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.

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[thedominatrix]

Whereas Irene is in a gown of black lace and nothing else, and something about her glows. She's aware of what she's doing, finding she's able to manipulate the wild and glittering darkness. It's a matter of creativity, of feeling, of artistry; a matter of knowing your own mind and everybody else's.

Or maybe it's just a matter of really wanting it, and she really wanted to wear stars- as earrings, in a glowing string around her neck, glittering at her fingers.

She does-and-doesn't recognise Dom at first; it's funny, she's got this real life image of him in her head which doesn't match up to how he looks here- and then there's the dream-knowledge, the way you just know.

She comes up behind him, finding it easier to walk if she steps from star to star because drifting isn't her thing.

"Try falling," is the first thing she calls, and then--

"Funny. No one says 'hello' in dreams, do they?"

[selfmadman]

He spins toward her voice, flips over and around as if top-heavy, as if prodded by the flick of an unseen finger. He'd move with aching slowness if 'aching' and 'slow' had meaning.

A blink after laying eyes on her and he's decked in black: suit, tie, shoes with a shine outstripped by starlight. The only colors swirl at each wrist, nebulae cufflinks in blue, red, an indigo deep and dark.

"Hello," Don says. His features have lost definition, rendering his face familiar, forgettably handsome.

[thedominatrix]

"Rebel, rebel," she says, narrowing her eyes at him playfully and not mentioning the change in appearance, though she notes it and reminds herself not to forget, though there is that temptation to allow the dream logic to overcome her own.

So; the suit isn't him, not right at the core.

And her black lace? Well, even she isn't sure.

[selfmadman]

He looks to her then away. To his right, a comet like a struck match. His smile'll graze her, barely.

“Try falling,” he repeats on a questioning note. His hands slide into his pockets; the idea takes form almost visibly. He looks at Irene as if over a cliff.

“Why?” he asks, sardonic, a crease between his eyebrows. “Are you gonna make a wish?”

[thedominatrix]

"No," she chuckles, glancing down and stepping smartly from one glowing pinprick to another as if she were playing hopscotch, looking up at him- no, back at him, because if Irene had her way she would never have to look up at anyone and now she can do that- with a sharp smile. It's almost smug- look what I can do- and distinctly knowing.

There's something distinctly less soft about her now, though it's an aspect that occasionally shines through in waking life. Then, she overacts and lets people consider her an enjoyable weekend danger, the sort of little vice you can keep separate from the rest of your life while still enjoying that spine-tingling what if. The reality is much more worrying and, ironically, in dreams, much easier to glimpse.

"Goodness, I wouldn't trust a copywriter of your caliber to grant my wishes, even a falling one. No, I was just trying to see if you'd trust me."

Her teeth rival the stars.