i ☀ the primal in the throne room: [ The throne room of Ala Mhigo's royal palace is a grand, wide room, adorned with towering statues of lions and griffons. The throne, however, sits empty. There are no nobles here, no court, and no guards.

You find yourself here, a good distance away from a group of people sitting in a circle at the room's center. They are an odd bunch, some of them human, some decidedly not – women with the tails of snakes, alongside what looks like a large rodent gone walking on two legs and wearing a hooded coat. Others somewhere in between – men with the features of felines. They talk about politics, about the state of their nation, about where next to go now that their freedom has been won after two long decades of subjugation.

Arenvald and several others stand with you, well away from this meeting. You get the sense that you're here to observe, to protect, should it come to that. Judging by the quietly satisfied looks on your companions' faces, you get the sense that this meeting is going well.

Until one of the snake women, the one garbed in blue, is beckoned to speak. She rises to her full height, slithers her way to the center of the group, throws her arms to the sky and declares,

“You shall all worship Sri Lakshmi!”

All hell breaks loose then, as light comes pouring out of the fountains on either side of the throne. Crystals hidden in the water whose power gives shape to a massive woman. Beautiful, yes, but there is something ethereally terrifying about her, and the sheer power she radiates. The people in the middle of the room panic, your companions toss about the word “primal”, and with urgency declare that she means to make thralls of them all.

Arenvald turns to you then, seemingly mistaking you for someone else in the moment. He's not yet realized that this is a dream and that an ally from the Circle stands where the Warrior of Light should be standing. ]

It's up to us. Come on!


ii ☀ massacre at the waking sands: [ The Waking Sands is a small building of sand-colored stone in a small port town called Vesper Bay. It is quiet, usually, save the busting of merchants and the comings and goings of adventurers alike.

Today, it is a war zone.

The interior of the Waking Sands is in shambles, blood staining the floor and bullet holes riddling the walls. Soldiers in strange armor and full-face helms pour through the hallways, gunblades brought to bear, turning them on anyone and everyone they can find. It is in a back room that you find yourself, a place piled high with crates and old papers, the sounds of the battle and the screams of the dying muddled by distance but growing steadily closer.

With you in this room is Arenvald, dressed a bit differently than you would have seen him around the Circle. Gone is his shining armor or casual, more modern dress. Apart from him, there is a young woman (though still older than Arenvald) with features that can only be described as elven, her white hair braided tightly into a short ponytail, a spear gripped tightly in her hands, and an older man with the ears and tail of a cat.

The report of gunfire echoes closer still, and the cat-eared man shoves Arenvald – and by extension, you – behind a pile of crates, barking out in a harsh whisper,

“Stay put and stay quiet. Leave the fightin’ to me and Aulie.”

The man departs, then, lifting the fist weapons from his belt as he does. Without thinking, Arenvald reaches over, fingers tangling into your sleeve or clasping your shoulder in a white-knuckled grip. ]

[ Arenvald has a lot more to offer as far as dreamscapes, though anything from his early childhood will come with a CW for abuse, maiming, and possible mentions of rape. If you want an early memory of his, please let me know! You can PM me or hit me up on plurk.

Otherwise he can be found in Polankos helping with the merfolk or feeding sunlight into the rift to help overload and possibly close it.

Feel free to hit me with your own dreamscapes as well, or we can transition from one person's dream bubble to the next. I'm easy! Like I said, feel free to PM me at his journal or on plurk at exposition to plot out the finer details of things. ]