All We See or Seem

[Tshael]

{closed}

It is said, by one small Raiaeran cult, that dreams are the culmination of everything in the day that could of happened but didn't. "We dream to appreciate our path," said an elven philosopher, before his face turned away from the crowd and a small boy who'd leaned closer to the podium overheard the one saddest truth he'd ever known. "We dream to see the lives we could have lived." We mortals with mind have but one prevailing flaw - we thirst to know. The closed door, the unturned corner, the next page and coming days; these are things our curiousity seeks to satisfy. To know, at the end of the day, that our actions cannot be changed, that we'll never know what might have been, is one thing that could destroy us. And so, in hope of self preservation, our minds sweep up the facts and piece together the things that might have been, that should have been, and will not be. Often, we do not remember what we see. As the elven philosopher knew, this is probably for the best.

But sometimes, when minds collide, what is best is not what is.


Tshael looked out over her pub. It was warm here, the fire merrily lighting the deep amber wood that had built this place, though in the after-hours it looked lonely. The glasses were all polished and placed in neat order against the back wall of the bar, the chairs stacked upon the tables. Small lanterns that served as functional centerpieces had been turned out, and she knew the fire would be nothing but warm coals within the next few hours. Picking up her lone candle, Tshael turned from the bar and made her way into the small back room she slept in.

Tsyliss slept peacefully, kept in place on the bed with a nest of pillows. His crib lay dormant in the corner. How often did she use it anymore? She was sure he hadn't slept there in the last week. It was lonely, and it helped her sleep to have her son within arms reach, to have the breath of someone she loved next to her ear. Thoracis had been gone for so long, that she couldn't quite bring to her mind his voice, though she was often woken in the night by a phantom of his touch, cursing her memory and the fact that it wasn't his skin against hers.

The father of her child had always been one to travel, following the star of battle where it led him, and she could understand that about him. It just seemed, though, that whenever she had needed him the most, he had been there. But maybe, she thought, she was trying to hold him to the standards of a Dranak husband. The men and women of her people embraced battle together, sharing in the bloodshed and elation that came with war. True, she'd faced the mage on the field more than once, but she'd always felt that she couldn't truely match him. Was that why he'd never asked her to fight with him?

She found herself at the window, gazing out at the barren roadside and the lights of Radasanth beyond. The silhouette of the Citadel loomed impressive and dark against the city's skyline and with an escaped sigh, she pulled the curtains closed. This was her home, so why did it feel so much like a prison? She turned from the window and undressed before slipping under the covers and pulling her child close. The infant's tiny hand enclosed around her thumb and she smiled, though it was a little sad. Turning her head, she blew out the candle and closed her eyes.

In the darkness, she banished the image of Thoracis from her mind, at least for a little while and in his absense, the thoughts of the past came flooding in.

[Sloth]

There lived a boy who was no longer a boy but who was not yet a man for that matter. He lived alone, having lost his family to war, disease, and madness. He was not a carpenter, or a blacksmith, or a diplomat. He was not much of anything but when pressed, if he must be something, then he would tell you that he was a dreamer and that he spent much too long a time in the land of dreams.

This was two years ago, before his tragedy.

There would be times when he would walk up the winding paths beyond the edge of town and he would stop at the foot of a tree to think and to breathe, and to dream. He would stare out through the rim of the horizon and beyond into the emptiness with eyes forever wavering. He did this often, sitting on top a hill that overlooked the town, and he was always alone. But he never complained, not once.

It was a miserable day in Autumn when he pondered the meaning of solace, for it was something to ponder for the sake of pondering. The charcoal was stagnant in his hand and nothing was coming to mind. There was no resolve, no drive, and certainly nothing that would lead to either. He sighed and put the charcoal and pad of rough paper off to one side before laying on his back to look up into the sky, the color of nothing. He was skinny, like a poet, with skin a deathly white and hazel nut hair. The grass was cold and wet beneath his back.

Overhead, lucid clouds swirled and shifted. One pale gray cloud would twist into another and which one was doing the twisting was impossible to tell. They were hypnotizing and wondrous in their banality. At one point, the dreamer thought he might fall in and become part of the heavens, become one of the endless. It was the very last thought he had before his eyes closed and his body and breathing went heavy. And the clouds were spinning.

He awoke.

He was inside a dream, if you could call it that for he was conscious that it was a dream and that it was not the waking world. And he remembered. He remembered everything.

They surrounded him, chrysanthemums of white that shone brightly like tiny suns and tiny suns that would fall from the sky like camellia blossoms. They were beautiful, more beautiful than anything he had ever seen and it troubled him to know that he would never find such beauty among the living.

He was not alone in the place of dreams. Soft creatures draped in white walked beside him. He remembered vividly that they were muses and angels, and other cherished ones. They whispered gently to him in languages long forgotten and never known among mortal men. And he understood them. He had come to them before, frequently during the war, and he’d make a wish and he’d bleed, and he‘d waste away until it was morning.

Oh how he was smart then.

He remembered everything. He knew the mechanics of the universe, why people suffered and laughed and then died, he knew why dreams were dreams and why he should not know this.

A flock of birds flew high overhead and into the distance. They were of bright greens and pinks, and colors that could never exist. Sobbing, he made his way toward the edge of his dream to breathe and to think but mostly, he just wanted to forget.

The muses and the angels beckoned him to remain. They pleaded and they begged, but he walked on and he left the boundaries of his dream.

He landed gently on a barren plain of rock, malachite-green. He scrambled to his feet.

He began to walk across the glassy green plain. As he walked the bottoms of his shoes were worn down and worn away, and soon he was walking in his bare feet across the plain, which was sharp as a hundred knives, and the blood ran from the soles of his feet, leaving red footprints behind them.

