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dreamcrystals2022-09-02 03:24 pm
roseofmay) wrote in dreamcrystals2022-09-02 03:24 pm
Entry tags:
XX3 Entry - [A Dream within a Dream] - Early September
Sender: Beatrix
To: Everyone
Subject: Passive Dream Recording
Warnings: Likely potentially upsetting content. Implications of genocide. Iâm going to try to explore this as gently, respectfully, and carefully as I can, but I do emphasise to proceed with caution.
Notes: A dream depicting Beatrix reflecting on some of the war crimes she committed in her home world. It is longer than I expected it to be.
Have some sounds of rain for ambiance.
It is not uncommon for Beatrix to patrol at night, usually following her dreams. It is safe to assume that post this dream, thatâs precisely what she does. Feel free to encounter her in person (out on patrol, at her residence) or via journals, though with the latter, it is unlikely she will respond immediately. Assume journal responses are after an applicable amount of time, depending on circumstance.
Her dreams most oft are accompanied intimately by rain. Sometimes, it is the blistering sound of wind. Occasionally, the consistent roar of airship engines and the turning of gears. And every once in a while, it is the sound of wood splitting and cracking, followed by a flash of light and the deafening explosion that trails after in its wake.
Tonight, it is rain. A sky looms overhead, blanketed by dark clouds and the occasional tendril of lightning. The blue-grey cobblestone pathways are soaked, so much so that in places where the footpaths dip after years of wear and tear, they are filled with reflective and rippling puddles of water. The front entrance stone archway is intricately detailed and has been standing for too many years to count, established likely earlier than some native to the world may think.
Welcome to Burmecia, the Realm of Eternal Rain.
It holds nothing precious, except life. Life that Beatrix, general of Alexandria, has been tasked with taking.
This is something that has already happened. Beatrix simply replays it near nightly, and the dreams rarely seem to change. Her boots echo softly on the ground in a momentary eerie silence and behind her where she has already been, the environment simply turns to stone. A broken down cart knocked over, its wares splattered on the pathway and up against the wall of a nearby multilevel home, once in muted colour now sits in permanent disarray in chilling sculpture.
There are figures slumped. On the grounds. Draped over stairways and metal bannisters. Burmeciansâa race of ratlike people, tall in stature, tailed, with pointed ears and pointed noses.
For years, Alexandria and Burmecia have waged wars upon one another. Pitted against each other, the concept of war is not so foreign, though perhaps disappointing when the continent at large believed to be ushering in an era of peace. What has happened here, however, is not war at all. It is only conquest. Only eradication of the Burmecian people. A simple little test conducted by Queen Brahne of Alexandria, utilising constructed black mage dolls with no will of their own and only the orders pounding in their doll heads. The leader of this charge, this show of overwhelming power and influence, is none other than Beatrix, compelled by order and the lust in her veins for something she cannot quite understand, a realisation that she will not come to learn for a great deal of time following.
The Beatrix of today, the one stepping through this replay of a chapter of her life that she has kept hidden and closely held to her heart, is not identical. Not different, but only a part of the woman who carried this out in so impeccably a fashion.
As she steps, there are voices, many words that are garbled and incomprehensible, blending in with the sounds of the pitter-patter of the rain as it strikes. If one listens closely, an occasional scream, a memory left over from an otherwise desolate and ruined city-state, disrespected and torn asunder by invasion. Some lines of memory highlight the tense air in voices that are not Beatrixâs as she continues this reunion with this intimate knowledge of her past.
âThatâs Beatrix? The cold-blooded knight who knows no mercy. BeatrixâŠâ
In the square of the city-state, the homes in the vicinity are worn down, most of them only partially standing. A curving bridge pathway leads to the towering, ominous, and impressive figure of Burmeciaâs castle, stretching tall towards the sky as lightning flashes about it.
â...Beatrix of Alexandria, in particular. They say her swordsmanship is the best in the land.â
As she moves along, Save the Queen in the grip of her right hand, a chain that binds her to obligation and her role, there are but glimpses, moving images for just moments that betray the chaos that ensued upon her initial charge. The movement of feet and the blur of bodies before theyâre cut down or subjected to the magicks of the black mages. As she takes to the bridge and its connecting path, the commotion freezes, transposing image and concept to stone and reality, like macabre decor in a courtyard.
Before the entrance, itâs her own voice that echoes in a stunning clarity. An embittered laugh, hand-in-hand with chilled tone. Unfeeling. Uncaring. So professional and emotionally detached that one would think Beatrix feels nothing at all in this exchange, except an irritation. In what, one can only theorise.
