RP:Quicksilver in Darkest Dreams

Part of the Weave Your Own Fate Arc

Summary: Iintahquohae, with the assistance of oneriomancy, walks from her dreams to Kasyr's in effort to locate him and try to communicate with him. Revelations are mad, and she encounters far more than what she bargained for. Sacred awakens.

The Refurbished Cabin. Also Kasyr and Iintahquohae's dreamscapes.

Kasyr had stared at the marking for only a few moments before investigating. If it was an assassination attempt, he'd have expected some lingering malignance or hostility to be associated to the mark- but it was bereft. And the note it presented when he drew closer provided a tantalizing break from the monotony that was seizing upon him once more. Once it's sparse contents are noted, he snaps his fingers, coaxing forth a cobweb of sparks to consume the material so there was nothing for the larketians to discover. From there- there was little to do then return to his bed once more, and flop across it's surface. For the kensai, every day seemed to grow a little shorter, his energy waning more and more as that peculiar sickness crept it's way through his veins. Even despite his best efforts to stave it off, with a prayers both muttered and hummed- he was aware that he was merely buying time. Stalling, in the hopes the guild would resolve this issue without necessitating any sort of desperate escape attempt on his part. Even despite the grim tidings that his fledgeling had brought, both in regards to Lionel's dissapearance and her own intending plans- he found himself unable to chase off the heavy wave of exhaustion that saw his eyelids closing. To return once more to the blackness of sleep, and without the numbing help of alcohol that he had so feverishly clung to for these long years. Those long suppressed shadows waited, as he sunk deeper, and deeper.

Since it appeared that putting magic -into- things instead of projecting magic outwardly was successful for Iintahquohae, she fluffed up the pillow she had finished sewing together and ran her hands across the sigil carefully embroidered upon its top. Taking it and a stick from the pile of firewood brought inside back out of the cabin, for fear of magical backfire waking Odhranos up, she walks into the snow a bit and tosses the pillow into what will be the center of a circle. Stick in hand, she begins drawing in the snow, ignoring the frigid night air, creating an elaborate sigil that evokes a deeper, numbing sleep with help from the cold snow, travel across the dreamscape, and a fair bit of distance, considering her sense of roughly where Kasyr happened to be is incredibly faint. Being a lucid dreamer she could, hopefully, traverse from her dreams into his or at least create a bridge that he could traverse into. Hopefully he's sleeping as well. Removing gloves from her hands to toss to the side, out of the circle, she presses her finger into a portion of the rippling, circular sigil to bring it to life. Powdery blue emerges from her fingertip while she whispers not so magical sounding words, but at least the intent of the little ditty is clear. “With dreamer's eyes I seek to see, where the hell Kasyr may be-” purple light flows from her index finger, mingling with the blue as the light begins to flow through her markings. The scent of lavender and chamomile appear as if from nowhere, though the plants are stuffed within the pillow in the circle's midst. The seamstress' eyes, now lidded slightly, blink a bit while she regains focus. “Bit it good or be it ill, reveal to me as is my will.” The light leaves her fingertip, illuminating the snowy sigil and the pillow in its midst while she carefully steps over her markings, turns on that same heel and falls back, head falling to the pillow as magicked sleep takes her, and within her dreams she sinks. Awaking within dreams was always a slow awareness. First a wiggling of the toes to regain feeling, then a stretching of the limbs, until finally her eyes blink, and she sits up. The seamstress' dreams began more often than not as an utterly blank void. Whiteness as far as the eye can see. Squinting at the nothing in the distance, she watches as swathes of color appear to take form. Cenril's streets that she wandered as a child. A bridge leading westward. People fading in and out of existence appear as well, as if plucked from one place and dropped into another like they've gotten ahead of themselves. Holes appear too, like tattered bits of fabric with loose ends in the cobblestones. She kneels down to pull at one, and sure enough, that thread she spun long ago is in her hands again. Setting it back down, Iintahquohae looks to the bridge before her, toward the unfamiliar sight that lay across it. A path of black hand-prints. Eyes. Why, a trail that hopefully led right to her sire's space. She follows the trail.

