crossing_lostrp | Dream Weaver

Who: Oona
When: Day 28, near midnight
Where: Bunker
Invited: Methos
Status: Incomplete

Oona somehow knew she was dreaming. She faced an oval mirror rimmed in gold with intricate carvings of dragons embracing the glass. But the surface was not reflective. She moved to stare into the glass and faced not herself, but a man with nothing but blackness behind him.

He looked back at her. He, too, was albino. He was not so much handsome as beautiful, pretty even, but both sad and hardened all at once. His face was longer, more angular than hers, with high and prominent cheekbones and almond shaped eyes slanted up. The deep red of his eyes were haunted. His long white hair moved as if he were in a strong breeze. He was tall and almost painfully thin. He was not human, though he resembled one. She felt the kinship between them as if it were a physical link. This was her father. She somehow just knew it. At his hip was a huge, black sword that seemed alive with malevolence and she instantly both feared and loathed the thing. No, not a thing, it was a demon. A powerful one at that, bound to the form of a sword. The man held out his hand and pressed it to the glass. On his finger was the same ring she wore, the gem holding the shifting darkness within.

Oona mirrored the gesture.

His long, pale fingers grasped hers through the glass. She was not afraid. Even as he pulled her through, into the blackness. .

The hand holding hers was gone and she was alone in the black.

The darkness disappeared in a blaze of fire, the silence ripped apart by screams of fear and pain.

She was standing on a road in the middle of a city. A city in flames. Human men dressed in blood and armor coursed through the street, slaughtering as they went. The street was wet with blood.

Slender, elfin looking men with elegant armor and sweeping swords fought the humans, and fell. The human’s killed children, women, human slaves. They rarely seemed to care for anything other than killing, except to take jewels and gold, from homes and bodies.

She saw him then. His white hair stained with splatters of blood. That foul sword in his hand as he cut through any who came at him. Slender though he was he wielded the huge monstrosity with one hand, as if it weighed nothing. But he was not fighting the crudely armored humans. He was leading them. He was killing his own people.

“Blood and souls! Blood and souls for my lord Arioch!” He screamed above the fray, his red eyes taking an unholy joy in the slaughter.

And she could feel it, see it. His sword wasn’t just killing, it was devouring the souls of those it cut down, sucking them away, destroying them, and feeding some of the energy back into her father. Making him stronger, faster, a whirling flurry of death.

The city disappeared and she stood on top of a sand dune looking down on a small group of tents, people running and screaming as four men on horseback galloped through, cutting down the people, setting fire to the tents. There was the same fierce joy there as her father had shown. One of the four’s horse reared up and he turned. His long hair was wild and appeared either caked and dry from the sand and desert, or a really bad wig. Half of his face was covered with woad. But the desert was no place for a Pict or Celt. His green eyes met hers across the sand blasted distance.

He was suddenly replaced by a giant head of lettuce. It developed a face. “Ware the farmer. You prosper for his snares.” Oona stood hands on hips. “I didn’t know salad could talk.”

Part One... Part two in next post