*****
Marius looks about the great hall, and his tail sticks straight up in the air like an antenna as he spies the table laden with all manner of sumptuous delights. "Psst- bro'!" he whispers, "Check out that feast there! What say we sample the good king's spread?"
Not waiting for an answer, the gray feline trots over to the smorgasbord, jumps on a chair and puts his paws on the edge of the table. As before with the coffee, Marius' head begins to vibrate back and forth with excitement. His tail twitches with indecision as he tries to decide what plate to sample from. He sniffs the golden brown roast goose, then the turkey, and then the fried smelts. It is obvious that he can't make up his mind. "Mrowrowrowrrrrr.. Which one, which one? They all look so good!" he mutters to himself.
At the sound of purring, her attention is again diverted. "Goodness! Even th' cats are out to play tonight, " she chuckles. A moment later, she retrieves a small plate and tucks a piece of each meat side by side. Crouching with her dress puddled around her, she offers the plate to the cat. "Would you like some?"
Marius settles down on the chair, purring even louder now that someone has made the decision for him. "Murowr! Yes please, and thanks!" he exclaims with gusto. He makes room for Molly to put the plate down on the chair with him and tucks in with great pleasure.
"I'll take that as a yes!" Molly laughs and kneels next to the cat, not daring to touch him.
"I wish I could understand you, " she muses softly. "I bet cats are most fasc'natin' to converse with." She hunkers down a bit, pale sky eyes gazing into Marius'. "And y'all have the most knowin' eyes."
Marius stares right back with his shining green emeralds, and slowly winks his left eye. His bright pick tongue flicks out to lick the tip of his nose.
"Anyway!" She straightens, extending her hand for the feline to sniff. "M'name is Molly, little fella, and ya be sure to come find me if ya want anymore, a'right?"
The cat sniffs her fingers and bumps her hand with his forehead. "Thanks, that's kind of you," he mumbles around a mouthful of food, trying not to spill any on the chair. Marius rubs his cheek along her fingers a few times, and resumes chowing down.
Fancy that, she thinks to herself. Waitress to a cat! Her laughter rings softly like a hundred tiny silver bells.
"You are quite right," comes a voice from behind Molly. "Cats _are_ remarkable conversationalists. And for the record, this particular cat appreciates your assistance."
Molly jumps almost a foot in the air, rising up off her knees as graceful as a newborn calf. "Gracious!" she gasps, hand fluttering to her breast. "You startled me."
"Oh, but forgive me," the lean, dour speaker continues, idly scritching Marius's head. "We've not been introduced. H.P. Lovecraft, at your service. If you'd be so inclined and have the opportunity at a later date, I should be happy to teach you the fundamentals of Cat."
"Oh.." Molly looks flustered, blushing a bit at her jumpiness. "M'name's Molly. Molly Farrell." A smile lights her face and, most noticeably, her eyes. "An' I'd love t'learn Cat! I wouldn't think it pos'ble to speak their language. I'd always thought a cat might find us a wee bit.. silly. Fr'm the way they look at humans at all.." she drifts off, finding herself babbling, and blushes again.
Lovecraft smiles and nods. "They find us quite silly indeed, oftentimes, and are not afraid to say so."
"But I'm glad t'h've helped him, " she finishes lamely. "He brought back memories of th'way our little kitten would bat at the pink sugar mice we'd tie to our tree. You know the kind? With th' string tails an' little hand crafted noses..." Again, she drifts off, looking distant.
"Ah, " she murmurs, sighing as if releasing the weight of the world. "But that was so long ago, when I was a wee lil' girl." Molly offers a sheepish smile up at Lovecraft, hands absently smoothing her dress to reassure her of her presence.
"Cats," interjects a voice, "are selfish, self-centered, hedonistic little creatures." Samuel Coyoteson pauses to down a canape in a quick gulp, and then continues, "In this, they are much like humans. And coyotes." He grins his loopy, fangy grin. "Lovecraft, Grandfather sends his greetings. He wonders why we have not seen you in the Hunting Grounds for so long."
"Hello, Samuel," Lovecraft replies, a fond grin creeping onto his face as he offers his hand. "You may convey to your Grandfather that if I were to continuously indulge in travel, I would never find the time to write. Also, my lamp is short of oil."
"Ah, well," responds the canid, "more songs will always appease Grandfather. He brought song to the world, as you well know."
He turns to the young lady and sketches a brief bow. "Samuel Coyoteson." He cocks his head as the howling begins anew outside. "Ah, I see that my cousins have decided to humor the Son of Earth." His grin grows wider, as if he anticipates something.
Molly's flush seems omnipresent now, the soft pink brushed over her cheeks like freshly fallen snow. "Molly Farrell, " she offers quietly, her eyes sweeping towards the floor.
Samuel's hand gently lifts her chin up. "Mistress Molly," he gently chides, his eyes still smiling, "if I had wanted to look at the top of your head, I would have stood on a chair. There is no need to look away from me. I am just one of Grandfather Coyote's many kin. Admittedly, one of the handsomest, but still ...."