Kasyr || As the Kensai sinks yet deeper into the murky depths of his mind, the path before the seamstress gains a sense of solidity- the smoldering handprints writhing along the ground to twine their sooty fingers together. Every step along this path causes the shadows to grow a bit longer, introducing a profound bleakness that spreads over the intrusive elements of other dreams in an almost funerary pall- leaving a darkness so profound and liquid it seems to give off a voracious quality as it swallows the last remnants of the outside world. For a few long strides, there'd be no light save for the cold gleam of the thread along the ground- woven around and even through the ashen path. But should she continue, a soft ember-like glow would begin to emerge from the handprints- alongside a more prominent scent of cooking flesh, and charcoal. Empty as that space is, the sound of guttering embers collapsing, and the faint sizzle of fat seems intrusive- and only intensifies with every passing moment. There's a heat now, an unpleasent warmth that seems at once scalding and sticky- and the intrusive sense of something else lurking within the darkness, which seems to slide within the shadows like a second home, and pressed upon the outskirts of the bridge with a strength that threatens to begin collapsing it. The world seems to lurch. || And Kasyr's eyes flicker open again. It's harder to dispell the sleep that clings to his eyes, worse still when he can feel the world sway to and fro, in a stomach churning roll. It's only when the distinct scent of sweat and mildew hits his nose, alongside the tang of salt that he begins to remember where he is. A second glance at his surroundings, and he takes in the hammock he'd fallen from, stretched out along the cabin walls. Another one rested on the otherside of the room, likewise vacant, though it's occupant was nowhere to be seen. He blinked, unsteadily, before staggering to his feet- only to pause when he takes note of the state of the room. Gleaming silvery cobwebs, almost like bits of thread hang from the ceiling, and coat the walls in surreal patterns. A throbbing in his arm and another lurch of his guts serves well enough to coax him to look away, as he staggers towards the door of his cabin, and steps through.

Iintahquohae had never stepped foot into another person's dreams before, but so far...so good? Weird, for sure, but good? The heat is unpleasant. She considers removing her jacket, but tries to ground herself a bit. It's a dream. Her physical body isn't feeling this, is it? The only way to know would be to wake up, but that wouldn't be fun. Just as the thought crosses her mind to turn back, she finds herself falling forward, stumbling as she the environment around her completely alter itself. The abruptness catches her off guard, and realizing that she can't bend the rules of another's dreams, all she can really do is try to regain her footing and figure out where she stood now. Outside by the looks, cabin a short walk away. So far so good. The seamstress wonders how sound carries through her sire's dreams, and considers shouting. However, uncertain if any of Kas' nightmares could actually pose her harm gives her pause. This is all just subconscious bits, right? ...Maybe he has a horrifying, snake filled subconscious. The thought lingers while she walks for the cabin's door, hand lifted to give it a knock before shouting for the Kensai. To her surprise the door swings open just as she yells, “KA-oh. Kasyr,” she greets, taking a step backward to allow for some space. Her hand lowers. “That was easier than I thought it'd be.”

Kasyr 's subconscious world seems to ripple and warp with Inks descent, bits of haze snapping together into some semblance of solidity in order to make itself coherant. For a brief moment, the world shifts, almost seeming to compress itself into the familiar image of her cabin in Frostmaw. But as she continues to move forward and press on the door, it expands around her- wooden walls swelling outwards as the Kensais awareness spreads. The cabin is no longer a small isolated thing, but one small part of a ship's mess- the salty scent that kasyr had smelled growing only more pungent. And they're far from alone either, as faceless figures mill back and forth through the heaving space. And yet, even with their uncanny anonymity- they might not be the most peculiar sight- if only because when Kasyr answers the door- it's not the one Iintahquohae would be familiar with. For one thing, he's most certainly shorter than her, as he barely breaks a foot, and there's a definitive litheness to his build that mirrors the boyishness of his face. That said, he's also lacking the more uncanny traits of his waking counterpart, his hair lacking it's platinum tips- and his eyes being a dull amber color. What might be most disconcerting, however, is the almost clueless expression the youthful looking swordsman gives the seamstress, "Je... er..." His accents thicker, and there's almost the sense of him struggling as he slowly finds the words, "Est-ce... 'ave we met, Madamoiselle?" And just as quickly he shakes his head, stepping to the side in a gallop as he begins to hurry. "Mes apologies. It es my shift- I need to work my passage pour moi et, ..." There's a gap there- a name on the tip of his tongue. The outline of an idea, that seemed right at home in the cot that had been across from him in the cabin. An impish grin, and a mischievous look that was so hard to describe, but especially now. "Je m'excuse." And just as quickly he's making his way topside, the lurch of the ship seeming to slow, even as those silvery threads begin to slip out from the cabin and after him. And whilst Kasyr might seem almost to compulsively look in any direction save where they reside, the seamstress is not- which may allow her to see the way they coil about those faceless people, drawing what color remains from those faceless people until they're a faded afterimage- or the way the very image of the ship seems to corrode around the portions they take root.

