Book of Dreams

Alraune Kestrel · 06-12-06, 02:25 AM

*written in a refined hand, the lettering exotic, but easily read*

Old and new.

Lingering, the scent illusively sweet. One drop to give a man dreams of fire. Distilled, thick, emerald extract. A few, enough to steal one last breath.

But what of Blackrock? What of the poison they spoke of?

We knew the route to the humid jungles around Papua ? we had both been there on occasion in other days, defending the Lighthouse, vanquishing Cyclops and Titans in the deserts to the north and west.

And Delucia with its orcs and sheep.

That had all been so long ago ? before dreams had turned to shadows, then stone; before we slept within the walls of the Traveler?s.

Before Charnadis.

To the south, through the swamps, to the verdant plains fenced by jutting stone. Such peace, no voices, no clash of sword and club. Hostility seemed a memory.

This was a place of freedom.

Of wind and sun.

Upon a plateau, the wind catching my hair, inhibition fled. How long since the wind had last kissed my skin?

Time beyond reckoning.

Adam?s grin empowered my decision; he missed the days of discovery, of freedom, when only the breeze clothed me.

Where was the brazen dreamwalker? The flash of mist and shadow darting through the woods? Where was the heat of a kiss in the snow?

I cannot put my finger on it, I cannot give it a name, but it is as if? I don?t know. Tempered, perhaps? Had the river doused the steel too often?

Armor and skirt within the saddlebag, the mount beneath me devours the ground, Adam beside me, the thunder of hooves the drums of sweet mischief.

Pure delight, the claiming kiss of the wind.

Borders of stone and sand. The plains turn to swamp then to desert.

Harsh howls of madness and rage.

Again within a prison of leather and cloth, safety trumps pleasure.

Sheer rock canyons cut the green plains into giant patches. The plains fell behind; it is only desert, the denizens deigning to tolerate intrusion.

Adam?s pace tests the mounts, the soil rocky and uneven. Parched and hot, we seek relief.

Paradise, lush green, an island of hope.

The Oasis.

Adam?s father spoke of the place, tales told father to son by fire and riverside.

I remember the Oasis from dreams. Not my dreams, but those of Adam?s father. Dreams of hunting with fair friends, dreams of a nightmare loose and deadly.

Of a demon bound at last within the sleek black body of a raging ebon steed.

It was here. Here. So many years, now, finally I come to the place of Charnadis? imprisonment.

In another world, but all the same in dreams.

What does it mean now? Anything?

Rich thick grass, the plateau above the dark dust of the worn road. A cool lake, inviting, surrounded by animals and creatures. Beautiful, yet deadly for one without a care. A predator?s playground for those of bow and spell. All things must drink, and the plateau was a perfect perch.

We water the horses carefully, Adam killing an ettin and gazer in the process. As we leave the paradise, memories of dreams I had seen in my youth blind me.

We find the Lighthouse as the moons appeared high overhead. Returning to Trinsic we find the town quiet in the wee hours.

Adam sleeps, deep and true. I know I will find dreams soon. I must if we are to continue our search tomorrow.

And I will not seek the dreams of a furious nightmare upon a green plateau.

I will not.

I will not?

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