Sovan, the Exquisite Glory of a Glittering Dream (![]() ![]() @ 2017-12-14 07:56:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log, *feast, sovan, timore, unseelie king |
how do i learn my dreams to mold to lay them bare in the morning cold?
Who: Timore and Sovan
What: They gonna fight
Where: Dreamland
When: After the sleep fae get excited and Timore hits too low
Warnings: Language, violence. Eldritch abominations.
Note: Half this fight is gonna be in dreamland, half of it in the physical world. You can catch sight of any of it if you'd like, but it's eldritchy as hell in the opening tag, so if that's not your thing, turn back now.
Rage chases through him, leaving him more ice than fae. Clawing fury shreds at whatever he has that passes for a soul, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces. He does not become malleable, but he becomes changeable. There is something horrifying about a fae that changes. He is neither here nor there, nor man or woman, nor living or dead. At once all things and yet somehow nothing, he is unbound and unwoven, fraying at the edges and bleeding dreams into the space around him. They manifest abundant joy in measures equal to the seething, roiling, manic violence inside him. Lovers fall into each other's arms, castles glitter on hills that rise mere inches off the ground. Impossible gowns, beings of sharp-edged beauty, money, travel, all the things a mortal mind could desire, they spill around him, bubbling out of what might be flesh like water from a hot spring. He finds Timore in the feasting ground, strolling up to him with his hands in his pockets. Or, at least, what remain of his hands are tucked into what remain of his pants. The color has blurred around his body, smearing color into sound and taste. Sovan gives Timore peacefully congenial smile. It's a soft smile, so utterly opposed to the rage that curls off him in billowing clouds of smoke. The disparity is terrifying. Ozone scent fills the air, the loamy smell of impending storms. "I'm going to unmake you," he says, and it's a lover's promise. And then he lunges, reaching for Timore's throat with glittering streams of hope and dreams that shriek like wounded animals. |