A Thousand Dreams

Minerva's Coma

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Herein lies the realm of dreams, where dreamers who are scattered all over the world in the physical can come together in the mysterious world of dreams. Remember, unless one is a Dreamwalker, there is no control over dreams. Ever. Anything can happen, and by threading a dream, you are subject to whomever can walk dreams and the whims of Storytellers.

A Thousand Dreams

Postby Minerva Agatha Zipporah on July 12th, 2012, 3:29 am


A Thousand Dreams

The Entire Season of Spring, 508 AV

In the spring of 508 AV, at the age of sixteen, Minerva Agatha Zipporah was struck by a disease. It robbed her strength and poisoned her mind, leaving her comatose for the entire season. She slept through her seventeenth birthday, she slept through the ministrations of the healer that kept her alive by forcing water and gruel down her throat, and she slept through the death of her beloved Granddad. For the entire season she slept, and she dreamed.

These are her dreams.

She opened her eyes to darkness. A blood red landscape stretched before her, expanding into eternity. She knew this place, she had been here before, in the darkest moments, when her father's fists had rained fury upon her until she fled the pain and fear and slipped into the blissful, freeing ignorance of sleep. Except sleep brought her no comfort, and dreams brought her no hope.

Before her the land was dotted with a lifetime of blood. Her blood, shed by her father's hand, dripped from every busted nose, split lip, and every piece of shattered innocence he'd taken from her. Taken by a man who shared her own blood, but had never earned the bond that blood should bring. He abused her, broke her trust, and left her frightened and angry at the world around her. She lived a life without hope, without dreams to carry her into the future. What future did she have? She was destined to be slave to her father's temper, and then one day to be married off to someone sure to be equally cruel. She had nothing to look forward to, no chance to forge her own path.

She stared into the blasted landscape, and saw nothing but endless torment and a far distant death.

She sat, and she cried, her tears forming a winding river across the land. Maybe if she cried enough, she could wash away the blood. She cried until she could cry no more, the river running dry. Salty fluid seeped into the cracked land, unable to quench its thirst. Slowly the land faded to dry sand and withered shrubs, robbed of nourishment because she couldn't cry. She pitied them.

Finally she rose, some small part of her wondering why she was still here. She should have returned home by now. She shrugged the thought off, knowing there was nothing good waiting for her at home. It was better to stay here, just awhile longer.

She walked among the withered plants growing in the dried out river of tears. She traced her hand among their thorny branches, feeling no pain as they ripped more blood from her fingers. The blood soaked the parched land and gave it life, the plants starting to thrive and blossom once more. It seemed a small price to pay, then, to bring this life. For years her blood had been shed for heartache and fury, and nothing came of it. But here it was different. A drop of blood brought the flow of life, and something new grew forth from the cracked desert around her.

She leaned down and plucked a violet flower from the rejuvenated bush, holding it to her nose. The plant bled green ichor at the violation, but the flower smelled so sweet and pure. A small price, then, for the plant to bleed in order to grant her a moment's peace. It had grown from her blood; it owed her its life, and she could take a small bit back in return.

Pollen danced from the purple petals, and she giggled. The unfamiliar sound echoed across the wasteland. Foreign. Unknown. Untrusted. She clutched the flower to her chest and looked around, expecting some dark thing to be drawn to the sound. But nothing came.

A moment later the fear was forgotten, and she returned her attention to the flower once more. She plucked a single petal off, and tossed it into the wind. It danced across the sky and landed a short way off, sprouting into another bush that began to grow in the cracked sand. But then it started to struggle. It withered and faded, unable to hold on. She frowned, and hurried over, squeezing another drop of blood from her wounded hand to feed it. As the blood flowed, the plant was restored, and strengthened. It grew more and more, bigger than it was before. It grew so wide she wouldn't be able to reach her arms around it. She'd had no idea there was so much life in her blood!

Smiling, she plucked another petal from the flower, smeared it with her blood, and set it free. It drifted on the wind, and soon was followed by another, and another. They started to grow all around her, and maybe if she plucked enough of them, she could grow a whole forest of her own.

As she walked along the dry riverbed, she started to hum. Home was becoming a distant memory, lost and nearly forgotten as she explored the space around her. The land started to thrive with plants, borne from each blood-stained petal she threw. The flower never seemed to run out of petals, no matter how many she plucked, and she never seemed to run out of her life-giving blood, no matter how much she used to fertilize the land.

After awhile she got tired of the bushes. They were all the same! Some were bigger than others, but they all bore the same purple leaves and flowers. She sighed, tossing the petals to the ground. She kicked them, and they grew into a swarm, swirling around in the wind, growing larger and larger and spreading across the land. She watched with fear as the floral whirlwind expanded until it covered the whole sky. She shrank back, feeling small and weak. This place was horrible! Even the flowers had turned against her...

The whirlwind of petals started to coalesce, taking on human shape, forming into a huge, towering beast. It bore the face of her father, with glowing red eyes and a sword made from thorns and blood. Her blood. This wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair! Her blood had magic in it, it was supposed to make GOOD things! But now it was being turned against her...

She turned and ran, fleeing down the riverbed which began flowing once more, her tears renewed and betraying her now with their torrents. The water deepened around her ankles, and she was slowed as she sloshed through the muddy riverbed. It rose to her knees, and she was forced to drag each step forward, the monster behind her closing in. She couldn’t get away! She had to do something, had to escape, but she couldn’t!

She clung to one of the purple bushes, trying to hold on as the waters deepened and the current became swift and deadly. She screamed, flailing about, and felt the branches crack beneath her hands. She scrambled frantically, trying to hold on, but more and more pieces of wood started breaking off, until she started to be buried under it.

