the dreamer has nightmares | closed

[pactmarshal]

🌳Who: Trahearne and others!
🌳What: A series of nightmares leaves Trahearne (and others) sleepless
🌳When: The second week of summer
🌳Where: In the dream world
🌳Warnings: Slaughter, prejudice, depression in general, maybe a lil nsfw, Heart of Thorns spoilers looks directly at cocoa

Comments

ellis ✈️

[pactmarshal]

[ There is a buzz of excitement and anticipation in the air.

The massive airship speeds due west, the afternoon sun obscured by a saffron haze in a cloud of dust created from the arid sands below. Wind whips in Ellis's ears, the thrum of engines reverberate loudly in the air, creating a cacophonous clamor. Armed and armored individuals of all shapes and sizes rush to and fro, calling out in muffled, indistinct voices. Any attempt to look directly at any of these people will only cause the details of their appearance to blur, avoiding any personal identification. Looking over the edge to the ground below shows that, despite the furious wind, the airship and the rest of the fleet behind it sit perfectly still in midair.

Trahearne himself is standing at the very front of the deck, gazing out over the verdant brink of the jungle on the horizon. He is perfectly still, a quiet contrast to the hustle and bustle on the rest of the ship. ]

[framestory]

[ He dreams again.

For Ellis, this is such a rare occurrence that if he happens to dream about anything, he knows that something is afoot. That said, in dreams he still can't hear because he doesn't know what they're supposed to sound like, but he can still "hear" what people say in dreams--he can "speak" in dreams as well. It's an odd phenomenon that's chalked up to dreams being dreams, the unexplainable only happens in them, after all.

When he looks up, he sees Trahearne, the only person who isn't blurry amidst of the busy people. It's so cool though, being on an airship. Ellis has never been on one before, so he takes the time to look around before going to see Trahearne. It doesn't take long.

He waves, wondering if Trahearne can see him. ]

[pactmarshal]

[ Trahearne senses he's not alone in his dream--it's an odd sensation, but not entirely unfamiliar to him--and he glances over his shoulder. He spots Ellis waving at him, recognizes him, but does not immediately know who it is. Only that he knows they are meant to be acquaintances, at the very least.

And so, without turning around, he beckons Ellis over, soon directing his gaze back towards the nearing jungle. ]

[framestory]

[ Ellis lightly tilts his head and goes to stand next to Trahearne and tries to follow his gaze. Why is he looking at the jungle so much. ]

Are we going there?

[ thank god for dreams I dont have to explain shit ]

[pactmarshal]

[ Trahearne glances at Ellis, something in the back of his mind telling him that hearing this man's voice is something significant. But he doesn't let the thought linger.

There are more important matters at hand. ]

Yes--the Heart of Maguuma.

[ He stands proudly, his chin lifted, his voice in high spirits. ]

Today marks the beginning of our assault on Mordremoth, the jungle dragon. I believe with our superior firepower, the artillery strike should be enough to lure it out. And we will prove victorious against yet another Elder Dragon.

[ He grips the railing and peers down at the ground below, his smile dropping into a puzzled frown. ]

But...I have a feeling that something is terribly wrong.

adelis ☠️

[pactmarshal]

[ There's a slickness to the air, one that clings like oil to one's skin, one's hair, one's bones.

The land is devoid of life, cramped by unnaturally-shaped terrain, ruins of buildings that are mere shadows of their former grandeur. Oversized barnacles and dead coral from centuries under the ocean cling to the crumbling structures, towering over the soggy ground like otherworldly trees. Unnatrual shrieks occasionally pierce the silence, perhaps seabirds that strayed too close to the corruption. It stinks of brine, of rot and decay. The clouds above take on a sickly green hue, a reflection of the putrescence that permeates the land below.

Adelis will find himself by a rocky outcropping. To his right, the sound of shuffling feet against damp sand; to his left, a familiar voice calling to him. ]

Run! [ It's Trahearne. He's perched farther up the outcropping, desperately beckoning for Adelis to follow him. ] You shouldn't be here--it's not safe!

