, who bade Proxenus to stand before the door of one well kept home, even as he and some of the older men of the company dragged some wenches in with them. With a wink, the large, Sthasian captain explained that he wasn't to interfere, no matter what he heard. The woman held under his arm like a long loaf of bread, kicked hard and scratched, but it didn't matter to the huge, brutal man. Proxenus, still young and impressionable, merely nodded as the captain dragged his prize in, with a lewd comment about what was to come.

The older Proxenus, from this third person view of his own memories, knew what came next; the screams of the women, the laughter of the men. He knew now well the callous amusements of men at war, and knew that these women would be raped. He didn't need to hear the sounds of cloth tearing, and the sounds of flesh being struck. He howled at his younger self, a man of thick, dark hair, two wide, perhaps unseeing eyes, and an impressive physique, youth's blessing, to do something.

As if hearing the old man's outcry, the laughter became far more malicious, and the sounds far more diabolical. Despite himself he pushed past his younger self, who callously continued to guard the door as ordered, no matter what. Inside, Boiscus and the others were cutting up the young women, mutilating them with blades that were impossibly wicked, cutting them with the claws they suddenly grew on their hands. Under the onslaught of the suddenly monstrous mercenaries, all the victims could do was writhe and wail for merciful death, or what small respite that could exist.

They found none.

Blood sprayed up in great gouts and fountains, washing the entire place with sprays of crimson, even as the eyes of the mutilated women watched him accusingly. They were the only things in the entire room that paid any heed of him.

They bore into him, their voices sepulchral as they called to him their damnations for his impotence. Outside, the young man guarding the door of the small villa noticed nothing. The clawed and fanged things that tortured joined the mocking cacophony of voices...

The old man screamed and wept.

He awoke feeling as though his head was going to burst, with the pain around his temples radiating, pulsing outwards over the rest of his skull. He could feel lances of it, with every movement he made. His consciousness felt splintered, shattered like a vase that was badly glued together again, as if every movement caused a jagged piece to jab into his brain.

Even through such blinding pain, he could taste the salt of his tears, and the rawness of his throat.

[Jirai]

Jirai did not dream often. For that matter, she did not truely sleep often, or well. Like Ariane, she begrudged the time spent so unaware of her surroundings. Paranoid? Possibly. But not without reason. Even so, when she did both sleep and dream, it was rarer still that she would recall such events upon waking.

So, upon finding herself dreaming there was little reason not to indulge in curiosity. After all, it was just a dream.

A dream, but an strange one. She felt distinctly odd to be without the weight of the various weapons she carried constantly (Mikhail's nickname for her was really quite accurate), but it was just a dream. And a singularly boring one at that. It took but a moment to discern that the only potential interest lay in that window - and not even a particularly nice window, at that. But curiosity was ever her failing, and so she would wander towards the murky glass and peer through it without the slightest bit of hesitation, to look more closely at the fog on the other side.

The tip of the lash snaked over her shoulder to bite into a cheek that was already afire from the freshly-delt claw wounds. It was not the pain that mattered though. Pain she could deal with. Had dealt with. Would. Pain was a constant. What burned more than the lash, more than the other wounds was the ignominy, the utter humiliation. Another failure. This time, one that could not be recovered from. Gone was the semblance of rank she had clung to previously, the last protection, for this time the hand that wielded the whip was male.

She bowed her head beneath the cruel punishments, mind breaking into submission even as her body did. There was nothing else for her to do. She knew she would not die of this. He'd told her as much, engraved it upon her mind. Live. You will live, because I will it so.

And that was perhaps the cruelest torture of them all.

When she awoke, it was with a start. She jerked upright, only to fall back into the bed with a strangled sound, curling arms around a head that throbbed unbearably.

[Altias_Bromn]

~"'History,' Stephen said, 'is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake"~
-James Joyce-

Altias Bromn had his share of night terrors, through many years of meditation and study, he had learned to control them. It was a strange thing indeed to find himself in this place, this near void, something never before found in his personal dreamscape.

