NOTHING LEFT TO SAY ▲ private

Talonia was a great point of congregation for many of society’s loners. Rogues of the north, wanderers of the west, stragglers of the south, and merchants from the east all met in the homely town. The atmosphere was much different than the usual city of Fiore, but the Dreamweaver was becoming quite fond of it. An air of gloom floated lowly in the air of the town while the typically-guildless mages flitted from street to street. Such a place attracted the ravenous nightmare that fed on negative emotions and ‘vibes’.

Of course, a very specific wave of depression and misery was quick to catch the Dreamweaver’s interest. The Dreamweaver chose the form of a young blonde woman with a crop-top shirt and denim shorts. With a sly smile on her face, the creature of surreality began to lock in on the source she was looking for. This was a street in the poorer districts of Talonia, but made a great place for an audience or mob if Veronika needed it. She anticipated a good meal from what was about to come and would wisely bide her time. It was best to take these things slow to ensure success, after all.

There she was-- the target of tasty depression. The woman wore a cloak and hood, her face unable to be seen, but view of the face was not what the Dreamweaver needed in order to work her tactics. Taking the form of a pale-feathered lovebird, the nightmare took flight and would attempt to alight on top of the lavender-cloaked mage’s head. The avian gave a few delighted beeps while quietly was basking in the doses of the white dragon slayer’s memories. So delightful, with much potential. Were they in a form that did not have a dry stubby tongue and a hard beak, they would have been licking their lips at the crisp anxiety and depression.

The bird would stay alighted on Astrid’s head so long as the mage allowed-- perhaps the domestic avian would be a false sense of comfort to the silvernette. If the mage threw her off, she would simply fly away to a hidden area and watch. Nearby, the Dreamweaver began to pull images from surreality to be seen and heard. Two ‘mages’ look at the job board too would begin talking. “Have you heard?” one tawny-haired child spoke to a red-haired middle-aged man in a cheery tone. “The ‘Sinner of Sloth’- Lucius Foss, has finally been killed!”

“Is that so? That’s wonderful to hear-- one less criminal to show their ugly face in our cities. Unfortunately that may mean less work for us when we wish to go on more difficult jobs,” the ginger-haired mage replied with a hearty laugh to his smaller comrade before continuing. “How did that sinner meet his end, anyway?”
The tawny-haired mage grinned, delighted to spread the “news”. “It's ambiguous. I heard it was a giant, wild, fluffy cat! The cat had two tails and used fire magic. Quite a way to die, am I right?” he answered in good humor, his companion nodding his head as they began to muse more on the ideas of sinners and giant fluffy cats.

The bird simply watched on, beeping to itself, wondering just what sort of reaction it would begin to feel from their subject of interest.

The bird only beeped more at the slayer’s question-- false hope, yes, that was what the avian was instilling. The dramatic change in the air when Astrid overheard what was going on was enjoyed by the Dreamweaver, who began to absorb the tasteful shock and fear. They had no time to continue the banter of the two strangers when the slayer suddenly dashed forward. Talons hanging tight onto the hood, wings flapped violently in avian surprise to steady itself atop Astrid’s head. Finally after the blinding dash, the silvernette came to a stop near the large and old apartment.

For a few more seconds, the nightmare continued to read the material she could possibly use in the elf’s mind. One memory stood out in particular that made the dream giddy-- a being known as ‘Erika’ who had quite the repertoire. They would have to pay the dragon a visit one day. Further observation of Lucius brought the Dreamweaver to a quick decision. The surprise and fear was short lived and barely gave the hungry being of surreality more than a few tasty morsels. They would have to work harder to enjoy a long meal from the saint’s emotions. In response to the question regarding what she had heard, the lovebird only stared blankly into the air with dark and soulless orbs. It gave a few beeps in response but continued to ‘not understand’. A few more seconds passed, and the beeping bird grew tired of the lavender hood perch. It took flight and flapped on up to the floor where it had clairvoyantly seen the boy from her mind; her brother, Lucius. The window was open slightly and the bird squeezed its way in.