[for8000amonth]

[ It's a familiar sensation.

Not wholly familiar, like one he has spent his life with, but it's not something he hasn't felt before. It reminds him of the very few times he's stepped foot into the poisoned husk of Koshevek and it's mires, albeit with far less coral and stink of seawater. The way rot stings his nose brings unpleasant memories, and while the sky is no doubt brighter than Ostoya's sunless sea, it's no more welcoming.

His gaze is already turning to the ominous shuffling of feet, but the voice interrupts him. It's...someone familiar, much to his surprise- yelling at him, no less.

There's little fear despite the scenario, more caution and wariness, but the urgency is enough to have him toss a backwards glance before finally darting over with a quick and quiet practiced gait. His heels weren't meant for treading on sand, but if it bothers or hinders him any, he doesn't show it. ]

That much is obvious- [ It's a sharp hiss, as he holds up his hand experimentally. There's a light pulse of pink static- well, at least he's not defenseless. ] If you've got somewhere better for us to be, then I suggest you don't waste any time!

[pactmarshal]

I don't plan to!

[ Trahearne hates shouting in Orr, but they've attracted the Risen already. He never intends to fight them anyway--just get away. Fighting poses too much of a risk, especially with a human guest.

The approaching horde of Risen stagger quickly towards them. Luckily, however, there don't seem to be any particularly powerful or dangerous kind among them. For now, at least. ]

Take my hand!

[ Trahearne extends a hand, a brief and open invitation. But whether Adelis wants to climb up into the rock himself is up to him. ]

[for8000amonth]

[ Ah. Now, that's far more familiar. Staggering, rotting things of worn flesh, attracted to life and life alone. It wouldn't be something he's not used to dealing with, but he'd rather not waste time testing how resilient these ones are to blades through the skull.

Adelis' gaze whips up at the call, and he, for a moment, debates. He's fully capable of climbing himself, yes- it would not be the first climb he's done, and hardly the last. But the air is slick and damp with rot, and it reflects on the rocky surface, and part of him doubts he'd find particularly good purchase on his own. A possibility, but not a risk he's willing to take at this very moment.

So, with an aggravated click of the tongue, he reaches up to grasp that hand and assist in pulling himself up. At least he doesn't weigh a lot. ]

[pactmarshal]

[ That's a good thing. Because Trahearne isn't all that heavy, either.

He grasps his hand, and as they make contact, his eyes go wide for a moment. He can't help what comes out of his mouth. ]

Why are you-- [ so cold?!

It doesn't matter. Whoever this is, is clearly alive and sentient, not Risen. He shakes his head--never mind that. With a forceful lean, he pulls Adelis up onto the outcropping just as the approaching Risen reach his previous spot.

When he sees Adelis is safe, he lets go and begins scrambling up the rocks on all fours. ]

m-21 🍂

[pactmarshal]

[ There's a long, long line of sylvari.

Though none look specifically like either Trahearne or Syrlya--no two look alike at all, in fact--M-21 knows what they are. He also will know that these are saplings. The newly awakened secondborn. The first new batch of sylvari in two years, since the first ones awakened. And they are they hope of their future.

But the facility they stand in is looking to quickly sap that hope away. Its clean gemoetric shapes and cold lights and sterile gleam methodically herd the children of nature into a large contraption in the middle. There is a buzz, a beep, and the unlucky sapling standing in the middle falls dead on the floor. A life gone before it could even blossom.

There's a frantic, anxious air in the room. It's coming from Trahearne. He looks over a large, extensive console from this elevated control room, desperately looking for the right button to push. M-21 stands beside him, and Trahearne looks at his neighbor in a panic. ]

How do I stop this?! [ His voice is unlike the calm in their initial meeting--quickly losing his cool. ] Please, help me!

