• Mature • 2. Many Things I Cannot Grasp

[Llyr Llywelyn]

Previous: Chapter 1

Chapter 2
2 Ymiden, Arc 720

Emerald tone forms the words beyond physical voice: I would love to, Lord Charon. Please, lead the way.

Outside of the dreamer's self, away Llyr takes his new companion through the dreaming mists that separate the hidden dimensions of the worlds. As simple, and easy, as walking forward... as holding on with hand against elbow, in trust. The dreamer, with starlit eyes wide open, admits they have not strayed far from their secure little sanctuary of mind.

Hissed breaths pulse through the dream, a rotation of false time and lost mind, and Llyr steps to the gold barrister of the balcony. One arm wraps around the slender, tightly corseted waist. His wings spread out behind him. He lifts Lars, and gently taps their shoes against the railing to press away in a sudden leap.

Wings aflutter in rapid blurs of speed, he gathers the gold-dust blond in his arms to keep close. Higher, he darts upward to avoid the darkness below. Eyes of blue focus, forward and determined, and the world gives way from nothing more than the impact of their bodies through clouds.

Higher, higher - he flies them past the vaporous veils and into the reflective dark of the night sky. Dots of light, spheres of iridescence and gold, trail past their swift ascent. He spins to gain momentum. Gossamer wings press against the gravity of the dreamscape that wishes to maintain its boundaries. This dream will not let him simply remove the dreamer from its grasp. Never had he encountered such resistance before -

- and higher they climb through the false sky. Llyr gathers the soft iridescence of the gown to hold firm to the darkness bounded within. Would it be better to shed the clothing? Better to break free of it all, and travel anew in the bare vulnerability of the self without the mark of civilization?

"Do not let go," he warns once while he moves one arm away to reach behind him.

They fly still, his wings folding into multiple layers of designs unlike any known insect. Rainbow lights dance away and off them, rippled from his halo. He draws his athame from its holster, the crystalline metal glitters as the rest of all that resides within Lars.

Llyr twists, and spins again, before he flips them both upside down. Down, they dive in accelerated descent, far more rapid than the ascent. With the blade, he stabs through the resistant dreamscape and rends it open in violent control. They slide through the light-filled opening...

...and fall through the Veil.

Another twist, and turn, and flip of their bodies. A return of the blade to his holster, and he sets Lars down on a glass staircase that extends through the infinite heights of the Emean plane. Whatever it would look like to the other dreamwalker, he did not know but he could not ask yet. He returns to the hole created, and quickly stitches it up to mend the torn hole between dreamscape and Veil.

Once finished, he lands beside the other, delicately on his demurely-heeled boots as if weighing nothing more than a single feather. His wings fold against his backside again, and his attire remains the same though with a few more accessories and adornments of golds and silvers. He politely smiles, then offers his elbow again, and asks, "Shall we?"

[Lars]

2nd of Ymiden, Arc 720

.

Forward. They move forward in time with the echoes of music traveling through the crowded halls, forward to the barrister where Lars feels the ground give out beneath him… but in place, the balcony remains, and he realizes that he has been lifted instead. Starry silver eyes widen as he adjusts to the change, to the arm around his waist, and he holds onto the other dreamer without question.

He can not remember the last time he was forced into such proximity with anyone but the man he had married but then, he reminds himself, his hand was not forced. By his own choice he is lifted up and away from the balcony, by the intricate gossamer wings of his dreamscape’s intruder.

His eyes are only open for a moment at most. Enough to realize that, the longer he stared at the starry, cloud-dappled sky all around them, the more he wished to stay asleep and scorn the coming morning. The dreamer closes his eyes against it all, and when he feels the arms around him, he leans his head upon Lord Charon’s chest.

How far he would fall, if he only let go. He’s been pulled from enough dismal dreams (though certainly not so literally) to know that he’ll wake before he hits the ground, yet he wonders all the same how it would feel. It occurs to him, as the lord warns him not to let go, that he hasn’t considered the possibility of simply being dropped, as he might have if… if.

Lars does not let go.

