[Emea] A Hunter after Woe's own Hart

[Woe]

songstamp

Wicker needed rest after his long journey, that was fair. So too did Woe require seclusion, lest any disruption in his routine prompt him to forget the very vital tapering of the dosage of his medicine. The tincture he used to keep the dreams at bay. He could isolate the narcotic and allow it to affect him, at will as with any toxin. Idly, his thoughts drifted back to his encounter with Kraig, and how he'd let the Traitor's Blossom exploit the opening his curiosity had left him in. He still had the seeds, and he needed to plant them. Everything in good time. The pursuit of a cure for mortal enslavement could wait another trial.

He'd assumed the form of the Beast in the meantime, his bones and skin giving way to an exoskeleton that rose to the surface with a savage ripping of flesh and muscle. His clothing changed form with it, the duplicity suit forming a voluminous robe over his b'antler'd form. The gestalt of an oh'deer and an ascended mantis. Woe did this trials in advance of when he planned to impose himself upon Wicker's dreams. He wanted time to further acclimate to the body, and give it room to stretch its limbs, so to speak. It was always better to give one's totems some room to wander, and take care of their basic needs in the meantime. It formed a stronger bond between soul and totem, or so Woe presumed. Not having a mentor, he didn't know fully well if this was how becoming worked. He doubted if any master becomer even knew how it truly worked. Just that it did.

So in time he would rest, laying his b'antler'd head on a pillow, and staring up at the ceiling until sleep stole him away to the misty fields of Emea.

He didn't waste much time in his own Dreamscape, but sought to pierce the veil immediately and embark upon the boundless expanses of Emea. He knew where Wicker was, at this point, having formed a stronger bond. He could locate him even without the contextual clues contained in his Galleries of Meeting. The beast stalked over the fields, until he spotted a bright spot in the gully, like a fox identifying a rabbit's burrow, he recognized the feeling of Wicker's dreamscape.

The Doom Clock rose overhead, and imposed itself over whatever sun or moon rose in Wicker's wild dreamscape. He would see the clock ecclipsing its light. In that sight, Wicker would hear Woe's call, Fly to the light. Worry not, it's here for me, not you. I'm lowering a silken tether for you to grab a hold of. It will let you traverse Emea with me.

Although whether that was true or not, was entirely guesswork. Woe had no idea what would happen when the clock struck midnight for him. Would it turn then on those closest to Woe, stalking their dreams as a killing nightmare? Woe sought to solve the issue before that became a real concern. And he thought he knew of one person who might help.

He remembered Hart, and Woe thought in that misty field of the Untold, that he could uncover his dimming light.

He turned his red eyes down toward the burrow again, and with his hands began to form the etherreal matter of Emea to his will, using Astral Diffusion, he formed a tether for Wicker to grab a hold of, and it sank into his dreamscape like a shining ribbon.

[Jinyel]

Sometimes, when the air grew quiet and Jinyel couldn’t feel the difference between safety and madness, he imagined a herd of sheep. A small herd, enough for one family to survive and perhaps rear a child or two off the price of wool. He imagined Monya at the edges, lain in the sunlight until the light was gone and only occasionally rising to herd an errant ewe back to safety. Nothing to fear, and nowhere to be except where he already was.

He imagined a home, small and secluded, which stood on a hill above a small village. The villagers would pay well for his wool in summertime, and rarely visit otherwise. They honored his company when he visited, but did not chase it. They knew he didn’t have much to say. They honored his silence, too.

He imagined a partner inside that home, with a loom and a bag of leftover wool which became fine new clothes by the time snow fell. He never saw their face. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. He would herd, return home, and leave in the morning to herd again.

Every time, right before he fell asleep, Jinyel looked at the weaver ― and then realized he was sitting before a loom, his hands full of wool. His partner, the shepherd, went out to tend the herd again, and he made warm clothes for the child at his feet. A good child, a curious child, who ran all day with their hands in the dirt and questions upon their tongue.

When he inevitably looked down, he discovered that he was also the child, new mittens and socks already on his dirt-stained limbs, and when he looked up to see his father-self, well…

… that was when dreams took him fully. And his dreamscape had no room for peaceful things.

It took only a moment to awaken fully in Emea. The familiar forest spread in all directions, under the cover of permanent nighttime no matter when Jinyel fell asleep. Anticipation lingered on the air, and every shadow seems to rustle from the corner of his eye.

Jinyel was uneasy. His nightmares could smell it.

