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** Ol' Osna is a ghost of a dream...or a dream of a ghost. He can never remember which. He can touch things in the real world now and then, but it's come and go, it is. Patience, bird. Patience. This dreamer better watch 'is self. People who worship dreams don't tend to stay sane, in the long view o' things.
Yer waiter's me, I guess. I write down nothin' on nothin' cos this is a dream, and I don't give a volc. The Once-Dreamt dismisses me, so I walk away. See ya later, bird.
Osna watches in slack-beaked amazement as you quickly banish the chains with spell and glower. He tries to stand up, but his legs cramp - it is obvious that he has been chained to the ground for a very long time. "S*!%e, that hurts. Okay. Are you--oww, damn it--are you real? I've had this stupid 'rescue me' sequence about a hunerd times, and it gets real old, bird." "You seem different, though. Weird as cac, but maybe real? Please?"
A familiar voice - "Eh birds, knew ye would come this way sooner or later. Can't tell iffit's soon or late though - 's the trouble with dreams, wouldn't ye say?" An unfamiliar face - a sylph with beak and feather crawls out from a spot near the dark, undulating walls. He is chained. The bird-like features do him no favors - they seem more like deformities than enhancements. Osna Ghosthand, still kickin' around in the land of Dreams.
Abnaki Dreamt: With a crown of daisy chains and throne of hopeful wishes, you start to carve out a new kingdom in your imagination. Why would Fey and Dream ever be separate? You envision vast realms: dreams of hunters, dreams of prey, flowers, wind, rain. A reflection of reality, imaginary yes but also deep-colored and sweet-scented; realer than real. You dream of the Dreamwild.
Abnaki, in the oasis: Even deserts dream of rain. Rain used to be a god. Each little water droplet of you goes a separate path, a cascade of curving, troubled lives; then the streams converge into rivers of you, oceans of you, drifting fog of you. Seagulls screech as they pass through you.
Abnaki, dreaming in the soil: You dream of your friends going to a grand banquet. You smile in the gentle soil.
Abnaki, dreaming: drifting, earth walking, phasing through the fey soil, ruminating hundreds of different stories in your mind, , drifting, sinking into the dreaming soil dreaming dreams. Keep it together, birdo. Osna?
Abnaki continued: Plants dream. Every small blade of grass, glade by the blue lake, dreams. Every flower, petal, bush...dreams. The soil dreams of seeds dream of stems dream of flowers dream of pollen dreams of beauty dreams of dreams.
**
Static noise, laughter and...beer? --too bright here, we- Black feathers falling, a deep breath, calming, I need to borrow Abanki the Broken-Headed, friends. It's good to see you. Visit me in your dreams some time.
Osna's afraid of gettin' trapped in Dream forever again. Thank the pissin' gods everythin's normal.
Osna, sneakin' on his other side just for the hell of it, whispers in kind, "Ye just cooked yer brains with a Moon and Fey omelette, and now you want to sprinkle some Death on top? I have to ask ye boy, did that hole in yer memories take yer reasoning, too? Yer a daft pluck if yer serious."
Trudging a few steps behind the rest of you, Osna asks, "So our best idea is to blast the death mountain with some pieces of ice and what-have-ye? Brilliant."
"Doesn't everyone?" Osna quips.
***
Around two in the morning with nuthin' better to say, Osna asks Sequoya a question. "So why were you and Kallik in the Hearth is the first place? Pretty clear ye hate the city, 'specially yer friend."
Osna's breath rasps loudly in the cavern. He cradles the burned side of his face in his hand. "That woulda been a hell of a lot easier without the hangover."
Osna quirks a brow, but shrugs and grins. "Suit yerself. Just say the word if it gets too mangy and I'm always happy to come with. In the meantime, fancy a game a cards?" Leaping out of the battered box, the cards float and shuffle themselves around him, a favorite little handy trick.
Osna finds Gabe, the slippery bastard. He's a good'n to have on yer side. Making sure he's got Gabe's attention, he says, real friendly like, "Hey shade, make sure ye don't do any scouting without me these days, alright? I can be invisible and sneaky as hell, and it never hurts to have a second set of eyes --- agreed?"
Osna magicks the sick off the damn turnips again. And he realizes he's been castin' spells inside his silence like it was nothin'. What the hell does it mean to cast spells without the words now? Is it because they're comin' from an empty head like mine? vulc it all.
Osna casts a silence spell on his own damn head. That'll shut the buggers up, let a fellow wallow in peaceful misery. He holds back the watery bile in the back of his throat and tries not to get sick -directly- on the turnips.
Gods cac it, too many wee nips make for a volcing nightmare hangover. Osna pukes a few times, prestidig--belch--atates the mess off hisself, and sprints over to the nearest cart to find some damn blankets to hide under. -he finds the turnip cart instead. It's a long, bumpy ride, but it still beats marching.
Osna mostly hangs around with Abnaki for the night, still bein' a bit scared the fool will sell his brain to fairies again before the night is through. He tries to make light conversation, avoid talkin' aboot lost loves or souls or any cac like that. Besides that, a wee nip in the evening, and probably a bit more in the morning. 'Procured' some extra whiskey before leavin' town for good. Need some way to unwind besides playing cards with the loudmouths in the Happy Swords.
Osna tries to think of somethin', and realizes he knows...nothin'. He might know his own name and his best mates, but all that magical theory he spent a decade of his youth learning? It's gone for tea. Frustrated, feeling stupid, he doesn't say a damn word while the others are talkin' magic. There's a bunch of empty bookshelves where his brain should be.
How the hell can I even cast magic now? He compulsively casts a few mage hands and jolts, relieved to see they still work. With nothin' else to do, Osna peeks around corners and such, always worried about an ambush. He wonders if Gabe is nearby.
