His name is Dune. Dune the loon, that’s what some of the older kids called him, growing up, and it stuck into adulthood. Or maybe his parents chose the name... no one will know for sure. They’re dead and he’s mute. But this is about appearance, so here we go.

Maybe you don’t remember your dreams.

Maybe when you pass the boy in the streets, under the hot Solterran sun, he is just a familiar stranger to you. There isn’t anything remarkable about him, but when you meet his gaze something… something in you turns and unfolds, like a flower facing the morning sun. Recognition blooms amber.

On first glance, nothing about him is memorable. A dark seal brown, tan at the muzzle and behind the elbows. A smattering of dapples; faint in the shadows, stronger in the sun. No markings, no accessories. Short-ish. Age hard to tell, but you suspect he’s young. He walks with his head down, shoulders hunched. It isn’t that he’s standoffish as much as brutally honest. Every line of his posture sighs: Come to me if you wish. But know I have nothing for you.

It might be his eyes that seem so familiar. They roam, but not hungrily. More like they're resigned to motion. When they meet your gaze it looks like they’re searching for something. Maybe even begging. You shrug off the feeling of recognition. Just another dirty street rat, dime a dozen.

But--

maybe you do remember your dreams.

And maybe you remember him in them, but not in this plain form-- you swam together as sleek grey dolphins, or drifted together as stormclouds. Heavy grey, billowing ever closer to the point of rupture. Maybe he came to you ornamented in gold chains and silk paint. But if you recognize him when you see him in the flesh, you will marvel at the strangeness of dreams, for why in the world would they ever bring you this strange, silent, painfully simple young man?

- Enigmatic, selfish, stingy. A loner and a hoarder.
+ Observative, quick learner, charismatic. Protector of the weak, broken, and forgotten.

He’d tell you this is a pointless endeavor, trying to capture someone in words. Trying to capture him. I find myself in agreement, but it is an interesting thought experiment nonetheless.

If I had to pick a single word to describe him, it would be enigmatic. With all the silence, and the dreamcraft, and the general impression he gives of having just arrived, just just woken up. And of course, the most obvious reason for his mystery: in a loud world a mute man might be the very definition of unknown. Your questions of him are only ever answered in nods, shrugs, the occasional private smile. The suggestion of an answer. The outline of it even; in form, shape, intensity, but never substance. Cotton candy dissolving the moment it hits the tongue.

The rest of his persona is at odds with the fantastical nature of his magic. His feet are very much on the ground; he would not have survived his rough youth otherwise. Most of his personality traits stem from survivalism. He is selfish and uninterested in relationships-- looking out for himself is hard enough-- scrappy and unafraid of a fight, stingy with his coin, cynical and squeezed dry of faith in anyone or anything. Morally grey, with a soft spot (too soft, he would admit with annoyance) for orphans and slaves. An excellent charmer, when he needs to be. If he was partial to speaking, he would be a prolific and shameless liar.

In dreams, though… in dreams he can be anyone, anything. There is a freedom to this and there is also chaos. But this is best left discovered firsthand. I could hardly do it justice.

There are two notes which don’t entirely pertain to the subject of personality, but they might provide some additional insight:

1. A lifetime on the streets has made him into what you could call a jack of all trades. He’s taken up all manner of odd jobs: maintaining scraggly solterran gardens, running letters across the city, tending the fire for the blacksmith, unloading the trade ships at the docks. Most find in him a diligent, hard worker-- and blissfully silent, to boot.


2. The young man is a prolific hoarder. If he had to explain himself, he would say it is a source of income in times when jobs are short. He’s even built a small reputation for himself as purveyor of random goods, most of which in disarray. In the scant free time he has, he likes to tinker with broken things and bring them back to life. His workshop can be found near the bell tower, the entry marked by a ragged red and yellow scrap of cloth.

I know what you’re thinking.

You’re expecting to find a tragedy here. Unimaginable loss, the sort that kills the spirit-- the sort that kills the voice. Why else would the boy be mute? Maybe it was an act of physical violence. You heard that in Solterra they sometimes cut the tongues from their slaves. They did not need their property to have a voice. But he was never a slave. He grew up poor and hungry in the streets, but he always, always had his freedom.

Maybe it was blackmail. Someone had something of his-- a lover, a sibling, a priceless family heirloom-- and he had to take an oath of silence to protect it. But that’s something straight from a cheap thriller. His life had never been particularly wild or dangerous, and anyway he had no family and few friends. Orphaned at a young age, all he remembers of his parents is their scent, and that only vaguely: primrose, sage, salt. Smells not uncommon in Solterra-- they’ll hit him, sometimes, when he’s walking down the street. But he knows better than to stop and look, knows his parents are long gone, if not dead.

So it must be insanity, then. Or some other flaw of the psyche. Some strangeness that would cause a boy to choose silence over noise. Because I can tell you that he made a choice. He chose to be mute, long ago when he was still a boy. And maybe it’s the result of some fractured sensibilities, some psychological break, or maybe he just didn’t see the point anymore.

Regardless, there isn’t much other story here. He grew up fast, but that’s hardly unique in Solterra. He grew up alone, more or less. His world was arguably small-- he never left the desert, rarely even ventured outside the court; but then he had everything he needed within those walls. By day he slowly made a name for himself as the silent, brooding man who would say yes to any job. And by night he let it all go. He had to shed it all-- his history, his personality, his body-- to explore the landscape of dreams.

DREAM WALKING
Dune’s magic allows him to walk through the dreams of others. At low tiers, he is just a passenger on strange vessels. At higher tiers, he has control over the dream world and can manipulate it to his desire.

TIER I
Dune has no control of whose dream he enters and can only stay for a small amount of time. He must be at the same level of consciousness as them: to enter a daydream, he must be daydreaming; to enter a dream, he must be fully asleep. He has no control of the dream world around him, but can with intense focus change aspects of his own form-- if he realizes he is dreaming, which he often doesn’t at this tier. He is very fatigued after sharing a dream.

TIER II
With effort, he can choose the dream he enters and can jump from one dream to another in the same night. Gains minor manipulation of the dream world; can alter shapes, colors, feelings, but not change them into something else entirely. He is tired upon waking but this quickly fades.

TIER III
Quite skilled with his magic now, Dune can turn dreams to nightmares or vice versa with minimal effort. He can easily choose whose dream he enters and jump from dreamer to dreamer with little effort. Almost no “hangover” the morning after working his magic.

TIER IV
Master of dreams. Can control every aspect of the dream and flits from dream to dream effortlessly. Does not get tired even after an entire night of dreaming.