The window was a curious thing, but not so curious intitially as the emptiness of this place. Steps were taken from the window, paces counted to see how large the space would be. As he reached 100, he turned back, only to find the window directly behind him still.

Odd. Very odd indeed. Always the curious one, the governor looked to the window. If there was to be a way to move onward in this dream, it would be through that window. Outside the panes seemed to linger a dense fog. Closer then, to try and see beyond the mist outside. As he looked, the fog beyond the window slowly began to clear. Closer still, a better look, nothing but the retreating fog. Thin fingers work the latch, throwing wide the window, to expose the emptiness beyond.

[I]A lovely day, really. The sun above was just warm enough, gentle rays upon ivory flesh, a soft breeze on which the scent of cherry blossoms danced.

A blanket, soft cotton, the shade of the last rays of the setting sun, spread out over the soft spring grass. A basket, full of sandwiches and strawberries, fresh from Tressa’s garden. Laughter, strong and willful, voices which seemed to challenge the breeze, the day, the world.

“Are you hungry, Nathan? We should eat before long, the sun will set in but a few hours, and it is yet an hours ride home.â€

[Quincy]

Quincy has dreams that from time to time gather themselves into vivid images of terribly clarity. Her mind is racing ahead, but there is no future in this white-light void. Half-blind and barefooted, she bounds like a wild thing around the window that always faces her; her heartbeat is a loud, irrepressible noise. It is unreal. It is a dreamland. It is real. There is a kind of horrible novelty about it.

She is tiny, desperate, dark.

The window keeps pace with her like her own shadow, veering as she veers, pausing as she pauses, most plain and intent, filling the landscape of her midnight brain.

Stumbling onto her knees, she covers her head with her arms in confusion; in a white cloak she screams at the window, her cheeks like hectic, red wounds on her small face. She screams at it like the unhappy force of her might create in the window an unexpected quality of remorse. Her cries, thin and sharp, pierce the empty air. The window does not care that she trembles, taut as a bowstring on a floor with no end.

Her pulses race in a rage. It occurs to her that if the window departs, she will be alone and wayless. This slightest inkling draws her to her feet like the updrought of a clarion.

The muscles of her face suggest her spring before it occurs. The grey beyond the glass dwindles as she surges toward it in two, bolting leaps; her body crashes through the window, and her cloak flags around her like a broken white wing - and she is wide of eye, falling with a rain of fractured glass ..


"I t- trust you c- completely, Quincy," a green eye and a milky eye gaze up into her face. The scarred darling curls her toes and bundles herself in the warmth of a cloak, a flush of swallow light like the dawn from the lanterns of the empty tavern. She giggles on the pillow of the couch; she is vulnerable and sweet, a pacifist, trying to find her place in a new home. Her good eye reminds Quincy of the forest.

'Why?' Quincy wants to know. She braids and unbraids pieces of Sawyer's hair.

"I t- trust you c- completely, Quincy,' she devotedly stammers, picking at her knee.

The candle-flames on the mantle of the empty fireplace stand upon their wicks like yellow leaves upon tiny black stalks. Outside there is wind making a barbarous sound across the roof. Sawyer giggles with excitement; she is taken with a rare thrill, filled with thoughts of family. Quincy can feel it as easily as she can see it.

"Why? But why?!" Quincy wants to know. Her fingers are deft with force; the braid twists tight.

"Y- You're h- hurting me,' Sawyer patiently tells her, flinching slightly at a tug on her hair. She reaches up to pull her hair free, sitting up with a small frown; she pulls her cloak around her shoulders.

"I know,' Quincy responds; her eye is the colour of blood as she surges toward her - the fires of her sword igniting her limbs, her fingertips, in a blaze of agonizing brilliance; it burns before it touches, it incinerates life - it paints all of Sawyer's Perfections with oncoming, furious light. .. She is a living furnace as she siezes her, embraces her. ..

The floor leaps with flame as she takes Sawyer in the circle of her arms, clutching her against her chest; cries of pain erupt from the wilder, her green eye rolling with terror, her skin burning away, blood pouring from her, blackening.

