Who's going to pay attention to your dreams? Who's going to plug their ears when you scream? Who: Sato & Asterion What: He's not quite dreaming; she's quite curious. When: Sunday night/Monday morning, following the running of the bull. Where: Dream Country
In the Dream Country, snow fell.
Blankets and carpets of shimmering, perfect white layered over the mercurial earth. For the moment, it was evening, and, for the moment, three moons dangled in the rich sky above. Thin, bare trees posed poetically against the mellow twilight. It was perfect and misleading, as dreams had the right to be.
The moonlight was bright enough to make the blood glow in bright contrast against the sugary snow. The red amount wasn’t large; it spoke of a wound, but necessarily a kill. Footprints, neat and deep, led away from the splatter. They were nothing human about their shape. What they led to, however, looked human indeed. Insultingly so, her kind would growl.
But then again, it’d been a very long time Sato spoke with any of her kin. And even longer since she’d bothered to acknowledge the criticism. She perched atop an dark-veined bolder, her yukata absurdly incongruous in the winter landscape.
A small, pretty bag lay by her bare feet, its strings pulled tight. Sato’s attention, however, wasn’t on it and or its contents. Head canted, she sat and focused out into the gloom. It wouldn’t be long, now. No, not long at all…
A vivid, unexpected beat of yellow flickered in the darkness. Sato smiled and lifted one deceptively human seeming hand, sending out a ribbon of her will to guide the little phantasm to her. The form of a goldfinch obediently spiraled out of the dark to land on her fingers. A small dream, weak and pretty, but it was still bright enough to lure.
“Well done, mon sucre d'orge,” she whispered, lips skimming the illusionary feathers. The little dream smelled of sweetness and sunshine and, oh yes, fear. But it had served well; she wouldn’t reward success with death.
“He comes.” She smiled at the little dream and it trembled. “Can you hear him, nibblet? What rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards here to be met...”