Post by Vivian on Apr 20, 2014 23:15:11 GMT
Reposted from the old forum.
Vivian normally had vivid dreams. Of nonsense, really. High-flying dragon rides, trekking through jungles, get her slippers lost in the muck of swamplands. Of running beside night-elves in the moonlight, or exploring vast archeological ruins with dwarves.
Sometimes, the dreams were of simple things. Her days with the children in the orphanage. Sitting by the lake in her too-large robe and singing an old sea shanty under her breath.
But they never, ever had a shadowy figure that stood in the midst of a color-draining, terrible miasma, the emptiness where it’s eyes should be gazing quietly at her.
Never since the time Xanthion had walked into her mind and showed her what she could do, or hide from others. He’d brought his own shadow along, a sinister, silent thing. The two had exited her mind quietly leaving a lingering, pulsing headache behind.
The priestess was currently holding a torch, exploring the ruins of what her dream-mind knew as Uldum. She’d read about it before, and her imagination painted grand pictures of high-ceilings, ancient machinery and skeletons of past explorers that disintegrated into dust at the slightest breath. Everything had that hazy indistinct quality that all dreams had.
A sigh of sound alerted her. She turned her head and gazed down a long stone hall, at the void of color and light at the end. It was cold — terribly so. The stench that wafted from the barred door at the end of that long hall was that of horrible sadness and loss. It tasted like copper in her mouth. Iron tang.
So vivid, this. So real. Like it was not a dream.
She walked to that door, her torch guttering and fading against the heavy weight of old pain. She let it clatter to the floor soon after. It had no further use for her. The girl walked in darkness, all sound fading except for the soft tap of her feet and the faint rustlings of what seemed like a caged animal coming from behind the door.
The metal of the bars against her fingers were ice-cold.
Vivian trembled in fright, eyes wide and blind in the dark. She could hear whatever it was beyond the bars breathing.
Cold fingers suddenly reached through the bars and grabbed her wrists, claws piercing her skin. Vivian gasped, shrill with terror, struggling away from the fel-green eyes that were suddenly piercing into her skull.
Remember me?
Remem…ber m..me…?
Safe Place
———-
Vivian sat peacefully, legs crossed at the ankle as she painstakingly stitched two panels of fabric by hand. Hours upon hours of practice had made her stitches tiny, neat, and strong. The lanterns inside the main room burned merrily, providing enough light for her delicate work without straining her eyes.
The smell of the Great Forge was present even here, inside of Dennis’s home. The place smelled like him under the tang of metal and fire. Leather, weapons oil, and soap of a masculine scent. She had come to associate his scent with safety and warmth. This stone home carved into the great mountain was one of her safe places; a place to sleep, eat, and work quietly without worrying what surprises the day could bring.
Her hair was growing a little too warm along her back and she absently lifted a hand to brush it over her shoulder, but the sound of the lock turning in the door made her smile and drop her hand to her lap without touching her curls.
Stitch, stitch, stitch. The needle flashed in the warm light. The door closed quietly and the sound of a tired male sigh reached her. She didn’t look up from her work knowing that he would come to her as he always did.
Gentle hands wound around her waist and a warm body settled against her back, curled over her as if to cover her.
“Hello,” she murmured peacefully. Her gentle smile widened a little as the rogue reached up and carefully swept her hair from the back of her neck so he may press his lips against her skin. He loved touching her hair, parting it to expose her throat, the gentle curve of the nape.
“Vivian,” he murmured, and tightened his hold on her with a gentle squeeze.
She didn’t have to say anything else after. She knew. Her slight body, her soft skin, the silken brush of her hair, the way she felt against him as he held her and buried his nose in her hair.
She was his safe place.
Vivian normally had vivid dreams. Of nonsense, really. High-flying dragon rides, trekking through jungles, get her slippers lost in the muck of swamplands. Of running beside night-elves in the moonlight, or exploring vast archeological ruins with dwarves.
Sometimes, the dreams were of simple things. Her days with the children in the orphanage. Sitting by the lake in her too-large robe and singing an old sea shanty under her breath.
But they never, ever had a shadowy figure that stood in the midst of a color-draining, terrible miasma, the emptiness where it’s eyes should be gazing quietly at her.
Never since the time Xanthion had walked into her mind and showed her what she could do, or hide from others. He’d brought his own shadow along, a sinister, silent thing. The two had exited her mind quietly leaving a lingering, pulsing headache behind.
The priestess was currently holding a torch, exploring the ruins of what her dream-mind knew as Uldum. She’d read about it before, and her imagination painted grand pictures of high-ceilings, ancient machinery and skeletons of past explorers that disintegrated into dust at the slightest breath. Everything had that hazy indistinct quality that all dreams had.
A sigh of sound alerted her. She turned her head and gazed down a long stone hall, at the void of color and light at the end. It was cold — terribly so. The stench that wafted from the barred door at the end of that long hall was that of horrible sadness and loss. It tasted like copper in her mouth. Iron tang.
So vivid, this. So real. Like it was not a dream.
She walked to that door, her torch guttering and fading against the heavy weight of old pain. She let it clatter to the floor soon after. It had no further use for her. The girl walked in darkness, all sound fading except for the soft tap of her feet and the faint rustlings of what seemed like a caged animal coming from behind the door.
The metal of the bars against her fingers were ice-cold.
Vivian trembled in fright, eyes wide and blind in the dark. She could hear whatever it was beyond the bars breathing.
Cold fingers suddenly reached through the bars and grabbed her wrists, claws piercing her skin. Vivian gasped, shrill with terror, struggling away from the fel-green eyes that were suddenly piercing into her skull.
Remember me?
Remem…ber m..me…?
Safe Place
———-
Vivian sat peacefully, legs crossed at the ankle as she painstakingly stitched two panels of fabric by hand. Hours upon hours of practice had made her stitches tiny, neat, and strong. The lanterns inside the main room burned merrily, providing enough light for her delicate work without straining her eyes.
The smell of the Great Forge was present even here, inside of Dennis’s home. The place smelled like him under the tang of metal and fire. Leather, weapons oil, and soap of a masculine scent. She had come to associate his scent with safety and warmth. This stone home carved into the great mountain was one of her safe places; a place to sleep, eat, and work quietly without worrying what surprises the day could bring.
Her hair was growing a little too warm along her back and she absently lifted a hand to brush it over her shoulder, but the sound of the lock turning in the door made her smile and drop her hand to her lap without touching her curls.
Stitch, stitch, stitch. The needle flashed in the warm light. The door closed quietly and the sound of a tired male sigh reached her. She didn’t look up from her work knowing that he would come to her as he always did.
Gentle hands wound around her waist and a warm body settled against her back, curled over her as if to cover her.
“Hello,” she murmured peacefully. Her gentle smile widened a little as the rogue reached up and carefully swept her hair from the back of her neck so he may press his lips against her skin. He loved touching her hair, parting it to expose her throat, the gentle curve of the nape.
“Vivian,” he murmured, and tightened his hold on her with a gentle squeeze.
She didn’t have to say anything else after. She knew. Her slight body, her soft skin, the silken brush of her hair, the way she felt against him as he held her and buried his nose in her hair.
She was his safe place.