Aeolia

40: Muddled Musings

The Dreamfisher swept its shimmering wings wide, buffering its fall until its talons touched ground.

     Worlds had careened past in the great bird's descent, but hadn't dizzied it, for this was not its first plunge. There had been many other such hunts and would be many more to come.

     The Kingfisher shuffled its feathers and thought.

     Though the Ensnarer wielded stronger power here, it would be held at stake. The bird was the Viper's equal and moved with grace throughout all dreamscapes—whether it was a field bound to solitude, or to a vast one linked together by the gossamer of five translucent minds.

     The Dreamfisher felt the last stitches of the field pull into place. The final crack opened upon the plain, the final clouds wove into the sky, the final ray from the swollen sun dashed its light across the bird's eyes.

     The sun was trying to trick it, paint a picture strange and swollen, but the tamperer would not be fooled. For this misshapen world would dumbfound any other—any other whose experience lacked—but not the Kingfisher, no. Its eyes were clear despite the influence of that crimson sun. It saw the world for what it was outside the mind-field—it knew to never fall for the discolored snares that laid in wait for it, that laid in wait for others—others considered prey.

     The poor prey would be Ravine and Spire in this case. Oh, and that nervous creature, Frost. Shaky Frost hardly stood a chance here, but he had been eager. He'd wanted to help. And he had been watered by the falling river. So...well, he should be okay.

     Yes. He'd be fine. The bird nodded to itself and launched into the air. Particles warped around its body. The sun shivered above the edge of the First Cliff. From Aeolian vantage points, the sun was always anchored to the east. Whether it appeared to shift throughout the day in further lands was a mystery to them all.

     Hovering, the Kingfisher took note of the landscape below. Underneath grew The Spectrum, and the opalescent river running through it. To the East, the low purple mountains; beyond, the amethyst hills of Aeolia's heart; and then the First Cliff. Though the bird couldn't see past that, it especially knew that the cliffs kept descending—one after the other, plunging into lands more barren than the next, until nothing at all remained.

     The bird turned. To the north, the Ensnarer's true home. Another turn. To the south, the starry forest, the tall trunks, Dreams' Lattice hidden by dense Mist.

     And to the west laid the raging savanna.

     The Kingfisher nodded. Yes, this is what they were all seeing, though some more dazedly than others. Ravine was surely swooned by the mystic beauty of it all, wherever she was. And Spire must feel entirely at peace in his birthland.

     All things considered, the Viper had painted the dream-field with a kind heart this time. In the past, lands hadn't been aligned so perfectly.

     The Dreamfisher recalled the last mind-hunt it had led. It flinched and began to shake.

     No, no. Not now. It must forget that.

     It wasn't like the Kingfisher hadn't set the same traps, in its own field, before. It wasn't as if it hadn't sunk small bodies into drugged slumber.

     Their titles were relative, ensnarer and fisher. The lines between their trade had always been blurred. What really was good? What really was not? The bird felt its feet yearn for northern soil, so north it began to walk.

     And as it walked, it thought thoughts it had rarely thought before.

     It thought that maybe the Viper wasn't all that bad. Yes—maybe the Viper wasn't a pure manifestation of evil. Maybe it was just like all the rest, simply trying to survive on this abstract and changing planet. And to do that, it had to harm others in its path for its own benefit. And everything did that. Every raindrop, every petal, every breathless wisp of wind did. A fragile circle of hurt, this was the web of the world.