08-05-2009, 06:02 PM
[html]
http://i155.photobucket.com/albums/s304 ... -table.png); background-repeat:no-repeat; padding-bottom:235px; background-position:bottom center; background-color:#000000; text-align:justify; font-family:georgia; font-size:11px; color:#FDBC43; line-height:16px">White = thoughts, not spoken, just for clarity o:
------Anselm had a peculiar relationship with sleep. The dreams of his youth were rather nightmarish, perhaps inspired by the bloody battles he witnessed and the terror experienced daily. Later in life he'd discovered certain drugs, substances that apparently fucked with the mind even deeper than the conscious level. While he used heavily his dreams were downright bizarre. They involved nonsensical patterns and occurrences; they were choppy and disjointed. That wasn't to say he didn't enjoy them (they were basically free entertainment). As he matured, the nature of his dreams changed again: they'd settled in a strange equilibrium. Where before he was a victim in his nightmares, he now was in control. Where before the dreams were random and discontinuous, they were now weird, yet approximately coherent. And he had learned to control them (at least to somewhat).
------The ability couldn't develop until he'd learned to recognise when he was asleep or not. Perhaps the zany nature of his dreams made it easier, but as time wore on he learned to pinpoint subtler signs that signalled the difference between reality and the strange pseudo-reality of his mind. Repeating loops were now the most obvious sign--occasionally he could force his mind into breaking these redundant cycles. Still, if he tried to force too drastic of a change in the dream, he would often simply wake up. He could change an element or two of the dream, but not the entire setting, for instance. Either way, the hybrid assumed everyone could do these things... he had no way of knowing exactly how weird he was, since it wasn't really something that came up often in discussion.
------Hell, it wasn't in his nature to sit around and discuss much of anything at all. He much preferred wandering and thinking to himself. This was what drove him into the city in the middle of the night to look for Maserati's old garage. He'd found it and done a quick assessment of what she'd left him to work (and play with); needless to say, he was pleased with the results. He locked the door with the key his daughter had given him and departed just as the sun was beginning to rise, a clear glass bottle filled with fire water dangling and swinging freely in his left hand as he walked. Warren may have been ready to start the day, but Anselm was about halfway through his. Quickly he became aware of a looming grey figure in the distance, whose form nearly blended in with the dismal skies. Anselm's ears flicked and his nose twitched; hmm, this one was familiar. The caramel wolf regarded he whom he'd chased away from Inferni neutrally as he approached to pass by: he had no beef with him here, though he vaguely wondered how the other male might react to his presence. He seemed somehow distraught, but Anselm knew enough to realise it couldn't be over him yet. As he got within talking distance, he merely tipped his head in question and thrust out the bottle in offer: You look like you need a drink.
------Anselm had a peculiar relationship with sleep. The dreams of his youth were rather nightmarish, perhaps inspired by the bloody battles he witnessed and the terror experienced daily. Later in life he'd discovered certain drugs, substances that apparently fucked with the mind even deeper than the conscious level. While he used heavily his dreams were downright bizarre. They involved nonsensical patterns and occurrences; they were choppy and disjointed. That wasn't to say he didn't enjoy them (they were basically free entertainment). As he matured, the nature of his dreams changed again: they'd settled in a strange equilibrium. Where before he was a victim in his nightmares, he now was in control. Where before the dreams were random and discontinuous, they were now weird, yet approximately coherent. And he had learned to control them (at least to somewhat).
------The ability couldn't develop until he'd learned to recognise when he was asleep or not. Perhaps the zany nature of his dreams made it easier, but as time wore on he learned to pinpoint subtler signs that signalled the difference between reality and the strange pseudo-reality of his mind. Repeating loops were now the most obvious sign--occasionally he could force his mind into breaking these redundant cycles. Still, if he tried to force too drastic of a change in the dream, he would often simply wake up. He could change an element or two of the dream, but not the entire setting, for instance. Either way, the hybrid assumed everyone could do these things... he had no way of knowing exactly how weird he was, since it wasn't really something that came up often in discussion.
------Hell, it wasn't in his nature to sit around and discuss much of anything at all. He much preferred wandering and thinking to himself. This was what drove him into the city in the middle of the night to look for Maserati's old garage. He'd found it and done a quick assessment of what she'd left him to work (and play with); needless to say, he was pleased with the results. He locked the door with the key his daughter had given him and departed just as the sun was beginning to rise, a clear glass bottle filled with fire water dangling and swinging freely in his left hand as he walked. Warren may have been ready to start the day, but Anselm was about halfway through his. Quickly he became aware of a looming grey figure in the distance, whose form nearly blended in with the dismal skies. Anselm's ears flicked and his nose twitched; hmm, this one was familiar. The caramel wolf regarded he whom he'd chased away from Inferni neutrally as he approached to pass by: he had no beef with him here, though he vaguely wondered how the other male might react to his presence. He seemed somehow distraught, but Anselm knew enough to realise it couldn't be over him yet. As he got within talking distance, he merely tipped his head in question and thrust out the bottle in offer: You look like you need a drink.