Orak and Moirean

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The Eastern Medina.
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The stars twinkle in the clear night sky. Lying on the ground is a large plump
peanut. A bright-eyed missionary serenely patrols the streets of Enorian.
You see exits leading north(open), east, south(open) and west.
South

The Wing and Tail Tavern.
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A short, cramped alleyway leads to this small, tucked-away tavern, the
unassuming shopfront nearly lost in the gloom of the rubbish-strewn close. A set
of battered wooden doors leads to a narrow entry, framed by a pair of grimy
plate-glass windows which let only a hazy diffusion of light filter out to
illuminate the cobblestones outside. A lopsided sign hung haphazardly above the
door proclaims, in a shaky script, this to be the illustrious "Wing and Tail"
Inn. Despite this rather dismal entry, the pub seems to be conducting a brisk
trade, albeit of the rougher sort of crowd than would be found in the more
central parts of the Medina. Burly sailors and dockworkers in from Jaru,
off-duty soldiers, a bedizened woman or two, as well as cloak-swathed travelers,
still dusty from the road, all mill beneath smoky reed torch-light. In a far
corner of the inn, tucked away in the nook below the landing to the upper
floors, a handful of proprietors run a crude, makeshift market: a grizzled dwarf
displays a surprisingly shining collection of weapons atop one trestle table,
while an enterprising gypsy offers trinkets and more arcane wares from covered
baskets, her eyes narrowing every now and then at a cluster of women near the
bar who silently offer their own, more scandalous selection of goods.
Indifferent to the buzz and clamor, a buxom serving wench bustles about
depositing drinks, pausing once in a while to nag a serving lad away from
stealing bits of the boar spitted above the tavern's fireplace or to flash
cheeky winks at the burly barman behind the counter. Apparently oblivious to her
attentions, the muscular man merely watches the inn's visitors, barking out
gruff warnings in punctuated intervals, ensuring the rough crowd never gets too
rowdy. Above the din, twining through the smoke, and teasing the senses, rich
smells surround you: the bold scent of nutty ale, the piquant trace of exotic
spices, and, beneath it all, the hearty, comforting aroma of filling pub fayre.
An argent intercessor is poised here, hefting an ancient-looking halberd in her
glowing hands. Grand Marshall Moirean Seirath, Wasted Liberator is riding on a
donkey. She wields a tower shield in her left hand. You see a sign here
instructing you that WARES is the command to see what is for sale.
You see exits leading north(open) and down(closed).

You have emoted: Orak seems at first bewildered upon finding a tavern, but soon
turns his gaze appreciatively to what is for sale.

You pay 200 sovereigns and receive a greasy meat pie.

You have emoted: Orak weaves his way across to an empty seat and takes it,
settling back to watch the crowd and nibble on the pie.

After a long span of bustle and chatter, a natural break comes in the hubbub, as
the barmaid wends her way towards you. "Anything I can do you for, sugar?" she
asks, placing one hand on a generous hip. She accents the words with a smile,
jerking her head towards an Imp lurking in one far corner. "Missus Moirean found
your look interesting. Says it's her treat." She waits a moment, amiably holding
her tray before her as she listens.

You have emoted: Orak shifts in his seat, pausing to look the lady over for a
moment. "Perhaps something to drink, miss? Whatever the house has special would
do me just fine." He flicks a glance to Moirean, giving what could be a grin, in
its own insectile way.

l me

He is an athletic Horkval, about five and a half feet tall with a lean, wiry
physique. His leathery skin is a nondescript greenish-brown colour, protected in
places by grimy, dull and pitted carapace. His face is vaguely birdlike, in that
his lower jaw sticks upward like an inverted beak, and a shock of slightly
translucent quills sprout from the back of his head, almost resembling feathers
or hair in their flexibility. The quills seem to have been ornamented, with
little pieces of bone or string or cloth, all strung and tied through the mass
of spikes. His eyes are narrow and deepset, slit-pupilled and a muddy yellowish
colour with no visible whites. He is broad of knuckle, each of his three fingers
tipped with a thick, curved claw. His right arm, shoulder to wrist, is inked
with a pattern of broad spirals, simple fine lines in dark blue ink playing
across skin and carapace alike. Where the ink crosses shell, the lines have been
carved in before ink was added, lending the tattoo a sculptural appearance. He
is wearing:
a leather loincloth
a doe-leather wineskin

The wench nods once, disappearing in the crowd as she saunters back towards the
bar. From her corner, Moirean meets your stare, nodding, silently, slowly, once.
Her form is soon eclipsed by the returning barmaid, who deposits a rather gaudy
glass before you, a stream of bubbles spiraling around the drink's base. "King's
Ruin," she winks, giving a heady, inexplicable giggle.

You have emoted: Orak leans forward, favouring the barmaid with a grin as well,
now. "My thanks to you and the lady," he says, picking up the glass.

Number of objects: 3
"intercessor142187" an argent intercessor.
"donkey60290" a donkey.
"glass164307" a shot glass.

take glass

You pick up a shot glass.
p glass

Small and sturdy, this shotglass is functional and able to take a beating.
It has 1 months of usefulness left.
It weighs 6 ounce(Drunk.
It bears the distinctive mark of Tariana, the confectioner.
"The King's Ruin" cocktail sloshes about in it. (10 sips)

The costly scent of cognac is nearly overwhelming in this drink, though a faint,
spicy note can also be discerned.

You have emoted: Orak raises the glass in a toast to Moirean, before tilting his
head back to take a sip.

Decadent and intoxicating, this extravagant drink slides down with a heady kick.
Crisp bubbles from the champagne base tingle the tongue, mingled with a spike of
cognac; a fiery aftertaste adds a final, almost painful, note.

You have emoted: Orak coughs, blinking at the glass- he seems startled, but
apparently not displeased. After a moment he takes another, slower sip.

Decadent and intoxicating, this extravagant drink slides down with a heady kick.
Crisp bubbles from the champagne base tingle the tongue, mingled with a spike of
cognac; a fiery aftertaste adds a final, almost painful, note.
stat

Wiping her hands on her apron, the barmaid nods with a toss of hair, before
turning and wading back into the crowd. You can faintly her voice raised as she
hollers at a serving boy scuttling past her, before her shout is lost in the
crowd - as is the boy. Around you, the tavern roars with activity, although,
oddly, silence seems to reign from the shadowed corner of your benefactor. With
another nod, still wordless, Moirean acknowledges your toast, her amber eyes
curiously fixed on you, backlit by heatsight in the smoky gloom.

You have emoted: Orak seems to greatly enjoy the atmosphere, eyes darting here
and there over the crowd as he takes another contemplative sip of the heady
drink. After a little more of this, his gaze settles back on Moirean- he gets
up, slowly, and makes his way through the crowd, seeming to slip through with
relative ease despite his stature. Finally, he comes to the corner, glass still
held carefully and unspilt in one hand.

You say to Moirean, "Forgive me if my knowledge of customs is incorrect, but I
thought it only right I should come and give my own thanks, for the drink."

Moirean offers a faint smile, her lips moving as she mouths a question. A sudden
roar from the crowd behind you drowns out her words, as one of the soldiers near
the fireplace suddenly springs to his feet, tankard in hand, and begins to
bellow a song in an enthusiastic, if not in-key, voice.

You have emoted: Orak looks over his shoulder, grinning at the sudden swell in
noise. To compensate, he moves a little closer, though his body language and the
distance remaining still seems respectful. "Pardon, Lady?" he tilts his head,
eyes of a muddier yellow than Moirean's attentive as he listens more closely.

