Dreamshare - open to all
It's raining, and everything is grey. Grass, trees, buildings, everything. Edensphere is grey. He's walking towards the Bazaar, his footsteps making no sound, and the only splash of colour comes from his clothing - it's deep reddish-brown, like drying blood. He stands out too much in it; he's being watched. He can feel eyes on him, as clearly as he can feel the raindrops on his face and the reassuring weight of a sword strapped to his back. He sees no one ahead of him, and he doesn't turn to look around. That would only draw more attention.
There's nobody in the Bazaar. It should be busy at this time of day, he thinks... but not only are the shops empty, they appear old and weathered, as if they haven't been used or maintained in years. They're falling apart. He stops, and as he watches, thick green - not grey - vines grow out of the ground and up the sides of the buildings, steadily engulfing them. Their walls begin to crumble, silently, before his eyes. He hears the sound of footsteps behind him and this time he does turn around, but is met with only the sight of an empty, dreary expanse.
He turns slowly back to the shops, and the vines are so thick that he couldn't continue forward if he wanted to. Which is fine, because he doesn't want to anymore. They appear to be made of crystal now, transparent and reflective, like ice. He draws his sword without conscious thought. He needs to leave, to get far away from this place. Everyone else has already left. He doesn't know where they've gone... or are they all dead? It feels like a very real possibility.
The sword in his hands is suddenly his journal, and he opens it, turning to the most recent entries. They're several months old, he finds, and they're all written in verse. The final page consists of poorly-composed haiku in jarring rainbow colours, a stark contrast to his bleak surroundings, and the words dart around the page when he tries to read them. He wants to write to people, wants to know where they've gone or whether they're even still alive, but he doesn't want to write a haiku or any other sort of verse. He shuts the book.
There is definitely someone behind him now. They're breathing on the back of his neck. His sword - no, it's still his journal. He wills it to change back, but it doesn't. He spins, but his body won't move fast enough and it's like he's trying to turn around in syrup, or cocoon fluid...
A kunai knife slices through the air, thrown from the unseen vantage point of an equally unseen assailant, and he can't get out of its path. His clearest thought is that he has failed. It embeds itself in the back of his left shoulder, there is a sharp stab of pain, and the dream ends.
There's nobody in the Bazaar. It should be busy at this time of day, he thinks... but not only are the shops empty, they appear old and weathered, as if they haven't been used or maintained in years. They're falling apart. He stops, and as he watches, thick green - not grey - vines grow out of the ground and up the sides of the buildings, steadily engulfing them. Their walls begin to crumble, silently, before his eyes. He hears the sound of footsteps behind him and this time he does turn around, but is met with only the sight of an empty, dreary expanse.
He turns slowly back to the shops, and the vines are so thick that he couldn't continue forward if he wanted to. Which is fine, because he doesn't want to anymore. They appear to be made of crystal now, transparent and reflective, like ice. He draws his sword without conscious thought. He needs to leave, to get far away from this place. Everyone else has already left. He doesn't know where they've gone... or are they all dead? It feels like a very real possibility.
The sword in his hands is suddenly his journal, and he opens it, turning to the most recent entries. They're several months old, he finds, and they're all written in verse. The final page consists of poorly-composed haiku in jarring rainbow colours, a stark contrast to his bleak surroundings, and the words dart around the page when he tries to read them. He wants to write to people, wants to know where they've gone or whether they're even still alive, but he doesn't want to write a haiku or any other sort of verse. He shuts the book.
There is definitely someone behind him now. They're breathing on the back of his neck. His sword - no, it's still his journal. He wills it to change back, but it doesn't. He spins, but his body won't move fast enough and it's like he's trying to turn around in syrup, or cocoon fluid...
A kunai knife slices through the air, thrown from the unseen vantage point of an equally unseen assailant, and he can't get out of its path. His clearest thought is that he has failed. It embeds itself in the back of his left shoulder, there is a sharp stab of pain, and the dream ends.