🌳 trahearne (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pactmarshal) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dreamcrystals2022-07-01 10:46 am
pactmarshal) wrote in dreamcrystals2022-07-01 10:46 am
Entry tags:
Open | Passive Dream
Sender: Trahearne (but it doesn't sound like him...?)
To: All
Subject: Midday Passive Dream Recording
Warnings: Slaughter, prejudice, zalgo text, Oriphi fucking dies, heart of thorns spoilers lmao
We are everywhere. We are the roots, the grass, the moss, the overgrown trees, the out-of-place and disfigured vines that hang in the air, that suffocate the wildlife, that grasp the crumbling airships.
So no matter where we are, you see. You see that your kin, your brothers and sisters, have been sequestered off and herded into their own little pen, separate from the rest of the troops in the Pact Encampent. They have been given their own targets for practice, their own bedrolls, their own rations. Perhaps it would be a nice situation to be in - to be among familiar faces, family - had the whole scene been ripped from the context in which it sat.
The sylvari are being quarantined. They can no longer be trusted. They are subjects of M̹͂ő̢̯͞rdř͉e̡̮͑͌m̜̮̗̽́͛ó̤̬̐t̮̅h̝̩̍̾. Though they claim they are trustworthy, that they still fight for the Pact's cause, is that still true? Can they distinguish their own thoughts from the d͍̠̐̀rà̫ğ͍͓̑ọ̜̈́̃n̯̂'s in their head?
They carry on as though everything is normal. Some train with the dummies, some sleep, some huddle in little groups as they partake in meals. A lot of them, if not all of them, look like your friends, dreamwalkers from Songerein. How interesting that you see them this way - as family. As your responsibility. It's too bad you doom them by doing so.
The herd of plant ghouls are watched over by norn - broad, 9-foot-tall humanoids - and charr - ferocious-looking felines with horns, tall if not taller than the norn. They wear Vigil uniforms. You know these officers. They are aggressive, merciless, Vigil for good reason. They are not suited for guard duty - in a sick, sinking feeling, you realize they have been ostensibly stationed to "keep watch." That is not their true job. They have been chosen for one specific reason.
There comes a scream from among the sylvari. This particular one - a petite sapling, her bark the gentle color of violets, offset in places by soft patches of pink lichen; her wide, curious eyes the color of midsummer sunflowers; yellow blossoms budding from the branches stemming from her head - has caved ̯̎ḁ̐nd͇͝ ̣͠ġ͟iven i̬͊n̞͐to̳͂ ̧̹͆̔tḩ̛e͇̕ ̛̼̂ͅd̻̲̉͘r̟͝ä̱̪͙́͛̄ġ̞̠͒̈ͅo̝̙̲͂̆̕n'̡̧̞͊̿̕s̡͍̦͂̄̎̉͜ ̡̻͍̜̀̓̈̕v̤̼̪͕̋̽̾͘ơ̫̱͍̜͊̒͠ì̢̲̃́͜͝ͅc̦̰̞̞̏̔̀͠è͙̠͙̬̅̔̕. The dragon's thoughts are her own now. She whirls around to the exit of the pen, eyes wide in madness, and draws her staff. It's only two steps into her charge that one of the norn standing watch cocks her rifle and sends flying a bullet that soars straight through the sylvari's head. With an unceremonious thud, the sylvari falls to the ground. She will move no more.
A hush falls over the pen. The norn reloads her rifle. "Remember," her deep, booming voice resonates over the dragon's for a brief second. "Any funny business, and you'll end up like her."
It is then that a group of other Pact soldiers on patrol pass by the pen, trying their best not to gawk at the spectacle. They whisper amongst themselves, trying not to be heard, but you can hear. You are e͔͡v̘̙͇͙̱̹͂̎̈́̓͛̚͜͞e̟̝̬͉͚̹͆̅͂̾̀̕r̨̫͋̂́ͅy̢͒w͢͝ḣ̪̜̞̝̟̊̎͛͒̑͜ë͙̥̞̙́̔̑̓ŗ̱̩͌̌̽̿͢ę͓̳̖̘̾̒̒̋͞͠ͅ, after all.
"How horrible..."
"Should have put all of them down..."
"...Commander told us to give them the benefit of the doubt..."
"...don't know how I'll trust a sylvari after this..."
"Isn't our marshal a sylvari...?"
"That's terrifying, what will happen to us...?"
They mention you, but you're at my mercy. We see everything, but you cannot respond.
They do not trust you. T͖̪͉̯͂̑͌͠h̯̠̩́͂͘ḙ̛̪̞͉̋̍͝y͍̌ ̡̬̗̣͓̑͂̿̚͡w̡̯̲̣͇̄́͋͐͠ị̎l͇͔̮͚͚̠̊̓̄͐̽̔͢͞ļ̛̬̑͢͞ ̨̃ne̺͖͉̹̺̓͋͛̽̒v̳͗ĕ̘̱͚̓͞r ̰͛ţ͎̙̲̙̫̆̍͛͊̋͟͞͡r̰̪͔̍̓͘ȗ̧͚̝͗̆ş͕͙͍̋̽̕͘͟͝t̢̩͉̜͕͈̑̿̽̑͞͡ ͍̽yọ̥̮̹͐́͂̈ù̟̺͉̖̈́̀͝.