She is the heat of a thousand of these enemy suns; this is what it means to kill.

Sawyer burns.

"Trust me, I know."




Sweat-soaked sheets have made a noose around Quincy's neck in the night from all her tossing, from all her writhing; the moonlight pours through the window like the light of a blue lamp, and when she wrenches herself free and sits up, throwing her hands up before her gleaming face, they are covered in blood.

Quincy laughs hysterically.

[Suede]

Kish is a man that could be construed as living in his own dream world at all times, but it has rarely been something as bland, and lacking as the emptiness that now attempts to swallow him within it. There were only two things preventing him from being lost entirely as to his location.

He wasn't alone, for one, and this was unusual because it was himself keeping him company. Or some twisted image of himself. He looked to his left at the figure there, it was clearly him, but the features were softer, he seemed human. The unusual ash of his hair was simple brown, there was a slight roundness to the cheeks, which were reddened with the recent sun. It looked back with murky eyes and smiled pleasantly.

The perception he held immediately switched, and he was suddenly looking at himself, as opposed to himself. This one was hardly human, features were sharper than even an elf could hope for, tattooes littered the skin around his neck.. flesh was the perfect color, though thinner. He was more of the Kish that people were used to, bar hiding of features. His eyes were the same waned color of his hair, and ears had shifted well up into the mesh and lost their elven appearance, they were noticable animal. Which made sense consider the tails that danced behind him.

Things seemed to jerk from him, shuffle from one view to the next until he settled admis the confusion. A faint grin for himself, fangs appearing between his lips before he stepped around the window, or tried, it was following him and not.

Grey to one side, black to the other they both approached with the wanton disregard for safety he'd always had. The fog was sliding away, not enough to see what transpired beyond, and this intrigued them. As yet, they were entirely unphased while in the presence of eachother. With silent communication the window was opened by each at once, and the results examined.

His tails curled against eachother, forming a corkscrew of confusion at the sudden shift, it had just happened, he was used to this but... the white was gone, and part of himself was as well. It couldn't be felt, and it had been a presence for so long it was disconcerting to begin with. And the images around him were familiar, but he was struggling to remembre why.

It was too dark, they were just shadows outlined by darker associates, and the smells were lost, a sickeningly thick incense coated the air. Then the flash came. A cascade of blues and whites that lanced around the room, lighting up the innards of the small shrine and striking against a grey figure in the corner.

Reflex, recoiling from the source and down behind a low bench. He stayed low, breathing heavy. He could feel the tingling in the air, that horrible sensation of purity. There was a desire to gag upon his own spit, hack drying from the air alone.

And then came the whimpers, the animalistic cries of agony.. they were so familiar. It was a crawl, down on all fours, almost desperate to see what was transpiring, and he regretted it the instant the bloodied fur came into view.

The bile tried to rise in his throat, he forced it back down, tails coming around to cover near all his face save a small space to stare. He was frozen in place, afraid to act... his arms burned beneath the tattoos in some beg for sympathy.

It was a splendid display, oh yes. A priest of some baleful religion was standing over the mauled corpse of a fox. The animals coat may have been grey at one point, but as was now, red was the dominate color. Glassy eyes shown with the flicker of candlelight slowly bleeding into the seen. What it was, it was clearly not dead, but it would wish such soon enough.

More bodies came behind the priest, the man's disgustingly pleased smile only only left him more lightheaded. It'd been an experience the first time he went through their religious 'cleansing'.. and the horror was, he was too afraid to do anything this time, he could only watch.

******

He awoke with a start, wherever he was, it was cool, the flowers were dancing in the grass by the water. And he was admist the grass, a small blob of darkness in the colors that were strong even in the night. Hands rubbed against his face, it tingled with sweat and something else, his body felt as it were lagging behind himself. And when he spoke, it echoed of two voices.

"I don't feel so good."

And then the images his other self experienced were coming back.

