Vhalar 51, Arc 720
In the waking world, winter had finally arrived, after an unusual heatwave that had constituted the cause of some concern in the Mortalborn’s opinion. The streets outside the Obsidian Prism where he lived were covered with a thin white blanket that seemed to be made of countless shimmering crystals. When he awoke to Emea that night though – he had decided to call the process of moving from the waking world to a lucid dream that, even though the comparison was lacking – he found himself in a meadow that was covered with lush green grass though.
Flowers bloomed all around him, flowers in pink and white and pale red that were shaped like stars and that he didn’t know the name of – he knew very little of matters of botany – but that smelled sweet. He could see bees and butterflies, and somewhere in a small grove that was not too far away, birds sang. Next to him there was a small stream. He looked at it for a moment and listened to the sound of the water before he turned away and walked on, silently wondering what this particular dream meant.
Normally, he dreamt of the Obsidian Prism, or the Academy, and sometimes of the fortress in the Cold Mountains where he had first met Llyr – it only existed in his dreamscape so far, but not in any permanent fashion. He had never dreamed of spring though, of the return of life after a long winter. Maybe that was the answer though? Were his dreams influenced by his mental state? Did he dream of flowers and fresh grass because he had been reborn again, in a way, because he had changed, because he had been transformed in a way, because he had become a mage and learned to walk in dreams?
He pondered that question for a few moments before he turned towards a path that he had detected. As he walked down said path, he slowly began to recognize his surroundings. It had been … it had to have been nearly four centuries since he had been in that place, nearly four centuries since he had lived in Rynmere. He had been twenty-five or thirty then, and not yet familiar with what exactly being a Mortalborn entailed. He had not developed any abilities yet, or realized that he didn’t age normally, although he had already known who his father was.
A lot of his memories had faded over the course of his exceptionally long life – he had met so many people, and done so many things – but certain memories remained, and always would. He had forgotten some of the details of the faces of the people that he had been close to, how they had moved, the way that they had dressed, but he could still remember certain conversations, and the last words that those that he had been close to had ever said to him.
Certain places, and certain events had been engrained into his memory. He did not remember every single house anymore, or every detail of those houses, or every person that had lived there, but he knew that he would reach the small rural settlement where he had worked as a doctor and alchemist at the beginning of his life would be just around the bend.
In the waking world, winter had finally arrived, after an unusual heatwave that had constituted the cause of some concern in the Mortalborn’s opinion. The streets outside the Obsidian Prism where he lived were covered with a thin white blanket that seemed to be made of countless shimmering crystals. When he awoke to Emea that night though – he had decided to call the process of moving from the waking world to a lucid dream that, even though the comparison was lacking – he found himself in a meadow that was covered with lush green grass though.
Flowers bloomed all around him, flowers in pink and white and pale red that were shaped like stars and that he didn’t know the name of – he knew very little of matters of botany – but that smelled sweet. He could see bees and butterflies, and somewhere in a small grove that was not too far away, birds sang. Next to him there was a small stream. He looked at it for a moment and listened to the sound of the water before he turned away and walked on, silently wondering what this particular dream meant.
Normally, he dreamt of the Obsidian Prism, or the Academy, and sometimes of the fortress in the Cold Mountains where he had first met Llyr – it only existed in his dreamscape so far, but not in any permanent fashion. He had never dreamed of spring though, of the return of life after a long winter. Maybe that was the answer though? Were his dreams influenced by his mental state? Did he dream of flowers and fresh grass because he had been reborn again, in a way, because he had changed, because he had been transformed in a way, because he had become a mage and learned to walk in dreams?
He pondered that question for a few moments before he turned towards a path that he had detected. As he walked down said path, he slowly began to recognize his surroundings. It had been … it had to have been nearly four centuries since he had been in that place, nearly four centuries since he had lived in Rynmere. He had been twenty-five or thirty then, and not yet familiar with what exactly being a Mortalborn entailed. He had not developed any abilities yet, or realized that he didn’t age normally, although he had already known who his father was.
A lot of his memories had faded over the course of his exceptionally long life – he had met so many people, and done so many things – but certain memories remained, and always would. He had forgotten some of the details of the faces of the people that he had been close to, how they had moved, the way that they had dressed, but he could still remember certain conversations, and the last words that those that he had been close to had ever said to him.
Certain places, and certain events had been engrained into his memory. He did not remember every single house anymore, or every detail of those houses, or every person that had lived there, but he knew that he would reach the small rural settlement where he had worked as a doctor and alchemist at the beginning of his life would be just around the bend.