Hooves heavy, antlers held low, the stag moved through the forest as quickly as his shoulders would allow. They were more than halfway healed now, but that filled him with caution instead of eagerness. He had spent so long in injury, he would protect his recovery with every power he possessed.

The Hollow Prince’s intentions had been clear as soon as the Beast lay down to rest. That monstrous form came as some relief; it meant the Prince was prepared for battle, and that Jinyel would not fight alone. Although… the Prince was just as capable in human form as any other. It was irrational of Jinyel to assume he would have to fight alone. He knew, in his head, that help would be there if he needed it.

Actually believing what he knew was a different task entirely.

He sensed the Prince’s arrival in the turn of moonlight. Above, the sky was overcome by the shape of the Doom Clock. The Prince’s summons coursed beneath it, and Jinyel did his best to follow, but the snarl of a wolf turned his path.

Little fawn, said his dreamscape. Why do you flee? We want your heart, little fawn, we will treasure it more dearly than any Prince or Thief.

Another snarl at his heel. A third at his flank. Too many for his antlers to turn aside, and too close for him to outrun. Another night, he could have avoided this forest and all the wolves within it, but the ruins lay beyond. It was almost impossible to reach the ruins without having to contend with wolves.

And so he did as the Prince commanded, or at least, as close as he could manage: fly. He’d spent enough time with the Keha’al tribe and their winged kahrunowak to know exactly how wings fit onto deer, and he was just skilled enough as a dreamwalker to change his shape. Just skilled enough as a runner to gain speed, lift from the ground―

―and crash back down to it.

The wolves were startled, though. Or perhaps they merely reflected Jinyel’s own surprise; either way, it gave him the moment he needed to stand up and start running again.

The wolves gathered themselves and gave chase, while Jinyel did his best to get air under his wings again. He’d flown on top of animals before, but never as one. Elraya had always made it look so easy.

Another jump, and his entire body burned with the effort of keeping those wings steady. He managed a few feet of gliding, and was graceful enough this time to land on his feet instead of his side.

The forest thinned, and the ruins took shape ahead. More wolves ran at his heels, at least half a dozen now.

Jump. Glide. He saw the tether, dangling at such an angle that it almost seemed to be coming from the Doom Clock itself. But the Prince’s soul was unmistakeable, as were the things which came from it, and Jinyel feared the Prince far less than he feared the wolves on his trail.

Jump. Glide. One mighty, painful flap, and Jinyel sailed just high enough to reach the tether.

Human hand. Human clothes and a human grimace, biting back pain as he brought himself to the Prince’s side. Jinyel shed his deer-dream and returned to himself, sparing one spiteful glance at the wolves below.

Here, the Hunter coughed. I am here.

[Hart]

Hart was dreamwalking, walking from dreamscape to dreamscape. He was following what he thought of as the flow of the dreaming world.

It was difficult to describe what the flow of the dreaming world was. It was difficult to discern whether or not the flow was there, or whether it was something he had dreamt into being. But if it was there, and if he hadn't simply dreamt it, the best way Hart was able to describe it was this- if the dreaming world was a sky, then the flow of the dreaming world was the wind.

Hart thought it was there. It seemed like it was there. But then, the dreaming world overflowed with things that seemed.

Hart was able to follow the flow of the dreaming world because it had what he thought of as a theme. The theme of the flow, he thought as he walked from dreamscape to dreamscape, had to do with distance- or maybe it was time. Or maybe the theme had to do with the moons. It could be that it had to do with both distance and the moons, or with both time and the moons, or with both distance and time.

Most of the dreamscapes Hart had walked through tonight had born dreams about those themes- distance, time, the moons. He had seen so many dreams with moons tonight. He had seen so many dreams where time worked differently, or where it had stopped. He had seen so many wide, distant dreams tonight, dreams where he hadn't seen the dreamers because the dreams were so wide and the dreamers so distant.

In this moment, Hart thought he was walking into a dreamscape themed with dreams of distance- or maybe it was themed with dreams of time.

Walking into the dreamscape, Hart walked into an old, old forest, the trees so big and so old as to be hundreds of feet wide. The trees were so wide it should have taken him bits to walk past one tree. But when Hart walked past one of the trees, it was like the forest started to flow past him.

Hart had thought, walking into the dream, that it would be like the other wide, distant dreams he had walked through tonight. He thought the dreamer would be distant, somewhere he didn't see. But the moment he walked into the dreamscape, the dreamer was beside him.

