Often Dune entered dreams to find there was a special role, waiting for him to step into. He suspected that the dream adjusted itself to better absorb his intrusion. Not that he was ever particularly wanted in dreams; it seemed more of a mechanism to limit disruption. To wrap him up in the landscape, and by doing so minimize the shock to the rest of the dream. Blur the other, smooth the edges, shift the lighting until the interruption just seems to... emerge from the dreamscape. Like something natural.
In this one he had a definite role, although he did not yet know what exactly it was. He wore a hooded cape of sorts, which kept the sun from his body and his features in shadow. There was a sense of ritual. The relief, the safety, of belonging to a pattern, a routine.
There was a dagger strapped to his forearm, and an anxious urge to look at the sky.
There was a sovereign, which he would not have recognized but still he knew, with that peculiar kind of dream-certainty, was Ipomoea of Dawn Court.
There were voices-- ghosts-- and sand and a certain heaviness, a sense of something inevitable drawing closer and closer. The sky was wide open, cerulean, but it held all the tension of a thunderstorm.
Dune waited at the edge of his namesake for the other man to approach. And when Ipomoea was close enough to see the light reflected in those gentle, tangled eyes, he turned and began to walk, leading the sovereign deeper into the desert. Always keeping one eye on the sky.
He suspected, or maybe he even knew, there would be blood.
In this one he had a definite role, although he did not yet know what exactly it was. He wore a hooded cape of sorts, which kept the sun from his body and his features in shadow. There was a sense of ritual. The relief, the safety, of belonging to a pattern, a routine.
There was a dagger strapped to his forearm, and an anxious urge to look at the sky.
There was a sovereign, which he would not have recognized but still he knew, with that peculiar kind of dream-certainty, was Ipomoea of Dawn Court.
There were voices-- ghosts-- and sand and a certain heaviness, a sense of something inevitable drawing closer and closer. The sky was wide open, cerulean, but it held all the tension of a thunderstorm.
Dune waited at the edge of his namesake for the other man to approach. And when Ipomoea was close enough to see the light reflected in those gentle, tangled eyes, he turned and began to walk, leading the sovereign deeper into the desert. Always keeping one eye on the sky.
He suspected, or maybe he even knew, there would be blood.
@Ipomoea I hope this works <3
