So much of what sings to Ennaris Tavane’s subconscious appeals to him, too. Stephen has always wanted to see Candlekeep, and this altered version of it presents such an alluring image, an oasis he could sink into: wouldn’t it be nice? just to stay here for a while, read a book, settle into your studies, the war is on the brink of success and all is tranquil and well,
and he’s almost sold on it, until he finally meets Vazeiros. The wrongness of it sinks and hooks deeper under Stephen’s skin every time he has to see the girl so glowing and happy with this father who Stephen knows neglected her, this man who always called her Ness for selfish convenience and steamrolled over her own preferences —
The moment Stephen becomes self-aware, he drops a book on his foot. “Oh, for fuck’s sake—”
Shaking himself out of it takes concerted effort; this feels less like waking up and more like ripping out his own stitches, bleeding and limping down the hallway of not-Candlekeep-not-the-Gallows. He’s psychically tired. He feels like he hasn’t actually slept in weeks. He hasn’t been able to properly reach Gwenaëlle in any of these worlds. He wants it to end.
Every time this happens, always, part of the dream starts to warp and destabilise around him as if the very landscape is trying to fight him. Whatever’s driving the illusion is onto him, just as he’s onto them, and nobody’s happy. He’s really starting to get pretty pissed off, actually. He’s pretty sure the last dream killed him and yeeted him out by dropping an actual piano on his head. This migraine has not abated.
But for the sake of not ripping apart reality from the get-go, he’s trying to find Ness for the subtle and polite approach first, even as doors slam in his face and the hallway twists labyrinthine, and he comes face-to-face once more with the adult drow.
“Sorry, I just, I’d very much like to have a word with Ennaris,” but Vazeiros cuts him off again, blocking his path.
“I really need to speak to your daughter,” Stephen says, through gritted teeth.
turning;
So much of what sings to Ennaris Tavane’s subconscious appeals to him, too. Stephen has always wanted to see Candlekeep, and this altered version of it presents such an alluring image, an oasis he could sink into: wouldn’t it be nice? just to stay here for a while, read a book, settle into your studies, the war is on the brink of success and all is tranquil and well,
and he’s almost sold on it, until he finally meets Vazeiros. The wrongness of it sinks and hooks deeper under Stephen’s skin every time he has to see the girl so glowing and happy with this father who Stephen knows neglected her, this man who always called her Ness for selfish convenience and steamrolled over her own preferences —
The moment Stephen becomes self-aware, he drops a book on his foot. “Oh, for fuck’s sake—”
Shaking himself out of it takes concerted effort; this feels less like waking up and more like ripping out his own stitches, bleeding and limping down the hallway of not-Candlekeep-not-the-Gallows. He’s psychically tired. He feels like he hasn’t actually slept in weeks. He hasn’t been able to properly reach Gwenaëlle in any of these worlds. He wants it to end.
Every time this happens, always, part of the dream starts to warp and destabilise around him as if the very landscape is trying to fight him. Whatever’s driving the illusion is onto him, just as he’s onto them, and nobody’s happy. He’s really starting to get pretty pissed off, actually. He’s pretty sure the last dream killed him and yeeted him out by dropping an actual piano on his head. This migraine has not abated.
But for the sake of not ripping apart reality from the get-go, he’s trying to find Ness for the subtle and polite approach first, even as doors slam in his face and the hallway twists labyrinthine, and he comes face-to-face once more with the adult drow.
“Sorry, I just, I’d very much like to have a word with Ennaris,” but Vazeiros cuts him off again, blocking his path.
“I really need to speak to your daughter,” Stephen says, through gritted teeth.