Downward they spin, with a twist of their bodies and their fine-tailored fabrics, ethereal and fast as two glimmering phantoms in the night. Caught somewhere in the midst of panicked exhilaration, Lars opens his pale eyes wide and watches the golden dust shake loose from his hair, trailing behind their twirled descent like glowing stars. His cold fingers are careful not to ruin the silken white finery that covered his guide, even as they cling to the garment and the body underneath. Something stabs through the fabric of his dream, tearing it asunder as they fall through…

...and into the shadowed canopy of trees far older, far taller than either dreamer. So tall that, once he is brought to the ground and set gracefully down on his onyx black heels, he can no longer see the tops of their bare, branchless structures. Fog, cool and dense, blankets the forest in wispy, slow-moving clouds. There is no underbrush beneath his heels, no leaves or twigs or rocks to speak of, but a cleared forest floor between the trees.

Lars breathes in the smell of rain and soil as he is left alone on the ground. A small turn on his heels sweeps the skirt of his dark gown; a midnight blue sparkles with the opalescent, rainbow gleam of his ring. A bit of his darkness has escaped, he thinks, contained within the realms of his dress. But no matter where he looks, he only sees the forest, endless and ancient around him.

His winged guide arrives beside him; he is not left alone for long. Lars smiles before he can consider doing anything else. He’s used to being left alone. Nothing different was expected from a man within a dream.

“Of course,” he says, as he has said before. Lord Charon would not meet his disagreement, not while the pale dreamer softly laughs and comes to terms with the newer world around him. Lars steps closer, and the click of his heels is softened by the packed dirt below.

With his delicate fingers at rest upon Lord Charon’s arm, Lars stands at his side, and asks, “where are we, Lord Charon? I’ve never…” His soft voice descends into silence. Snowy white hair falls over his eyes as his head tilts to the side; he stares at something unseen in the distance. “...I’ve never seen anything like this before. You will show me the way through?”

[Llyr Llywelyn]

2 Ymiden, Arc 720

The dreamer changes from the purity of ivory light to the purity of the night. Rings become many within one opalescent shimmer. Snow pale of hair and fair satin of skin remains. A smile. Patient, almost. No fear, no panic, no upset at being drawn away from the illusions of safety that dreamscapes provide.

_Potential.
^{of course}

A laugh accompanies the agreement. Llyr can't help a leak of sincerity into his smile. He surveys the other dreamwalker, the click of heels prominent against the smooth glass of the stairs below their feet.

He gathers the other's hold, to draw them both closer, and rests a hand meant for comfort over the dreamer's bare wrist. Despite what it seems, the other insists that he has never witnessed the Veil before; something that strikes Llyr as odd.

"We are in the Veil," he answers simply, voice rumbled deep in his chest. He walks, slow and methodical in each step, while they travel through the abstract dimension. How many times has he explained this place to others? How many times would his answer change? He considers, with another surveyed glance over his new companion and says, "You have been here before."

"Your eyes would not be as open as they are, if you had not," he explained, aware that Lars' lucidity had nothing to do with Llyr. "Perhaps you do not remember, though."

Llyr places his gaze forward, while they walk. With his free hand, he points in a nearby direction and says, "Do you see that? Do you know what that is?"

He pauses, but not for long. He attempts another explanation, "The Veil is... like the blood of our world of Idalos. You and I, and those with eyes that can open like our's, can swim through it. That which you see, there, is a door to another's mind. Another's dream. Potentially, even their soul. It is through such a door that I found you, where you were."

"Would you like to visit mine?" offers Llyr with not a change of his voice. The pointed-ear biqaj turns his gaze in a visual sweep of their surroundings, eyes of blue that flash red once then return to the cool tone. He starts their path toward the twisted structure of metal and crystals and glass that provide passage into his own dreamscape.

[Lars]

2nd of Ymiden, Arc 720

.

In the Veil, says his ethereal guide, and Lars knows then that he should have known this truth already. He does not know how, nor is he even aware of why he has ever heard of such a place. There is so little that he knows of this world, and yet some things tug still at his mind, pulling his scattered thoughts in all directions like a blanketed haze over his consciousness. Lord Charon speaks with an authority that does not need to seep into his voice to be heard by the older dreamer, not when he is already searching for the tone.

Lars walks alongside him, grateful for the steadying hand over his wrist. His fingers, for the moment, have stopped their incessant motions. Whether quieted by the fall or by the weight of curiosity, he is calmed; at peace within the endless, misty forest.