Moirean raises her voice, her chin lifting. "I asked if you were a Syssin," she
hoarsely repeats, apparently nonplussed by her complete nonsequintor.

You have emoted: Orak shakes his head, the sea of noise drowning the rustle of
his quills. He takes a sip of the drink, before replying, "No, lady- though I
suppose that is also what a Syssin would say, eh?" He gives that insectile grin
again, eyes twinkling with good natured humour.

Decadent and intoxicating, this extravagant drink slides down with a heady kick.
Crisp bubbles from the champagne base tingle the tongue, mingled with a spike of
cognac; a fiery aftertaste adds a final, almost painful, note.

Moirean nods once in thought, her gaze drifting past you towards the busy room
beyond. "I suppose so," she agrees absently, adding, "You're quite different
than him, in any case, now that you speak."

You have emoted: Orak tilts his head curiously. "Have I been mistaken for
somebody else?"

You eat a greasy meat pie piece by piece, deeply satisfied by the warm filling
and flakey crust.

Moirean's eyes drift back to you. Her head shakes, and she offers a small smile.
"Just reminded, that's all," she replies. Her gaze flicks down to the empty
chair across the table from her, and then back up to you. "You can sit, if you
wish," she offers, one eyebrow raising as you consume the pie.

You have emoted: Orak seems to eat neatly, if the way he has escaped getting
gravy on himself is any indication. At the invitation, he takes a seat, sparing
yet another glance for the living tide that fills the room. "This is your place,
then?"

Moirean brings one elbow up to rest it on the table. She props her chin up her
palm, making a vague noise of agreement. After a moment, she adds, "And my
friend. The Paladin guildmaster. He sells weapons from here. I sell the booze.
We thought it a convenient combination of services." She smiles wryly at her own
joke, a slightly brittle hint to the curve as the exuberant soldier behind you
begins to shout out for contestants for arm wrestling. As the crowd roars its
approval, the Imp sighs, correcting herself: "Perhaps TOO convenient..."

You have emoted: Orak gives an odd, clicking chuckle. "It does seem like it
would be a dangerous combination at times." He watches over his shoulder for a
few moments, before turning back. "Ah, it is enough to make me write, but I
think I will wait for the words to distil." He takes a sip of the drink, tilting
it in a half-toast. "That is the way for the best result, is it not?"

Decadent and intoxicating, this extravagant drink slides down with a heady kick.
Crisp bubbles from the champagne base tingle the tongue, mingled with a spike of
cognac; a fiery aftertaste adds a final, almost painful, note.

Moirean raises her other hand, crooking a finger towards the serving wench as
she bustles by, one arm laden with bowls of rich stew, while the other hand
securely grasps the handles of half a dozen tankards. Without missing a step,
the woman nods at the Imp, before vanishing into the knot of soldiers.

Returning her attention to you, Grand Marshall Moirean Seirath, Wasted Liberator
says to you, "Write, eh?"

You have emoted: Orak nods eagerly, quills bouncing with the motion. "Indeed. I
consider myself something of a wordsmith, in truth."

Somehow, with barely a pause, the barmaid appears from the crowd, sliding a
steaming bowl of stew across the table towards Moirean before returning to her
serving duties, without even waiting for thanks. The Imp wrinkles her nose,
leaning towards you as she drops her voice to a confidential whisper. "There's
always something a bit...dull about eating one's own cooking, don't you think?"

Moirean buys a bowl of bangers and mash.

Moirean takes a drink from a rugged, hunter's vial.

Moirean digs into this heaping bowl, forking a piece of sausage. Swirling it
through the gravy, she scoops up a dollop of mashed potato, before shoving the
entire bit into her mouth. she quickly chews and swallows, before snagging
another bite. Soon, the entire dish is devoured.

You have emoted: Orak tilts his head to the side. "I would not know," he admits,
taking a brief sip from his glass. "I am not a crafter of food, alas. Unless one
likes charcoal, I suppose."

Moirean reluctantly forks around the food in the dish before, with a resigned
sigh, she begins to eat it. A few flecks of mashed potato scatter across the
table in front of her as she mumbles something through a mouthful. She swallows
heavily, attempting again: "What exactly do you write then, great forger of
words?"

You say, "Poetry, when the mood takes me." He pauses, but then adds, "Of course,
this already means that I cannot appeal to everyone, but it is my craft
nonetheless."

You have emoted: Orak rests his chin on a clawed hand, looking off to the side.
"It is a difficult beast to control. Now, I wish to write a piece- no, a
tribute- a gift- for the lady Nightmare, but..." he sighs. "As yet, I have not
found the words."

Moirean allows a faint chuckle, before she takes another mouthful of the dish.
She gestures towards you with her fork in agreement. "Ewewymum's a cwiddic," she
laments, her words spiked with a gravy-induced slur.

You have emoted: Orak gives that insectile grin again, nodding.

Moirean swallows again, a calculating expression in her eyes as she slowly lays
down her fork. Casually, she echoes, "The Lady Nightmare?"

You have emoted: Orak nods again, his hand dipping below the surface of the
table; when it returns, it holds a small, somewhat ragged book. "That's right. I
recently spoke to one who followed Her. I wished to speak to one who followed
Iosyne, and he decieved me to say that he was, but in the end the result was the
same."

You say, "I had thought that Iosyne's idea of poetry may be to weak, too...
shallow, for what I wish to write. This man, he told me the same."

With a metallic rattle, Moirean pushes her plate aside, the food half-consumed.
She raises an eyebrow in interest, attention fixed on you.

With a half-grin, you say, "Of course, the words of a poet about his art are of
little interest, are they not? It is what he writes and gives a title that folk
care about, or not, as the case may be."

Moirean shrugs indifferently, her stare drifting downwards towards the book. "So
why Omei?" she asks bluntly.

You have emoted: Orak drums his claws on the cover of the book, which looks to
have stood up to a lot of this. "I do not want to write words for their own
sake. I do not want to bother myself with pretty rhymes and odes to flowers."

You say, "I wish to write poetry which stirs the reader. I wish to shape their
emotions by my hand. Inspire fear, or joy, or passion."

With a faint smile, Grand Marshall Moirean Seirath, Wasted Liberator says, "Then
you wish to truly say something, not just write."

You say, "It is a deep thing, something that I cannot refuse, this poetry. It is
a wonderful power, no? Words that can change someone?"

Moirean leans forwards a fraction, raising her voice over a sudden bout of
cheers from the soldiers. A loud thump accents the shouts - apparently the arm
wrestler has met his match. She shakes her head, her voice remarkably calm and
clear in the din: "Why the Lady Omei, though?"

You have emoted: Orak shifts into a more comfortable position in his seat. "This
is what I discussed with the man."

You say, "By name, my craft belongs to Iosyne, and it is true that all poets
require Inspiration."

You say, "But this man, he told me that Iosyne was interested only in the
shallow, simulacras and imitations of life and truth, for their own pretty
sake."

You say, "I told him that I wanted more, that I wished to make words that
inspired emotion, that crafted the feelings and thoughts, that lived, and
breathed, if I should so wish them. He told me that I should not pursue Iosyne,
and instead turn to his Lady."

Moirean's smile widens, fixing for a moment as she glances past you to the
barkeep. She raises one eyebrow in irritation, jerking her head sideways towards
the gathering crowd. The noise from the soldiers is reaching a deafening pitch
as one man screams something about cheating, and you can hear at least one table
crash, toppling to the flood with the heavy thunk of wood against stone. After
her quick eye contact with the bartender, she returns her gaze to you, her smile
warming. "The man was wise," she agrees.

