And His Blood Dripped On the Snow, open

[Rièle]

(OOC: Open! Please see recruiting topic for more info )

The world of dreams is not governed by the laws that shape the waking world, but by our minds. If a dreamer's mind believes itself to be bound by the laws of earth and flesh then so, too, is this true in his dream; however, a dreamer whose mind is free of these chains of flesh may manipulate the dream world to his will, and walk the realm of dreams as a king.

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The nightmare pulled him in, not as one feels the pull of a rope or of the arm of a friend, but as the force of gravity; inherent and immutable. At first the walker fought the pull, ill-desiring to follow its dark foreboding path and accustomed to shaping the dream-world to his own will. But soon the walker realized that his fight was futile, and that as some things in the dream-world are ever constant so, too - at this time and in this place - was the gravity he felt.

The cold did not touch him; it was not a sensation that often did in dreams, but it was strange to walk beneath the flakes of steadily falling snow feeling nothing. He walked with difficulty, the snow drifting to his knees, and his will - bound by the gravity and rules of the dream - could not overcome its effect. Buildings loomed on either side of him, grey and undefined, and the only sound was the clatter of the wind as it rattled the signs hanging above the doors of the shops. The shadows of the trees and walls were long and still, and the sun was nowhere to be found within the sky. The walker looked up around him, seeing nothing but shapeless shadows where there should be structures or mountains in the distance, except for a single tower, rising tall and looming above the city.

The walker's heart raced inside his chest; and he spun around, knowing something had appeared behind him. Lying in the snow not feet away was the body of a man, his hand resting atop the drifting snow and his torso sunk beneath it, such that his face was not visible. The walker knew that he stood in the place of the dreamer who had done the deed, and he willed to step outside the horror of the murderer's emotions that the dream forced upon him. But the fight was futile, and the walker found his eyes drawn to the dead man's cloak, and the killer's sick exuberance filled his chest. The cloak bore a royal crest.

And the dreamer looked down at his own hand to see an ornate silver knife, dripping red with blood upon the snow.

*****

Rhys awoke with a sharp intake of breath, sitting up as if he had been physically thrown from the dream itself. His brow was covered in sweat, and his wet hair lay flat upon his scalp. The vessels in his eyes were red, accenting the red of his hair, and he gasped for breath as his heart raced from the terror that he'd felt. Not all components of a dream were images, for as much as the human mind relies on sight it is also saturated with emotion, and the strongest emotions in our thoughts of the day find us again in our dreams during the night. Rhys had felt the fear and exhilaration of the killer's mind, and recognized the fixation with which the dreamer had sought his kill, and the satisfaction that the killer believed it would bring him.

And he recalled vividly the crest upon the cloak, and wondered which of two men lay dead upon the snow: the king, or his son.

Rhys looked outside the window to his room to see the light of early dawn stretching across the grey sea. His castle was a week's sail from Haven, in good weather, and Haven was at least another week's travel by land or river before he would reach the city he'd seen in his dream. The autumn days were growing short, and it would not be long before snow was falling in the Kingdom of the Winds. He had little time.

Rhys rang for his servants, and began preparing for his journey. He must go in haste to Caelin Tal.

[E'doa A'nii]

(Havn't found the currency name yet, >_< So if you have one let me know. *is still looking for it*)

"That's quite the job, you've got there." Ilka leaned his back on the tree and sipped his drink amusedly. The villager was carrying a plow in the back of a wagon pulled by two red roan horses. The plow's tines were badly twisted and chipped. The voice of the scraggly Knight Templar stopped the old man in his tracks, and the creaky wagon ground to a halt.

"Fine one ye are to talk, soldier. Tisn't like it matters to ya." Was the irritated reply.

"Ah, but it does good father." Ilka's voice became even more good natured as he smiled broadly. Setting his cup on the ground, the warrior picked up his horse's rains and strode forward. Approaching the carriage he began to assess the condition of the plow. It would take some work, but it could be done... With the right tools of course. But since, the silver-haired knight only carried the most vital of forge work tools, he would not be able to fix the villager's wagon. Not here anyway. Her he could patch it; but not fix it.

"Oh? and why do ye say 'at, pray tell?" The old man replied, watching Ilka warily. It was very possible that the warrior might think to take advantage of the old man, and make off with his horses.

The knight rubbed a bony calloused finger over the plow's bent edge, testing for sharpness. "You see..." He began, "I am a smith by trade..." he pulled back his finger and sucked off the blood. Still sharp then. So it hadn't been busted because of poor care.

"Are ye now?" Obviously disbelieving.

"I am. And I can get it mended for you in a jiffy. Or if you preffer to wait, I can fix it permanently. What do you say to that?"

"Yus foolin' wit me, 'ats wot." Returned the old man incredulously.

Ilka sighed, and walked 'round to the side of his horse. From the saddle bags he took his hammers, and billows and irons and other various tools he carried on him for just such an occasion.

Then he set about gathering a great pile of wood. The old man watched in amusement for a few moments. At length it occured to him that the Knight Templar was truly serious about building a forge on the side of the road. This caused him no end of mirth. So hard was he laughing that he was doubled over, shaking vigorously.

Such a thing couldn't possibly be done right here. The man was obviously delusional. Why didn't he just let him ride the 10 miles into town and get the plow fixed? Oh, well. If he wanted to work unduly hard, he could. The villager sat himself down in the grass by his team of horses and set to watching... and teasing.

"Ye's missed a twig 'ere. That's right."

"No, don't set it 'ere! Your too far from t' road. Set it down 'ere."

"Such a small fier, surely t' forges at Caelin Tal are fifty times 'otter 'en 'at."

And so on.

By the end of it, Ilka was redder then a tomato with annoyance and rage. When he had it all set up, he moved to take down the plow. But the old man was already back on the wagon seat and creaking off down the road, chuckling merrily to himself; the sound of his horses hooves mocking the warrior with each step they took. Yes, it had been a grand little joke.

Swiftly, his speed and strength fueld by anger, Ilka packed up his camp and put out his fire. He was going to catch that old man, and drag him by the ear all the way to Caelin Tal, to get those forge tools. And then he was going to drag him all the way back here and fix that plow. But, for all his haste, Ilka did not get his camp packed before the old man was long gone.