Iintahquohae is glad she took a step back, as the appearance of a younger, shorter Kas catches her off guard. “O-oh. I...Well. Not yet,” she says. Maybe he dreams about his past often? She definitely did. Her eyes are fixated on his face long enough to not notice the environment change, but the scent of salt makes her head turn. A ship? This is familiar, as far as she has been on a ship, not that she knows this particular ship well. She didn't know it at all. The faceless people are unnerving, but the thread...That familiar thread again. She'll follow young Kasyr in a moment, instead stepping toward one of the faceless people. Might night be wise to prod at them, partly because they looked like the sort of things Maladroit had shown her once before and partly because she didn't know what would happen if she touched folk people that weren't the dreamer whose dreams she walked through. The seamstress notes that she is uncertain what would happen if she tried prodding Kasyr either, but that can be addressed later. Following the wall where Kasyr's door sits, she locates a portion of the ship's wall where the thread seems to be doing its work. Is it destroying the ship? The frayed hole the thread produced is large enough to stick her head in if she holds either side of it just a bit to widen it. As if it were nothing but a normal window to peek out of, she pokes her head through the hole to see what rests beyond.

Kasyr 's younger self scoots up the stairs towards the deck, and with his absence, the mess hall grows more fragile- a fact that becomes duly apparent to the seamstress when her hands find purchase upon the hole of the wall, and push through the wood as though it were rotted. For a brief momen, the scent of the sea grows overwhelming- the tang of salt threatening to overwhelm her taste, as she ventured into a spectral sea. But that membrane of memory is so very thin, allowing Iintahquohae to pop through with little effort, and revealing the slithering darkness pressed up against it. And yet, it's no longer an undefinable and hungry shadow lurking within the void- now it rests tightly coiled against where she's investigating, a wall of shifting scales that seems to undulate and quiver with her proximity. What's worse, however, is the almost languid manner in which a portion of it moves against the grain- the reason only made apparent when the chitinous onxy surface gives way to a sinister yellow tissue and a black slit that dwarfs the vampire. Her image reflected so perfectly within it's depths, and yet so wrong, because where she might be standing still, the reflection turns to run, before being swallowed and broken within the darkness. That image is only broken when that wall of scale falls once more, and begins to shift away- the void within the gap taunting the seamstress with it's apparent invitation. A gap which only seems to grow as the walls of the ship seem to buckle and bulge in a haphazard manner, the faint outline of something immense winding it's way about the false room. Above, in the half remembered haze- the Kensai seeks out the outline of a memory, but where there should have been an elfen smirk and a sing song voice to accompany him as he laboured- there's only another empty space. The absence of feet drumming against the side of the ship, of laughter. Something he can't put his finger on, and which seems to grow fainter still as the seamstress stares at the growing darkness, and invasive threads.

Iintahquohae mistakes the scales in front of her for blackness at first, feeling as if she had tipped herself over into the hole only to stumble into the stench of the sea and darkness beyond. Her hands awkwardly brace themselves while she leans further in however, and the tall woman for one of the rare times in her life gets on tip toes to get a better look. ...They quickly flatten back down to the floor. Scales. An eye. That was an eye. Not a dragon's eye – A shriek escapes her as she staggers back, into one of the faceless folk before throwing herself onto the floor, followed by a numbness as realization hits her. They're surrounded. That snake is larger than this ship. It must be. They're going to be constricted. The ship is going to fall to splinters, she's going to drown in her sire's dream. Pulling her knees up to her chest on the floor, she rests her head upon them, now broken out in a terribly cold sweat. No, no, no, no, “KAS!” she screams. “KAS!!” Make the dream change, is what she'd yell again, but she remembers the snake sitting on her neck and violently shivers. Can she wake herself up from here? “Wake up, wake up, wake up,” murmurs the seamstress, now rocking just a little bit back and forth. Inks' body in the waking world is very much fast asleep, numbed with cold, and not going anywhere anytime soon. A layer of snow has conveniently fallen upon her, but the light illuminating from her markings melts through the bits that help her continue to remain asleep and dreaming.