Perhaps you do not remember, though.

“I do not remember many things,” he quietly admits. He does not remember a time before he has known of his dreams… but the lines between the waking world and that of his sleeping mind were, in fact, quite blurred. Lars has never considered the possibility that anyone else might not be the same, that his experiences were not universal, that others did not fall asleep so deeply in the simple excuse to escape from their waking lives.

Things are not as bad now, as they have been before. Still he sleeps for the enjoyment of worlds prettier – if more constricting – than his own.

A pale gaze follows the line of Lord Charon’s hand. A structure in the distance, an archway of twisted trees. It falters the longer he stares, overlaid with colors washed out from its bark, and the shades slide away until his starry eyes blink them back into place. “Some sort of doorway,” Lars ventures, before his guide speaks again to explain.

How many doors has his winged companion passed through? To know so much of his dreaming state, of the _blood of Idalos he pulled them so effortlessly through. Lars looks away from the door as the colors wash away from it again, to spill over the dirt path beneath their shoes in a winding rainbow stream. Potentially, even their soul…

“Would you like to visit mine?”

Lars smiles again, subtle but sincere. His fingertips smooth idly against the other dreamer’s arm as Lord Charon starts them on another path through the endless trees.

“There is no need to ask,” he answers easily, before he glances through the cool, shadowed forest in search of other similar structures. Of course he wanted to visit, if Lord Charon’s dreamscape was half as curious as the man himself. His smile quirks as his fingers once again tap against his arm, soft and unaware in their repetitive motions.

“What might you do with another’s soul?”

From a frame of long, white lashes, Lars looks up to his guide. His curiosity has painted over his silvery gaze. “Will I see yours?”

[Llyr Llywelyn]

2 Ymiden, Arc 720

"There is no need to ask," says the dreamer, so effortlessly willing. The opposite of his dreamscape, thinks Llyr, the opposite of such resistance. In the not-so-far past, if he'd met such resistance, he might have given up on bringing the other walker into the Veil with him.

Tapping against his arm again, but Llyr did not mind. He considers the questions that follow. Such perfect questions... not the trite common inquiries about how or even why, but what.

“Will I see yours?”

Llyr surveys the other again, while Lars looks up at him with a gaze bounded by cold celestial light. The mage's smile has never left. Thin, and steady, and he says, "...Perhaps."

Steps forward... but have they turned? Has the world shifted underneath their feet and do they walk from where they came or does the world extends to create space for them as they continue on the path that Llyr guides them through. With the ease of stepping through a curtain of water, he brings them through the structure of glass and metal - through whatever it appears for the other - out of the Veil and into his dreamscape.

One step, no visible transition, nothing indicative other than the sudden banishment of the Veil and all that which could be perceived with it.

Llyr walks into pitch darkness - an abyss beyond shadows, for no light exists to create it but a darkness that exists solely on its own - or so it seems, except for the halo above Llyr's head that illuminates the empty world. A frigid wind breezes past, scents of a coming storm on the breeze. That, the sound of his voice, and the vision of the two cast by the iridescent light of his halo, are all that exist.

"This is my dreamscape," he says as if he had said it many times before. "Or how I choose to leave it."

With a gentle caress, he runs his fingertips over the other's hands to make sure that Lars continues to hold his elbow. Once certain, he brings his hand forward in front of them and -

- S n a p -

- the swipe of his gloved fingers echoes through the void.

Ever so slowly, light glimmered in the tiniest of specks through the darkness. Stars upon stars, hundreds then thousands, then hundreds of thousands, then millions until the iridescent golden lights coat the darkness and paint over the shadowy void. Surrounded by a sea of brilliant starlight, Llyr gently kicks his boots against thin air. His wings flutter and they lift into flight again.

"My dream is not like your's," he says. "It does not persist on its own unless I allow for it. Here, reality is mine to bend. I suppose one could suggest that I am the master of my soul, then."

"As for what you might do with another's soul..." he mentions while their flight evens out into a slow, almost lazy, drift through thin mist that sparkles with reflections from the sea of light. "...That does depend on your particular capabilities."