Molly all but jumps out of her skin at his touch, and her flush deepens again as if to highlight the barely noticeable freckles on her cheeks. Carefully, she attempts to reign herself in as she takes a step back.
"I know my fair share of coyotes, " she manages. "Not many of them seem to favor themselves so.." Her eyes resume their sparkle as she bites her lip in the hope he'll realize her jesting.
She glances at the cat seated on the chair and grins secretively to him. Coyotes, she muses to herself. Pesky critters, but smart.
Izzy watches his brother. "He never was very sophisticated." he sighs. Standing near the groaning table is a 9' tall, winged, magenta colored lizard sporting back-swept horns and a voluminous black mane. "How Marius could have failed to notice * that * is beyond me!" Izzy ponders, "Let's see, now, wings, scales, horns. looks like a dragon. I wonder what it's doing here."
The black and white cat wends his way to the refreshment area and sits down at Marada's feet. First he glances at the large claws just inches from his tender nose, then his gaze travels up the length of the draconid's body. "Purrrmeow? My name is Izzy. How might you be named, O noble winged one?" Izzy sits back, politely waiting to see if this fantastical creature that he's only ever read about in books will answer.
The drake picks up a clear aura of curiousity and looks down at the small feline form. Gradually picking up on the beast's identity, he returns the favour, attempting to broadcast an image of his name, penned in Draconiati script. It's a nearly illegible mess of text that looks like a head-on collision between Japanese and Arabic. Picking up an inevitable flash of curiousity, he recalls his introductions to the others here, and emitting the sound to the cat over thought.
In an uncontrollable burst of hatchling's nature, he cannot resist to pick up the cat and cradle him in a forelimb, stroking its belly with the other forepaw. "Isn't wee Izzy a cute widdle beastie?", he whispers in an English that bears forced Slavic and Scottish accents.
*****
The quaint fisherfolk of Cornwall-by-the-Sea offer smiling holiday greetings as they pass, while overhead grateful birds and squirrels nibble at the popcorn balls and cranberry garlands hung in the trees.
The road takes them down along the wharves. Hoary warehouses and fisheries crowned with sparkling holly and snow stare blearily out over piers where chilly waves lap at the pilings like sleepy newborn pups. Moored fishing boats rock idly in time to the strains of distant carols.
A soft trumpeting rolls across the waves from out of the snowy distance. Shortly thereafter, the stately form of a brilliant white swan glides through the waves toward the piers -- a swan the size of a small elephant. Sporting a red jingle bell harness, it tows a boat fashioned as a golden chestnut shell from which protrudes a small forest of conical red hats.
"Will you lookit _that_!" says Tasha, the delighted smile of a child with a new toy on her face.
"Wow," Mark sighs. "I _really_ wish I had a camera..."
"I've never seen anything like it!" Diami whispers.
Jin stops with the others, staring at the procession before them, "You and me both." His brown eyes seem to look over every inch of the convoy, as if to record it within his memory. He mutters, "Sure wish I had a sketch book." He grins to Mark, "Or a camera."
As the swan pulls the boat up next to a pier, the delicious aroma of baked goods gently brushes aside the fishy smells of the wharf district. The wearers of the red cone hats -- small, roundish men and women bedecked in festive Bavarian attire of red and green -- hop from boat to pier like plump cats, tying off both boat and swan and unloading the boat's cargo of crates in a ballet of jolly efficiency, singing and laughing all the while.
One of the little people, an older matron, happens to spot Diami, Jin, Mark, and Tasha as she glances up from her labors.
"Hallo! Guten Abend!" she calls, smiling and waving. "Are you on your vey to zee King's party?"
Tasha chuckles quietly. "Gnomes," she informs her companions.
Jin gazes over to furry woman, with a dawning realizaion, "Really? Heh, yeessss, I can see that." And he nods, as if she has confirmed something in his mind, his eyes taking in the Gnome, once again that look of memorization.
"Wow," Diami whispers. "Yes, we are heading that way. Do you need some help carrying?" she asks outloud.
"Oh, zat vould be _zo_ helpful!" the Gnome matron beams. "Zere are _zo_ many packages!"
"Sure, no problem!" says Mark, leading Diami down the pier to lend a hand.
Tasha smirks as she, too, heads down to help. "Watch this," she whispers to Jin.
Jin follows the others, a look of interest on his face, "What?" he whispers back.
"Here you go!" the matron sings out, deftly catching a package tossed to her from the swan boat and tossing it in turn to Mark, who *erfs!* under the sudden weight.
Gnomes, it seems, are stronger than they would appear to be.
Jin takes a few steps to Mark, laughter threading through his voice as he asks, "Do you need any help there buddy?" He holds his hands up in mock surrender to the matron, before she has a chance to chuck anything at or to him, "Oh wait, throw me something light, I'm just a scrawny little guy." // Hey, at least I know my limits. //
The matron chuckles. "I vill let you help your friend. Und zince you are all being zo helpful, you may call me 'Granddam'."
"Uh... yeah..." Mark grunts, trying unsuccessfully to find a more stable grip on the package. "I _could_ use a little help here..."