Kasyr s dreaming world ripples, the dreamwalkers terror beginning to leak into the very fabric of it- the very fabric of it beginning to unravel faster. It's an opening within that twilight world, and one that was growing wider with every moment that Iintahquohae's control slips away- causing the ship's disintegration to begin hastening. All at once, memory gives way to moment- the ships imperviousness to seawater shattered by the seamstresses screams- allowing in a fresh wave of chill sea water to finish sundering the Kensais memories. The water is cold, and made blacker by the vast thing which swims within them, it's serpentine guise blotting out the surface of the water. Kasyr, too, is made subject to this horror- his memory of this moment and place splintering apart, and sending him sprawling into a gasping panic beneath the waves. He wants to scream, but the chill of the water forces him to swallow it- to endure the burning of his lungs as he flails in all directions, looking for even a singular vestige of familiarity. Something primordial stirs within the would-be sword saint- a fundamental understanding that he need only reach out for this to end. He need only embrace that thing in the darkness for the fear to end, for the panic in his chest to end, to shed the feeling of weakness that grows within his limbs, and seems to make his right arm burn all the more- as it flags under the chill waves. Yet, this thing- this vile odious thing- the memory of it is seared within his mind. Just as the absence of who he was searching for made his chest feel hollow- the very hint of this thing scrapes against the inside of his mind, granting him a stubborness that would see him resign himself to the waves. Kasyr is not alone, however. Where the world had seemed to press in for him- it expands for Iintahquohae, gradually dragging her further away from her sire, and even the hint of a shoreline. Every minute motion from her body would seem to pull her a little deeper, even as something begin to swell in her chest. Like the long forgotten urge to breathe, only more heated. Is this really how she was going to succumb, when she'd so boldly ventured into an unknown place? Was she to meekly resign herself to the depths, quivering and without a hint of defiance. The disdain seems almost to boil in her chest- the sole bit of warmth and solace to be found in the coldness that surrounded her. She need only let it in- she need only give it a place. To foster it. To find the strength to swim, to bring herself to that far shore.

Iintahquohae too caught up in the panic of potential death due to dream snake, is unaware of the world shifting yet again until it's too late. She feels like whatever the tether that bonds herself to Kasyr is straining, like it could snap, and her head lifts just a bit. Chaos surrounds her, it seems. Cold, slithering, terrible chaos. The sensation of warmth from her chest is initially mistaken for a wound, that she's bleeding. But that's foolish. Inks can't die. She's too lucky for that. This was something to hold onto. Something to tear her away from the nightmarish snake and return her the younger Kasyr, to try to find older, present-day Kasyr. Her trembling hands reach for her chest, finding some comfort in the warmth that's there, and using it as a foothold, chooses to swim instead of sink.

Kasyr can feel himself grow colder, and yet before the world can completely be submerged within the darkness, he finds himself clawing onto shores at once familiar and not. Iintahquohae lay likewise sprawled nearby, though the chill within her would only grow, even as she stepped out from the waters. That feeling within her chest still remained, but it seemed harder to keep hold of, as though possessed of a fickle sense of purpose that had only been coaxed forward by the possibility of an audience. Behind them, the boat that Kasyr had arrived on sits at the dock, moored just as it always is within the memory. Though the sea around it is darker than he remembers, and seems to flicker and sway as though it were alive. He cannot look at it long- his eyes shutting and dispelling the sight of the port in favour of something more palatable. The bank brought forth hazy vestiges of conversations from long ago- an ambitious illusionists mention of a heist, and her need of a body guard. The voice rings out in a clear sing song that seems to swell and flicker, but not even the outline remains- only silvery veins that slithered their way through the city streets, sinking the buildings into the ground at odd angles. As the swordsman drifts through the memories that had been seared into place, and those half-remembered- the Seamstresses grasp upon the world becomes more tenuous, subject to the shifting of phsics, her footfalls only serving to harken in more of those ravenous silver threads. And no longer do they seem to merely corrode- as the figures within the memories begin to wind in reverse, to pause, and even hasten. What's worse, however, is what follows on their heels- small flecks of scale seeming to grow in their wake, only to spread like a virus- painting a path forward that seems to lead down Cenrils winding streets, through it's darkened alleys- and off towards the distance, where the hint of woods resides. And just the faintest glimpse of something, someone familiar. The world seems to quiver and hold it's breathe. And perhaps it does.

