08-24-2021, 05:43 PM
oh, you said life was much better than this
It is not often that a dream-creature bursts forth out of his dreams; and it is not often that said dream-creature experiences a reality he cannot control.
Tonight, Lannister is tired of the darkness. He sleeps in his dream world, head curled over his legs in the form of a lion. He rests fitfully, finding a brief reprieve from the constant anger he feels being trapped in a reality founded on nothing. A tingling burbles gently in his chest. It starts as a soft humming, the sweet plucking of a harp. The orchestra doesn’t join in all at once, no—a flute adds the tiniest push of a pressure, then a cello—and then every brass instrument strikes up into a crescendo—
Lannister’s chest feels as if it is on fire, and when he awakes, he does so violently.
A gasp, raucous and paired coolly with a thick layer of sweat on his neck, fills the air around him. The stallion lurches forward, unsteady on hooves he expected to be a lion’s paws.
“Fuck,” he whispers, closing blurry and terrified eyes. “I can’t do the dark right now,” he murmurs to himself, then opens his eyes and focuses on changing the moon into the sun.
Nothing happens. He focuses again. He finds the same result. A prickling sensation builds between his shoulders. Lan recalls the other dream-weaver he met, the girl who asked about his nightmares. He wonders if he has stumbled upon another, if he is in a nightmare he cannot control. The stuttering heart in his chest pounds.
“Hello!” he croaks, spinning in circles. Lannister presses into the darkness searching for someone—something—to explain what he is experiencing. When he spots Cressida as a lovely doe, he approaches without hesitation:
“Are we in your dream?” he parrots the question Iridian once spoke to him, anxiety coloring his voice.
Tonight, Lannister is tired of the darkness. He sleeps in his dream world, head curled over his legs in the form of a lion. He rests fitfully, finding a brief reprieve from the constant anger he feels being trapped in a reality founded on nothing. A tingling burbles gently in his chest. It starts as a soft humming, the sweet plucking of a harp. The orchestra doesn’t join in all at once, no—a flute adds the tiniest push of a pressure, then a cello—and then every brass instrument strikes up into a crescendo—
Lannister’s chest feels as if it is on fire, and when he awakes, he does so violently.
A gasp, raucous and paired coolly with a thick layer of sweat on his neck, fills the air around him. The stallion lurches forward, unsteady on hooves he expected to be a lion’s paws.
“Fuck,” he whispers, closing blurry and terrified eyes. “I can’t do the dark right now,” he murmurs to himself, then opens his eyes and focuses on changing the moon into the sun.
Nothing happens. He focuses again. He finds the same result. A prickling sensation builds between his shoulders. Lan recalls the other dream-weaver he met, the girl who asked about his nightmares. He wonders if he has stumbled upon another, if he is in a nightmare he cannot control. The stuttering heart in his chest pounds.
“Hello!” he croaks, spinning in circles. Lannister presses into the darkness searching for someone—something—to explain what he is experiencing. When he spots Cressida as a lovely doe, he approaches without hesitation:
“Are we in your dream?” he parrots the question Iridian once spoke to him, anxiety coloring his voice.
lannister
@cressida