Lucius never saw it coming… both literally and figuratively. The surreal being that lacked a soul and spirit slipped into the mind and body of the Fallen God Slayer. Within heartbeats, the Dreamweaver had assumed full control of the raven-haired man. In possession of his mind and body, the nightmare stifled his soul and bound up his spirit so that resistance would be futile until it chose to relinquish control. In a way, this man was one hell of a feast on his own, with a haunting past and a mind full of strife, chaos, and crippling depression. Using the sinner to provoke the wizard saint would be the most perfect combination. Despite being blind, his other senses were heightened enough so that the slayer could be smelled and sensed from many meters away. On top of that, every single person’s shadow could be quite easily detected. Utilizing the shadows for mobility, “Lucius” would appear behind his adoptive sister in within the blink of an eye. Cane in hand, the god slayer would strike the shadow of Astrid-- a sharp but minor hit for the sake of instilling shock and uncertainty, the first steps in breaking someone’s mind.




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The Dreamweaver could feel the unease beginning to ebb away, melting slowly into peace once again. The being of surreality did not mind it too much. Stark contrast and shock was the diving board to one spicy meal, after all. He would let her enjoy the calmness and ease for the moment. It would fade away quickly. For some reason, the saint only saw the literal jab as harmless; a simple accident or something of the kind. Playful, really. She was at least right that the nightmare was playing, but he had much more in store for the airheaded slayer.

The dark-haired man nodded at his name being mentioned and cracked a small grin at the request to be less rough. Though he was blind and his eyes clearly showed that he was seeing nothing, the Dreamweaver could see everything vividly. Fortunately the heightened senses were a plus, and the strength in his powerful body. In combination with the nightmare’s ability, who mimicked the strength of Astrid and stacked it with his, he would be quite fierce in what was to come. “What a terrible rumor, but I’m right here, just fine,” he commented, pausing before continuing. “And, to clarify you don’t wish for me to greet you like this?”

With the last word, the Sinner drove his cane into the shadow once more, but with far more force than before. The force contained the full strength of the man and a decent amount of the strength of the saint. Shadows certainly were fun to play with; once this was all over, the nightmare made plans to experiment with the shadow element more to see what sorts of fun could be had with it.

The quick shot of anger was an enticing sample to the emotion-consuming dream being. Triggering pain always brought about enjoyable reactions. Unfortunately, the flash of anger was short lived and replaced with something far more playful. This girl truly was dense-- it had to make the Dreamweaver wonder how she had even stumbled through her life into the role that made her so popular. To the nightmare, Astrid was legitimate proof either of the fact that there was a god and he had a great sense of humor, or that sheer luck truly did exist and had a fondness for the slayer.

The mischievous glance disappeared when the silvernette blinked away in a bright flash and reappeared next to the raven-haired man. Two hands suddenly latched onto his wrist and began to squeeze and burn from her movements. She was certainly overbearingly strong-- the sensation of pain was rarely felt by the Dreamweaver, who could only experience any kind of true physical contact or sense when possessing a physical body. The feeling was weird and the Dreamweaver could not help but release a chuckle at the humor of the situation and sensation. The discomfort was amusing.

Deciding it would be fun to try and use the fallen god slayer’s magic a little more, the sinner released a high pitched whistle after his few soft chuckles. A sharp line of unholy shadows from the ground would stab upwards, aiming to go through the light slayer’s calve and out the other side. “Uncle!” he responded with a smirk, mirroring the evil laughs of his ‘sister’.

It was so mild and minor an injury that brought about such a tasty flow of emotions. Concern and worry were evident, and the sound of her voice and the look in her eyes flashed hurt freshly woven within. The wizard saint was a hard seed to crack, but when it came down to it, what she had to give was certainly delicious by the nightmare’s standards. The strong hands had left the sinner’s wrist and reached instead to grab her injured leg. The wounded voice brought an internal joy to the ravenous Dreamweaver.

The dark-haired sinner bent down towards her as she grasped her leg, her singular eye wet and hurt. “I know,” he murmured, a devious smirk lacing his lips. With quick speed, the man forged a sharp dagger of shadows and using a mix of his full strength and a carbon copy of the saint’s strengths, attempted to drive the dagger into her hand. With luck, he would manage to nail the hand to her leg for a few brief moments until she removed it or the unholy shadows dissipated. His crimson eyes flickered with delight at the thought of the small girl’s agony. The Dreamweaver was already relishing in what negative energy it could consume from the air. The tastes were intoxicating and made the being of surreality only wish to devour more. How long until she realized just what was going on; and what would be her reaction to the truth? The nightmare could not wait to find out.