âI have never been so humiliated in my life.â
The castle stands above her and she finds in its centre, a couple of grandiose statues, some of the only things remaining that have yet to be broken down and destroyed. There is the lingering memory of Queen Brahne in search of Burmeciaâs king, only to find by way of a charming and sinister man, the one who has provided her so much power to begin with, that the king has fled to the tree protected by the windâCleyra.
There are other things to note. A coupleâBurmecian woman standing alongside a tailed statue that some may recognise as Zidane, the cunning and charismatic companion to many. They possess no movement. Only presence in colour doused in greys. And she hears herself again, the same chill wrapping her in tight embrace.
âI once killed a hundred knights single-handedly⊠To me, you two are nothing more than insects.â
Approaching them each, one after the other, Beatrix lifts a hand and she settles it to the forearm of the Burmecian she will one day come to know as Freya and it takes only touch for her to join her statued brethren. There is a momentâs pause as she examines a Zidane that once was part of her past. In Reverein, he may not have forgiven her, but he never seemed to hold her actions against her and Beatrix, to this moment, to this very breath, still cannot understand why. The only clue she has ever had is that the Beatrix of his future is different than the one who was the head of this calamity.
Settling hand to his shoulder, she puts him to rest, and lifts her chin to hear her voice once more. A woman who is only a part of her, but perhaps one she has yet to embrace. To this moment, she has only ever admonished and condemned herself, placing distance between her person and others, knowing that she would rather be hated than pitied, rather hated than forgiven.
âHow ridiculously weak⊠Is there not anyone who is worthy of facing me?â
For the moments that follow, she simply stands in the rain, drenched, sword dropped low at her side, and she stares at the muted sombre sky, foreboding and dreadful. The words that follow are her own.
âThe only thing I have granted to the Burmecian people is a grand tomb, forever frozen in time, place, and circumstance.â
They are the last and only words she manages to say before she too, turns to stone like those around her. This moment has no end. An interior part of her that refuses to weather and is only subjected to an infinite rain, marking the abrupt end to a dream that Beatrix never forces herself to finish.
To: Everyone
Subject: Passive Dream Recording
Warnings: Likely potentially upsetting content. Implications of genocide. Iâm going to try to explore this as gently, respectfully, and carefully as I can, but I do emphasise to proceed with caution.
Notes: A dream depicting Beatrix reflecting on some of the war crimes she committed in her home world. It is longer than I expected it to be.
It is not uncommon for Beatrix to patrol at night, usually following her dreams. It is safe to assume that post this dream, thatâs precisely what she does. Feel free to encounter her in person (out on patrol, at her residence) or via journals, though with the latter, it is unlikely she will respond immediately. Assume journal responses are after an applicable amount of time, depending on circumstance.
Her dreams most oft are accompanied intimately by rain. Sometimes, it is the blistering sound of wind. Occasionally, the consistent roar of airship engines and the turning of gears. And every once in a while, it is the sound of wood splitting and cracking, followed by a flash of light and the deafening explosion that trails after in its wake.
Tonight, it is rain. A sky looms overhead, blanketed by dark clouds and the occasional tendril of lightning. The blue-grey cobblestone pathways are soaked, so much so that in places where the footpaths dip after years of wear and tear, they are filled with reflective and rippling puddles of water. The front entrance stone archway is intricately detailed and has been standing for too many years to count, established likely earlier than some native to the world may think.
Welcome to Burmecia, the Realm of Eternal Rain.
It holds nothing precious, except life. Life that Beatrix, general of Alexandria, has been tasked with taking.
This is something that has already happened. Beatrix simply replays it near nightly, and the dreams rarely seem to change. Her boots echo softly on the ground in a momentary eerie silence and behind her where she has already been, the environment simply turns to stone. A broken down cart knocked over, its wares splattered on the pathway and up against the wall of a nearby multilevel home, once in muted colour now sits in permanent disarray in chilling sculpture.
There are figures slumped. On the grounds. Draped over stairways and metal bannisters. Burmeciansâa race of ratlike people, tall in stature, tailed, with pointed ears and pointed noses.
For years, Alexandria and Burmecia have waged wars upon one another. Pitted against each other, the concept of war is not so foreign, though perhaps disappointing when the continent at large believed to be ushering in an era of peace. What has happened here, however, is not war at all. It is only conquest. Only eradication of the Burmecian people. A simple little test conducted by Queen Brahne of Alexandria, utilising constructed black mage dolls with no will of their own and only the orders pounding in their doll heads. The leader of this charge, this show of overwhelming power and influence, is none other than Beatrix, compelled by order and the lust in her veins for something she cannot quite understand, a realisation that she will not come to learn for a great deal of time following.
