RE: THIS PROGRAM HAS BEEN CANCELED [S!1][ROUND THREE: PORT CERIDWEN]
08-02-2016, 06:09 AM
There were birds singing in the sycamore trees.
“Dream a little dream of me…”
Aaron. Aaron!
The voice of his companion seemed to be coming from a long way away. “I did terrible things, Change.”
You gave your word, Aaron. You gave your word. Is that worth nothing?
Blearily, Aaron raised his head off his crossed arms. “Where are you, Change?”
All around. Dispersed. Unformed. You gave your word, Aaron.
The bell by his door was ringing - except he didn’t have a door, did he? This was his tent; he’d been here for… for how long? This was his tent, the Golden Sunset, where he hawked his finest wares - dreams. Dreams of gold and splendor, where the worst part was waking up.
Time had done strange things to him, and he had done strange things to time.
You gave me your word.
“When I’m alone, and blue as can be…” He muttered through half-numb lips. His eyelids drooped again. The air was sweet as summer wine.
Dream a little dream of me.
---
“Master Abstract? Master Abstract, sir!”
”Mnuh?” The wizard raised his head, a string of drool connecting him to the counter. “Store’s closed. Come back an’... another day.” He hiccuped.
The street urchin at the door bowed theatrically, then looked up, panic in his eyes. “Master Abstract, it’s the High Council. They want you!”
He waved a lazy hand. “Again? Go back and tell them I have no more to say. I can do no more for them.”
“You have to come at once, they said!” The urchin shook in fear and ran in from the doorway, passing a densely scribbled note onto the damp countertop. “They said for me to give you this.”
“All right, all right, all right.” Aaron waved the urchin away. “Go and tell them I’m coming. But first!”
The urchin fixed him with wide, innocent eyes. “Yes, Master Abstract?”
Wordlessly, Aaron held out an accusing hand, palm up.
“Awright, don’t get your grandpa panties in a twist,” the urchin finally said, all trace of respect gone as he dumped a shiny bottle back into Aaron’s palm and running out the tent-flap door, leaving only a fading “Thanks for nothing, ya twat!”
---
Thirty seconds later, Aaron was dressed and on the road, note clutched tightly in his hand. His dark brown hair had grown long in the dream. His whole life before this seemed like a dream, honestly. Or had it been the other way around?
The road was paved with gold; blocks of the stuff, laid under sparkling glass tiles. Captive dreams leached slowly into the air from behind that metal membrane, returning to the sky to fall into the sea as rain. Such was the architecture of Port Ceridwen.
He watched the edge of a golden dream flutter by his face, one he had bought and bottled only yesterday, about a long series of wonderful desserts. Sweet dreams were made of these. Who was he to disagree?
You gave me your word.
He screamed.
---
Aaron woke up screaming, and fell off his chair.
“Master Abstract! Master Abstract, are you all right?” The High Councillor, a weedy man with an extraordinarily long beard, looked down at him with concerned eyes. “Were you dreaming?”
“Yes,” Aaron forced out in between gasps for air. “Something strange. Powerful. Not like - not like -”
“Simply unlike anything we’d ever seen before, yes?” Sammias Lawnton, Councillor for Finance. “A level of vividity and coherence never before achieved by any dream recorded, am I right, Donal?”
The Councillor for Oneirology nodded his bald, bespectacled head. “Quite right, Sammias. It appears everyone who enters the Great Sanctum is visited by at least one dream of this magnitude. There is no other explanation: containment is failing.”
Babble broke out amongst the gathered councillors. Aaron clutched his head, and scrabbled weakly at the glass of water in front of him. “For - all right, could you all hold for a moment - for fuck’s sake.” He threw the glass, which shattered on the long stone table.
“I can’t do anything more for you,” he spoke out into the hush, “but there may be someone who can help…”
“Well, who then, Master Abstract?”
---
You know that split-second moment in between the dream and the waking world? One moment a ear-shattering banshee wail calls forth the souls of the dead, who for some reason are escaping from a rather nice little china teapot, and the next you’re slamming your alarm clock on the bells and trying to jam your finger into the ringing mechanism.
We are talking about neither of those moments.
Let’s face it, if you’re awake enough not to be sure if you’re asleep or awake, you’re too awake for this moment. Conversely, if you’re too asleep to question every aspect of your dream, then you’re too asleep for this moment. This moment - well. This moment isn’t so much a unit of time as it is one of force. A magnetic moment is a vector, describing the torque a magnetic particle experiences in an external magnetic field. This moment describes the spinning of the mind, the torque that a semiconscious mind takes in the presence of an externally generated field of dreams.
For the sake of argument, let’s call it an oneiric moment. Good? Let’s move on.
Now, imagine if you could take that moment, stretch it wide, open up a gulf between the waking lands and the dreaming seas. Imagine if you could build a city there…
“Dream a little dream of me…”
Aaron. Aaron!
