All questions lead to...

Postby Carnath-Emory » Thu Sep 20, 2007 8:30 am

"A part of it is hers," confirms Ariane. It's not the reassurance that the Constable might have wished for, but there's no preventing that now. They are beset on all sides by creatures greater than themselves, and there's simply no reassurance to be found in that; to pretend otherwise would be to do the man a disservice.

"And I would have you think well upon what you've just now described to me," she is continuing then, with her coarse meal and her gruesome liquor. "That such things as these, they are not so easily described, there are not always the ready words for them. Already you have smiled at the barest mention of them, and yet you have described your experience in earnest -- I would have you think upon that, as well. There are matters regarding Altias Bromn that I did not describe for you, and it was not in fear of mockery that I held my tongue, but for that you might think him corrupted by these things, and now -- ah. Now perhaps I ought to have feared the other, mn?

"Ah. No. This will not do. I begin at the beginning times, yes?"

As if a dose of something bracing were required, she sips at that cup; swallows down the last of her bread, and dusts fingers off upon the napkin's edge.

"I do not dream so well; I never have. So it not surprise me much two years ago, when I dream .. very bad things, of that Thadius Dhrin that you hold in your cells now. It began with a broken window, it ended with ... unkind things. Not so strange.

"That I woke with bloodied hands, that the bed were as drenched with it as if I'd gutted him on those sheets, ah. That was strange."

A pause here allows some second sip from that cup; some wry tilt of the lips concedes it as quite necessary. Holds here then, for what reaction may come, before she continues undaunted.

"Stranger still, of course, when I discover that this was -- this happening was not only mine. Such a headache, exclaims my friend, and such terrible dreams before it. Like her head was fit to break, to shatter like the window she'd dreamt of -- ah, do you see? We found five of us, in that tavern alone. Some with their hands left blooded, some with only a head that seemed cracked open, the pain was so much. Strange, mn?

"It was the beginning."
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Postby Cinnabar » Thu Sep 20, 2007 10:54 am

"Corrupted? Perhaps possible. Beholden, though? Enthralled? Certainly. His will was not his own, and the purest intentions in the world are of no use if one is not permitted to act on them, instead compelled to some... other agenda. Some other will. Hm? I am sure he meant well, of course. He always meant well." That there were difficulties in acting upon those intentions is left unspoken. Serious now, though, grey gaze level and sincere. "I have never mocked you, Ariane. Never."

In the meantime, the subject changes; poor dreams, and barely a surprise given what he knows of her history here, her experiences within Myrken Wood - and even those she has related to him he is sure are but a fraction of the whole. No surprise at all. So he listens, and nods slightly but there's a frown as she describes waking bloodied, coated with gore from some dream-horrors. Curious indeed, and... well, worrying. To have things affect dreams is one thing. To have those dreams affect the physical, to transfer some of themselves into the waking world strikes him as somehow wrong, almost offensive.

What she describes next, though, has him narrowing his eyes in thought, concentrating. He does not say impossible, he does not say unbelievable, as all he knows is Myrken Wood and the myriad strangenesses this place holds. So instead he only nods in agreement.

"A shared dream? Strange indeed. And then?"
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Thu Sep 20, 2007 11:29 am

The once-Governor is a difficult subject for Ariane to properly approach, but Calomel knows this well enough already: it is one to which they have repeatedly returned during the course of these last months. Inevitably, given the directions towards which that guiding heart drives the young Constable. Inevitably, given Bromn's position and Myrken's acute need. Here sits a woman whose expression has slipped just short of detachment, who briefly struggles.

"Enthralled. That has the right sound to it. So you see that I would not say these things, I would not have you think -- " A stumbling pause here, the teacup eyed with a frown, before she lifts her gaze again. "I would allow him his chance at governing. Untarnished, you see? And now, now it has been so many months that ... it no longer matters."

Here lifts that teacup over again, and after a moment's inspection she is refilling the dainty thing, not with tea. This is what she lifts in small, sardonic toast to that statement -- and there it pauses, just short of her lips.

"No," she answers the man after a time, and with eyes as level as his own, as ambiguously colourless. "You have not. I think .. I think I fear the small and ridiculous things, so that I may forget there is so much worse...."

