Omniscience

[Desmond]

Sinner's Weave X Michael

A commoner, always on the edge of sin, and the Archangel that saves his butt more times than either can count.

"Why do you keep saving me?" Sinner's voice was hollow but curious, the golden eyes searching the far horizon as the last vestiges of light sunk out of sight. Michael had come down again, Sinner's savior once more. His silver coat had gleamed as the alcohol- signs of Sinner's deepening depression- burned under his watchful, green gaze.

"It was my job."

"Was?"

Michael's face twitched, the normally stoic face twisting into the smallest of smiles. "At one point, yes. But then it became more than that... I find myself less devoted to The Great One anymore, because I am devoted to you." Sinner always found Michael's deep, soothing voice mesmerizing... almost as if The Great One himself was talking through the silver angel.

"Don't you have better things to do, though? I mean, I'm not the only one that needs saving 'round here...."

"I will always be around for you, my Sinner. I promise, cross my heart and hope to fall." The angels' version of the promise seal once made Sinner smirk, but the humor no longer found its way over the mortal's muzzle. The chances of Michael falling from grace grew greater whenever he focused all of his attention on one lowly being.

"But-"

"No buts. I made my promise, and you know I'll keep it."

Dark days had always made hard time for Sinner. Gambling, drinking, blind, drunken sex with some stranger... it all happened. Golden eyes stared at the end with desperation... and resignation. Sinner no longer had a place in the world... no one to take care of, and nowhere to go. It truly felt like the end... the perfect time for the poison that had been so carefully prepared and finished only minutes before.

"My Sinner, what are you thinking? Doest thou not know that the answer is not before you?" Michael. The resonant voice came from behind, questioning, and full of grace.

"I'm lost, Mike. There's nothing left for me... I've wasted it all, and now I'm useless. Unwanted." Sinner's ears flattened. Do not cry, do not cry....

"You have a home. That is, indeed, something. And you have me. Am I nothing, my dear Sinner?"

"No, you're not. But I don't deserve you. Look at you, you're a damn angel... and what am I? I'm scum that deserves nothing." Sinner's self-hatred rose even more when Michael padded up and moved the poison, taking its position. There was no way to get around the bit of grace that had come down from Above. Sinner didn't deserve it. Michael had been pushed, cursed at, spat at, screamed at, and straight-up disobeyed by the unhappy mortal, and yet he continued to come down.

"Deserving means nothing to us. I come to you when you are down because I love you- perhaps more than what is indoctrinated into us as we are made into The Great One's Hands, Mouth, Ears and Eyes." The angel nuzzled the sinner, his great green eyes closed with content.

"If you loved me, you would have let me go, rather than talkin' me out of it, you big sap..." Sinner smiled lightly. Michael took the gesture as a sign of recovery, and took to his feet.

"Come. Let us walk. I want to show you something... it's magnificent. Surely a wonder of this world."

"You always say that. At one point, you held a mirror up to me and said I looked magnificent!"

"Ah, but you are." Michael was amused- the memory of mortals had always confused him, as one that could remember all, and so he was delightfully surprised to find that his favorite subject retained that particular moment... usually, mortals would have forgotten after a while.

"Says you."

"So say us all."

Sobbing.

Sinner heard it distinctly; after crying for so long, the noise had burned itself into the tarnished white ears. Golden eyes scanned the room, then the mortal, still wounded after a scuffle on the far end of the town, followed the soft sounds of misery as they became ever louder. The source was known well; Michael's delicate wings drooped around his body, his fur still shining with the blessings bestowed upon him.

"Mike, what're you doing down here? I don't need saving right now.... I'm perfectly fine, thanks to you. Healing up nicely and all... I'm still amazed by your fighting skills, by the way. Where'd you learn those moves in such a peaceful place?" Sinner's tail flicked with curiosity. The angel had truly been an astounding sight... blood had covered the pristine fur, coloring him in the coat of a true Fallen Angel. Or, as Sinner put it, an Avenger.

"I have killed... The Great One has rejected my return, at least for a time. I must find a way to undo what I have done... but how? There is no way to correct death!" Sinner looked down in thought, idly noting that Michael's bracelet- his key to the Above- was cracked and smeared with red. The gates were locked for him.

"Stay with me, then... we'll figure it out together."

"Do not be silly. If I stay with you, who knows what may happen?" Michael's voice was failing him. The angel was desperate... scared. Sinner was petrified.

"But you came here to cry...."

"This is the only place I had. All of the mortals I have tended to... they have all grown old and died. I have focused too much on saving you, my sinner... I have not made connections with any other in a millenia."

"But you said-"

"The feather I gave you is very, very old, Sinner. But it is an Angel's feather. They rarely are damaged by any mortal force."

Sinner looked guiltily at the feather, bound tightly by leather to the still-injured leg. It clearly had been taken care of with clumsy paws; the tip had become ragged, the quill was slightly bent, and splits in the vane around the cord tattered the elegant silver design. Mortal paws were decidedly not kind to such holy items.

Michael's head drooped, then he leaned into his companion's warm body. Mike was cold... a side effect to not technically being alive. "I will need help... I admit that. But what if you do not... last... as long as is required? What if you die?"

Sinner smiled slightly. "Then I'll just have to wait for my favorite angel to come back, won't I?"

It takes a long time for an angel to adjust to the Mortal world, Sinner reflected.

Michael, especially, took an exceptionally long time to adjust. He had vehemently rejected the half-rotten food that Sinner had lived on, and most of it had gone down the toilet- which had been another adventure in and of itself. Sinner's "Sin Cabinet"- with all of the alcohol and drugs- had been discovered, then brutally dumped down the drain or flushed... what a waste of money. The former angel had diverted his attention from himself to his favorite former subject, letting his pristine silver fur grow dimmer and less perfect as he continued. Sinner had heard him mutter about the strangest things, from how to make household chores complicated, to which of his burned feathers would he take to replace the one Sinner had been entrusted with.

Speaking of which... Sinner looked down, golden eyes catching the ratty silver feather that had been tied to the old, dirty cloth. Michael had tied it there when he first appeared to the young pup that he all but took in as his own. Sinner was terribly young back then, trapped with a father that "loved" his children far too much... and a mother that couldn't raise against him, for fear that he would start taking them, one-by-one, in front of her to torture her... break her very mind. Michael had been there when Sinner was bleeding and crying, hurting so much that it was beyond pain. He'd curled around the little one, his ethereal coat positively shimmering in the moonlight that crept into the room through the glassless windows. It never occurred to either just why the neighbors didn't report the screams... wouldn't they hear it?