A bright flash of gold and metal appeared before the raven-haired man’s crimson eyes. The Dreamweaver realized the dragon had been flying at them from afar but was too slow to drive the dagger into its mark. Instead, the sharp sound of metal hitting metal was heard as the shadow dagger clashed with the dazzling excalibur. The event brought a wide grin to the sinner’s face. It seemed he had been caught in the act for the most part. Not only that, but this was a very specific person highlighted in Astrid’s memories. The nightmare could not help but adore them and their reputation-- such a lovely chaotic being. The Dreamweaver looked forward to what was in store.

“This is a nice sword,” the raven-haired man said with a grin, fingers trailing up the flat part of the golden blade up to the hilt and to Erika’s hand, with an attempt to grab her wrist. The grab would be half-hearted, expecting the dragon to have far more strength than the shadow mage. The Dreamweaver anticipated being easily overpowered if they were not careful. Regardless, they would try to make the best of the situation. The one who stood before them was powerful and a force to be reckoned with. They felt a touch of envy over the mastery of the unique manipulation of reality. “The legendary Excalibur, isn’t it?” the possessed sinner continued. “How did such an artifact end up in your possession?”

As the slayer spoke, he attempted to throw the dagger down towards the top of Astrid’s foot. If it landed, it would certainly be painful. If not, things would stay the same as normal, only with some more amplified anger on both their parts. For the nightmare, it was a win-win scenario. The “last words” of the Dreamweaver, of course, were words of small talk. He recognized the gravity of the situation but did not feel much fear inside over what could happen. Instead, the dream being was far too curious as to what would take place. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Erika. If only it could have been under better circumstances, but war sounds delightful. I never was one for mercy, nor was this meatsack,” he continued while smirking, not yet ready to vacate the body, being far too interested in what the two would do. He left a hanging jab at the person held captive by the puppeteering strings, Lucius Foss. What mercy did a sinner deserve, anyway?

The wrist fell to threads upon the raven-haired man making contact with the dragon girl. The Dreamweaver realized the thread that had been inserted in the sinner’s body, but took no notice. They had had their fun and now were far more interested in what the ‘hero’ to the scene would do. His shadow dagger had been deflected which was a shame, but the smirk to follow mildly surprised the nightmare who had anticipated anger. Capable against the saint? The context behind what that meant was not obvious to the Dreamweaver who had no intention of being able to smite anyone on the spot. Its purpose for coming to Reality was not to kill off anyone, nor traumatize them needlessly. The nightmare merely needed fuel if they wanted to be of any help to their faraway kin. Every encounter was a stepping stone in that direction.

The raven-haired man only mirrored the smirk, red eyes brimming with excitement and curiosity. War with the Dreamweaver? The notion was certainly quite romantic, but the reality manipulator had a point-- they did not know much about the laws of reality at all. It mattered not in most cases, fortunately, seeing as they had no qualms with breaking and bending the rules. If the laws of the world existed for the being of the unworld to break them, why were they in any hurry to learn them? The pride oozing from the dragon’s voice was enthralling along with her quick grab on the nearby folds of reality.

As the surrounding reality was beginning to tear away under the power of the dragon, all that was left was either ‘nothing’, or the surreal. The nightmare ripped itself from the body of the raven-haired sinner in the form of hundreds of tiny, spinning, black cubes all clustered together like a human-sized blizzard. Each cube was only a few inches long and spun with a strange and unnamed surreal element. The Dreamweaver left the man unscathed for the most part, only knocking him down as it left his body. He had been a good puppet, having served the nightmare well, and as such did not deserve any injury or death. Any remaining ‘nightmares’ to be had were possible, but not intended by the being of surreality.

“Most impressive~!” a voice rang out from the flurry of dark cubes. The tone had no specific gender tone to it, but enough inflection to broadcast its glee. It would begin to circle the two women and the one fallen man while remaining in its ambiguous and experimental form. The form had no soul, spirit, or magical presence to be felt. At the very most, a keen individual would pick up on the weird un-essence of the being, as something that did not quite belong to the real world. “Tell me, Erika,” the Dreamweaver began, too curious to leave too soon. “Why do you care so much for a pathetic girl, when you’re a monster to be feared and a force to be reckoned with?”