[feralheart]

[ Compared to the last nightmare he'd fallen into, for one disoriented moment M-21 could almost think this one was his. The harsh lights, the cold inorganic smell... it feels very like the lab he'd first woken up in. Enough that it takes him a second to absorb that the line of subjects aren't humans — former humans — at all. He's still processing that when the first sapling drops lifeless to the ground, and a jolt of nauseating familiarity goes through him. ]

What the hell...

[ Trahearne's voice snaps him out of his stupor. He looks frantically between the familiar face and the controls, hardly needing Trahearne's panic to spur on his own. Even if this were M-21's era of technology, finesse isn't exactly his strong point. ]

Just — just hit all of them! There must be a power source here somewhere.

[ He casts a gaze around looking for anything that he'd recognize as one. Breaking something has to be much faster than finding the right lever. ]

[pactmarshal]

[ There are buttons of all sizes and colors, and Trahearne's hands hover over all of them in his frantic search. ]

But--but what if it kills more of them?! [ There is one button that is particularly red and particularly large. It sits towards the upper end of the console, near the observation window. Trahearne spots it, but hesitates.

He flinches visibly when he hears another chorus of screams from the saplings. He doesn't look up to watch. ] We can't afford to lose any more than we already have!

[feralheart]

Then we can't just do nothing!

[ It's just a dream, he reminds himself. Even if it's the wrong choice. But the urgency in the air feels real.

Fine. If it's the wrong choice, he'll take the responsibility for it. Anything is better than just standing by and letting this happen. He reaches for the red button and slams his hand down on it, already wincing a little in anticipation. ]

[pactmarshal]

[ The response is almost immediate. The lights throughout the facility immediately shut down, only to be replaced by a red warning light. It slowly blinks on and off, accompanied by the distant wailing of an alarm.

"Emergency shut-down initiate in lab Alpha Twenty One. All available personnel, please proceed to site for immediate response." ]

No!

[ Trahearne evidently knows what that means, and separates himself from the console to begin searching the control room for...something.

The saplings below, in the meanwhile, have begun to yell in fear, clinging to one another. ]

mishka 🐉

[pactmarshal]

[ It's dark.

Is it possible to be aware one is dreaming, yet see nothing?

Of course, because the nightmare seeps into the crevices of all the other senses. Pain rips through Mishka's limbs, the smell of burning metal and rubber and the thick humidity of the jungle clogs the nostrils, the bitter taste of anxiety and fear and desperation thickly coats the tongue.

And there is a voice.

It's a sickening voice. Its timbre and tone disorients. It rattles through every inch of Mishka's body, threatening to overtake his entire being should he let his concentration lapse for even a moment. ]

T͉̗̻̦̳͌̃h̹̪ė̯̤̣̭͉̙͛ ̳̦̘̠̠͐̄ͫͅl͚͔ͪ̓͆̇͗̇o̱̅n̯͖͕͕̠͔ͅg̞e̅̎̈r͐ͦ̏̑ ̻̤̺̬̘y͇͕͍̾o̜̠̩̹̲͖̭u͉͇͎͖̫̹̖ͧ ͔̣͓̗̊̂ͭ̐d͈̠̭̙͕̻ͯ͗ͣͫ̅e̼̜ͭ̊ͪͥ̈̏͆n̬͓̬ͅỹ̪̰̦̼͓ͫ̇̅̄͋̔ ̱̺̪̻͕͙̟ͪ̐̃̓̑̓ͭm̠̫̥̠̣ͯe͉ͨ͗ͦ̔̌,ͧ ̩̖̬̼̬ͨ̃̾͑̃ͩͅt͓̘h̺̰̱̟̦̞e̦̥̽̉̎̂ ͔͇̩͕̝͉̎ͬͥ̾͐͒m̭̝̆̎̾̓ͬ̿ͅo̠͈̼̓̉ṟ̗̳̮̿̇̉e̓ͬͩͤ͐ ͆̐̔y͔̥̝̘̺͔ͦo̺ǘ̓̾r̺̠̎̐͛̃͑ ̞̺͔̔̐͂͒̂ͮp̯̟̫̪̜͚e̥̣͈̘ͮ̓̐ō̩͔̝̗pḻ̙̪̺̜͗̃ͬ͑e͇͕͖̪̘̮ͫ̀ͨͭͤ̚ ̣̰͙̳̓̚s̞͌̍̋̈ͤ͋u̼̬͈͈͚̯̹͆̓̔f͙̜͔͎͂͒̓̚ͅf̞͙͂eͯͬr͈̙͈͙̳̒̊ͯͧ̆.ͬ̊̍͑ͦͯ