You have emoted: Orak twists in his chair, watching the growing fracas with
interest. At Moirean's comment, however, he comes back around, replying,
"Whether his judgement was accurate or not remains to be seen, but he allowed me
into the Lady's congregation."

Behind you, a sharp crack resounds as the barkeep slams his meaty fists down on
the bar, barking out a warning to the off-duty fighters. Drunkenly, one slurs
back a mocking reply, prompting a shout from another patron. Soon the air rings
with taunts, and the tell-tale sound of another table toppling splits the air.
Blithely, Moirean continues to stare at you, smiling widely. "I know," she
airily remarks.

You have emoted: Orak tilts his head curiously, the rustle of his quills silent
beneath the din. "You do, Lady?"

A sharp whine pierces the air with the distinctive whine of steel. Clearly in
the mood for no trouble, the bartender whirls a rather nasty looking mace about
his head again, bellowing out a repeat of his warning. Shocked into subdued
silence, the soldiers sullenly sink to their seats, warily - and blearily -
eying each other as they begin to murmur in low tones. Quick to smooth over the
ruffled atmosphere, the bar wench bustles in, refilling the men's tankards with
generous servings of mead, grog and ale while, at her sharp glance, the waifish
serving boy begins to play a reedy tune on a pennywhistle. Almost immediately,
the mood lightens, the fight quickly forgotten in the influx of more alcohol.
Apparently oblivious - or immune - to the entire scene, Moirean simply replies,
"Yes. I know. It's not hard to spy a Dreamer, afterall."

You have emoted: Orak eyes Moirean carefully for a few moments, a grin slowly
growing on his insectile face. "I take it you are as well, then, Lady?"

Moirean merely smiles quietly. Her silence is punctuated by a sudden rush of
song from the mollified soldiers: while off-key and rowdy, the tune does an
impressive job of covering a vast expanse of ground (in a lurid depth of detail)
regarding the inadequacies of the Bloodloch King's genetalia. The Imp hums a few
bars with the men, before asking, "So...what brings you to Enorian? The
celebrations?"

You say, "Well, they are certainly lively."

You have emoted: Orak looks once more to the throng of men and women. "They are
very much an inspiration with all of their life and vibrance."

Moirean allows a genuine hint of pride to creep into her expression. "They just
won a war," she points out. "Such things inspire like none other." She pauses a
moment, before adding, coyly, "Perhaps more than anything else man, even
wordsmiths, can create?"

You have emoted: Orak nods amiably. "From what I hear, these men well deserve
their celebration." A comfortable pause passes and he looks down at his book.
"It is true, a thousand words and a thousand books could not capture all the
life and energy. But perhaps, I can come as close as my quill allows."

With a chuckle, Grand Marshall Moirean Seirath, Wasted Liberator says, "Perhaps
you'll find such inspiration yourself, soon enough. The Lady Omei is not a
passive Lady - war constantly seems about to break out between Her and the
Imposter."

You say, "If only I were a weaver of wounds as well as words, I could serve in
such battles... but I fear that a poet is of little use on the battlefield."

The sun begins her downward journey towards eventual sleep, casting even, full
light upon the land.

You yawn suddenly and mightily.

You have emoted: Orak ducks his head to cover the yawn.

Moirean glances back at the celebrating men, a thoughtful frown on her lips.
"No, the place for poets is walking beside Death, through carrion fields,
collecting the stories as they escape, in soft sighs, from the fallen's last
breaths..." Her gaze darkens a moment as a shadowed expression flitters across
her features - swiftly, it fades, as she turns back to you, a smile in its
place, so quickly that you almost think the troubled stare was a trick of the
light, the whisper just a creak of the wooden tables behind you. Brightly, she
points out, "A poet is a pet of kings and warriors. Many wish to hear tales of
their deeds."

Reassuringly, Grand Marshall Moirean Seirath, Wasted Liberator says, "Worry not.
You will have plenty to write of in coming days."

You have emoted: Orak gives Moirean an appreciative look, nodding slowly. "I
see... so amongst your crafts, you shape words as well, Lady."

With a vague smile, Grand Marshall Moirean Seirath, Wasted Liberator says, "I've
written a pretty little piece or two."

You say, "If ever the time and mood strikes you, Lady, I would love to read
them."

Bathing nearby buildings with a radiant glow, rays from the lighthouse sweep
across the city, forestalling the coming darkness of night.

Moirean tilts her head appraisingly, before offering, "If you let me read yours
first, hmm?"

You have emoted: Orak slides his book across the table easily. "I am afraid
there is not much; my last book I lost when I was wading through a swamp. A
terrible loss, but one I must bear all the same."

give book to moirean

You give a little black book to Grand Marshall Moirean Seirath, Wasted
Liberator.

Moirean pulls the book closer, carefully opening it to the first page. As her
eyes drop down and she begins to read, the soldiers break into another song,
this one more subdued. A trembling tenor soars over rumbling baritones, as their
words softly drift towards you, the tune lingering in the minor key, as the men
sing heavy words of past battles and fallen friends.

A flute interweaves with the melody, its ethereal harmony mourning the ballad's
tale.

You have emoted: Orak leans an elbow comfortably on the table, turning to
listen- even with the limitations his insectile face imposes upon him, in
profile he seems wistful, swayed by the emotion in the room like a reed in the
river.

sip glass

Decadent and intoxicating, this extravagant drink slides down with a heady kick.
Crisp bubbles from the champagne base tingle the tongue, mingled with a spike of
cognac; a fiery aftertaste adds a final, almost painful, note.

The somber tune continues, voices rising as they reach a second verse. A battle,
violent, impossible, is detailed: rivers of blood forded by rotting horses,
advancing on a dwindling, besieged legion of knights. A gravelly voice sinks low
in counterpoint, his voice emulating the grim, inexorable tramp of Nazetu boots,
while, soaring above, the bar wench softly joins her voice. Tentative, nearly
drowned by the melancholy notes, her quiet soprano drifts as a tenuous, febrile
thread of hope. Almost in time with the song, Moirean turns the page with a soft
rustle of parchment, her wings slowly beating as her body instinctively sways
with the familiar melody.

The flute answers the compelling visions, its notes like the sky - clear, and
then mournful and gray, filled with dust, and clouds, and smoke, and storms;
whipped into a subdued frenzy by the force of the battles raging beneath it. Its
sound seems to frame the imagery of the words, filling your mind's eye with
poignant, compelling visions of the bloodbath. Knights and Nazetu fight, and
heroes, villains, stand out in the fray, finding one another and dueling with
all the passion, all the fervor of their respective causes.

You have emoted: Orak slowly closes his eyes, letting the swell of song carry
him away as the story unfolds itself, the smoke and atmosphere in the bar giving
it a tangible place to hang in the air. His posture is relaxed, though his
expression is intent, hanging on each phrase and turn of the melody and its
tale.

Moirean frowns at the dark imagery in the writing, her hand lingering for a
moment atop the page, before she turns it, reaching the final poem. Exhaling
slowly, she sits back, the small journal open before her as her eyes close,
losing herself in the achingly familiar story the music tells. For a moment, the
song drifts, nearly dwindling to quiescence, pulsing in a fading, mournful note
- the eye of battle, all seems lost, Death abounds, hope crushed...and then the
woman's voice rises, strengthening, gathering in volume to a gentle, clear aria.

You have emoted: Orak tilts his head, seeming to follow the rise of the song,
though his eyes remain closed. While the men and women may be singing the tune,
the horkval poet seems utterly lost in it, swept up and carried by the
narrative.