Diami watches Mark catch the package and stagger. "I'll carry something, but I agree with Jin...I'm not very strong..." She pushes her cloak back to present arms.
Grinning, Jin takes the opposite end of the box, saving Mark from a hernia or something even worse ... looking un-macho in front of females. "You don't mind if I tote this side eh Mark?"
"N-no," Mark huffs. "That'd be great."
Jin just throws Mark a lopsided grin, trying not to laugh at his predicament. He had to admit, the box was heavier than he originally estimated. The slim man decides he was just lucky it hadn't been thrown to him. He would have disgraced himself and done some damage to his manly ego. Though, the thought of having his 'injuries' tended to by sympathetic women causes an altogether different smile to appear on his face.
"Of course, leib!" Granddam breezily replies, tossing a good-sized package Tasha's way. "You vill carry _zis_ one for us, ya?" She accepts a large red-and-green plaid sack that is handed, rather than tossed, to her from the boat and carries it over to Diami. While it isn't _light_ by any means, it is not too terribly heavy. What's more, the honeyed scent curling up from it teases and invigorates like a whiff of strong spiced tea.
"Hey, no fair!" Tasha grins, bracing her box easily against her belly. "How come _Diami_ gets to carry the honeyed puffcakes?"
"Because your hands are full!" Diami laughs. She takes a good whiff of the honeycakes and gives an evil grin. "You know...if I weren't such a nice person, I'd head off with these...but I won't!" She takes another sniff. "Granddam, I'm surprised the king himself isn't outside looking for you when you're bringing these!"
Just the thought of food made his stomach growl and he had to wonder when he had last eaten; the last 34 hours _had_ been very hectic.
"Now, now, Meiner lieben," the Granddam laughs, "Let us hef less squabbling und more valking! It vould not do to get zees pacakages to zee King after zee party iz over!
"Come along, Henk!" she calls over her shoulder.
"Comink! Comink!" answers an elderly bespectacled Gnome, clambering up the ladder while balancing a precarious tower of gaily wrapped presents.
Huffing slightly, he trots up to join Granddam and the others at the head of the procession of encumbered Gnomes assembling at the end of the peir. "I am zee Grand Jeweler der Gnomes," he tells the four travellers, "but you may call me 'Grandda'."
Jin shifts his end of the box around a little, trying to get a good grip. He shakes his head in amusement, his face echoing the enjoyment dancing in his eyes, "Granddam and Grandda? This is great. If I don't remember all of this dream, Steve will kick my butt for sure," he murmurs, mostly to himself.
"Who's Steve?" Mark asks, shifting his end of the box to accommodate Jin's help.
"Hmmm?" Jin looks blankly to Mark for a moment, his mind already racing elsewhere. "Oh, Steve. Heh. He's one of my partners in crime."
This raises Mark's eyebrows.
To allay any suspicion or worry that comment may bring up, "What I mean is, he's one of my business partners. We create games. I'm a 3-d animator and Steve, well, he's our concept guru." Brown eyes roll, taking in the people around him and the scenery, "He'd love what I have seen so far."
This _lowers_ Mark's eyebrows into a perplexed scrunch. "Oh... So, is that video game stuff? Like 'Space Invaders'?"
Jin looks rather indignant, "Space Invaders?!" He lets out a snort that echoes down the streets. Then to confuse things, he starts to chuckle, shaking his head slowly at Mark. "That's like comparing a Ford model T to a Lamborghini."
"Oh..." Mark replies sheepishly, letting the subject drop.
Granddam favors him with a fond smile before proclaiming, "Und now, let us be off!"
"Vait for me!!" a voice cries out from the boat. A small gnome child runs up to the procession, carrying a large container of cider along with a well-wrapped plate of chocolate chip cookies.
Jin then says to Mark, "I guess that's our cue. How you want to do this, the old sidestep shuffle, or have one in front, carrying the box behind his back?"
"Uh... Let's go with the sidestep thing," says Mark. "It'd be harder for us to talk the other way, and it looks like we'll have room."
"Aaiight." He is silent for a little while as they both try to find a comfortable rhythm. "Are you from around here Mark?" He looks pointedly at the other man's clothes, "Or perhaps just out of school?"
"What?" Mark blinks. Then he follows Jin's gaze to his attire. "Oh! Nah. This is just what I showed up wearing. Ordinarily I'd have to dream up my _own_ clothes -- something like out of that 'Dungeons & Dragons' game, so I'd fit in. But I guess King Kuranes was feeling homesick enough to give some of the guests he called the 'Scrooge' treatment."
He smiles and shrugs. "It fits, I guess, but I feel pretty silly. But what can you do? He's the King."
The slender oriental man looks oddly at Mark for a moment, taking his eyes off the snowy street for a moment, "Are you saying he's responsible for our clothes ... or lack of them?" // Oh yeah, this king has a weird sense of humour. //
Mark shrugs. "Guess so. People generally show up in the Dreamlands wearing _nothing_, but the way I hear it, Kuranes has ways of bending the rules."