Though the dreamer was beside Hart, there was still a sort of distance from him- the dreamer didn't see him. Hart walked beside her but he didn't try to wake her to him in the dream. Though he didn't like dreams where the dreamer didn't see him

-Hart had had times in his life when he hadn't been seen-

he wouldn't wake the dreamer to him for his sake. Hart didn't like bringing his influence into others' dreams. One of the things he liked the least about dreamwalking was the influence he had on others' dreams when he walked into their dreamscapes.

The dreamer beside him was a tunawa. But though she was a tunawa, her body was like the big, old trees in the dream, bigger and older than it would have been in the waking world- so big as to be human-sized. She bounded through the forest beside him on incredibly fleet feet.

Though Hart was walking, and though the tunawa was bounding so fleetly, their movements were bound together. Though the tunawa should have been moving more fleetly than him, Hart was moving with her. The old, old trees flowed past them, and Hart had the feeling that the forest would flow on and on, for as long as they moved.

He stopped walking, the forest stopped flowing, and the tunawa bounded forward, her movements no longer bound to his. The moment Hart stopped walking, the tunawa turned into some sort of winged beast. The forest had stopped with him instead of flowing on with her, and the winged beast bounded upwards, up and out of the wide, wide trees.

With the dreamer having bounded up and out of the trees, Hart tried to discern where the flow he had followed into the dreamscape was. "It's this way," someone said beside him, and Hart looked beside him and saw Tamsen, the emeyan being who followed him throughout the dreaming world.

"It's this way, Hart," she said again, and took him by the hand.

"Tamsen," Hart said, though he looked at the emeyan being with disapproval. She was wearing the form of a little boy with blond hair and dark, dark blue eyes. Tamsen had started wearing this form of late, though both Hart and Hart's son -Wren- disapproved of it. It was Wren's form, sort of, though it was a version of Wren's form from when he had been little. Tamsen wouldn't stop wearing the form of little Wren, despite the many times Hart and Wren had told her to stop.

"It's this way," Tamsen said again, leading Hart by the hand. Tamsen was strong for someone that looked to be the size of little boy, but she would let go of him if he told her to. But Hart saw that she had taken his hand not to lead him, but because she wanted to hold his hand like Wren would have at six years old.

Tamsen led him toward the flow of the dreaming world, and though Hart didn't like that she looked like little Wren, he held her little hand as they walked into a different dreamscape.

[Woe]

More interesting to Woe was this Dreamscape, this quaint pastoral scene that Wicker's dream often twisted itself into whether lucid or not. At first Woe thought he was looking into a scene of an Old Dynaash pastoral countryside home, where sheep were raised. He observed this scene for a few moments, seeing the indistinct haze of it for what it was. Wicker's non-lucid imaginings of the night. Like Woe, he seemed to take comfort in the wilds, away from cities. Cities were labyrinthine in their presentation of dangers. Artifice and Malice combined to produce inhospitable conditions always. Whereas, nature to Woe was much more soothing, predictable even in its wildness. He could understand Wicker's preference for the latter, certainly, if his dreamscape's setting was a reflection of his desired environs.

And like Nature, the dangers of Wicker's dreamscape were predictable. Predators stalked their prey, cautiously. Where mortal beings could be reckless or stupid, animals raised by the wild knew better than to risk a commitment to attack. They waited, closed in with their packs, tightening like a noose of predatroy intent around the stag-form of Wicker.

Woe's tether lengthened enough to graze Wicker's hand, and through that connection Woe transferred a sense of

courage

into his 'nephew'. This weakened the nightmare enough that it gave Wicker time to make another leap, and this time make full contact with the rope, which pulled him out of his dreamscape, and into Emea proper.

As he did, the tether took on a different form, gathering the emean matter around them. From the grasses, nurtured the rope from a whip-like tendril, into a long canoe. Inside the canoe, Woe gestured for Wicker to take a seat at the opposite end, to keep it from upending as it took further shape. Woe deepened its draught as the canoe pushed off, carried by the tendrils of grass into the lake-like body of dream water, against which a horizon showed a set of mountains.

The canoe was pink, as the tether had been. Meant more as a concessiont o Wicker's preference for that color, more than any practical consideration.