D͉̯͗̄o͓̦ͫ͂̂̏ ̝̠͖̠̯͒I̐ͧ ̟̪̳̥ͅṋͪͯͫ̏ͪẻ̖͒̑̄é̟͔ͯ̎͊ͅd̻͍̫̥͔̃͗ͅ ̬t͎̥͙̼̾ŏ̰̳̤̪͋ͭ͌̽̃ͧ ̓̀ͦ̔̆͋s̿h̪̦̬̙͑̌o̖͚̰ͤw̙̣̣̖͗ͦ̿ͅ ̠̺̩̂ͩ̊ͨ̆͌ȳ͕̲̫̥ọ̩͉̮͚ȕ͚̣̪͖̌̀ ̳̬̗̉̿̑̐̂ͥ̾a̪̜͚ͧͫ̊ͯ̈́̔̚g̥̘̋̈͒̽a̦̥̥̘̐̔iͯ̋ͥͩͤͬ̚n͈̮̹̗ͯͩͬ̂̊ͤ̚?͉͍͚̰̈͛̍

[yourlenore]

( The nights, for Mishka, are long, echoing reverberations of the endless abyss that had swallowed him. The endless chill of space - the ceaseless pressure of the ocean - and the compounding desolation, knowing there was nothing, no one else out there, and that he was alone.

And then there is the agony of this. Is sensation better when feeling begets suffering?

The humidity peels beneath his skin in concert with his senses, the thick sweat nearly viscous as his skin seems to sizzle in the heat - it's hard to tell, where the heat ends and the pain begins; which scent burns his nostrils, and which sounds rattle his head. It blends together in the charcoal-ember burning of his body.

It's hard to think of where he is - what is this voice - what any of this means, when the whole of his focus coalesces around keeping steady against this voice. )

Keep... away—

( If there's a thing he can grab to support himself, he will try - but while he is disoriented and writhing in his skin, it is his instinct to resist abnormal intrusions inside him. It is what he has done for all his years to stay alive.

His people, though. It's hard to really process the meaning of that, but he doesn't miss this unfamiliar detail. )

What are you—?

[pactmarshal]

[ When Mishka attempts to move and find physical support, stinging, wringing pain shoots through his arms, up through his shoulders. Moving hurts. Any amount of exertion feels like fighting against the very fabric of his being.

The voice comes again, a stinging migraine. It reaches through the mind like the rapid spread of weeds. For the briefest moment as it speaks, sudden, bright flashes of large, grotesque vines choking airships, camps, soldiers play against the inside of Mishka's eyelids. ]

Iͯ͑ ̄̍ͤa͂͋͛̔m̿ ̀y̏ͤ̿̅̋̈́o͒͊uͬ̾rͦ͆̓ͥ̂ c͊ͩre̍ͥ̋͋ͪ̇̍a̒̄͐͊̆̋tȏͨ̓͆͐͊̚ř͗͊̎ͣ̾̚.͒̈́ͧ̈̐ ̓͐͌̄ͪ̆Ỳ̋̓̾̾̽o̒̓̆̍͑ͩū̐̌̄̌rͦͦ͑ͯ s̋ͮͫ͆ͤå̅́̆ͥ͛l͂̐̒ͨ̄v̎̓͑ā͗ͪt̃ͫ̋iͫ̾͆̽̏̈őn̓͒͂ͧ͌̄.́̿̓͛̋ͮ͒

