1865-10-20: A Dream: One of Many
A Dream: One of Many
Summary: Talia dreams of the events of the Masque of 1865
Date: 1865-10-20
Related: None
Players:
Talia  

She is Night. She walks amongst the mortals, too blind to see; willing to believe the lie upon her lips amongst the smoke and mirrors, there are so many costumes, so many strange creatures, costumes, masks, and people on the night such as this.

They are upon the grass, in a secret glade. Men and women of various masks and costumes glide in and out of the mulit-colored smoke, only dimly lit and viewed through the pale kiss of the moon, whose brilliant face is open in full and bearing silver upon the world below.

She is Night. It is the one night of the year she can, in public, in some fashion or form honor The Many; when her beliefs can be subtle and shown, explained away as easily as the guise of Unicorn or Phoenix. She glides, in in indulgent and opulent dress of black satins and velvets, the mask that so mimics the face of the moon highlighted in silver. The opulence of the high collar and the star-struck pinpoints that give her a regal appearance jingles slightly as she glides.

The Black Knight is her champion; a regal figure, tall, swarthy, and clouded in the despair of those who would oppose him. He is drawn to her; she to him, an attraction of magnitude of which neither can deny. Their true selves revealed, yet hidden, behind the masks that cover their faces. They drink.

They dance.

And what a dance it is. It is a thing to be remembered, as if each partner, having never known the other, suddenly could intimately see into the other's soul. He is her Black Knight. And she, his Dark Lady. Eyes fall upon them, as they dance with enough etheral grace and beauty as to draw eyes upon them. Eyes of the world. Eyes of every animal, every legend in costume there. They watch.

He is watching, too.

She cannot see his face. The height of him amazes her, and even though she dances, and her step and movement does not falter in the slightest, she tries to get a glimpse of him. But she cannot. He is elusive, a droplet of mercury always flowing just out of the sight of the corner of her eye.

She tries to see his face, but what few fleeting glances she can manage, it is too brilliant - as if staring into the very fire of the sun, itself.

And then he is behind her. His hands on her breasts. His lips at her neck. The warmth of his words flowing into, and under her skin. His lips setting fire, washing over her flesh. And his words burn into her mind with the same flare as that his face shows, but the words are bright as if to stand in brilliance amongst all else.

She would accept your homage.

The words do not seem spoken. They are merely in her mind, staining her with their otherwordly mark and reverberation. She cannot focus. She tries. But the man has her in his grasp, and she wants to see his face, but she is too afraid if she moves, in the slightest, he will leave her.

A fair approximation by the standards of mortality.

She turns, to see which of The Many has visited her, yearning to thank him. Yearning to dance with him …. and then she is alone. The smoke, and the mirrors, the silver light of the moon within the glade. And the other costumes, the other patrons of the Masque are gone. And it is only her. And Night.

She would accept your homage.

Talia's eyes flash open, with the last reverberation of those words. Her sheets are stained with sweat, and her heart beating, fast. Hard. She stares at the ceiling for a few long moments, catching her racing heart and slowly stilling it to peace.

She rises, barefoot, and collects a drink of water in her private room, not daring yet to call for one of her servants. Her mind whirling. Working.

The dream had been so real. Yet so - distant. Was it real? Her eyes move to the window, to look out over her lands as she drifts to open the window and recieve the crisp air, to cool her skin, to give her fresh air to breathe to calm her mind.

It was real. It could be nothing else. Her homage had, indeed, been accepted. Her faith was unshakable, and unmistakable. One of the Many, one close to Night, had visited her while Night was moving through the sky and watching upon the world beneath her.

"Thank you," Talia breathes aloud to the air. "I have not forgotten. Nor will we ever forget. I remain," she says, her knees sinking to the floor, palms splayed openly in reverence and submission, "Your humble servant."

The revitalization it brings her is welcome. The elation that comes with the submission, the acceptance, stirs her to her very fiber as baptism might in one of the followers of the One. Renewed, and reborn, the Countess rises to tend to her duties for the day.

It was going to be a good year.

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