You're still troubled by wolves? Woe's voice came as a strange shriek, resembling that of a stag giving its call, with an insectoid character to it. It was an eerie sound, but the syllables spoken were recognizable enough to one Woe wished to communicate with, and was familiar enough with. As he was with Wicker by now. I wonder if they are the same breed of nightmare wolves that took shape as we first met, or if they're merelyl a template inhabited by the Emeyan Beings that wish to find purchase in your Dreamscape.

He shrugged. But now, we must find Hart. Tell me, what do you see as you look out into the distance? I see mountains. And the Doom Clock above them, of course, but my perspective is flawed as any mortal's. I'll wager, given the nature of Emea and the way its perceived by those who traverse it, you may see more or less, or something entirely different from me.

His spindly fingers grasped the oar of the canoe, paddling them into the distance, toward those mountains, as lily pads concealed the scholfins darting through the waters beneath their vessel. Don't tip the boat or get into the water. The scholfins feast upon memories. I have fewer uses for amnesiacs.

[Jinyel]

Jinyel wasn’t accustomed to dreaming in human form. He had done it for the Prince once or twice, but the thin reality of dreams seemed more suited to four feet than two. As his dreamscape retreated and took the wolves with it, the young hunter spent a few moments getting acquainted with himself again. Hands. Feet. Bandages. That familiar pain in his shoulders, more manageable now that he didn’t have to walk with it.

His bow was missing, although he couldn’t have used the thing even if he had it. In its place was a straight shaft of wood, one end sharpened to a point. A spear? Something like it, which could be used to walk or braced against the ground to stab an oncoming assailant. Not a weapon Jinyel had ever used, but a weapon more useful than a bow, in his current state.

As the pink canoe took shape around them, Jinyel lay his weapon in its belly and shuffled carefully to his seat.

They were beyond the dreamscapes now, he could feel it in the raw power all around them. His hand went to his chest on instinct, and traced the bones of his witchmark through bandage cloth. His magic, so often his shield, now slept under his skin as the deadliest of bait.

At the Prince’s question, all Jinyel had was a noncommittal shrug. Wolves here. Wolves there. Always somewhere. Doesn’t matter what they’re made of, Emeyan or not.

He wasn’t the best conversationalist, and his dreamscape was one of his least favorite topics. He scanned their surroundings instead, and didn’t meet the Prince’s savage gaze until the comment on amnesiacs, and having less use for them.

Amusement. It slanted Jinyel’s signs as he glanced over. You’ve made a poor choice of nephew, then.

But that was banter, nothing practical. Jinyel had no desire to lose more of himself than he already had, and remained centered in the boat. He didn’t even peer over the edge to get a look at these ‘scholfins.’ He scanned the horizon, as directed, and frowned when the Prince asked for a description.

Mountains? Jinyel echoed. No. I see the clock, and below it is a giant’s forest. The trees are tall as mountains, but I see no mountains within them.

He and the Prince were different people, so it stood to reason that they perceived this ocean of possibility through different eyes. That wasn’t necessarily a good or bad thing, just one more element to keep track of on this journey.

This place of existence is… reactive? Jinyel guessed. To each individual, it’s in conversation with us… He grunted in frustration. The words weren’t arranging themselves properly. We see ourselves upon it, instead of what it actually is. Does it have a true form we are capable of understanding?

There was no wistful amazement in his tone, only practicality. The same way a sailor might ask about the roughness of new waters, or an officer about an unscouted battlescape. This environment was new, but the task was not ― they were here to find someone, and Jinyel needed to know everything he could and couldn’t do.

When the answers were given, helpful or not, Jinyel would spend a few moments contemplating them. And then, as silence drew longer and they drew nearer to their task, he mustered the confidence for that concern which truly gnawed at him:

What you did as you pulled me up. You took my fear from me as I caught your line. Jinyel kept his eye on the mountains-forest as he signed it. Do not do that again.

Woe: T2 Psychology

The Hunter is curious about Emea at large, but dissonantly, almost purposefully ignorant of his own dreamscape and inner mind.

[Woe]

The Beast’s expression was devoid of any semblance of human emotion, given the nature of the thing. Yet he couldn’t suppress a twinge of annoyance at Wicker’s lack of curiosity toward the mythic and esoteric realm of Emea. He had a very mundane outlook for one of his talents, and it struck Woe as irritating and strange that the young man didn’t share his fascinations.

At any rate, he knew it wasn’t his prerogative to dictate Wicker’s developing interests. The young mage was more useful with the loose bonds they’d established. Nobody had associated them with each other. Nobody that Woe didn’t trust explicitly, anyway.

