[ It should bother him that he can't remember anything of his history beyond his own name. He should probably feel more suspicious of the person he's speaking with right now, all things considered.
He glances over his shoulder at the other man, his fingers digging into the bone white sand.
The Moon, the dreamer.
That feels like fate. ]
I think you should either leave— [ he cocks an eyebrow ] or stand very, very still.
[ He doesn't want him to leave, but he offers the warning anyway.
He lets his hand slide further into the sand, and the ground beneath them begins to shift. Echoes of thoughts become shapes become solid forms, the first to appear is a tree, its dark iron trunk laced with veins of gold as branches surge up to almost the height of the marble walls that begin to solidify around them, a glass dome catching the light some seventy feet above their heads. From the iron branches sprout pale crystal leaves, and from their tiny buds form crystalline fruits: bright red, translucent apples that cast dancing ruby lights on the stone floor.
Lanterns burn on the walls, incense burns from holders that bloom around the tree like so many flowers, lazy smoke trails drifting up through the metal branches.
Whoever he is, he isn't an ascetic. There's nothing minimalist about the temple that's built into existence around him.
It's not finished, but it's a good start.
He reaches up to take one of the crystal apples, surprised and not surprised to find it doesn't feel like holding a stone: there's a fleshiness to it when he squeezes, and so he doesn't hesitate to take a bite. The inside is a pale yellow, just as translucent and alien as it appeared from the outside.
The taste is like—
It's only right then that remembers he might still have an audience. He turns around, looking to see if the dreamer remained or if he left. ]
no subject
He glances over his shoulder at the other man, his fingers digging into the bone white sand.
The Moon, the dreamer.
That feels like fate. ]
I think you should either leave— [ he cocks an eyebrow ] or stand very, very still.
[ He doesn't want him to leave, but he offers the warning anyway.
He lets his hand slide further into the sand, and the ground beneath them begins to shift. Echoes of thoughts become shapes become solid forms, the first to appear is a tree, its dark iron trunk laced with veins of gold as branches surge up to almost the height of the marble walls that begin to solidify around them, a glass dome catching the light some seventy feet above their heads. From the iron branches sprout pale crystal leaves, and from their tiny buds form crystalline fruits: bright red, translucent apples that cast dancing ruby lights on the stone floor.
Lanterns burn on the walls, incense burns from holders that bloom around the tree like so many flowers, lazy smoke trails drifting up through the metal branches.
Whoever he is, he isn't an ascetic. There's nothing minimalist about the temple that's built into existence around him.
It's not finished, but it's a good start.
He reaches up to take one of the crystal apples, surprised and not surprised to find it doesn't feel like holding a stone: there's a fleshiness to it when he squeezes, and so he doesn't hesitate to take a bite. The inside is a pale yellow, just as translucent and alien as it appeared from the outside.
The taste is like—
It's only right then that remembers he might still have an audience. He turns around, looking to see if the dreamer remained or if he left. ]