So the Knight Templar decided that dragging the old man to Caelin Tal by his ear, was a bad idea. Instead he should go and get the supplies first, and then get the old man. If the fellow was still around when he got back, anyway.

So, with a last sigh of irritation, the Son of Karduus mounted Branwin and rode off towards the capital city of Nerandor.

-----------------------------

I'm telling you: 20 Rona, and not a mite more! The Knight's voice thundered.

The blacksmith at Caelin Tal thundered right back: 40 Rona and no less! It's a fair better weight then you'll get any where else!

[Angel of Chaos]

The sky had turned the day a bleak grey, and sent its bitter breeze nipping at the townspeople's noses. The seemingly harmless nips were like vicious bites onto Sora's sensitive muzzle as she cautiously padded down one of the capital's lesser-traveled streets. She could already feel her fur growing ever so slightly thicker to shield her form from the cold. There was not a single soul to be seen on this street; the dwellers of this street were probably sheltering themselves, either from the coming weather or from her coming presence. She could not blame them, really; was there anyone else that was comfortable with seeing someone like her?

She had arrived at the capital of Nerandor two weeks ago, but, against Tokala's wishes, she refused to set even one foot through the city gates, afraid of what a mass of people might think of her. So she had spent two weeks circling the outer walls and borders, trying to prepare herself for entering the city and the people who might see her. Tokala had found it most annoying, but retained his patience until finally, Sora had steeled her nerves and stepped into the city of Caelin Tal.

And then came the cold

The road soon opened into a somewhat open crossroads, where a single pine tree dominate the crux. A small, stone wall about three feet high surrounded the tree. Sora suddenly had a feeling that she was being watched and ducked behind the stone wall next to the tree, feeling the fallen pine needles sink into her foxlike toes.

Sora! What has gotten into you lately? the voice of Tokala sounded in her head.

I-I thought someone was watching...following me... Sora thought back, her long ears and each of her nine tails twitching from the cold.

For the love of the tails, Sora, that was only a passerby. I thought you said you were finally ready to warm up to people.

Well...I...I just wanted to be sure...

Before she could continue speaking to her mind, her cold ears easily picked up yelling from across the way:

"I'm telling you: 20 Rona, and not a mite more!"

"40 Rona and no less! It's a fair better weight then you'll get any where else!"

Sora winced at the severity of the voices and shivered in the gnawing cold. What chance would she have conversing in situations like that?

She was so busy worrying that she hadn't noticed the drunken man that stepped over the wall and keeled over, sleeping heavily. Sora's shivering foot strayed over and made with the man's jacket.

She froze, and the moment she blinked, she was no longer behind the stone wall that surrounded the pine tree, but high in the clouds, falling at incredibly high speeds. The clouds themselves were shaped into people...people that were mocking her endlessly. The voices were hard and cold as the wind breezing past her.

She looked down and saw the drunken man falling as well. The people-shaped clouds were mocking him too. She was in his dream.

No...no...this couldn't be happening! This shouldn't be happening! She wanted out!

Instantly, a cloud appeared beneath the two of them and cushioned their fall, right in the middle of a cloud-shaped mob of people wielding knives and pitchforks. Sora took one look at the man before they were both consumed by the sharp clouds.

The instant she felt the first jab of pain, she was back in the wall around the tree. The man was still there, his face flustered and asleep, and his resting breath stinking of alcohol. Wide-eyed and filled with pain from that which she never wanted to experience, she wrapped her arms around her legs and hung her head in anguish. Tears began to fall, right along with the first flakes of snow.

['ekekeu'poki]

A cool wind whipped through the crisp air, sending orange and red leaves swirling about the skinny legs of two horses, and the women they carried on their backs. Saryah casually plucked a leaf from the air, and examined the intricate vein-like patterns with interest. She and her companion, Kodéa, were traveling to Caelin Tal, the capital of Nerandor. It was Saryah's mission, as a self-appointed Historian, to visit every city and town in Nerandor and its neighboring countries, in order to record its histories and stories, and that of the locals. She opened the pages of her precious, leather-bound book, and gently placed the leaf within the sheets. Her black Freisian clopped along the deserted road at a calm pace, lulling Saryah into a state of tranquility.

Kodéa sat upon Belyaion, a bay thoroughbred, gently stroking her guitar. She clutched her horse with her knees to stay balanced, and coaxed sweet notes from the delicate strings, lost in thought. A chilly breeze wrapped its bitter arms around Kodéa, its icy fingers leaving a mark on her skin. Unlike Saryah, who wasn't affected by the temperature, Kodéa was only half elf, and therefore felt the chilly air. Albeit, not as much as a full human, but enough to make her pause in her playing to pull on a cloak. Shivering, she glanced over at Saryah, who was a few paces ahead of her.

"Saryah," she called over to the elf, her voice quivering just the slightest bit. "Are we almost to Caelin Tal?"

Jolted out of her trance, Saryah slowed her horse until she was level with Kodéa. "We are about half a days ride from the city. If we quicken the pace, we can arrive within a couple of hours."

Kodéa nodded, securing her guitar behind her. Her frozen hands protested exposure to the elements, and she alternated between rubbing them together, and blowing into them. As that didn't work, she stuffed her hands into Belyaion's mane, which did a better job of warming them than any of her attempts. "I like that option. A warm bowl of soup followed by a warm bed sounds absolutely heavenly right now." Saryah laughed, and nudged her horse into a canter, quickly followed by Kodéa.

A couple of hours later, the two women approached Caelin Tal. The sun had since set, taking with it a weak, barely warming light. What was left was a dismally grey sky, heavy with a bone-chilling cold. The air was unnaturally still, deserted by creatures who preferred the comfort of warm dwellings. Tall trees stood like sentinels, guarding Caelin Tal from those who would bring it harm. At the sight of the city, Kodéa clapped in delight, already feeling warm in anticipation of her bed. Her sharp blue eyes flicked towards Saryah, ready to share the excitement with her friend. However, Saryah was paying no attention to Kodéa, or Caelin Tal.

