Dream a little Dream.

[Zantair]

Summer, 89, 512AV Zantair drifted, his eyelids slowly drooping with the calm and serene noise of the wildlife of the spires, He was exhausted from the past few days, and with so much going on, he was finding it tough to sleep, but the still night sky was slowly drifting him further from the Waking World and further into the darkness of his eyelids. He widened his eyes again, before letting the cloud of darkness fall over them and slept ------ His eyes fluttered open, catching sight of the large expanse of white that seemed to expand to infinity, fog beckoned him to move, and he did passing through the world without any rhyme or reason. He continued further, steps not making a sound, and with only a semi-visualized perception of himself, as if he could not fully comprehend his ownl looks. He drifted, Not feeling cautious or scared, but neither was he excited, he felt distant, as if the blank expanse was a perfect creation of his inability to find a Bondmate. His drifted further and caught sight of something in the distance, he looked at it only briefly, watching it and upon inspection, he could see the ample brown texture of what was the largest Nut he had ever seen, the size of perhaps a tree within the spires in it's own right, but rounded like the most perfect hill, pronouncing itself as the lord nut of the world, Literally speaking of it's Almighty control of all nuts. Zantair willed himself to touch it, to go to it and to find a way to move it, to bring it to his home. He screamed inside his mind to move, to make it to the nut, the most beautiful nut he had ever seen, and yet he would not budge in it's direction, His silent footsteps passing by the incredible nut, ignoring his pleading and crying for this mysterious object, to go to it and love it and take care of it, a primal reaction that seemed to drain him as he passed the nut and then it disappeared behind the white fog of his dreams. He stopped. And without notic, not even to Zantair, the world changed, with throwing daggers spinning and spiraling, twisting around before flying at a very small target, whizzing past with all the speed of an eagle's downward dive, and then an alcoholic drink floated past drifting from one end of this new world to another, whatever was behind the now grey fog. Trees expanded further than Zantair could see, and yet he could see, as he saw that each of the tree's leaves was a Tarot card, each one a different meaning which Zantair couldn't remember in his current state. He seemed to turn, but without moving, as if he was surpassing that of natural law as he bended and twisted to see Gorillas and forest life, spiders that looked like Sweets and chocolate, and Zantair twisted and turned in this world, confused, but also calmed and excited, and saddened, and stricken. Everyhing felt so far from being felicitous that he couldn't decide an emotion that could explain the experience, and he twisted again, catching glimpses of a small twig, which for some reason was significant as it twisted and turned and snapped and became a strand of rope. It tied into a knot, untied itself, became a noose, and then it became a sword, and then a bow, and a knife, and then a wooden spear. It became all things as it flowed through all sorts of forms as if making all things a fallacy, everything made sense, but nothing made sense either.

[Valo]

Things from the forest die here But I don't... Forest things are offered here But I'm not... He knew not why these words were important or truly, who it was that spoke them. About him there was nothing but forest, a dense existence of foliage that sprouted from whatever it was that he walked upon. But had he really walked? A lightweight sensation that hadn't really been floating, but wasn't quite walking either. And if he was to look down, he'd see no feet so perhaps it had been a blessing that even such simple actions as looking in the desired direction was governed by an entity greater than him. A dream master of a sort. For all intents and purposes, Valo might as well have been a pair of eyes that traversed through the foliage of fate, threes which were not trees but individual oracles of tarot cards. And even though his being was consubstantial with this make belief reality, he saw nothing of himself, for even his feet. Dreams had never been much of an auditory experience for the sheer purpose of him being a primarily visual person. And in dreams it seemed, he had been completely rid of his auditory sensed all together. His ears were blocked by the elusive entanglement of the substance about him. For dreams had substance and that substance was a fog that carried him though said dream, a fog he could not shake. An inability to look upon any other than that which was before him, that which he would be allowed to look upon. And when others would talk to him, he would hear no words but somehow know what was being said. An intuition which he only possessed within this foggy dream of his where everything was so very vivid yet at the same time lacked in vividness so terribly. Surrealism wasn't particularly an issue either. For the artists who thought his perception of the world, and his imagination of the unimaginary, the be somewhat tilted on it's axis, Valo's dreams were truly ordinary. Often he would find himself reliving memories of the past. Often he once again saw people he no longer had the liberty of seeing. His dreams were the pictorial manifestations of his wants and wishes... most dreams. But not this one. This one was something else in all it's entirety. Little did the artist know that this dream was a kind of surreal letter from the very person who wrote out his live upon the pages of his time line. The hand of fate who governed his existence in all it's entirety. This dream was a warning. A foresight into the future, coded in omens and riddles which even Valo himself, in all his intelligence, would not decipher. And perhaps, when he awakens, it may be highly conductive to look back upon this dream and to read it as if it was an oracle; he would have no wish to do so. A nightmare to forget. A future to stumble upon. Alas he halted. Or perhaps he continued walking but simply his eyes were the ones that stood still. Tat wasn't particularly clear. And before him was another but his face wasn't clear either for the face looked not at him but at something else all together. A puzzlement as to what that something was, but a liberty of curious excavation was not granted. That master of his dreams had not been so kind. Instead words were spoke, though their apparent sound was lost to the fog and whether they have come from Valo's ivory lip, or perhaps that of another, he knew not. It was communication of some strange level but the strangeness was somewhat overwhelming, thus Valo's mind simply took little interest in it all. He'd not remember this part of the dream for it's significance would prove inferior in magnitude to events which were about to come. A cold surge though him, a surge which too was somehow much more visual that actually felt, a tingling of bodily extremities in anticipation. But an anticipation of what? Was it really him that was tingling so? "Who are you." were the words. "What are you? How are you?"