[Suede]

Kish Part 2

The sensations came back slowly, a smattering of memory he never had impressed upon himself. It was a gathering of sensations at best, a confusion of images at worse. He could remeber warmth, contentment, true happines. A continual beat permeated the background, muted by thickness, but oddly reassuring.

The light came, it was soft, gentle.. but invading. It was everywhere, a constant source he couldn't focus upon, it was forcing, pressing, driving itself passed his conscious, deep... permeating, it HURT.. but he didn't want to stop it, couldn't stop it.

He wanted to cry out, to beg it to leave, but the burning began to build, suffer down every limb, cascade between his toes and fingers. A pressure hit his temple, driving and forcing itself upon him.

The images faded... he stared down towards his hands... he wanted to cry.

[BrokenDreamer]

In the realm of dreams calm could be found in familiarity for the blind Elf, dreams were her gift after all –and curse. It was in this state that she could rise above her weakness, whole with sight that would not work within the cruel reality of the world. For this, it was within her dreams that this pale creature could move with brave steps towards the window without hesitation.

Fog rolled like a sea of phantoms with each step and lazy drift of skirt’s hem, those delicate fingers seeking hold of the window’s frame. There was no violence in her actions, it went against her nature but nor was she content to simply stare through the glass surface. Windows were meant to be opened. Crimson dusted digits would tighten and slowly ease open the portal –eyes granted with sight staring outward though the evanescence of the fog.

[I]There had been warmth …and love. Things required to give a child a happy environment in which to grow within. It was an intimate setting of children running about a lawn of lush grasses, the twins of golden hair calling to a third. Paler than the others –smaller and even more delicately built, she stumbled blindly but with a mouth full of laughter for the game of it all.

“Aissy, Aissy! This way!â€

[Thadius Dhrin]

~"He who writes in blood and aphorisms does not want to be read, he wants to be learned by heart."~
-Friedrich Nietzsche-

Solitude.

A stark whiteness. A lacking of something, a secret something normally held within the inner pocket of his tunic. A single portal, no more.

Slowly turning, examining his surroundings, Thadius Dhrin was calm. The window was examined, a pert nose turned upward at its poor condition. Not even a drape to cover the peeling paint.

In the dreaming one finds one self in strange situations. If presented with a cliff, one jumps; and usually flies. If presented with fire, one ultimately finds an escape through the flames. So in this place, with but one object of focus, Thadius did what was logical. One sandaled foot rose and kicked the window.

Warmth.
Silk and satin, warm with life. Eyes of frosted malachite open and she lies there, sleeping, beside him. At peace, a subtle smile on her lips, a state so rare.

Lips, warm, wet, press to delicate flesh of cheek, neck, throat. Sweet sounds of surrender issue from her, a slight shift of her body. Hands, skilled, whole, move to touch her. Sheets drawn back so that he may witness her beauty, know every inch of her form. A grey eye opens; lips turn with a soft smile, lust burning in her gaze. It is her acceptance, her permission, to complete her.

Fingernails, long, sharp, meeting flesh so ripe and willing. A gasp, of pleasure surely, as he begins to work his magick upon her lovely body. Cool are the motions, against flesh so warm. Each touch, each flick of his wrist brings yet another moan from within her.

Scarlet offerings burn wetly across her body. So still is she, despite the sounds that meet each stroke of his razor-tipped claws. Flesh yields, parts, revealing the ruby beauty within. Vitae pools, the pattern glistens sweetly in the candle light.

More smooth, each motion, lubricated now with her rubicund joy. Each kiss, pressed to her lovely form, growing more lovely with every passing moment, returns to him the metallic essence on his tongue.

"Nightingale, my lovely Nightingale. How sweetly you sing for me, my dear one."

Minutes, perhaps hours, of his careful ministrations. Each touch drawing yet another sound from her, another gift of sanguine joy. Hands draws away, brought to lips, thick with her gifts. Copper, salt, and joy drip from those talons.

"So beautiful..."