"Huh." His lips quirk into a wry grin, "Guess I fell through the cracks, so to say." He shakes his head a little, chuckling, "These clothes were given to me by a kindly old woman, her daughter and grandaughter. After they were done laughing at me anyways." It _was_ pretty amusing now.
"Oh... and no, I'm not from here, or anywhere else in the Dreamlands. I'm from Duncan, Arizona.
"Uh... 1983," he adds uncomfortably, like a foreigner remembering a recently learned local custom.
Jin blinks a few times, "Pardon? You're telling me we not only are dreaming together, there's also time travel involved? Heeeeey, what a good idea. Think Steve could work in some of his earlier ideas ..." He trails off, his mind obviously elsewhere for the moment.
Snapping back to dreamscape reality, Jin throws Mark a sheepish glance, "Sorry about that. That explains your Space Invaders comment though. I'm originally from Waldo Florida, but these days I'm living in Los Angeles with four room-mates; year 2000 ... soon to be 2001."
Mark nods. "Cool. Although, it's not really _time travel_. It's more about... uh... you _do_ know about Nexus, right?"
Gaze flickering between Mark and the snowy path in front of him, Jin asks innocently enough, "The nexus of what?"
"Uh, well, of _everything_, I guess." Mark replies. "Oh, man... wait 'till we get inside and sit down and I'll try to explain. I just found out about it myself not too long ago. Trust me: You _want_ to be sitting down first."
Jin raises an eyebrow, huffing a little with that announcement, looking as if he was caught between laughing and asking something. "I'll take your word for that Mark."
He grunts a little as he tries to heft the heavy box to a more comfortable grip, without losing stride, "So, are you saying you've been invited to one of these shindigs before?"
"Nope. This's the first one, as far as I know. But pretty much anyone who spends any time in the Dreamlands knows about King Kuranes."
"Well, I guess I'm one of the unfortunate few who don't. Though, with that disembodied head trick, I'm definitely going to recognize him when I see him. I've got to remember to mention that to Steve." He frowns thoughtfully to Mark, "I _will_ remember this won't I? Oh, if only I could get my hands on a sketch book. I don't forget anything I've sketched."
"Don't know," Mark confesses. "Ordinarily, a trip to the Dreamlands is just like an ordinary dream as far as remembering things goes.
"Of course, like I said before, this _isn't_ an ordinary trip to the Dreamlands," he adds with a grin.
Jin chuckles, "I usually don't have too may dreams in this category. It's generally me and many young women in bikini's giving my car an oil change." He grins widely to Mark at the end of that.
*****
"Cold. So very cold."
Kuros glances around quickly, as the last he remembered it wasn't cold. Or snowing. Or even winter, for that matter. Yet there he lies, supine, offering himself up to the ever-glowing moon as tiny snowflakes ping off his black, lacquered plate armour.
"Must have been some fight."
The last thing Kuros remembers is lying, face down in the mud, at the Battle of Brinsmuth. With a sword to his neck. Absentmindedly, Kuros lifts his heavy, black chainmail gauntlet and probes around his neck area cautiously. //Good, my torque's still intact. Must not have had the guts to kill a downed foe.//
"Where am I?"
Slowly, ponderously, (as it is hard to lift one's self when one is wearing a two-hundred pound iron can), he lifts his weary body into a sitting position to survey the area. Through the metal grille of his visor he can see little but an expanse of white, studded with myriad evergreen trees. Turning his head to the right, he notices a small trail leading through the woods. Footprints. His would-be slayers, perhaps?
With a mighty heave, Kuros pulls himself into a stand, works out the aches in his muscles, //Funny, my armour's clean. Not a spot of mud.//, and sets off in a dutiful walk in the direction the footprints point.
And that's when he hears them.
"Bells."
Quietly they ring through the crisp air. Slowly, almost inexorably, the bells become more and more clear as Kuros wends his way through the trail. And then, suddenly, a single voice. Smooth as honey, bright as quicksilver:
"Hark how the bells,
Sweet silver bells,
All seem to say,
Throw cares away."
Kuros quickens up his pace slightly. His armour clinks quietly about him as he wends further into the forest, towards the voice.
The siren's song is soon joined by two more, in perfect harmony:
"Christmas is here,
Bringing good cheer,
To young and old,
Meek and the bold."
//Christmas?//
The bells pulse rhythmically, their carillon blending perfectly with the music. Kuros breaks into a jog, eager to discover the source of his desires.
"Oh how they pound!
Raising the sound!
O'er hill and dale!
Telling their tale!"
Kuros can no longer take not knowing the origins of the bells, or the angelic choir accompanying it. Kuros starts sprinting, despite his weary body's complaints. His breath wears his throat raw, and his heart pounds
The trio is now backed by a full choir:
"Merry, merry, merry, merry Christmas!
The black, loping, armoured figure wears down quickly. With a ponderous grunt, his last energies are spent as he comes crashing down in a puff of white, clean, new-fallen snow.