They do not trust your family. T̢͇̘̠̘̞̐̑̅̔͗̊ḥ͙̭̲̎̊̊́̆̚ͅͅé̡͔̮̑̅ȳ̡͍͙͕̹̩̑̈̇̀͛͑ͅ ̡̲̤̬͗͐̅̐w͕̝̘͚͈̰̪̒̊̾̽̈́̀̅í͙͚̱̭̔͐̃́͢͢͝l͚̦͈͉͆̅̇͌͜͞l͉̠̯̠̯̠̑̑͂͑̆̀̚͜ ͉̦̦̻̹͐̈́̉̂͐͜͡ǹ̡̛͚̝͖̮̺͔́̈̾́̐ǒ̗ ̯̟͓̖̙̀̊̽̓̅͢͝ḽ̢̥̘̖̜͊͐̍̈͊͐̂̕͜͜o̭͌̈́͢ñ͉̭̺͆͑ǧ̫ě͙̫͉̠̜͓̩́͌̄̿̕͞r̭͎̱̦͌͗̿͡ ̧̧̺̈̋̄̽͢t̰͇̟̫̠͖̤̩̎̄̽̑̌̎̽͞ṙ̡̢̹̥̍̌͒us̭͎̱̘͑̇͘̚t̩̱͆͝ ̤͔̯̱̖̗̩̃̈́̆̋̈̕͞y͍̅o̝̜̹͕̒̌̃͘u̜̳̦̽͂̈r̰͛ ̯̂̍͟f̛̤̦͓̯͇͂̎́͐a̬̓ḿ̧̢̰̠̗͈̤̌͊̈́́͘͞i̢̩̲̯͑́̒̚l͙̝̦͆͂͑́̏͟͢y.
Your mistake will be a scar on Tyria, on the history of your people. Y͕̎o̤͒̅ͅu ̨̖́̕w̮̾i̢̤͋̿ll͍̭̒͠ ̪̙̹͐͊̃̊͢b̰̪̎̿e̥̱̍̀ ̨͇͕͖͌̀̋̉r̟̯̜̪̾̎̄̆͘͢e͈̾m͍̔e̢̩̳̋̈̀m͇̻̱̳̬̑̄̐͘͞b̭̫͓͙͂͋̀̕ḗ̘̖̺͈̻̻͌̅̈́̅r̠̃̀͢e͎̯͙͍̎̉̊͝d̡̨̹̪̮̄̊̔͑̌͘ͅ ͙͖̠̀̿͞f̭̌ö̢̮̟͉͔̥̗̳͆̽͗̀͒͘͞ȓ̻̘͙̟͇̗̖̜͑̒̐́͛̀̄ ̡̳̩̞͉̗̬͂͌̈͗́̉͘͟͡y̛̫̪̻̠̰͎̲̓͌͋̅̀́̚͜ỡ̢̡̨̭̞̤͕̎̒͛̄͜͠͝u͖͍͙͉͍̜͚͙̿̇̍͛̐̒͗̚r̼̖̤̻̩͓̟̄̽͂̂̐̒̍̒͜ ̙̰͎͔̣̠̈̓͋̃͛̿́͊͜ͅf͓̮͚͖͙͕̰̊̉͂͆͐͊̉͊͜a̙͚͔͙̞̳̖͇̓̿͒̄̌̅̾͝ì̡̠͓͓͚͚͇̖̐̋́̇͋͆͞ļ̰̖͔̦͙͕̣́̒̈̋̇̒́͝ů͔̲̰̳̭̙̟̰̃͐͂̔͒̀̐r̛̪̦̬̺͈͎͎̩̒̆͌̾̉͒̓e̡͖͎̩͉͕̺̯͗͛̔̉͘͘͞͞s̨̧̻̲̹͓̭̲̎̓̑̃̑̈́͞͠.̶͕̼̻̱̤̟̯̺̘̘͆͘
You resist. You refuse my help. From the h͖̒ę͚̼͍̪̤̂͆͆͐̀̿̈́̕͟͟͡ͅa̛̜̼̹̤͇͐̍́̐r̢̬͇͙̗̖̲̪̄͑̅̋͆̀̔͠t͔̳͛͐͢͝ ̧̠͔͇͈̯̬͎́̃̋͗̎̿̚͝ȍ̠f͈͚̬̿͘͘ ̝̣̫͍̭͗̀̋̅̀͗͟t̡̆h̡̜̦̼͖̳̭̀̂́̚͡͠͡ö̢̩̝̜̞́̎̐̾͡r͚͍͙͈͎͌̈́͛̑͡n̳͖̝̘͕̺͈͛̀͐̾̏̽͒̕͜͟͠s̢̝͓͍̱̹̜̐̎̐̊͌͒̅͆͜ you see all that I see, you hear all that I hear, you are everywhere as I am. You see how your people - our people - suffer, yet you choose to do ņ̖͚̦̮̗̱͇̗̘̙͚̣̹̆̒̓̌̃̋̆̂̄̀͑̎͐͟͝͠ǫ̔t̺́h̨̯͖̲̞̝̪̗̪̫̮̜͈̖̙̳̼̓͗͑̍̽͂̈̐̐̅̍̇̎̈́̈̓̅í̳̬͎͚̘̗͓̻̯͚̖̀̈́̒̇̉͊̉̃͑̔͢͠n͈͕̲͔̝̣̟̟̮͂̽̿͗̉̄̈̍̆̃͢͢͝ĝ̯̺͎̖̤̜̯͙̭̯̓̊̋̈́̀͐̀́̒͘͟͟͝.