Either way, Sinner had woken up to Michael as the angel prepared to leave. He tied the feather to the small, fragile leg, his soft, deep voice telling the curious mortal what the symbol meant, and what all the feather had been through. It was one of his primary flight feathers, from his right wing. It was reserved for the ones that he promised to keep the most watchful eye on, the ones that his infinite love embraced eternally, and the ones that he swore his wings and halo on would never see the gates of the Below in the End. Heroes from the past had worn this feather, each of the names lost to the sands of time as they had passed. It had seen the parting of the Red Sea, found harmony in the body, mind and soul, led the downtrodden in multiple revolts against the oppressive... and now, it resided with someone who was completely and utterly... Lost.

And here Michael was, lost himself. Sinner wondered what his Falling meant to the promise of the feather... would it mean that the promise was broken? No... if that were the case, Michael would be forbidden to ever return to the Above, and there had been no word on the agony that the sentence would surely give the formerly divine being. And where would that put Sinner? Was the mortal doomed to follow him, wherever he went? What if they were both now doomed to burn in the abyss Below them?

Sinner's questions halted themselves, scared away by the intense green gaze that had made its way to the golden pools. Mike was sitting in a corner, a small situation on his hands. "My Sinner... I... I don't know what.... Help me, please?"

Sinner smiled, almost laughing. "You get yourself in such interesting predicaments, Mike. C'mon, let's fix you up."

The Mortal word was filthy compared to the pristine holiness of the Above, though Michael as he wandered through the city. It was war here- the rich fighting the poor fighting the drug lords fighting the police fighting crime…. The cycles never really ended. It saddened and hurt the part of him that had kept the morals born in the Above, but the remainder of him… accepted it. It was his punishment for killing Sinner’s attacker. Speaking of whom….

Sinner had been nothing but gracious in offering the Fallen a home. Even in the slums of the city, shelter was hard to come by, and there wasn’t money for the mortal to sustain the two of them. Michael had been forced to take a job in the art gallery, performing one of the few Mortal trades that he could – art. He painted as others watched and bid prices on the resulting piece. It wasn’t very lucrative, but it was something, and he enjoyed Sinner’s smile when he brought home pieces that had failed to sell. Their apartment had become a small gallery in and of itself, despite their best attempts to get rid of the ones that neither found interesting enough to keep.

Michael had grown even closer to the Mortal… Sinner’s smile had become his main goal in life, now that he no longer had The Great One to please. Neither had figured out how he could repay for his sins… he was essentially stuck on the Mortal World until the end of time… which was fine by Michael, as long as he had Sinner. Those golden eyes haunted his dreams…. And those black markings often showed up in his finest pieces.

Obsession, he finally decided. He was obsessed – though he could not say that he was displeased about it.

His thoughts were broken when he heard Sinner cry out. It was his Mortal’s voice, he knew it – he heard it in his mind, in every waking moment and whenever he closed his eyes to rest. Sinner was in danger… and so Michael flew into action, running toward his companion with the urgency of a thousand Angels. The tainted white fur was being ripped into again, this time by brutes with track marks on their legs and the wild, untamed look inherent to drug abusers in their eyes. Michael had taken care of them once before; they were Sellers, specializing in heroin.

Mike supposed that drugs make lessons learned disappear. He jumped in, and, seconds later, the addicts’ track-marked legs were carrying their drug-sodden bodies away as fast as they could.

“You saved me. Again. You’re far too good at that, even without your wings.” Sinner’s voice was strained from pain. One leg was covered in blood, mangled and twisted.

“I am but your guardian angel, my Sinner. Even Fallen… here, let me carry you… Let’s get you home.” With a bow, Michael slipped into the Angel mindset and helped his Mortal onto his back.

“You… you called it ‘home’… do you… do you think of it like…?”

Michael looked back into the golden eyes of his friend. “Home is where your heart is. That is wherever you are, as far as I care.”

"Mike... I care a lot about you."

The words echoed in Michael's brain as he paced along the sidewalk that followed the bay. How could he respond to that? Sinner's tormented golden eyes, more intense than his own green gaze, burned into him, even though the tarnished mortal was nowhere to be seen. Michael had left, too shocked to answer and too confused to think. How [i]did he feel? This love wasn't the same as the one he had in the Above, with his Brothers and the Father. But, then again, mortals loved differently. While those Above were made entirely of love, those that lived and died - those carbon-based life forms - loved with everything they had.

What was the difference? Would changing how the love originated change the love itself? And, there was also the fact that mortals had different levels of love... family, friendy, and the love shared between a couple. And then there was infatuation and things beyond that, that Michael himself had yet to understand... but mortals, with their short lives and infinetely less time to comprehend, did.

"Father, what do I say when I know not the answer? I cannot hurt my Sinner... you know this. I Fell for him, though I remain loyal unto you. [/i]Responsorium. Aut ubi sum? Quid sum via ad Patrem?*"

As it had become since he had Fallen, the skies were silent. Michael hung his head, noticing the glorious sheen in his fur that had slowly degraded was now gone. The wingjoints on his back ached with atrophy... he almost seemed fully mortal. And so he would be, until he could repair his sin.

Michael looked around forlornly, wishing for some sign that there was a way to right his wrong. He had taken a life... how could he give it back? There were two answers, in the mortal world. Death, either as punishment or by suicide, and replacement. Michael could not kill himself; not only would that mean leaving Sinner, but crossing the most sacred statue in the Above, and he would end up eternally Below... tortured forever. He had escaped mortal penal codes, and Sinner's home didn't kill as punishment, anyway.

Replacement... it was not the best option. It was frowned upon, because the murderer - for that was what Sinner was - was allowed to procreate, and experience the joys of having a child. Besides, Sinner wouldn't want that. Sinner... Sinner wasn't the family type.

"Mike, I care a lot about you...."

But that just didn't seem right, now, did it? Sinner wanted to love. Why hadn't the tarnished white fool confessed that to another mortal? It would have made the entire situation less complicated.... But that wasn't his Sinner's style, now, was it? That was why he cared so much... why a creature made of love turned to killing in order to protect a single lowly beast that most others would have looked over.

Then his eyes widened.

