The Dreammaker [III]

[KidKrinkles 2044]

 

Spoiler

 

 

“What was he like? My father. I keep hearing that I’m so much like him, but I don’t know what that means. I don’t get it... People tell me you knew him well.”   “E’ was one of te’ best men I’d ever met. It was’a privilege to have been yer father’s Ser.”   -Agariel Elendil and Victor Rorin,  on Ser Kieran Callaghan

 

---

 

Hello, Victor! I’m not sure if you try to hide it on purpose. I’m lacking in some of my tarotmancy classes, you wouldn’t mind tutoring me for a bit, do you? I am in Ambedele, just outside of Cerulia.

 

No signature.

 

The armored figure held the letter before him as he wandered into the home. A quiet appreciation for the sodden homes of the halflings. The bowie, who often kept to the trees and woodlines, loved the closeness of the coastal getaway; the way life pressed inwards towards the cozy homes, rather than receded. He somewhat expected to be greeted, any moment, by some half-heighted jovial figure, with pastries, or sweets, or a feast in a cart or beer, to break the hum of dragonflies and chirp of cicadas.   Victor knew in his heart, though, that an unsigned letter like this was more likely to be a knife twisted in his gut.    His eye drifted across the hovels until, in time, he found the only other figure within them. Pale of complexion. A wizard’s hat far too large for their frame. They raised a hand in a small, coaxing wave. The bowie-knight marched over, heavy plate rattling, fly-plaid fluttering on a wayward breeze.     His grand-apprentice, it seemed: his apprentice’s apprentice.   Woefully, at least one of his students had decided to proliferate without their Patron’s backing; a practice Victor likened to knocking one’s own teeth out just to bare bloody gums at the world. A shite deal.   For a moment, he wondered if this student had been forced into Tarotmantics. The Stone Priests of Orsathiael once reaved slaves, brought treasures to Orsathiael’s pulpit in sacrifice, and pressed their power where pliable. He pushed the thought aside. Speculation served no one.   Toothless as he and this student was,  he did, coincidentally, need to enact this lesson and put it into practice already. There was no harm in obliging them a lesson.

 

-----{☼}-----

 

The Palmreader’s hand drifted down into his sporran, a long inhale as his cigarette receded. He took a long inhale; the cigarette dipped, its tip flaring briefly before settling back into a dull ember. 

 

“... based on ‘ow long ye’ve been’a Tarotmancer, a’ would’ve expected ye’ to have mastered it, by now. But ye’ are close.” A brief pause as the man pressed smoke through his nose, rolling outward.   “... since we can nae longer walk as spirits, t’at would leave out communion. T’ere is animation, te’ ability te’ grant markings, and tattoos. Then, dreamwalkin’ left for ye. Given’a already need te’ perform it, and it is te’ most practical, I will show you dreamwalkin’.”   The Palmreader sat within the hobbit hole, at a table with a room-temperature lemon bar upon it. It was pink, and warm, and cozy, and all things the master and apprentice simply were not.    The dour man clasped his hands together. The last time he had tried to cast his invocations, they had backfired, his mind wracked with pain and the distant mockery of a smoldering God. He supposed he’d find out if it would happen again: a fluke, or, true punishment.   “... T’ere is no process, explicitly.” He reached out and took the offered strands of hair, winding them tight around his fingers. Shadow slid across his skin like a drawn sheet, smoothing away worn flesh and creased cloth alike, until only the cold chain and the burning jade set within his once-empty eye remained.   Green flame crackled within. It crawled along the hair, writhing towards his grasp, and as they met, the copper strands dissolved into drifting motes.    The sensation lingered, surging up  and through the man’s arm to his chest. It settled just above his heart; the seat of his passion.

 

From there, it quietly crossed to his left-hand, drawing taut like a bow’s string, plucked between his blackened digits. A thin green tether drawing upon its target. Upon Agariel, far flung, and unseen.

 

His voice rattled like a taut chain, within his throat,

 

“But, you must then craft a dream.”

 

The bowie wondered what a dream could truly give; and what it might take.

 

---

 

[The following is only known to Agariel Elendil, a dream crafted for her. Additionally, those focusing upon the item, 'A Cool Rock...', may relive this portion of the post, as if they had too experienced the dream.]

 

A woman’s eyes began to flicker awake, the heat of a waning campfire against her face, the smell of smoke seeping through to her lungs. Pleasant, earthy, though the sting was more effective than any morning brew or poultice. It was strange… the scene. The bedroll, comforting, seemed familiar but she’d never seen it. Her hands,strong, broad, befitting a warrior’s, were thinner… less calloused… younger.   The embers between the stones were stirred by a long, darkened branch, the point drawing nonsensical shapes in the dirt, sediment kicked up to snuff out the dwindling flame. A man’s pale hand attached, freckles, and red hair spotting up the arm to a loose shirt and trousers. He wore his sword belt naturally, and the blade that adorned it wore the markings of a Numenedain Templar plain and proudly. The crouched man looked towards his daughter.   “Wake up sleepy head.” His hands pressed his legs and he rose to his feet, taking some steps quickly forward. The stick was raised and he quickly poked at the sleeping woman’s belly, and legs, laughing to himself like the moron he was. “Up, up, up.” He’d beckon. Agariel’s form groaned and went to tug at the blanket, to shield herself, but her father simply laughed, a hand snatched at the blanket and quickly tore it away. “Up! Up!”   Agariel’s hand would snap forward for the stick and tug it away from her father, grumpily, before tossing it aside. The man stood there, looking down at the slumbering Elendil, his arms crossing over his chest. “What’s the point of asking to adventure with me, if you won’t even follow?”    … perhaps that stirred something, in the slumbering lass… a reflection. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it?    To know her father.

