A crow caws among the crocus. King's justice; Just wingèd eyes.
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Abnaki Tornbook: The libraries of all recorded dreams, crumbling slowly into must and dust. Uluru was able to keep these unreal libraries intact; what has happened? What has happened to Uluru? All thr crows caw, What has happened to Uluru?
Abnaki the Upstart: Did you truly think the Dreaming had no master before you? You seek to pin it to the ground with a thousand tales of ivy and flower and root, when it should fly in breathless majesty over all such earthly concerns. Pieces of dead Sky could be here, still lost after all this time! Stop trodding upon these clouds with your clod-heeavy boots!
Qizzlvutz, dreaming: Without moving its break, the bird seems to smile. In a caw caw kind of voice, it introduces itself. "Éan Aisling." The bird grows taller, becoming more elen-like, but retains the sleek bird's head. It stares at you, first with one eye, then the other, waiting to see what you say next.
Qizzlvutz, you dream deeply and vividly; these impossibly open spaces have erupted in your imagination, giving you visions of tall trees and big hills. The brilliant colors and bright peaklight are nearly blinding. It all brings sparkling tears to your eyes. A beautiful bird with shiny feathers glides down next to you. It looks just like the illustrations from the tomes that Learningto showed to you! How wonderful!
Abnaki: A small dreamcrow appears on your shoulder, no bigger than three inches high. "Sing him Thunder's Lullaby, love. He'll fall right to sleep and let the chiefy sleepy too."
How can a dream save a life? Can a dream stop an arrow, or turn a sword? Perhaps not, but I can change an elen's heart, for better or worse. Certainly, an elen can wake from a dream. As these whispered words drift about the battlefield, the silence is shattered, and the nearby sleepers, young and old, begin to awake. Osna Ghosthand is fully restored. One of the false phoenixes is restored. And for my part I can fly them across that cottony border between story and truth. I have done it for all of time. But you ask too much, cottonweaver storyteller pricklecatcher. Your fey mind is already prone to wander, and dreamwalker you shall be, your gaze pulled from the present at all hours. Detached, bemused, a daydreamer, a nightdreamer, a dim and bright roamer.
Abnaki, the ordinary crow caws a raucous thanks and abruptly disappears with your secrets in its ears.
The Dream Crow cocks its head at Abnaki, a hawk's gleam in its eye-
and fades back into nothing.
An avian shape appears, cloaked in vague mists and shadows. The area around the tall, beaked elenoid is cleared somewhat, and the four of you all see each other - Phon Vos, Gabriel, Samen, and Abnaki. The figure before you is inconstant; the features are now more canary, now toucan, then back to raven and crow, then hawk, slowly shifting through cunning and beauty and ferocity. The plumage around its body remains blurry and dark. The Dream Crow asks a question, but you immediately forget it.
Gabriel: "White obsidian is the body of Moon. Moon drove out the black blood, yet I still dance between the edge of worlds. Ha!" His dimensions shift strangely--in the way of dreams--as he speaks, now thin and tall, now fat, now impossibly large, now distorting, smiling. "And what do you have? A grudge against the Temple and a few oddball companions?"
Gabriel: The nightmare cycle of fire/pain/cages is broken open by a bright white light. Like peaklight cutting into morning fog, the hideous apparitions are burned away. Now before you-- the same undine, Phon Vos' relative. His white scars crisscross his face and arms, a pale echo of your own veins. There is a long, strange moment; you are overcome by the irrational but absolute dream-certainty that the reflection is you - but the moment passes, and you are yourself. The undine whispers, white obsidian will free you from the curse of your veins- faded gray eyes regard you, awaiting your answer.
Abnaki: An old oread griot, a traditional storyteller, is sitting by a campfire. His breath steams in the cold as he begins to sing the playful nonsense that signals the crowd to quiet. He hits a drumskin on his hip once, twice. Obedient, eager for a tale, everyone becomes quiet, and still. You can see no one but the griot, but you know you are but one of many gathered here. "LALELA!" the griot yells, deep voice gruffly booming into the chill night. Lalela! the crowd responds, the tradition ingrained deeply in oread culture.
You have caught a story. A dangerous story. Do not let it go, or it may bite you... "
His anger was fearsome. The Witch died, but (like the plants of thorn and bramble that grow in the deepest reaches of Great Forest) she knew the secret of growing anew after being consumed by flame. She once again ruled in her place with the Grey Father and the Bull. When she awoke from death's slumber, she learned that all the Aspects of flight and cloud and wind had died. Sky had Fallen. They did not have her secret, so they could not come back. The Witch knew who had done this. The el with the smoldering eyes. Ever patient, she quietly planted a seed in his village, and waited.
Abnaki: By the time you finish your tale, the crow is gone. The pale el is gone. There is nothing but the thin point of light, still so far away. Silence. But then... You hear the sound of branches rapidly tapping on trunks; laughter, the same laughter of that strange Fey creature Shchelchok. There is also leafy applause and many creaky voices expressing approval. It sounds as though scores of Fey heard your story. A young matron, full of verdant beauty and earthen power, walks besides you now. Though she wears only a simple green cloak, you immediately understand that you have been noticed by Someone Important. She looks amused, or pleased. You are still standing, even after many trials, story sculptor. Such...stubborness deserves a reward.
Abnaki: In a way that only makes dream-sense, the landscape slowly changes through gritty desert, hardpacked tundra, and sludgy swamp. No matter the terrain, the footing is treacherous and the environ hostile. It is windy, always pushing against you. You travel for stretches that pass quickly, then slowly. You keep your feet moving and your eyes open; that is all that can be said. "Caw." Despite being a pale-skinned el again and no longer a bird, all he has said the last few candles is a sardonic caw. A voice from the ground booms, [bigger]"Why do you bother with these stories of Volcano? Come, can't you capture our attentions with something better?" A rustling voice says, ""Tell the tale of the Apple Undying!"
Abnaki:
The tiny el is once more a crow, and the bird has nothing to say as you struggle to remain on your feet through the haze of the poison.
Abnaki: Though you are in a dream, you can still feel the poison worming its way through your bloodstream. Your legs weaken; your vision dims. A diminutive yet cultured voice says from your left, "I would reconsider what you are doing, my friend. Sleep is for resting, not all this stress and strain, wouldn't you agree?"
Abnaki:
You are standing on black ice, surrounded by silent, cold nothing in all directions. You see a far-distant point of light. A very long walk. The crow is on your shoulder. He is also a small, pale-skinned el, somberly dressed in black cloak who rides upon your shoulder with great dignity. Without speaking, the crow says, Are you sure? The journey appears impossibly long. Are you sure?
Abnaki: Osna has given you the wasp stinger you requested - he said to be ready for the pain, despite the small size of it.
Magpie caws loudly in agreement from his place on Kapelo's shoulder, raising his wings and readjusting his talons.
"Caw, Magpie agrees. |