This time, there is no pause; just a tiny wince of the shoulders at the liquor's cruel burn, and when the cup lowers it is to reveal features composed once more.

"So. And Then ... life continued as it does here. But for me, this was not the last I was to dream of Thadius Dhrin -- and you should know that he was one of those who shared that first one. No. Again and again I met this man in my dreams, and only long after his deceits had been uncovered. There were never again those bloody hands and sheets, these were simpler dreams, but ... violent. Ever that. Sometimes he would be my murderer, sometimes I his ...

"It sounds like so small a thing, mn? Nightmares! Who does not suffer these.

"Less than a year later, almost everyone did. A single night. A single dream."
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Postby Cinnabar » Thu Sep 20, 2007 12:22 pm

The once-and-occasional Governor is not the easiest topic for Calomel to discuss impartially either, and so the matter is mentioned and then dropped in favour of continuing her story, and he makes no real objection. There's some slight frown as she refills her cup, though, and he briefly turns aside to open a desk drawer. A moment later there is a different vessel set among the remains of the picnic - an altogether more palateable bottle of brandy, perhaps a third consumed. A short-lived grin at that, and he nods as she continues her recounting.

So. Dreams of the cultist, perhaps even sent by the cultists, dreams of murder and of being murdered, such that Calomel can only frown and consider the timing of such. When she was conducting her hunt, her purge of the cultists? When eyeless bodies were being left about Myrkentown, with an exhortation for witnesses to Believe? Who wouldn't suffer nightmares of bloodshed in such times? But then, ah.

"The whole town? Or only those who previously suffered the same dream, the headaches?" A point of clarification, nothing more. He drains the last of that vile jenever from his cup, grimacing in the aftermath, and swiftly refills it from the brandy bottle instead. For tasting, yes.

"Go on."
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Thu Sep 20, 2007 1:13 pm

Oh, the brandy! Inevitably it has come to that, and it is just as certain that she would eye that bottle so disparagingly, that she would part lips as if to protest -- and pause then, reconsidering. A forefinger is lifted: they will reckon with this matter of brandy and caustic jenever at a later time, and it will not be forgotten. But for now:

"Ah, who can say? None much speak of these things, you see? Oh, none would! But you will understand that soon. I know this for certain: that at least one of those who shared the window dream suffered through this one, as well, and that Thadius Dhrin did not. So. This is how it begin, mn?

"So gently. It is a pleasant place, it is some wilderness, filled with life but no sound at all, save for what we make ourselves. And a little strange, as if the eyes did not see it so well; all the world slightly shone, and at first it felt so strange to me, because I had no weapon to me at all. Except that you see, when I looked down there was some knife upon the ground before me, and do you know what was wrote upon its pommel?" She pauses here, with some brief lift of the brow; takes up one of those abandoned pages, sets charcoal to work, and when she turns the paper about for Calomel's inspection, it reads:

Use Me


"Strange, mn? Almost like some jest, like a thing for a child, so simply written -- but you must remember that I was not alone in this dream. I did not yet know that, of course. I did not know that each person had just such a weapon at hand. I learned this, though. Very quickly.

"The first I found were Jirai -- who'd shared in that window dream as well. She had just such a blade, and were murdering a wolf-thing with it. With her was Suede Roschen, or so I thought by his cries, but when I come upon him, the wolf is rich with blood, and there is no ser Roschen at all. After Jirai is done with it, there is neither no wolf, but at that time I thought I must make some mistake: I wore my mask, mn? So perhaps I had not seen it rightly. Perhaps it had just fled.

"I learn better very quickly, because then it begin to.. happen so very quickly. I move away; Jirai is a fury, this is nothing I wish to be near to. I mean to turn back when I hear others -- Kerrak al'Nerun, Agnieszka, but it comes that there are, there are so many -- "

Drink becomes absolutely necessary here. Three successive swallows of the stuff have her shuddering, but loosen her tongue sufficiently.

"Ah. You do not need the whole of this, and it is so simple a tale: we each of us have these knives, we each of us make such use of them -- like mad things, mn? Upon old enemies, upon friends as well; hah, in the end it is A -- "

Even to Cinnabar Calomel, it appears, there are some things that the woman does not speak aloud. A hand dismisses this one with some impatient twitch of a wave; the features are briefly, terribly haunted. It passes, as these things invariably do.