She grabbed at the wood, and winced as a splinter stuck her skin. She stared at it, remembering the first time she’d gotten one. For just a moment, everything else froze. The waves around her became still, the wood swirling in the water stopped knocking into her skin, and the demon beast above her shrank back. She remembered her Granddad, gently pulling the splinter out, and then kissing the wound to make it all better.

“Sometimes makin’ stuff ‘urts,” he had told her. She closed her eyes and felt his arms around her once more. “But ya know what? When yer done, an’ ya see ‘ow ‘appy the thing ya made makes people, that pain’ll be worth it, aye?”

She nodded, holding his arms tight around her. Yet he was slipping away. Where was he going? Why wouldn’t he stay there with her?

She looked up at the monster in the distance, born from her blood. She’d made it. It was her creation, birthed from her very soul. If she could make a monster, she could make a warrior to fight it off.

Her hands swirled in the wood all around her, and it came together in the form of a man. Her blood flowed through the wooden knight, and her tears became his armor. He stepped up, ready to face the beast on her behalf, protecting his creator. But he had no weapon. Minerva frowned, feeling like a failure. She had made a knight, but hadn’t given him the tools he needed to fulfill his purpose.

“I’m sorry,” she said, leaning down to the ground. With her tears faded and dried, the ground had cracked and withered once more. She grabbed a piece of the cracked earth, and shaped it into a sword. She placed it in the hand of her protector, letting her blood soak into it, giving it life. He raised it up high, her silent protector, and strode forth to face down the beast.

Minerva clutched her hands to her chest, feeling powerless once more. She could only watch as her creations fought each other, unable to influence the outcome. She winced with fear and empathetic pain each time the beast struck, as her wooden knight staggered back under blow after blow. The beast was just too strong!

She felt her heart clench as her knight was struck down, splintering under the incessant blows. She grit her teeth and clenched her fists, urging him to get back up. He had to protect her! Yet his body broke and cracked, and she knew there was no hope...

Determination set upon her face, and she grabbed the other bushes, pulling them up by their roots. Her hands waved through them, her blood giving them life, and the wood twisted and formed into more knights. Soon she had an army, growing faster than she could see, each one sculpted by her own hands. She sent them forth to fight against her nightmare, and a great battle raged on. The great violet monstrosity struck them down by the dozens, bodies splintering and shattering to pieces. But each piece that fell, she doused in her blood, and made it grow and rise again to fight for her. When the beast shattered one of her knights into a dozen fragments, she grew those fragments into a dozen knew wooden warriors, and soon the monster was overwhelmed. Her army climbed over the shrinking horror, striking with fists and blades, their armor shimmering like the salty sea. They beat back the darkness, snuffed it out, and the skies began to clear. Fresh, pure light filtered down, and Minerva looked up and smiled.

The battle passed, and the horror was gone, but as she looked around, she saw more horrors off on the distant horizon. She needed a bigger army. She needed more knights to serve her.

She continued building knights and sending them off, and endless supply of warriors. Time had no meaning here, and she built and built and built. But she was only one girl. The distant darkness started closing in, and she knew it was only a matter of time before she fell. So she decided to build a helper.

She knelt on the soil, scooped it up, and started shaping it into the form of a girl. She made it look like her, or her daughter, with the same hair and eyes. She shaped it and gave it her blood, bringing it to life. “Come on,” she told her daughter, “we’s gots work ta do...” Together they made another, and then another, until she had a whole crew of helpers, which she then unleashed on the land to build more knights to protect her.

Before long she realized more was needed. There was no food, and no farmers to till the land and grow the crops. So she built them, making farmers from the very soil they would till. But they needed horses, they told her, and cows and sheep, and dogs to herd the sheep, and meat to feed the dogs. So she built those, making everything herself, along with her helpers. Soon there were farms all around, being tended by her creations.

As it continued, her dream became more complex, her creations more and more elaborate. Soon she forgot about the distant darkness, her army holding it back. She worked on perfecting her creations, giving them iron bones to make them strong, and big thick gears to help them move. She built entire species of animals, their insides ticking like clocks. Mechanical horses pulled the wagons she crafted, and her people drank milk from clockwork cows.

But they had no homes to live in, they told her. So she decided to build them. She started with homes for the farmers, and barns for their animals. Then she built barracks for her soldiers, and forges to make them better weapons to fight the ever distant war. She made the beds they slept in, the shops they worked in, and the tools they used to craft.

But they had no families, they told her, to love and cherish them. So she built those as well. She built wives and children, and little puppies and kittens for them to play with. Then she had to build bigger homes to make room for the families, and before she knew it she had an entire city, with great towering stone walls patrolled by her knights. She built herself a grand palace in the center, surrounded by the homes of her creations. Clockwork knights patrolled the streets, while stonecarved bakers and butchers fed the people, and wooden tailors and seamstresses made their clothes. Everywhere there was magic, and it all worked in unison, all fitting together perfect, like the precisely aligned gears of a clock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick—

And then she woke up...

And her entire world ended...
Minerva Agatha Zipporah
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A Thousand Dreams

Postby Arcane on July 30th, 2012, 7:11 am

Rewards and Treasure!


Experience Points

Coma Dreams


It makes me feel bad for not being able to award anything else, but rules are rules :( The imagery is really wonderful, it's really like a dream! I was considering what kind of lore to give, but decided to encompass the whole thread in one single lore. So that "Coma Dreams" lore refers to the contents in the entirety of this thread. Once again, beautiful writing :)

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