Sparing the sinner was merciful? The Dreamweaver was not in the game for death and blood. While massacres were fun, the only scraps they wanted were the neatly bundled packs of negative energy to consume. Rarely did the nightmare take the life of anyone with their own hands. Typically, they sat by as others did it, only stirring the pot when needed. At worst, they would leave a victim of their hunting habits in severe trauma for a while afterward. It did not seem that it would be like that in this case, however.

The flurry of cubes could only internally smile as the dragon turned the shadow slayer’s body to slush. It really was too bad-- he would have been a great puppet for later, being something of a chaos loving being himself. The pulp left behind would not be so easily repaired; just what was the intent of this, other than proving that the dragon before them could indeed be a monster and did not care for the elf girl. The nightmare could only assume that there was more to the situation than what met the figurative eye. They were acutely aware of what was going on in the room but had no reason to comment or think about it too much with everything else going on.

Two things happened as Erika went on to demonstrate the ‘second lesson’. Firstly, the smaller girl began to cry out over the death of her brother, spilling a series of words that portrayed the regret and distress. The Dreamweaver already had a rough taste of what the girl’s grief and concern were like when they had last attempted to feign the raven-haired man’s death. Something was lacking in this… the words and actions were convincing enough. The nightmare believed Astrid wholeheartedly, but something was missing. This scene did not hold the delightful sensation of grief to the figurative taste buds. There was little negative energy to fully consume beyond a tiny mix of shock, surprise, and some mild despair and grief. Typically such a scene would have brought a juicy entree to the ever-ravenous Dreamweaver, but this circumstance did no such thing. As such, they were not fully convinced, and their face to be revealed would show that.

The second thing to happen was the tugs at reality all around their hundreds to thousands of dark cubes. The dragon was pinching the edges of reality to force the flurry of square shapes to a more defined and specific form. The nightmare could have expected such; people of reality liked a face to look at when they talked. They liked to relate to and see emotions for the sake of communication and for their own emotional and mental states, for whatever reason. As the cubes condensed to a specific point in the room, the Dreamweaver decided to go ahead and oblige instead of fight against it. “You could just ask if you wanted me to assume a different form, you know…” the voice said, a feminine tone resonating from the mars black cubes once again. With pressure from Erika’s reality manipulation and unwillingness to fight it back, the cubes pushed themselves into a human form-- that of a female with blonde hair, green eyes, and casual clothing. Her face stared for a few brief moments at Astrid, her emerald eyes blinking in confusion at the good acting but lack of tasty negative fuel. This was her preferred appearance, which she had named ‘Veronika’ for the ease of everything. After all, she did not necessarily need everyone having her true name in their minds, fresh for her enemies to see. It would be easier to track her if they saw her name in the minds of everyone she had encountered, after all.

The Dreamweaver felt no need to see right from wrong in a human or mortal’s perspective. She was here for the sole purpose of gaining enough power to conquer the Dream King and take over her homeland, for the sake of herself and her kin. Reality held the keys to see that wish granted. Nevertheless, Veronika found herself intrigued with the real world which differed so greatly from Reality. The elf and the dragon were a pleasant and interesting surprise to the unfamiliar being of Surreality. “You may call me Veronika Oneiro in this form,” the blonde said with a smirk, still anticipating just what the ‘retired’ monster had left to teach.

The nightmare did not know what to anticipate from the unique dragon of reality, other than more extravagant use of her world-bending powers. Such a thing was promptly delivered, but not in the way that the Dreamweaver had expected. A sudden teleport forward drew the raven-haired girl closer, golden sword glinting in hand. The instant slash with the legendary Excalibur sword came quickly, falling on the nightmare from her temporarily physical shoulder down to the other side of her body, near the thigh. Upper right to lower left, the human body she had generated was torn with a deep gash. The blonde did not bleed like any average human, however, but instead the contents of the wound were none other than black, white, and gray static that seemed to dance within the injury in constant motion.

