Two figures sit in strange chairs, speaking animatedly, uncaring that the mess of spears that each chair is made of pierces through with each motion.<br/><br/>One figure is a young man, bathed in red gold, speaking of experiments with heart, and applying the entirely wrong set of grammar rules to his words. He's giving words gender and number according to the rules of Skytongue, as spoken near 000000. Combined with the actual Old Realm, it means that everything gets the gender of the color it is as he sees it, or the feel of it to his hands.<br/><br/>The other is humanioid, but it seems to be made of some kind of gel, and several open maws adorn the main trunk of the body, the hands, and the underside of the chin. No maw where the mouth should be, though. It's also flat and smooth, and green. The other speaker doesn't seem to have an exact shade in mind, so the gender of this one changes constantly, at least as it is being spoken of.<br/><br/>"By my dim crimson heart (female heart), you are made stronger, my emerald love (female emerald, male love)."<br/><br/>"But even with that, the tides have worn away at this one. And you are gone."<br/><br/>You are yourself seated in a chair, but it is merely made of thorns, so it merely hurts to move and take your drink.<br/><br/>The green turns to you. On its head is written 'Betrayed.' A laurel is in its hands. "As nice as dreams are, do you not need to awaken?"<br/><br/>Flesh turns to you. On his head is written 'Self-sacrificed.' A cameo of Venus is in his hands. "Yes, doesn't old blue you (male blue) have something to do, or do my eyes deceive me?"<br/><br/>You stand, catching a look at yourself. The body is not yours. The words are not yours. The actions are not yours.<br/><br/><br/>You gesture to the pair, and flames and hurricanes, and floods and earthquakes bear down on the pair. "Isn't it already done," you say in not your own voice. Flesh lies back, and rips out a still beating heart. Green eats it. Both perish.<br/><br/>You turn, and gesture to yourself, seeing both not-you and you. Not-you hands a baton to you. "It is done. But not finished."<br/><br/>You grasp the baton.<br/><br/>You wake to the wide leaf over your head almost touching your lowest part of your lower body (feet, that's the right name, yes?) because the rain has gotten harder.<br/><br/>Still dry, thankfully.