The Beatrix of today, the one stepping through this replay of a chapter of her life that she has kept hidden and closely held to her heart, is not identical. Not different, but only a part of the woman who carried this out in so impeccably a fashion.
As she steps, there are voices, many words that are garbled and incomprehensible, blending in with the sounds of the pitter-patter of the rain as it strikes. If one listens closely, an occasional scream, a memory left over from an otherwise desolate and ruined city-state, disrespected and torn asunder by invasion. Some lines of memory highlight the tense air in voices that are not Beatrixâs as she continues this reunion with this intimate knowledge of her past.
âThatâs Beatrix? The cold-blooded knight who knows no mercy. BeatrixâŠâ
In the square of the city-state, the homes in the vicinity are worn down, most of them only partially standing. A curving bridge pathway leads to the towering, ominous, and impressive figure of Burmeciaâs castle, stretching tall towards the sky as lightning flashes about it.
â...Beatrix of Alexandria, in particular. They say her swordsmanship is the best in the land.â
As she moves along, Save the Queen in the grip of her right hand, a chain that binds her to obligation and her role, there are but glimpses, moving images for just moments that betray the chaos that ensued upon her initial charge. The movement of feet and the blur of bodies before theyâre cut down or subjected to the magicks of the black mages. As she takes to the bridge and its connecting path, the commotion freezes, transposing image and concept to stone and reality, like macabre decor in a courtyard.
Before the entrance, itâs her own voice that echoes in a stunning clarity. An embittered laugh, hand-in-hand with chilled tone. Unfeeling. Uncaring. So professional and emotionally detached that one would think Beatrix feels nothing at all in this exchange, except an irritation. In what, one can only theorise.
âI have never been so humiliated in my life.â
The castle stands above her and she finds in its centre, a couple of grandiose statues, some of the only things remaining that have yet to be broken down and destroyed. There is the lingering memory of Queen Brahne in search of Burmeciaâs king, only to find by way of a charming and sinister man, the one who has provided her so much power to begin with, that the king has fled to the tree protected by the windâCleyra.
There are other things to note. A coupleâBurmecian woman standing alongside a tailed statue that some may recognise as Zidane, the cunning and charismatic companion to many. They possess no movement. Only presence in colour doused in greys. And she hears herself again, the same chill wrapping her in tight embrace.
âI once killed a hundred knights single-handedly⊠To me, you two are nothing more than insects.â
Approaching them each, one after the other, Beatrix lifts a hand and she settles it to the forearm of the Burmecian she will one day come to know as Freya and it takes only touch for her to join her statued brethren. There is a momentâs pause as she examines a Zidane that once was part of her past. In Reverein, he may not have forgiven her, but he never seemed to hold her actions against her and Beatrix, to this moment, to this very breath, still cannot understand why. The only clue she has ever had is that the Beatrix of his future is different than the one who was the head of this calamity.
Settling hand to his shoulder, she puts him to rest, and lifts her chin to hear her voice once more. A woman who is only a part of her, but perhaps one she has yet to embrace. To this moment, she has only ever admonished and condemned herself, placing distance between her person and others, knowing that she would rather be hated than pitied, rather hated than forgiven.
âHow ridiculously weak⊠Is there not anyone who is worthy of facing me?â
For the moments that follow, she simply stands in the rain, drenched, sword dropped low at her side, and she stares at the muted sombre sky, foreboding and dreadful. The words that follow are her own.
âThe only thing I have granted to the Burmecian people is a grand tomb, forever frozen in time, place, and circumstance.â
They are the last and only words she manages to say before she too, turns to stone like those around her. This moment has no end. An interior part of her that refuses to weather and is only subjected to an infinite rain, marking the abrupt end to a dream that Beatrix never forces herself to finish.
no subject
She does not seem so convinced. That may be coloured by her own perspective. It hurts far more to be betrayed by someone one loves than otherwise. On the contrary, in her perspective, those who have grown close to her or harboured affection for her in their own way have even more of a reason to dislike her. It truly can go in any number of ways. Some may feel an understanding for her position, those who know the whole of the situation. Some may simply feel sheâs gone too far and sheâs irredeemable. Some may simply not know what to think and require the time to consider where their feelings lie.
Nothing about any of that is simple.]
Far easier said than done on all accounts, Dohalim.
[But he knows that, too.]
I should think that all I can do, all I wish to do, is provide answers to those with questions. The judgements others make of me, I would want them to be honest with themselves for it. Perhaps that is defeatist of me to say. Regardless of my situation, how things came to be, the things I did or said or believed, the person I am now, sometimes⊠the intention does not matter, only the end result. I have to be willing to accept that. I fear the loss of those around me, but at the same time, I want to honour those who I consider close. And their feelings.