When previously attacked, the Dreamweaver did not have a name for any sensations. Typically, injuries were laughable, the emotional sensory being far more vivid than a physical sense. Injuries previously inflicted on her had been foreign to the surreal being, who had not generated pain receptors and an appropriate nervous system. When in a human form, she basically just existed with a visible appearance that could interact with the mortal plane at her leisure. A strike or blow meant nothing or would offer a reverse sensation of what an ordinary human would feel. This time, however, was different. Excalibur did not slice through her physical body, but through her very presence and existence instead. The raging gash did not hit receptors that directed the impression of pain to a human brain, but instead left an awful feeling to be had on the core of what the dream being even was.

The sensation was painful.

It was quite unlike any experience the Dreamweaver had ever encountered or allowed herself to feel. She could only recognize it due to what she had seen and felt while preying on or sitting within the bodies and souls of humans and other beings. Veronika’s face twisted into an agonized grimace after she realized just what had happened. Emerald green eyes glared after the reality dragon who had uttered a few more words before returning to the silvernette and dropping them both into a spatial portal. In the humiliation of it, the nightmare was unable to biting muster words to send after the one who had inflicted the injury, nor was she able to just hide behind some disguise and pretend nothing happened.

Astrid and Erika were gone, leaving Veronika alone in the apartment complex, falling to her knees from the sudden exhaustion and weakness that came over her body from the pain. The shock of it was what she logically had to deal with first. The Dreamweaver had never anticipated someone having the means of actually hurting her. She knew that some agents of Dreamland and the Dream King himself had the potential to deliver such a blow, but never had she considered that some dragon from the physical world would host such a fabled weapon and be able to pack that much damage with her raw powers alone. Perhaps she had been too careless, underestimating the beings of the world of reality. While it was impressive to finally meet a being known as the dragon of reality, she should have ideally fled while she had the chance. Instead, curiosity got the better of the nightmare who was still inexperienced in the ways of the real world.

Balancing out the shock, there was the actual wound she had to take care of. It still burned and raged with pain, causing the Dreamweaver to release a few agonized grunts and whimpers before shutting down her capacity to speak for the time being in order to preserve at least some of her pride. Emerald eyes wet as she seated herself down to inspect the injury further, sparks of static began to fall from the wound from her movements. Channeling some power from surreality to generate some semblance of healing power for her, the Dreamweaver attempted to begin sealing up the gash, starting from the thigh and moving up across the chest. At first, it was successful, but as she finally reached the shoulder, the regeneration halted. It was too late before the nightmare realized what had happened-- mending the gash did not truly heal it, but only pushed it and concentrated it up further into her shoulder. Jaws parted in a silent cry at the painful mistake, the doubled pain in one area of her surreal body making her head fall dizzy and her direct vision blurry.

Hastefully, the Dreamweaver attempted to reverse time on herself, hoping to at least return the gash back to normal if not reverse it completely. She had a decent amount of control over the time of specific things, including her own body. Time was an abstract concept, thus it was well within range of the nightmare’s territory. Unfortunately, her attempts to utilize such an ability failed as the painful static gash remained the same, not reversing in the least and concentrated to her right shoulder. There in the dark, empty, and messy apartment, Veronika felt like a sitting duck. With so much play with tears and manipulation in reality and surreality, from both her and the dragon, it was only a matter of time before other surreal beings made their way here to inspect. Not wanting to deal with unwanted company while in a state of weakness, the Dreamweaver reverted into yet another form in one last attempt to negate some of the gash’s pain. They changed their body into that of a small space of dancing bars of light. On one of the bars, however, the gash of static remained, while not as big due to the proportion of what she had changed into, the pain still coursed through its existence.

With no other tricks up their sleeve, the Dreamweaver retreated back into a quiet space they had prepared for itself-- a little nook that sat between the world of reality and the unworld of surreality. It was not a secure location, but at least would put the nightmare closer to their home plane in order to restore some of their energy, while also figuring through what the dragon had said about the injury. The pain would stop when they learned ‘the lesson’. Sorting through the bits and pieces of memory the Dreamweaver had scanned upon making contact with Erika, the nightmare searched for answers. The idea of love was a confusing concept that they could only see in a negative light. Love made one vulnerable and could be so easily used against others. What point was there in protecting others unless they were useful to their agenda? The angry Dreamweaver contemplated and angrily fathomed the thoughts and the potential expectations of the reality dragon, not yet able to clearly see what it was that would make the painful static wound disappear.