Iintahquohae clutches tightly at her chest where the warmth was, even more so now that she feels waves of cold wash over her on the shore. Eyes shut, hoping that the glimpse of the snake is long gone, she whispers to whatever the warmth was while pressing her hands flat against her chest now, as if pushing the warmth into herself. “Stick with me. Please. D-don't leave. Stay,” said mostly to whatever the warm presence was and partly to her senses. Her eyes open, glasses to her surprise only wet from the swim and not cracked at all, and she sits up. Spying young Kasyr once more, she stands to follow him, steps slowing shortly after they began as she takes in her surroundings. Everything is moving incorrectly in relation to everything else. It's dizzying – it reminds her of the eve when she was sired and attempted to walk. It's all...getting ahead of itself, or working the wrong way...The thread again, woven into the stone streets. She recognizes this shoreline. Cenril. Home. Her eyes follow the threads while she occasionally looks up in effort to locate Kasyr, but instead notices the small flecks on the ground. She reaches to pick one up and immediately recoils. It's here, isn't it. Hand instinctively reaches to the tattoo again, fear ready to wash over her yet again, but she quietly pleads to the comforting warmth she felt to stay with her – get warmer, stronger. Help her. Where's Kasyr? What's happening? She hurries along the street, stumbles, falls into a food stall that seems to crumble and reverse back to its original shape before she touched it. Kasyr – present-day Kasyr, knew where her shop was, no? Why not go there. Maybe...maybe a younger Kasyr. Her head shakes at the thought while she attempts to figure out what street in Cenril she's on. The paths keep changing. Was it the trees in the distance? Maybe he went to the Whaler's Bar. Did that exist in younger Kasyr's time? She turns into herself, to the warmth again, pleading. “Help me. Please.”

Kasyr || For a brief moment, everything around the seamstress ceases to shift, or even move. A newspaper sits contorted in the air near her foot, as though it were caught in a snapshot meant for it's front page. Even as she continues to move forward, time only crawls forward, dust and detritis blossoming up in slow motion around her footfalls. Though, they aren't -only- hers. Something else now resides in her chest- a sense of supreme confidence that helps to guide the way forward. There was a sense of logic to this place- some elements of this dreamlike world more vivid then the rest as the Kensai passed through them, it's hues only fading once he'd left them. But even with that logic, the state of this place seemed to be worsening, portions of it now left in ruins- some as though it were turn away by a large maw, whilst others lay crushed, or even borrowed through. As her legs dragged her down an alley, the world gave way to the image of a shattered city, almost mirage-like in it's qualities. An image of Kasyr stood there, teeth buried into the neck of a robed figure- who seemed to be in the midst of saying something. But there's no words to be found, even though the seamstress is close enough to see the look of resolution upon the face of themagus (how does she know?). If anything, the words seem to be pulled out from the air, as though the ideas were strangled out of the air by the threads which she heralded in. All she was left with was the growing feeling of warmth that seeped into her hands and mouth as she watched the scene- and the intense taste of iron that accompanied it. Even as the image began to fade away, and her body begins to move again, that feeling persists, even intensifies as though some bit of it was strugglnig to stay fresh. Again, and again- small flashes and moments flicker into being, the bodies piling up around the swordsman. It's only when he's buried out of sight, and there's but one way forward that a hint of trees makes itself known ahead. And barely ahead of her, the younger Kasyr marches ahead- oblivious to the fresh scent of blood mingling with familiar memories of his childhood. He can almost make out the image of her, flashes of her pranks and ploys flickering at the peripherary of the dream. And his vow to protect her as best as he could. He'd save her, and the rest of them, without killing a single one. That's how you became a hero, wasn't it?

Iintahquohae wonders why everything seems to be slowing down and reaches out, blindly, for a wall or something to grab onto to hold herself up. Not that she needed it, really. Her footsteps were moving on their own, and the sense of confidence that swells in her chest is something she can get behind. That was what the warmth was. Nothing else. Only the boost she needed to traverse her sire's dreams. Confidence isn't something she lacked except for now it seemed, but that warmth knew the way. Her mouth practically waters at the taste it experiences when she looks upon the magus young Kasyr devours. What's he saying? She looks at her hands, blissfully unaware of the blood on them as she sleepwalks through Frostmaw's streets in the waking world. ...This isn't frostmare's blood. It's better. Leaps and bounds better. Would she experience that again? Hoping her feet follow Kasyr further and thank goodness they do, she tries to take in her dream-like surroundings. There had to be more of..whatever that was, she thinks, leaving the pile of bodies behind. How did he eat that many of them so quickly, anyway? Her thoughts drift, but her steps continue to move on their own, keeping Kasyr within sight. She considers calling out to him, but is uncertain as to what to say. With her legs moving of their own accord it seems, her head turns this way and that way, taking in the trees as Cenril seems to disappear from view.