Gazing upon her now perfect form, he smiles at her, drawing a gentle hand across her cheek. The flesh flayed in symmetrical patterns there, as it was over the entire canvas of her lovely body. Drawing back, he could see the words and symbols carved with loving detail across her skin.

Ariane Carnath-Emory was a testament to beauty. Arcane symbols glittered in crimson over her mortal dress, once a pale ivory. Amidst it all central to this work of perfect beauty were two words; We believe. Flanking those haunting words, a flawless eye looking back at him.



"Nightingale!"

The name wrenched from him as the waking was upon him, like a sledge to his head. Body drenched in sweat, the throbbing in his head worse than the blow he had taken days before. Hands, warm, damp, rise before his eyes. They drip with crimson fluid, fouling his sheets, his tunic.

"What...what have I done?"

[Vanidor]

It had drawn his attention immediately. Sparked his noticed with it's simplicity, and the forbidding nothingness that surrounded it. And so, forwards to the window Kerrak moved. To either side of it his hands rested, lips pursed in abject wonder.

Beyond it, the scene was pleasant. It caused his face to crease into a smile. Himself. Standing tall and strong before a mirror. His uniform was freshly pressed, the creases sharp enough to slice bread. His sabre was bright in his hand, caressed like a lover. A smart look. A young look. Before weather and fighting had put it's mark upon the young nobleman. And more... more...

Kerrak remembered this scene. It was one of the things that had given him resolve. Or, as some would put it, had made him callous to the consequence of action upon the battlefield. Here, he had once written in his journal, was where his heart had died.

Into the scene, past those murky windowpanes, a woman slipped into view. She was small, with slender shoulders and even narrower hips. They were hidden now by translucent silken robes. They were of a shade of blue that he particularly liked. They went with a pair of eyes that could melt a man's heart. Or at least steel his resolve. Or in this case, break it.

"Kerrak," he recalled the soft dulcet of her voice, the sweetness of it, "you look so handsom in your uniform. A Crimson Knight, just like you wanted." He could still feel her hands upon his shoulders, caressing his torso with an oh so familiar grace. "You will do your father proud, by siding with the old Duke's faction." That's right. It had been in the middle of the war. His family had sided with the Thane of Meadowford, who said he held the Throne against the return of the rightful heir. The al'Nerun's and the Tassnehof line had fought side by side since the inception of Thessilane. They would not stand aside now.

"And you do me proud. And our child..." He would never forget that moment. The surprise. The shock. The mild elation. Oh, and the dismay. The voice he remembered as his own, then, was higher than it is now. Not grown hoarse from screaming on a battlefield. "Child? Y... you? Me? Us?" Shock and dismay. They were not married. Not even bethrothed to one another. It was a mutual admiration for one another. The second son of a poor, but noble family and the first daughter of a rich and ancient line. In retrospect, he should have known better. He probably had, but had been blinded by lust.

"I... have something to tell you, my heart." The youthful man nodded, remained standing. The elder grimaced. It still hurt to recall this. "My father... He has made a deal. I am to be married in the coming spring." That her father had waited this long was amazing as it was. Soria was already seventeen years old. Their tryst had started when they were both fifteen. "And... and it is to your brother, Wheylan." Both men felt their hearts stop.

"To Wheylan!? But Wheylan is a bloody prat!" And he was. His only saving grace was his good looks, and his place as first son. And he had remained a prat until his death, oddly doing something... noble. But that wasn't for here, not for this dream. This nightmare. "Why now? Why on the eve of my departure? What is your father playing at?"

"He knows, Kerrak. Said he knew from the beginning... and he's marrying me to your brother as punishment. Because he knows what it'll do to me. To us. Will you be there, at least..." But he was already stepping aside. A hand gripped 'round the hilt of his sabre. Eyes were squeezed shut. "In Spring? In Spring I will be charging into a mass of rebels. Did you fight it?" And here, Kerrak flipped those brown eyes of his open. Settled themselves upon the slight woman...