"You do not need it, for that there is a thing more important: that again, we carry this dream with us into the waking world. We each of us with our knives, mn? So that we each of us wake with the names of those we've murdered, written upon us in ... some place. With our murderers, as well, I think, so that I wear a name -- "

her fingertip traces a straight, long line across the center of her own throat


"-- here. Others as well, of course, as if they were inked into my flesh and cannot be cleaned, but only hidden. It is summer yet, and warm with it, but I tell you: the next day, there are many, many in Myrkentown who wear scarves, and wear gloves to the elbows, as well."
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Postby Cinnabar » Thu Sep 20, 2007 1:30 pm

A small smirk as the swordswoman glances scorn at the brandy, and a questioning glance for that jenever with some wrinkling of his nose. Not to his taste, truly.

But then this matter of the dream, and he's listening carefully; a glance for those scratched black words, and a contemplative frown to go with it. Strange indeed, and... unsettling, besides. Ambiguous, and yet totally not. Quite deliberate. There follows that tale of horrible murder, murder of friends and of enemies and a peculiar madness upon them all. And a name cut short, but not short enough as there's enough in that first sound of it to have him looking sharply at the woman as she waves the matter aside.

And then description of the marks inflicted upon murdered and murderers, names, and that's puzzling indeed. Or perhaps not.

"Some sort of... test, perhaps. Or demonstration. Or something to, what, to sow doubt or mistrust? Those who felt disturbed by what they did would not meet the eyes of those they slew in the dream, as each would know, and it would be a thing of fear and shame between them; those who were not unsettled... those who perhaps took a liking to the feel of it, a taste for the act? Maybe the thing was an effort to make such a deed less shocking, less unthinkable. If you have murdered your neighbour in a dream, perhaps there is less of a, a barrier, should you feel cause to do likewise when awake. You've done it once, even if only a dream, so you know what it would feel like, and perhaps it is not so very terrible. A corruption, maybe." A shrug, and another sip of brandy.

"Hm. Unless there is some other reasoning. Perhaps mere curiosity, to see what might happen. What caused this dream? If you know."
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Fri Sep 21, 2007 12:50 am

Some sort of test.
Some sort of demonstration.
Some sort of mistrust, and by the end of the Constable's speculations, Ariane is nodding her slow assent, although her words do not wholeheartedly agree.

"I do not think it is so difficult to make Myrken folk distrustful, mn?" Some twist of wry humour for her lips, at that. "But it goes near enough to the way you speak it: it was a difficult time, and for Kerrak... Ah, I think that Kerrak never did quite heal of it. For he... he yet lived, near the end of it. And that seems like small a thing, except that there were so many, and that every one of them surely perished, and that he had his eyes upon this -- and delivered some of them to their end as well, I do not doubt that. But -- "

But. And here is some necessary sip of that terrible liquor; she must pause a moment to regard her lifted cup with a halfway smile.

"Do you know why I bring this? But I despise the stuff, it is vile even when brewed with great care, and this -- ah. 'Care' is not a word I use for it. But we speak of such things, mn? Such terrible things, such unnatural things. So. Ill thoughts for our minds, and this very common meal for our stomachs, and this terrible jenever for our spirits, so that we do not forget that there are more natural things yet. And that we number amongst them, mn?" Grinning then, at that last, and her cup lifted in some small toast to this notion, before she drinks -- and continues.

"Kerrak. My friend of long, mn? And he sees me die in that dream, I think, and it .. was not so good an end, not good at all. He see all of us die, that is what I fear. I do not say that the whole of that dream was designed to murder his mind, but if you would see the potency of these things .. you look to Kerrak's wits, in all the months that followed this. You look to his death, as well.

"But you see, I have so few answers for you. What might have caused this dream? So many things: it was not the first, you know this now. For me, it was neither the last; in the months a little before, and for so long after, Michael Renne became a visitor to my dreams. Much later, Thadius would claim that he taught him this."
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Postby Cinnabar » Fri Sep 21, 2007 2:09 am

Quiet as she explains of Kerrak, a man that Calomel knows only by name; no sense for the person he was before the dreams, before the wounds they delivered to his mind. But then a glance for the foul jenever, and a grin as she explains the reasoning for it. More natural things than insane dreams of shared murder, than dream-witches who plague the old Governor's sleep, than terrifying but benevolent creatures that give reassurance to the new one. More natural. Ha.