"Did you hear that?" She whispered softly, bringing her horse, Erufindon, to a stop. She cocked her head to the side, her elongated ears straining to pick up any stray sounds. Kodéa brought Belyaion to a halt next to Saryah. They both sat in silence for a few moments, the horses shifting under them, until Kodéa could handle the cold no longer.

"Saryah, please can we continue on! We are so close to warmth!" She shivered in the fading light, her eyes pleading. Her nose and cheeks were kissed by the cold, taking on a pleasant rosy blush.

Saryah gave her friend a sympathetic look. "I apologize, Kodéa. I am not being thoughtful of your comfort. Let's carry on."

They had both turned around to leave, when Kodéa caught sight of something orange at the edge of her vision. She whipped her head around, peering behind the stone wall that surrounded Caelin Tal.

"Hold, Saryah!" She called out, still staring intently at the wall. "I think I just might have seen what you heard." Her interest peaked, Saryah dismounted Erufindon, and slowly made her way to the wall, closely followed by Kodéa.

OOC: Angel of Chaos, I left this open for our characters to meet. However, it's no problem if that's not the direction you want to take.

[Rièle]

Rhys shivered. He wore layers of wool and fleece, lined boots and gloves, a thick scarf, a heavy cloak, and still his skinny frame seemed to retain no heat. The weather had been growing colder by the day, even more so as he traveled north from Haven. He had done nothing but shiver since he'd left his home, unable to light a fire on the ship, and being forced again to take passage on a boat upriver to Caelin Tal. The way was slow, for though the winds favored them the current did not, and the oarsmen could not work both day and night. It took Rhys more than a week longer than he had anticipated to reach Caelin Tal, and he thanked the gods when he arrived that the first snows still had yet to fall.

His servants he had left behind, and so Rhys inquired of the captain if he might hire a carriage to take him to an Inn. Rhys did not lack money, as the finery of his dress clearly showed, and he tipped the captain several silver pieces ere he left. The horse and carriage pulled up to the docks, and Rhys climbed inside, huddled away from the wind. His bags and trunk, which one might judge were quite the excess, were loaded upon the back, and the driver eagerly recommended several fine Inns that might suit the young lord. Rhys listened patiently as the man described each one, and selected from them the Compass Rose.

He arrived at the Inn after sunset, and was glad to learn that few travelers frequented the Compass Rose in winter, and there were many rooms available. The Inn was expensive, and visiting nobles preferred it for both its comfort and for its proximity to the castle tower. Though Rhys himself had no title of nobility, his purse was full enough, and so he paid the Innkeeper in advance for a night's stay and a meal, stating that he was in town looking for someone, and did not know how long he might remain. The eyes of the few customers in the common room were drawn curiously to Rhys's many bags and trunk as the driver brought them to the stairs, but Rhys was oblivious of this notice. He clumsily attempted to help by hauling his own books, only to drop them on the steps, and picked them up by stacking them awkwardly until the pile loomed above his head.

When he came down for dinner Rhys was dressed in a thick wool sweater and scarf despite the blazing fire in the corner of the room, and carried two books tucked under his arm. The other customers again glanced strangely at him, but Rhys noticed none of their expressions. He settled himself down loudly at one of the tables and ordered a plate of venison and a glass of spiced wine. While he waited for the serving maid to bring his meal, he flipped to a chapter in his book and began reading.

The plan Rhys had prepared was simple. He needed to speak with the king, or with some high-ranking member of the kingdom nobility. That was, as far as he knew, relatively impossible, as he had no rank or title that would grant him admission to the king's court. The only way Rhys had any hope of getting a message to the king was through his dreams, and Rhy's plan was to find king Halden in the dream-world. Though there was nothing that prevented Rhys from reaching the king's dreams from his own castle on the sea, it was extremely difficult - if not impossible - to locate the dreams of someone he was unfamiliar with at such a distance. Now that Rhys was in Caelin Tal this task should be much easier.

He yawned broadly as his meal arrived, and kindly thanked the serving girl. Contrary to his skinny build Rhys hungrily cleaned every crumb off of his plate, except for the few he spilled upon his lap. He stayed up late, enjoying his table beside the warm fire and the theories in his book, and occasionally allowing his thoughts to drift to the world of dreams, and his plan to walk the dreams of the city's inhabitants later that night.

(OOC: You guys are welcome to meet Rhys now, or wait until more time has passed - either is fine with me, I'm in no rush! He'll be at the Inn for several days.)

[E'doa A'nii]

"Nonsense! I've seen twice that weight in Mor'val!" Ilka Tuon thundered right back.

"Prove it!" Here the large smithy folded his broad arms across his vast chest stubbornly.

Ilka went out into the biting cold, from which the forge's heat had protected him, and retrieved from his saddle pack a larger hammer then the one he was buying. It was indeed twice as big.

"Alright." the blacksmith muttered, grudgingly admitting that the knight was right. "20 Rona. And no less!"

The Son of Karduus happily paid out his 20 Rona. The coins chinked into the blacksmith's large, dirty, reluctant hand; and then the knight was out into the cold.

He exhaled his breath in a cloud of white smoke upon exiting the forge. It was bitterly cold out, compared to inside the biulding. The vast temperature difference, and it's sudden occurance made Ilka shiver despite his heavy fur cloak.

Mounting his beloved horse, he made for the nearest inn. There would be a long ride ahead of him back to Ingrid in the morning.

------------------

It was cold out, and Caelin Tal was a large city. People hustled and bustled about eager to get home; out of the cold. Some were finishing up trade, other packing their purchases; and still others were only just beginning business.

Ilka Tuon, was still looking for an inn. He would have found one sooner in the day, but he had stopped to mend a wagon for an old lady. And then there had been the little lost child, who's mother he had spent the latter part of the day finding. (only to find out the child hadn't been lost, and his mother was half-sick thinking he'd been kidnapped by the Knight Templar.)