The flute protests, harmonizing with a slight discord against the final triumph
of hope and light, but fades away in the face of the woman's voice - and the
final tendrils of darkness ease away from the compelling images, leaving them
free and untainted by the woodwind's dark counterpoint.

Moirean yawns suddenly and mightily.
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Orak opens his eyes now, though his focus seems distant, clearly still within the rich landscape of song. His jaw hangs slightly slack, and he sways gently, but only a little.

You have emoted: The woman's voice lingers a moment longer, soaring above as the men's singing fades to silence. For a heatbeat, her melody hangs in the air, soft, bright, weak and quavering, but underpinned by a steely note of strength, before that, too, fades into the smoky tavern. Her eyes closed, Moirean slowly mouths the song's refrain, her expression clearing.

You have emoted: Opening her eyes to stare at you again, Moirean murmurs, "And there you are, little Dreamer. A piece of your's...and a piece of mine."

Orak blinks a few times, coming back to reality. He gives a little smile, inasmuch as he can, and inclines his head. "Stunning, Lady. If only I could reach such heights with my work... ah, if only."

With a faint smile, you say, "The words, at least." She glances slightly sideways, a curious expression in her eyes. "The accompaniment, however..."

You have emoted: Moirean merely shrugs, staring back at you again.

Orak quietly watches the people go about their business, be it drinking or otherwise.

You have emoted: Moirean slowly slides a scroll across the table towards you. "It was a rough version, only," she says thoughtfully, nodding towards the parchment. "The real song changes each time. The singing...each put their own stories and feelings..." She falls silent, shrugging again. A faint frown furrows her brow.

Orak's eyes repeatedly shut as he tries to stay awake.

Orak's eyes flicker here and there over the scroll as he reads- it seems his day, whatever it held, has caught up with him, as he finds himself needing to prop himself more stably against the table.

Orak gives in to exhaustion, drifting off to sleep.

You have emoted: Moirean coughs once, the sound suspiciously like choked back laughter. "Perhaps the drink was too strong," she murmurs in a soft tease.

Orak gives an easy sort of grin. "It is not the drink that tires me so. How could it? One cannot be lulled by a drink that fights back."

You have emoted: Moirean rises to her feet (or, rather, slips down off her seat - her overall height seems to drop at least a foot) and tilts her head in a quick beckon. "Come. My library has a couch you can use."

Orak gets up slowly. "If you are certain, I would be honoured, Lady."

You have emoted: Without waiting for your reply, Moirean begins to wind her way through the bar, easily slipping between the tavern's patron. Patiently, she waits at the rickety door for your larger frame to navigate the cramped room.

Orak does so with only a little less in the way of the ease he had displayed before; apparently, he is used to moving through crowds. He still seems enamoured by the atmosphere of the bar- if he had skin that was capable of it, his cheeks would surely be flushed.

Orak follows you to the north.
An elegant atelier. (Enorian.)
Clearly a multi-purpose room, this area combines study with work, as well as relaxation. A yawning fireplace occupies the far side of the library, the marble mantle artfully strewn with a collection of trinkets and familial heirlooms. The firelight casts a cozy glow on the book-lined shelves set flush against the walls and gives a pleasant warmth to the deep leather chairs ringed around the hearth. Nearer to the door, a large and impressive desk stacked with a neat pile of papers faces a small artist's studio. Half-finished carvings and sculptures litter the floor behind a tripod holding an incomplete painting, the stretched canvas on the stand only partially covered in vivid colors. Tacked to the walls, a scattered display of scribbled recipes, sketches for jewelry designs and rough clothing patterns indicate that this section of the room is the one most often used. A dark brown root sigil is here. Orak is here. A small sign indicates that LIBRARY CATALOG will list
the materials in this library.
You see a single exit leading south(open).

With a nod towards the couch, you say, "Nap."

Orak gazes about, jaw slack again. "What a magnificent home," he says slowly, even as he pads across to the piece of furniture in question.

You have emoted: Moirean turns away from you, nodding in acknowledgement of your words, although a faintly pink blush can be discerned along the tips of her ears. She fixes her attention on the mantle above the fire, fussily and unnecessarily rearranging the various small trinkets and heirlooms.

You feel your eyelids drooping; a sure sign that you need sleep.

Orak seats himself, shifting his position such that his quills won't pierce anything in his sleep. He watches you groggily, even as his eyes slowly close once more.

Orak closes his eyes, curls up into a ball and falls asleep.

A snatch of flutesong beckons you from the south, its melody ensnaring you.

Orak stretches luxuriously, tilting his chin up and giving an odd clicking sound as he pushes himself upright again.

You have emoted: Moirean turns at the clicking noise, startled. She takes a step back from the mantle, the back of her knees bumping into the seat of a chair, seemingly crafted intentionally low and for a smaller frame. Almost gratefully, she sinks down into it, her own eyes drooping closed. "Good rest?" she asks, stifling a yawn of her own.

Orak says, "Ah, very much so, Lady. And thank you for the kind use of this couch, it is surely the finest thing I've slept on in some time."

You have emoted: Moirean seems about to ask a question, but her words are drowned by another yawn. Unwillingly, her eyes shut, as she drifts into her own slumber.

You close your eyes, curl up in a ball, and fall asleep.

An unusually vivid dream swirls through your sleeping mind, and you have the distinct impression of movement.
Around a homely dinner table. (lost)
The warm tones of firelight bask the generous spread of this table in bright colors, and the small room is bathed in a wondrous variety of smells and sensations. Your plate is piled high with food, and the melancholy music of a flute overlies the bustle and chatter at the table. A dark, alluring undine stands here, the outer skin of her form frozen into a misty, pliant shell.
There are no obvious exits.

A undine of Nightmare says, "Wake up, honey. Wake up. It's rude to fall asleep at the table."

An icy hand is shaking you by the shoulder - gentle, yet insistent. The voice is likewise, brimming with suppressed irritation.

You have emoted: Moirean's eyes flutter open, as she groggily stares at the table before her. "Of course..." she murmurs obediently, reaching for the plate before her, trancelike.

In a mumble, eyes glazed, you say, "So nice for someone else to cook for once."

A undine of Nightmare sighs, mist drifting from her mouth as she sets down her fork - it rings like a bell through the room. "What do you say to all the nice guests who came to mommy's dinner party, sweetie? For falling asleep?"

Eyes are on you. Eyes, everywhere, staring at you with expressions ranging from shock, to amusement, to outright disapproval. No one is eating.

You have emoted: Moirean glances about her, expression cowed. "I'm sorry," she meekly states, bowing her head. Her curls fall before her face, obscuring it, as her tiny frame seems to shrink even more beneath the stares.

A purple moth flutters by, every movement of its violet, translucent wings resounding like dull heartbeats in the comparative silence of the area.

A undine of Nightmare beams. "That's mommy's little girl." She stabs her fork into a live octopus upon her plate, watching it wriggle futilely before swallowing it whole. The other guests, placated by the apology, begin to eat with gusto.

You have emoted: Moirean stares at the creature, transfixed by its writhing as it makes its way to the undine's mouth. "But mommy..." she hesitantly begins. "You're dead. In the basement..." she trails off again, blank confusion on her features. Her eyes widen as, in a sudden childlike fit, she shrieks, "And that's mine! Mine!"

You have emoted: Moirean points frantically at the meal before her, her finger wavering as she attempts to reach for one of the cephalopods. "Inky!" Her voice shakes in anger, and she stomps one foot on the ground in pique.

