<span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Courier;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 16pt;"><strong>S T O R Y T E L L E R</strong></span></span><hr/><div class="floatleft">(https://i.pinimg.com/564x/3c/f5/34/3cf534981e609fca0503a4cf6df7f8c8.jpg)</div><strong>Dramatis Personae:</strong>Igneus<br/><strong>Wearing:</strong>N/A<br/><br/><strong>Time:</strong><em>2nd Eadae of the Month of Forge, late evening</em><br/><strong>Location:</strong><em>Dream Sequence</em><br/><strong>Tagging | Mentioning:</strong>Fennu |<br/><strong>Notes:</strong><br/><hr/><br/>It’s been a long day. Once the sunlight starts to fade, there’s some time spent around the hearth for unwinding and chattering–but even that time eventually burns away, and Fennu, like the others, finds herself in bed.<br/><br/>Tonight, she falls asleep almost the second her head hits the pillow. While Fennu may or may not be prone to lucid dreaming, tonight, she will have a crystal clear recollection of everything that is about to be experienced.<br/><br/>And it all starts with being warm. Comfy-warm. It is bright here. She floats around through space, possessing no real physicality, and luxuriating in the comfy-warmth for what feels like an eternity. Time has no meaning in this place.<br/><br/>An interminably long stretch of time passes. It is comfortable, and it is warm, but Fennu doesn’t really feel anything. She–or rather, the being she is experiencing being–does not have the emotions to feel happy, or sad, or bored, or anything else.<br/><br/>“We give thanks to you, O fire, for guiding our way.” The words are strange. It is a disturbance in the calm of this realm. What is thanks? What is guiding? Who is speaking? Questions without answers. What is a question? What is an answer? Why do we know these things?<br/><br/>“O mighty flame, thank you for your blessing of warmth.” “It is through the blessings of the flame we have endured, we must give thanks.” “We must sacrifice.” “Sacrifice?” “Sacrifice!” The voices keep coming, at first a trickle, but every voice seems to spawn ten more voices, all saying different variations of the fundamentally same message.<br/><br/>And with every whispered voice comes new questions; questions lead to thinking; thinking leads to answers; and answers lead to growth. Metamorphosis.<br/><br/>But still, an interminable length of time passes. The dwarves are offering another sacrifice. They burn sweet, but pungent, herbs. They say the smoke makes you happy, but does it?<br/><br/>…more time passing. The dwarves are calling to you once more. There is no sweet, pungent smoke. Their tones are different. Fear. “Help us, O flame!” they cry out.<br/><br/>But how can Igneus help them? The question leads to an answer, the answer to growth. The veil between worlds is thin, right… here. And where is here? Now Fennu, as Igneus, becomes aware of the concepts of dimensions, both mundane and metaphysical.<br/><br/>They burst forth through the Veil between the Waking World and the Sea of Subconscious Thought, and they see the humanoid world for the very first time. And yet, at a glance, she knows what is what. There’s a forge, there’s a lantern, there’s rock and walls, and dwarves, and…<br/><br/>And there is a creature of animated rock killing the dwarves! What does Igneus, the first of their kind, the progenitor of fire elementals, do? Do they watch with curiosity? Do they strike out, and smite the slayer of their worshippers? Do they sink back into the infinite void of comfortable silence and warmth? Or something else entirely?