[Event/Prophecy] [Dreamless] - The Lady's Court

[squakhawk 14038]

 

 

 

Your dreams stirred, your life and how your mind had made sense of it during your resting hours in its routine. You'd never truly thought much about it - merely a fact of life as much as birth and death, that when you slept you saw dreams.

 

But that seemed different as of late.

 

Your dreams, the fewer and fewer you had, seemed to veer and prey on your anxieties. Your deepest sorrows, memories, concerned - you never felt as rested as you were the prior days. Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, you felt only more drained with each passing night as your dreams exhausted you. It was with the lack of rest where the less favoured side of your personality began to stir. A short temper, indecision, woes of the mind, a drought of motivation. It would pass eventually.

 

Right?

 

 

 

The following is only available to those able to witness [Prophecy].

 

 

A dream came to you one unremarkable night, different from the rest. A spring evening where you loathed your coming rest, yet did you yearn for the same. When your body finally slowed and your furnace warmed, your eyes shut and you drifted into what you hope would just be another dreamless night. The last candlelight faded as moonlight glittered upon your skin.

 

You awoke again, as if you had merely had a blink of sleep. Rising from your resting place, you rubbed your eyes as you looked upward and your blurred vision became clear. You saw a fog - an endless expanse of mist where you could barely make out your arms before you. You heard a sound that was discordant and songlike, as if multiple songs were played over one another at different speeds, pitches, places in record. It was like it was trying to tell you something, but you couldn't begin to make sense of it. But it was speaking to you - even as distant as it was. This you knew. Why were you here?

 

You found yourself looking down again as the fog receded; withering into incense sticks which burnt nightqueen and filled the air with a scent unmistakeable. You were in a court of somekind, dark, broken and run down pews lined what had more resembled a church than a throneroom. Few shuffled in the court quietly, almost as if making sound were sin here - you murmured, your voice muffled as if you were underwater. Your head turned to gather further of your surroundings, feeling as if you were drowsy enough to see only in a blur of movement. Your eyes looked to make sense and description of your surroundings, yet, the more you focused the less sense things seemed to make. As you observed, detailed unraveled and things became less distinct than they had before, blobs of colour that reshaped into only what your mind believed to truly belong in that place. A banner turned to a robe, a robe to a silhouette of a magister, the magister to a red pot of marigolds.

 

Your eyes drew up toward the entrance of the chamber, a figure clad in white who's movements seemed graceful and soft. A gender touch, a moonlight washing over it's figure as if it were heavenly. It spoke to a woman, one you knew, who seemed veiled in blacks of grief. Your eyes cast then to the throne, anticipating a sitting lord where instead you gazed upon a lithe woman clad in violets. Her dark hair covered her face, her skin pale as the waif seemed almost motionless. She looked as if she'd been exsanguinated, and behaved similarly, her sparing movements small and exhaustive. She spoke no word, she made no grand move, as a figure hurried towards her. In the blur of the dimly lit court, you saw a shadowed figure - one seen in your dreams before, a figure that brought you only dread and despair. It paid no mind to you as it skittered across the room and offered a goblet up to the waif, who had barely wrapped bony fingers around the stem before the seeming-medicus raised the cup higher and higher. A streaming liquid of starlight rushed down the sides of her face, before the lady dropped it as the rest of it's celestial contents spilled across the featureless gray floor. The goblet struck the ground, yet there was no chime of metal, no clattering of the brass. It sounded more akin to a question, as if it begged of you an answer of somekind. It rolled down the steps, bouncing as each time it invoked your curiosity, an urge to answer something you had not even been asked. It slowed by your feet, seeming to stun your gaze for minutes.

 

Silence was all you knew of this court, yet it seemed deafening now. You felt as if a crowd of thousands looked upon you, and you foolishly cast your eyes upward. The medicus stood within inches of your face, staring unto you with eyes pale as the moon. It's face was cast of a midnight black, an evershifting smoke that resembled apparition more than it did man. It gripped your arm, an accusation which sent you reeling as you shot up within your bedchamber screaming.

