A New Nightmare

[FennWenn]

Fenn watched, with his mouth open in a small circle of surprise, as a wooden watering can sprouted from the soil just before Guntilde turned around. She considered it, grinding her tusks together thoughtfully. “Water baby plants,” she agreed, lumbering over to pick it up. Muddy water sloshed out of its rim as she handled it. The fae smiled. That can really had come out of nowhere, hadn’t it? It actually made him curious about pushing the bounds of reality. Or, dreaming. This was his first time existing within a not-his dream, and the little fae would be lying if he said he wasn’t in a bit of a buzz about it. What could he do here? How far did his powers reach? Would they interfere with the slumbering orc-girl? There was nothing to do but find out.

Though, the fae thought with a glance over his shoulder, he should probably be cautious with his explorations. He wasn’t certain how Morus interacted with the dream. Morus, who, in the most casual fashion the street-waif could, had settled himself down onto the earth for a very dignified bout of keeling-over-from-exhaustion. Intrigued glow-bugs drifted down to land on him as he did so. A muffled groan echoed from his vicinity; the dreamwalker boy definitely needed a moment to catch his breath. Fenn didn’t know what happened if you died in a dream not your own, but he suspected that the waif was right regarding the stormy phantasm, at least. It would be nice to be able to wake in his own bed again.

But for now, they were here, amid this surreal jungle of greenery. Guntilde called out plaintively to them, startling Fenn out of his stupor. “Help baby plants?”

Shrugging, he kneeled beside her on the ground, eyes bright with curiosity. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to play along with her desires in this dream. At the least, he supposed it wouldn’t cause her any sense of jarring that might wake her up. <I suppose thirty is young. For fae. Are you young? For your size, I mean. You are small too,> he mused absently to Morus as the orcette poured water onto lumps in the soft soil. Not so small as Fenn, but still, definitely a young human <I have not met someone who can warp dreams like I do, besides my Banri. You have talent! Especially for being a mortal child; Banri says that mortals aren’t very magical. Not like us. Where did you learn it? Or were you born with it?>

Morus did not answer. Perhaps, the young teen was too tired to focus. Oh well! A clack of tusks interrupted him instead. “Guntilde born with green thumbs,” the orc replied in her cheerful obliviousness.

Though she meant it figuratively — relatively speaking; her people were naturally green, come to think of it — her words gave Fenn a kneejerk thought. Here he could make the figurative literal. Without thinking, the puck placed his hands on top of the soil and concentrated. This was a dream. Dreams were malleable. They were a fabric, and he was starting to learn how to unravel their threads. If he reached out… Yes. Beneath the springy earth, he felt the tension of thought that made it so.

This was a placid dream. It responded with neutral indifference to his will; with little more than intrigue and a slight attention. Guntilde’s subconscious attention. Tendrils of a pale verdant dripped up from the ground underneath his hand, bearing buds that unfurled large yellow petals. On the mirror-ground above, a similar splash of yellow began to sprout. Fenn’s antennae drifted in the direction of the blossoms. The sugary nectar scent emanating from them, mixed with dirt and damp, was appealing to him. Maybe it was just how it reminded him of honey. This was very different from the physical world. There, his touch would have flash-frozen those seeds without mercy — intentionally or no.

He wasn’t entirely sure if he had just made the plants happen in here, or if he’d just sprung into motion something the orcette had wanted to happen anyway. Still, the fae looked at it in satisfaction. Best to start small, if he was going to start mucking about with this sort of dream-manipulation.

“Good grow,” Guntilde praised, bearing a broad grin. “Very green leafs, like you, cloak faerie.”

<Maybe we could grow Morus some medicine,> he joked.

The orc snorted, starting up at the buttery flowers that still steadily crept up in height. “Need Gran Ti-Ti’s liver soup for sick boy.”