<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/736x/b9/36/95/b936954e2b2a2d3dfa78fbd37b4eb06d.jpg)</div><strong>Dramatis Personae:</strong>Iskandar the Ur-khan, Bodil, Ketill<br/><strong>Wearing:</strong>Layered Wüstian Garb<br/><br/><strong>Time:</strong><em>2nd Eadae of the Month of Forge, late evening</em><br/><strong>Location:</strong><em></em>Dream Sequence<br/><strong>Tagging | Mentioning:</strong>Mugi |<br/><strong>Notes:</strong><br/><hr/>Regardless of all the excitement of the day, a time eventually comes where Mugi lays down to sleep. Yet, her senses prickle; 'light' from the Mana Sapling in the courtyard streams in from the window. It's a hard thing to ignore, though Alethea says it gets easier with time.<br/><br/>Everything in this world, to Mugi, has Mana. Every blade of grass, every rock, tree; the smallest insect, to the largest megafauna, everything has Mana. The Mana of a single blade of grass may only be 1/1,000,000th of what is contained in a human, but it's<em>there</em>. Anything alive seems to have Mana; so the dead, preserved wood of her bed has no 'light' to it, nor the fabric of her blanket or clothes.<br/><br/>It's only closing her eyes that gives her a reprieve from the constant stimuli, and the moment she does close her eyes, she falls immediately into dreaming, regardless of how much (or little) difficulty she usually would have.<br/><br/>When her eyes open again--a split second later--she is in a new bed. There are luxurious silks and warm, comfortable furs surrounding her. A man is curled up against her left side; a woman on her right. The three of them are naked, but it doesn't even take a glance at her body to realize that she is not in her own body.<br/><br/>She is in the body of a male. Or, at least, someone with male genitalia. A glance at the thin, young man (https://cdnb.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/005/805/571/large/logic-artists-wolf.jpg?1493897041) at her side brings a name to mind:<em>Ketill.</em>A similar glance to the woman (https://i.pinimg.com/originals/92/a8/b6/92a8b670eb78150c53e9d5b57eada807.jpg) also brings to mind a name:<em>Bodil</em>.<br/><br/>Iskandar rises from bed; the two companions stir about in their sleep, but they are being lazy and indulgent like usual. Yet, Iskandar can't help but feel like they deserve the rest. How many years have they fought together? Bled together? And it's only quite recently that things have been quiet, that peace, a fragile thing, has reigned over the tribes of Wüst. They deserve the rest.<br/><br/>A glance to Bodil's growing belly, and the life it contains, tells Iskandar that she especially needs her rest. The now physical proof that an heir will soon be born will do much to placate the people, who worry about the stability and continuity of rule. As he glances into a mirror, and sees some light bruising from the rather active night the three of them had, Iskandar thinks about that.<br/><br/><em>It doesn't matter if that child is of my blood or not. Blood alone should not guarantee rule. Skill, wisdom, virtue; these are the things I must make sure to impart to them.</em>But, Iskandar knows that the people of Wüst are extraordinarily stubborn. His generation, and the ones before him that are still alive; they'd never accept the ideals of a meritocracy. And so, he reasons, he must ensure that his child--and indeed, the whole of the next generation--will continue the march of progress.<br/><br/>Which reminds him of all the<em>meetings</em>he has to deal with today. And meetings, as it turns out, are best conducted with clothes. After consulting his wardrobe, he dresses himself. Comfortable cloth on the first layer; then a layer of protective, fine leather; and a bear fur lined cloak.<br/><br/>Wüst is a frigid land, and so layers are essential. The fur is actually a little much--Iskandar is used to worse. But, the fur of the great bear helps to project an aura of power and dominance. Does he like it? No, actually, he doesn't! But it works. It assuages the concerns of his people, who see it as a symbol of power (and thus, of his ability to provide and protect them).<br/><br/>After dressing himself, he goes to a vanity mirror, dips two fingers into a jar of oil that has a slight cinnamon scent to it, and rubs the oil into his beard. He then takes an inordinate amount of time to carefully plait the facial hair. As he works on it, he thinks how ridiculous it is that projecting masculinity is so important. Some of the more backwards of his kinfolk would even question his leadership on the simple basis of how nice his beard looks.<em>The rest of the world will leave us behind if we stick to such outdated notions. Yet, I must wear this mask; else I risk the peace.</em><br/><br/><div class="floatright">(https://i.pinimg.com/564x/28/65/c2/2865c2e4b4ade6cab5ceaf5967da53df.jpg)</div>So much of his persona is a mask, he realizes, as he stares into the mirror. He can not be who he wants to be. His people are not yet ready to accept such ideas. It leads to unease and anxiety. But these feelings, too, must be buried beneath his mask. He can not afford to have any one question him, unless it is done with wisdom and virtue.<br/><br/><em>What more can I do for my people? What more can I do for those who will come after us?</em>These thoughts consume him as, properly dressed and groomed, he steps out of his bed chambers, and out into the castle proper. There's a brief and quiet interlude where he downs some weak ale (which might as well be water) and eats a few honey cakes for breakfast, and then he's off again--back out into the comfortable cold, moving with purpose and determination.<br/><br/>And yet, that movement always slows down when he reaches one of the landing areas of the stone stairs, and he can get a proper glimpse of Iskandaria proper. Glancing out, he can see the two giant maple trees, in the branches of which are a burgeoning Elven District, where the Singers shape the tree to support their buildings.<br/><br/>His attention then drifts to the docks, dotted with purple and red wooden houses, reinforced with stone. The orcs are already hauling in fish from their nightly expedition.<br/><br/>And, while painfully aware of the passage of time, he can't help but spare a glance at the squat, square, brick and mortar building that is the Dwarven Crafthall. He has business there, later; but first, he reminds himself, are his meetings in the Hall.<br/><br/>And it is here where the memories grow fuzzy and distort. They split before Mugi, and, though she may not be used to lucid dreaming, she nevertheless finds herself with the ability to<em>make a choice</em>here. Does she focus on the meeting with the librarian? The educator? The marshal of his troops? The diplomat from Tír na nÓg? Or his personal business with the dwarves?