Kasyr seems to be nebulous, out of focus for a second as the seamstress stares at him. For a moment, his features don't match at all- the build more sylvan, the expression far more panicked. Blood spattered, hunched over, gasping- the only thing that might even seem right is the stubborn defiance in the way the figure holds themselves in front of Iintahquohae, short gasps of breath puffing out into the frigid air in front of himself. And then it's gone- that flicker of insight swallowed up by the darkness of wood, and the things that slither within the darkness and coiled about in the trees. The feeling within herself only seems to swell further, as though it might gleam within her soul so brightly as to dispel every secret the forest could hold. That confidence that felt so very at home, and which seemed to build every moment. It's intoxicating enough that she might not even notice the way the young Kasyr stumbles right back into her, that familiar scarlet scent clinging to his hands, and coat. He glances up at her, eyes unable to focus on whose there- and ultimately uncaring as he collapses down in front of the girl he'd sworn to protect- her fair elven face stuck in a rictus of pain and terror. Only, the details seemed wrong- out of focus, and seemed to ebb and flow between the tears. The clearing they'd both found themselves in closed in, the silver threads forming an oppressive veil around themselves. "..Estbel..." There'd be no promises of tomorrow, or what great scheme she had planned next. The casual defiance she'd held for the land and all it's silly troubles. "Pourquoi?" Wasn't he supposed to lay down his life for her. To be there to save her? That was the deal, wasn't it? Wasn't there supposed to be a point? "...Who.." She'd been doing something. She'd been with . . . The shadows seep forward like ichor, dissolving the silver under it's touch and swimming across every surface. A foul miasma that desecrates the memory, sharpening already vicious injuries into ghastly atrocities. 'Banash...' It hadn't gone this way, but it had led here. A compatriot, a colleague, almost a friend. Vestiges of an erratic apology trickle around the swordsman, eating away at the vow he'd made. An emptiness was left in it's place- a sickening anger. And a horrible envy for what had been taken away- one which seemed to almost beckon to him, coiling in his guts and whispering from the woods. Something lurked within the woods, beckoning him to tug it free. A flicker of darkness swims over the eyes of the dreams spectators, a nauseating, pervasive blasphemy that assails the senses with promises of vengeance. He need only follow the feeling, to free it. To avenge her. "No matter the cost." More images slither through their senses, even as Kasyr-The-Youth gathers himself, staggering through the woods like a drunk. Drawn to that blighted place, time and time again. The details flicker and change, as the tendrils try to take hold- melding into the serpentine shadows. Mirror images of the Kensai, distorted, altered...parallel to the man. They go through the journey again and again- taking hold of the well of darkness that swims up over and over. Almost every image.

Iintahquohae doesn't recognize the name young Kasyr says, but something -finally- seems to register. The thread. Wherever it seems to go, trouble and disorganization follows. ...Yet, it's familiar. She tries to catch Kasyr when he stumbles back, hands briefly resting on his shoulders to right him while she looks to the threads. The pockets in her memory trickle back, just a little. Kasyr throwing the temporal fragment to her in Vailkrin that day, her fingers stretching and spinning it with ease into thread. ...She hoped it would speed up as she spun it, due to what it was, and like a new star winking into existence, she understands. Oh. This revelation brought several lost pieces together. Holding that thought, the seamstress reaches for the thread nearest her and pulls it close. Then another, and another, bunching them up to hold in her hands to closely examine, only to find an end and gradually un-spin it and hopefully stop what they were doing. Perhaps she can turn these bits back into fragments..? They did, sort of. More like tiny, shimmering pebbles and not the full fragment itself now sat in her palm. They're malleable, mushing into each other when she presses them in her palm like clay. But what to do with them? Pocket them for now? The shadows, serpentine though they appeared to be, surprisingly didn't frighten her. Whatever accompanied her, that confident warmth in her chest, kept the fear at bay, and she reached for more threads, ripping them away so they wouldn't cause the world around them to fall apart anymore.

Kasyr s' image wavers, as the threads are torn up from where they'd settled- deep furrows left within the trees and turf as the seamstress wrenches them back to her position. As they spool about her fingers, the otherworldly material contracts upon itself- growing into a semblance of what it once was. Without those threads to keep them in focus, those swathers of otherworldly terrain fall into the abyss of sleep- to be dredged up a different evening. Though damaged, enough still remained that her memory would remain. What's more, as the world closes in upon itself- that clearing comes into greater clarity- superimposing the myriad fragmented images of the Kensai into a singular figure. One that was feverishly digging away at the earth, even as it pooled up black corruption around and into his flesh. All around Seamstresa and Sire, that ominous darkness gained more detail- and an uncanny solidity, scales with edges so sharp that they felt as though they might cut the waking body. It spiraled about the clearing, looming above the pair- giving off an oppressive aura of malignance, and a hunger that dwarfed any the vampire had ever known. It's only when Inks gives one final tug of the silver thread, snapping it back to her position that Gospel finally moves to engulf the pair, all but poised to consume her and the dreamt up figure of young Kasyr in a sickly symbolic moment of it swallowing it's own tail. Only, one last silver fragment comes lose from the burrowing figures back- a disjointed mirror image of the Kensai, gleaming in the soft light of the threads. In jerked motions that seemed to advance through time at different intervals, it hurtles itself in the way of Iintahquohae, bandage swathed arms drawn up in front of itself as it intercepts the great serpents maw. At a glance, the actions almost futile, given the ease in which it encompasses the entirety of the images form- and yet, it's jaw can't quite muster the effort to snap shut- buying the seamstress a sparse few moments to try and get her bearings. She needed to either fight, or get out- and perhaps see about Kasyrs safety. Especially given that whatever light had seemed to fuel the existence of that image, it wouldn't last long, as the fragment within her grasp seemed to be siphoning it away.

