I wander your thoughts

She taps a claw against her own lip in thought. What Leia asks for isn’t impossible. Especially with her clear attachment to the object, this should go very well indeed. Depending on what it is exactly that Leia wants. 

And then pulls quite a face of confused and perturbed horror at the concept before she can school or reign in her features.

“U-um, n-n-no, just…” She shakes her head, trying to counter the several shades of pale she turned at the concept, and smiles sheepishly, “It… It was just a toy. I just… Cannot make it. I… Do not think it possible to recreate, by normal, or, u-um… Ph-physical means?”

She sighs and looks tiredly at the mattress she’s scavenged, and clearly-tossed-and-turned-in nest of blankets atop it.

“I just… Wish for something to have, to hold again, at nights. For comfort.”

She looks back to Yidhra, sad and tired but hopeful.

Yidhra nods her head, “That certainly sounds achievable. If you wish for it to appear and disappear at will, you may have to recreate a few of the steps we’ll discuss. We shall have to see.”

It’s not so much words as it is intent that’s being directly spread through her being. She can feel who it is, the general idea of what Leia wants. It surprises her deeply. 

There’s a part of her that is excited to take on such a complicated project with an apt pupil. Another part preens at being prayed to, when she hasn’t been mentioned in devotion for several centuries. 

She glides away from the dream, shedding the exoskeleton she’d adopted for blending in. It’s more than easy to step from the dream directly into Leia’s house. The door has been left open for her. 

She immediately dips into a deep curtsy, then rises with an awed smile…

Immediately followed by a sheepish one and enthusiastic nodding.

“U-um, I Remembered something, Teacher…” She moves over to her bed and pulls out a salvaged sketchbook from beneath her pillow. She brings it over to Yidhra and flips it open to some pages of a small, very primitive plush lamb, drawn from many angles to show it’s construction.

“I, u-um… Remembered something, I used to have…” She blushes slightly and looks away, “I-I would make it for real, but… I do not have sewing tools, or a way to find still-wooly sheepskin in this age. I do not think they even exist, anymore, from what I’ve seen…” 

She taps a claw against her own lip in thought. What Leia asks for isn’t impossible. Especially with her clear attachment to the object, this should go very well indeed. Depending on what it is exactly that Leia wants. 

It had been a while since Yidhra’s last visit and lesson for Leia, and even longer since her Mistress went off on Business… Somewhere.

She’d been letting her last lesson sink in – lock itself into her long-term memory. Her “Survival” memory.

But the longer her Mistress is away, the more nightmares Leia seems to have. She’s not sure if her mistress just can’t access her, can’t sense them from so far away, or is just Busy With Other Matters. Sometimes she prays at Her altar, and it seems to help, for a while. Leia’s not sure if her Mistress hears them and acts on them, or if just the act makes her feel better. 

But she’d like something else to help keep them away– At least, until her Mistress returns.

It’s hard to fall back asleep when the world is so bright.

So one night the very tired owlgirl comes in from hunting and scavenging and kneels, instead, in front of Yidhra’s altar.

It’s not so much words as it is intent that’s being directly spread through her being. She can feel who it is, the general idea of what Leia wants. It surprises her deeply. 

There’s a part of her that is excited to take on such a complicated project with an apt pupil. Another part preens at being prayed to, when she hasn’t been mentioned in devotion for several centuries. 

She glides away from the dream, shedding the exoskeleton she’d adopted for blending in. It’s more than easy to step from the dream directly into Leia’s house. The door has been left open for her. 

Well, far be it from her to suggest that she lets others do her dirty work anyway. 

Gone is the opulent robes, in its place is something she’d seen in Mirror’s closet that had been covered in paint and gun oil stains. She grips the man’s wrists, and easily tugs him over to the tarp. 

As she rolls up the body in tarp she says, “I haven’t heard screeching like that since the Lady Abyss suffered from a cosmic nightmare equivalent of what can only be translated as a ‘hangnail’. It was most distressing. Keep it if you wish, but I wouldn’t shake it. Even I can’t tell if he only meant to incapacitate you, or cause your blood to boil from the noise.” 

When she’s finished, she stands up, wiping her hands on purely theoretical clothes, before she’s suddenly back in her extravagant garb. 

Yidhra glanced at the corpse, and resisted the urge to nudge it over with her foot. “And if you don’thave a spell or concoction to dispose of the body and get rid of the stains, then Fear has equivalently been occupying the fairy daydreams of young children this whole time.”

She flicked her claws, letting the blood splatter onto the body until they stopped dripping. “You don’t seem particularly surprised about this scenario. Were you expecting to walk into the tail end of a murder?”

Johnny shrugs with a flat expression. “Maybe not from you, but I’ve been away for a long time, and you learn to get comfortable with all kinds of unpleasantness down there. ‘Course, the owner, not so much.” He growls softly, frustrated at the mess. “I’ve got a tarp. I’ll go get it, and you can do the honours.”

Well, far be it from her to suggest that she lets others do her dirty work anyway. 