Directly in front of a grey stone building, manned by a single figure, dressed much as a guard. Peering down at the exhausted figure, the guard leans over and whispers into Kuros's ear with an insistent tone:
"You'd better get up, Kuros. The King's waiting for you inside."
A middle-aged elf watches quietly nearby. Her slight stature is concealed beneath layers of carelessly knitted robes in a rainbow of colors, dripping with beads and bangles and dangling knots.
"Perhaps I can help," she says. "I think we are heading the same direction." She leans down to peer into the weary warrior's visor.
Kuros glimpses up (as evidenced by the slight turn in his very heavy head), and even from his position on the ground Rosalinda can see that he straightens his form out, ever so slightly.
"If only I knew what lies in that direction," he utters, with a very low timbre that seems to shudder the air about his face.
"I'm not altogether certain myself," she confesses. "Any answers of mine may well lead only to more questions."
"It may be wise," Kuros rumbles, "If we search out someone who *can* answer our questions.
"We should find the King as quickly as possible."
"I've had nought but questions since I got here."
"My name is Rosalinda."
"A pleasure. It has been a long while since I've seen an elf."
"I wish I had come upon you in less compromising circumstances, milady. I am Kuros, Kuros de Tynswight. Have you any idea where in the Realms we are? This is nothing like I've ever seen before."
"Well, no. I can't say I truly know where we are. But I can see this. We are in a place where one might well know things without having reason for knowing. And also," she smiles sympathetically, "One might find that things one ought to know are, instead, alien and obscure."
"I believe, then, that the best thing to do would be to head off and see what we can find. We have nothing to lose, since we have no idea what lies ahead."
In an effort to right the man, she tugs fruitlessly at the heavy armor then stands back as he begins to stir.
His exhaustion quickly worn away by a combination of chivalry and the motivation to discover the circumstances with which he got here, Kuros slowly drags his iron-clad body up from the snow, marring the fresh white fluff with deep gouges. Ever so carefully, so as not to upset his centre of gravity and fall again, he unfolds himself and finally comes to rest at his full height of roughly six feet.
Offering Rosalinda an arm to rest upon, Kuros gazes down the path past the guard house, his every motion accompanied by the sharp clink of metal on metal.
"And," she says, "I know that there is something of great import to me and it is down this path."
"In that direction? The guard also told me that the King is waiting for me. Which king? This looks nothing like Monshire to me."
"I don't know Monshire. But I heard the carol bells, and I know we are here at the Midwinter Feast. Joy when the nights are long. Christmas, they call it."
"Monshire was," Kuros catches himself, "is the kingdom in which my barony, Tynswight, lies." Kuros turns his head upwards and regards the moon, that which seems to be the only constant between his home realm and whatever place he is now. Rosalinda notices Kuros is quivering slightly.
"I haven't had a Midwinter Feast in a long while. It may be nice to relax."
"And one thing more. In my heart I keep hearing an ancient song: In the darkest night, He kindles the fire that never dies away, never dies away. In the darkest night, he kindles the fire that never dies."
"While I have not heard the song as you have, I can appreciate you wanting to find out what it could all mean. And I would be honoured to help you discover that meaning. Shall we, milady?"
Kuros and Rosalinda wend their way through the path, with Kuros's heavy, ponderous gait a perfect foil to Rosalinda's lithe movements Rosalinda's small, delicate footprints dot the snow beside a pair of grooves which snake behind the dark knight, following Kuros wherever he walks. Kuros again gazes up and away, his severe form seeming ready to engulf the haphazard beauty of Rosalinda's own attire.
"Perhaps it is something to do with you," she smiles slyly.
Kuros, snapped from his reverie, grinds his helmet and trains his visor on Rosalinda.
"Whatever do you mean?"
"You're certainly the darkest knight I've ever seen. But what fire is kindled in you? And by whom?"
"My fires are my own!" Kuros rumbles, the air chilling almost imperceptibly between his own face and that of Rosalinda. Noting her startled expression, Kuros softens slightly:
"I was lord of Tynswight once, until it was taken from me. I know not why - the last thing I remember before ending up . . ." Kuros carves an arc across the forest and path with his right arm, ". . . here, was the uprising. Bodies everywhere. My followers fought valiantly, but, before I blanked out, I ended up face down, in the mud, with a sword at my neck. And then I woke up here."
"Sir Kuros, are you a dreamer?" she asks, watching him intently.
"I have not slept well in a long while," Kuros softens his voice another level, now a velvet basso which loops its way towards Rosalinda and rests itself upon her ears.
"And I have certainly not slept since the battle, at least not consciously. My dreams have all been troubled . . ."
As they ply their way along the wooded path, Rosalinda speaks little but watches and hears much. Her hand rests lightly on his arm, but no tremble, nor wobble, nor alteration in the tone of his melifluous voice escapes her notice.
Kuros plods along, almost imperceptibly trying to stay one step ahead of Rosalinda, making sure it is known who is leading whom. The weight of his armour, however, soon makes it apparent that his is doomed to failure.
"But that is no matter. Perhaps this . . . King, knows of mine own King and can tell me exactly what happened, when I was assaulted in my own domain.
