12-14-2009, 11:11 AM
~Round 1 has begun. The characters find themselves in a foggy dreamscape with the knowledge that each person they meet is a bar in their cage. Dreamers now fight for escape. Whether their foes are real or only a dream facsimile is unclear...even one who is a friend in the waking world must surely be an enemy, here. The players can set their fight in any environment they'd like, given that each is taking place somewhere in a dream. Background story below for those interested.
The strumming of the lifelines purred beatifically to the Weaver as she twined them together and drew all into a red tapestry. Long had she aspired to affect this: a grand event to assuage her thirst for the wine of the living, to drink deep of the bloodcup as it brimmed over with the froth of their toil. The reality of her great work was parallel with their own, a world they could only enter in sleep, and only leave in violence. The realm must needs have a door of escape, she knew, or she would lose her champions. Yes...she had elected four which suited her. A traveler whose road had just begun, a rejected princess turned to viciousness against her sister, a wolf doomed to share his body with a demon of his mother's giving, and a lost and unloved child whose strength was not his to command. Yes, these four would do nicely. Of the four, she had her favorite, the one she had chosen to slaughter the rest in this dark and foggy dream, the steamy clouds raising from her tapestry lit from behind with the crimson glow of their four lifelines. It was a loose design, but their timber when she ran her finger across them was good, and she was proud of the conflict she had orchestrated.
It was due to her intense satisfaction that her irritation flared at the appearance of the interloper. His pitch coat contrasted sharply with her dusky red, and the silkiness of his voice and motion offended her, who could surpass it only in the subtlety of her weaving. The Night Prince had come unbeckoned to her place of labor; she could see his black shape starkly through the rising mists of her straining and strumming creation. The lifelines burned hotly in her net, and now she must contend with one who could unmake it all with a swipe of his claw.
"Greetings, seamstress, he crooned, his bright eyes shining with lunar light. His shadow swam beneath him, and as he reared back and stood to his full height, it flowed upward to and billowed as black cloth in the ethereal wind. She snarled as he smiled knowingly at her. Her words and manner were far coarser than his own, but her hands...her hands would create works by far fairer than any he himself could ever attempt. He knew this, and had destroyed their works before. Today, however, he would make use of those hands, instead.
"Your creation is magnificent: a dreamframe which has snared four mortals in its web. They are trapped within, ensorcelled into that tiny world of your making. I can read the threads clearly: to dream is the door in, to fight is the door out. But only four have you snared, and I would guide four more within. I bring with me lifelines which your hands could bend and sew more adeptly than mine. I bring them as materials for your art: weave them into your creation, and make it the grander. Let us see if the lifelines I have chosen can surpass those you have selected yourself. Mayhap the skill is yours, but have you my eye for beauty and strength, oh Weaver?" His laughter was derisive and still so soothing to the ears that it jarred the listener. The Weaver had met him before, however, and knew the Prince's manner.
"So it will be," she replied gruffly. "My hands will work these new dreamers into my tapestry, and there they will fight their way out or be trapped thenceforth. A warrior whose word is God's word, a giant of pitch and pure heart, a scarred king of the southern territory, and a rogue who has walked a long and twisting road. These four shall compete with mine for the surest path through the fog of the dreamframe, trapped within the resonating cords of their fellow dreamers until they shall fight their way out or fall through death back into their bodies." The hands of the weaver were calm and sure, and yet their haste was evident. The dream would soon begin, and her time was short to tie all ends together artfully. When her work was done, she strummed the cords, and stepped away, the musical vibration of the straining mortalities building up to crescendo. It had begun.
The strumming of the lifelines purred beatifically to the Weaver as she twined them together and drew all into a red tapestry. Long had she aspired to affect this: a grand event to assuage her thirst for the wine of the living, to drink deep of the bloodcup as it brimmed over with the froth of their toil. The reality of her great work was parallel with their own, a world they could only enter in sleep, and only leave in violence. The realm must needs have a door of escape, she knew, or she would lose her champions. Yes...she had elected four which suited her. A traveler whose road had just begun, a rejected princess turned to viciousness against her sister, a wolf doomed to share his body with a demon of his mother's giving, and a lost and unloved child whose strength was not his to command. Yes, these four would do nicely. Of the four, she had her favorite, the one she had chosen to slaughter the rest in this dark and foggy dream, the steamy clouds raising from her tapestry lit from behind with the crimson glow of their four lifelines. It was a loose design, but their timber when she ran her finger across them was good, and she was proud of the conflict she had orchestrated.
It was due to her intense satisfaction that her irritation flared at the appearance of the interloper. His pitch coat contrasted sharply with her dusky red, and the silkiness of his voice and motion offended her, who could surpass it only in the subtlety of her weaving. The Night Prince had come unbeckoned to her place of labor; she could see his black shape starkly through the rising mists of her straining and strumming creation. The lifelines burned hotly in her net, and now she must contend with one who could unmake it all with a swipe of his claw.
"Greetings, seamstress, he crooned, his bright eyes shining with lunar light. His shadow swam beneath him, and as he reared back and stood to his full height, it flowed upward to and billowed as black cloth in the ethereal wind. She snarled as he smiled knowingly at her. Her words and manner were far coarser than his own, but her hands...her hands would create works by far fairer than any he himself could ever attempt. He knew this, and had destroyed their works before. Today, however, he would make use of those hands, instead.
"Your creation is magnificent: a dreamframe which has snared four mortals in its web. They are trapped within, ensorcelled into that tiny world of your making. I can read the threads clearly: to dream is the door in, to fight is the door out. But only four have you snared, and I would guide four more within. I bring with me lifelines which your hands could bend and sew more adeptly than mine. I bring them as materials for your art: weave them into your creation, and make it the grander. Let us see if the lifelines I have chosen can surpass those you have selected yourself. Mayhap the skill is yours, but have you my eye for beauty and strength, oh Weaver?" His laughter was derisive and still so soothing to the ears that it jarred the listener. The Weaver had met him before, however, and knew the Prince's manner.
"So it will be," she replied gruffly. "My hands will work these new dreamers into my tapestry, and there they will fight their way out or be trapped thenceforth. A warrior whose word is God's word, a giant of pitch and pure heart, a scarred king of the southern territory, and a rogue who has walked a long and twisting road. These four shall compete with mine for the surest path through the fog of the dreamframe, trapped within the resonating cords of their fellow dreamers until they shall fight their way out or fall through death back into their bodies." The hands of the weaver were calm and sure, and yet their haste was evident. The dream would soon begin, and her time was short to tie all ends together artfully. When her work was done, she strummed the cords, and stepped away, the musical vibration of the straining mortalities building up to crescendo. It had begun.