 

-----{☽}-----

 

The pair walked along a game trail, through the familiar woods of the Aryn-en-Eryn. A morning mist drifted through branches and brambles, carrying an ever-light tinge of green over dew-dark leaves and wet blades of grass. A sparkle caught in her vision, perhaps from the piercing sun, as she followed in bootstep after her father. “It sucks to have to get up this early,” He’d offer, perhaps sympathetically. “... but, this is how you get the best game.” The man’s head turned over to spy the young lass. She moved strangely, forced into a younger body. It was like picking up an old skill; one would have to shake off the rust.   There was a crack, through the woods, nearby. The sharp snap of stiff wood under a cloven hoof. The man lifted his hand, quickly, “Hear that?”   Agariel slowed too late. Another step, and the silence broke. The stag burst through the tree with a flustered moo. A crown of thorns cut a path, plowing to clear its way. For a breathless moment it filled all of her vision, passing where she had been only a moment before. The world lurched.   “You alright?”    Her father was upon her, faster than thought, the force of his instinct carrying them aside.   Red ran down his exposed forearm: eyes moving to where it was, and where it had gone, before he’d press with a wince, and move to rise, and help up the woman. Only after did his hand move to the wound, gesturing for a bandage. But Agariel found she could not speak. She hadn’t spoken this entire time, but she could act.   Her hands went to the pack, and began to wrap his arm. He flexed his hand, after the cotton bound his flesh, and began to clot beneath, “At least it isn’t another concussion. I might forget math next time.” He idly jested, a wide grin coming to his face. “We’ll need to catch the bastard. Get our revenge, eh?” He’d press his left-hand into her shoulder, and the woman could not help but smile, too. A contagious smile, it seemed.

 

-----{☽}-----

 

It was a life lived.

She was allowed the sight and the stories of her father, Lord Kieran Callaghan. The halls of Caer Braenor became familiar to her, as did the presence of siblings she came to know more deeply than she ever had in her own waking life. She was seldom far from her father’s side, raised and readied beneath his watchful eye for knighthood and the trials that would come with it.

Quietly, she followed in the footsteps of the Templar as his red hair faded to white, as it did for all Adunians with time. Her blade joined his, and her Uncle Victor’s, in the depths of the Underdark and the siege upon Mori’s hold. She stood among those who broke the Mountain and its spectres, and later shared bread and drink in the taverns of distant halls with family and friends whose names became as natural as breath.

In time, she grew accustomed to his foolish jokes and foolhardy courage, and to the weight beneath them. She watched the slow accumulation of guilt and duty upon a man shaped by war, even as he never ceased trying to be her father…

 

---

 

… And then, the years fell away.

She found him as he had once been. Younger. Seated beneath a familiar tree, its roots breaking through the earth like old scars, its shade long and patient. His sword rested across his knees as he worked a cloth along the blade, slow and methodical, as though time itself had decided to wait.

He did not look up at first.

When he finally did, his expression softened with recognition he did not question. He did not speak. Could not. A cloth remained between his fingers, the blade half-polished, forgotten.

For the first time in the dream, Agariel found that her voice was her own, again.

He listened, without a word: a dutiful father, and an honorable man.

… and before he could respond...

She'd awaken.

 

[IrradiatedGoose 305]

Agariel's eyes opened lazily in the morning, just as those around the castle of Formindon began to ready themselves for their days. She slowly rose from the mattress, sitting up in her bed as she blinked, one eye first and then the next. Her hand came up to grasp her head and run through her auburn hair, marred with an ivory streak in the front. She'd blink over and over again as she tried to acclimate herself to the world of the conscious.

"Father?" Agariel called out, believing herself to still be within the dream.

But no voice came in reply, only the snoring of her husband nearby.

Agariel rose from her bed with much sluggishness, wrapping her weary self in a nearby blanket as she made her way near the fireplace in the room. She'd try to call out once again.

"Father?"

Nothing came.

Agariel sat down in front of the fireplace, leaning against the table as she looked to the flames. Her eyes became heavy, and a rose-tinted glassy sheen came over her eyes. She'd begin to cry, to weep, to sob, curling and burying herself away in her blanket. She'd remain there for several hours, ruby streaking down as she wept.

Oh, how jaded she had been. How alone.

She cried in her spot on the floor, not for her own hatred.

She cried not for her own hostile perceptions....

...But what could have been.

[Two2the 365]