- And then it dies. Instantly. Immediately. A white void of nothing, not even the "physical" presence of the dreamers. Crichton may detect this as a strange dream. How often do his dreams turn into white voids?
The whiteness ripples on itself, and then, and then, and then -
Erin described the Hedge exactly once to Crichton, at Halloween last year when she was being Smurfette. The reality is more splendid and more threatening than she touched on. All around is a thorny wood, encroaching on the thin paths, flowering in colors that have no names with fruits in a thousand thousand odd shapes. There, off the path - what was that? It's almost like a cat.
It's not enough like a cat.
Erin strolls down the path in a night with no moon. Look up; there, through the Thorns, the constellations have lines in the sky that mark their shapes, and they do battle with one another. Starry, tarry blood rains down, a deluge with no clouds, a massacre with no screams.
She snaps her fingers. Crichton is lucid, and he's there next to her. Where the starry blood soaks into his dream-shirt, it whispers promises of time unfurled.
"So remember when I said I got taken to a place where only madness reigns?" Erin says, in a friendly tone that is Not Friendly. "This is the fence. This is on the saneward side of the equation. Welcome to a dream of the Hedge."
no subject
- And then it dies. Instantly. Immediately. A white void of nothing, not even the "physical" presence of the dreamers. Crichton may detect this as a strange dream. How often do his dreams turn into white voids?
The whiteness ripples on itself, and then, and then, and then -
Erin described the Hedge exactly once to Crichton, at Halloween last year when she was being Smurfette. The reality is more splendid and more threatening than she touched on. All around is a thorny wood, encroaching on the thin paths, flowering in colors that have no names with fruits in a thousand thousand odd shapes. There, off the path - what was that? It's almost like a cat.
It's not enough like a cat.
Erin strolls down the path in a night with no moon. Look up; there, through the Thorns, the constellations have lines in the sky that mark their shapes, and they do battle with one another. Starry, tarry blood rains down, a deluge with no clouds, a massacre with no screams.
She snaps her fingers. Crichton is lucid, and he's there next to her. Where the starry blood soaks into his dream-shirt, it whispers promises of time unfurled.
"So remember when I said I got taken to a place where only madness reigns?" Erin says, in a friendly tone that is Not Friendly. "This is the fence. This is on the saneward side of the equation. Welcome to a dream of the Hedge."