🌳 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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[ 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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Did she see it?
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She assured me it was all right.
[ But he still doesn't believe that. ]
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[As if reading his mind—and knowing full well how Oriphi is.]
What was the voice?
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[ The question gives him pause. He doesn't mind telling Eustace, but...not in such a public forum, as it were. Even if it doesn't mean much here, he is worried about what sort of image it might paint of him. Of any other sylvari that might find themselves here. And so, he makes it private, trusting Eustace to be smart enough to understand why. ]
That was the Elder Dragon Mordremoth, the being we were doing battle with before I awakened here.
It possessed the unique ability to speak directly into the sylvari mind in an attempt to sway us. [ ... ] Because it created us.
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A dragon was able to create your race?
[Now, he's familiar with dragons and how some are quite powerful—hell one of them basically his world's god, but creating intelligent creatures and races? Some mindless minion spawn makes more sense, but he has difficult imagining even one of the six dragons creating something like the sylvari.]
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I don't know how, but we - and by extension, our mother the Pale Tree - were purified and somewhat severed from its influence. Some of my brothers and sisters were unable to resist its call once it decided to exert control, and I mourn them.
[ It feels kind of good to say that now. And hopefully, that adds some context to the dream for Eustace.
That does not mean he's still not nervous, though. ]
But I assure you, my words and actions are still my own. I have not heard its voice since coming here, not outside of this dream.
I hope this does not change your opinion of me.
[ Because. Well. Then that would certainly mean he has made a very powerful enemy. ]
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You've already proven yourself as a trustworthy individual. At worst I could consider you a defect or rebel from your original purpose, something I'm not unfamiliar with.
Regardless, even if you could hear its voice my only concern would be for your well-being and trying to assist you.
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If I heard its voice here, I'm afraid it would spell doom for many of us. I would inform you (or Ori, or Phantom) right away.
I can just hope that never happens.
[ He is still scared. And traumatized. ]
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I don't know if you saw my earlier inquiry regarding power limiters and suppressors. Do you think that could help you in some way?
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Mordremoth's influence is simultaneously exter[ For some reason, Trahearne has decided to cross that out. ]
I don't think one will be necessary. Mordremoth's connection to the sylvari is unique, and not something that can be controlled by external devices.
I do appreciate the offer, though. Like I said, if I begin to hear its voice again, we have bigger problems to worry about.
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Or that its influence has reached this Dream as well. I would think this unlikely, because 1) I am severed from my original Dream, which is what Mordremoth was using to speak to us, and 2) it should be dead. But if it does, then I have a feeling it would affect far more than just me.
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[Having written the words out, he can't help but frown.]
In theory not impossible for a powerful force from a different world to try and do something similar.
While the chances are slim, what would happen if this Mordremoth did manage to connect to Songerein? Or worse, appeared here?
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If Mordremoth's will were to connect with the Songerein Dream, then many people, not just me, might find themselves compelled to act on its behalf, to exert its influence. A chief method being violence against one another. And with no one immune to its voice, per se, then we will have a very had time keeping one another in check.
If Mordremoth itself appeared here, then I'm afraid there would not be much we could do, not without the force of an entire army. Even then, I'm not sure it was enough. Mordremoth is big, Eustace. And I'm afraid if it were to appear here, it would consume this realm before we could even organize a counter-offensive.
Let us hope that never happens.
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It's all we can do at this point. We already have enough to deal with as is.
But don't think anymore about it.
[Not because he fears of it actually manifesting through Trahearne, but more about his well-being.]
Unfortunately I can't really offer much for any further...support. Except for maybe sending over one or more of the dogs.
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[ He will happily never think about Mordremoth again.
But with the sensitive facts out of the way, Trahearne removes the privacy filter. And the offer for dogs almost makes him laugh. That is certainly a very Eustace thing to do. Who is he to turn down a friend's offer for comfort? ]
I would not mind canine company at all. Thank you, Eustace.
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Flowers or corgis? Or both? They both have their pros and cons.
[Why does he sound like some kind of dealer—]
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Fine, he'll lean into stereotypes. ]
I suppose I'll take a flower, if you don't mind.
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The answer seems obvious now. Would you like me to send one to you or would you like to meet the family yourself?
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You keep giving me options, Eustace, but I'm not quite sure what differentiates them. You may as well send over the entire family.
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