"This is the answer, isn't it, Father? This is how I am to earn my welcome back. This is your test.... I promise you, I will not fail you in the end. I am no longer perfect... but I will do my best. Ponam te in superbiam.**"

Michael ran back to where he had left his Sinner. He had an answer, finally.

It was time.


---
*Respond. Where am I? What path leads to [the] Father?
**I will make you proud [I will place thee in pride].

Michael ran back to the home ha and Sinner shared, his green eyes bright and clear for the first time since he had Fallen. He had an answer - he loved his sinner just as much - if not more than - his sinner loved him, in return. Love was love, he decided, be it concerned with his Brethren and the Above or the mortal world. The Father said he supported all love - and damn Him if this type was excluded.

His paws skittered against the floor as he reached the lobby and began climbing the stairs to the apartment. He felt his body tigle with energy, though he still lacked the heartbeat that came only with renouncing his place in the Above forever.

"Sinner! Sinner, where are you, my lost one?"

The apartment was empty when he looked in. Where had Sinner gone? Michael began pacing the front room. He needed to talk to his Favored... he needed to reassure the young mortal that yes... yes, he returned those feelings. Yes... he loved his sinner.

Where are you? I need to talk to you.... Please... come back!

A groan. It didn't come from Michael himself. He ran toward it, his cotton-white ears pricked forward. Sinner was in the back room, coated in blood. Gold stared unseeingly into green, the mortal's life nearly extinguished.

Michael's confession would have to wait.

Sinner's body was torn open, various small but deep wounds littering the skin under that tarnished fur. Neither could speak; Michael's shock overwhelmed any other reaction than staring as his sinner's life dwindled before him.

He had failed.

No.

Carrying Sinner to the hospital was out of the question - Michael's body was not built for endurance, and Sinner would likely die before they ever reached help. Calling for assistance was all that he could do - luckily, it was enough.

Michael soon found himself pacing the front lobby of the hospital, doctors and nurses running around him, sometimes seemingly right through him. He was at a different level than they; he heard only Sinner's name, pounding in his ears as he waited and worried, wondering where they would get the money to pay for this help, and if his sinner would survive the ordeal. It was funny, Michael reflected later, the strange priorities one comes up with during such a moment. Buying flowers that neither could afford seemed like a much better idea than getting food to sustain himself. Staying awake for any news of his Favored was paramount in comparison to getting the much-needed rest.

"Michael, Sinner's Weave is stable-"

Stable. Stable. Michael never heard the rest of the nurse's speech, too relieved was he to hear that word. He bent down and prayed, thanking the Father for whatever favor he had earned.

Then the nurse tapped his shoulder and brought him back to reality.

"The patient has lost a lot of blood. We're looking for blood to replace it, but your friend has a rarer blood type... we're doing the best we can, but... what we're doing now will only last for so long, and it's not enough time."

Michael felt for a pulse, praying, hoping.... Please...

Silently, he started to cry.

[Desmond]

--

[Desmond]

Legend x Whitestroke Phil

Second place. Again. Phil could see his owners' reactions before they happened, for the second year in a row. He would, naturally, be shunted aside in favor of the spoiled, yowling, hateful Siamese that could never, ever deserve that beautiful blue ribbon that adorned her kennel. The blue ribbon that he had once had, before they bought her. And now....

And now he had no chance against her.

When they returned home, he was shunted aside, ignored in favor of praising and continuing the spoiling of the little wench that stole his life, his family, his home. He slunk underneath his girl's bed, unable to handle watching it... getting sick on the carpet would only lower his place in his owner's heart. No, instead, he gathered the dustbunnies that had collected under the furniture, patting and fluffing them with his tail and paws until he could almost see a shape in them.

"Legend.... I've missed you." Tired, sad blue eyes gazed at the heap of discarded hair, fur, cobwebs and dead skin hopefully, followed by the quiet thrum of his purring. "Second place again. I.... I don't think I can do any better anymore. She's always gonna be there to win first.... They're not going to give her up."

"Whitestroke, you're always first in my book. You know that."

Wings formed from the growing dustbunny blob. Scaleless skin folded over the fuzz, tipped in various points with small, sharp bones. Understanding yellow eyes- oh, so different from that damned she-devil that had blighted his life- blinked into reality to look into the twin pools of sky. Legend, as it was called, stepped toward Whitestroke. "First and only in my book. The rest of them don't matter."

Phil's shoulders relaxed slightly, and he glanced down at his paws. The words of his friend comforted him even more so than the touch of his owners. After all, they no longer put him at top priority.... No, he was just as much Second Place here as he was in the show. He was the one that would be put up for adoption if he didn't place in a show. And it was only a matter of time before he'd start hitting Third.... "My masters-"

"-Think too little of you. You're my world. I care about you. Me, and only me." Legend gave the pale cat a draconic grin, curling his tail around the small furry body. Phil noted that he smelled slightly of ash... he'd never noticed that scent before. Clatters and yelling started up in the kitchen, and, while his white ears flicked toward the noise, his eyes locked again with Legend's and whatever was going on with the rest of the household didn't matter. He was safe....

"I am? But surely...." Heat. Was Legend upset? Phil couldn't tell, couldn't tear his gaze away from the loving, caring eyes, filled with the adoration he so yearned for. Light and shadows danced mesmerizingly over the grey and dirty yellow skin, and he felt four gentle claws stroke his side.

"Surely what? Surely I cannot love the one that brings me into this world? I cannot care about the one being that truly desires me?" Unbearably hot. What was going on? Surely, surely, Phil's wonderful guardian, counselor, and only true friend could be this angry at him? What had he done? Was it... his placing? Perhaps his obsession over it? The placing was the judgement between life and death though, wasn't it? Home or homeless....

"I...." Phil wheezed and coughed harshly, choking. The wings folded over him, protecting him. but oh... the heat....

"I will always love you. How dare you doubt me...." Hurt.... The dragon was hurt....

"I'm sorry.... I won't-" a cough, "-doubt you again.... You'll always b-be there...."

"Precisely." A hiss, and then a yell. The ceiling shifted over them, and huge orange and yellow mitts grabbed Phil, tearing him away from the safety of Legend's claws. As the firefighter carried him out of the house, he clawed his way up the yellow jacket, needing to see before he passed out, before he was carried around the corner-

Nothing but smoke, and the raging inferno that had, by now, completely taken over the room.

