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halifax!
i welcome the sun, the clouds and rain
Warren woke suddenly, feverish and nauseated from a dream which had felt more like reality. Gulping lungfuls of cool morning air, the hybrid struggled to a sitting position on the thin mattress and wiped the cold sweat out of his eyes. The half-digested food in his stomach threatened to spill out and make a reappearance, but he swallowed the bile hard. Warren gripped the edge of his bed. His nausea and terror from the dream was slowly being washed away by his frustration and anger. Why did he keep having such dreams? Such nightmares?
The gray man got up from the bed, the rusty springs squealing happily for relief, and crossed the room in several long strides. Now, even in the darkness he could make his way through the shack. Much of his time was spent there, so he grew accustomed to it quickly. The walls which were usually a comfort to the loner now felt smothering. He reached the front door quickly and wrenched it open, crossing the porch and descending the few steps down the stairs in a matter of seconds. Fueled by his frustration and fear, the hybrid moved with all speed and no purpose out of the forest. As the sky began to gray with first light, Warren was surprised to find himself in the old human city.
Eventually his frenzy began to fade. Slowing his pace, he walked quietly past the strange buildings, not seeing them. The scenes of his dream wandered through his mind of their own accord and made his heart heavy. The dreams, the memories, had a vicious hold on him. They were stronger than him, he feared. He couldn't accept the past, couldn't forgive himself for it, so the memories spitefully manifested themselves in his subconscious. That's how it seemed to the tall hybrid. Stopping in the middle of the street, Warren raised his head and looked to the gray, overcast sky.
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[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.[/html]
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