Guest
04-06-2010, 12:17 PM
Standing in the corner, the tree-trapped druid screamed silently, overwhelmed. So quickly, both earth and dream shattering energies had seeped into his system. Many things vanquished that were never meant to die, their desperate dying energy attracted to the dreamscape of this poor healer, so many things haunting his dreams, too fast, too many. Gods, dragons, elements, and.. the impossible.
He desired, yet fought against, the druidic peace of escaping into dreams, but the dream itself had become tainted by his own actions. Right or wrong, a place beyond his home had become scarred, stained, and filled with unnatural fire.
Each time the burning tree reached a plateau of understanding, the dream shifted to the next horrible tearing of peace. He could see his own actions on every shredded hole of the dream, shreds drifting into nothing, poisoned oasis waters, and acrid air.
* * *
Tursiops slept. His mind dulled suddenly by mixes of potent herbs and liquids. His dreams became shadow, like watching his life in smoke.
* * *
The vision began with the elemental wars. The great water spirits begged that their sleeping enemy be woken and slain. Tursiops joined the great heroic march into the depths, not having given even an inkling of thought that disturbing the sleep of a primal being would have consequences in a world of dreams. They drove into the depths, vast bands of heroes taking turns in their glory, pride, and with an excuse to show their prowess. Tursiops followed, not a tree yet, but a simple healing Tauren, pulling on the forces of nature, and the forces of the dreamscape. The fire ended.
When the waking fire was driven back, the dreamscape was given a tiny burn. A tiny black scar to show that it had touched this physical end, this nightmare dream that was a sleeping dream a moment before it died. Dream energies caught while touching the murderers of the fiery dream.
The shadowed vision continued with the dragons - so many dead dragons. Black dragons who dream the dreams of destruction and rebirth, red dragons trapped in a nightmare not of their own choosing, only to die as they awoke. He even healed those who slew the half-asleep dragons who emerged whole in body from the dream itself. His history of killing dragons didnât stop with those, but carried on, through more red victims, metal dragons who tore holes in time, and even dragons aspects of reality itself.
Now there were only holes in the dream world, where titans once built their titanic visions. Very few beings could ever dream like the dragons, and nobody could understand the loss but those who touch the dreams.
The worst loss was the poor dragons that lived in their dreams. They had been driven to chaos by the nightmares that kept scarring and staining the dream world. They died still dreaming this chaos, and the dreaming world screamed and was further torn.
* * *
The tree in the corner let a small droplet of sap loose, in memory of so many clues, so many hints not seen in the glory of the masses. His branches twitched, forming a dreamshape in the reality he was not fully aware of. A dragon head appeared, severed by steel. There was nowhere to put it. He keened a song of sorrow, but it was only wind in this realm. His song spoke of heroes finding any reason to be more then mortal.
A boney figure noticed and came, pouring more clouding liquid on his roots and Tursiops fell back into the smoke and shadows.
* * *
After the dragons, came the true horrors that Tursiops took part in. From aspects of this world, the heroes he called friend moved to killing aspects of creation itself.
The eldest of beings, the most sacred of figures, and the darkest of dream scars. Aspects that helped form the world of dreams and physical alike.
It began when the dark trolls tore figures from the dream out into the world, crazed and chaotic. From that swamp temple, they made a hole that released a god.
His mind trembled that he had been part of killing a god, when his mind resolved the loss of that corner of the trollâs dream world it snapped to the other god he killed only a short time later. The eye.
An aspect from before sanity existed on which foundations of chaos and order alike arose. He had used the dream world and the gifts of healing and building to destroy something that only the infinite could understand.
He was not infinite, and his own dream began to comprehend the paradox of his deeds. The center could not hold.
* * *
Flowers sprouted on Tursiops, tiny eyes and figments of his cracking mind releasing a little bit of dream stuff into reality. Not as aspects of healing and careful growth, but products of guilt, chaos, and a mortal mind unable to see any way to fix this wound â unable to even see where the damaged dreamscape was not simply⦠damage.
His root moved to touch more of the liquids given, shadows and smoke.
* * *
Even with the death of gods, one can justify that they never truly existed. The world having been touched by the impossible became possible; the gods had done their duty and were simply figments that were no longer necessary. He could justify, he could find a barrier to place in his mind. The dreamscape could survive, even if it was slightly smaller.
But then came the touch of demons and power beyond understanding. Tursiops had held, touched, and been given sacred trust to murder and claim aspects of power itself. His branches had held pieces of the pool that gave immortality. He had fought and defeated beings that once held the world at sway. Still, he was not one who held a sword, used primal power to destroy, but he brought the peace of the dream, yet again, to sway over beings who were once immortal, and so claimed this water that was more valuable thenâ¦.
His mind reeled again. He had a vision of his roots touching one tiny drop of this water and he felt small.
So small.
He had caused so much damage to the world he loved, the world of the infinite and dreams, of nature and nurture. Yet, he was so small.
A touch in his mind thought of the undead and the tearing of the broken life wheel. It was repelled. The vestiges of his sanity pushed it away for another time. Too much.
* * *
The tree who was once - and hoped he would once again be - Tauren slept on, a very small figure in the face of the immortal and the all powerful. The dream world was broken, and the real world was paradox.