You are path͇͊et͚͋i͕̾c̨̊.͔̔ ͕̻̀͡Y̘͛͜͝ou̞̯͐͡ ̙̟̟͑͋̾a̦̼̽͐̀͜rė͓̩̦́͊ ͍͙͒̔w̪͈̳͙͆͒̃̊è̱a͓̽̆͢k̢̢̭͖̝̎̽̂͌͒.̙͌ ̻͉͇̓̏̑Y̨̡̋̽ō͚̪͙̑̊u̠͇͇͖̣̓͑́̑͝ ͉̝̫̅̆̎ç͎̮̏̊̍à̢͉̺̗̾̓̋̚͟n̢̧͙̟̫̺̓̐̃͊̅̂ņ̢̡̖̯̀̄̀̅̒̓͜ơ͈̬͙̗͚̮̍͛́́̐t̝͚̩̬̹͒̿̍̕͝ ̱̩͠͡e̱͓̩̖̗̺̩͗̑̂͊̎̎̃v̡̝̪̝̥̙̮̝̋̓͑̈̏̃͒͠ę̣̯̭̘̺̏̐̀̈̾̚n̛͖̱̩̘̘̥̠̜̋̃́́̔̉͗͘͢ ̧̝̫̌̑̅s̝͇̮̻̜̦͋͛̐̄̇͗͒͢a͙͙͎̮̘͎͍̪͛̐͗̆͌́̂͛͐̅͢͢v̹̺͍̇͐͞e͚̟̓̀ ͍̭͇̳̖͊͂̄͂̋͝ͅy͖̞̺̆̔̓o̘͚̪͗̉͞ù̺̠͕̤͍͇̲̟̻̠̑̒̊̈͌̂̔͊̚r̳̼͇̒̀̏ ̡͈̖̮͋̍́̽̚͢ḱ̡̻̥̤̙̰̐̎̕̕͞i̘͊ṋ͔̹͈͉͔͔̙̣̾̂̄̀̏̌̒̆͘̚ͅ.̡̉ ͔͎͙̼̯̼̩̗̳̯̭͒̏́̓́̆̒̅̽̌͢͠͞N̎ͅo̙͎̞̯̓̂̌͝t̬͚͗̕ ̢̧̻̩̞̬̬̭͉̤̞̭̂̎̒͆̄͐͊͛̔̕̚͟͠͞w̡̯̭̮͔̩̠̻̙̦͎̤̝͌̂͑͐̓̀͂͌̽̊͌͑͛̔͜͠ͅį̧̥̤̹̪͓̞̫͇̬̻̏͛̈́͊͑̿̓́͑̏͛͑̿̚͜͟͠ͅt̡̡͓̠͖͙͍̗̬͖͖͔̙̺͕̀̊͂͛͆͗̐̋̎̅̈́̚͘͞͠h̡̧̟̻̣̩̺͖͙̩̠̗͍̋̈́̽̒̈́̋̌̂̋́̎͒͂́̈́͢ͅǫ̖̭̥͚͍͎͓̗͇͓̯̖̩̞̔͆͌́̊͗͒̀̓̋͘̚͞͡͞ų̠̘͙̘̙̪̫͕̱̗̘͎̫͎̄̔̃͐̔͐̈̽̽̾̒̃͘̕͝t̢̨̨͚͔͈͇̘͖̯̩̠̬̠͒͒̿̒̓̅͆͗͐̔̈͗̃̕͘ͅ ̧̙͇̟̟͇̟̤̫͇͖̪̝̮̬̂̈͗̄̆́̋͒͌̀͑͗̚͠͞M̢̨̦̲̟̹̖̠͓̬͉͚̺̺̍̐̄̌͑̾͊̓̐͛̚͟͞͝͡͡Ḛ̢̨̖̜̼̟̟̜͔̫̽̎̌͋͋̎̉̊̾͗̀͊̆̏͢͢͜͟͠.