"More human." Added to that toast, his own cup with its brandy lifted in agreement.

But no real answers, no solutions or explanations of why, only what. It's a difficult thing, a confusing thing. Hm. But then she speaks of the cultist Dhrin, and there is a tightening of the man's features, a reflexive distaste as if he had sipped at his brandy and found it to be the swordswoman's foul brew instead.

"You believe his claim?"
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Fri Sep 21, 2007 3:22 am

That's some of its tragedy, of course: that of Kerrak al'Nerun, Calomel had known only the madman, and nothing at all of the man that he'd been before that. It becomes her immediate and essential resolve, to remedy that on some future night, when circumstances allow and there's liquor sufficient to really do the man honour. That he might be so easily dismissed as a mad thing is no longer tolerable.

But these are maudlin contemplations, and the swordswoman will not indulge them for long. That toast is shared, some small benediction murmured in its wake; moments after, she must put her mind to the Constable's question, and admit some sudden smile, as she answers it.

"I believe no word that Thadius Dhrin speaks to me. Renne has spoken me no lie; Thadius cannot seem to speak anything else. But this means so little, mn? For they have shown me this same thing, this same talent: to move freely within another person's sleeping mind, to .. to shape those dreams almost at will. 'Almost', I say, for there are measures which --

"Ah. We come to that soon.

"It matters very little to me whether Dhrin was Renne's tutor, or if it were the other way entirely. What interests me is the matter of Galacia Tarin-Talus Vraal, who is so well-educated on the matter of Baie, whose Order is led by Thadius Dhrin and Michael Renne, who have both proven so adept in meddling in the dreams of others. What interests me is that you learn an understanding of this meddling, for it sounds such a small thing -- why, only twice has those dreams effected the waking world, yes?

"So you must think on this, that some villain might find some gain in eavesdropping at the door of his sworn enemy, mn? And how much more may he benefit to witness his foe's sleeping soul -- defenseless, disarmed.

"Hiding nothing."
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Postby Galacia Tarin » Fri Sep 21, 2007 3:44 am

Somewhere dark, damp and cold, a creature stirs. Deceptively gentle features crease into a frown.

"I see some lessons are hard learned."

The voice is so smooth as to rival the finest silk, but it is somehow tainted, broken. It echoes through the cavern, returning to her disjointed. Beside her a body stirs, long silken locks of raven and silver fall across his sharp features. He stirs, but nothing more.

"I warned you about talking too much, Ariane Emory. Silence is golden. Silence is safe."

With those words she is rising, and moving toward an altar of sorts. A large box is kept on the stone shelf above it. Taloned fingers begin to move through it, before pulling free a small swatch of dark grey fabric, stained with what could only be blood.

"People are so careless with what they leave behind."

Ariane, of course, hears none of this. She has once more attracted the attention of those she wishes to dismiss.
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Postby Cinnabar » Fri Sep 21, 2007 4:16 am

Calomel nods as she names Dhrin the paragon of liars, the dissembler made flesh, and one can only wonder what it is that matches his views to her own; what experiences, even.

Interest at her mention of defence, of measures against these dream intrusions, and finally another mention of this oft-referred but little-explained name; the dreamwitch, Galacia.

"Only twice? Twice is disturbing enough, when in fact that number should be never." A small frown at that, and as she describes the danger of one who can reach into dreams, the threat that might be posed when one lies asleep and vulnerable. Troublesome. He has his own protector, yes, but even so it is good to know more about such things, more about how one might make oneself safe from them.

"And to guard against it? This spying, this invasion?"
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Fri Sep 21, 2007 6:47 am

And if Ariane knew ...
If she had thought to anticipate a witch's retribution...

Oh, but that's the horror of it: that even had she known of what was to come, this conversation would change not at all, except in terms of its urgency. Months ago, she had explained to Calomel something of what it is to exist as a weapon, as a tool of Necessity, and were she required to risk in order to inform, well. Is that really a choice at all?