Rain falls from the cloudless sky, its color a deep, crimson red. The air smells of salt and iron, and the ground drinks greedily of the sky's offering.

A undine of Nightmare slurps down a last tentacle, icy lips closing. "No," replies the undine primly, "It's mine. And I am most certainly not dead. Darling, you're disturbing our guests. You know what happens to naughty girls, don't you? Mommy lets the guests *murder* them. Remember your older sister, and be thankful your pet is the only thing I'm going to hurt. Now *sit down and shut up*."

A undine of Nightmare growls at you menacingly.

You have emoted: Moirean falls back to her seat with a sudden bump, a sullen scowl on her face. When it appears the nymph's attention is diverted, she sticks her tongue out, pulling a rude face, as she crosses her arms stubbornly over her chest.

A purple moth flutters by, every movement of its violet, translucent wings resounding like dull heartbeats in the comparative silence of the area.

A undine of Nightmare turns back to the guests, laughing politely and gesturing without noticing to you - "That's my daughter for you. You know, she reminds me of my late husband. No, no, he isn't the one I poisoned. He's the one I hanged. Yes, that's right, dear Harold. Wasn't *he* a card?"

You have emoted: Moirean's attention drifts, her voice deepening to the rich, almost-mature notes of a woman on the verge of adulthood. "Violet..." she breathes, her gaze following the flutter of the moth's wings.

You discern that you are standing in the Garden of Dreams.
Your environment conforms to that of Chaos.
You are in a lucid dream.

The moth is gone as soon as it came, but with it comes some sense of lucidity - your food is bland, tasteless. The smells are metallic and bloody. The guests are little more than freakish, half-rotted monsters, your own mother little better than them.

This is an Artifice. A Dream.

You have emoted: Moirean twists her head, staring back in horror at the scene around her. Not a Dream, her sleeping mind screams. Not a Dream - a Nightmare.

A undine of Nightmare says, "Sweetie? Sweetie, what's wrong?"

A undine of Nightmare glares angrily at you.

You have emoted: Moirean's features clear, an almost peaceful expression crossing her face.
Steadily, her sleeping mind continues to stare at the scene before her, even as it melts away into the dark, terrifying monsters. "Nothing," she says - thinks? Dreams. Her words (thoughts?) are quiet, yet their echoes fill the room - and still she continues to stare, facing the rotted creatures, some part of her mind, somewhere, forcing her body to remain asleep and endure the Nightmare.

Frustration and yet some measure of sympathy displayed on the horrible, icy face, the undine leans forward, whispering in your ear. "Sweetie, this is reality. I won't let you keep sleeping away your days pretending to be this 'Moirean' tramp I keep hearing about. It doesn't *work* like that in real life, darling, and the only reason I'm not going to beat you now is because mommy's guests are here. If they weren't, mommy would take those thoughts of yours and beat them out of you until you were black and blue. And then mommy would feed them to mommy's *eels*."

Your legs begin to tremble with weakness and you feel light-headed and dizzy. The thought of food looms foremost in your mind.

A undine of Nightmare says, "So mommy could be mean. But mommy doesn't want to embarrass you. Straighten up. Live in this world for a few hours until your bedtime."

You double over in pain as your stomach virtually collapses.

You have emoted: Moirean steadily returns the stares, although a flash of uncertainly flickers through her sleeping body. What is my reality? her sleeping mind demands, perception muddled by the images, the strength and force of the experience. Pain pierces her body, achingly believable, and she begins to reach for the meal before her, begins to surrender to the visions (the Truth?)

You suddenly have the vague notion that there are eyes, everywhere, watching you...

You double over in pain as your stomach virtually collapses.

A undine of Nightmare says, "Now here. Eat something. You want something to eat, don't you?"

A undine of Nightmare beams broadly at you.

You have emoted: Hunger wracks Moirean's form, but she pauses, freezing with her hand outstretched. No, she thinks, feels, Dreams. Quiet, weak, a child's fleeting defiance.

A juicy steak descends, resting on a golden disc of pure light.

The steak, and the disc, hover before you, one side of it balanced upon the undine's slender
fingers. "Eat," implores the creature. "Eat."

You double over in pain as your stomach virtually collapses.

You have emoted: Moirean's hand wavers, dipping lower towards the platter, before it steadies. No, her unconscious repeats, in the rebellious quaver of a teen first tasting their own strength and power.

There is no *reality* in the steak. Or *is* there! Your instinct, your consciousness, your desire, your morality - all of these say different things about the tempting, flat, glasslike... lust-inspiring flank of meat. It draws your attention like nothing else in the room, imploring you to accept it, the undine's face leering at you from a blurry background.

"EAT."

You double over in pain as your stomach virtually collapses.

You have emoted: Moirean withdraws her hand, dropping her hand to her side. She exhales slowly, her entire body, mind, identity shuddering as she forcefully sits back, staring blankly at the food. NO, she Dreams, a shaking, shrieking, silent shout which reverberates through the chamber without ever leaving her lips.

Your legs collapse from under you and consciousness leaves you as you pass out from extreme hunger.

An unusually vivid dream swirls through your sleeping mind, and you have the distinct impression of movement.
An elegant atelier. (Enorian.)
A dark brown root sigil is here. Orak is here. A small sign indicates that LIBRARY CATALOG will list the materials in this library.
You see a single exit leading south(open).

You open your eyes and yawn mightily.

You double over in pain as your stomach virtually collapses.

Orak gets quickly to his feet, frowning.

You have emoted: Moirean drifts back to waking, a shiver wracking her form. "I Dreamed," she
mumbles, sweat beaded on her brow.

In faint apology, you say, "Sorry for...sleeping so long..."

You double over in pain as your stomach virtually collapses.

Orak produces a skewer of meat, apparently with some sleight of hand.

Orak says, "Here, Lady."

You have emoted: Moirean lets out a gasp as hunger forces her to bend double. "It seems some things transcend the Dreaming," she murmurs. She stares dubiously at the meat, and then at the chamber about her. "Or perhaps I still sleep..."

Orak smirks and says, "If you still sleep, Lady, I am a dream with surprising capacity for thought."

You have emoted: Moirean stares suspiciously at Orak, eyes narrowing as she lifts the meat to her nose, sniffing it in suspicion. "The most dangerous are," she retorts.

The following members of the Congregation are in the realm:
Name Status
------------------------------------------------------------
Orak
Moirean
------------------------------------------------------------

(Congregation): You say, "Do I Dream, still?"

He could just be saying that.

Orak leans back a little, settling his hands on his knees. "I suppose that is true enough, Lady."

(Congregation): You say, "DREAMER - am I awake!"

A faint, icy hand is on your shoulder. "Sweetie? SWEETIE! SWEETIE! *WAKE UP!* *WAKE UP!*".

(Congregation): Omei says, "You yet sleep, if you must ask, little thing!"

(Congregation): Omei says, "FURTHERMORE, MY NAME IS NOT DREAMER!"

(Congregation): Omei says, "I AM DREAMER-NO-MORE, PATHETIC WHELP!"

Your legs collapse from under you and consciousness leaves you as you pass out from extreme hunger.

(Congregation): Omei says, "COWER! BOW! FOR I AM NIGHTMARE! THAT IS RIGHT!"

Orak creases his brow in a frown.

You regain consciousness with a start.

(Congregation): Omei says, "FALL!"

(Congregation): Omei says, "FALL!"

(Congregation): Omei says, "FALL!"

Your legs collapse from under you and consciousness leaves you as you pass out from extreme hunger.