T͎͍̩o͔̜̗g̭et̲͈he̯̮̫r̤̭̣̹͈͎,̹͚̱ ̪̟̬̝̬̗t̮̙̹͇ͅh̦͔̙͉̲͈e̥ ͙̟͖̘̼̣w͙̳̭̦̖̮o̯̜ṟ̳̞̪ld̮͍̞ ̼̣̤̰̬̤c̘̖̯͕̞ͅo͎̜̞͖͓u͙͔̱̻l͈̪̙̺̼ͅͅḍ͖̪̰̝̱ ̻̰͙͍̦͕b̝̞͙͓ͅe̙̺̪̥̯͎͙ ̱̭̤̺̠̱o̲̲̜urs.̠͉̙̮ ̙̖̥Ỵ̰̹̮e̲͎t̺͖ ͇̮y̩̜̝̙̟o͇̼u̟̘̼̹͍͚ ̞̼͚ͅc͎̠̘̬̭o̮̗̗͙̹̥n̩̺t̯i̟n̺̬̪̬̳̼̖u͕e̲͉̘͎̭͎ ̳̯̞͈̮̰t͕͙͉̣̠̺͎o̥̻ ̣͓̤͓̦ͅd̠̻̝̝̭̤e̱̣̼ͅny ̱̺̠̰̖̖m̞̠͚̱e̙͖̗.̦̲̼̼

[yourlenore]

( The action betrays him, and he knows enough about futility not to try again. He hisses sharp, his breath sucking back in with a shuddering strain.

The visions don't improve the strain - he grimaces, between the pain and heat and rapid sights, it's hard to keep himself steady. These visions aren't things he knows; these airships, camps, and soldiers - none of them are his own, and the foreign knowledge twists like shrapnel in his brain. )

And perhaps... I have a good reason for doing so, yes?

( Ah, how his skull feels fit to burst with how the voice throbs within it. How much easier it would be to give into this false god - or, perhaps, in this strange liminal reality, as near a thing to god as he would get. )

... What do I lose? ( If he accepts this voice, he means - sesides the self. The self is always the first to go, and a given. More pressingly: ) What... Are these visions?

cw slaughter and discrimination...

[pactmarshal]

[ There's something else somewhere in Mishka's mind--or even his heart, perhaps--that the loss would go far beyond the self. That the moment he lets go of his consciousness, he would relinquish control of everything he has worked so hard to create in the name of the betterment of the world to this terrible, terrible entity. All that power would be used in the name of the destruction of the world.

Mishka letting go would surely spell the end of everything.

That isn't what the voice tells him, though. ]