[Zantair]

Zantair gazed upon the mass of everchanging form, the quizzical ever changing substance forming itself into an arrow, pointing in an outwards direction, past Zantair, past the limited reality of this dream state, surpassing logic and reason. Pointing, showing a way to some unforseen event, something that even on a spiritual level Zantair would likely never be able to compute, let alone a reasonable one. Zantair's body turned, the fog fading as his sight gazed upon this, this creature, it was only way Zantair could describe it as he could see nothing, but the existence of something, something was there, something that didn't make sense, at least for now. "Who are you?" The words spread through his mind like a plague, drifting inside and permeating, seeming to float off from within, a permanent sound? No. Not a sound, something else, something that defied all rhyme and reason as it spread into the distance. Who are you? Zantair pondered, the existence of these words that so plagued his mind, and tried with all the acute sense of reality that he, in his dreaming state, could manage. the words permeated his mind but lacked composition, or reasonable logic, but seeming to resonate with the forested presence that was this dream world. "I am... I am... Myself..." The words displayed to the ears, the ears that were not of the body, but the ears of the mind, a comprehensive forming of ones own intuition and the very tiny mathematical genious that brought forth sentient life. "What are you?" More words. More of something that Zantair's own mental capacity within his state lacked the ability to fully comprehend without creating a form o which these words came from, a form which now presented itself to him, he could only assume that these words came from this ghostly apparition. This thing. A thing which he had in his own imagination created as a ghostly human form, that perhaps was human, perhaps not, he lacked the power to truly see what he was seeing, to manipulate, he could only gaze and wonder, and guess and further distort this image. He thought, What am I? What am I? what am I? letting the words roll around the twisting passages that was his mind, and as if without a need for a mental response, the words flowed once more. "I am something, Something sentient..." The words that floated forth, the words that seemed far more complicated than they actually were, Zantair couldn't control them, and yet they came, and as soon as Zantair heard them, he knew those words made sense of the question. Then, as if defying what he thought could happen his hand extended forth, and he was as close to this apparition as would be deemed appropriate, he hadn't moved and yet he was there, close enough to shake the hand of this ghostly humane apparition. Close enough to grasp the creature's hand, and words flew from his mouth as if a spectral guide seemed to speak for him. "How are you?" The words were odd, He had never seen this thing before, and yet he was speaking to it as if he, himself, had known this Man-spirit for a long time. As if, he was destined that beyond this dream he would remember, as if this creature was somehow a known thing, something he had seen. Something he knew at least in a friendly way.

[Valo]