[Desmond]

Story incomplete; Blurb:

This pair requires a story for everyone to understand. HotSpot and Fielden live in a place where they are given "guides" - butterwolves - to help find food in the thick, hostile jungle and through the fissures at the base of the extremely active volcano. These butterwolves are tied to them- Their small bodies cannot take down prey as well as the larger animals, and so, in return, they act as alarm systems whenever the volcano is erupting, or whenever food is near. This symbiosis-leaning-on-dependency relationship also means, when the canines find a mate, the butters had better get along and get to mating as well. They have little to no say in the matters of love.

[Desmond]

We both wanted to fly.
In the end, I was the only one that did.

Those dark, wide eyes... I remember the moment our gazes locked. She was a foal, and I, a pup. We were the weaklings on the ranch... she had been born ill, and I was the runt of the litter... almost doomed to the creek to save some cash. We nursed at the same time from bottles that our owner's daughters held, their small, stick hands smoothing our fur and ensuring our vitals were normal. It wasn't living, perhaps... just survival. But it was alright.

She was allowed into the fields before I could leave the sick barn... not that it made much of a difference. She couldn't run like the others... her legs were too long, and her joints were too weak. She was allowed nothing more than a weak canter... and I remember those eyes as they watched her family gallop through the grass... God, she was so sad... and so beautiful.

As for myself... my lungs were my problem. I was always short of breath, no matter if I'd just hauled myself to my feet, or walked a lap around the pasture. I was useless, and I always heard our owner complain about how useless I was. I could do no work, so why bother feeding and sheltering me? His daughters were my saving grace; they were fond of me. They adored my bright green eyes... and they saw how much in love I was.

I accompanied my lady everywhere that I possibly could. I stayed with her in the meadow, and I slept by her hooves at night. She had the most beautiful voice when she grew up... like water gliding over river stones, or clouds through the sky. We'd watch the birds together and sigh, then tell each other all of the places we'd go if only we had wings of our own... if only we weren't lame.

Then came the night that I fell ill, and had to be taken in the house.

I felt terrible that night... my vision constantly swam before my eyes, and all I could do was whimper by the fireplace. At least, until I heard the daughters scream, followed by the howls of a coyote pack... and, worse yet, my lady's frightened whinny.

Why was she out? I don't know. I never noticed that I was off of the ground and running, slipping through my owner's legs like they were nothing to get out of the door. I had to save her. My chest burned as I neared the fence, but I charged through the slats in the wood and met the first coyote with an open jaw and deadly intent.

In the end, they had all run off, were dead, or were breathing their final gasps of air... and I was among the latter. She settled next to me as our owner started walking out toward us... she had stayed out to watch for me. She couldn't follow me indoors, so she did the best she could until the pack had seen her.

I knew she loved me. And I loved her... but the world was fading fast. My paw landed on her hoof one last time before life left my body.

I... I flew.

[Desmond]

Caer

Fledgling deities and powered creatures are always fascinating creatures, still awkwardly learning their strength not unlike adolescent puppies still learning the length of their legs. And if they have a few extra limbs to figure out, all the more trouble for them. There was always not only the issue of stumbling or accidentally hitting others with a stray leg, arm or disobedient head or tail, but inadvertently vaporizing an unfortunately placed tree. Or house. Or, in some (unforgettable) cases, a good part of the closest village.

Said deity was, most assuredly, trained to restrain themselves very quickly after that.

However, despite everything, they still managed to finally grow into themselves and take their place in the pantheon, giving or taking commands to sustain the balance of life that, in turn, ensured their own existence.

Before the god of the night created dreams, there was nothing to enjoy about the period between dusk and dawn. It was a time of fear and danger, not the peaceful rest that many attribute to it in more modern years. There was always a monster around every corner, hungry, just waiting for its chance to take what it craved, to destroy, to harm. Dreams countered the fear, offering escape and serenity, feeding the hope and joy so intrinsic to all living beings.

Those in the safer areas – the organized and patrolled villages, the calm parts of the wilderness – their dreams made it safely through the thick ether, bypassing the dangers in the parts where the etheric plane was most protected. For the rest, though – the dangerous areas, the locations where the ether was worn thin and penetrable by the monsters and beasts and all things that would destroy hope and life, the god needed Dream Carriers; warriors that bore precious cargo that needed protection from the taint of the darkness that permeated the night and the fear inherent to life in the wild.

They were made to be trustworthy and loyal, fierce fighters that trusted their instincts and senses that they needn’t rely on sight or the same mighty power that created them, which was but a beacon to the monsters, and was so easily corrupted by them. The god could not risk his creations becoming Trojan horses, as the phrase would become, within his inner circle.

Caer was one of the first, one of the favored few that were created and taught by the god. However, being first, being favored, didn’t necessarily imply a willingness to learn, or any pre-programmed knowledge. The Dream Carrier was a restful one, instead, preferring to explore the creation of dreams rather than learn how to find recipients and how to hide the brightness of the dreams with his body.

But of course, school is hardly school without practical applications as well.

The first practice mission was a lonely, flickering soul in the outskirts of a danger zone, under the watchful eye of the instructor. For a creature made without the ability to feel fear – a trait the god found helpful when navigating the darkest parts of the world – Caer certainly tasted nervousness and anxiety that the test would not be passed. The woods there were monstrous, the trees gnarled and twisted, infected with the fanged and clawed beasts as densely as wasps in an old nest, and thrice as vicious as the wicked insects.

And the dream almost didn’t make it to the target.

Feet away from the restless soul, the beasts closed in, and it took all of Caer’s cunning and strength to force them away just long enough to give the poor mortal the peace it was so desperate for, the edges of the dream tattered from the struggle and marred with more than a few tears. The god, seeing the task complete, rescued his pupil and held the tired creature close.

You prefer to create your own dreams instead of training to fight for those of others. Why is that, my creation?

Caer whimpered, curling into a shivering ball against the flowing might that formed the creator’s body. Feeling the failure, the disappointment that the dream had been harmed in the melee; the student was, for sure, marked for destruction, a failed experiment.

“I wish to experience that which you have gifted to the ones we are sent to assist. I wish to understand.”

The god was quiet for a long moment, his power running through his student’s fur as lovingly as a mortal father would rub his child’s back to offer comfort. You were created different from your brothers and sisters. I gifted you with curiosity, and enough will to explore your desires. While the others are purely soldiers made to carry out orders, Caer, you are their guide. You, above all others, are allowed to create, to see.

“See?”