Who hung her head, golden tresses dangling over her face and into her eyes. "You did not, did you?" A youthful jawline stiffened. Inside, he knew why. But his heart and mind couldn't find solace in the reasoning. Passion would rule, that day. Just as it would time and again, on and off of the battlefield. "Of course not. I should have known better. This was all a sham. All... for nothing. Just fun between two young people..."

Here... Here Kerrak, the elder that was, turned away from the window. He knew the thread of the rest of that conversation. What had occured and what each of them had said. He wanted to yell at the younger version of himself. Tell him to shut up and stop being a git. His hand rose. He wanted to batter his way through the window and throttle his younger self...

Instead, the soldier collapsed, one hand outstretched to grip the lower sill... and wept until he awoke.

[channe]

Strange dreams come from sunburn and exhaustion. Agnieszka has eaten what’s left of the community potluck at the barn-raising, and stumbled home in considerable amounts of pain to encounter dreams as strange as the day had been.

She is standing in front of a window that turns as she turns, walks as she walks, moves as she moves. The old Agnieszka would have broken that window out of frustration: but she’s trying to control those rash desires of hers lately, as they usually end in her getting beat up (or, at least, screwing up her drills). But her curiosity waxes, and it jabs at her, nudging with urgency, and she finds that walking towards the window is something she can do.

Agnie reaches out, opens the latch, and attempts to brush away the fog behind it. As soon as she brings her face up to peer at what’s beyond, green eyes discover after a few seconds of dizzy disorientation that this is, in actuality, the window to the Broken Dagger, and Agnie is standing outside, shivering with cold and fear. Inside, fires burn in the fireplaces, and the patrons, sots and farmers and mercenaries and craftspeople, look on the scene in the chair-scattered center of the room behind ale-soaked eyes.

Nobody makes a single move as her father, Karol Kaczmarek, stumbles to his feet, his nose streaming crimson onto canvas overalls.

Curin, in full Straka get-up, advances mercilessly. Karol, scrappy as he is, stands no chance against Curin’s well-trained fists – he’s pummeled, again and again, by knee-shots and left-hooks and her hand, which shoves him into the ground, his head hitting the floorboard with a sickening thud.

She knows this night: this was the night that changed everything.

She is standing next to her younger self – a girl a year and a half removed from the Agnieszka who stands here today, a girl who is reaching the end of her innocence. She, also, stares through the window at the scene unfolding before them. The before-Agnie shivers and sobs and whines, but stays rooted before the window, doing nothing.

The puling, weak thing disgusts her.

Last time, she’d waited until her father, sobbing and in pain, stumbled to the door and collapsed in her arms, never to walk again. This time – oh, no! This time, she had the training Miz Emory has given her, and she can use it. After-Agnie breaks away from the window, thinking: she can save him before Curin gives him the cracking knee-blow that crippled him, and she walks the porchboards to the door, and opens it because she can save him, save him from this, and –

-- all her fighting words fall away inside, where Curin’s holding Agnie’s kitchen-knife glinting over the prone body of her father, and the dream-visitor can do nothing but scream as Curin plunges it over and over again into her father’s body, great gouts of life-blood spilling out from gut and chest and heart and arm.

The mercenary-woman slices it across arm and leg and into the rib-cavity with relish, until it seems like there is no more blood in the old man’s body to give and her father shudders his last breath, rasping, coughing up blood that spatters his face and neck. Agnie’s feet, then, are stained with her father’s blood, which rolls in waves across the floor of the Dagger.

The patrons are tittering at the sight of it -- the woman with little Agnie’s kitchen-knife and Agnie’s dead father, carving deep scores into the dead man's body -- and both the younger and older Agnieszka are screaming in some kind of sick concert…

She’ll wake to the worrying eyes of her brother, Piotr, who is sitting shaded by his thin blanket and silhouetted by what’s left of the kitchen-fire, and a headache so bad that she can’t lift her head without stars exploding behind her eyes and pain like she's been bashing her head into a wall for three hours.