He walked through a plain of monstrous bones, jagged and shattered and inhuman.

He walked through a desert, which was hot and dry, and the air was filled with red hot sand smaller than the eye could easily see, which settled in his lungs and at the corners of his eyes and stung him, leaving behind blisters and burns where they touched him. Soon the entire world was red with sand.

And then he was through the desert. He coughed up the last of the puss yellow from the back of his throat, and wiped them from his eyes.

He walked through an empty city, devoid of life, that talked to him, although it advised him to go back, that no man should idly wander the land of dreams, and that he should remain in the city, and walk its paths, and sit beside its sweet gardens; but how it was the city spoke to him the dreamer could never have explained in words.

He left the city, with regret, and he walked on.

He saw an old and dilapidated house and, after knocking first and calling out whatever was inside, he entered. The house was like a maze and he walked through twilit galleries and pavilions, strange and austere; through passages formed of screens, beside calm ponds and perfect rocks and stones he walked. All the while it was growing darker and darker until that was all there ever was.

And he awoke.

[INDK]

When the world around us has been so intricately constructed, the truth as we know it ceases to exist. Unless seen from a position of utter insanity, it would be often disregarded. Knowing each other brings us nothing more than chains. Dreams are our liberation, our entertainment in times of joy, but more importantly, the thoughts that we can need to think but also but keep secret from the prying eyes of those who we would frighten away. In dreams, its okay not to belong. The only thoughts worth having may be the ones we keep to ourselves. Until you can construct the world around you, these dreams are your only salvation. The magic of selfishness and can be unleashed best in such a state.

- Tiya'oleh, ancient Enarlin mage.

It was a relatively normal day for the boy. Unaware that sleep was supposed to coordinate with transitions between night and day, the boy had been up for about five hours through the darkness, making his through the empty Corone countryside. His goal was to get to Lornius, because that was where he expected to find the LCC. The tournament was a grand affair, and even though the boy didn’t particularly understand what tournaments were or why they existed, he wanted to take part. Just the reverence that was attached to the phrase made the boy take notice. Now, he was going to win the whole thing, just as soon as he understood what the tournament would entail.

But he was going to sleep first.

By now, the sun had been up over his head for at least eight hours, beaming down hard and hot. The boy hated the heat, the way it baked down upon his body and left him feeling dirty and caked with day old sweat. Since there was little else that he could do but endure it, the boy continued onwards till he found himself a grove. Without much hesitation, Damon plumped himself down under one of the most lush trees and settled in among the tallish grass. Green and cool, it nestled against the boy like family, and he smiled and cuddled with it for a few minutes before his eyes began to close.

Immediately after he fell asleep, the boy was interrupted. It was a tall man in a trenchcoat, with a mask to cover his face. The hands were hairy, but otherwise gloved, suggesting that this stranger may have not actually been a human but a creature that was part bestial instead. Whatever race this mysterious newcomer belonged to, it was clear that his intentions were not good. A small pouch of powder was quickly removed from the stranger’s pocket, and a thin, clawlike arm then sprinkled bits of the powder out on to the sleeping boy.

Damon mumbled a bit and itched his nose, but otherwise did not stir. The stranger took a few steps backwards with a devious smile hidden underneath the mask.

“It is done,” the stealthy assailant mumbled, as if he had just obeyed the commands of another.

And done it was. Soon, Damon began to dream.

[Tshael]

Before the goblins had come and the Dranaks had been forced to move down to the lowlands of Corone, within the forests of Concordia, they had ringed the bases of the eastern mountains. The peaks were a natural wall against the winds from the sea, and the forests there had been lush, unharmed by invading hordes. These were times when much of Corone was undiscovered, and the trees grew tall and strong. These were the times before Tshael had been conceived. Now she walked along the bases of these tall trees, staring up at them, watching the sunlight dance in shadow and silver through the boughs. Here, she felt more connected with the planet than she ever had before.

She walked beside a cool stream, following the trail of where it had come, up a gentle slope that she somehow knew led to her people's ancestral grounds. She resisted the urge to run, instead letting her every footstep sink into the soft earth. She had no fears of being followed here; she was in a place of the utmost peace. It never occurred to her that there wasn't a way for her to be walked among these lands and find them unscarred. The goblins had ransacked the verdant forests until they were nothing more than a part of the plains that led to the mountains. And yet, she found that it felt so right.

As she walked, the trees became more sparse, the grass and fern breaking to reveal golden rocks beneath her hooves. As she pressed on, a small glade opened up, ringed in the older trees, their boughs blanketing the sky like the protective arms of fathers, their bark gnarled and gray from years spent in the elements. There was plenty of room in the semi-circle ring of trees for movement, and Tshael danced around for a moment, laughing as if she were a child. The space was closed off at the other side by a sheer face of golden rock and along the western edge of her stage, the ground dropped low for the shallow stream. Moss covered the rocks that bordered the water, and small red fish danced through the currents. The Dranak could feel life all around her, from the tips of her fingers to the very bones within her body.

Closing her gilden eyes, she leaned against warm rock face and turned up her chin so that what little light that filtered through the trees could fall upon her face. A day this perfect could last forever, she felt, and her body relaxed until she was sitting against the rocks her fingers moving slowly as she worked her way through the magic threads of life. A small plant by her side had been struggling to grow in the rocky territory, and looked as if it were on the very verge of defeat. As she touched upon it, she began to spin it's life force threads around her own, letting the earth connect them. As the spell was woven, the sprout began to thicken and grow tall, a lush green spreading down it's stalk where it had once been a sickly yellow.

As she communed with the spirit of the place, she was unaware of shadows that moved farther along in the trees.