To: All
Subject: Midday Passive Dream Recording
Warnings: Slaughter, prejudice, zalgo text, Oriphi fucking dies, heart of thorns spoilers lmao
We are everywhere. We are the roots, the grass, the moss, the overgrown trees, the out-of-place and disfigured vines that hang in the air, that suffocate the wildlife, that grasp the crumbling airships.
So no matter where we are, you see. You see that your kin, your brothers and sisters, have been sequestered off and herded into their own little pen, separate from the rest of the troops in the Pact Encampent. They have been given their own targets for practice, their own bedrolls, their own rations. Perhaps it would be a nice situation to be in - to be among familiar faces, family - had the whole scene been ripped from the context in which it sat.
The sylvari are being quarantined. They can no longer be trusted. They are subjects of M̹͂ő̢̯͞rdř͉e̡̮͑͌m̜̮̗̽́͛ó̤̬̐t̮̅h̝̩̍̾. Though they claim they are trustworthy, that they still fight for the Pact's cause, is that still true? Can they distinguish their own thoughts from the d͍̠̐̀rà̫ğ͍͓̑ọ̜̈́̃n̯̂'s in their head?
They carry on as though everything is normal. Some train with the dummies, some sleep, some huddle in little groups as they partake in meals. A lot of them, if not all of them, look like your friends, dreamwalkers from Songerein. How interesting that you see them this way - as family. As your responsibility. It's too bad you doom them by doing so.
The herd of plant ghouls are watched over by norn - broad, 9-foot-tall humanoids - and charr - ferocious-looking felines with horns, tall if not taller than the norn. They wear Vigil uniforms. You know these officers. They are aggressive, merciless, Vigil for good reason. They are not suited for guard duty - in a sick, sinking feeling, you realize they have been ostensibly stationed to "keep watch." That is not their true job. They have been chosen for one specific reason.
There comes a scream from among the sylvari. This particular one - a petite sapling, her bark the gentle color of violets, offset in places by soft patches of pink lichen; her wide, curious eyes the color of midsummer sunflowers; yellow blossoms budding from the branches stemming from her head - has caved ̯̎ḁ̐nd͇͝ ̣͠ġ͟iven i̬͊n̞͐to̳͂ ̧̹͆̔tḩ̛e͇̕ ̛̼̂ͅd̻̲̉͘r̟͝ä̱̪͙́͛̄ġ̞̠͒̈ͅo̝̙̲͂̆̕n'̡̧̞͊̿̕s̡͍̦͂̄̎̉͜ ̡̻͍̜̀̓̈̕v̤̼̪͕̋̽̾͘ơ̫̱͍̜͊̒͠ì̢̲̃́͜͝ͅc̦̰̞̞̏̔̀͠è͙̠͙̬̅̔̕. The dragon's thoughts are her own now. She whirls around to the exit of the pen, eyes wide in madness, and draws her staff. It's only two steps into her charge that one of the norn standing watch cocks her rifle and sends flying a bullet that soars straight through the sylvari's head. With an unceremonious thud, the sylvari falls to the ground. She will move no more.
A hush falls over the pen. The norn reloads her rifle. "Remember," her deep, booming voice resonates over the dragon's for a brief second. "Any funny business, and you'll end up like her."
It is then that a group of other Pact soldiers on patrol pass by the pen, trying their best not to gawk at the spectacle. They whisper amongst themselves, trying not to be heard, but you can hear. You are e͔͡v̘̙͇͙̱̹͂̎̈́̓͛̚͜͞e̟̝̬͉͚̹͆̅͂̾̀̕r̨̫͋̂́ͅy̢͒w͢͝ḣ̪̜̞̝̟̊̎͛͒̑͜ë͙̥̞̙́̔̑̓ŗ̱̩͌̌̽̿͢ę͓̳̖̘̾̒̒̋͞͠ͅ, after all.
"How horrible..."
"Should have put all of them down..."
"...Commander told us to give them the benefit of the doubt..."
"...don't know how I'll trust a sylvari after this..."
"Isn't our marshal a sylvari...?"
"That's terrifying, what will happen to us...?"
They mention you, but you're at my mercy. We see everything, but you cannot respond.
They do not trust you. T͖̪͉̯͂̑͌͠h̯̠̩́͂͘ḙ̛̪̞͉̋̍͝y͍̌ ̡̬̗̣͓̑͂̿̚͡w̡̯̲̣͇̄́͋͐͠ị̎l͇͔̮͚͚̠̊̓̄͐̽̔͢͞ļ̛̬̑͢͞ ̨̃ne̺͖͉̹̺̓͋͛̽̒v̳͗ĕ̘̱͚̓͞r ̰͛ţ͎̙̲̙̫̆̍͛͊̋͟͞͡r̰̪͔̍̓͘ȗ̧͚̝͗̆ş͕͙͍̋̽̕͘͟͝t̢̩͉̜͕͈̑̿̽̑͞͡ ͍̽yọ̥̮̹͐́͂̈ù̟̺͉̖̈́̀͝.