You regain consciousness with a start.

(Congregation): Omei says, "If you will not *eat*, then *fall*."

Your legs collapse from under you and consciousness leaves you as you pass out from extreme hunger.

You regain consciousness with a start.

You double over in pain as your stomach virtually collapses.

(Congregation): You say, "Nightmare, Hellion, Pain, Destruction, Inspiration, Truth - what would You have me call You?!"

Orak shakes your shoulder.

(Congregation): You say, "Is not My Lady enough?"

Orak says, "Please, come, eat. Even if it is the stuff of dreams, it will satisfy me that you do."

(Congregation): Omei says, "I am *all things*, and *still* enough!"

In a growl, you say, "SHE said that, too. My mother-not-mother."

(Congregation): Omei says, "Still enough, more than enough, desirous of *all that is*!"

Pleading, Orak says, "Am I not an honest enough dream, Lady?"

You have emoted: Moirean curls her lips, exposing her teeth. Harshly, she returns, "The most
dangerous Nightmares are those which masquerade as Dreams. The ones which sneak carefully, sweetly into your sleeping mind. Those ones ensnare, and trap, and you are lost in them before you realize your folly!"

Your legs collapse from under you and consciousness leaves you as you pass out from extreme hunger.

You are in a pair of icy arms, being carried. A voice rings out through your head: "I shall carry her to bed. I know you wanted to talk to her, ahah, 'privately'. I know you so enjoy such things, sir and sir... But mommy's little girl won't scream as well if she isn't awake, mm?" The undine chuckles. "Mm-hmm-hmm. Tomorrow. Come back tomorrow."

You regain consciousness with a start.

Orak says, "Please, Lady, I beg you, eat! There will be nothing left of you. Please..."

Coldly, you say, "If I die, then I know I am awake."

"And you. *You.*" The voice is in your ear. "When you stop being this Moirean girl, stop trying to escape from my attempts to raise you into something worthwhile..."

Orak says, "Do you?"

All rational thought vacates your mind as an animal craving for sustenance overcomes you.

You have emoted: Moirean sinks back, staring around her with a grunt. "Do I?" she asks, running her fingers over her face, as if feeling it for substance, reality.

You double over in pain as your stomach virtually collapses.

Food is forced into your mouth - the icy hand is turned to water, and your stomach is forced open as food is crammed into it, all manner of steak, rice, wild fruits and vegetables... a dizzying array of tastes, filling you, bloating you.

A shimmering curtain of multi-coloured light surrounds you for an instant as your wounds are healed by divine intervention.

Orak shakes his head, quills rustling. His claws seem an eerily real pressure as he grasps your arm. "Lady, did you ever hear what happens to those who die in their dreams?"

You have emoted: Moirean's eyes are glazed over, her cheeks flushed from sudden nourishment, the source indefinable. "What happens?" she hoarsely asks, caution still in her stare.

Grimly, Orak says, "It is said that if one should die in their dreams- such a particular death that it draws them down- that they die in their own body as well."

Orak says, "So please, lady. Be this a dream or not, please, eat."

You have emoted: Moirean reaches down, plucking the skewer out of her lap. She runs her finger over the meat, congealed fat clinging to her fingers, greasy, lumpy. "It feels real. It smells real..." She suddenly glances around her, shaking her head. "My Nightmares follow me," she grunts.

Quietly, Orak says, "And do you not follow Her?"

Orak seems mildly amused now that his fright is beginning to pass.

You have emoted: Moirean rises to her feet, eyes widening. "Nightmares are for controlling, facing and becoming stronger. You CANNOT let them consume you, or you are useless." Flatly: "Nothing."

Orak gives an odd clicking sound.

Orak says, "I would not say that too loud, Lady."

You have emoted: Moirean lets the skewer drop from her fingers, before her hands ball into fists. "I am not a slave to my Dreams - I wish to be their Mistress. I do not follow the Lady out of fear, or for shelter - I follow Her to become strong. Stronger. The strongest mortal! Her realm, Her teachings, these will empower that. I will not cower from them like everyone else."

Softly, Orak says, "It is not the fear within a nightmare that concerns you."

Orak says, "You speak of fearing it beyond the veil of sleep."

Orak says, "Nightmares bring fear, bring emotion, this is what they are for. To deny them that is to deny their worth. Devalue them."

You shout, "Return to me, my sleeping visions, my Dream, my Nightmare. I will fight you, and I will conquer you. I will face you and become your Mistress, and you my slave. I am not afraid of my own mind's illusions!"

Softer yet, Orak says, "And when you do not value your dreams and nightmares- what then? Will you become undead, to flee their influence on your sleeping mind?"

A freezing gale sweeps through the sky as Omei, the Nightmare's voice resounds, "Then bring it on, My pet."

Orak glances upward, his jaw dropping slightly.

You have emoted: Moirean clenches her jaw, bracing herself for what may come, whatever it is.

You have emoted: Moirean beckons shortly to Orak.

Orak begins to follow you.

You say, "I have my own task. I shall lead you back to the city."

Snatches of flute song surround you - a cold wind rushes through the room. Just as suddenly as it came, it is gone once more.

Four Corners on Nordau Street. (Enorian.)

Orak tells you, "I still have your scroll, Lady. And you, my book."

You wave your hand over the brazier tattoo and summon Orak to you.

You give a little black book to Orak.

Orak gives an elegant vellum scroll to you.

A soothing glade. (Morgun Forest.)
The stars twinkle in the clear night sky. The shimmering waters of the lake lap against the shore invitingly. A large winged hourglass hovers over an ornately carved pillar, a bright golden glow pouring from it. Plants having grown within and upon it, a barely-legible wooden sign stands here. A dark, alluring undine stands here, the outer skin of her form frozen into a misty, pliant shell.
You see a single exit leading west.

This sign is written in Aetolian.
You read what is written on a half-rotted sign:
this is the lake of the nightmare.

it contains all the things of HER dreaming.

place things WITHIN the lake and SHE shall have them in HER hands.

give unto HER dreams upon PAPER written in BLOOD or INK.

if the dreams be INDULGENT then SHE will slay you.

therefore make the dreams PASSIONATE and reflective of SENSATION and
EMOTION.

thus you shall be rewarded.

A skewer of rabbit meat is cloaked in shadow as it enters the lake, the waters swallowing it whole.
It does not reappear.
You put a skewer of rabbit meat into a shimmering lake.

You smirk.

You step through a shimmering lake.
Near a lakeshore.

Your exhausted mind can stay awake no longer, and you fall into a deep sleep.

An unusually vivid dream swirls through your sleeping mind, and you have the distinct impression of movement.
Around a homely dinner table.
A juicy steak is here.
There are no obvious exits.

You open your eyes and yawn mightily.

The table is the same. But there are no guests here now - no undine. Nothing except you and newfound Lucidity. You have been here before, none too long ago - the Nightmares have not followed you.

The steak glistens upon its golden plate, beckoning you with its sheer, ridiculous perfection - its smell wafts across to you.

You have emoted: Moirean stares down at a juicy steak, derision and defiance radiating from her mind. Her sleeping mind coalesces in a lucid, clear thought: Dreams are for conquering. Dreams are for learning. They are my weapons, my tools, my army, and my teachers. They are not my masters.

You have emoted: Moirean wrenches a shout from the fabric of her Dream itself - is that unpleasing, Lady? Do you want only cowards and puppets? Only children to marvel at Your dazzle and shrink from Your darkness?

A undine of Nightmare says, "Stop that! I can hear you from upstairs."