Open your eyes, Little One. The god chuckled, two tendrils of power sliding over the small, dark shoulders. Wings, small but soft, opened in their wake, the thin feathers shifting over one another with a gentle rustle.

Caer’s eyes fluttered open, the luminous gaze settling upon the face of its creator, lighting the void of darkness around the creator and his creation.

My light in the night, may you chase away the darkness as well as you create dreams.

Lir

Caer did not often have trouble crossing The Great Sea. It was a large body of water, sure, but the waves were usually passable, the winds rarely more than a light gale. And though the ether was an overlaying dimension, separate from the mortal realm, it could still be affected by certain things – and few were more “certain” than water.

Water, which was very, very good at logging feathers and making flight through the darkened ether near-impossible. The dream, already ragged on one edge from a battle with a fanged monster in a forest left far behind, was just about drowned out, the hope dying within it. It would be worthless, but… Caer could not give up.

The dream needed to reach its target, or dissolve in the attempt.

Water sloshed over Caer’s nose, and the flighty little being was thankful that the mortal coil was not part of the Dream Maker’s power; none of the Carriers, not even the leader, the special dreamer Caer, needed air to breathe or food or water to drink.

It didn’t make the experience any less terrifying.

Below, the water swirled. Flashes of scales, the startling cry of the beings that dwelled within the crossrealms of the earthen water and ethereal state. There were great, monstrous things down there; things with teeth and claws and horns, things that used coils and coils of their body to pull down the victims and sap away their energy until there was little left but the flickering flame of life.

Caer struggled harder, and felt the light nick of a solid, curved horn against what passed as a form for the carrier’s energy to coalesce into. Something surged within the being’s energy, hot and burning against the cold rush of water. Fear, that’s what that was. That was what the mortals felt when they needed the soft relief of the dreams Caer and the other carriers brought unto them.

The dream sputtered. It was dying.

And Caer… was suddenly pushed through the water, arrowing under the waves with a speed not unlike that which was offered over dry land. Behind, there was a wavering note, muted only by the speed of travel and the rush of water: a battle’s cry, no, a warning of battle, should the caller be crossed.

And things answered.

Sharklike beasts, built out of sharp edges and shades, blurred into view as they sped past, some getting clipped by the horns that curved out so wickedly before it and framed Caer’s form as it rested against the thing’s large head. One shadow-beast, with its maw opened wide, was dispelled as they burst through, little more than a thing built from light – or lack thereof.

As suddenly as it started, they stopped, and Caer was thrown onto the soft, wet sandy ground that separated the dimensions once more. The carrier turned, lamplike eyes barely catching the great goatlike body as it turned and dove back under – and the huge, finned tail that had propelled them both so far, so fast.

The dream was delivered that night, as ragged and soggy as it was. Hope continued to beat within the mortal’s chest. And Caer flitted back home.

You are troubled, my creation. The gods warm embrace circled Caer, and the carrier leaned back.

“I was rescued from the water by a strange thing. I experienced fear, and I was pushed to safety.”

You do not know what to make of it?

“No. Yes. I….”

The god chuckled, gently patting Caer’s wings dry. The creature you met, Creation, was Lir. A being made out of a moment of panic and fright, it is what saves the mortals from the monsters under the sea, and the dangers of the water itself, in hopes that it may redeem itself from being unable to save its own creator.

“As I and my brethren save them from fear in the dark?”

Yes, though you need not seek redemption, my beloved creation. It must have seen fit to rescue you, too. And I thank it.

Caer’s bright eyes illuminated the warm space the creator and creation had found each other. “It deserves to know that, I think.”

A content, fond murmur of assent. Very well. What do you propose?

Oh.

Caer did not expect to be the one to decide how to reward the rescuer. Beings that dwelled in the ether did not need mortal things – did not sleep, and therefore, had no use for dreams unless they themselves made them or had them for a purpose.

How to reward a rescuer that had need of nothing?

Wait. No, not nothing. “What would mark the creature as redeemed?”

That is for one to decide on their own.

“Then… ask the stars to rearrange. Make Lir part of the sky, like us, just as it’s part of the sea. That way, it can better watch over its realm.”

I can think of no better alternative, my creation. Very well; Lir shall join the stars in the sky. And the mortals will speak of a great goat-fish for generations to come. It will be more than redeemed, Beloved. It will be remembered, and made legend.

Soláthraí

Caer knew nothing of time. It was a mortal construct, designed to keep track of one’s own existence before they withered into the ether, swept up either by the darkness that continued to permeate the world or led into peace by the Guides. Caer and the Brethren, they all existed outside such things, their existence immeasurable by any points of reference that could be understood by creatures whose lives came and went like the light of the firefly in the vastness of the cosmos.

The Dreamer’s job was quickly becoming harder as the population grew, and the creatures started closing in on the places that the wild, shadowy beasts still roamed. The monsters feasted, no matter how fast Caer raced toward the destined receivers, and so, so many succumbed; it was a very rare moment indeed, when a victim managed to see the light of the dawn. Carriers were being trapped, dispersed, or lost - and the Creator could not bring more into creation to bring back their numbers.

And yet, there was still honor in the living creatures. A sense of unity that thrived within certain members to protect, to love. This bond, common in family and friendship, extended even to strangers for the most honorable, and it was these who received the greatest rewards in rest. If any were to experience such ties, the Dreamer was glad that it could be the mortals - their lives were so fragile, so fleeting; kindness brightened their hearts with a glow unmatched by the waking sun.

These, too, were hunted by the shadows.

One of the brightest spirits that Caer personally watched after was a young thing; barely old enough to stray from its parents, and certainly not able to manage navigating the mountains that it found itself in after they disappeared. The love held within the little creature burned unmatched, even when hope wore thin. The young thing’s life was cut short not long after its light flickered into being, having spent its last moments on the living plane defending its den-mates from the despair of hunger and need, and the long claws of those who feed upon it.

As the little soul awaited its guide into the final realm, Caer guarded it, cradling it with soft wings. The poor thing wasn’t scared, but… worried. And not for itself, but for those it loved. Without ears, it could not listen to Caer’s condolences. Without a voice, it could not speak of its troubles.

But it could take comfort that the Dreamer could spare.

The warmth of Caer’s creator spread over the pair as they waited. For a long moment, the three were still and quiet, until the all-encompassing voice echoed softly, as if taking care to not frighten the little mortal. You care for this one more than usual, my Creation.