The voice of his companion seemed to be coming from a long way away. “I did terrible things, Change.”
You gave your word, Aaron. You gave your word. Is that worth nothing?
Blearily, Aaron raised his head off his crossed arms. “Where are you, Change?”
All around. Dispersed. Unformed. You gave your word, Aaron.
The bell by his door was ringing - except he didn’t have a door, did he? This was his tent; he’d been here for… for how long? This was his tent, the Golden Sunset, where he hawked his finest wares - dreams. Dreams of gold and splendor, where the worst part was waking up.
Time had done strange things to him, and he had done strange things to time.
You gave me your word.
“When I’m alone, and blue as can be…” He muttered through half-numb lips. His eyelids drooped again. The air was sweet as summer wine.
Dream a little dream of me.
---
“Master Abstract? Master Abstract, sir!”
”Mnuh?” The wizard raised his head, a string of drool connecting him to the counter. “Store’s closed. Come back an’... another day.” He hiccuped.
The street urchin at the door bowed theatrically, then looked up, panic in his eyes. “Master Abstract, it’s the High Council. They want you!”
He waved a lazy hand. “Again? Go back and tell them I have no more to say. I can do no more for them.”
“You have to come at once, they said!” The urchin shook in fear and ran in from the doorway, passing a densely scribbled note onto the damp countertop. “They said for me to give you this.”
“All right, all right, all right.” Aaron waved the urchin away. “Go and tell them I’m coming. But first!”
The urchin fixed him with wide, innocent eyes. “Yes, Master Abstract?”
Wordlessly, Aaron held out an accusing hand, palm up.
“Awright, don’t get your grandpa panties in a twist,” the urchin finally said, all trace of respect gone as he dumped a shiny bottle back into Aaron’s palm and running out the tent-flap door, leaving only a fading “Thanks for nothing, ya twat!”
---
Thirty seconds later, Aaron was dressed and on the road, note clutched tightly in his hand. His dark brown hair had grown long in the dream. His whole life before this seemed like a dream, honestly. Or had it been the other way around?
The road was paved with gold; blocks of the stuff, laid under sparkling glass tiles. Captive dreams leached slowly into the air from behind that metal membrane, returning to the sky to fall into the sea as rain. Such was the architecture of Port Ceridwen.
He watched the edge of a golden dream flutter by his face, one he had bought and bottled only yesterday, about a long series of wonderful desserts. Sweet dreams were made of these. Who was he to disagree?
You gave me your word.
He screamed.
---
Aaron woke up screaming, and fell off his chair.
“Master Abstract! Master Abstract, are you all right?” The High Councillor, a weedy man with an extraordinarily long beard, looked down at him with concerned eyes. “Were you dreaming?”
“Yes,” Aaron forced out in between gasps for air. “Something strange. Powerful. Not like - not like -”
“Simply unlike anything we’d ever seen before, yes?” Sammias Lawnton, Councillor for Finance. “A level of vividity and coherence never before achieved by any dream recorded, am I right, Donal?”
The Councillor for Oneirology nodded his bald, bespectacled head. “Quite right, Sammias. It appears everyone who enters the Great Sanctum is visited by at least one dream of this magnitude. There is no other explanation: containment is failing.”
Babble broke out amongst the gathered councillors. Aaron clutched his head, and scrabbled weakly at the glass of water in front of him. “For - all right, could you all hold for a moment - for fuck’s sake.” He threw the glass, which shattered on the long stone table.
“I can’t do anything more for you,” he spoke out into the hush, “but there may be someone who can help…”
“Well, who then, Master Abstract?”
---
You know that split-second moment in between the dream and the waking world? One moment a ear-shattering banshee wail calls forth the souls of the dead, who for some reason are escaping from a rather nice little china teapot, and the next you’re slamming your alarm clock on the bells and trying to jam your finger into the ringing mechanism.
We are talking about neither of those moments.
Let’s face it, if you’re awake enough not to be sure if you’re asleep or awake, you’re too awake for this moment. Conversely, if you’re too asleep to question every aspect of your dream, then you’re too asleep for this moment. This moment - well. This moment isn’t so much a unit of time as it is one of force. A magnetic moment is a vector, describing the torque a magnetic particle experiences in an external magnetic field. This moment describes the spinning of the mind, the torque that a semiconscious mind takes in the presence of an externally generated field of dreams.
For the sake of argument, let’s call it an oneiric moment. Good? Let’s move on.
Now, imagine if you could take that moment, stretch it wide, open up a gulf between the waking lands and the dreaming seas. Imagine if you could build a city there…
-- Eugenne Braud, Dean of the Old College (Oneiromancy)
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So very British / But then again | People are machines Machines are people | Oh hai there | There's no time
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Superhero 1920s noir | Multigenre Half-Life | Changing the future | Command line interface
Tu ventire felix? | Clockwork for eternity | Explosions in spacetime