When Wicker set the boundary against the Beast’s granting of fearlessness, he nodded. I won’t. It was interesting, as the Beast got to know Wicker, he got a better sense for which boons would be seen as intrusive, and which ones were tolerated. Shadow Cloak had been a useful artifice to inflict upon the young mage. But anything that changed the way he felt internally, or attaching shadow body parts to him? That was an affront to be avoided.

He shrugged, and nodded toward the waters, which Wicker saw as a forest. The Mountains were a shared backdrop, as was the Doom Clock. My friend is this way. He could feel Hart now, he was sleeping somewhere out there. Through their forged bond, both as Soul-forged, they could communicate. The Beast decided to reach out, in wordless communication toward Hart.

Hart.

Hart, look for us in the woods.

Turning toward Wicker, the Beast spoke without speaking, We should get moving. Will you take one of the oars? He gestured toward the other oar in the makeshift dream vessel. Their difference in perception required that both took turns navigating this strange expanse, so the Beast assumed. This was all new territory to him. He’d not taken a soul into Emea since the time he and Winston went fishing for Scholfins.



Hart would note a sudden musical note playing from somewhere in his own Dreamscape. He’d recognize it as a plucked string instrument, perhaps a mandolin. Eight strings, tuned in unison as they plucked away with every motion he made.

If he followed Tamsen, she’d lead him toward a tree that was also a cabin, with a door at its base. Inside, was a tea party of sorts. Gloom was sharing drinks with a ragged old man, Fleaface. Hart would’ve recognized him, having passed each other briefly when they visited Woe perhaps. Although they probably hadn’t spoken.

[Hart]

The moment Hart walked into the dreamscape, he knew that something was- different.

Dreamscapes -or rather, the dreams woven within them- were often wildly different from dreamscape to dreamscape. There might be themes that one might follow, like the themes Hart had been following tonight. But that didn't mean that the dreams themselves didn't show the themes in wildly different ways.

This dreamscape, though- it looked nearly identical to the dreamscape that Hart had just walked through.

Something was different here, though Hart didn't know what.

Here was the old, old forest, with trees so big and so old as to be hundreds of feet wide- the mountainous forest, with mountainous trees. Walking warily toward one of the trees, Hart looked at it intently. Did it look one hundred percent identical to the trees in the other dreamscape? If it was identical, what did that mean?

Did it mean that Hart had misstepped, and walked back into the other dreamscape?

Looking intently at the mountainous tree, though, Hart saw that this was not the other dreamscape. Though the trees were nearly identical, they weren't one hundred percent identical. The trees were a little bigger and a little older than the trees in the other dreamscape, Hart thought. Their bark looked a little different, too- with more grey in the bark, and with a different texture.

Hmm, Hart thought, looking intently at the dream.

Distance -or was it time?- was like it had been in the other dreamscape, and when Hart walked toward one of the mountainous trees, the mountainous forest walked with him.

Then there were the dreamers.

Like in the other dreamscape, the dreamer -the one who belonged to the dreamscape- was beside him. The dreamer was a tunawa, and like the tunawa in the other dreamscape they were bigger and older than they should have been- like the big, old trees. They were bounding beside Hart in the dream. Like in the other dreamscape, their movement was bound to Hart's movement, and because Hart wasn't moving, the tunawa was bounding beside him- but they weren't moving, too.

In this dreamscape, though, there was another dreamer- one in the form of a winged beast. Hart saw that the winged beast was the dreamer who belonged to the other dreamscape. She, too, was bounding without moving. Was her movement bound to Hart's movement, too?

He didn't think so. He thought her movement was bound to the other dreamer's movement.

Oh. That was it.

Hart was able to make sense of why this dreamscape was nearly identical to the other dreamscape, when dreamscapes often were so very, very different.

It was because the dreamers were bonded- their dreamscapes were bonded. When the winged beast had bounded up out of the trees, she had gone through her dreamscape and into her bonded's dreamscape. Hart, too, had walked through their bond and into her bonded's dreamscape.

They were dreaming together, dreaming a nearly identical dream.

Having made sense of the dreamscape, Hart began to walk in the dream. The dreamers bounded beside him, and Hart would have unbound them from him like he had in the other dreamscape, but he was- distracted.

The moment he had begun to walk, he had heard- what was it? Whatever it was, it was distant. But Hart had thought he heard- music? He stopped to listen to the distant music, the dreamers stopping beside him, but when he stopped the music stopped, too.