A undine of Nightmare descends a flight of stairs both there and not there, her skin glistening with your own unspoken fears and nightmares. "You even *look* like her again. I've told you to stop doing that. There's no such thing as imps, silly girl."

You have emoted: Almost cold indifference radiates from the Dream-image of Moirean You are nothing, she thinks vaguely, almost lazily. Merely thought, memory, twisted imaginations. You are my own creation.

The cold, indifferent will of the creature of ice presses back against yours - you see it for what it is, nothing more than a power, a figment, an *avatar* of the Dream. But yet, there is undeniable reality to it, for you have seen it before, in that reality, by the lake of the Dreamer. It has spoken to you before. It is what the waters, its Mistress, will it to be.

You have emoted: Moirean's unconscious falters as the Undine's will presses against her. A
questioning uncertainty shakes her self, as her mind struggles to comprehend the paradox.

"Your name isn't Moirean," says the undine - your mother, a real, actual, living being, who smiles upon you with benevolence, such benevolence you have never felt. "Please, break from your delusions as I have continued to encourage you. You are my daughter. You have not chosen your name, for you have not chosen what you want to be in this world of ours. You're growing too old to make up your own rules anymore, sweetie. You have to start accepting the chaos. Let go of this fantasy world you've conjured up. Aetolia isn't real."

You have emoted: Softly, little more than a tendril of her own will responding back in a struggle to maintain her identity, Moirean's thoughts bubble up: it is as real as I perceive it. Just as this is real, in some world, some vision, somewhere, someone. But not within me.

With this thought, the ice upon the undine cracks - drops of water merge again with the main body, and she stumbles, the images trapped within her growing all the more vivid. "In this world," she protests, voice growing harsh, "We share a Dream. We all Dream of something the same. That is the only way we avoid going mad. I can show you the madmen again, if you want! They talk about things like this Aetolia of yours. Worlds where no one even knows if the Gods exist or not - worlds where different beliefs form different planes of existence! Think of our world! Think of how beautiful it is that consensus forms our reality! Don't you want to be part of that? You can make this world a bit like Aetolia - it's called compromise, sweetie, *compromise*!"

The steak glistens. Its smell has filled the room, its warmth, its realness.

You have emoted: Barely a whisper of thought, but holding firm: No. You are MY Dream, MY Nightmare, gifted to me by the Lady. You exist to make me stronger. I am Moirean and I Dream you.

A undine of Nightmare says, "So too does *She*."

You have emoted: Moirean roughly thinks, and where Her dream overlaps, my duty begins. The rest is no more than fat on that steak - to be cut away and discarded. Burned and destroyed.

A undine of Nightmare snarls viciously.

The steak pops out of existence, the plate it was set upon melting and pooling on the table.

You have emoted: Moirean presses back with her tentative, slender thread of willpower. My Nightmaresare servants to the Lady, warriors in Her battle. Learn your place.

A undine of Nightmare says, "You would contest Her will? Then you contest me. We shall fight - you with your weapons of reality, and I - I with Her power, the power of *Dreams*! We shall see who prevails. We shall see who is stronger."

You have emoted: Moirean draws back, uncertainty rippling through her mind. Not Her will. Only my own weaknesses, my own fears and Nightmares, which cling like burrs to you...

A undine of Nightmare simply throws her head back and begins to laugh, mist gushing from her mouth as the black terror within her fills her head and then her eyes. When she lowers her gaze, it contains within it the purity of malice, of fear.

You have emoted: Moirean's Dream-self finds her weapons in her hands, her body unconsciously poising for action.

You pull a hunter's spear from your weaponbelt fluidly.
You begin to wield a hunter's spear in your right hand.

A undine of Nightmare says, "...time to die..."

Sourly, you say, "Perhaps."

Staring directly into your eyes, a undine of Nightmare's face distorts into that of an ancient demon, inspiring you to flee.

You spring forwards onto a undine of Nightmare, and maul her viciously.

[fighting]

Your senses dim as a undine of Nightmare caresses about you. A flush takes your skin, and your mind falls into the alluring scent about you.

[fighting]

A undine of Nightmare gives a trillingly melodic laugh.

A undine of Nightmare says, "You are so *weak*!"

[fighting]

A undine of Nightmare says, "And look! We even fight on your terms!"

A undine of Nightmare says, "I am holding *back*!"

With a rough swipe of her claws, you say, "I am mortal. I DREAM. That is strength."

A undine of Nightmare charges towards you, ramming into your body with enormous force.

You spring forwards onto a undine of Nightmare, and maul her viciously.
The final blow proves too much for a undine of Nightmare, who expires, pitifully.
You have slain a undine of Nightmare.

You pick up the corpse of a undine of Nightmare.

You have emoted: Moirean picks up the corpse, roughly hurling it at the ground.

You drop the corpse of a undine of Nightmare.

You have emoted: Moirean stands over the corpse of a undine of Nightmare, panting sharply.

All light is suddenly eclipsed - shadow falls, and all sense of logic melts away from the
surroundings as hideous, creeping Nightmare embraces it.

It begins to rain, and the scene dissolves away slowly, giving way to the truer Dream beneath - the rain is blood, the sky dark and filled with the lightning of Anger.

A funeral dirge echoes across the bleak landscape, mingling with the rain, the wind, the crashe

>>>>>>>>>>>
Cuts off here, oldforums hrk
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The dancers dance on, and Omei leaps and twirls with them, Her bare face bloody, berserk, exultant with the pulse of the music - a shadow by Her side beats at a large drum with fanatic fervor, and another plays a ten-stringed fiddle, a bow of Dreams and dust sawing its way across the golden strings.

You have emoted: Moirean stares up at You, unable to move, unwilling to deny anything. The corpse lies at her feet, broken; streaks of guilt stain her hands, tattered shreds of Nightmare fluttering from her fingers.

The drums speed, in a frenzy, matching your heartbeat, the rain continuing to pour down. Visions are pooled in the ground, in the rocks, seeping into the dead earth beneath you. The undine's corpse merges with them, chunks of Nightmarish ice bobbing in the flood. The shadows melt away, and the music goes with them, until only the flute, only the Goddess remains.

And then She too stops.

Omei ceases to wield a flute of Morgun darkwood in Her left hand.

You have emoted: Moirean's thoughts are tentative. Lady, her mind murmurs, her Dream body still frozen, transfixed, even though the corpse has melted away.

Soaked and sodden by the rain of blood, the Goddess advances, lightning crashing down and casting Her into silhouette. The rain pounds, the darkness sings, and the shadows dash across the distant landscapes - you know them to be the Midnight Hunt, all the sentient Dreams of the Nightmare's Garden. Visions swim before you - the hand of the Nightmare is on your chin, beneath it, and She has bent down. Darkness fills your mind anew, darkness and terror, and then Her lips find yours, cold, yet burning, yet hard and soft, kissing you not out of desire or Passion, but simply - you know this - as a greeting, out of deep, sudden affection. As the Goddess' lips move against your own, Her hand curls beneath your chin, keeping your mouth pressed to Her own. *My pet,* She answers. *My pet. How I have loved that you defy Me with your honesty. My pet. How you have impressed Me. My pet, how I have desired you, -desired- you for so long. And now, finally, I may -have- you.*.

She tastes of blood. Of chocolate. Of sugar, of rain, of ice and fire.

A low, keening howl echoes through the sky, flashes and bolts of color accompanying its mournful passage.

