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heirtothearcaneEverything about the Dreamwalker's surroundings is designed to have every aspect of his day simply fall into place. From a perfectly tailored suit waiting for him in the morning, down to the cup of tea ready and waiting to stir him from his sleepy haze. Breakfasts never worked for him, so, tea in hand, he moves to his study, untouched from the day before. All his musings and half thoughts ready to be picked up from where they were left. There is almost always a book open on his desk which he'll read a chapter of while he finishes his tea.
It's after his tea, when he slips away from his papers and settles into his chair of choice, that his day really begins. Feet up, ankles crossed, hands folded neatly on his stomach, eyes closed. All those little things that make him more comfortable aren't even noticed anymore. It's so easy for him now, it has been since he was a boy. So easy for him to slip from the waking world to the dreamlands. Sinking into the warm, comfortable darkness like a light but encompassing blanket replacing his surroundings.
He doesn't need to open his eyes. They're already open. On a beach that stretches on for miles, winding like a line drawn by a shaking hand. Beyond the sand are dunes that are just high enough to hide anything beyond them, riddled with sharp grass too. Not that it matters. He never cares to step that way. There is the sea, of course. Wide and deep and endless. It's the sky that draws his eye. Though the sand glows and the sea sparkles as if a strong sun hung above them, the sky is a window into a space-like scene. Bright stars and swirling galaxies. A place full of blues, purples, greens, yellows, oranges... All the colours spread across a black canvas and standing out all the more for it.
This is the part where he smiles. Without fail, he smiles. This is home. Here, where he can see all the dreams of all the people of the world. Maybe even of all the worlds. Here where he can choose one and simply step...
... Cold and close and dark. Grey. Pressure. Stress. This is stress. Looking up, he sees the office, feels the dark impending approach of his boss. No. Not his boss. The dreamer's boss. The dreamer, sitting with his hands clutching the small desk of his cubicle, sweating and choking and whimpering all at once. Viatorus becomes nothing. No one. A grey figure in a grey room. It's just the dreamer and his dream. There is no one offering simple, gentle statements informing the dreamer that he is calm. No voice whispering into the dreamer's ear when the boss looms over him, telling him that all his work was completed long ago and that he is actually far ahead of schedule. It's entirely the dream and no outside influence whatsoever that has the boss relaxing, informing the dreamer that he is due a promotion, patting him on the shoulder and thanking him for his hard work. The hidden beauty that is the dreamer's crush is not guided over to the dreamer and is entirely unprompted in starting up a conversation with him. Just a conversation. A small moment of attention to treasure. No one leaves...
... but Viatorus steps into another dream to enjoy another work of the imagination. Something bright and colourful full of weird and wonderful contraptions.
This hour or so of exploration, while not strictly the studious work that takes up the majority of his time, is by far the most enjoyable part of it. It sets the tone for the day. It reminds him of his passion, of what he works for. It reminds him of who he is and the title he holds. That this is just a morning walk for the Dreamwalker.
It's after his tea, when he slips away from his papers and settles into his chair of choice, that his day really begins. Feet up, ankles crossed, hands folded neatly on his stomach, eyes closed. All those little things that make him more comfortable aren't even noticed anymore. It's so easy for him now, it has been since he was a boy. So easy for him to slip from the waking world to the dreamlands. Sinking into the warm, comfortable darkness like a light but encompassing blanket replacing his surroundings.
He doesn't need to open his eyes. They're already open. On a beach that stretches on for miles, winding like a line drawn by a shaking hand. Beyond the sand are dunes that are just high enough to hide anything beyond them, riddled with sharp grass too. Not that it matters. He never cares to step that way. There is the sea, of course. Wide and deep and endless. It's the sky that draws his eye. Though the sand glows and the sea sparkles as if a strong sun hung above them, the sky is a window into a space-like scene. Bright stars and swirling galaxies. A place full of blues, purples, greens, yellows, oranges... All the colours spread across a black canvas and standing out all the more for it.
This is the part where he smiles. Without fail, he smiles. This is home. Here, where he can see all the dreams of all the people of the world. Maybe even of all the worlds. Here where he can choose one and simply step...
... Cold and close and dark. Grey. Pressure. Stress. This is stress. Looking up, he sees the office, feels the dark impending approach of his boss. No. Not his boss. The dreamer's boss. The dreamer, sitting with his hands clutching the small desk of his cubicle, sweating and choking and whimpering all at once. Viatorus becomes nothing. No one. A grey figure in a grey room. It's just the dreamer and his dream. There is no one offering simple, gentle statements informing the dreamer that he is calm. No voice whispering into the dreamer's ear when the boss looms over him, telling him that all his work was completed long ago and that he is actually far ahead of schedule. It's entirely the dream and no outside influence whatsoever that has the boss relaxing, informing the dreamer that he is due a promotion, patting him on the shoulder and thanking him for his hard work. The hidden beauty that is the dreamer's crush is not guided over to the dreamer and is entirely unprompted in starting up a conversation with him. Just a conversation. A small moment of attention to treasure. No one leaves...
... but Viatorus steps into another dream to enjoy another work of the imagination. Something bright and colourful full of weird and wonderful contraptions.
This hour or so of exploration, while not strictly the studious work that takes up the majority of his time, is by far the most enjoyable part of it. It sets the tone for the day. It reminds him of his passion, of what he works for. It reminds him of who he is and the title he holds. That this is just a morning walk for the Dreamwalker.