He felt like a being without a home, neither in flesh nor wood, not in dreams nor reality, and not with logic nor insanity. He drifted in his own mind, trapped in his own nightmare.
Onward he slept.
He desired, yet fought against, the druidic peace of escaping into dreams, but the dream itself had become tainted by his own actions. Right or wrong, a place beyond his home had become scarred, stained, and filled with unnatural fire.
Each time the burning tree reached a plateau of understanding, the dream shifted to the next horrible tearing of peace. He could see his own actions on every shredded hole of the dream, shreds drifting into nothing, poisoned oasis waters, and acrid air.
* * *
Tursiops slept. His mind dulled suddenly by mixes of potent herbs and liquids. His dreams became shadow, like watching his life in smoke.
* * *
The vision began with the elemental wars. The great water spirits begged that their sleeping enemy be woken and slain. Tursiops joined the great heroic march into the depths, not having given even an inkling of thought that disturbing the sleep of a primal being would have consequences in a world of dreams. They drove into the depths, vast bands of heroes taking turns in their glory, pride, and with an excuse to show their prowess. Tursiops followed, not a tree yet, but a simple healing Tauren, pulling on the forces of nature, and the forces of the dreamscape. The fire ended.
When the waking fire was driven back, the dreamscape was given a tiny burn. A tiny black scar to show that it had touched this physical end, this nightmare dream that was a sleeping dream a moment before it died. Dream energies caught while touching the murderers of the fiery dream.
The shadowed vision continued with the dragons - so many dead dragons. Black dragons who dream the dreams of destruction and rebirth, red dragons trapped in a nightmare not of their own choosing, only to die as they awoke. He even healed those who slew the half-asleep dragons who emerged whole in body from the dream itself. His history of killing dragons didnât stop with those, but carried on, through more red victims, metal dragons who tore holes in time, and even dragons aspects of reality itself.
Now there were only holes in the dream world, where titans once built their titanic visions. Very few beings could ever dream like the dragons, and nobody could understand the loss but those who touch the dreams.
The worst loss was the poor dragons that lived in their dreams. They had been driven to chaos by the nightmares that kept scarring and staining the dream world. They died still dreaming this chaos, and the dreaming world screamed and was further torn.
* * *
The tree in the corner let a small droplet of sap loose, in memory of so many clues, so many hints not seen in the glory of the masses. His branches twitched, forming a dreamshape in the reality he was not fully aware of. A dragon head appeared, severed by steel. There was nowhere to put it. He keened a song of sorrow, but it was only wind in this realm. His song spoke of heroes finding any reason to be more then mortal.
A boney figure noticed and came, pouring more clouding liquid on his roots and Tursiops fell back into the smoke and shadows.
* * *
After the dragons, came the true horrors that Tursiops took part in. From aspects of this world, the heroes he called friend moved to killing aspects of creation itself.
The eldest of beings, the most sacred of figures, and the darkest of dream scars. Aspects that helped form the world of dreams and physical alike.
It began when the dark trolls tore figures from the dream out into the world, crazed and chaotic. From that swamp temple, they made a hole that released a god.
His mind trembled that he had been part of killing a god, when his mind resolved the loss of that corner of the trollâs dream world it snapped to the other god he killed only a short time later. The eye.
An aspect from before sanity existed on which foundations of chaos and order alike arose. He had used the dream world and the gifts of healing and building to destroy something that only the infinite could understand.
He was not infinite, and his own dream began to comprehend the paradox of his deeds. The center could not hold.
* * *
Flowers sprouted on Tursiops, tiny eyes and figments of his cracking mind releasing a little bit of dream stuff into reality. Not as aspects of healing and careful growth, but products of guilt, chaos, and a mortal mind unable to see any way to fix this wound â unable to even see where the damaged dreamscape was not simply⦠damage.
His root moved to touch more of the liquids given, shadows and smoke.
* * *
Even with the death of gods, one can justify that they never truly existed. The world having been touched by the impossible became possible; the gods had done their duty and were simply figments that were no longer necessary. He could justify, he could find a barrier to place in his mind. The dreamscape could survive, even if it was slightly smaller.
But then came the touch of demons and power beyond understanding. Tursiops had held, touched, and been given sacred trust to murder and claim aspects of power itself. His branches had held pieces of the pool that gave immortality. He had fought and defeated beings that once held the world at sway. Still, he was not one who held a sword, used primal power to destroy, but he brought the peace of the dream, yet again, to sway over beings who were once immortal, and so claimed this water that was more valuable thenâ¦.
His mind reeled again. He had a vision of his roots touching one tiny drop of this water and he felt small.
So small.
He had caused so much damage to the world he loved, the world of the infinite and dreams, of nature and nurture. Yet, he was so small.
A touch in his mind thought of the undead and the tearing of the broken life wheel. It was repelled. The vestiges of his sanity pushed it away for another time. Too much.
* * *
The tree who was once - and hoped he would once again be - Tauren slept on, a very small figure in the face of the immortal and the all powerful. The dream world was broken, and the real world was paradox.
He felt like a being without a home, neither in flesh nor wood, not in dreams nor reality, and not with logic nor insanity. He drifted in his own mind, trapped in his own nightmare.
Onward he slept.