Elysium

Dokzentir

Someone walks the nightly path, in strange moonlight and faint fog. Over the bridge they wander wistful. Looking at the wondrous sky with longing. Arriving at the doorstep of the city in a dream.

Elysium

It is real, and it is a dream. A city as a bridge, where wonders are grasped from the ether, and sent to be made real. Built by the Empyrean. Elysium can not be visited in a state of wake and sobriety, one can only observe it from a distance. Only those dreamy can enter it. I am an Elysian Architect. I was tasked like many others to build this place, to dream it up into existence. We have been dreaming for so long, we can never again come back to the waking world. But you, you are a visitor. In daydream at night you stumbled here.

I dream of clouds, as far as I can see. I dream of a city in a sky. A sky of quiet, of reflection, of rest and restlessness. I dream of spires of marble, of amber, of gold. A thousand windows; no, much more. Windows to look through, to wish. An atmosphere of sleepiness, for residents and wanderers that walk the large halls of this Traumkastell. I see large arches, of pearl and moonstone and lapis lazuli, extending outwards from the city, like arches. A sun so splendorous, holding the city aglow. Obsidian obelisks above the sun, like the spikes of the sun's crown.

Do you see the city? Do you see the sun? What do you dream?

Grand_Duke_Johann

I dream. I dream of the spirals of amber and marble. I dream of the sun, terrible, magnanimous. It watches over me. Over us. Always has. I have crossed the bridge, and still, I know I have no place here. Undesired. Undesireable. I dream of the Traumkastell's hallways, so familiar, and yet, so alien. They smell of spices, of smoke and herbs. They glow with the warmth of iron lamps that hold on to the walls, like beetles. Why do the halways look so much like the doorways on my street? If I am silent enough, I can hear the flutes in the distance, and the drums faint enough that I am unsure if I am not listening to my own heartbeat. The halls remind me of home. And yet, at the same time, I can see them for what they are. Shifting. Nebulous. Like an everchanging mist of gold dust and sunlight. I can sense a presence close to me. A peacock. They roam around the halls, unconstrained by the colors a peacock should be. One extends it's tail, and a thousand eyes stare at me. There is no reproach in their sight, but rather, an invitation. Perhaps, after all, I was meant to be here. Perhaps, here, the sun's terrible sight bears no more weight than my own

I walk further. I wear a cape, feathery, flowing, like the one I always dreamt of weaving in the waking world. The Peacocks thousand eyes seem satisfied. We wander through an arch, finding ourselves in a courtyard. Saints of stone look down on me, covered in moss an ivy. One is my mother. My sisters. The Countess of Silk and Velvet, holding my work in her hands. I touch my face, only to realize I am weeping. I felt pride that day, didn't I? Or did I feel pride today? The peacock does not answer. It is nowhere to be seen. Was there always a fountain there, with the soft rustling of water? I do not mind. I sit on it's edge, round, eged, shiny new and ruinously old. I submerge my hand in the water, and fron the depths of the fountain, I pull a fish. It scales glow like stars, and it's eyes plead with me for a second. It is useless

From the fish's material,I start weaving. I weave between my fingers, and before I realize it, I am no longer in the fountain. Or was I the fountain? I am now in darkness. Void. Far away, I see the outline of the castle, I see it's terrible sun, shining over it. Beautiful, and yet, it bleeds. I know this. The sun can bleed, despite what I have been told. The sun's sight is on me. It knows I know it's secret. The panes of glass, shifting, changing around it, spin. It knows I know, and yet, I hold it's gaze. And for a second, I am locked in duel with the sun itself

I have seen your sun, architect, and I knew her terrible gaze, long ago. And yet, I can't help but feel it is different. What reason has brought me here? Amd I a part of your design? Do I live, in the waking world? Or am I another machination?

He is not supposed to be here, Architect. This man is lowborn. How he dreamed his way here is unclear to me. I can get one of my colleagues to dispose of him if you wish. I wouldn't want your trust in the Land of the Conquered Sun to be tarnished by an inability to keep our populations deeper psyche under control.

Perhaps this is an opportunity, Docteur. If he dreamed his way here, perhaps it is because he posseses the imagination some of our brethren lack. Perhaps they may learn from him. Perhaps we can use his face as a palette for the west garden's gazebo. Those two eyes would make for a wonderful foundation.

I suppose you would like us to allow just anyone with a wild hypothalamus to wander into the facilities, then, Id. I suggest we hold him here, just to be sure. I am sure the Countess won't miss one of her weavers

Such terrible things you say, Docteur. And in front of our Lepidopterous friends, no less. What will they think of us? I say our unwelcome guest could bring some much needed insight to our little oniric plot. Besides, to just hold him here, unused, unshifted, untouched... That would be wasteful.

I hold my breath, hoping to disappear. Hoping to wake. And yet I know I will not be allowed, not yet. The voices look like lions, like light, like fire. Like the face of the Sun Lord Himself and like a circle of swords. Like all colors, flashed before my eyes at once and like the absolute void of the night sky

Dokzentir

I dream of the peacock. The azure, gold, and emerald had already entered this castle of dreams, and tinted it with the flavor of lunacy. Elysium is a place of open windows. It is an endeavor of great difficulty to blockade a thing from entering.

I dream of the Docteur. If they fear the stray dreamers coming to visit this castle of wistfulness, then it might as well become their nightmare. All manner of phantasia ends up stranded in Elysium. Such is the purpose of the city's construction. A well in the dreaming space, it draws it all in. The wishes, the dreams, the hopes, the expectations, the fantasies. It flows to Elysium, from where it shall be carried to the waking world.

I dream of the amber-lighted halls. The sides are wide, but the view of the outside world is obscured. Large marble pillars stand erect on both sides. No matter how much one turns its head upwards, one can never turn enough to see the ceiling. The air smells of honey, and a faint wind blows. The Elysian Architect guides the Stray Dreamer; on their side the capricious Docteur and their company. Silence. The walking takes an eternity. The light darkens to a deep-sea blue. It is night in Elysium, the sun has gone to sleep.

Stray Dreamer, I dreamt you were a weaver. Talents are meant to be used, to be indulged. Weave for us, for the Architects, for the Docteur. Weave wistfully for Elysium.

Grand_Duke_Johann

The Weaver obeys, and the dreamer will weave. The Weaver knows now than neither the Docteur nor Id may rule over him, for the Architects have given him permission to linger. He dreams of a body beyond his body and a sight beyond his sigh. He dreams that he will no longer be touched by sunlight, but he will not wither. He turns, and the peacock is there, urging him to follow. And so he does. He does, until he sees the pale, scorching light of the moonlight. A moon that never was, and was never meant to be. A smiling moon. Tantalizing, tempting, and yet, cold to the touch. Burning. The bright moon burns, cold and pale. The Peacock, he could swear, has smiled at him. A big, toothy, smile through a beak that is nothing but a mask.

_The weaver is now nowhere. Void. There is the feeling of cold under his feet. He lights a candle and runs through the hallway, until the sound of footsteps on marble finally gives way to the sound of sand under his feet. _

The sea is vast. The sea, it breathes. And above it, under it, in it, a smiling god weeps. It weeps, for it knows what his children will suffer through. And he smiles, because he knows it will be

Oh so beautiful

Oh so terrible

And the moon burns my skin