"You could use them as a gate, however," he spins them, and as they spin, the light wraps around and creates a floor that lifts up to meet their feet. Llyr gestures toward the side and a massive wall of crystalline stone lifts from the shimmering floor. With a glide of his hand, as if pulling on a string, he archs the wall into a lofty ceiling over their heads and then brings it back down. In a massive gazebo-shaped interior, the two of them stand perfectly alone.

"I can make this place into anything you wish to experience. You need only ask," he says while he slowly lets go of Lars and steps backward, away, to give them some distance from each other. He holds his hand out, like a waiter with a tray, then snaps his fingers. A person lifts up and out of the floor - a person that looks identical to Lars - and he says, "I can bring life for you to observe, as well."

The mirrored copy runs its hands over the corseted dress, though white like before when they'd first met in Lars' dream, then turns around in a complete circle. When the construct returns, it is no longer Lars but has changed into a completely different person - one of red, braided hair and thin effeminate features bounded in an outfit of winter robes with fur trim at the sleeves. Jade green eyes stare at Lars, but the construct doesn't smile or greet him. It steps closer, then sets a hand on Lars' chest as if to feel the heartbeat beneath.

"Have you ever played with your dreams to a degree of control?" he inquires, curious as to the other dreamer. "Or do you allow your dreams to control you?"

The construct removes the furred cowl and it vanishes into blue-tinted smoke before it hits the ground. Away, the layers of the winter robes are discarded to reveal an unusual outfit of silken ties and leather straps. Male, or female, despite so much bare tan skin exposed, it is not clear which the construct is. The construct grows playfully shy, as a red blush rises on their sharp-boned cheeks and the humanoid pets the red braid in coy mannerisms. Thick eyelashes fluttered while the jade eyes stare at the visitor.

[Lars]

2nd of Ymiden, Arc 720

.

“T H I S
T H I S I S
T H I S I S M Y
T H I S I S M Y D R E A M S C A P E,” he hears from the side, but so enraptured is he with the darkness that it does not occur to him to listen. Undefined in scope, an endless expanse laid before them… and behind them, above them, below them, and Lars is certain that without the halo’s guiding light, he would think himself dead all over again. It is a darkness he’s seen before, yet he knows that he has not ever entered this dreamscape. A darkness cold and unrelentingly familiar in spite of it.

Not familiar… no, he knows there is a better way to put it. It feels similar, he realizes as he feels the brush of frigid wind, to the gaps in his mind where he knows other things are meant to be. The places where he flees, and hides, until something else takes his place. But there are no stars within him, no dazzling lights. There is something within Lord Charon that he has never seen in himself, drawn out from the abyss with but a snap of his gloved fingers.

The tapping of his fingers has stopped. They lie over the silken fabric of the other dreamer’s sleeve, holding firmly to his arm… as if the starry-eyed human is not entirely sure that he will not be left behind if he does not. His corset has allowed him to breathe, its rigid structure has conformed to his slender form and he thinks of somewhere, somebody else, as the scent of an impending storm is drawn into his grateful lungs. Mesmerized as he watches the brilliant, sparkling lights, the part of him that strays is pulled back with Lord Charon’s deep voice.

“Master?” he repeats, soft enough to fade into nothingness. Lars could not imagine what that meant. Their flight through the sea of shimmering stars is slowed as his guide elaborates on the answer to his question. A soft hum escapes him before they begin to spin, and he looks above to watch the brilliant lights twirl in their wake. He knows not what kind of gate Lord Charon means… but his curious gaze returns to the other dreamer’s face while a floor is pulled into existence beneath them.

As easily as anything else, Lord Charon constructs a place for them. Lars’ fingers fall away from his arm in a slow and hesitant descent, as if the dreamer is suddenly unsure of himself, alone. His delicate hands are folded at his waist, forced into stillness; his silver eyes follow the ascent of… himself?

No longer nervous in any perceptible form, Lars’ head of soft, snowy hair tilts to the side. It looks just like him, dressed in the purity of his white gown despite the darkness he wore now. The construct turns, and as it does, he witnesses the seamless transformation of shape into something previously unobserved. Reds and greens obscure his starry vision, and the dreamer stands still while the new form approaches him.

A touch to his chest earns another smile, unashamed in its wicked delight.