"Why do you ask of dreams, elfin one? Know you something I don't?"
"I only know that when you speak, I...," Rosalinda's voice falters as the pair step into a meticulous formal garden. All about them sparkle the carefully sculpted forms of topiary shrubs blanketed with snow and multicolored lights. Amidst the moonlight and glimmering rainbows, Rosalinda stops. "Oh. Oh, my," she whispers.
Kuros unconsciously relaxes his arms, letting Rosalinda's own arm drop unexpectedly. "Fascinating . . ." Kuros utters in a low, awe-filled tone. Were it not for the heavy iron visor masking his features, it would probably be evident that his mouth is agape.
"This is like nothing I've ever seen before . . . it's . . . amazing."
She turns to speak when, suddenly, an enormous and benevolent apparition appears in the sky.
The ever-present grind of metal-on-metal accompanies Kuros's motion of looking up to take in this happening.
"My friends," it begins, a conversational tone in every ear, "I, King Kuranes, Lord of Ooth-Nargai and the Floating City of Serannian, bid you welcome to this, my celebration of Christmas."
// So that is where we are, and who brought me, // Kuros thinks.
"Some of you I have drawn to the Lands of Dream on this festive occasion because you are friends, or are friends of friends." His smile broadens. "Others of you are Dreamers I have deemed both worthy and needful of such merriment as I may provide. Whatever the case may be, I bid you all to join me in my manor in Cornwall-by-the-Sea, where old friends may be reunited and new friends made in a feast of Yuletide wonder the likes of which no land, Dream or Waking, has ever seen!"
The figure vanishes in a whirling column of snow. And the snow continues to fall softly all around the knight and the elf. Standing speechless, Rosalinda allows the snow to fall on her upturned face.
The snow lands upon Kuros with tiny pings, studding his massive armour with water droplets that catch and play the reflections of the myriad lights about the pair.
"I must have been summoned because I fall into the latter category." Kuros utters, slightly bemused. "Certainly this is like nothing I have seen, and that only makes me more the wondering. Shall we continue?" Kuros begins again to lead Rosalinda on, his head scanning left and right as he marvels at the topiary and lights that surround the two. Nearly every turn of his head brings another grunt of appreciation . . . or is it acceptance?
On her part, Rosalinda is absorbed by the garden. She slips away from the knight's side to study its treasures at closer range, her multicolored robes merging with the lights. Though ranging off the path, she progresses apace with the trudging warrior. She stops to appreciate the form of a gnarled tree and does not turn when he speaks.
"Before, milady, you said you knew of what I spoke. What meant you by that?"
"As the King, Kuranes confirmed," she replies without looking round, "You are a dreamer. Worthy and needful of the comforts this place affords. But can you receive them?"
"If I have been brought here," Kuros remarks, his eyes still scanning the area in amazement, "I must be worthy to receive." It is, however, apparent that Kuros speaks partly to pay respect to the King, and partly to affirm himself of his reasons for being here.
Kuros continues down the path, eyes ever searching, but grinds to a halt when he notices that Rosalinda has stopped.
At the side of the path, she bends to cup a flower in her hands, a flower encased in frost and lights. "I believe the darkest things in this place are the darkness we brought with us, the darkness in our own hearts. Will we allow the light to be kindled there?"
Kuros utters a mighty sigh, rattling from deep within his mighty helm. Scrutinizing the flower, as if it would become more beautiful just by it being regarded, he exclaims in his basso, chocolate voice, slightly twinged with remorse:
"It would be rude of me, dishonourable even, to turn down the solace that Kuranes has offered me in such good faith."
She takes his arm once more, trying to perceive the man inside the armor. "I wish I could answer your questions, ease your doubts, and perhaps your weariness. But that is not for me to do."
"I can, however," she continues with a sly smile, "accompany you to the feast."
"I, milady, would be honoured to be your escort, if you would have me."
She hops ahead of him on the path, laughs and whirls like a slow-moving gypsy. "Look!" she points ahead, "we've come to the house."
*****
Cliickitek swam around in his small pond of sparkly, fizzy water, confusion roiling through his mind. // It was not the lake I had fallen asleep beside. It wasn't even the same colour! // Once again he preens himself, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart with the soothing movements. There was movement all around him; a large amount of strange, wonderful and terrifying beings.
He had never been trained for such things. He was destined to be a packer. Packers weren't known to or needed to have a lot of brainpower and at this moment, he certainly wished he did. All he could think was that if he stayed in this magical pool, none would harm him.
A sudden rustle from the punch bowl causes her to blink out of her daydream. Her grin cuts through her solemn face, and her eyes light up again.
On closer examination, this was a rather odd looking bird. He seems to have feathers more like a penguin than a bird of flight. He does have one long feather atop his head and three others, a little longer than his body, which sprout from his rear. The small, tight feathers on his body were white with a pinkish cast to them, which when seen within the liquid, reminds one of the gleaming scales of lake trout. He doesn't seem to have any wings, but by the odd curvature to the sides of his body and the almost imperceptible lines curving along hs sides, it seems like he may have them hidden, folded within.