Gone is the opulent robes, in its place is something she’d seen in Mirror’s closet that had been covered in paint and gun oil stains. She grips the man’s wrists, and easily tugs him over to the tarp. 

There’s so much potential, and it has been some time since she has been allowed freedom, much less allowed – or encouraged! – to unbridle her creativity. 

And she has enough of it that, when suddenly given freedom, it’s a little overwhelming. Too many thoughts at once.

After a moment, though – and several grounding breaths – she looks around slowly, eyes sharp and bright and calculating. 

“I can bring plants inside and paint, myself,” she murmurs under her breath, to herself, before saying louder and clearer, to Yidhra, “Can… Can we put, um… A window, by the sink, and counter? And, um…” 

She smiles at the potential Leia now sees in what was once the drab walls of her abode. It is always a pleasure to watch the beginnings of wonder and possibility bloom.

Yidhra blinks at Leia when she asks her question. It takes a little while for her to respond appropriately.

“Real as you wish them to be I suppose. They cannot physically allow you to step into the world that you see,” she nodded her head towards the window, “but you can still feel the breeze and smell the salt. But creating portals is well beyond your scope little one. At least for now. And it would only be into the world of your own creation. That moment of time that you see is from your memory. It is not, physically speaking, really there. That would require time travel.”

There is a teasing smile to her lips, but Yidhra feels that it is cruel to tell her this. Something is so out of place with this young woman, that denying her access to something she clearly and desperately wants, feels like giving the wrong directions to a lost child. 

She never really expected it to be a time portal – after all, she is working with a Goddess– Witch of Dreams, not of time – but she wasn’t sure how… Solid, the picture was.

So, knowing it’s not a portal, she feels safer reaching out to touch it. She now knows it isn’t a window she can lean against the sill of, but what she doesn’t know is what to expect under her fingertips. The wall? A canvas? Coldness of ether? Warmth of early france’s sweet summer air, but made solid?

No matter what she feels, it’ll be a surprise, since she doesn’t know what to expect.

Then she jumps slightly back at the swoosh of fabric, and looks to the sink where Yidhra now stands.

“U-um…” Leia smiles sheepishly and sort of rubs her arms, “It… Won’t ‘see’ anything, per se…” 

She walks over and closes her eyes again, picturing something, well… Technically of her own design?

It’s something she drew once, long ago, but made real into how she originally envisioned it: A beautiful stained glass window. The sky goes from orangey-red to yellow to blue to dark purple, with a bright milky moon and golden sun, with pink and milky clouds on the one side giving way to lavender stars on the other. The whole thing is framed by a alternating mossy green and dark purple frame with occasional opalescent white dove-feather designs.

As she pulls up all the elements – all taken from stained glass windows seen before, and clearly something she’s imagined vividly several times – there’s an overwhelming feeling of safety. Stained glass, in general, for her, means ‘Sanctuary’… But this image feels more like ‘Home’.

She smiled as Leia came over and recalled the image. “It is lovely,” Yidhra complimented. She carefully took Leia’s hand in hers, mindful of her claws to not cut the skin. She placed Leia’s hand against the blank part of the wall. 

Yidhra glanced at the corpse, and resisted the urge to nudge it over with her foot. “And if you don’t have a spell or concoction to dispose of the body and get rid of the stains, then Fear has equivalently been occupying the fairy daydreams of young children this whole time.”

Besides, Yidhra will more than likely see it in her Nightmares tonight.

She rapidly thinks of the best way to handle this situation. Being honest might quell her fears, or raise more questions that she does not have the time to answer. The woman might not even be able to understand her at this stage. The distortion of the bracelet was meant to drop all illusions, including auditory.

Stars only knew what the woman was seeing and hearing.

“Get. Out. You are /not/ welcome in my home.” She spits at the creatures feet, the wet glob of mucus hitting her own carpet. Not that she cares. Where are her gun. She moves, stumbles and almost trips as she grabs one, hidden in her couch cushions, aim off as she aims it at the creature. “Consider me a fucking atheist. Aren’t you ass-hats not allowed to be were you aren’t wanted? Go the fUCK away.” 

She only sees a bathroom soaked in red and a great deal of issues involving death and the afterlife. Yidhra restrains herself from sighing aloud. Perfect. Her hand at trying to be a Messenger of the Father and it’s to one of the many who feel that their life would be better suited for trading places with one of the dead.

She can’t manipulate any dreams in this state. At least not towards the intended recipient. She blinks when she hears the click of the gun clicking. This time Yidhra actually does sigh. The woman is going to ruin her own hideous wallpaper before she does any damage with that thing.

Perhaps diplomacy is lost in this situation. Best to take a more...straightforward approach.

Between one blink and the next, she’s gripping the thing by the barrel, and moving it up until it points at the ceiling while Mirror is still holding it. 

@yidhra-thedreamwitch​ submitted:

The smell of stale cigarettes and bad beer is almost foul enough to curdle milk. But the two of them are making the most of it. Sixth slam of the best whiskey in the house [which is a step above god-awful] and he finally asks her, “How’d you swing this then, love?”