So, it was with weariness, and a lack of desire to travel any further that Ilka Tuon arrived at the Compass Rose. It was a pricy inn by the look of it; what with being made of bricks and having an actual tile roof, not to mention the beautifully embellished sign out front. Obviously made by a first class calligrapher and gold metallurgist. Not to mention an excellent painter. Still, the price was worth not walking half-way accross town to find something cheaper. And he was only going to be there for one night. SO he could afford to pay the price, just once.

Even Branwin was tired. The horse sighed tiredly, ending on a snort. He tossed his head in protest to the bit for the third time in 10 minutes.

"I know old fella." Ilka patted his horse's neck understandingly. He dismounted, and motioning to a stablehand handed him the reigns. "2 buckets of grain, a little water and a good brushing please."

The boy nodded, and received (with much delight) several coins for his troubles.

And so it was that the gangly and awkwardly built Knight Templar found himself sitting in a very lavish room, pulling off his shoes and clothes; wriggling his way in delight under the new sheets in his pjs.

Within seconds, he was snoring and fast asleep. As a knight he learned to sleep, and sleep quickly lest he be called to battle at some odd hour before sun-rise. His last thought before sleeping was: Odd little character that fellow, too skinny for such a large meal.

And then he was dreaming of Rhys eating mountains of delicacies and never growing fat; and then being so hungry that he ate the whole world...

[Angel of Chaos]

Sora remained where she was, stiff and frozen as if the cold weather was many times worse than it was now. Her mind was still reeling from the unintended excursion into the drunken man's dreams, so much so that she did not notice the man wake up and stumble away without so much as a peep. Stray snowflakes floated under the pine tree and settled onto Sora's fur-covered form, but she made no move to sweep them off of her. She dared not move even a single tail. Flashes of the clouds still formed in her mind's eye.

Sora! Get ahold of yourself! You are not in his dream anymore!

I didn't want to see it...but it was so real...make these images stop, Tokala.

Calm down, Sora. The images will recede. You will be able to control that power in time.

But I don't want this power! I just want to...I just want to be me again!

The voice inside her head gave an exasperated sigh. Sora, must I give you the same lecture again? I've told you this so many times: you are you. You have to learn how to accept what has happened to you. You've already made this first big step just by entering the capital of Nerandor. Now, you can take your next big step by finding an inn and warm yourself up.

Sora shivered intensely. An inn? But...what about--

Come now, you're being unreasonable again! The cold air seemed to intensify as Sora whimpered. Didn't you always say you wanted a friend other than me, a spirit trapped in your head and body?

Y-yes?

Well, you have to bring that warmth you used to have back. You weren't afraid of me when you first encountered me. What makes you so sure that everyone will be afraid of you?

Before Sora could think back, her long ears picked up more sounds from the hush of the falling snow. The sound of hooves on snow-covered dirt pounded on her heart, and the conversing voices, both female, made Sora shiver more as she whimpered again and drew her legs closer to her chest.

Then:

"Did you hear that?"

"Saryah, please can we continue on! We are so close to warmth!"

"I apologize, Kodéa. I am not being thoughtful of your comfort. Let's carry on."

"Hold, Saryah! I think I just might have seen what you heard."

Sora couldn't move. She just continued to sit there, frozen and shaking in fear and cold. She could do nothing but wait to see if the coming voices' intents were those of benevolence or spite.

[Renna]

Rhys was not alone in the common room of the Compass Rose. Of course there were the usual sorts of travelers--the wealthy men enjoying the food and the fire and the attentions of the barmaid, but tonight the environment was noticeably different. Tonight one corner was occupied by a young woman, a Lady who outshone the fire at her side and a Lady with a tall, strong man standing guard behind her chair. The Lady had angled her chair slightly away from the other patrons, but even from the back and the side her beauty was evident. A little coronet of pearls dipped over her forehead and into her eyes with the soft curls of her hair; her silken robe spread out over her feet to shape itself into a bejewelled and gilded fan. The slipper that peeped out of the gown's hem was very, very tiny, and long-fingered white hands smoothed over something in her lap.

It was a book.

The Lady bent forward over her treasure, back still ramrod-straight even as the dark hair spilled over her shoulder--but after a moment of looking, she shut the leather-bound volume and sat back in her chair. "It's no use."

The voice was soft, with an affected little accent that spoke of high breeding and demure temperament. Yet in the silver softness there was a faint sense of choking, and the strong man behind his Lady's chair reached forward to put a hand to her shoulder. "There, Lady, don't cry. Don't cry. Don't you like this story? That's the one I wrote for you, when you turned fourteen. I thought it still had your favorite ending."

The lovely young woman lowered her eyes and clenched the book in her lap. "It is my favorite ending, and I love the story. And the most life-changing gift I have ever gotten. But I can't think on it tonight. Such a lovely ending...but I'm so frightened now. It can't make me happy because I have no hope of recieving anything similar. It's a hopeless, light-swallowing sort of night. The one with the crescent grin." She twisted to look over her shoulder, at the man in black who met her gaze with melting eyes. Her guard moved around to the front in one swift stride, kneeling down in front of the chair to take her hands in his own as the Lady shivered. "...And so cold."

Blue eyes met brown, and the tall man pulled his charge gently forward, chair and all. "Move closer to the fire and let me hold your hands. That will banish the cold. And the crescent-grinned night; I can take care of that too. I'm here, faithful Cian to step in for the papa who can't any longer. And the Prince will love you. He will. No one can help it who knows you."

Faithful Cian suddenly grew stern. "Unless they meet you when you're like this, not even trying to fight off the darkness of your thoughts. Don't you want to try?"

She blushed, but her lips quivered. "Of course I do. Bu-but, I don't know what to hope for! Do I wish him to love me now, and then find out the Secret and maybe throw me out or kill me? Or do I wish him to hate me so I mustn't wed him--and then be shamed for failing Adesia but spared my husband's disgust?" Her voice was low. "You know the extent of my imagination, Cian ni Charra, but I have difficulty finding a happy ending in this." But she managed a smile. "Still. I'm glad you're with me."

He returned the smile, a little misty-eyed, then pressed a kiss to her hand. "And I glad to have you for a student, Princess. But come, some cheer. You're deserving of a happy ending, and I'll try to get it for you. You have my word. Would you like a song?"

