Green Clouds, Violet Breezes (Pash'nar)

[Chamaeleon]

Spring 89th, 512 AV It had been a long day, exhausting and unfullfilling. As the Ethaefal curled up for sleep in her bed, her mind did not go to rest with the rest of her. She traveled down roads of blood in her mind's eye, seeing blood red butterflies, savage wolves tearing bodies, and people made wild by that heavy fog. It filled her heart with foreboding, like this was all leading up to something terrible and she was fighting the inevitable. Heavy lids closed over amethyst eyes as Chamaeleon wished she were home. She wished she didn't have to live in this place where the storm that touched the land before she was born remained to corrupt the hearts of the trapped. Chamaeleon was unaware that she had slipped into the world of dreams, thinking that as her eyes opened, blue and bright, she was waking to a new day and the pain of the night had faded away as a nightmare does. She woke sprawled in a field of prickly grass, and the scent of nature was so heady that she remained there, stunned by it, for a few long moments. Her eyes drifted closed and a breeze rustled her long hair, sending up a flurry of sounds that could have been birds unfurling their wings and taking flight. The Ethaefal was not aware she was standing until her eyes opened again, but when she looked down to see the oddest colour of grass beneath her bare feet, she wasn't alarmed. After all, this was real, and logical. The fact that the grass was orange was no cause for distress. She looked up, and around, and saw a mass of faceless people that could have been her comrades prancing around, pantomime outfits clasped tightly to their forms like a second, vibrant skin. She was even sure that there were a few faceless, androgynous beings that resembled her kin back in her true home. A smile split her face, happiness soaring in the pit of her stomach, even though she didn't know why. Chamaeleon sprang forward to join this faceless troupe, dancing in the orange grass and under a green sky, the misery of her day translating into a way to forget in her dreams.

[Pash'nar]

Ah, petch. He'd done it again. He found himself in over his head, awash in things he'd never intended, swimming in deep waters full of the kind of emotional danger he'd been so careful for so long to avoid. His solution, of course, was typical: run. Back out to sea, far into the quiet comforts of the Suvan. Alone. His antique casinor, the stars, and his thoughts. Well, less of his thoughts and more of the stars if he could help it for now. He'd gotten himself entangled, after all. It'd been a few good days of sailing in the opposite direction of Alvadas with no particular destination in mind. It was nice. Mostly. It was easy to drift along in a comfortable current, sails taut in the wind, tiller set comfortably in no particular direction. Leaning against the stern railing, watching those familiar constellations drift by, even while under the glaring pallor of Leth's half-shaded face, high and distant in the black sky, Pash'nar struggled to justify his situation, failed, and simply chose to avoid it altogether. It was only a matter of time out in the dark, with the stars reflecting off the calm waves, that the ethaefal found himself drifting off to sleep at the helm. The dream he became aware of himself suddenly entangled in was certainly out of the ordinary, but not so much as to cause him alarm. So many of his dreams involved the ocean that this one, with the feeling of grass under his bare feet, was a novel experience. It wasn't the familiar worn wood of his casinor, or sand, or water. He curled his toes in the grass—it was orange, that was weird but not weird enough to cause him pause—and looked around. All the colors were strange, as if he'd stared at the sun too long and then tried to look at something else. There were dancing people in the distance, far enough away that he couldn't see their faces—or maybe they didn't have any?—and he couldn't hear any music. Maybe there wasn't any of that, either. It seemed to take forever to get closer, as if everything was far away and he was walking very slow. It almost felt like being stuck in an undertow, swimming against it to attempt to get to shore. He was enjoying the strange grass and the strange sky, despite the warped distance. As he finally got closer, only one of the dancing figures had a face. They were all vaguely familiar, reminding him deeply of long forgotten places, long forgotten comrades. His chest ached, or his dream chest. It was an odd feeling. He stared a bit, but found himself compelled to join them. The memories were far-buried, on purpose—he'd hidden from the past, from that other place, from his home, for so long. But he blinked and was dancing anyway. It was irresistible. Something like longing stirred in his unconscious, and he looked around again at the blank faces as they blurred by, attempting to get a glimpse of the only other dancer with features. A woman. An ethaefal? What kind of dream was this? Dancing toward her was slower than walking. Pash'nar found he had nothing to say; he could only move in her direction at his impossible pace, whirling and weaving with the warmth of growing, thoughtless enjoyment.

[Chamaeleon]

Chamaeleon swayed in the breeze among her fellow dancers, blue eyes closed as she reveled in the simple freedom. Her feet moved in an unmentioned beat, something that the others seemed to be following. With her eyes closed, she couldn't see the gloom descending upon the field. She couldn't see the butterflies turn and grow sharp, becoming a red like that of blood, with their wings elongating and growing quickly out of proportion to their bodies. The landscape became hard, etched and strained against an invisible backdrop. Like a nightmare the grass grew to sharp points, the vivid colours became monochromatic with sudden, startling, instances of red and yellow. It became bleak, listless, unwelcoming, all while her eyes were closed. It was only when the other touched her, jolting her as though she had actually fallen asleep while dancing there, that she realised the change. The dancers stood around them, facing them and encircling them, and Chamaeleon could only just stare in shock at the sudden appearance of a stranger. "Who are you?" The voice that issued from her mouth spoke a language she had thought she would never hear again. A language of the sunrise, of birds singing from up high, of the scent of oranges and fresh water. The language of her home, of her true home. Tears almost sprang to her eyes at the sudden ache in her chest at hearing her lips form those sounds. She didn't understand how it was possible to make such lovely music when normally, trying to created a horrible rendition of something that could only ever be beautiful. She didn't understand, but for whatever reason she liked this. The people around them shuddered to a stop in their dance at Chamaeleon's words and moved closer, suddenly very menacing in her eyes. She looked around at them, visibly upset at this sudden, very unwelcome, turn of events. She had to admit that being trapped was the least favourite thing she could imagine and it looked like the pleasant company was quickly turning to trap both her and this stranger. So, she bolted. Pushing at the man, she ran straight for freedom. To her, these people were the crazed in the fog, the mob of Sunberth, nightmare people that would hurt her, hang her, or drive her crazy to be like them. As she ran past, they grasped for her. Their fingers slid over her skin feather light but still leaving red welts along her arms. They continued to close in on the man and for a moment Chamaeleon thought she was free. That was not the case, for her feet were stuck in that absurd red, yellow, grey ground. Striped grass was reaching up her thighs and panic was welling in her throat. What the petch was this?