"What was that music?" Hart said to Tamsen. The form of the little boy holding his hand looked disgruntled by the music. Tamsen was in the form of little Wren, and Hart watched little Wren's ears shift as she listened, her human-like ears shifting biqaj-like, and then bat-like.

Tamsen listened a moment but the music had stopped. "Walk," she said, and Hart began to walk.

The moment he began to walk the music began again, and the moment Hart stopped the music stopped, too. "Oh," Tamsen said beside him, no longer disgruntled. Whatever had disgruntled her about the music, it seemed she had made sense of it.

"What is it?" Hart said again, and Tamsen said, "Whatever it is, it's not here. It's in your dreamscape. I don't think it's dangerous, though."

It's in my dreamscape? Hart thought.

He began to walk again, and because Tamsen had said the music was in his dreamscape, Hart turned momentarily to walk backwards. Walking backwards, he moved his hand through the warp and weft of the dreaming world.

With the movement, he located the invisible thread that bound him to his dreamscape. When Hart walked, the music sounded and the invisible thread shivered with the sound. The music was definitely in his dreamscape.

Hmm, Hart thought again.

The moment Hart turned to begin walking forward again, something said, Hart.

Hart, it said, and Hart stopped walking again. Look for us in the woods, it said, and Hart looked at Tamsen, but she merely looked at him like she didn't know why he had stopped. "What is it?" she said. She hadn't heard it speak. It had spoken inside him, then, where Tamsen wasn't able to hear.

The words spoken inside him, in addition to the music that sounded in his dreamscape, worried him- it waried him. "Tamsen, someone spoke to me," he said. The emeyan being's bat-like ears twitched as she tried to listen to whoever had spoken, but she wouldn't be able to listen to something that was inside Hart.

"We should go back to my dreamscape," Hart said, and Tamsen held tighter to his hand.

The moment he turned to walk back toward his dreamscape, Hart saw a little- what was it? There was a little being beside him.

What is going on? Hart thought. The little being looked like a little tree man.

The little tree man wasn't another dreamer, and Hart looked at it warily before he understood who and what it was. It had been a long time since he had seen this little being, but- it was his Scaltoth spirit. It was his bond to the Induk Scaltoth.

"Loewe?" Hart said, and Tamsen looked over at Loewe with dislike. She stuck her tongue out at the little spirit, and the little spirit stuck his tongue out at her. "Mleh," Tamsen said.

"Tamsen, stop," Hart said, and she slithered her tongue at him. "Loewe, what brought you here-?"

But Hart didn't see the little spirit. "What is going on?" Hart said. "Loewe?" But it seemed Loewe had gone back inside him-

Inside him, like the something that had said, Look for us in the woods.

"Oh," Hart said, making sense of what had brought Loewe to him. "Someone from Scaltoth is here." He thought. "In this dreamscape."

"Whoever it is, they're over there," Tamsen said. She'd stopped slithering her tongue at him. "Or- something is over there," she said. The form of the little boy looked off into the trees, its bat-like ears twitching, and Hart looked in that direction, too. They should go back to his dreamscape, he thought. Whatever was going on was- weird.

But whatever it was was likely related to Scaltoth, too. "Let's go over there," Hart said to Tamsen. "But be wary."

When he began to walk, the mountainous forest walked with him- and the dreamers began to bound with him. Oh. Hart had overlooked the dreamers in his distraction. He made a movement with his hand and unbound the dreamers from him. Whatever or whoever was over there, the dreamers shouldn't be there- it might be dangerous to them. The two of them bounded off into the forest, dreaming their dreams together, and Hart walked toward whoever it was that had spoken to him.

"There," Tamsen said, looking over at one of the mountainous trees, and Hart looked at the tree intently. It looked like one of whorls of the tree had been worked into a little stone-and-wood house.

Warily, Hart walked to the little house. The house's little door opened when he walked up to it, but Hart stood warily outside. He looked in.

There were two dreamers in the little house, though neither of the dreamers were ones Hart had thought would be in there. Neither of them were of Scaltoth. But Hart had met one of them before- the tunawa, Gloom. Gloom had lived with Woe back in Scalvoris. Woe was of Scaltoth- he was Soulforged.

It was likely Woe who had spoken to Hart, then.

"Hello, Gloom," Hart said from the little door. He was still wary of walking in. "It's been a long time. Hope you're doing well." He leaned against the little door, looking at the other dreamer in the little house.