Iintahquohae feverishly stuffs bits of the temporal fragment into her jacket pockets for later only to reach out and yank away more, trying to pay no mind to the world fading away and bits closing in as she does so. Her understanding of the situation at hand is more apparent as she turns to focus more on Kasyr, digging away at...something. That pool reminded her of what she had been vomiting up. Not seeing a serpent made this easier to stomach, until she looked up and froze midstep in her approach to the younger image of her sire. Is that Gospel? Or the one she fed within her? Are both of them here? But maybe...Maybe the thread in his back. Maybe if she removes it, he'll be safe? They'll be safe. It'll undo all of this...Him. His friend, Estbel. She'll be safe as well. The seamstress lunges for him, hand outstretched to tug the silvery thread free. In doing so she sees something familiar – the bandages. She wore those once. Wore them later, actually, but now was not the time to dwell on whats and whens. Noting how the bandages' presence, she thinks, seems to hold the serpent's mouth open, a bit of that fear she usually has is gone. What she awoke within her likely assists in that as well, but the thought is shelved while she tries to grab at her sire, hooking her arms underneath his to start pulling, walking backward. Noting his height, she decides to pull a Dami and bends down to scoop the young Kensai up into her arms to flee. A great serpent's maw is about to close upon the two of them. ..Run to where, though? The dream is out of control. Fragments of a fragment rattle in her pockets. She tastes blood. Hears? Heard? Both. Screams. Surely she can't find the bridge that'll lead her back to her side of the dream- to Cenril, to Frostmaw. To her waking body. “What do I do,” she murmurs, to the warm sensation of confidence she felt before. “Lead me.”

Kasyr is so very light within the seamstresses grasp, his younger form providing little in the form of resistance. Behind and around the pair, the sound of scales sliding against each other is inescapable- a grim ambience that serves to harken the great serpents renewed poise. And yet, even that sense of imminent danger cannot detract from the confidence that ripples through the seamstress. Did she really need the help in ending this horrid nightmare? She had known what she'd needed to do before, when the Kensai had fallen ill- and this nightmarish illness was no different. That sense of surety accompanies every motion as that feeling inside of her guides her mouth down to the form of the cradled Kensai, and buries her teeth into his throat.

Iintahquohae saw the scales that seemed to surround the pair, encircling them, but kept moving. What she woke up within her had taken over movement of her limbs, keeping her upright and walking. Apparently it knew exactly where the border between Kasyr's dreams ended and hers started, so she didn't need to focus on that. Trusting her body essentially being co-piloted by something else, she looks to her younger sire. His arm...She had considered siring him again. Perhaps doing it to his dream-self would help out with his waking-self? Her feet reach the border between their dreams presumably, and halt. It feels like Kasyr is struggling in her arms as her head lowers to his neck. He feels so much smaller now, balled up fists weakly pounding at her chest, pushing at her shoulders to keep her away, tangling in her curls. Frowning, she half coos. “Shh. It's okay, Kasyr...I promise. You did this to me once, I'm just trying to help.” Cries pierce her ears that do not sound like her sire, not even a younger version if her sire, but she takes this as a distortion from being right at the border between their dreams. Her teeth sink into Kasyr's throat and a rush of blood fills her mouth.

