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Post by Jack on Apr 29, 2019 7:31:10 GMT -6
The dreamer... just who was the dreamer? She had woken up in a cold sweat the morning before, though she couldn't remember what the dream had been about. Or, as the bells said, was something dreaming of her. Either way, she had a vague notion of what it had been, no specifics, just flashes of colors and ideas. That was good enough though... wasn't it? "I remember... dark browns and dark greens, maybe flashes of rust red. Antlers, maybe? I'm not sure, but we were in a forest. The only thing I remember well enough was four toes, but that's about it. Gentle, kind, protecting..." she trailed off a bit and then shook her head, staring down at the coin in her hand. She didn't know where it had come from, but as soon as the dream had happened, she had it, and something pulled her to this place with this coin. It was amazing the things that happened in the Labs, and she hoped that things were going to go well for her, but she just wasn't too sure when it all came down to it. Was it her dream or something else's? The question would haunt her for the rest of her days, her nights already disjointed from the nightmares, this didn't even bother her at the moment though, it was this particular dream that did. Hers or something else's... Jack shook her head and stared at the coin one last time, dark black with colors swirling inside of it, a hole in the center. A sigh escaped her, a dreamlike state entered her, and she tossed the coin into the pool, hoping something would happen, but understanding if something did not. ((Forest themed, a gentle and kind protector with dark browns, dark greens, and hints of rust color. Four toes.)) |
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Darky
Flea Market Artist
Veritas et Aequitas
Posts: 1,920 
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Post by Darky on Aug 4, 2019 12:23:00 GMT -6
Tink.. tink.. tink..
A soft swoosh and a silence.
The coin disappears among the riches.
There is laughter again, bells in the air as the ghostly tat-lung reappears and disappears again, floating through the air.
Mist begins to gather from the tunnels branching off into darkness, floating in towards the centre of the room, swirling and gracefully drifting in gentle vortices before the great pile of treasure. It comes from all around and yet the bulk of it seems to bellow in from one particular one, unique to the person perceiving.
"A fine dream, a fine dream," the tat-lung jovially calls from the nothing they're in. "I wonder what the dreamer thinks of that?"
A laughter and the air changes.
A noise, a rustle, the fluttering of leaves on trees and the creak of the roots of the perpetual earth itself. A shadow forms among the vortices, hardy and bulky, drawing themselves out into reality itself.
The mist flickers with shades of colours - greens, browns, yellows, like shadows on a breeze, and the air is filled with the scent of loam.
The form finalizes, hovering before you, studying you with ancient eyes.
It speaks and its voice is foreign, yet always known.
"Where winds blow, mountains stand. Where roots grow, they crumble."
Then, the vision fades, the form swooshes down to the ground and coalesces into something small and round.
As you pick it up, the ghostly tat-lung's face appears mere inches beside yours and they whisper in echoing bells: "Its time to wake up."
The world turns, the dream becomes a blur and gravity seems to pull you all the way back along your path like a rubber-band snapping.
You jolt awake, outside, standing at the front of your residence in the cold of the night.
Cold and clammy all over, but for a strange warmth in your hands.
You look down, and feel a tug on your soul.
Is it time to wake up yet? |
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