Under a Moth-Eaten Canopy, an Orchid

[Zemos]

1st of Cylus 719 After Dusk


Another night, and the only taste of sweet freedom Nzi'fuma would likely get. Even if it came at the cost of a horrific nightmare, it beat the dull drudgery of being bombarded with trace amounts of toxins. All in the name of science, to observe an attempt at teasing out the blessing of Yithnai. Nzi'fuma didn't know if Lisirra was even watching anymore, or if her eyes turned away forever. Perhaps in his sleep the researchers had torn out the egg, and with it a part of his spirit. Well, as he looked at the reflective glass he still saw his eyes glowing green. He must still have the Yithnai.

At any rate, he was in his cell now, safe by all appearances. But Nzi knew as well as any man, appearances were thin and flimsy as Gossamer.

He sank into the kind oblivion of sleep, and for a time didn't dream.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But eventually he did awaken to the land of Emea. This time, the place chosen for his dwelling was Desnind, in a regular haunt of his, a grove some distance from his family home. The bees and insects positively buzzed with life in this place. Flittering from blossom to blossom, spreading their pollen. Orchids hung from low branches, while small frogs hopped from their stones, partaking of the feast of flies and other insects. All the while, their predation strengthened the breed of those small life forms. Nzi smiled. For just a moment, he'd returned home.

He spotted a familiar book, bound in moth-eaten silk. He approached it, and the rock it sat on. Taking a breath, he flipped it open, and it turned and turned until it landed on a specific page. There, he saw a sleeping woman, resembling the student he'd seen before. Frowning, wondering if she wasn't real afterall, he reached out with his mind's grasp. Envisioning a cord of silk, he imagined pulling her spirit along, until it would reach him.

Probably an exercise in futility, but he'd see soon enough if it had any effect.

In the meantime, he enjoyed the bees and flies buzzing, and the colors of the orchids hanging from a dark canopy of endless trees.

[Sybil Malach]

A layer of ink-black coats Sibyl's dreams. The dorm was quiet. Not a single student assigned to this room as of yet. This fact bothered Sibyl. Out of all the places to run out of people and voices, this was the last place that the student would expect it. It took a long time to even get to sleep, with how much the silence started to eat away at Sibyl's thoughts. Not in the slightest soothing. There were no scholars in the hallways arguing rhetoric. There were no scoldings. There was absolute, silence. The droning, humming noise of silence was deafening. It was as though being coated in water, something that any sane Videnian would fear, for risk of frostbite. Sibyl had no mind of these deep connections with fear, only that it made the student feel ill.

Something interrupted the dark, thoughtless sleep. Interrupted, perhaps, isn't the correct word, as even though it happened, the sleep continued quite nicely. Intrusion? No, it was like some distant call. A call that could be denied. Without much heed, Sibyl answers. The silken cord braiding into rope, as it came into contact with Sibyl's wrist. There is no resistance, and no denial. An allowance to take wherever it pleases.

It was... Familiar. Deja vu.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If only Sibyl had any aptitude for this sort of thing. It's as though what was taken from the Student's mind were a poor counterfeit of Sibyl's own body. Not deformed, but as though a painting were made, and most of the colors stripped from the young Student. Something had failed between the link between the dreamer, and the dream itself. The face was the most egregiously affected, with only hints of features visible, all but smudged out with an ethereal light.

The braided silk rope tied in knots around Sibyl's wrist and fingers brought the Student to the dream itself. Sibyl is pulled from the page of the book, and remains the same size of it, unable, or unknowing, on how to change its size. The glowing, tiny entity slumps to its side, as it's pulled from its natural habitat, and into this strange, strange place. This fragment of Sybil seems different than the one Nzi'fuma had encountered before. Languid, and introspective, it looks at him, appraisingly, from its laying position, as it slowly glances around, in its foreign environment, "... You look tired." It says, voice but a fractal pattern.

[Zemos]

The voice of Sybil hit his ears as the buzzing of a multitude, static in its consistency, yet legible nonetheless. There was something that defied humanity in that voice, something that reminded him of Lisirra when he'd first been blessed by her so many seasons ago. But this was Emea. He'd come to expect a degree of fanciful imagery and sound.

"I am tired. Or I wouldn't be dreaming or sleeping. I'd be remaining in torpor. If it weren't for the change in scenery..." He lifted his head to regard the student, and shrugged, "I'd always be awake, on alert. As it is, this is the only way I can ever escape my prison."

So saying, he moved about, still holding the moth-silk tome. With a free arm, he waved to their surroundings. "Welcome to my childhood stomping grounds. The Grove of the Serga in Desnind. Where Lisirra's most faithful come to foment the plagues that trouble accursed Moseke and her chosen folk."

"Someday, we will forge an accord with Moseke, whether by hook or crook. She will come to realize the value of the life that festers, over life that grows. Moseke claims to count the lives under the canopies, but ignores that which makes sickness. She heals the wounded and ill, denying them the blessing that could make them truly strong."

