🌳 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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He isn't sure what that might taste like, but the images of the flowers in his mind are nice enough. He nods. ]
Good thing autumn approaches, then. [ ...It's the height of summer, but who cares. ] I hope you'll be able to replicate the experience while you're still here.
[ Despite, well...people could awaken at any time. Those still living, that is.
...Right. That's another thing he should share with Phantom. When the thought comes to him, the hand petting Miss Christine comes to a pause, and his expression falls.
After a moment, he looks up at him again, slight concern riddling his expression. ]
...There's something else I need to tell you, Phantom.
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He blinks. ]
...I did not survive the ordeal with the dragon. [ His eyes dart down to his cup of tea before coming back up. ] Songerein is my home now.
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I am sorry... I presumed you could return.
[ The possibility never occurred to him. He feels only shame. ]
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[ Trahearne watches with slight guilt as Phantom's expression drops. He doesn't want to make him sad, and he knows this is a really heavy truth to share, but he trusts Phantom enough, considers him a good enough friend that he would feel weird keeping it a secret. Considering how heavily tied it is to his circumstances here.
A small smile crosses his face, a slight attempt to ease the other's worries. ]
I understand it might be an unusual situation, but... I have made some peace with it. I'm happy here.
[ He will never love Songerein as much as Tyria, but he loves it all the same. ]
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I am glad. May this world bring you newfound adventure and myriad joys.
[ Songerein's status as a dream world meant that Phantom did not have to choose between his ties back home and his ties here. That, too, is a boon. Coming here and building those ties has helped to ease his pain; he would dearly wish to keep them. ]
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[ His smile, at first meant to mollify Phantom's apparent sorrow, takes on a genuine hue in turn. He means this genuinely--new people, new experiences, and new things to discover have brought him delights he had never imagined back home. Slowly, he is learning how to love this realm for what it is, carving out his own little place for himself. ]
And that is in no small part owed to friends like you and Miss Christine. For that, you have my thanks.
[ Trahearne reaches out to scratch under Miss Christine's chin again. He is very glad he met these two. ]
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It is... the least I could do. Thank you too, for being my friend.
[ He could count the number of friends he had back home on one hand; things are different in Songerein, but his reclusive nature has not changed. Trahearne is quiet, just like him, and they are able to work together well. For that, he is immensely grateful. ]