[Rattrap]

Doctor David D'Rael found himself in a peculiar place during his scarce sleep. Nothing any less peculiar than people all over Myrken Wood were finding themselves in, but in fact the same.

There was a window, and nothingness. David was quite familiar with nothingness - the act of meditation brought him to that point on a regular basis. It also centered and brought him to be connected to himself - which is why David knew something was wrong. That this was not his own creation, that something was...sending this to him.

The doctor would have none of it; he sat on the featureless nothing, closed his eyes and waited to wake up.

* * * * * *

Captain Thomas Daniels, however, did not have the benefit of years of meditation, nor the whole connection to himself. Even so, he realized he was dreaming. This didn't alarm him, as there were occasional dreams where some part of Thomas' concious mind stepped in and said 'Hey, buddy, you're not supposed to be flying'.

Then there was the window. Thomas studied the window. Tested it. He found that it followed him, that he could not distance himself away from it - but that he could approach it. The captain stepped up to the floating exit, tapping the window to test its existence. Thomas opened it and started climbing through.

"Hey, Thomas, that parade's coming into town today." A young Robert Sullivan thrusted his short sword into the air, twisting sharply to twirl it full-circle back to the same locale.

Thomas parted his long, blonde air from his eyes and nodded. "Yeah, the folks are already down there. We should probably get going."

...I know this scene.

"All right." Robert sheathed his blade, patted Thomas on the shoulder, and headed off to the stable. Thomas hesitated, glancing absently at the sky. He didn't like parades much.

...I know where this is going.

They were on their way, running steadily to join the rest of the town in time. When they approached the main avenue and the thrall of people, they slowed and pushed their way into the crowd, keeping an eye out for the parents who had given birth to one and raised them both.

The parade had already begun, it seemed, and the buzz of the people was so loud the first scream was almost missed entirely. But those grew in multitude and were soon impossible to ignore. Thomas, the taller of the two, did his best to see what was happening - his eyes went wide to his companion when he saw the parade consisted of bandits who were now opening fire on the public.

...no. Not this. I've lived this enough times for any man.

A familiar scream rose above the rest, whether it was simply Thomas' imagination or his mother really had screamed louder than the rest. His mind peeled away and he muscled his way through the crowd into the circle the bandits had created around themselves of frightened townsfolk. There were quite a few of them, armed with crossbows and clubs and swords. There was his mother, being held to the ground.

Then Thomas' father came, a large man by any respect. He tore the bandit off his wife and in the bandit's hesitation, drove his knee deep into the other man's groin. The bandit doubled over, and Thomas' dad delivered the same knee twice to the bandit's face, probably killing the fellow. He certainly looked dead when he hit the ground.

...father. Lookout, father!

Thomas was paralyzed. He didn't know what to do, or what to think. The other bandits were quickly focusing on his father, one taking a stab through the soft tissue of his father's torso. The bandit sneered, expecting the large man to drop, but he reached out for the bandit's face, instead, finding purchase on the jaw before just about tearing it off.

Then the first bolt struck. And the second. A third. Five, six.

Thomas' father, torso ridden with bolts, slumped forward and fell to the ground, pressing half of them through out his backside. Thomas reeled in shock, screamed, and made a blind rush for the nearest bandit. He engaged, drawing his short sword, but blindly - the bandit deftly disarmed the young man and then fell, run through by Robert's blade. They looked at one another, only briefly, noting the same rage and sadness in each other.

A bolt shook them from their hesitation. Robert lept over the body of the newly fallen, grabbing Thomas' arm and almost wrenching the taller boy off his feet. They ran to hide in the confused and frightened crowd.

A bolt struck Thomas, though he couldn't tell where. It was a blinding, yet numbing pain. He hit the ground, but did not stop moving. His shoulder whined, as did most the rest of him, as Robert dragged him.

The world eclipsed him, the ground below running by him with less and less detail. Less color. Fading to nothing.

Thomas awoke and cried for his parents for the first time in many years.