She nodded, then closed her eyes and let her head droop as the man at her feet crooned out a soft, sweet lullaby to soothe the frightened Princess.

[Rièle]

Rhys fell asleep upon his bed with the hearth fire blazing and three large books piled about his legs. He dreamed of inescapable cold, of falling books that he could not catch, and of searching futilely through the streets of Caelin Tal for the would-be murderer, only to find himself holding a bloody knife. His conscious mind then took control of his dreams, and he stepped out of his own dream reality into the realm of dreams.

He walked along a path, not because there was such a path in the realm of dreams, his because his mind chose to portray his progress as movement along a path. Reality in the world of dreams was what one made it, and Rhys's gift as a dreamwalker was the ability to channel a path amongst the dreams of the beings of the world into a reality that he could navigate. He looked around himself and saw the dreams of those near to him. The inn's cook dreamt of the kitchens, while the knight in the next room dreamt of a plow and a forge. A noble lady dreamt of something that she sought, but could not find.

In the realm of dreams distance meant nothing, and everything. It was typically easy to find a person's dreams if that person was in close proximity to himself, however, he could also easily walk into the dreams of someone with whom he was familiar whether they were far across the world or sleeping beside him in his bed. Similarly, if a person in the next room was dreaming of distant thoughts or places, they would be as far from him as someone on the continent of Amalterre. But commonly a person's dreams focused on their thoughts during the day, and so it was most likely that he would encounter the dreams of the king, or anyone in Caelin Tal, by walking the dreams of the city itself.

Rhys felt the constantly shifting nexus of dreams that connected each individual dreamer with the realm of dreams. Each dreamer unknowingly controlled and altered that connection with their thoughts; some were calm, and constant, while others shifted constantly, disappearing as quickly as they appeared. Rhys reached out before him and touched the air, wrapping his fingers around the shadows and pulling them aside, as a curtain. He stepped forward into the streets of Caelin Tal, in what he thought of as the mirror. It was, in fact, a reflection of the real world that was created in the world of dreams. Each person dreamed their recollections of the world, and so many recollections overlapped that a constant setting, reflecting the real world, was created in the dream world. This setting inherently varied with peoples' recollections, interpretations, and embellishments, and often reflected the past instead of the present depending on the dreamers' memories. But it was the most straightforward means of walking the realm of dreams, and Rhys could see each dream of the city's inhabitants projected in this setting.

He envisioned himself in the castle courtyard, and it was so. Flashes and images appeared all around him, and most disappeared as quickly as they appeared. Some were faint, likely of memories long ago or far away, and others were vivid and intense. He searched them vigilantly, looking for the king or a member of his family, for once he found a dreamer in the mirror he could easily follow that person back to their own dreams, and insert himself inside the dream to send a message.

Hours passed. Rhys walked the castle halls, the bedrooms, the throne room, and the arms room. He passed knights and scholars, noblemen he did not recognize, serving men and women, people of the city, scribes, guards, and even several dogs. But nowhere did he see someone who he might give his message to; someone who might hear him and take action to prevent what he hoped would never happen.

And then something strange occurred; something touched the mirror, manipulating it to its will. Rhys paused. Another dream walker? In Rhy's experience, dream walkers were extremely rare, but he could think of no other explanation. The other consciousness was extremely near, and Rhys quickly changed his residual appearance to resemble an elderly scholar of the castle. He did not know whether this walker was friend or foe, and given the gravity of the situation he chose to be cautious.

A shadow emerged from around the corner, at the far end of the castle hall. But there was no body to cast it, the walker was projecting himself only as a dark, formless cloud of shadow. Rhys saw the entity and felt it stare back at him, seeing him, and he thought instantly of a nightmare, for this thing had the texture of a malicious dream.

It screamed, an inhuman pitch so high that even in the dream world Rhys instinctively covered his ears. The shadow-creature lunged, rushing down the hallway towards Rhys. Rhys felt a pull from the creature, a magical anchor that bid him stay. Painfully he called forth his own magic, casting the creature's anchor aside. He fled breaths before it reached him.

Something strange had happened. Rhys found himself being drawn backwards, as by a gravity, towards his own dreams. He fought against it, willing himself to walk the mirror realm again, but he could not leave the shadowed world of dreams and darkness. He looked behind him to where he was being drawn, wondering what the source of this force was, and saw his own dream-light, and the massive darkness of the murder-nightmare looming over it, larger than he had ever seen.

Rhys screamed.

The gravity that pulled against Rhys was so strong that it sucked not only him inside the nightmare, but those dreamers that were near to him. The knight, the lady, were there others? Perhaps a few, but the pull was not so strong as to engulf more than a handful. Rhy's next thought was wondering why the cold did not touch him as he watched the snow fall in the street of Caelin Tal. He heard again the wind as it rocked the signs upon the shops, and turned with a terror as he felt that unknown presence behind him, only to find the dead royal lying in the snow. The face of the man was still impossible to see. Rhys looked down at his own hand and gazed upon the knife, which dripped warm and bloody drops upon the snow. He knew that the knight and the lady, and whoever else had been drawn in, now saw the knife in their own hands - they knew the prophecy of the dream, the same as he.

A darkness moved, black and thick across the sky. Rhys's heart raced inside his chest as he looked up to see the shadow creature. It had followed him.

Rhys exerted all the power of his will and broke himself apart from the dream. He stepped from the part of the killer and walked with great effort through the snow, looking back to see the faces of those dreamers who had been pulled inside the dream with him. He knew they looked back at him; that they would remember seeing him, and what he'd done. But he had to help them, for unless their own thoughts pulled them from the dream they would be unable to escape. Quickly he dissolved the dream, using his own magic to fade its reality to nothing. The dreamers, now lacking a reality, would again be free to form their own dreams, and each one disappeared from the nightmare unharmed. Rhys remained, knowing that the shadow entity was focused upon him, and drawn by an unbearable temptation to know its source.

But he was ill-prepared for its attack, distracted by his protection of the others, and when it came for him its magic easily overpowered his own. Rhys was enveloped by the shadow, and was forced to wrench himself from the dream world altogether before it could destroy him.