But they are afforded a period of ignorance yet, and make excellent use of it, just as if they were aware of the rarity of such things. Thessilane howls at Derry borders; the Ashfiend lurks in anticipation of a gift no-one can truly supply; oh, how could it be any other way?

"So it should be," she is echoing the Constable now, with some tight smile. "And whenever is Myrken what it ought to be? Or any of us as dare dwell in it -- ah, I have no ready remedies to this thing, or do you see? That I would fear it so very little. This much I have learned: to sometimes recognise when a thing is merely dream, and not real; when such a dream is .. influenced. And sometimes, if I am so careful, if -- hah, if I have good fortune with me, it will be I myself who does this influencing.

"In two years, this is everything that I have learned of it."
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Postby Cinnabar » Fri Sep 21, 2007 9:26 am

Everything that the swordswoman has learned; everything after such a time, after so long of being afflicted with these dreams, of being assaulted with them. Everything, and yet even that is an unreliable thing, inconstant and uncertain. Sometimes, she says. If careful. If fortunate. It is a small effort to keep disappointment from his features at this, when he had hoped that perhaps there might be more dependable way to shield one's dreams.

"Is there any sign, some mark that indicates when there is such an influence? Some clue?" Or perhaps something more intuitive. A matter of listening, of noting the things that seem awry. In a dream? In a nightmare? Ha. Still. But then a curious gaze for the woman, wondering.

"Do you have these dreams even now? Recently?"
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Sat Sep 22, 2007 12:39 am

"I ... think that I do not."

Disappointing, isn't it? That a woman sums up her gain from two years of this madness in such simple, meagre terms. That she has so very little of practical benefit to offer at all. Perhaps Calomel will read this much from her taut features: that he is not alone in that regret, that a person better gifted in such matters might have accomplished far, far more. Certainly he will discover that this question is particularly difficult: she must struggle a moment more in answering, must shape word after unvoiced word.

"I do not sleep so well," she decides upon, at last. "Since I was a child, I sleep poorly; my mother reckoned it a sickness of the blood," and at this she can chuckle, for it's as simple a thing as jenever and cold sausage, and she must appreciate that. "So it is not enough to say that Oh, a dream was violent, or frightening, so it must surely be meddled with -- no. I have this often, and long before.

"It is the quality of these things, it is -- the substance of them. It is not strange to me that I dream of some face that I know, mn? But if it were to engage me in talk, if it were to speak things I could not know, then ... I would know, I think. If all things were to go so strangely awry, if -- "
[INDENT]
if she were to drown beneath black waters or crimson filth, if there were eyes that burned like violet sunsets, like cloudless skies or frosted malachite, if there were ozone in the air and his blood in her mouth, if it was her hand which held the blade and her heart which bled beneath it, if breath crystallised in the air between them like frost like words like hope like glittering intent[/INDENT]

" -- there was a sense in it that spoke only to the heart, and not the senses at all, then ... Ah. Then I might know to trust no part of it at all. Then, it might be I who teach the meddler to fear."
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Postby Cinnabar » Sun Sep 23, 2007 8:51 am

"No longer? Then that's a good thing, I would say." It would indicate that, for now at least, all is quiet. And quiet is good. Though there is the contrary view that no, quiet is not good - these things do not stop of their own accord, do not simply cease. So they must continue, somehow, they must go on as before only more subtly, more carefully, such that they are harder to detect, to see. Silence is not safety, but only a sign that you must look harder, as you are obviously missing something.

Down that path lies fear and paranoia and distrust of everything, such that even times when one might rest are fraught with the suspicion that one is being dangerously inattentive, and must not relax. And some fair way down that path from where Calomel stands, if one were being unkind in one's opinions, one might see the distantly hurrying figure of Governor Helstone.

But this next thing she says, of how one might know such dreams... that has him frowning uncertainly, thinking for a time of his own dreams and the suffusing sense of rightness, of wellbeing that comes with them. Hm. Grey eyes flick to the woman at that last, though, followed some moments later by a slight smile.

"So as the interloper gazes upon the sleeping soul of the dreamer, he is made to see something more than he would have liked. To look into the monstrous places of one's heart."
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