They do not trust your family. T̢͇̘̠̘̞̐̑̅̔͗̊ḥ͙̭̲̎̊̊́̆̚ͅͅé̡͔̮̑̅ȳ̡͍͙͕̹̩̑̈̇̀͛͑ͅ ̡̲̤̬͗͐̅̐w͕̝̘͚͈̰̪̒̊̾̽̈́̀̅í͙͚̱̭̔͐̃́͢͢͝l͚̦͈͉͆̅̇͌͜͞l͉̠̯̠̯̠̑̑͂͑̆̀̚͜ ͉̦̦̻̹͐̈́̉̂͐͜͡ǹ̡̛͚̝͖̮̺͔́̈̾́̐ǒ̗ ̯̟͓̖̙̀̊̽̓̅͢͝ḽ̢̥̘̖̜͊͐̍̈͊͐̂̕͜͜o̭͌̈́͢ñ͉̭̺͆͑ǧ̫ě͙̫͉̠̜͓̩́͌̄̿̕͞r̭͎̱̦͌͗̿͡ ̧̧̺̈̋̄̽͢t̰͇̟̫̠͖̤̩̎̄̽̑̌̎̽͞ṙ̡̢̹̥̍̌͒us̭͎̱̘͑̇͘̚t̩̱͆͝ ̤͔̯̱̖̗̩̃̈́̆̋̈̕͞y͍̅o̝̜̹͕̒̌̃͘u̜̳̦̽͂̈r̰͛ ̯̂̍͟f̛̤̦͓̯͇͂̎́͐a̬̓ḿ̧̢̰̠̗͈̤̌͊̈́́͘͞i̢̩̲̯͑́̒̚l͙̝̦͆͂͑́̏͟͢y.
Your mistake will be a scar on Tyria, on the history of your people. Y͕̎o̤͒̅ͅu ̨̖́̕w̮̾i̢̤͋̿ll͍̭̒͠ ̪̙̹͐͊̃̊͢b̰̪̎̿e̥̱̍̀ ̨͇͕͖͌̀̋̉r̟̯̜̪̾̎̄̆͘͢e͈̾m͍̔e̢̩̳̋̈̀m͇̻̱̳̬̑̄̐͘͞b̭̫͓͙͂͋̀̕ḗ̘̖̺͈̻̻͌̅̈́̅r̠̃̀͢e͎̯͙͍̎̉̊͝d̡̨̹̪̮̄̊̔͑̌͘ͅ ͙͖̠̀̿͞f̭̌ö̢̮̟͉͔̥̗̳͆̽͗̀͒͘͞ȓ̻̘͙̟͇̗̖̜͑̒̐́͛̀̄ ̡̳̩̞͉̗̬͂͌̈͗́̉͘͟͡y̛̫̪̻̠̰͎̲̓͌͋̅̀́̚͜ỡ̢̡̨̭̞̤͕̎̒͛̄͜͠͝u͖͍͙͉͍̜͚͙̿̇̍͛̐̒͗̚r̼̖̤̻̩͓̟̄̽͂̂̐̒̍̒͜ ̙̰͎͔̣̠̈̓͋̃͛̿́͊͜ͅf͓̮͚͖͙͕̰̊̉͂͆͐͊̉͊͜a̙͚͔͙̞̳̖͇̓̿͒̄̌̅̾͝ì̡̠͓͓͚͚͇̖̐̋́̇͋͆͞ļ̰̖͔̦͙͕̣́̒̈̋̇̒́͝ů͔̲̰̳̭̙̟̰̃͐͂̔͒̀̐r̛̪̦̬̺͈͎͎̩̒̆͌̾̉͒̓e̡͖͎̩͉͕̺̯͗͛̔̉͘͘͞͞s̨̧̻̲̹͓̭̲̎̓̑̃̑̈́͞͠.̶͕̼̻̱̤̟̯̺̘̘͆͘
You resist. You refuse my help. From the h͖̒ę͚̼͍̪̤̂͆͆͐̀̿̈́̕͟͟͡ͅa̛̜̼̹̤͇͐̍́̐r̢̬͇͙̗̖̲̪̄͑̅̋͆̀̔͠t͔̳͛͐͢͝ ̧̠͔͇͈̯̬͎́̃̋͗̎̿̚͝ȍ̠f͈͚̬̿͘͘ ̝̣̫͍̭͗̀̋̅̀͗͟t̡̆h̡̜̦̼͖̳̭̀̂́̚͡͠͡ö̢̩̝̜̞́̎̐̾͡r͚͍͙͈͎͌̈́͛̑͡n̳͖̝̘͕̺͈͛̀͐̾̏̽͒̕͜͟͠s̢̝͓͍̱̹̜̐̎̐̊͌͒̅͆͜ you see all that I see, you hear all that I hear, you are everywhere as I am. You see how your people - our people - suffer, yet you choose to do ņ̖͚̦̮̗̱͇̗̘̙͚̣̹̆̒̓̌̃̋̆̂̄̀͑̎͐͟͝͠ǫ̔t̺́h̨̯͖̲̞̝̪̗̪̫̮̜͈̖̙̳̼̓͗͑̍̽͂̈̐̐̅̍̇̎̈́̈̓̅í̳̬͎͚̘̗͓̻̯͚̖̀̈́̒̇̉͊̉̃͑̔͢͠n͈͕̲͔̝̣̟̟̮͂̽̿͗̉̄̈̍̆̃͢͢͝ĝ̯̺͎̖̤̜̯͙̭̯̓̊̋̈́̀͐̀́̒͘͟͟͝.
