09-24-2023, 09:21 PM
The dream shuddered. A riptide tore through its very fibres, dragging souls in its wake as though they were nothing but debris. The pull was immense, and startled her eyes wide as it passed. She twisted around as though to follow. Yet for once Nimeda did not let herself become swept up in an unknown current just for the thrill of seeing where it led.
Perhaps because it did not feel like chance or invitation or adventure, but control.
"What was that?" She murmured the words aloud, distracted by the sensation, her senses flaring out to discover a new and strange silence – like the quiet after a storm. It took her a moment to realise why that was, after which she shifted in perplexity to the nexus formed around the Watcher.
She left wet footprints as she passed across the ash. People lay like felled flowers in a fairy ring, something she witnessed with dismay. The faces were low, but she knew some of them simply by the way they felt here; the very essence from which they were made. At their centre loomed the Watcher himself, dark and immense, his distant eyes as red as the poppy woven amongst the other fauna in her dripping hair. His Will pressed still, like a hand held down on a drowning face. She could certainly feel its weight, even as she cleaved aside its hold from herself. She came here because she wanted to. But she did not wish to bow.
Resistance was something Nimeda rarely executed; she had no reason to usually, and even the last time they had met in this form she had allowed his mastery to tumble her around with the others, to be ultimately discarded alongside them. She hadn’t minded. Nimeda went with the flow of this world, not against it. Hidden amongst the warp and weft.
She knew the man at the Watcher’s feet; had entered his dreams before. A cord had existed between them for a while now, though he was no natural born dreamwalker. Nimeda did not even know his name. Usually he stubbornly refused to be calmed, but she soothed the remnants of his nightmares sometimes; made them drift like smoke when he woke, to lessen the sting. She’d offered to take the memories entirely before. But he’d refused. It was why her touch remained light, born of love and familiarity she could not explain but simply accepted. Though she wished he’d let her do more.
The Watcher had in fact missed quite a few of his names, though she was only half-listening; the imperious and commanding tone said enough, really, and she was more consumed in those few seconds with trying to understand what was going on. Meanwhile, she leaned a little to offer the kneeling boy a hand up.
Perhaps because it did not feel like chance or invitation or adventure, but control.
"What was that?" She murmured the words aloud, distracted by the sensation, her senses flaring out to discover a new and strange silence – like the quiet after a storm. It took her a moment to realise why that was, after which she shifted in perplexity to the nexus formed around the Watcher.
She left wet footprints as she passed across the ash. People lay like felled flowers in a fairy ring, something she witnessed with dismay. The faces were low, but she knew some of them simply by the way they felt here; the very essence from which they were made. At their centre loomed the Watcher himself, dark and immense, his distant eyes as red as the poppy woven amongst the other fauna in her dripping hair. His Will pressed still, like a hand held down on a drowning face. She could certainly feel its weight, even as she cleaved aside its hold from herself. She came here because she wanted to. But she did not wish to bow.
Resistance was something Nimeda rarely executed; she had no reason to usually, and even the last time they had met in this form she had allowed his mastery to tumble her around with the others, to be ultimately discarded alongside them. She hadn’t minded. Nimeda went with the flow of this world, not against it. Hidden amongst the warp and weft.
She knew the man at the Watcher’s feet; had entered his dreams before. A cord had existed between them for a while now, though he was no natural born dreamwalker. Nimeda did not even know his name. Usually he stubbornly refused to be calmed, but she soothed the remnants of his nightmares sometimes; made them drift like smoke when he woke, to lessen the sting. She’d offered to take the memories entirely before. But he’d refused. It was why her touch remained light, born of love and familiarity she could not explain but simply accepted. Though she wished he’d let her do more.
The Watcher had in fact missed quite a few of his names, though she was only half-listening; the imperious and commanding tone said enough, really, and she was more consumed in those few seconds with trying to understand what was going on. Meanwhile, she leaned a little to offer the kneeling boy a hand up.
![[Image: thal-banner-scaled.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/08/thal-banner-scaled.jpg)