You have emoted: Moirean's mind flares in anger and roils with fear, while a pulse of joy, pure and electric, courses through her Dreaming - at the touch, the greeting, the approval. Pliant will bends against steely identity, melding into a silent agreement made fully by her entire, unconscious, conscious, lucid, Dreaming self.

You see a shelf in a nursery - a tiny purple baby, in a pure white nightgown, scurries through the room, Her bare, tiny feet just barely avoiding the mess She has made. Toys, everywhere, strewn about, discarded, forgotten, beloved. She carries an imp - you - in Her hands. The lifeless metal shoots a feral grin at you from within the image. The baby leaps - and, because She thinks She can, reaches the very top of Her shelf, placing you beneath a predominant triangle of figures.

An unusually vivid dream swirls through your sleeping mind, and you have the distinct impression of movement.
An elegant atelier. (Enorian.)
A dark brown root sigil is here. Orak is here, sleeping. A small sign indicates that LIBRARY CATALOG will list the materials in this library.
You see a single exit leading south(open).

Orak opens his eyes and yawns mightily.

Orak says, "What..."

You open your eyes and yawn mightily.

Orak crouches down by you.

Orak says, "Lady- lady, are you well?"

You have emoted: Moirean nods slowly. "Yes," she breathes, finally awakening from her dream. "I am well."

Orak says, "You were sleeping."

Omei, the Unfettered Nightmare has invited you to join the Divine Order of Omei, the Unfettered Nightmare and awaits a response.
AGREE if you wish to join the order.

Omei grants you entrance into Her Order. Congratulations!

You have emoted: Moirean reaches up, pushing back a handful of tangled hair. "One does not need to sleep to dream."

Orak exhales a slow breath. "I am glad that you are well, Lady."

In confusion, you say, "You stayed here? How long did I sleep? I thought - didn't I lead you
out...?"

Orak gives you an odd look.

Orak says, "I don't... think so, Lady."

You have emoted: Moirean sinks back, comprehension slowly dawning in her eyes. "It was a Dream," she finally says. "All of it." She swallows once, exhaling slowly, and straightening. "Yet real. Powerful. As Dreams should be."

Orak nods sagely, his quills rustling softly.

Orak says, "I think perhaps your dreams have changed you, Lady."

You have emoted: Moirean frowns, her head tilting in thought. "Perhaps I still Dream." Her gaze flickers shut, before she slowly opens her eyes. "Perhaps that does not matter, though."

Orak gives as much of a smile as he is able. "Does it matter which dream you live in, if you like it well enough?"

As if to herself, you say, "As long as the Dreams do not erase who you are, to wake or slumber does not matter." She glances up sharply at your words, cautioning, "But do not fall for simply what is lovely, or easy. Accept only the Truth."

Orak tilts his head to the side. "Truth is only what the individual wishes it to be, Lady."

More gently, you say, "Read of Indulgence. It is a dangerous thing, which the Lady warns against."

Absently scratching his chin, Orak says, "I do not mean choosing the prettiest truth, Lady."

Absently, you say, "I discussed this just the other month. With the Lady. Facts are immutable. Truth IS facts - but so many mortals perceive Truth as the implications and analysis of the facts. That is, indeed, pliant and shapeable."

Orak says, "How do we know facts? We are told them, perhaps, or learn them ourselves. But then, how reliable is our experience?"

Quietly, Orak says, "You should know, Lady, how our senses can decieve."

You have emoted: Moirean considers your words for a long moment, tugging on a strand of lank, sleep-tangled hair. Slowly, she offers, "There reaches a point, child, where one must abandon skepticism and simply rely on faith." With a soft rustle of fabric, she rises, beckoning to you.

Orak gets up slowly, nodding as he does.

Orak says, "Of course. Without faith, we could believe nothing."

Orak begins to follow you.

Orak follows you to the down.
Well-stocked wine cellar. (Enorian.)
A heavy suit of antique armour stands here, candlelight dancing off its polished surface. A dark brown root sigil is here.
You see a single exit leading up.

Moirean pulls down on the arm of the mail suit. With a small click, the entire set of armour slides away, revealing a tiny hidden pasage.

Orak follows you to the in.
Tunnel beneath the waves. (Enorian.)
A dome of glass rises overhead in a steep arch, creating a tunnel of thick, azure glass. Penning back the waves overhead, the elaborate, costly construction juts out from the cliffside, extending into the ocean's depths in an invisible walkway - underfoot, only the inky depths of the waters can be discerned, swaying fronds of kelp and darting fish creating a disconcerting and dizzying surface as you carefully walk onwards into the heart of the ocean itself. The sum result is a walk of faith,plunging into the sea's abyss, with only delicate, suspended globes of constrained light magically wrought to illuminate the gloom, creating a punctuated trail of light, beckoning, onwards into the depths. A dark brown root sigil is here. Orak is here.
You see exits leading south, down(closed) and out.

Orak gasps softly.

You have emoted: Moirean pauses at the edge of an immense glass tunnel, walls melding with ocean in a distinct, disconcerting impression of impossible suspension within the bowels of the sea itself. She appears to float before you, while a vast abyss stretches away below; with a sweep of her arm, she gestures outwards, indicating the tiny string of lights vanishing into the distance. "Is there a path?" she asks quietly.

Orak pauses for several long moments. He closes his eyes, breathes deep, and suddenly makes a sharp series of clicks and rumbles. After a few moments more, he opens his eyes again and replies, "I think so, Lady."

You have emoted: Moirean raises one eyebrow. Softly, she presses, "You -think-?"

Orak gives an amused rumble, hooking one thumbclaw into the waist of his loincloth. "Indeed, Lady, I only think. It may be that this place is something that I have never seen before, but as far as I am able to reason... I think there is."

You have emoted: Moirean takes a step onwards, her feet appearing to float in the water itself. Gloomy shadows shroud her form, as the ocean swirls on either side of her, waves churning before breaking above, around and below her body. "You cannot see the path. You have never walked the path." She pauses, and you can discern a flash of white from the dim light: a smile. "To continue on the path, if it exists...requires faith."

Orak nods amiably. "That is correct."

You have emoted: Moirean turns onwards, staring into the murk. Her wings slowly flap behind her, opening, shutting, before she pivots, staring back at you. "One cannot see reality. One does not know reality, without experiencing it. Sometimes...perhaps we must just rely upon faith."

Quietly, Orak says, "If we had no faith, we could believe nothing. Nothing we were told, or even that we experienced."

Orak's eyes repeatedly shut as he tries to stay awake.

The ghost of a smile passes fleetingly across your lips.

Thoughtfully, you say, "You should sleep. Perhaps...you will find your inspiration for your poem, in your Dreams."

Orak follows you to the north.
The seashore. (Enorian.)
The stars twinkle in the clear night sky. A circular wooden ore sigil lies here. An argent
intercessor is poised here, hefting an ancient-looking halberd in her glowing hands.
You see exits leading north(closed), south, northwest and up.

Orak glances upward, squinting a little.

Orak says, "And what a time to sleep, eh?"

You say, "It was...interesting meeting you, child. Stop by my tavern again."

Orak says, "You can be certain that I will, Lady."

Orak pauses a moment.

Orak says, "And in parting, what I should have said upon meeting. I am Orak."

Orak bows with a flourish.

You have emoted: In the dim light of false dawn, you cannot be certain if Moirean is smiling or frowning, only that her head slowly nods. "I am Moirean. Well met."

Orak says, "Take care, Lady. And dream well."

Orak gives an insectile grin.

You have emoted: Moirean merely nods again, her features obscured by the gloom.

Orak gives a gesture which could be a wave or a salute, before melting away into the predawn mist.