[Isobella]

Dreams.. dreams had always been her guide. When Janessa was younger she would try to fall asleep with a happy thought in her mind so that she could relive it in her sleep. It seemed to make the pain go away. Janessa had her share of nightmares as well, but as she crawled into her tiny little straw pallet in her tiny little room she found that tonight she wasn't afraid. No, tonight she intended to dream of something happy and good. Perhaps of blossoming friendships, or the idea of different work.. those were good thoughts. Those were the thoughts on her mind as she drifted off to sleep...

A window? Well that was new.. and slowly her conciousness was slipping away and she found herself drawn into the dream where all things seem to make sense. She couldn't seem to get that window out of her mind. She moves towards it almost instinctively, and while there was a latch she wasn't interested in actually being outdoors, she just wanted to see what was through that fog. Her small pale hands press against the glass as she looks through it, watching as the fog lifts and then.. then.. it was bliss...

"Wait here my owl," The large barbarian man whispered in her ear as he swept a kiss across her forehead, his calloused hands against her shoulders. Could it be? Was she here with him again? Her eyes sweep over her body briefly. It was all there, the soft flowing red silk gown that covered just as much as it needed to, her long red hair hanging to her waist and she was kneeling. She could feel the press of bells against her ankle, and a cold metal collar around her neck that had warmed with time. Things were right. She could feel her heart pounding, feel how much she loved him, feel how much she loved this sense of belonging. She meant to say so then, to open her lips and speak of the love that she felt.. and then, then she couldn't. She was there, playing the part, but certainly not as an active participant. She was doing things without controlling exactly what they were.

"your girl will be here" she finds herself whispering back softly. Why wasn't she telling him she loved him? He knew didn't he? But shouldn't she be telling him again? She felt pressed as if she should know something more than she did, but it seemed pointless to fight it, more reasonable to give in.

Her eyes move around the scene she was in. There were others there, men with women dressed as she was, and a few women with men who were kneeling. She knew some of them. Some by name, or reputation, others just by sight. It was the arena. She knew this place well, she had seen many duels. And he, her Barbarian, had won many of them. She smiles to herself, feeling a soft and delicate blush come to her cheeks as she watches him turn away from her, reaching for his axe as he moves out towards the center of the arena.

Her heart pounded and she closed her eyes for a moment. They had been together for a long time now, she remembered when that calloused touch had been unfamiliar, and even frightening. They had been through so much and still they had prevailed. Tonight she would show him, when they returned to their cottage, she would show her love to him, be sure that he understood.

Her eyes re-open and suddenly a chill runs down her spine as she sees her Barbarian's opponent. It was the head of the wizards guild... and this battle was one that she had seen before. Her whole body locks with fearful anticipation. Her eyes open wide as she sees that bright blue ball of energy strike him before he even had a chance to swing his blade. There's a roar of the crowd, the jingle of her bells as she stands, watching as her beloved falls to the ground, the dust rising up all around his body.

"Master!" she calls out, her eyes held to the scene as the officiant raises his hand, indicating the death of the man who owned her.

She bolts upright in her bed, her hands clawing at her neck, trying to find the metal that had been there in the dream. She was gasping for air and her nightgown was soaked in her own sweat. Her hands abandon her neck and come to her face, sobbing into them heavily, the pain in her head mild in comparison to what she had just relived in her heart.

[Kylerryth]

OOC Note: As of this post, this thread is closed. No more player characters will experience the window dream.

* * * * *

I opened my eyes, all three, and I saw...

* * * * *

All this was rather exciting, yes? I believe so, too ... and not only because I have witnessed the dreams and nightmares -- or, more accurately, the memories -- of a few adventurous minds. I have also learned a thing or three about those aforementioned minds; the information will more than likely become useful in the future, so for now I will keep their dreams. I will allow their dreams to mingle with mine ... and in this way, I may yet discover who I am and what my purpose here is.

I have woke the dreams; I have served as requested. I will return, but I know not when.

Until then, I bid you, the audience, farewell.

* * * * *

SEQUENCE II: COMPLETE.

SEQUENCE III: COMMENCING.