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Thread: A New Nightmare

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  1. #11
    Sweet Cinnamoth

    EXP: 37,766, Level: 8
    Level completed: 31%, EXP required for next Level: 6,234
    Level completed: 31%,
    EXP required for next Level: 6,234


    FennWenn's Avatar

    GP
    2,300

    Name
    Fennik Glenwey
    Age
    Looks eight. He's definitely older.
    Race
    Frost Fae
    Gender
    More or less male.
    Location
    Corone

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    In a fur-lined hut all the way out in Berevar, one would be able to hear a variety of quiet snores were they to listen in at the entrance. Past the pelt that covered the door’s frame slept a small group of orcs. Their abode was lit — and warmed — by the faint wink of a guttering fire’s last coals. All seemed at ease. All of the slumberers seemed untroubled.

    All but for one.

    Shuddering and jerking, sweating, swaddled in a thick afghan patterned with fading flowers, a young orc tossed in her sleep. Her breath came in choking gasps — shorter and shorter.

    After a moment, she was still.

    ~ § ~ § ~ § ~

    This time, Fenn’s screeching began before the fall.

    Expecting the tunnel of terror did not make it less overwhelming in the moment. They hurtled, weightless, through a rush of heavy air that tore at his wings and cloak. It was all still a whir of flashing lights and noises that made him want to claw out his ears and eyes. And yet, it was almost a reprieve from the gruesome imagery before. Something about the puck’s sense for magic had tingled with familiarity as he’d helplessly watched Guntilde struggle against it, and then fall. It had him frozen in fear, before he’d been whisked down the rabbit hole. His knees had been locked in cowardice as it writhed its way through the orc girl.

    That… nightmarish force was the same creeping darkness from his own dream previous.

    Of that, he was certain.

    The screeching hell of lights ended with a gush of steamy air. There was splashing in the distance. His body smacked — hard — against a floor that was both polished and golden. And, dewed with water. Whimpering, he hid his head under his hands. There was a slightly heavier thump and a similar moan beside him; Morus. The fae heard him wheeze into a sitting position. “Fennik. Fennik… Open your eyes, young Fennik,” he heard the waif coax after a moment. It was a statement made with a rattling of the chest, and followed by wet coughing. A cool hand shook him by the shoulder. “We made it out.”

    <By the skin of teeth,> the fae mumbled back, reluctantly dragging himself upright.

    Now that he was alert, a part of him stirred in surprise at where they had landed. They were between a wall and a grand marble pillar, thrice as big around as the two of them put together, and carved with Fallieni stone-chasing — textured patterns. No, wait. Fenn tilted his head, squinting. It was Fallieni in appearance, and yet, something about it was not quite right. Fenn was certain he had been to Fallien before, at least before he’d lost a significant chunk of his memory. He recalled enough to recognize its architecture… sort of. The fae ran a hand down the engravings, frowning. The flourishes were too loopy. Too loose and unrefined. He was starting to feel that this was what one might think Fallieni chiseling might look like, had they never actually seen up close in Fallien.

    Some of the designs were quite flower-like.

    The words came out suddenly. <Guntilde didn’t make it, did she?> he asked, already knowing the answer. <She couldn’t have…>

    For once, Morus’ grim demeanor wavered. His gaze fell to his feet. “She did not.”

    <That’s our fault. We gotta make sure it doesn’t happen again. Bicker less now, and pay more attention. Okay? Let’s find the dreamer here. See what goes on with them,> he said, antennae twirling anxiously.

    A nod was Morus’ reply. While Fenn took a moment to calm his fluttering heart, rocking back and forth on the dazzling floor, the waif peered around the grand pillar swamping the rest of the dream from sight. Whatever he saw must have been astonishing. The waif teen’s face relaxed from his stoic stoney glare to something else. What emotion was that? Not one familiar to the puck; it was a little languid, a little wantful, and not entirely there.

    <Are you sick?>

    “From dream traveling,” Morus replied, brushing off the question with a heavy breath and… a flustered glance? “Obviously.”

    Fenn shook his head suspiciously as Morus returned to his gawping. No, dream traveling explained the waif’s wobbly legs, and the way he slumped against the grand pillar. Not the fuddy-duddy look on his face.

    Twitching wracked his antennae as a wash of steam drifted behind their pillar, carrying with it some strange perfume. Along with the sweetness of roses, he identified a weird musk hanging in the air ambiguously as… “lady”. It was a sort of scent he remembered faintly from… oh. His frown deepened slightly. That was one of those memories that wasn’t fully there too, wasn’t it? The only other figment attached to the lady-musk memory was a glimpse of violet. That was all.

    Suddenly impatient with intrigue, Fenn let out a last deep breath and hauled himself to his feet and peered out around his fellow dreamwalker.

    Their pillar was one of a set ringing a vast room. Pools burbled with turquoise waters, rose petals, bubbles, and hisses of steam. They were fed with jets of water from towering fountains. Seeing all the pearls crusting them made his thiefy hands itch. If only one could carry riches out of dreams! Alas.

    Oh, wait. Fenn closed his incredulous mouth. There was something else besides shinies in those pools; women. Fallieni women, draped in sheer cloth that clung to their every curve. They giggled amongst themselves, buxoms bouncing with an energy that Fenn (though not an expert on mortal anatomy) was pretty certain mammaries were not wont to possess.

    The real part of them that drew his gaze was their faces; they were all practically indistinguishable from one another. Fenn shivered as one of them glanced his way. Something about those empty, empty eyes made him wonder if he could get away with crawling back behind the pillar. The fae puffed his cheeks shyly as, upon a dais, he spotted a man atop a throne with one of the wall-eyed women draped across his lap. Two others fanned him delicately. A necessary task, Fenn thought with a muffled snrk of a laugh. He was heavyset and ruled by thick forests of blonde hair, like men of the north commonly were; even in nothing more than a loincloth, he was probably sweating a storm.

    As if sleepwalking, Morus stepped out from the pillar’s shadow. Fenn, wings aflutter with uncertainty, had no idea else he could do but follow.

    The heavy man’s eyes snapped up at the sudden movement at the edge of the pools he oversaw. “Ahh, visitors! Welcome, to the humble palace of Geogri,” the man announced through a meaty Salvarian accent, and with a proud lift of his multiple chins. “I expect that you will find-“ the man’s voice faded out as he stopped, squinting at the two younglings afar down from him in concern. “Wait. You aren’t the dancers I summoned for.”

    Oh dear. Fenn glanced to Morus, hoping for the quick-tongued waif to find an explanation for their presence here.
    Last edited by FennWenn; 07-27-2018 at 12:27 AM.

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