Osna telekinetically pushes a bit against the old hammer and the old blockhead; not enough to alert the prig, but enough to get a 'handle' on a bad situation, if ye'll pardon the pun.
Abnaki, Osna laughs in spite of his sourin' mood. "Don't you volcing start. I'll keep the patter goin' around here. Now what say we-" But Osna's further musing is cut off by the sudden silence surrounding the Quiet Elder. In previous visits, the mere presence of the Fey caused rustlings, murmurings, and twitches of all kinds. Now, there is only the absence of movement and sound. The memory of laughter hangs in the air like dry pollen.
Abnaki, ye get a fair slap on the back of the head from Osna's mage hand. Not painful, just irritatin'. "Pay attention, bird! This ain't a great part of town we're waltzing through. Stop staring off at nothin', or I'll think yer mind is driftin' into a puff of cloud again!" When you look around again, the crow is gone. No sign of it ever being there at all.
Abnaki, ye have to wait 'round a bit, but eventually ye get to see a minor priest who gets you fixed up. Yer head is clear. Osna decided to stay bolloxed. "Great success, bird. Had a few drinks and then paid to have 'em gulped out of ye. To the Young Quiet Whatever Elder!"
Abnaki, yer stumblin' around half-drunk with yer best mate. Not a great way to keep outta trouble. It's still mid-morning, lad. Osna points to the symbol of the Eternal Phoenix that blazes over the Temple. "Ye said you were lookin' fer phoenixes of some kind, bird. Should we head toward the big fiery one over yonder?"
Bird, was that when I was running around with half my mind asleep and Lord Moony was grinnin' up in the dead sky? I don't remember half the cac that happened that day." Osna laughs bitterly. To take his mind off the past, he compulsively readjusts his coat as he speaks, trying to settle it on his shoulders. "So where do we find these phoenix-sleeper undine guys? Maybe they're in the next bar over?" He sweeps a few specks of dust from his shoulder with mage hand.
"Are you talking about the ones from the sewer, bird? The place where I stumbled into misty volcing purgatory? Why the hell would you want to get mixed up in that cac again? We're tryin' to save yer brain, not pickle it." Osna steadies you, but doesn't seem convinced of where yer drunken arse is going.
Abnaki, fine, you continue to press Osna after his fifth or sixth whiskee or what-have-ye, and he snaps, "Alright, ye stupid pluck! Ye lost yer memories of yer best girl to some dumb crow that flies around in dreams! Ye gambled one too many times and it bit ye in the arse!" He slams his latest shotglass on the table.
** Abnaki, you sit with Osna a spell, going over good times and bad times at the Swords. Though you talk for two candles and more (and at least four whiskey, mate), you feel that Osna is avoiding something. Do you press him on the issue?
Abnaki, your friend Osna gives you a long look, full of empathy for the madness inflicted upon you. He knows what it's like, havin' a mind full a' bees. He gives you a good hard clap on the shoulder, like there's nothin' wrong in the world. "Aye, times are tough all over," he says vaguely. "I'll be sure to remind you." He begins steering you out the door, to a place quieter and whiskier.
Abnaki, Osna nods solemnly, but tries to lighten the mood. "If it's so serious bird, does that mean we should find a good drinkin' bar?"
Abnaki, Osna Ghosthand claps you on your shoulder in a comradely fashion. "I wouldn't have believed it. You and me, birdo, both alive and sane." He peers at you, cocking his head to the side. "Ye are still in there, aren't ye?"
Kallik, the weird sylph that came outta nowhere seems to have a fine touch with the ol' magick, and he levitates the ol' golem over to ya sweet as can be, so you smash it up good with a couple a' swipes a' yer axe. Good fun. (3rd golem deleted)
The power of Abnaki's sheer charisma, along with the charms of the Fey and the mystical gear he has equipped, is enough to break through Osna's hypnotic state. He shakes his head, blinks, then looks around wildly. He looks ready to fling his dagger away to the east, but-
Aye, there's Abnaki right-o, the rockhead's prob'ly in a dream same as me-
Abnaki, ye take 15 damage from the dagger of an old friend, but the real kicker is yer under a Silence effect now. It's yer move mate.
--Osna disappears, like the cacing mist is sippin' em up little at a time--
--Osna stumbles through the cacing fog, bloody knife in his hand, where is everyone--
Osna nods at Phon's terse reply, and he flies through the bubbling smoke, leaving a gusty wake as he goes. Then the roiling fog swallows him whole, and he passes from your sight.
Osna, still close to Phon Vos, whispers, "I can see the sorceror bloke or whatever he is through the mist (Cloud Gazer, a sylph feat), Phon. D'ya reckon I should go give him a stab while I have the chance?"
Taking a cue from Samen, Osna casts fly on himself to get out of the water and see the battle from a higher vantage point, using his various Sights to look for dangers.
"Watch out fellows! Don't step on those shattered mirrors, don't fly above them, and don't cast any spells across them. They're fulla nasty tricks."
Osna covers his ears with his hands and cycles through his favorite curse words as all the glass shattering gives him a brutal headache. He waits for the ringing to stop before he acts.
Osna follows behind Phon Vos and the others, keeping Abnaki and his damn useful music nice and close. In the meantime, he scratches his ear and thinks. He looks back at the creepy mirror images. These are tricky bastards. Sneaky little plucks too. The sylph casts see invisibility to make sure there's no unseen shenanigans about.
Osna, about to cast the same spell out of habit himself, points out the strange behavior of the images, in case the others haven't noticed.
Osna shrugs and easily follows the rest of the group in near silence.
In the quiet moment while Samen is performing the necessaries with Stof, Osna cocks his head and says, "What the hell is a star?"
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