Zavien
The press of her hand in his is familiar, as solid and warm and real as when he kneels before her at a shrine. His eyes slip from her face to where their skin touches, realization forming more fully in the sensations that run up his arm. Shock and awe brush along his thoughts, his disembodied whisper echoing between them while his sleep-addled brain attempts to catch up. "You're actually here, aren't you? Why - ?" But the smile on her face silences him, dumbfounding him with its radiance.
Swallowing down the urge to babble or simply gawk at how Safrin is here in his dream, Zavien does his best to focus on her actions rather than the intimacy of the moment - of having her in his dream. So his eyes follow dutifully to where she guides them, to the curtain of reality she seems to part with the brush of her delicate fingers, to where a pitcher appears to have captured sunlight. It glows and ripples with the qualities of something alive, radiating the scent of morning dawn and effervescent warmth.
Captivated by the substance and still lacking in speech, Zavien struggles to find his voice. "I don't have - " He hadn't been walking the street armed, and yet, when he looks down, his sword hilt sits in its usual spot on his hip, shimmering gently in the clouds and starlight. The mysteries of the world never fail to surprise him, but he no longer stands stunned when they occur. Pulling the sword from its sheath, he presents it to Safrin, the Starblade shining with the power she bestowed upon it, as bright as the day she'd blessed it.
He waits patiently, too worried that asking questions might break the spell, barely willing to breathe as he holds hands with a goddess in the depths of his slumber and waits to see what she intends.
Swallowing down the urge to babble or simply gawk at how Safrin is here in his dream, Zavien does his best to focus on her actions rather than the intimacy of the moment - of having her in his dream. So his eyes follow dutifully to where she guides them, to the curtain of reality she seems to part with the brush of her delicate fingers, to where a pitcher appears to have captured sunlight. It glows and ripples with the qualities of something alive, radiating the scent of morning dawn and effervescent warmth.
Captivated by the substance and still lacking in speech, Zavien struggles to find his voice. "I don't have - " He hadn't been walking the street armed, and yet, when he looks down, his sword hilt sits in its usual spot on his hip, shimmering gently in the clouds and starlight. The mysteries of the world never fail to surprise him, but he no longer stands stunned when they occur. Pulling the sword from its sheath, he presents it to Safrin, the Starblade shining with the power she bestowed upon it, as bright as the day she'd blessed it.
He waits patiently, too worried that asking questions might break the spell, barely willing to breathe as he holds hands with a goddess in the depths of his slumber and waits to see what she intends.
It was impossible, of course.
But when did that ever stop any dreamer from dreaming.
But when did that ever stop any dreamer from dreaming.