Rhys awoke. He was covered in sweat, and felt a terror that he had never known nor conceived in his entire life. Trembling he sat up, finding his vision blurry and that a torrent of blood ran from his nose. He tripped over his books as he walked to his wash basin, and collapsed upon his knees as he attempted to stop the bleeding. Gods, what was that thing?

[E'doa A'nii]

(oopsy, got confused *edit*)

During the course of the night Ilka Tuon's dreams had shifted from the bizzarre gaiety of eating the world, to the humiliating re-visit of the old man and the plow.

Only it was a bit different then reality had been:

---------------------------------------------

The old man was laughing, pointing a finger, his ugly visage looming over the small clearing by the road; encompassing the sky and shadowing the make-shift forge as Ilka tried desperately to put it away. He had to catch the old man. He had to fix the plow. It was the only answer.

A cart rumbled off in the distance, an unrecognizeably twisted object, the plow, glinted in the sun as it wobbled on the backof a cart pulled by 2 horses. Ilka looked to see it go. Or at least, he tried to. His dream would not allow it, though he knew what it was. What was on it. He went back to work picking up the make-shift forge.

But Ilka couldn't put the forge away. Every piece he moved leapt back into place by a will of it's own. No matter how fast he picked it up. No matter how he tried to stop it. Except the Anvil. The anvil burnt him whenever he touched it; though he had used no fire. His futile effort to pick up his camp went on for what seemed an age.

And the face of the old man in the sky still mocked him. Still laughed that endless cackling laugh: Daring him to pick up the pieces and follow, mocking him because he was a fool and could not.

And then, suddenly, there were a bunch of little old men in a ring around him; drawing ever closer on the green grass; Laughing and pointing. Only the laugh was different now. It was cruel, mockful yes, but dry and mirthless. And above all cruel. All holding the little boy Ilka had 'rescued' earlier in the day. They avoided the forge peices with ease as they walked towards him with eerie slowness. Now accusing, now mocking.

And just when the dream was it's most frightening climax --for the fear of dreams, is not always in the fear of them, but in the strangeness that is as unpredictable as it is incomprehensible. And so the fear lies in the not knowing, and yet the 'knowing' that is always in dreams. For Ilka did not know what would happen next, but he knew he had no weapons, and that great harm would befall him. He knew that he could not escape, and yet he must; just as he knew that he must catch the plow, and could not.--

He was ripped away and thrown into the cold snow-white street of Caelin Tal. He knew there were buildings, just as he knew he breathed. And yet he could see naught but grey shapes that stood for buildings, and the snow white flecks wich perpetually fell upon the landscape. In the middle of the landscape was a man, prostrate in the snow with his face to the ground. Recently dead, expertly killed. The warrior's instinct bade the knight turn. Turn and see the evil that is never far from it's curse.

To his right was a beautiful princess. Fair and regal. But young. Too inexperienced to commit a wound like that with such accuracy. He did not recognize the lady. To his left, a wizard still held the knife in his hands. Dreams were nothing like reality, and so the killer stood before them, rather then hiding in the alleys as Ilka's instincts told him. Vaguely he recognized the man from the inn. The one who he had had such fun dreaming about eating an endless pile of apple pie. Why he should place the skinny lad as a murderer he could only explain as having a twisted imagination. All the same it was Rhys who held the knife. Or was it? Ilka's assumptions flickered into doubts as he inspected the magician more closely. Suddenly he realized,that his own hands felt a weapon's familiar touch. He was so used to holding them, to fighting that he hadn't noticed it before. But he felt compelled to look, and there in his own hands was the blood stained knife. As usual the exhiliration o fthe battle was upon him. But there was something else there too, a disgusting delight in the fact that he had wrongly taken a life. Never before had Ilka Tuon murdered anyone in cold blood. Before Ilka could do anything else more then realise this fact, however, the dream dissolved and switched on to something else. Something much more pleasant then his dream of the plow.

['ekekeu'poki]

Saryah and Kodéa rounded the corner, and then stopped short with a gasp. Whatever they had expected to see, this was not it.

A young woman sat, curled into a tight ball against the wall. She looked up at the two elves with frightened, golden eyes. Her entire body was covered in orange fur, which appeared soft to the touch. Her stomach lightened to white fur, while black colored her hands and feet. She had long dark red hair, which freely fell around her shapely form. Her face resembled that of a fox, with a short round muzzle, and long pointed ears. Perhaps the oddest feature was that of her tail...err, tails. In total, Saryah counted nine. They were of the same orange fur, with white at the tips. Full and bushy, they trembled along with the rest of her body, most likely due to the cold and the unexpected arrival of Saryah and Kodéa.

"Gods above!" Saryah exclaimed, her shocked brown eyes softening with sympathy at the young woman's fearful expression. "You must be freezing!" She crouched down, moving slowly so as not to create anymore unease for the strange woman. Kodéa had since run back to the horses, and now returned with a dark object. She handed it to Saryah, who swiftly unrolled it, revealing it to be a blanket. This came in good time, as it was at that moment that the dark sky released fluffy white drops.

"Friend, we intend you no harm," Kodéa said gently, crouching next to Saryah. She dragged the hood of her cloak up as protection against the heavy snowfall. She smiled brightly in an attempt to express her sincerity. "We are but simple travelers who seek a hot meal and warm bed."

"As a matter of fact, you should join us!" Saryah exclaimed. "I could not leave you to the unforgiving elements with a light heart. Should you need it, Kodéa and I will pay for a room, and a hot supper."

When the fox-woman made no reply, a thought hit Kodéa. "Is it your appearance that you worry about? Well, I might have an idea." She quickly shrugged off her robe, and offered it to the woman. "You see? Take my robe, it will hide you from curious eyes."

Saryah nodded in agreement, pleased with Kodéa's suggestion. "Yes, please accompany us to an inn. You might die if you stay out here unprotected. The weather is only going to worsen." She gestured at the thick snow rapidly covering the ground, acting as an icy blanket. "And perhaps," here her voice took on a hopefully tone. "Perhaps you wouldn't object to sharing with me your history?" Saryah, a self-proclaimed historian, was always on the lookout for an interesting story to add to her ever-growing collection.