Yͪͩoͯͥu͊̌̌ͤ̑ͬ ͛̍l͌̅o͛ͤ̀͋̚s͂͗ͧͭ̃͗̍̂̚ȅ̎̈̈ ͛ͥ̀̇ͧͯ̂̾̚n͋̎̽̋o͊̔̏͆̒̍̓t̏͋ͩ̀ḣͫͮ̐ͦͤͪ̔ͯi̒͂̉̊̄ͧn̎̈́̒ͦ̏ġͪ̈́̋.͐ͧͣͧ̉̐̂̽̔ ͮ̏̓͊̀́Ỳoͦͤ̇̐u̎̌̌͂ͣ͆ͪ ̄g̈ͬ̉̍ͣ̾̔a̐͆ͨ̆i̿ͥ͋ń͂̈́̃̀̿̓ ̓́̈ͧͧ̚e̓̏͊ͮ̏ͩ̇̆̽vͩ̔̍eͯͯ͗̚r̎̔ŷ̽͂͌̒͆͒ͭt̓ͦͦͬ̌̿͆h̔̌̒ͧͥ̆ìͩ͆ͬ͋̑̐̚nͥ̀ͩ̽͂g̋͊̐.̋̔
Ẉh͇̬͈͕a̞̠̤̟͍̖̳̠̞t̳̯̹͍͕̹̗ ̘͇̲y̫̼̙̻͔̰͔̬͚o̠͕͈͈͔͙͇u͍͖͉ ͓̼̗͖s͍͉͉̠̬̗͈e̞̯̩̤̝e̙̲͙̭̻̱̝͚̯ ͈̠i̫̙̻̗̤̗̙s̮̦̦̞ ̝̤͈a̪̩͖g̹o̱̺̗̲̦n̫̪͓̪̭͉̥y̬ ̯̞w̦̯͎r̭̺̟͈͉̹ọ̫̲͇̘̠ṵ͕̮ͅg͈̩̬̠̝̗h̗͖̬̠̠̬͉t͍̲̻͚̖̻̥ ̤̣͉̤̱̹̫̜̲b͍̱̮̠͎̯̟̞̯y̙͚ ̺̥̙̜͙͖ͅy̙o̗̟̖̪̯̦̦̝̙u̺̱̼̠̟̯r̹̣̗̞̪̮͇̹ ̰̻̦ͅo͓w̙̼ṉ̹̜ ̺̰̼s͚͔̪̫̱ͅt̝͔̣̜̩̞̖̪̠u̥̭̲̭̞̤̫b̭̯̦b̰͔͙͕o̲̬̠̭̦̖̘r̟̰͇̪ͅn̼͇̥͓͖̜̯n̗͙̣̫͕ͅe̖̻͍͎s̻͈s̮̬̠̠̗̮͉.͇̻͉͔̙̥͙͕


[ There comes the flash of another vision: A large humanoid woman lords over an enclosure full of plant-like people. She towers over one, pulled apart from the rest, a gun pointed at his head. There's a bang. He falls dead. ]


T͖͍̝̰̯̫̦̻̐ͦ͗̂̍h̝̙ͦ̃ͤ̊ͫ̊̑ͫe̯͕̼ͨ̾y̩̟̥̬͓̍̆̓ͪ̈́ͫ̿̐͂ ̹̯̜͗̄h͕͇̲̺̫͖̚o̳͍͙͎̘̲̣͓͈͂̾͊ḽ̜̠ͧ̍̍ͣͧ̍͗͂d̪͆ ̘͕̣̉̍͑ͪ͒̏n̮̫͔̩ͥ̈͆̆̆͐ͯ̄o͈̙͕̺̍ͭ̂̎̂͆ͭ̐ ̹͍̼̺̰̘̽͂ͦ̑t̖͕̼̖̖ͫͨr͍̰͚̉̒̆͂̍u̘̩̲͉̬̼̩̭͑͛ͧ̄ͧs̠̩̝̗ͩ͒ͦt͈̆̅ͫ̔͊̂ͫ ͔͓̞͙̰̻̯̽̂̏f͓̖̍ͯo̯̳̖̤̞̽̎͂r̟̦̭͈̣̱̂̂̆ͭ̈́̀̌̚ ͍̩̺͔̉͒ͣ͌ͫ͆y͔͒̐͐ŏ͙̯̥̦ͪ͑͑ͨ̿ù̟̹̬ͫ͋ͬ̔̓ͅr̲͉͖̩̭̪̱̈̎͗̿̚ ̼͔̝͈̹̓̆͂ͨp̜̮̙̬͍̼͔̎ͫͪ̈́͐̍̒e̟̟̟͓̽ͩo̳͈̪̝̳̳ͭ̽̊̌̇ͅp̬̫̦̼̻̎͆͐l̟̰̜̅ͅe͎̙̥͉̫͎̙̯͛͒.̞̰̲͓̲ͭ̉ͦ͋ͬ̂̅̈ ̲̰̍̑ͧ̓ͥͮ̉̅A͍̰̙͇̭̦̱͊ͫͥ̊ͬ̑̓̆n̞̹̬͍͇̻̺̼̉ͫ̿ͦḍ̙͖̬̳͙̙̋͐͒ͤͪ͐̉͐ ̘͓͙͓̌̓̾̈̌͐͋̓ͭy͖̻̟͓̳͛͂̏o͙̯̥͙̺̙̦̥̰̾̎̔ͯͤͨͦ̀ȗ̖͈̹̥̰͙ͩ͌ ̼̠͈̱̠͉̝͚̪͊w̳͕̪̺̩̄̆ͦ̆̉̍͌o̳̭̠͓̻̯͕̲͋ͨ̔̆̀̐̎͛u͓͚̜̙͑l̘̗̝̩͇̻̩̘̓ͪͩ̇̈́̂̑d̻̤͇̣͕͇̞͎͚ͭ̃͛͂̋͛̉ ͈̺͈̮̳̯̣͍̑́ͯl̼͖̹̞̹̟͓̼ͥ̽̽ͫ̒ȇ̹͇̭͖͗ͥ͌̓̋t̰̅ͩͭ ͍͎̙͖͚̥ͨͪͤͧͣ̈́ṱ̦͖̭͓̻̔͆h̤͔͙͗ͥͥ̽̊̾i̟̯̹͖̭͚͖̜̐̆ͣ̒ͧ̑̔ͅs̖̙̹̺̦ͬ͗̐̋ ̪̙͙̙̙͈̪͌̿̆̿̄c̜̫͚͙̽̑ͫ͗ͅo͖̒ͭ͒́́͌ͤ̉n̯̟̝̗͈͋ͭ̅͂̓̈́t̙̻̒́́̓́̑ͣi̝̮̺̗̾͐ͬn̗͍̭̦̝͉̼̳ͩ̀ͯ̆̋͆ụ̲̺̮̖̞̜̜͕̉̋͐̍̅ͧͪͧe̦̻̤̖̺̪͔͗̓̍̾ͪͅ?̰͔̙͚͚̼̮̎