“This creature is of pure heart. It wanted to protect, to love and spread hope, and now…”

Now it is to be taken to its place of final rest. A just reward, is it not?

“Yes, but… hope is dying in the mortal realm. There is so much discord here, our purpose is threatened. Your creations, your dreams, they are in jeopardy.”

What do you propose?

Caer did not know the answer to the creator’s question. It was not a Dream Carrier’s task to imagine or solve problems, only shelter and deliver dreams and give hope. Though special, though gifted with the ability to dream, Caer was still fundamentally one of them. “I do not know. I just wish such a light did not need to be extinguished so soon, before it could truly do anything about the encroaching hopelessness.”

I cannot return a mortal’s life to the dead, Creation. You know this.

The Dreamer nodded, knowing this. Resurrection was the duty of another being, a jealously kept power that was used so rarely that it might as well never happen at all.

But I can, perhaps, help.

Caer froze, not daring to turn to look at the Creator in disbelief. What was the great being getting at?

This creature will be remade, and assigned to protect those who wander, and are in greatest need. Though its original form was that of the wild, its new form will echo domesticity; most mortals find comfort in each other, after all. Would that not allow it to spread what the world needs so desperately?

The Creator did not wait for Caer to answer, instead waving away both the Dreamer and the incoming Guide to work with the soul, remolding it with delicate ease.

Before long, the newly remade creature was unleashed into the mountains, using its new wings and horns to race to the rescue. It, like Caer and the other Dream Carriers, and like the water guardian Lir, existed now outside of the mortal’s realm.

We never gave the creature a name. You stopped to shelter it, perhaps you wish to name it as well?

“Soláthraí. It is of a mortal tongue.”

Provider. I could think of nothing better.

Aidan

Mortals, Caer had found, were confusing creatures. They yearned for community, and so gathered - then they yearned for solitude. Once solitary, the desire for community became priority again. The dreams given in either situation contrasted greatly, as well; in a community, it was safest to be alert for betrayal, but relish in the bonds created with others. Alone, and hope for survival again became paramount, but the joy of self-sufficiency and connectedness to the forces that surrounded them brought a great amount of satisfaction.

But as ever, the hopelessness and creatures of the dark encroached upon them, haunting every tree, every home, every field and cave. They waited in the depths of society for a chance to strike and take their prey, and the ensuing chaos would only allow them to thrive more.

Caer’s Brethren had become weakened in the face of the growing power of their foe. The Dreamer had taken to looking for allies, connecting with Lir for protection over water, and Soláthraí for a path through the most remote wilderness. They could not protect all… but the alliance had saved several Carriers from hordes of shadows. There was no peace in death for immortal creatures such as they -- only the impenetrable darkness of nonexistance and loss.

The Creator felt when each Carrier fell, so few were they, anymore; sometimes, they could be rescued, if Caer was alerted quickly enough, and if the attack wasn’t far. This time, with Lir’s long form swimming in the stars above, the location was a remote island far to sea; the Carrier had fallen after being overtaken by a beast that had set up an ambush with a mortal as bait. The dream it carried was most likely shredded, the mortal probably beyond Caer’s help… but the Carrier could still be brought home.

Caer’s inability to fight the larger monsters, however, was a problem. Carriers and the Dreamer were created mainly with speed and flightiness in mind; they were to flit through the air, and evade attacks as needed while reaching their goal in the least amount of time possible. Though fierce and unyielding, they were no longer able to keep up against the growing strength and ferocity they faced.

Lir, however, was a veteran when it came to battles. But all of that experience and power was restricted to the water and its reach.

The banks of the island were low and sandy, with no inlets, rivers or creeks to allow the sea-goat entry. Still, all was not lost. With a thought, Caer wove a dream, using the happiest thoughts that could be encountered in the night: the sun, the warmth, happiness, pride, friendship and love - and held it high over the tide’s spray, a brilliant star in its own right.

The creature took the bait and flew out, great leathery wings of shade and grief spreading as it dove, unable to hold its huge, draconic body in the air for long. And below the water, Lir struck.

Caer took the moment.

The dream became but a comet streaking through the night as the Dreamer sought out the fallen Carrier, desperately seeking the fading light that they all held within them.

There! There!

The Carrier was faded almost completely, almost matching the flickering of the mortal nearby. There was no helping it as its coil shuddered; it would find peace in the next realm. Seconds later, despite Caer’s frantic efforts to gather the Carrier for transport to their Creator, it, too, dissolved.

The retrieval was a failure.

In the light of Caer’s glowing eyes and the brilliance of the dream that had been so cleverly crafted as bait, another being stepped out from the undergrowth. Sturdily built, with a thick mane of fur protecting its neck and long, branching antlers haloing its head, it regarded the other being for a moment, then dismissed the Dreamer with barely a blink of its bright gold eyes, and approached the mortal’s abandoned shell. Quickly, quietly, respectfully, it took hold of… something, that still rested within it, before bounding away, spreading its great moth’s wings and returning to the ether from which it came with barely a sound.

It was a long journey home.

The Creator noticed immediately when the Dreamer had returned, the relatively small blip of light taking shelter in the gentle glow of the power that had created the Dream Carriers.

Your Brethren suffered another loss-

“Yes. I failed. I’m sorry.”

-But you returned to me, safe. For that, I am glad.

Caer’s sadness and confusion flicked to something a little sharper. “Why? I have failed you. Another of us has been eradicated, and the creatures we were created to hinder with the dreams that we carry… they grow ever stronger. We are but insects to them now.”

The gentle power grew tighter, embracing the Dreamer. My beloved Creation, they grow powerful now, but they will eventually weaken. There is a balance in all of existence, and a cycle within that balance. Endure, and be brave; this, too, shall pass.

A mortal’s words, shared between immortal beings. It rang in the space between them like a copper bell, cooling the heat in Caer’s grief. “How?”

I gifted you with the ability to dream. Use it as you had when you first learned of your power, when hope was all that you needed to carry to the mortal minds.

“And if more fall?”

We will endure.

Still dissatisfied, Caer quieted and settled into a dreamlike state, reliving the encounter as if it could stem the hurt and loss. Abruptly, the Creator’s power turned curious, prodding the image.

You encountered this creature tonight?

“Yes. What is it?”

A pause. It, like you and your Brethren, is a type of Carrier, though its burden is the souls of those who have passed on, before they can be taken and corrupted by the very creatures we face. You may know them as Guides. They are agents of another being, one who commands mortality and life.