[Loosing another long, drawn-out sigh, Beatrix dips down to the table, resting her cheek against her wrist in consideration.]
I will do my best to simply proceed forward and handle things as they come.
no subject
[Perhaps an overly simplistic way of summing things up, but he does not dismiss the rest of what she's said, rather takes another few moments to give it due thought, finishing the contents of his cup as he does so before setting it down at last. A frown tugs at his delicate lips, and he reaches out to lay his hand against her own, his thumb lightly brushing against her cheek in the process.]
I do not think it is defeatist in the least. Of the two of us, I know myself to be the optimist— when it comes to others.
[Less so when it comes to his own deeds, but this is not about him.]
You are intent on being honest, regardless of how painful that truth may be and what you confess to fear, and that is quite something to offer those who have come to know you. I think it to be quite courageous, myself.
no subject
âŠIt matters not to her. Or so she might outwardly claim.
But when she thinks about how it feels for his thumb to dust across the back of her hand, she shifts. In the moments that follow, she covers his hand with one of her other hands and she simply eyes him. He genuinely believes that. That sheâs courageous. Facing things knowing that they will likely not end well for her.]
I can let you be the optimist betwixt us. For this situation, that is. I imagine I would play such a role if our positions were reversed.
[In truth, she did. Multiple times for him. Even when she made her own discoveries of him, she wanted to support him. She didnât want him to berate himself. To think horrid things of himself. When she looks back on it now, she wouldnât do anything to change that. It was the right thing to do.]
no subject
[He smiles faintly; she likely does not need to be reminded of such, memorable as those moments were, but it is important to him that she know he appreciated those efforts. He still does; he would have remained mired deep in his own doubts and paralyzed by that nightmare made manifest if not for her aid in wresting himself from its clutches.]
I am more than happy to return the favor— though this is more than that. I maintain I would feel the same way regardless of what you had done for me. I will not pretend that this reveal wonât bring forth new challenges, but I know you are capable of rising to meet them. It would take far more than this to defeat you, if it could be done at all.
[Heâs said it before, and he will say it again: she is a formidable woman.]
You neednât believe such, if it is too much. I will believe enough for the both of us.
no subject
Or anyone else.
At least, no more than she likely already has.]
I may believe it in time. You will understand if right now that is a touch difficult for me. Not impossible. Only difficult.
[In the face of something so fresh, it would stand to reason that she would not face this with ease.]
I appreciate you coming to check on me. I think I am sufficiently level now. You can go home, Dohalim. I can handle things from here.
no subject
[All too well. These things are never simple; it is far easier for him to say these things than it is for her to believe them, he is certain. Even if she does believe, the reality of the situation still presents a difficult challenge and a great amount of uncertainty. For a woman who has never allowed herself to have much in the way of friends, he would dare say that the thought of losing their favor now that she does have them is frightening in its own right, though he would never suggest as much aloud.
A part of her that she had not cared to speak of, that she had left behind in her own world, had been revealed against her will. Nothing about that was going to be easy.
He looks hesitant at her suggestion, his lips pulling into a delicate frown, brows slightly furrowed.]
I also understand if you truly wish to be alone. I will respect your desire for privacy, if so, but... I do not mind staying, if you will have me.
[It hadn't exactly been a hardship for him to come here in the first place.]
no subject
He does not mind staying.
If she will have him.
Beatrix assumes that to some extent, he must mean he simply wants to stay. Maybe he doesn't trust her on her own right now. Maybe that's the right reaction, though she doubts she knows what else she would do other than lie down and think.
Loosing a breath in a sigh, she waves dismissively.]
Stay if that is what you want. I am too tired to argue with you.
we can fade out soon but HE STAYIN' ALL NIGHT.
I'll not trouble you, but I am here should you desire anything at all.
[As in, he'll give her the space he's certain she needs, but he much prefers the idea of being nearby to returning to his own home after she's had such memories laid bare for all to see.]
Perhaps I'll start with more tea.
Sounds good to me. â„ Can either fade here or on one more!
If he werenâtâŠ
Sheâs not sure what she would be doing. Sheâs afraid to find out. Right now, he is a tether, binding her in place, and keeping her together. She doubts he knows of his true significance.]
You should let me handle these things and make yourself comfortable. I will join you when I am done. Will you accept that, at the very least?
đ
As you wish.
[If he can be here for her, if his presence can offer her some degree of comfort— then that is all he asks. It is enough.]