"What is life without plague and injury?" Nzi'fuma asked, rhetorically, "It is frailty and atrophy. Vulnerability and weakness. The Serga will bring strength back to Desnind. Whether it wants or not.

[Sybil Malach]

"Why would you expect illness to give life?" Sibyl says, as it slowly shifts its legs over the side of the book's edge. The entity, in all of its confused shape and presence, at the very least, seems to feel real. At least to the long-since-tortured man, "The death it brings is natural. It feeds the soil. But the life it brings... Is transient. Ever-dying." The shifting entity says, too lacking in presence to even judge such statements.

It prompts him to continue, it seems. As though a machination of Nzi'Fuma's own mind, an avatar of doubt and skepticism.

Sibyl's form remains miniscule, the size of a single one of Nzi'Fuma's fingers. Its expression is tired, though not quite a reflection of his own state. The entity lacks a cloak, instead wearing what could be seen as a student's robes, with a cavernous hood resting along the back. Sibyl dangles its legs off the edge of the book. Its hand is held in this realm by the rope of braided silk.

Slowly, the shifting, almost hidden by light eyes look to the area that surrounds it, curiously. So much information can be taken in at this size, but the Videnian seems dumbfounded by not only the climate, but concepts like non-frozen grass, and plentiful trees. The entity seems to pause, and even as the place is explained... Remain confused.

Sibyl's very existence is in question... And no answers are given, "... This place is foreign to me. But it is warm. and that is strange."

[Zemos]

"Food sustains life, yet a dog fed to excess will grow fat, weak, and sick." Nzi'fuma shook a finger at the first part of her supposition. "I'm not talking about giving life. I'm talking about granting strength to that which lives. Forces that drive against us test our strength, lends vitality to our sinews. Plague is among the greatest of challenges to mortal life. The small living aggregates of illness are of little consequence. Strength must go before life itself. You wouldn't build the foundation on the roof, would you?"


Nzi'fuma was lost in his own monologue. Perhaps it was being back in Desnind that had loosened his verbal mind. He always was a bit of a lecturer and storyteller. A poet and proselytizer. "Yes, Desnind is warm, and brimming with life. Your Viden, if that is where you are, is sterile, clean, cold. But even it has it's life beneath the surface. I've imagined the life buzzing beneath the ice fields and snows as I was shipped north along the watery passages between icebergs and fiords. I've seen glowing squid and great whales wielding swords upon their heads. Viden is as unique as Desnind. But the life within it sleeps more oft than not."


He swept a hand across the field of vision, "Here, even the rocks sustain life. The wildlife grows fat on excess. This is why Lisirra is needed here of all places, but she is long gone. Gone away to Rhakros on the Western Continent to rule as Plague Queen. Here Moseke nurtures her garden with loving care, creating weak life. Before long, it will collapse on the weight of its own fats and flesh and excess. It needs to be tested. This is why I must return to my people of the Serga Mavranu. They require as many hands as they can get."

Nzi'fuma fixed the other dreamer's face in his glowing-green gaze, squinting, "What are you? Where are you? What do you know of the undercroft of your Academy?"

[Sybil Malach]

"Yes. But no matter how strong something is made by sickness, it whittles away at its host. Entropy brought closer." It says, as its frame flickers, the existence of its very figure almost fizzling out in a blur, before refocusing, like a poorly cut lapidary's trick, "It may strengthen the foundation, but the home as a whole will not withstand the storm. Otherwise there would be no use for carpenters, and architects. ... The boon given by decay is oft a return to the soil." The voice speaks out, like a raised whisper, as the tiny figure remains sat on the edge of the book itself. Tiredly, languidly shifting its legs,

"Unless such a thing defies nature, and one is made strong, to house it. To become decay's host. ... But is that strength because of ailment, or instead, strength because of worship?" It, instead, posits, with a slow tilt of the head, drawing a strange parallel, "Then it would be saying that a barn is superior to a house. A house is designed to be lived in, but a but a barn is created for its express, specialized purpose. It is modified for that purpose. It may be better at its function, but it cannot be the same as a house, though one can sleep in it."

But that's all it even adds to the monologue. No sweeping dismissal. Not even a real scolding for these beliefs. The entity as it exists is too wavering to protest like so, and instead seems to enable talk of this, further. Where most would likely see the thing put to the gallows, in Viden. Almost as though simply reflecting enough doubt to keep the conversation moving, without simply saying 'yes'. Sibyl blinks, as it is called upon,

"I am somewhere. Here, perhaps, but I do not know where else." It answers, voice fractalling, in a gloriously uninformative answer. Strangely, though... It possesses a different attitude, than before. Before, it was willing to express where it came from, but this new, altered appearance... Seems to almost... Be foreign, here. Is this the Sibyl met before, or perhaps... A projection? A half-remembered face, plastered upon a likely story, and given an artificial persona? "... The undercroft is where they store dried herbs, and un-spoiling liquids. Isn't it?" It says, with a quirk of its head.