"Hope you're doing well, too," Hart said to the man with Gloom. Hart didn't think he'd met this man before. He looked- scrappy, and he had sharp eyes.

"I'm Hart," Hart said to the man. The man didn't look dangerous, sitting there with an itty bitty cup of tea in his scraped hands, but this was the dreaming world. In the dreaming world, the man might not look like he looked, he might not be sitting where it looked like he was sitting, he might be holding something that looked like an itty bitty cup of tea but was not.

Looking from Gloom to the man, Hart said, "I think Woe spoke to me, told me to look for him here." But Woe was not in the little house, Hart thought. "Where is he?" he said.

[Jinyel]

Was that a flicker of irritation across the Hollow Prince’s visage? Jinyel couldn’t quite tell, and it seemed unwise to focus too closely on his ally when the world around them was so eager to punish inattention. All he truly needed was the Prince’s agreement not to reach inside him again, and once the Prince gave it, simple though it may have been, Jinyel turned his attention to the oars and to the navigation of this strange place.

The colossal forest grew nearer, its trees wide as mountains at the base, their crowns miles above their heads. The surrounding water churned with motion ― scholfins, the Prince had called them ― but Jinyel did not look at them except to ensure he did not strike any with his oar. Each stroke was a mighty pull on his shoulders, dragging resistance from the heavy water. He bit his cheek against the urge to hiss, to grunt, to use magic to numb the pain as he so often did.

He had endured worse. He would endure this.

As the trees drew close enough to see their roots, Jinyel paused mid-stroke, forced to reconcile what he was seeing. The water did not end at the forest’s edge, nor reveal any trace of a shore. It continued through the trees, between the enormous trunks and the protrusions which braced them. They were mangroves, roots lurching into the water in vast tangled networks that this canoe could thread between.

With no ability to see whatever the Prince percieved, Jinyel chose to steer them into a dense knot of roots instead of open water, favoring concealment in case any flying emeyans took notice of them. The air felt watchful.

I see our surroundings as a forest of mangrove trees, Jinyel explained. I see no creatures, except that I hear the scholfins in the water. There is movement in the canopy, but it is miles above us, and I cannot see what makes it. What signs will guide us to your friend? What must we be looking for?

[Woe]

Gloom brightened at Hart's appearance. When the mortalborn entered the cabin within the tree, he was working at serving tea and something was baking in his corner oven. It smelled very sweet, and all the sweeter with fresh apple-wood pellets fueling the stove. "Hart! Is Wren with you?"

"I had hoped to meet them here, but if not, you can take some pie with you when you see him next, and give him my regards?" Gloom hopped over toward the oven, and slid the pie out, with some padded gloves. He placed it on the counter, "It's lemon cream with bits of apple in it. I'm sure Wren would enjoy that! Anyway, fancy seeing you..."

Hart then greeted Fleaface, and the man grunted, as he sipped his tea. "Fleaface is what Woe calls me. But my name is Fargis."

Gloom cleared his throat, and hopped on over toward the couch, where Fleaface was sitting, and placed his own tea cup and slice of pie on a plate, there. He looked to Hart, and smiled, "Woe is here, we're both visiting him. They should be arriving very soon.... ahh here he is."

Having said that, Hart would hear footsteps behind, to a person that appeared very much like the Woe Hart remembered from before the Forging. White hair, red eyes, and spidery-thin limbs carrying him over the threshold. He looked at Hart as if he didn't know him, then turned to Gloom and Fleaface for an explanation.

"This one's name is Hart." Fleaface muttered.

Gloom chimed in, "He was looking for you?"

As Hart looked at Woe, he'd recognize that they were not Soul-Forged, and couldn't be the same Woe that had called to them. So who was it then? Had Woe forsaken his forging?



Woe was on the thin canoe with Wicker, and rowing hard. He noted the labors of his fellow dream traveler, and scoffed lightly. "Distance and time are faint suggestions in Emea." He informed the young man, "There was a time you could travel Idalos with enough skill at Dreamwalking. Those doors shut firm after the death of Jesine and Kielik, however."

He listened, and felt the voice of Hart calling to him from across the distance. He knew where he was, through that shared bond with the Induk, and their connection as Forged. Besides being fairly good friends, that was more than enough to inform Woe at least of the direction he might find Hart. He recognized that his sought-after friend was lurking in some dreamscape, not his own perhaps. Or shared with another.