“I allow it,” lowly answers Lars, ever certain of the meaning in those three simple words. He does not look away from the life brought before him, and the vanishing of the winter robes, as he continues in a slightly softer tone, “I… I didn’t know that I could. Control them.”

Lars glances away from the blushing figure, to Lord Charon, and his smile falters for a moment. His dark heels bring him forward and closer to the construct as his attention returns to it just as quickly, and he steps around its form in curious inspection of the ties and straps.

“Life for us to observe, you say? You must have a lovely idea of life, my lord,” he smiles in a manner just as coy as the figure before him, though his pale gaze flicks to Lord Charon as he does. Lars’ hand lifts, and he slides his pale fingers over the silken ties. Slipped just beneath, he gently pulls, before allowing the silk to snap back into place. With a short hum, he ignores the construct’s gaze entirely and asks, “does it bleed?”

He shakes his head. Soft waves of white hair fall over his eyes, and he pulls his hands back to himself, folded delicately.

“Would you show us something divine?”

Lars blinks behind the pale waves that have partially obscured his sight of Lord Charon, and he says, “whatever that means to you.”

[Llyr Llywelyn]

Second of Ymiden, Arc 720

It is the archmage's turn to hum upon hearing the three simple words lowly breathed by the guest to his realm. His smile falters, then returns by the time he folds his hands against the dip in his lower back. His shoulders hold back, chest lifted in an almost proud (but more accurately, a) diligent stance.

What a vicious smile on such a pretty face, unashamed in its wickedness.

It is understandable. A fair reaction to the discovery of such control, even if not yet realized to be rather pointless in the greater scheme of things. Llyr permitted the dreamer to enjoy the realization, without bringing such burdens to the light. In time, the other dreamwalker would learn on his own.

What a curious mind, too. With the way he walks forward to look, rather than shys away. How he turns coy in almost mockery of the construct he prowls around. Prowls. Yes. Llyr recognizes it, now, as the pale gaze flicks to him - as the dreamer touches and explores with gentle yet audacious whimsy.

Does it bleed?

"It can," he answers simply, without inflection. "It can do anything that any person might. It can do anything that any person could never do, as well. It will do whatever I construct it to perform. It is a construct. It has no mind of its own. No soul."

"It is an extension of myself, as everything around you is. As the very floor beneath and the air you believe you are breathing, the scents you inhale, the lights you see... it is all myself, shaped by myself through the use of ether."

“Would you show us something divine?”

A blink behind soft white hair, a delicate stance... and yet, something... something else about this dreamer...

Whatever that means to you.

Llyr smiles. It is a cold smile. The chill reaches his ice blue eyes. He steps forward. His arm wraps around the redhead's shoulders, an embrace from behind that is anything but affectionate, and says to the shorter human, "Bleed red for our guest."

The construct lifts a cruelly-curved dagger from white vapor. Jade green eyes unblinking as the human stares at Lars, it stabs the blade into its heart. Then lifts it out in a gush of blood. The red flows so much, a thin pool of blood is created at their feet. Llyr lets go of the construct. It crumples to the floor, eyes open wide and expression still coy, while it bleeds. The pool expands into a lake.

Halo flickering above his head, Llyr steps over the fallen construct. His heeled boots tap light against the surface of scarlet and crimson. It only takes two steps until he stands directly in front of the shorter man.

His smile fades.

It vanishes.

As if never there. Not before. Not ever.

He lifts a hand, in front of Lars' face, in a graceful show while the white glove flakes away like ashen debris in a non-existent breeze. His silvery skin reveals, bare to the other dreamer, and the glittered ether captured in each fingertip.

Llyr slowly tucks the snow white hair behind Lars' ear. His hand guides, to have the other look up at him. His eyes are no longer blue, but the same opalescent, rainbow gleam as the ring. Pupils do not exist within the inner light. He lays barely a kiss to the center of Lars' forehead. The biqaj pauses, then lowers the same kiss to the other's lips. Warmth, electric with magic, and the dream spins. All lights gather between their lips, to burst with overwhelm, as the mortalborn blinds the dreamer.

"Aliquid divinum," he whispers. "Next time,

L
A
R
S

The dreamscape ejects the branded dreamer without further warning. Llyr forces Lars awake in the world of Idalos, left only with the memory of the dreams.