"I am... I am... Myself..." "I am something, Something sentient..." The replies he heard were not in common, not even nari, nor vani nor pavi... not any language that had ever brushed past his ears. Somehow he understood the meaning if only just, the the nature, the intonation and the substance of said language was perhaps just a figment of the imagination. Or perhaps it was common, yet simply Valo had not been aware of it. perhaps he had forsaken language all together for simple understanding of the meaning behind the words. Words at the lips of this creature before him. A face so very vivid now that this face would linger in his memory all though out the dream. That very face, an ink etching upon perfect paper. A painting upon the canvas of dream before him. He was so very close now and the energy between the two pulsed as if they had been the very best of friends. In some strange way,t hey were for Valo felt like he understood everything about the man before him. His emotion, his views and values, even such little things as the mannerism. He would know every word spoken, even before the man would say it. The movement of lip fluid whenever words were spoken. "I am something, Something sentient..." "Then I am something disembodied." replied Valo in the clearest Nari that could possibly erupt from his vocal chords. A clarity of words, yet no meaning behind them. He really had no comprehension why his lips posed such a statement. Was it really him who spoke. it sounded well enough as such, for the artist truly was the being to speak so enigmatically and convolutely. As the two stood facing one another, reality which was so very non-consubstantial with true reality began to crumble around them. The scenery fading. for moment it seemed as it they had been suspended in darkness, for no other had been present but the man before him. That very vivid face, fully animated as if itself was reality. Then as he blinked back into conciousness of his dream, the artist and the best friend stranger were in Priskil's Pond. Or rather, suspended right on the surface of the still water. The most generic forest about them, as if drawn my the hand of some photographically perfectionist artist. An artist who was not Valo for he would never put so much attention into dull and boring trees. The artist's face was impassive. Even those eyes of liquid emeralds, completely void of animation. He stood before the other, naked, palms inverted, head held high in severity of his profile. Suddenly Valo found himself on the bank of the pond, as if the entire pond itself had shifted just a little. But to his horror, for suddenly he was that same worm hearted artist again who's very name was the metaphor for his existence: light, he had been looking back at himself, hovering like a doll in the very centre of the pond. His body detached somehow, naked and lost to him.

[Zantair]

Zantair watched with a look, at least, he hoped a look of intense confusion and yet he felt as if every fibre of his being knew that this person who ever he was seemed to not belong, and yet, he felt that the man belonged in the same instance, A matter which he would forget and let it pass by himself, lost into the waters of dreams and futures. This man replied, words that while he may never understand he also seemed to understand at a level so far beyond the matter of language barriers, transcending rhyme or reason to give birth to the value of sentiments, of basic understandable meaning, something which again, like most that would happen here, would be lost to this forgetful void. "Then I am something disembodied." what? Zantair thought, his mind lacking the comprehension of something so pointless, so meaningless and yet, somehow, it seemed to make sense coming from the words of this perposterous man's mouth, like somehow this man, this man truly was disembodied, he was not himself, not attached to the real world and at this moment, he was lesewhere lost, far away from himself. Zantair wanted to flee the weird feelings building themselves within him and yet, he could not find the strength to move his body, to escape whatever he felt was so dreadful if it came. And the surreal reality faded, darkness surrounded the world he was now in as if this entire space was the pent up agression and fear so common within all things that bow to Syna's light. The darkness even if only a moment made Zantair want to scream, made him panic as it enclosed itself around him and in that single second the darkness dissipated, revealing much more than just the ample colours of a new place. Not just colour... No, a pond of some sort, Zantair was beside this man, and perhaps far more surreal was the feeling, he din't know of this place, it felt so unfamiliar and yet the cool water against his feet soothed him, filled him with the unbending vigilance, filled him with a feeling of impossible proportions that everything would be okay, and that the darkness had faded, it had filled him with hope, something more powerful than Syna's rays could do. Yet, the world itself, it felt wrong, to detailed, as if someone had taken a brush to the world itself, and painted everything like an artist's passionate, borderline obsessive passion for detail on even the most dull of things. All the trees seeming to sparkle with the brilliance of a masterful artist. A unintended glance revealed the man's position, emotionless, devoid of feeling with no clothes, and no need for clothes either, it seemed fitting. His palms were outstretched, positioned high, as if balancing the reverance of the entire painting within himself and himself alone. And just as quickly, Zantair became an onlooker, his eyes fluttering as he saw the artists seem to move within a blink, now on the enbankment to Priskil's pond, gazing at another of himself, looking with a face that could only be described as utter horror. "Disembodied" The words floated from Zantair's mouth as easily as the flow of water drifted to an ocean. He could neither tell where he was nor would he understand, he would remember, maybe, But he wouldn't understand. He watched onwards, only now realizing that the artist was indeed disembodied, though what that entailed for the man seemed unimportant, and perhaps mysteriously, Zantair became more than one pair of eyes, able to see every aspect of whatever was coming, eyes circling the expans so as not to miss a single detail. Surrounding the pond in question, and yet this strange phenomenom while not truly visible, unable to be seen, it could be felt, eyes, drilling into the situation from every angle, despite the artistic trees, and the serenity of the pond, these eyes continued to bore into the whole area, spying on the artist and his other self, willing for the scene to continue.