Its tiny form hanging off the edge of the pages.

[Zemos]

”Entropy…” Nzi’fuma wasn’t certain of such a word, even in his native Xanthean, or thoughts translocated through the Dreamscape into his own mind. Nevertheless, he inferred it’s meaning to be that of stagnation brought about by opposing forces coming to a stalemate.

He continued to listen to them, all the while, remaining still as a statue. Letting the tiny figure at the edge of the book speak its mind. Although he wasn’t ideally suited to listening at the moment, he took their meanings when given.

They spoke of barns and houses, as if the canopy above wasn’t house enough. Of course, in Desnind they did have houses, but they were built into nature itself, strengthened by artifice. The faithful of Moseke had their way of fortifying these structures, while the Serga Mavranu had their way. Perhaps neither was worse than the other.

So she was somewhere, perhaps here or not elsewhere. It was an interesting evasion, perhaps brought about by the bleariness of sleep and the language that occurred in dreams. None of them there were lucid.

”The Undercroft, where they store dried herbs… Indeed!” Nzi’fuma laughed, his voice vibrating with the fluttering of multitudinous fly wings. ”Indeed!” He had an idea, brought about by their statement of goods travelling between the wards, and clung to that as he began to drift toward wakefulness.

But before he would awaken, he wanted to ask of them maybe one or two more things. ”What does ice taste like?”

The first question was meant to illicit attention, not necessarily geared toward any specific information. If they answered, he would give one more question. ”Where is the Academy’s Infirmary?”

He wanted to know if this student had access to the Infirmary. That was critical.

He’d heard of several doctors and orderlies referencing materials sent to the Infirmary, as hand-me-downs. With the Facility being far better equipped. As new equipment was designed down below, the used and obsolete rose to the top in a sort of osmosis of innovation.

[Sybil Malach]

"Ice? No-one in sound mind eats ice. I hear further south, though, they import such things." It says in response to the man's line of questions. For a moment, the entity is engaged in the conversation, its flickering, fragmented existence seem to bind at the very edges of the seams. A more solid shape is taken, but not much. Its spectral eyes seem confused, "The Academy's infirmary? It's in the Academy. I very rarely get to see it."

A moment in its mind seems to process, "It is very hard to get lost in the Academy. It's very efficient in the design," It begins to describe something very important to the man's mission... Before Sybil falters, for a moment, its shape more conforming to the aberrant, nearly chaotic nature it had been eased from, "... Why is it that you bleed flies, and speak such things...?"

Sibyl's body shudders, as its face cracks. An iridescent shimmer present in the rapidly shattering form. Without its former focus, it seems to simply, slowly, fail in the translations between dreams and reality. The tiny form against the book slowly sinking in with the ink. The entity seemingly not understanding any rush to this matter, nor the consequence of falling within the book itself. It simply seems to lack any motivation or power to stop the inevitable, so like swampy quicksand... The book slowly devours the entity, through sheer, incremental destruction.

"My skull is... Burning. What were we speaking of...?"

[Zemos]

Nzi’fuma thought he had what he needed to know, so he let the dreamscape fall apart, his entire body eaten by flies in the dream as he burst into a million little lives.

The figure of the swarm shut the book mercilessly, letting the pages clap together on the small entity as it sank into the illustrations and text written on so much parchment.

He, meanwhile, awoke in his cell. A few more eidisi agents of Yvithia were standing over him at that point. One of them pointed, and the others gathered in to pick him up to his feet.

”24603, you’ve been poorly behaved, harassing our students in their sleep. Now we’re not angry poor subject. But we are going to give you something to help you sleep better. We can’t have you dreaming your nights away. It’s bad for your health.” So saying, they injected a needle deep into his arm. He sank into the eidisi agent that was holding him as he felt his mind going.

His mind was going, going, gone. And Nzi, though he lived still, was unreachable. His mind finding the clarity that it fought to upon waking. The Eidisi knew all along what he’d been up to, and they weren’t going to have the FRA’s cover blown by some foolish slip in dreamland.

They moved him to a new cell, so that his old surroundings wouldn’t jog some spark in his mind. His brain cleared of all memory of what had transpired, they sanitized him repeatedly, until not even the memory of Yithnai remained.

The burden of knowledge had been cured.

[Alistair]

Sybil

Knowledges
(Nonskill) Nzi'Fuma: A reoccurring face
(Nonskill) Desnid: A faraway place

Loot: N/A
Injuries: I'll let you decide what happened to Sybil here. It's not a lucid dream anyway though, so she'd forget either way I think.
Renown: N/A

Points 15

Comments: That was a cool thread, and a great ending. Shame Nzi retired, as you two had great threads with one another. Looking forward to more from you, Sybil! Enjoy your rewards

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