"There are things such as dream gestalts." Woe informed Wicker, "I was introduced to the idea, when one of Jesine's close confidantes abducted me, Faith Augustin, and Gennadiya for use in some twisted experiment in Emea. She meant well, but had a strangely imperious manner about her."

"Dream gestalts are share dreams, that people of very similar experiences might have together. Whether strife, war, or even a common association." Woe squinted his eyes at the waters beneath their vessel. "I think that is where we'll find Hart now, in one such convergence. I'm taking us into it."

This said, he tilted his oar, and tipped the nose of the boat into the waters, diving headlong into the dream that Hart now occupied.

Their boat flew through the air, over the canopy of a great mountainous forest, until it plunged into the earth. Remarkably, and perhaps owing to the dream-like logic of the world, both Wicker and Woe landed without injury. There they found themselves outside of the door of the tree cabin. "Hart will be in there, I think."

Woe wasn't entirely confident that he'd find him there.

Meanwhile, the sight of the Doom Clock hung over them like a grim reminder, it's hand turning on the wheel toward its third digit with a grating creak.

"After you." Woe said, offering Wicker the opportunity to enter before him. If Wicker acquiesced, he'd find the interior to a cabin, fresh baking goods smelling up the air. Along with the gruff man, Hart himself, the tunawa, and finally someone who vaguely resembled Woe, but at the same time was radically mutated.

The mutant Woe turned around to look at Wicker, and bore his sharp teeth, with canines elongated. "We have dinner guests, it seems. And they bring a monster with them."

The shadow that Woe cast against the dreamscape fell forward, showing the antlers of his form, and his spindly limbs against the rounded wooden door. Although Woe himself was out of view from the threshold. He'd hung back, for fear of alarming Hart with his monstrous look.

[Jinyel]

The Prince put his shoulders into the rowing, which was helpful considering Jinyel’s shoulders could only do so much. Water churned around their little pink canoe, Emeyan beasts swimming in the wake, and the open space behind them was steadily swallowed up by mangroves.

Jesine and Kielik. Jinyel had heard those names before. They were somewhere in the pile of Immortals and Dragons and other legends he had never paid much attention to, on the assumption that he would never encounter such things. The Hollow Prince himself ― or Woe, rather ― had once been in that same pile. Jinyel listened more intently now to the Dreaming Lords’ names. Physically travelling Idalos through dreamwalking was a concept he could not imagine, much less understand, but his ‘uncle’ spoke of it as truth and so Jinyel was inclined to believe him.

Dream gestalts made marginally more sense, and seemed more relevant to their current task. What connection the Prince shared with Hart, Jinyel did not know and did not care to pry. He was much more concerned with the Prince’s style of navigation, which brought them beneath the roots of a tree and then dipped the nose of the canoe forward. Their vessel sank into the water, underneath the water, and Jinyel couldn’t help a cry of alarm as they went down.

He was not soaked, but he thought he was. In the soft membrane between Emea and dreams, his own imagination tried and failed to dominate their surroundings. As water became sky, so too did wetness become dry. Jinyel touched his throat and gulped air, though he was not drowning. He peered over the edge of the boat. Below them was forest, above them the Doom Clock. With another impossible tilt, their canoe swooped down to land gently upon the earth.

Jinyel didn’t know if he actually felt ill, or if he just imagined it.

The hunter disembarked on unsteady feet. The ground held firm, and after a moment to center himself, he examined the odd treehouse in front of him.

The Prince wanted him to go first.

With a suspicious glance over his shoulder, Jinyel reached into the canoe. He took up his spear, though held it more like a walking stick than a weapon, and approached the treehouse. The suggestion to ‘go first’ translated to him more as an order to ‘go scout,’ which he would have been happy to do in the waking world. In a dreamscape, there was no telling what waited for them beyond that door, and caution was clear in the line of his posture.

Jinyel didn’t knock. Solid shelters were still a novelty to him, and he saw no rudeness in simply letting himself inside. It smelled peaceable enough, with fresh food on the air and a table set for dinner. The tunawa, he recognized. The others, less so. There was a white haired… thing which smiled at him, a warped mirror of the Hollow Prince’s human form. Sharp teeth. A sharper look in his eye which made Jinyel uneasy.

Inside is clear, Jinyel signed to the Prince, because he presumed that was what he wanted. Four individuals, no raised weapons. I don’t know which one you seek.