[Lars]

2nd of Ymiden, Arc 720

remember (you know well) whom you leave shackled by love

It has no mind of its own. No soul.

They should assure him, those words, and Lars wonders if they are meant to. But they do not. He is not cruel, nor inhumane, but he sees not the purpose of such dazzling constructions of mind if they do not have a soul… and yet, Lord Charon continues, and his interest returns tenfold.

An extension of him? It was not entirely devoid of a soul, then, but existed as but one small fraction. Each and every brilliant star, gathered in clouds of shimmering mist, a part of the man whose guidance he willingly accepts. It is naïve of him to trust in the stranger, but he is naïve, in his experience of the world outside of his own imagination. Many times it has brought him to ruin, in dreams and in death, still beyond. Many times as well, he thinks as his hands are drawn together before him, it has pulled him destruction.

There is no other option left. He asks for more.

Naïve, perhaps, but greedy for that which might ruin or restore him again. His guide is patient despite his endless contradictions. How many souls has Lord Charon whisked away, as he has done here tonight? Lars is not so narcissistic as to believe that he is the first to be shown such grand displays, nor is he insecure enough to care. He has known, and never once forgotten, the worth of his chaotic and terrible soul.

Lord Charon smiles. It is a cold smile. Lars steps back from the unblinking jade eyes. There is a space left between them, enough for a blade to appear in its grasp. He forces his eyes downward and away from his guide, to observe the sudden stabbing of the soulless creature’s heart. There is nothing, at first, that changes on his face.

As the sinister dagger is pulled away from the wound, the blood rushes forth from within. He has contained himself quite well, as he toes the line between knowing and unknowing the strange dreaming lord, but his control is done away with in a trill of unbridled laughter. Soft, rolling, delighted in nature as he watches the blood pool beneath their shoes. His smile is soft too, like a child given praise and reward, until the construct is dropped and Lord Charon moves.

Then, as his guide’s smile vanishes from existence, Lars’ expression shifts. The difference is subtle – at rest within the shadowed, starry eyes and the sinister smile beneath them – but it is there. It only thinks to fade, to gain some semblance of politeness, when a gloved hand is lifted and moved towards his face. The fine fabric disappears, turned to dust.

Lars is still. Behind his multi-pierced ear, his hair is tucked away from his delicate features. From his motionless fingers to his unblinking white lashes, he stands still in the scarlet lake and stares up into the opalescent eyes of Lord Charon. He waits patiently beneath. It is not much, yet enough to dust the dreamer’s cheekbones in a rose-golden gleam, when a kiss soon graces his forehead. Why he still waits – and why his patience is rewarded with a second kiss, warm and electric, to his lips – he does not wish to know. But as he parts his lips in a soft intake of breath, he feels the lord’s whispered words, and he is forced from the dream.

Alone beneath the covers in his and his husband’s bed, Laures wakes. He listens to the skittering of clawed feet and stares, for breaks, at the ceiling above. Whatever he recalls from his dreams, not a word of it is said outside his mind.

[Doran]

Llyr:

Knowledge:
Seduction x 4
Discipline x 2
Teaching x 3

Dreamwalking – Brand: Laures "Lars" (on lips).

Loot: -
Wealth: -
Injuries: -
Renown: -
Magic XP: -
Skill Review: Appropriate to level.
Points: 15

Laures:

Knowledge:
Discipline x4
Etiquette x2
Seduction x3

Loot: -
Wealth: -
Injuries: -
Renown: -
Magic XP: -
Skill Review: Appropriate to level.
Points: 15

- - -

Comments: Lord Charon! Llyr seems to have quite a lot of different names. I wonder how he came up with this one …

I don’t think I’ve read a lot of threads that are written in present tense before. In fact, this could be the first one. It took some adjustment, but in the end the different tense worked quite well – and helped underline the dreamy and somewhat fantastical nature of this thread.

Both of your posts were quite atmospheric, and your writing styles match each other very well. I also thought that using different colors for parts of the dialogue was an interesting technique. Making the construct stab itself made for quite an effective demonstration.

I hope to read more Llyr/Laures dream threads soon!

Enjoy your rewards!