Kasyr wakes with a start, one which ends with him ignobly planting his face against the floor- as his efforts to rolling away from some half remembered threat come to an end. Perspiration dots his forehead, a feverishness that seems right at home with the illness that had woven it's way through his body. Yet, despite the lingering sense of doom that coils at the back of his mind, his chest feels a little lighter- and then throb in his arm has receded. He'll need to move back up to the bed, but for a few moments- it seems alright to lay there, collapsed, gasping, and alive. || Iintahquohae's return to the waking world is a gentler thing, marked not by the lurching fear of something narrowly evaded- but the sense of satisfaction at a job well done, that seems to emanate from that same source of confidence she'd drawn on. But the surroundings she wakes to are all wrong- different. It's not from a bed of snow she rouses, but a proper mattress. Sheets lie tangled about her form, matted together with something that feels so familiar. Sticky, with a sweet scent of iron. As she continues to waken, that scent becomes increasingly present- seeming to cling to everything in the room. From beyond the door, comes the anxious growl of a cat, and the scrabble of paws as it seeks refuge from the interloper.

Iintahquohae feels full. Happy. Content. She nuzzles into the pillow that her head rests against, blissfully unaware of the chaos that she caused to the family that once lived here. They still occupy the space, of course. Just in pieces, mangled mostly beyond recognition. Her eyes eventually open and she grimaces first at the scrunched feeling of metal glasses frames pressed against the side of her face, and then the reddish tint of the lenses...What? She sits upright, looks to her left. Odhranos isn't sleeping in the other bed that is supposed to be next to her. ...This isn't her bed, she realizes, looking down at the sheets. Where were the furs? Is she still dreaming? There's blood everywhere. Her hair, her face, her hands, her clothes. Just a thin, sticky coat of it. The bits of the fragment she recovered jingle in a pocket. Her neck feels sore, and she realizes the choker she wears is still wrapped around it, having fallen asleep with it on as well. Removing it, she climbs out of the unfamiliar bed, stepping in drying, coagulated blood that pooled upon the floorboards, and something that squishes beneath her boot while she wipes sleep from her eyes and blood from her lenses. Glasses are set back on her nose while she lets the choker hang from her wrist, and takes in the utter destruction that occurred in this unfamiliar home. The homeowners and their children's bodies lay in contorted piles across the single room abode, one of which rests, headless, by the bed she woke from. Visibly flinching back from the sight, Iintahquohae stumbles backward, catching herself on a chest of drawers that has been rifled through, one stocking dangling out of an open drawer. Its partner, it seemed, to have been used to bind up one of the children's mouths to muffle its cries when she...Oh no, she ate a child. Three of them, she notes, spying the third by the door, which looked to be blocked by a table and chairs, oddly with a mirror, purposely placed, just at Iintahquohae's height if she were to walk closer to the door. The parents are in pieces by the hearth, one of which being the mangled corpse of the magus she swore she saw younger Kasyr consume, all drained of their blood that mixes on the floor and spattered upon the walls, apart from what she consumed. The seamstress stands in the room's center, taking it all in, attempting to manage her breathing, failing, before lowering down to the blood-soaked floor to curl into herself and try to gain some composure. “No, no, no...” She didn't eat humans. This was her primary concern. Becoming a nightmarish, bloodthirsty creature. A voice in the back of her head taunts. “That is what a vampire is, is it not? Why not live up to what you are supposed to be, what you will become,” it seems to whisper. Is it subconscious doing that, or the serpent? The voice hisses as she thinks the question. “What are you?” she whispers back, her voice hoarse – had she been screaming the entire night from the snakes? Did she shout at these people as she massacred them? The voice responds with rippling of confidence, a regal pride, willing her to stand and face herself in the mirror – to face it, really. With her neck bare as she approaches the mirror, ignoring the cat that takes a swipe at her feet with its paw, Iintahquohae glimpses herself, blood soaked, hair matted in clumps, dull brown eyes alight with something distinctly not her, but twined with her now. Her veins are darker, more visible beneath her skin, crisscrossing under flesh like a continuous web. The tattoo she hid beneath her curls, moving as if it is alive along her skin, slithers across her shoulders in such a way that it feels as if someone taller than her is gently resting their hands upon her shoulders before assisting her with putting a necklace on in the mirror. The serpent slithers from shoulder to shoulder in slow, concentric circles, before stopping just around her throat as it whispers its name. “Ssaaacred...”

Kasyr ||The wind rattles at the door- trying to get in with the same desperation the once-denizens of that place had exerted in their efforts to escape. Every angry clatter of wood coaxes forward a glimpse of something within her reflection, sparking flickers of recollection from other moments where her eyes had peered into the mirror. It had not been a quick extermination, after all- and there had been plenty of opportunities to gaze upon her reflection, and see her handiwork reflected back at her. Annihilation seemed to ill fit those sickly sweet thoughts, if only because it belied just how much she'd played with her food- until the screams bored her. Until they had expired any semblance of significance from their otherwise meaningless lives. For just a moment, the image of herself in the mirror seems to sharpen in definition, and smile back at her.