birds singing in the sycamore tree

[baedalites]

As night falls on Baedal, the city is almost quiet. The streets have a few last minute workers returning home, but by now, most citizens have already gone by the temples and picked up their vurt, ready to lay down and dream.

After placing a not-feather in one's mouth, there's a moment where it fizzes against the tongue before sliding coolly down the back of the throat and pulling the user down into sleep. A series of impressions, more sensation than anything concrete, appears before the user and this is how one chooses which Dreamer to enter.

Comments

[leviohhhhsa]

Hermione looks over at her with not-quite-surprise, because no one's surprised by things in dreams and because she's distinctly calmer here. For once, she's not exuding an attitude of having her mind on a thousand things at once, flitting anxiously between concerns- rather, she seems focused and in charge of herself.

She's like this in real life sometimes, admittedly- when she feels bravest and brightest.

"Professor," she says, looking delighted. "Gosh, it's wonderful to see you. I've been-"

How has she been?

"-busy," she finishes, eyebrows up, almost wry; it's taken her a while to fully understand humour as a coping mechanism, but a bit of dry understatement never hurt anybody.

[greatestofthese]

"I imagine so. It does seem to often be rather... busy around here, but perhaps I am one of those cursed to live in interesting times, as they say." Pause. "Or not live. I'm not entirely sure what my exact metaphysical state of being is, currently, but it's good enough for me, anyway."

[leviohhhhsa]

"Live," Hermione says firmly, almost fervently. It feels like after everything, it's best to be sure about these things, and not to quibble over maybes and might have beens; she's alive, end of story, nothing more to worry about.

"Thankfully. What happened with your leg?"