“It was a soul that it pulled from the mortal’s shell.”

Yes. With your lure, you allowed it to get to the mortal’s spirit before the creature could take it. If it could speak, it may have thanked you.

Caer could not respond for a long moment. It was known that there were other agents of beings, created for tasks within and around the mortal realm. Guides were also a known factor in the mortality of those within it. But for them to be so similar to Caer, to all of the other Dream Carriers, in all but form and the specifics of function… in a way, they, too, were brethren.

You have something on your mind.

“They are like us.”

Yes.

“Do they have names, as I do?”

A moment’s pause. I believe so, yes. The Creator of the one you encountered named it Aidan.

“Little Fire?”

The Creator seemed to laugh silently. I do not pretend to know the minds of my fellows, dear Creation. But I believe it, like you, has a fire within it that makes it special. How, remains to be seen.

Dorje

The wind in the mountains was harsh, cold and crisp, though Caer paid it no mind. The delivery tonight was a strong dream of hope and joy, meant for a creature that had gotten stuck in the steep foothills, where dangerous creatures and monsters hunted and hid even during the daylight hours, sheltered by the sun in the deep, vast shadows. These were lands even the bravest of mortals usually left alone… but the mortal had been sent away by its fellows, asked to seek a better home for all of them. Below, the ice and snow on the peaks had cracked - its weight steadily becoming just too much to remain stacked.

Caer sped on through the deepening darkness, brilliant shining eyes flicking about for signs of attackers, as well as any protectors or guardians that also patrolled the range. More had been sent since reports of three Carriers’ disappearance over the last month, as well as numerous findings of other attacks. The mountains were a perilous mission, indeed.

Finally!

Caer made a sudden, rough dive to land in the mouth of the cave, the maddeningly cold mountain winds slicing through the Carrier’s near-incorporeal body, shuddering the ice crystals that had become lodged within the essence. It had taken refuge deep among the rock formations, hoping beyond hope that it wouldn’t be seen but needing the shelter in case of avalanche or storm.

All Caer had to do was give it the dream, give it hope, and it might survive the night --

!! Chk chk grhh-hh-hh! Chk chk!

Bmpf!

Stunned, Caer’s wings were suddenly pressed against the ground and a blur of fur and teeth were all that the Dreamer could see. Emptied paws scrabbled at skin that moved as if it wasn’t even attached to the monster, rolling along its body like a loose blanket.

This -- this must have been the reason for the disappearances. The attacks. The deaths.

And Caer knew it was Death itself staring back in the dark, snarling with an unbound fury.

But then, far above them, something cracked.

The mountain shook once, then a slow roll of thundering noise echoed through the cave. The creature that Caer had been meant to save sprinted further back into the dark, and the creature disappeared from the Dreamer’s chest, vanishing down the cliff. Caer followed, the dream laying forgotten and shattered among the stones, and took the the air as the first sheets of packed snow began falling into the entrance.

Caer scanned for the mortal, finding it safely on the path to a small hunting party of its brethren, that had set up camp with one of the guardians close enough to watch over them. It would be safe for the night.

The monster, on the other hand….

It had made it to the safety of a cliff just to the left of the avalanche’s path, where it had then continued down at an angle, keeping a growing distance even as the snow, ice, and rock picked up speed.

Caer, unable to complete the mission, returned to the Creator’s side, silent, and disappointed in yet another failure.

The Creator, of course, could not be fooled. Your mission was not a success, tonight.

Caer flinched at the blunt statement. “No. I am sorry… A monster attacked, and the dream was lost. I -” The Dreamer paused, trying to wrestle with words that would not come.

The Creator’s warm presence came in close. Watch, Little One. I want to show you something. Before them, the monster appeared, its stout body perched next to a lantern that it was lighting and extinguishing in a sort of rhythmic pattern, dark eyes as empty and forbidding as the worst of nights staring intently into the distance. Flash - flash - flash.

And on the other side of the valley, a similar light lit up: Flash - spark - spark.

Lantern promptly snatched and stowed, the thing sprinted as a hellbending pace, bypassing the little village in the center on its way to a little alcove, where a small, bright-eyed creature with a big fluffy tail greeted it. As the monster caught sight of the creature - a pure soul, one similar to the one Caer had tried to deliver the dream to - the Carrier tensed, afraid that it would meet the same fate that had nearly been its own, if it weren’t for a well-timed natural disaster.

But the change seemed instant: where there was once a visage of death and evil, there was only joy, protectiveness, and brotherhood. They welcomed one another with a playful dance, the monster playing at being harmless toward what should have been its prey.

Caer… just didn’t get it.

The creature you encountered tonight is another Guardian, but one of the mind. Dorje and his kind were created by a sibling of mine, to protect against manipulation - both good and bad - to ensure the freedom of the mortals can never be compromised by the beings around it. He was only doing his duty in protecting the mind of the creature you sought to save.

“But the disappearances - the deaths - “

Dorje was created to use deadly force as needed. But, that does not make him the same as the monsters you and your brethren face. Just because his duties and viewpoint are different from your own, does not make him evil, Little One. He, too, is capable of good things, and it is not fair of us to judge him.

As the pair - Dorje and the mortal - tumbled about, the Dreamer turned attention to the little soul. “Doesn’t the creature know what Dorje does? Why has it not been tainted by that knowledge?”

The Creator’s light warmed further, as if in amusement.

I believe he keeps the full extent of his Guardian duties secret. The mortal is his friend, he does not wish harm on the little creature, or its bright soul. Its innocence, I believe… is refreshing.

The Dreamer turned away from the scene before them, at a loss. The Creator’s words made little sense in the best of times, but it was clear that neither could condemn the mon- Dorje - for doing as it was created to do for the betterment of the mortals. But if the Carriers continued to be sent where Dorje and his fellows resided, they, too, would fall. The safest solution would be to stop delivering dreams, delivering hope - but that was completely unacceptable. To do so would be to write off all mortals to death from the night monsters, from hopelessness and despair, and from the loss of inspiration that life could be better.

“What are we going to do?”

The Creator’s presence twisted slightly, almost curious. You are my Dreamer, Little One. There is a solution, all you must do is find it.

Some things cannot be healed by dreams. Some things, hope cannot yet touch, because the healing needs to begin in the memory.

