Open Drumming, Drumming, Drumming In The Sky

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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.

Drumming, Drumming, Drumming In The Sky

Postby Baran on June 6th, 2017, 7:24 pm

1st Summer 517 AV


The night was velvet in it's quietness. Yet in the deadness of the night, on the turn of the season, Baran could not slip into the landscape of sleep. There was no reason for his wakefulness, but the musician was a light sleeper and there was a certain excitement about new seasons that kept him stirring under the thin sheets that clothed his form. His eyes were shut, leaving his conciousness in a veneer of shallow darkness. His mind was dancing with music, as it often was. But as a fishing owl cooed slowly and shiveringly across the rooftops of the city, Baran's dance fell quiet. It was a struggle now to keep awake. He murmured, a low, meaningless word, some kind of grasping struggle to maintain alertness. He almost opened his eyes, but found he couldn't. He tried to move, but everything felt slow and tired, so, so tired. The band in his head hung up their instruments, and gracefully he conceded, and fell into slumber.


The land of his dreams, however, was another realm entirely. If one could be considered gone and exhausted and spent, the other was alive and oozing and alert. He was standing, knee-deep, in a humid swamp. Low, mud-green trees swept the reeking waters, whilst in the insect-saturated air birds swept and dove in a myriad of weaving patterns. He was alone, yet despite the lack of houses of society or people, he didn't feel lonely. Because there was a constant presence, and that presence was a faint, yet growing louder drumbeat.

Baran walked forwards haltingly, because the swamp was muddy and thick and clinging. Somewhere, a drummer was playing. He had to find out where. He cocked his head, and tilted his ear in the direction he heard the noise from, but found himself spinning. It was like... like the drum was inside his head, yet outside his head. He couldn't place it. He took another step forwards, and again, but the sound remained constantly unplaceable.

The drumbeat tickled, and shifted. Now it was unsteady, not following a thumping rhythm, but changing constantly. It was a skillful performance by a talented musician. Baran started to walk purposefully, through the dirty swamp. Around him, the trees grew thicker and more wild. Vines trailed down from warped, old boughs, and snakes hissed and rattled threateningly in the maze of roots and branches. A sinuous creature slid past his leg, but the man merely pushed it aside and kept going onwards and onwards.

The drumbeat was louder now. It was as difficult as the snake, as tricky as the terrain. It was beautiful to the musician, a thing of utmost deception and so enticing to the ear that all he wanted was the see the player in action, to compliment them on their impressive skill, and to bask in the complex rhythms. He strived forwards... and broke out into an utterly still clearing in the swamp, to see a raised, empty hill, with a broken drum lying alone and abandoned. The drumbeat persisted, like a taunt.
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"If you steal my gamba, I will gut you."
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