There are several things that distinguishes him from the regular, run-of-the-mill bird and one was the fact that he had only one leg. The leg looks fairly muscular and from its placement, it seems to be a natural feature to have only one. The appendage ends in a wide, webbed foot, tipped with tiny talons. If that wasn't strange enough, there were his eerie looking eyes. They were delicate pink, but instead of orbs inset within his skull cavity, they were rings, situated on either side of his head like halves of miniature donuts glued to the side of an grapefruit. Within these rings floats his black pupils, each working independently of the other, giving him a rather loopy look. His beak takes up half of his head; it's stubby, looks tough enough to break rocks and is white with pink stripes.
"I never thought I'd see a bird floatin' like that in a place so fancy." She plucks a grape from a nearby tray, offering it to the bird. "Hello, pretty one. Are you hungry? You make quite a fine centerpiece to this arrangement."
The noises the being makes are like the sounds of a slowly flowing book and he realizes they are words, though he doesn't understand how he knows. As she approaches, he puffs up, standing in the crystalline bowl, his body shuddering and a faint mist of punch droplets gracing the air with his movements. His long feathers, no longer weighed down by the liquid, puff up, showing their glory. Cliickitek cocks head this way and that to take a better look at the being approaching him. Still he delicately shudders and the reason for that becomes clear as a coruscating cascade of colours wash up and down his head and tail feathers, hypnotizing in their effect.
This effect stops as he gazes upon something she holds between her digits. // Food? Could it be a nut?! // The bird stares at the round object held in Molly's fingers, obviously torn between taking it, continuing his shuddering or running away. Hunger makes up his mind, his head darts forward quickly and that powerful beak snaps on the grape, which explodes, juice splattering outwards in a small radius. Startled by the lack of physical consistency and the liquid that splattered over him, he springs out of the punchbowl and hops to the floor, to hide underneath the nearest chair.
*****
Siri wends her way through the Hall, nodding and smiling, pausing to greet a couple of people and learn their names, looking for the source of the singing she can hear. // Sounds sort of like wolves, but nicer.// She finds herself outside once again, snow brushing against her cheek. And not far away, she can see a humongous giant sitting listening to coyotes singing happily away.
Willowdew zips past Siri like a tiny chiming comet of sparkles, arms waving frantically as she rushes toward Jumbrick and the coyote choir.
At the fairy's speedy exit, the Coyoteson's grin becomes even broader. He turns partially away from Molly and Lovecraft, and seems to lean forward in eager anticipation.
Siri jerks a little and blinks, then follows the trail of the fairy's sparkles as Willowdew rushes past. // What the...//
*****
"Oooo...look at that!" Brinly croons. She grins up at Sofia, and politely offers the bowl to Iris. She holds out the little hatchling so the other girl can get a closer look at it. "Here. I'll hold it, and you can feed it, okay?
"Say..." she pauses, head cocked. "We should name it, too, shouldn't we?"
Iris nods fervently as she accepts the bowl of milk. "Of course!" She holds a droplet of milk on her fingertip and watches as it drops into the infant's mouth. "Is it a boy or a girl? Would that dragon who was here earlier know?"
*****
Daffydd fairly beams with pleasure. "Yes...she decided to overlook my short-comings and make an honest man of me," he says, rather ironically though they wouldn't know that. "And I couldn't be happier." He looks around. "But there's a party to be had! I say we partake, and at once!" He smiles at Joe with a conspiratorial lean. "I have to admit to being rather famished!"
"So say we all!" Joe laughs, doing his best Henry VIII. "You know, I don't recall ever bein' _hungry_ in a dream before, but just now, I'm hopin' this King's good and stocked up for the winter!"
He looks up at his purple friend. "Well, Rexalc! I believe it's time we--"
The little female seems to carry the melody, which is simple, repetitive, and happy. She carols through it twice and then stops, as the other five continue the harmony of howls. She yips at the giant expectantly.
Jumbrick just blinks at the coyote, wondering why she has stopped her singing. Then his toothy smile blossoms along with his understanding.
"Uh.. !" Aria tries to interrupt as she notices a tiny sparkle...
Willowdew zips up to the giant's head level just as he inhales, sucking her down his throat.
"Oh!"
Comprehension dawns on Siri and she begins to lift her hands to hide her ears.
Then Jumbrick tilts back his head and joins the chorus.
"HAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAA....!!!!"
"Eek!" Aria immediately is bowled head over tail into a huge snow drift. Only her tail juts from the snow, where she is happy to remain for a few moments, dazed, for it muffled the sound a fraction.
From amid the mass of people surrounding the banquet table, a little voice rises in dispair. "Oh, Jumbrick...."
Willowdew rockets back out of Jumbrick's mouth along with his "song", arcing far out over the trees of the garden like a stream of sparkling spittle.
The windows of the manor rattle ominously. The snow falls from the branches of the quivering trees. Slumbering birds and animals awake in a panic and scramble off in all directions.
Rexalc's head sways in time to the thunderous yowling, a smile on his face.