You are path͇͊et͚͋i͕̾c̨̊.͔̔ ͕̻̀͡Y̘͛͜͝ou̞̯͐͡ ̙̟̟͑͋̾a̦̼̽͐̀͜rė͓̩̦́͊ ͍͙͒̔w̪͈̳͙͆͒̃̊è̱a͓̽̆͢k̢̢̭͖̝̎̽̂͌͒.̙͌ ̻͉͇̓̏̑Y̨̡̋̽ō͚̪͙̑̊u̠͇͇͖̣̓͑́̑͝ ͉̝̫̅̆̎ç͎̮̏̊̍à̢͉̺̗̾̓̋̚͟n̢̧͙̟̫̺̓̐̃͊̅̂ņ̢̡̖̯̀̄̀̅̒̓͜ơ͈̬͙̗͚̮̍͛́́̐t̝͚̩̬̹͒̿̍̕͝ ̱̩͠͡e̱͓̩̖̗̺̩͗̑̂͊̎̎̃v̡̝̪̝̥̙̮̝̋̓͑̈̏̃͒͠ę̣̯̭̘̺̏̐̀̈̾̚n̛͖̱̩̘̘̥̠̜̋̃́́̔̉͗͘͢ ̧̝̫̌̑̅s̝͇̮̻̜̦͋͛̐̄̇͗͒͢a͙͙͎̮̘͎͍̪͛̐͗̆͌́̂͛͐̅͢͢v̹̺͍̇͐͞e͚̟̓̀ ͍̭͇̳̖͊͂̄͂̋͝ͅy͖̞̺̆̔̓o̘͚̪͗̉͞ù̺̠͕̤͍͇̲̟̻̠̑̒̊̈͌̂̔͊̚r̳̼͇̒̀̏ ̡͈̖̮͋̍́̽̚͢ḱ̡̻̥̤̙̰̐̎̕̕͞i̘͊ṋ͔̹͈͉͔͔̙̣̾̂̄̀̏̌̒̆͘̚ͅ.̡̉ ͔͎͙̼̯̼̩̗̳̯̭͒̏́̓́̆̒̅̽̌͢͠͞N̎ͅo̙͎̞̯̓̂̌͝t̬͚͗̕ ̢̧̻̩̞̬̬̭͉̤̞̭̂̎̒͆̄͐͊͛̔̕̚͟͠͞w̡̯̭̮͔̩̠̻̙̦͎̤̝͌̂͑͐̓̀͂͌̽̊͌͑͛̔͜͠ͅį̧̥̤̹̪͓̞̫͇̬̻̏͛̈́͊͑̿̓́͑̏͛͑̿̚͜͟͠ͅt̡̡͓̠͖͙͍̗̬͖͖͔̙̺͕̀̊͂͛͆͗̐̋̎̅̈́̚͘͞͠h̡̧̟̻̣̩̺͖͙̩̠̗͍̋̈́̽̒̈́̋̌̂̋́̎͒͂́̈́͢ͅǫ̖̭̥͚͍͎͓̗͇͓̯̖̩̞̔͆͌́̊͗͒̀̓̋͘̚͞͡͞ų̠̘͙̘̙̪̫͕̱̗̘͎̫͎̄̔̃͐̔͐̈̽̽̾̒̃͘̕͝t̢̨̨͚͔͈͇̘͖̯̩̠̬̠͒͒̿̒̓̅͆͗͐̔̈͗̃̕͘ͅ ̧̙͇̟̟͇̟̤̫͇͖̪̝̮̬̂̈͗̄̆́̋͒͌̀͑͗̚͠͞M̢̨̦̲̟̹̖̠͓̬͉͚̺̺̍̐̄̌͑̾͊̓̐͛̚͟͞͝͡͡Ḛ̢̨̖̜̼̟̟̜͔̫̽̎̌͋͋̎̉̊̾͗̀͊̆̏͢͢͜͟͠.
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She can't help but fret over what hear sylvari friend might be dreaming of. Especially when she knows of the sort of fate ultimately awaited him.
Most mornings are uneventful. She stops in, sees that he remains in the same condition, opens the curtains on the windows to let some sunlight in, and spends some time tidying up his books or maybe picking one up to read for a bit before she heads back out. One morning, however, she deigns to dreamwalk, that worry over what he's seeing spurring her into action. When all she sees is an engulfing darkness and an oppressive, omnipresent voice saying, "Become one with me and the world will be ours," she realizes what he faces even in his slumber.
