(no subject)
I had a strange dream last night.
In it, I was in a building, probably something about as large as an airport terminal, with many other people. Most of us were prisoners, but not because we had done something wrong: we were cattle. Basically all we were able to do was to sit in our rows of chairs, each chair assigned, and wait. Sometimes we could get up to be escorted to the bathroom, or to be taken to be tested or interviewed, but for the most part you lived in your chair. Every time you were escorted away, you wondered if you would come back. I sat in a chair next to the wall, and spoke with the my neighbor, to the left of me. I would watch the people walking by, but not too closely because I did not want to draw attention to myself.
There were two groups in charge: most commonly, there were the workers and handlers, a human lot who dressed well and did the bidding of their masters, who in my dream were called the Cold Ones (a reference to ursulav's "Digger" in shape and name, I think). These tall figures, who wore bronze, saw-toothed, beaked masks and black robes, were once human, but had been converted somehow into Cold Ones; stripped of their humanity and with arcane powers awakened in them. These were the reason for our being here: we were a harvest, from which members were either culled or taken to also be turned into a masked horror.
I had been there for an unusually long time, and I knew that as more time passed I would be less and less able to talk my way out of being taken away. At one point, I was brought to a room with a couple other people and we were all spoken to; I was relieved when the other two were chosen and I was allowed to return to my chair.
At one point, one of the Cold Ones walked down my row and stopped in front of me, looking down its long, curved beak at me. I had to talk to it, because the last thing anyone wanted to do was to irritate a Cold One. It had an almost childlike, chittering voice, and was somehow both a retard and extremely intelligent. "You're very smart," it told me. "I'm sure you'll have a strong [talent]." The actual word it used was something different; I think it started with a D. What it meant was the sort of dormant psionic/spiritual energy that makes a person a candidate to become a Cold One; it tended to correlate with intelligence.
I have no idea what happened eventually; I was trying to escape, I know, because since most of the staff liked me I could get away with more, but I don't know that there was any way I could have escaped.
In it, I was in a building, probably something about as large as an airport terminal, with many other people. Most of us were prisoners, but not because we had done something wrong: we were cattle. Basically all we were able to do was to sit in our rows of chairs, each chair assigned, and wait. Sometimes we could get up to be escorted to the bathroom, or to be taken to be tested or interviewed, but for the most part you lived in your chair. Every time you were escorted away, you wondered if you would come back. I sat in a chair next to the wall, and spoke with the my neighbor, to the left of me. I would watch the people walking by, but not too closely because I did not want to draw attention to myself.
There were two groups in charge: most commonly, there were the workers and handlers, a human lot who dressed well and did the bidding of their masters, who in my dream were called the Cold Ones (a reference to ursulav's "Digger" in shape and name, I think). These tall figures, who wore bronze, saw-toothed, beaked masks and black robes, were once human, but had been converted somehow into Cold Ones; stripped of their humanity and with arcane powers awakened in them. These were the reason for our being here: we were a harvest, from which members were either culled or taken to also be turned into a masked horror.
I had been there for an unusually long time, and I knew that as more time passed I would be less and less able to talk my way out of being taken away. At one point, I was brought to a room with a couple other people and we were all spoken to; I was relieved when the other two were chosen and I was allowed to return to my chair.
At one point, one of the Cold Ones walked down my row and stopped in front of me, looking down its long, curved beak at me. I had to talk to it, because the last thing anyone wanted to do was to irritate a Cold One. It had an almost childlike, chittering voice, and was somehow both a retard and extremely intelligent. "You're very smart," it told me. "I'm sure you'll have a strong [talent]." The actual word it used was something different; I think it started with a D. What it meant was the sort of dormant psionic/spiritual energy that makes a person a candidate to become a Cold One; it tended to correlate with intelligence.
I have no idea what happened eventually; I was trying to escape, I know, because since most of the staff liked me I could get away with more, but I don't know that there was any way I could have escaped.