Daffydd winces, covering his ears. "Dewi Sant!" he cries. "What is THAT?" he demands, though no one can hear him over the din.
Joe's reply, whether answer or exclamation, is carried away by the tsunami of sound.
Siri gasps and her hands move to cover her mouth in surprise, uncovering her ears. She winces and covers them again, watching to see what happens to the fairy. // Now I know why people think giants are bad... he could use a mute!//
[OOC: Siri is refering to the musical form of a mute, in case anyone was wondering how she would know about mute buttons in a pre-technological society. :-)]
~What's going on? What IS that?~ Iris' mental voice seems faint and far away in Siri's mind.
Samuel lets loose an explosive, barking laugh. "Well carried, Son of Earth!" he shouts, though it is doubtful that Jumbrick could hear him through the walls of the house and over his own song.
"D-amn!" Molly yelps in the most unladylike fashion, clapping her hands over her ears.
Outside, the coyote chorus flinches at the volume, but do not break. Instead they raise their own voices, creating a cacophony that is at once both unruly and beautiful. The female sings accompanyment to the giant's own voice, spinning herself back and forth in a chaotic dance that kicks up clods of snow and flings them at her fellow singers.
"Oh, dear," says Kuranes, looking up at the great caterwauling.
"_That_ will not do at _all_."
He seems to nod off where he stands for just a moment, an old man bored briefly to sleep.
Outside, a light spiral of snow rises around the chorus, slowly enveloping them in a transparent spinning dome of glittering frost. Although they remain clearly visible, the sound of Jumbrick's song -- and its effects -- fade away.
Aria pokes her head up through the drift and blinks. "Huh, " she chuckles and takes a seat by but outside of the dome.
On the outside of the dome, at least. Inside, Jumbrick continues to bellow happily away, lost in the rapture of unrestrained youth.
"Awww," says Samuel, sounding like a little kid who has been denied his fun. "You are no fun, Kuranes," he admonishes, brandishing a finger at the king. He is smiling as he says it though, and his tone is self-mocking. He turns back to the others, chuckling to himself.
"I suspect," Kuranes replies with a smile, shaking off his catnap, "that the quality of fun would drop precipitously were I to allow the windows to be blown in. For those of us without fur coats, that is."
Her hands slip and Molly listens carefully. She sighs, shaking her head slightly in an effort to calm her nerves. "I may be needin' a drink soon, " she mutters, rubbing her hands over each other.
*****
Siri notices the sudden quieting of Jumbrick's song and dares to lighten the pressure against her ears. // What was that?// She watches as Jumbrick sings happily away and can hear echoes in her mind of his voice. She smiles at the look on his face and shivers in delight. ~That was just me getting my ears sung off my head. No problem.~ "I'm glad he at least gets to enjoy himself. Must be hard being a giant," she says to no one in particular.
Daffydd lets his hands pull away from his ears, carefully at first, ready to reattach themselves should the need arise. "Good lord," he remarks in an exhale. "It sounds to me as though this celebration is in dire need of musical intervention!" So saying, he grins at Joe and begins to stride purposefully forward toward the entrance to the manor. "Daffydd ab Ennett Ieuan to the rescue!"
"Oh!"
Siri is bumped from behind by a girl laden with trays of glazed fruits and roast tubers. Olwen scrambles to keep them from falling to the ground, her small arms struggling to support so much food.
Siri throws her arms out to balance herself, then decides that balancing the tray is more important. She catches Olwen's elbow and holds her steady until Olwen is no longer falling.
When balance is regained, she looks up at Siri and smiles shyly.
"Sorry! Did I hurt you? No? Can you help me carry these, then, so I don't hit anyone else? My giant's hungry, and he won't bellow like that again if his mouth's full...."
She trails off as she spies Jumbrick, happily shouting away to himself in the safe confines of Kuranes' bubble. "Oh, my...."
Siri smiles. "Here, I'll help you." She accepts part of Olwen's burden and turns back to Jumbrick. "He's you're giant? What's his name?"
"Well, I'm in charge of him," Olwen amends. "His name's Jumbrick, and I'm Olwen. There's a fairy here, too, but I can't see her any more..." she makes a show of looking around, but shrugs when the little fey can't be found. "I guess she's gone to find some other fairies."
"I'm glad to meet you! My name is Siri." Siri's grin grows as she adds fairies to the list of new beings she's seen (or heard about) so far this dream.
As they approach Jumbrick, Siri wonders idly whether people can walk through the bubble around Jumbrick... and if her ears could take the pressure.
Olwen carefully balances what's left of her tray, and reaches out to poke tentatively at the bubble with her mittened hand.
Siri half watches Olwen and half watches the huge man (or boy?) sitting in the snow singing his heart out. // Must be beautiful to have such a carefree childhood// she thinks with a small sigh.
The touch of the swirling bubble is akin to that of the playful winter breeze that finds without fail the gap between scarf and neck.
Merry, merry, merry, merry Christmas!
On on they send!
On without end!
Their joyful tone to every home!
Dong Ding dong ding, dong Bong!"
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