syrlya 💔

[pactmarshal]

[ What's it like to dream of yourself, Syrlya?

Because once Syrlya finds himself in this nightmare, he'll be met with a closeup of his own face. He hovers, wide eyes characteristically distant and uncaring. When he moves, a surge of uncomfortable pleasure courses through the dreamer's senses, yet dream-Syrlya's expression remains unchanged.

A hand comes to rest on the dreamer's cheek.

"Is this what you wanted?" ]

[chronosynthesis]

[Syrlya is used to seeing his own face. Perhaps it's the nature of being a Mesmer that requires enough vanity to always look deeply at yourself. The direction is odd, the expression is as blank as his clones often are.

And then an awkward pleasure roils through him and oh, wait, okay that part isn't normal at all--

He jumps back, trying to shake his senses as he puts distance to the clone.] Um--what?

[pactmarshal]

[ Syrlya finds that, when he speaks, his voice is not his own at all. It's Trahearne's.

Now with distance between them, Syrlya will also see that his dream self is lacking a shirt. At least. No burn scar.

Dream-Syrlya swiftly steps in to close the distance again, tightly wrapping his arms around Syrlya's shoulders. There is no affection in the motion--it feels more as though he's trying to keep him in place.

Another shift, another wave of uncomfortable pleasure.

"I'm giving you want you want, Trahearne. Then perhaps you'll leave me alone." ]

[chronosynthesis]

What? [Syrlya squirms to try and look down at himself. Is he dreaming he's Trahearne? Is this coming from that kiss? What the hell was wrong with what he ate last night.]

H-hold on. [He tries to take another step back anyway because this feeling in response to his own face is weird. Even if he's not Trahearne right now.] Whatever this is, I don't want it.

[pactmarshal]

[ Dream-Syrlya doesn't let go. If anything, he holds tighter.

"Are you absolutely sure?"

He pulls himself higher--or perhaps Syrlya-in-Trahearne's-body gets dragged lower--getting uncomfortably close. It's now that a brief semblance of emotion passes through his expression, at once sickly sweet and disgusted.

"Because if you are? Then good."

He presses their lips together. Awkwardly. Unfeeling.

"I don't want to see you ever again." ]