Kodéa, shivering as she still had her cloak extended towards the woman, fervently hoped she agreed to leave with them. The half-elf knew she wouldn't be able to sleep for fear of the fox-maiden's life, should she decline their offer.

[Renna]

The princess sat bolt upright in bed.

Auriele was a dreamer already, a girl prone to wonderings and imaginings and sudden flights of fancy. She fell asleep already dreaming, so it was nothing strange for her to take strange journeys when night fell. Tonight was different. Never, not once in her life, had Ari been woken by a nightmare as vivid as the one that had visited her that night. She'd dreamt of monsters and cruel men and burning to death, but never had she been the predator. Auriele shuddered and brushed at her nightgown as if to rid herself of the clinging blackness, the evil she had been. A murderer, holding a bloody knife and rejoicing...a knife stained with royal blood. The girl whimpered. What if it was more than a dream, more than a prophecy, more than the truth? What if that blackness stayed in her heart and ate it and then moved in to take its place?

She hid her face in her hands and fought back tears, trying to make herself be calm. Forget the murder. What else had been in the dream?

A man with red hair, who'd changed. She remembered that, because she was looking for something and crying in vexation that it was lost, and he'd ghosted into the doorway to stop and look at her. It was different because he'd really Looked--she felt that he'd seen her. Then he was gone and she'd scrambled to her feet to follow and talked to him. 'Please sir, I'm lonely and you saw me. Please come talk to me', but the Black Thing was there, tearing around a corner and leaping up on the now-elderly man's shoulders as an unbelievable force pulled her in behind.

Then had come the knife and the blood and the guilt, and now she was sitting against the headboard, slicked in sweat, and trying not to cry. Ari shivered, then stiffened as a new thought entered her mind. The Red Man was in danger.

Her heart knew it, not any logic or common sense, and Ari knew it was stupid but she swung her legs out to touch bare feet to the floor. She was not in the least confident, not even as she opened up the door and padded out into the hallway. Ari, this is stupid. Even if he's still here tonight, you're just going to annoy him for waking him up at this time of night because you had a stupid nightmare. And that's IF you find his room on the first try, which you won't because you're stupid. They'll hate you, they'll hate you, they'll yell...

But the urgency of the dream was still there, and even though she knew that she was stupid Ari let herself wake up the cook, a lawyer, a lord, and a newly-wedded couple before waking the landlord on purpose and demanding to know where the man with the red hair was sleeping. From there she scurried away, moving as quickly as her tiny stride could take her to arrive tearstained, embarrassed, and panting at Red's door. Rather than knock and wake another sleeping innocent, the poor princess fitted the key in the lock and let herself in.

He was there, blood pouring from his nose, and Ari felt an impossible sense of relief. "Oh! I'm not stupid. And I'm not crazy." She sounded a little surprised, but shook her lovely head and crossed over to him. "And I didn't wake you up." The princess moved as if to tear off a bit of skirt for him, then changed her mind and shredded a sleeve instead. Her arm was white and very smooth. "The Black Thing...I thought he'd hurt you. I saw it, I did, and you'd looked at me so I was worried. Not many people look and actually see." Auriele held out her wadding to him, then looked shyly away. "My name is Auriele. And don't worry. I must see the king and his son tomorrow, only instead of offering myself as a bride it will be as a prisoner. I won't murder anyone." What he must think of her, to see her gloating and covered in blood! "Nor you, not if I can help it. But if you're afraid I won't blame you for binding me so I can't do anything. " She trembled. "I'm sorry!" It wasn't fair; not only was she frightened and unhappy now the gods were telling her she must be a murderess to boot.

[Angel of Chaos]

They were finally upon her. Cringing in fear, Sora could do nothing but look up at the two people who now stood above her. Both were clearly female. One was an elf, tall and slim with jet black hair and brown eyes that seemed to sparkle. The other was not fully elf, nor fully human, with a petite build, honey-brown hair and piercing blue eyes. At first, they gasped, perhaps in shock of what they saw, which only served to heighten Sora's fear. What were they going to do to her now that they discovered her?

The elf was first to act: "Gods above! You must be freezing!" That exclamation perplexed Sora. Did I hear that right?

Yes Sora, you heard it as well as I did.

Be quiet, Tokala.

The elf's companion handed her a large blanket, who then held it out to Sora. She hesitated, but was confused as to why she hesitated when warmth was within arm's reach.

Then, the half-elf said, "Friend, we intend you no harm." And then every other word that was spoken was muffled.

F...f...friend...?

Sora's golden eyes widened. That was the first time in a very long time that she had heard anyone else say that word...in her general direction, no less! Ever since the transformation, all of her old friends abandoned her. Now Tokala, the voice inside her head and the spirit sharing her body, was her only friend. Oh, how she longed for more friendship from people with whom she can see and speak to normally!

She...she c-called me...a friend...

Now you see it, Sora. Not all of the world is as cruel as you judge it to be. There are kind and benevolent souls out there waiting to be discovered.

Sound became perceptive again as she was offered a wool robe from the half-elf. "You see? Take my robe, it will hide you from curious eyes."

The elf added, "Yes, please accompany us to an inn. You might die if you stay out here unprotected. The weather is only going to worsen."

Sora was completely dumbstruck. These people...these complete strangers...were offering her shelter from the cold, and were not in the least frightened or disgusted by her appearance. Just who were these women? Why were they helping her? Why were they so concerned about her well-being?

I believe the best way to describe these women is to coin them as good samaritans, Sora. They are offering you sanctuary out of the goodness of their hearts. I can sense only good intentions about these women. Go ahead. Seek that warmth you've always wanted to experience.

Sora took the robe in her trembling hands as tears welled up in her eyes once again. She stood up on shaky legs, the bitter cold taxing her foxlike toes. She wrapped it around her form and looked up to both women with sorrowful, golden eyes. Gratefulness and sadness filled her voice at once as she said, "Th-thank you. P-please...t-take me with you. I...I d-don't want to be...alone...all alone..." She then couldn't bear the thought of it anymore. The last minute had already overwhelmed her greatly. She fell to her knees and wept, quietly, but with deep sobs nonetheless, as the skies continued to unleash their sorrows.

