“Cyrra,” the boy chirps, like a parrot in more than one way. At first he doesn’t think the name suits her. Something about it is a little too soft, feminine. Too… simple? The two syllables sink deeper, repeated internally like a chant: Cyrra,
Cyrra,
Cyr
ra,
and within a minute the name seems so wholly, indisputably hers that he could not imagine any combination of letters better suited to the dun.
Funny how that happens.
He’s still thinking of her name when the dream begins to shift, shyly, like a flower that did not wish to be seen in the middle of blooming. It’s all easy to ignore, for the most part, and his stride never breaks from the self-assured sway he began walking with. The change in light and scent and atmosphere is more than welcome, but he does not give it more than passing attention, and he certainly does not mention it to the dreamer.
“Accident. Minor difference, from my perspective,” she says with a harshness that slides right off his dark brown skin. His cheeky smile says but you agree there is a difference before her next question sprouts, and his expression twists into a thoughtful frown.
“Magic, I think.” It was not necessarily an obvious answer, but what else could this possibly be? Some kind of shared insanity? “I’m apparently not very good at it.” He flashes a toothy grin, shoulders shrugging oh well. He doesn’t say how much better he is at the dreaming than a year ago, how now he can grow dragon wings, or turn his blood to brightly-glowing liquid that shines through the skin, or shrink to the size of a mouse. Every night he grows stronger. The excessive display of magic will cause him to wake with a splitting headache that lingers for hours, but each time is easier than the last.
There is no teacher for this sort of thing, or if there is Dune does not have the resources to afford it. He learns by trial and error, grows through pain and failure. He’s no stranger to hard work, which is what it all boils down to: hard work and dedication. It was exhausting and exhilarating in equal measure.
The rewards of his magic were tragically not yet tangible, but in his waking hours he spent much of his free time thinking up some scheme to materially benefit from the Dream. He had a few burgeoning ideas, but they would require greater mastery of his magic first… So he put his head down and kept at it, night after night. Except tonight, which he planned to savor with deep, restful sleep to prepare for tomorrow’s travels.
All this to say: a happy coincidence, indeed, that he ended up here, of all places, particularly on a night in which he did not want to be Dreaming at all. Happy happy happy.
But oh, it gets better.
There’s alcohol.
He smells it before he sees the pretty cups and hears the overlapping voices in various stages of inebriation. “They call me the viper slayer…” rises from the din, familiar in a way that almost makes him stop-- almost. “Doesn’t seem like a long story,” he notes, and before he can complain he is distracted by… well, by her face as she turns to face him. It feels like he’s spent hours looking at her from a step behind and to the side. He’s practically memorizes the purse of her lips and the proud curl of her jaw and her lashes, such lovely lashes. Unlike most girls they never fluttered, though that likely said more about him than her. He blinks dumbly.
Does he drink? “Of course.” He snorts. (rude, in a place like this-- there are some dirty glares) “It’s free.”
“To your health, Dune.” Is she being sarcastic? He can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic. Ah, well. “Fe Sahatek,” he swirls the drink in his fluted cup (it’s gold, he’s never held one like this in real life) then knocks it back without even noticing the pretty girl who winks. His eyes are on Cyrra, partly because he does not entirely trust her but also because he has no desire to look away. In truth, he finds the dreamer mystifying. Puzzling, in an addictive kind of way. Also vaguely intimidating, although the effect of this particular characteristic would be tenfold in reality-- the dream obviously lacking in consequence, corporeal or otherwise.
Dune was the sort to take interest in the broken and discarded, but she did not seem to be either of these things. She offered a challenge of a different sort, and he was intrigued. It lit up all his senses, which strained for any clue she might drop, a peek behind the curtain, so to speak. But enough of looking. Far away (and yet-- right here, beneath the veneer of the dream) his body is slowly becoming aware of time. The blush of first light, however faint and far away, presses against closed eyelids with a kiss. A summoning, a stirring. Of course, it happens as soon as the setting becomes comfortable. Just his luck.
“Sunrise soon,” he comments, gaze shifting away for just a moment to summon another round with a beckoning gesture and his most becoming smile. Quickly now, while there’s still time. He finally notices the pretty server, who warms his smile even more, but his attention inevitably returns to Cyrra. "How have I never seen you before? I'm sure I would have remembered..." someone like you. It could not be chalked up solely to Dune being from the low quarter-- work took him to all corners of the court. And she was undeniably Solterran, although he couldn't exactly place her particular accent. His best bet is that she is some kind of warrior princess, hidden away for some stupid reason or another.
The next round of drinks arrive in those decadent fluted glasses. Dune raises his glass, watching the light glow golden on its surface. "To escaping that shithole we started in. Well done." He smiles tartly, and drinks.
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