Within the changing world, wounds ran deeper into the souls and minds of mortals. They actively hurt one another, in ways that only they could invent, with intent to cause as much harm as possible. Caer and the Dream Carriers had tried for so long to help tend to the masses, but success had become a rare and precious event. So many had fallen, and so many would fall, still, if nothing changed.

Lir protected those who ventured into the deep, but had no presence on land. Soláthraí held to the ever-shrinking wilderness, but could only shield, not heal. Aidan cared for the dead, and the strange-but-sharp little Dorje prevented the manipulation of minds - including the hope borne of Carried Dreams.

Introducing hope where none remains would not work; like transplanting a lily into barren soil, the flower would die or be destroyed. But heal the earth, mend and nurture what is already there, and a seed could take root, and grow stronger and hardier, acclimated to the only conditions it knew.

Caer turned to The Creator, questioning, and received no answer.

Yet another worrying trend.

Forgotten deities faded in a very peculiar fashion, and Caer had watched others falter. Loss of power and influence tumbled into the loss of their voice within the realms of existence. They would then lose insight, blind to the mortal world, and then deafened by the silence of those who once exalted their names. And then, one day, their light would finally go out.

And with the Lord of Dreams darkened, fear and despair would flare.

Life would devolve into a period of suffering for the mortal coil.

Unsettled, Caer dreamed.

---

The sea roiled with the storm’s winds, waves biting at the coast as if trying to take a bite from the rock and sand. The sky flashed with lightning, and the clouds churned, threatening to spiral. White spray rose as if trying to meet the impending water spouts, meeting the torrential rain in a haze of confused water. Undeterred, a large, dark fin rose from the depths, then smoothly returned to the turbulent water, unremarkable were it not for the calm, steady nature of the motion within the chaos.

The storm was temporary, after all. Others would come just like it, but in the end, the clouds would pass, and the winds would die down. The water would calm under the clear sky, and life would go on. Peace was not a thing of the past. Remember?

The winds picked up as hail fell, the lightning branching down and striking at the waves, as if to further incite them into violence, and drown out memories of the serene coastline. Much longer, and the coast that remained would no longer be the same; the new beach would have only ever known the tempest.

A splash - controlled, commanding attention. Focus.

But no. No. There would always be something that remained. Nothing was ever truly destroyed, only displaced, or changed. Physical aspects do not, by themselves, create an identity.

And nothing is ever truly lost as long as it is never forgotten.

As if badly wounded, the storm’s intensity sharply fell, the winds reeling back from some unseen impact. The sky lightened, and the vast downpour became a squall.

A squall that would, given time, give way to a beautiful sunrise.

---

The worry within Caer did not recede, but hope had started to reawaken.

But the key wasn’t hope. Not this time. It was memory.

Caer turned to The Creator, even as the ancient being turned its attention to the Dreamer, radiating pride. Only one thing was said, a name that echoed in the Dream Realm:

Munin.

Rian

Every once in a while, a dream - well-loved and nurtured, and with a little spark of power - can go beyond the realm of dreams, and enter reality. Mortals tend to bring forth actions; lifestyles, new homes, places visited and activities enjoyed. The power of the Dreamer, however, has unusual reaches.

A small being of hope and joy, Caer immediately adored the little light. Small and sleek, designed to elude those who would harm it, it was to perform the duties of Caer’s brethren during the day - outside of their normal element.

But under the sun, other dangers reign.

Caer watched with distress as the little one was chased and hounded by things just as fast, just as agile, and much more dangerous. Teeth and claws alike, sharpened and hardened with cruelty, extended, hungering to extinguish the light that dared to invade their territory.

It thrived. It suffered.

The Dreamer cheered each success and lamented each loss, noting as the latter became more and more numerous. Creatures that the little spark was sent to protect were inadvertently harming it, quickly threatening its survival more than anything armed with teeth and claws ever could.

You watch your creation as closely as I watch mine, Little One.

The Creator’s warmth was a comfort against Caer’s worrisome mind. “I fear for it. It came from my dream, and I sent it out there to bring light where we could not… and I’m afraid it is truly an impossible task. I have doomed it.”

Have hope. It may yet persist, given change and time, as all beings, mortal and not, require.

“Maybe. And if it fails?”

We will see. Have you not named this one, as you have named all of the others?

The Creator’s tone pulsed with a fragment of lightheartedness, a small nudge against Caer’s shoulder. “... Rian. I had hoped -”

Keep that hope. Hold it close. And never, ever let it go, whatever the future holds.

"Steve"

Senka

The old trick to a story, it’s said, is to start with “it was a dark and stormy night” - create suspense by drawing in the tension at the start, as many diurnal creatures cannot see well in the dark, and further amplify that with the violent nature of storms, putting them at the mercy of nature’s whims.

Well, it was dark. And it was stormy.

Caer, weakened though they were in these times, had a job to do.

There were flickers of familiar power here and there - Soláthraí, dutifully protecting the vulnerable from a flood. In the far distance, Lir, desperately rescuing the ones that slipped from high ground into the waters. The hollow presence of Aidan, leading away the ones neither could save.

None of it was Caer’s jurisdiction. Well-wishes and hope were left in the Dreamer’s wake, scattered with the spray of rain disrupted by the flight.

The flood was no accident. It couldn’t be. Water did not simply rise from the ocean and decide to take the land without cause or reason. Something was broken.

There.

A shadow ahead. Slinking and slipping through the darkness, pursuing a darker shape ahead of it. And well behind – Dorje’s sharp chatter and compact blur.

Caer had no weapons. Little strength. What power remained was still great, but… not enough to take on two shadows. The Creator’s faltering strength had left both of them struggling. But there were still duties.

Caer would perform them to the last.

The Dreamer charged forward just as the lagging shadow caught up to the other, striking out harshly – and together, they stopped. A poisonous flash of bright blue and inkwell purple caught in an errant flash of lightning as the creatures… fought. It was over quickly, the victor slipping back to leave the loser to Dorje’s mercies.

No honor among shadows. Caer carefully followed.

The hunt repeated itself several times. Each time, the pursuing shade, with its bright flash of blue, took out one of its own and left it, sometimes scrabbling away before the smaller chattering ball of anger and vengeance could catch up.

The storm moved on just before dawn broke. The shadow - which Caer had named Senka at some point during the night - retired for the day, having taken out a great many of its own.

But… why?

[Desmond]

[Desmond]

Reserve six~~

[Desmond]

Reserve seven~~