He stands in a world bled of color and life. A tall, dark obelisk towers over his form and he finds himself curious about its symbols and internal moonlit glow. He, however, is used to wind and bird and chatter around him and the silence slices through any focus he wishes to give the obelisk. He swings his head around, followed by his body, frowns at the pebbled ground that stretches outward endlessly. It should ring of malevolence and foreboding but it only seems empty. He doesn't care for this world or this dream and so he turns back to the mysterious pillar. It must hold the key to waking from this silence.The symbols seem to be etched -- long and short jagged straight lines -- and painted -- round and wavy looping curves dancing in all directions -- upon the blackened surface. Yet no matter how long he stares, follows along to take in each one separately, none of them make any sense to him. If he squints one eye shut and cocks his head to the left, he thinks one looks like those strange floating creatures with the long frills that are not kelp or grass or hair (his nose wrinkles at the memory of a potent sting). And if he crosses his eyes to stare at his nose spike, that sharp edged symbol looks like a -- well whatever it looks like is surprisingly fuzzy. Unbalanced, he shakes his head sharply and stumbles forward. Chest and shoulder collide, for one brief pause, into the cold flat surface. And then -- nothing. The silence threads into body as he falls straight through the obelisk and down,
shoulder collide, for one brief pause, into the cold flat surface. And then -- nothing. The silence threads into body as he falls straight through the obelisk and down, down,
shoulder collide, for one brief pause, into the cold flat surface. And then -- nothing. The silence threads into body as he falls straight through the obelisk and down, down, down...
He doesn't land, rather he just is, in the Swamp. And, blessed, there is sound. His eyes flutter closed in happiness. Sweet sound; now he can focus. (As much as he ever does.)
Ears twitch and flatten against his skull, the cicada song drowned out, as he stares at the obelisk. Adrenaline spikes into his blood like a sting and he feels his heartbeat thunder against his ribs as cold blooms inside his chest. It singes down into his muscles, pierces into his speeding heart, and with each pulse eats into his bones. It should be terrifying but he has the distinct image of collapsing into a shower of leaves. Free and unbound, caught up into the wind's embrace to float and dance and fly. He grins, quite content with such a demise, and as if sensing its been beat the feelings stop as abruptly as they began.
"You needn't be sore," he frowns at the obelisk, disappointed. And when the feelings do not return, he sits. "It must be terrible to stand here all the time," he muses aloud as he imagines growing roots that tether him to one spot for all of time. What a terrible existence! "I shall keep you company until I wake," he promises because it seems the decent thing to do. The Swamp shan't go anywhere while he dreams and this Swamp seems no different from the real Swamp. Much better to explore the real one when he's awake; there's no one in dreams to find him. And so he stays, eyes on the obelisk as he babbles on and on and on...