[Rièle]

The sound of a key in a lock trickled to his ears, and Rhys realized that his hearing and his thoughts were as fuzzy as his vision. Had someone heard him stumbling about his room? Or, worse, had the dreamer of the nightmare found him in the real world? But it was a woman's voice who greeted him, soft and unthreatening, and Rhys relaxed the moment he heard her speak. He could not see her, and his ears at first had some difficulty sorting out her words, but the stimulations of the real world seemed to be slowing sorting out his senses. The woman placed something soft against his nose, and Rhys tilted his head forward, allowing her to apply the needed pressure to stop his bleeding. She began to speak, her voice filled with fear and agitation.

"The Black Thing...I thought he'd hurt you. I saw it, I did, and you'd looked at me so I was worried. Not many people look and actually see."

Rhys opened his mouth to speak, but the lady continued her worried speech before he could begin. "My name is Auriele. And don't worry. I must see the king and his son tomorrow, only instead of offering myself as a bride it will be as a prisoner. I won't murder anyone."

Murder anyone? Why would she murder anyone? She was seeing the king? Rhys's head swam from the amount of information pouring in at once. But again, before he could ask, the lady continued speaking.

"Nor you, not if I can help it. But if you're afraid I won't blame you for binding me so I can't do anything. I'm sorry!"

Rhys shook his head. He felt his nose, and noted that the bleeding seemed to have stopped. Brushing his hair back from his eyes he sought the wash basin that lay nearby, and quickly splashed his face with water, removing the blood. He dried himself with a towel, and at last his vision began to clear and he looked upon the lady's face.

It was the lady from the dream! Rhys was beginning to understand, and slowly replayed her ramblings over inside his head. She had seen herself holding the knife in the nightmare, and now thought herself a murderer. Sighing with relief, for the explanation was as simple as that, he smiled warmly. "Thank you, my lady, for helping me," he began. "Please, I do not think you are a murderer, as you seem to fear. I am sorry, for I'm afraid it is my fault that you were drawn into that dream. If I may explain a little, I think I can assuage your fears?"

Rhys guided Auriele to a soft chair beside his bed, where he had to move a large stack of books aside so that she could sit. He sat down upon his mattress across from her, wishing there was a servant he could send for tea. But the two of them were truly alone, and so he had naught to offer her. Scratching his red hair he considered how best to explain what had happened so that she would understand. "The dream that you saw - the nightmare that I was drawn into, and you with me - wasn't yours," he began. "It is someone else's dream; a dream I saw three weeks ago, and knowing what it was came swiftly to Caelin Tal to warn the king of it. It represents a longing; a desire of the dreamer to murder of a member of the royal family. It is none of yours, rather, you were drawn in to it, and forced to view the dream from the perspective of the dreamer."

He paused for a moment. Would this lady accept such a simple explanation? His sense of honesty bade him reveal more, and yet he was concerned, for he did not believe it safe or just to involve an innocent woman in such a dangerous situation. "And I'm sorry, too, that the shadow frightened you," he continued. "For it was after me. But I was able to free you and the others from the dream before it descended. I pulled myself away as well, in time. You're right, I saw you in the dream, and I recognize you here. And it is my fault that you were placed in danger, for the nightmare and the shadow both haunt me, and should not be brought to endanger you as well. I promise you that I will refrain from placing others in danger again, and find another way to seek my answers."

Rhys's brow was dark, and troubled. For while he made his pledge to Auriele, he knew that no matter the danger to others he could not re-enter the realm of dreams unprepared, as he had tonight. Without a means of preventing himself from being drawn into that nightmare unwillingly, it would haunt his presence there until it consumed him... and, it seemed, those around him. And while he suspected many things about the shadow entity he knew nothing of its purpose, except that it had sought him out to destroy him. Had it followed him far enough to find his body in the waking world? Would it seek to kill him, to eliminate his knowledge of the murder that may happen? He didn't know.

[E'doa A'nii]

The Knight probably would not have woken up til morning had his warrior's sense not woken him at the sound of the commotion in the hall. Between the angry cook, the furious newly-wedded couple, and the heavy footsteps of the inn's overweight landlord-- not to mention all the commotion in the room next door that could be plainly heard through the thin wooden wall--there had been more then enough noise to convince Ilka's subconsience that something was amiss.

And so it was that Ilka rolled over in bed with an irritated snort. The nightmare of the murder hung in his subconscious like an evil phantom. Ikla dismissed it as the workings of an overactive mind as he got out of bed. Hastily he dressed and armed himself. As he did so he could hear the very axious mutterings of a female voice in the room next door. Fearing the very worst, Ilka lost not a second in rushing out and bursting Rhys' room door open. He looked a sight, sword in hand silouhetted against the torch light from the hall way.

It took a moment for the warrior to take in the scene before him. Realizing that the girl was not being raped, he sheathed his sword. Muttering his apologies, Ilka was about to exit when the girl's features hit him. That was the girl from his dream!

But why should he dream of a face he had never seen before? Fear hit Ilka like a sledge hammer. Instead of closing the door, he stood there staring like an idiot at Rhys and Auriele. His eyes flickering back and forth as he licked his lips. Was it a premonition? Had his days of knight hood and valor been too much for him? Was he going to go mad? Had his sword not been sheathed, he would have dropped it.

Suddenly, Ilka blinked, realizing his rudeness. Giving a sweeping bow, and muttering more apologies he left to go back to his room. Shaking, he poured himself a drink to steady his nerves as he sat back down on the bed. Great Scott! What an awful concept. The Son of Karduus had faced a lot in his days as a knight of the realm; never before had he faced the threat of his own madness. The thought of going mad was unfathomable.

He had known a madman once... Ilka took another sip of brandy and squashed the thought. He ran his hand through his hair for the hundredth time, not realizing his state of sweaty dishevledness. Jack rabbit mad! Ilka put his brandy down on the floor. He pulled his unevenly sized legs up under his chin and began to stroke his long beak-like nose....

There had to be an answer.