She doesn't try to go into his dreams again, after that.
But it's another such morning when she notices her dream lantern begin to glow - a sure sign that a passive dream is about to make its way into dreamwalkers' minds - and she feels the presence of that very same voice, feels that same oppressive air, sees the sylvari and the likenesses of some of her friends on forms that look much like Trahearne's, and then...
Is that...
The scream, and the ensuing violence startle her. Were this a dreamscape, she surely would have done everything in her power to protect the sylvari in the madness that unfolds - but this is not, and she can only look on and then listen as that voice seemingly engulfs the dream.
And when Trahearne finally wakes up, Ori is right there, her lantern still aglow and casting soft light on her tear-streaked face. ]
Trahearne...?
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For a moment, he isn't sure what's happening. His hand cautiously drifts up to touch his face. His skin is smooth, as he remembers it--not rotted and blighted. The comforting hues of wood and floral decorations that sit in front of him are not of the jungle--he has not been taken captive. Slowly but surely, he begins to recognize the patterns in the bark as his home, the flowers given to him by a friend...a friend not from Tyria. This is Songerein, he realizes at last. His afterlife. His fight ended many moons ago. That was just a dream, a memory.
He's only aware of Ori's presence when she says his name. His head snaps towards her, and it's only after a moment that he registers what he's seeing--Ori is here, in his house, and the fading light from the lantern means she has just witnessed an atrocity he wished would never reach the good people of Songerein.
But at the same time, seeing her here, alive, as a tiefling, brings Trahearne such overwhelming relief that he can't help the tears that pool at the corner of his eyes. The tension in his shoulders visibly drops as reality comes back to him. His time in Tyria is over, for better or for worse--Songerein is his home now. Though none of his brothers and sisters are here, he has friends here who care about him, regardless of his status or pedigree. Mordremoth is not here. He is safe. ]
Ori--
[ Trahearne stumbles out of his hammock, steps unsteady as he rushes across the room towards her. As he nears, he throws his arms around her in a hug. This is unusual for him, yes--rarely is he physical with anyone, but he feels like he needs to make sure that this isn't another vision shown to him by the dragon. And to show her that what she saw in the crystal has no actual bearing on how he thinks of her in reality, so to speak. He feels terrible. ]
I'm so sorry.
[ For many reasons. ]
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His embrace startles her back into the moment, and she wraps her arms around him in turn. Of course she does, it’s just who she is. If a hug is what he needs to ground himself back into the present - and he must really need one if he’s the one initiating rather than the other way around - then she’ll gladly hug him back. It’s as much for her as for him, anyhow. ]
What are you saying? You have nothing to apologize for… I’m sorry, that you’ve been dreaming of such horrible things. But you’re awake now… So, welcome back, Trahearne.
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The hand on his face drops to his lap to join the other one. He stares at them. It's still slightly surreal to see them as they are meant to be, what with the lingering migraine in the back of his head. ]
I am back. [ Said in affirmation, but tired. Almost in defeat. There's a nagging in the back of his mind, not dissimilar to the one he felt when he first arrived. He glances up at Ori, relief coming back to him at once when he looks at her. ] How long was I asleep? I am...exhausted. It felt like I was reliving my last few weeks of life all over again.
[ His last few weeks alive were tortuous, agonizing. But this time, he had no one to relieve him from his suffering. ]
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You were asleep for a month. Our fellow dreamwalkers have taken to calling it a “sleep coma.”
[ Some people wake up from theirs with new memories, almost as though they were in their waking world for a time, but she knows that couldn’t be the case for Trahearne for obvious reasons. So she keeps that bit to herself, for now… ]
I’m sorry that it wasn’t really a restful sleep for you. Do you… Do you want to talk about it?
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But it passes quickly as Ori poses her question, giving his swirl of self-negativity no time to set in. That's probably for the best. Trahearne directs his gaze back up at her, and hesitates. He wants to say no, as always, because he cannot bear the thought of burdening her with yet again another terrible truth, and he has yet to repay her in a significant manner, but...would he not end up like Phantom if he keeps this to himself?
At last, he speaks up. ]
...I suppose it's for all our sakes if I do, isn't it? [ He drops his gaze down to his fingers, fiddling with them for a moment. ]
That voice you heard belonged to Mordremoth, the jungle dragon. I was supposed to lead us to victory against it, as I'd done before, but...one crucial piece of information escaped us. [ This still scares him. His brows lift in worry--he knows there are no other sylvari here, but he still worries about how his people are treated, how he would be treated if the truth got out. ] We sylvari were created by the dragon, and we are meant to serve it. [ A sharp pain shoots through his head, and he winces. Mordremoth is not here, but it still feels like it is. ] Once it decided to take charge...I lost so many of my brothers and sisters that day.
[ He puts a hand to his mouth, trying to keep himself from crying again. It's not his fault, no. But he certainly blames himself for it. ]
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She knows that this kind of conversation is painful, and ugly, but it’s necessary.