 

Your breaths hurried as your heart shivered and fluttered, a cold washed over your body as if you'd been plunged into the icy waters of The Bitter Sea. Blood pumped in your ears as adrenaline coursed through your body, as you quickly looked to the appendage the medicus had taken. You saw a small burn in the shape of a claw, smoking still with a dusky mist. It began to fade as your skin flushed, your diaphoretic skin smelling of salt as sweat beaded down your body.

 

Your hands covered your face, terrified to close your eyes for even a moment. Black washed over them as you rubbed them, and still you were within your bed.

 

Likely you wouldn't like any more sleep tonight.

Time to make some coffee.

 

 

The following is only available to those with the [Palmreading] MA.

 

Chains rattled and stirred, with vigor as you heard the creaking of iron as metal was pulled taut. The groaning of strain placed upon it, the voice you once knew as withered and broken now with such strength and vitality. It spoke, cohesive, full, uninterrupted. The voice of what was once an older man felt young and invigorated, yet still sickly. It despaired against the sick.

 

"Our time together is nearly spent. Soon will my emissaries come to greet the masses and tell them of your heroism. Soon you will see me as I should be, and not what I am. Soon, I shall see you, not for what you will do, but for what you have done. Your dreams will still - this I know. We will work together one last time to make it so."  

 

 

 

. . . 

. . . 

 

Where..?

 

 

[Frisket 4538]

Ember Twist and turned in her bed, grasping as what she believed was her significant other but in reality it was merely pillows. Soon the halls across all of her home would hear a similar yelp of sorts. Those close to her quarters will hear her fearful scream. As she shot up from her bed, she looked around a dagger revealed within her hand, as it was raised in front of her she scanned her surroundings.

 

this was one of many nights shes’ awoke with a headache, she’s been anticipating caurost to send men with weapons to unfairly kill her and her people for the crimes against Celia’nor. Yet she was unable to dream peacefully, or let alone at all. 
 

Ember sighed “Alright” with simple words describing her complicated thoughts and feelings she arose. To make her self some black coffee (or tea for those Queensmen)

[Apotolofo 2204]

 

Hera opens her eyes, staring up into the night sky. Ashes smoldered within her campfire, as she dug her fingers into the grass and dirt beneath her. It was nights like these, she needed every assurance she was truly awake. 

[wolfdwg 2677]

Amidst the fresh snowfall that had layered the northern forests of Solgaard did a lone tent harbor a lone sleeping norn. With a violent shake did he awake, the vision and the prophetic voice still ringing in his head. His body shivered even more so as the dream had sapped the warmth from his bones. His gaze fell to the mark that tainted his pale skin, and it lingered there as it slowly faded beneath returning color. Something had shaken the norn deeply. Anticipation? Excitement? Worry?
 
The Norn would go to retrieve his arms and armaments, slowly fixing them into place as another restless night robbed him of peace. Before pulling his gloves over his hands, his gaze lingered again. The discoloration of his digits, black and frostbitten, drew his solid green irises void of their whites. A shaky exhale of grey mist escaped his cracked lips, before the Fateweaver spoke to himself,
"I'll see to these emissaries, dreamstalker."

Faenor af Isklandt, Fateweaver, would exit his tent to venture out into the fresh snow amidst a black starry night.

[Ardory 2978]

Spoiler

 

 

 

The Fisher awoke with his eyes darting open, his arms thrashing upwards. He takes deep breaths. His elderly bones creaked as he landed his feet onto the wooden floor of his abandoned hut upon the river. His eyes drift to the open window, the draft outside against his pale navy skin. It was still dark, and the sound of the nighttime endemic life chirping and buzzing. He takes his fishing rod cane, pushing himself upwards as he wobbles to the door, checking outside the hut. Yet no one was there.

 

"Haunted in this life, and cursed forever," the Fisher grumbles as he retreats into the darkness of the abode.