“Owner owes me a favor,” she answers, tossing hers back, “gave us the whole place to ourselves for a night.”

“Oh really,” he asks with a raised eyebrow. He looks at the scratched counters, stained pool tables, and a bloody jukebox that hasn’t seen its heyday in four decades. “I’m sure he’s weeping buckets at the loss of revenue.“ 

She snorts, thankfully after she’s already swallowed her drink. Her hand suddenly goes out to cover his, running her thumb over his dry skin. 

"There’s, uh, always been something I’ve wanted to do on top of a bar.”

It’s not that he’s not interested. The idea of the indulgence and the filth of it is actually hitting him in all of the right places quite nicely. But he wouldn’t be who he is if he didn’t give her shit about it. 

“Seriously? Here? Sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in the back alley? Or inside of a skip?" 

She looks unimpressed but also like she sees right through him. Clearly there’s a damned good retort she’s about to reply with, but it flees her mind when she catches sight of the opening door.

"Shit,” she swears with quite the emphasis, jumping off of the stool. He moves an instant later, ready more for some sort of hellhound or lamia, rather than the group of thick browed thugs that are all trying to simultaneously squeeze through the door.

“Hey, um,” and that tone of voice is one that he’s very familiar with. It means they’re hip deep in shit and she forgot to mention to bring shovels.

“Remember how I said the owner owed me a favor? I meant that I thought he’d be in jail way longer than just five hours.”

One of the men who’s got more beef on him than a skinned cow manages to break through. After that there’s no more talking. 

It’s just fists and broken glass swinging through the air. It’s a few blows to his face and sternum, but a great deal more dealt out to their noses and ribcages. It’s the sharp crack of bones and the smell of blood. He moves like a scruffy underdog that knows a thing or two, while she moves like a sodding dancer. 

It’s really, really hard not to get distracted when she vaults over goons like she’s a kid playing leap frog, with a grin that could light up this shitty city block from its perpetual bleakness. It also doesn’t help that she’s wearing the fitted black jeans that are practically painted on and-

Ow. Okay. Less ogling. More-avoiding-getting-teeth-punched-in-ing.

Soon it all becomes a blur of adrenaline and the visceral satisfaction of watching someone’s face contort under your fist. He must have gone deep into the head space of blood lust and survival instinct, because one second he’s making one poor bastard’s future dentist insanely happy, the next she’s wrapping her legs around his waist and is taking the edge of the bar against her back.

He has a stunned moment where he wonders where the bruisers went, but then she’s doing something to his neck with her tongue and teeth that makes him very much not care anymore. She’s murmuring something in his ear that he can’t quite understand, yet his fingers dig into the cheap wood by her hips anyway.

They’re getting in each other’s way by trying to take off the opposite person’s trousers simultaneously. He growls about her impatience, and she laughs in his face at the hypocrisy. He gets impatient enough that he uses the literally damned strength he was given and rips the stupid jeans open down to her crotch.

The way her breath whooshes in startled and unrestrained arousal makes it worth the new pair he’s definitely going to have to get her. 

There’s no more talking after that. Just the sounds of the both of them in an empty shithole bar, engaging in something as primal and thoughtless as the fight they just got done with. It’s unrestrained thrusts and grinding, mixed with more biting than is likely healthy. It’s pure and raw and not at all tender, but it’s what the both of them thrive in.

The climax is a winding and burning coil of tension in the both of them. It tightens until they’re both going mad with it, until all that’s left is just to—–let go. 

All that’s left is the fire. 

It spreads down the counter from the paths of his fingertips. The bottles explode in flash-heated glass and flaming alcohol. The acrid smoke of burning rye and cheap plastic climbs up his nose. It doesn’t block out the scent of charred meat.

She’s crumbled to ash underneath him by the time he realizes what’s happened. It would be better if she slipped like sand between his fingers, but ash clings to what it touches. He’s covered from neck to groin in flaky grey. 

He collapses as a wave of dizziness washes over him. The fire licks its way up the walls, cracking open the ceiling while the pipes go molten. The music player in the corner splits in half from the heat, the strings inside of it wailing from the strain. 

No. It’s just screams.

It’s hard to tell if they’re coming from him or the gaping faces taking shape in the smoke. The ground trembles, fissuring to show a place that isn’t as warm as fire, but burns more than the sun.

The ghosts are being sucked down, and he feels the gravitating pull of it. A black hole would lead to nothingness, which is infinitely preferable to what is waiting underneath. 

One of the wisps takes the shape of her terrified face, and he wakes up before he can reach for it. 

       He comes to, shaking. He can find her, he can find her down–                                             it was a dream.

                                     It was a goddamn DREAM.

      “You— bastard, you utter bastard,” he mumbles, rubbing         at eyes stinging with the acrid smoke or… or just tears.          Down below you fucking forget how these fucking things          can make you fucking feel.  Forget how real they seem,         deep into something primal in you, something that just eats         you up and all you can do is submit to it, LOST in those depths.