The look that she levels at him when he acquiesces and decides to tell her is grateful, though it’s soon replaced with a more serious expression as she listens to him dutifully, to try to understand everything she saw in the dream to the best of her ability.
Her grip on his shoulder tightens as he goes on, and once he’s paused to keep himself from crying, she eases herself out of the chair to join him in sitting on the floor and pulls him into another embrace. ]
It’s okay to cry, you know. You’re allowed to feel sad and grieve your lost brothers and sisters. What happened was terrible…
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sender: eustace
Everyone has nightmares, some worse than most. Was it really his place to say anything? Check on him somehow?
...
In the end he sends a message.]
Trahearne.
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[ Trahearne is okay. Mostly. He's just happy to hear from Eustace. ]
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[Can't just say a nicer How are you can he—]
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Exhausted, rattled. My stress is easing as time passes, but I fear this is going to haunt me for a little while longer.
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[Especially if his suspicions are correct...]
Anyone there to check on you?
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Ori is here. She was here when I awoke.
[ He still feels bad about the whole thing. ]
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sender: phantom, private
If you would like company, I can come with some tea.
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I would like both your company and some tea. Thank you.
[ Trahearne is alone by the time Phantom comes over. He sits sideways in one of the chairs at his small dining table, leaning over with his elbows on his knees; one hand rubs at his face, the other grips what looks like a small vial. He's much too lost in thought to notice anyone coming or going at the moment, despite expecting Phantom's company. ]
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He knocks politely on Trahearne's door, carrying a small bag with tea and a cup for them each. Trahearne looks occupied - he notices the vial in the other man's hand, gaze lingering on it for a moment. ]
Good afternoon, [ his voice is quiet, calm. ] I have the tea with me. [ He could set it up on the table and pour two cups. ]
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He almost jumps when Phantom speaks, despite the volume of the other's voice, and he sits upright in his chair, tucking away the little vial. As he looks up, a small smile crosses his face. The last time Trahearne saw him, he was out from the ordeal at the Dreammare Castle. To see him up and about is heartening. ]
It's good to see you again, Phantom. Here-- [ He stands from his chair and steps back to make room as he gestures to the little table. ] Feel free.
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Thank you.
[ He sets up the tea for the both of them, Miss Christine jumping into the table and settling within arms reach from Trahearne's seat. Quiet as he is, he would not speak first, waiting for the other man to voice what bothers him. If anything, the silence is something he's used to. ]
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Once his teacup is ready, he takes a slow sip, simply enjoying the others' presences. He will pet Miss Christine wherever she demands it (or stops if she tires of him), lets his gaze drift out the window, enjoying the setting sun on his leaves and the comforting reassurance that he's okay here. The silence is nice, too--even though not much has changed from half an hour prior, save for the clinking of teacups on wood, this is much better than sitting in silence alone.
But sorry Phantom, were you waiting for Trahearne to talk about himself? As far as he's concerned, this is not about him. At least not yet. ]
I'm glad to see you doing better. [ He sets his teacup down with a smile. ] I hope recovery has been smooth.
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sender: Diluc
Diluc's first instinct is anger, knowing full well who it is that the petite sapling represents. It's difficult not to response as it if were actually Oriphi who had been put down like a rabid dog, and harder still not to jump to ungenerous conclusions. Does this man, who Ori calls friend, actually want her dead?
A few moments of fuming and considering the context within the full dream itself, however, is enough for him to realize that his kneejerk reaction is inaccurate. For Ori to be one of Trahearne's people in the dream likely indicates that she means much to him--and therefore, her death is a tragedy. As someone who also holds Ori among his dearest, he feels compelled to reach out somehow.
Diluc knows of Trahearne thanks to Ori, but he's never actually spoken to him. Which makes his next course of action feel awkward.
Avoiding communicating through the lantern entirely, he sends a message via his journal.]
What do you need?
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He has to convince Diluc, somehow, that it was by no means a conscious decision. ]
For now, nothing but time to distance myself from this. Thank you, though.
I promise you, I wish no harm on Ori. I am just as unsettled by this dream as you must be.
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Oh well, no taking it back now.]
You're welcome.
I have no reason not to believe you, especially given how highly Ori has spoken of you in the past. [i.e., he trusts her judge of character.] I suspect you're more shaken by what you saw than I could ever be.
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I suppose I am. That was not a memory I was hoping to relive ever again - only made worse to see those I know here being subject to those horrors. I would not have wished this dream on anyone, and I apologize.
[ hold up though ]
Ori speaks highly of me?
[ He was not even aware that other people spoke of him to others at all. ]
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[It's not his place, and frankly he didn't like deal with answering questions after his own dream several months ago.]
Ori calls you her friend, and she cares deeply about those she calls such.
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[ That the feeling of friendship is mutual, that is. ]
It is not a pleasant experience at all--you have my sympathies, Diluc. I only hope you had those who care for you around you to ease the pain.
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