Belle Rêve ~Jes~

[ashara]

What you are talking about is desire - just brutal Desire.

 

Picture simply this- the sky, stretching into night in deep hues of purple and blue, flickering gently as stars danced above, spinning at speeds unknown to most. What stars are these, I had once wondered. Once, very long ago, when everything was so much newer, when there were still things left to sink your teeth into. Today, I recognise them as teeny portals to the souls of the others. Windows, that allow the willing to enter as they dare- some perhaps, by creeping through akin to shadow and ensnaring the victim in her own dream, while others choose to take the bolder and one could say, more dangerous route.

 

There are some windows though, that do not call for a warm entrance. There are some windows, with infuriatingly murky shields, and then others yet, hidden so sharply from view by strange hard walls, that the average dreamer would not be able to get through. Lucky then, that I am not average. Lucky then, that I was taught all this and more, so long before most who compete against me. If that is, you can consider the people of today's Age, worthy of the title, "competition." I prefer the term, cards. Then again, it's a free world.

 

The search was proving to be more difficult than she had first assumed. Indeed, a sea of 'dreams' was a vast thing to consider- she had not ruled out the fact that the sifting would take time, even attention that she would not have given, had it not been for the interesting tale that her contact had revealed to her, earlier that day.

 

"Mistress," came the hoarse whisper.

 

"Mistress, I swear under the name of the Great Lord-"

 

"Oh, Liadin. You simply do not understand."

 

"Mistress.."

 

"This is not about your vehement outbursts as to where your loyalty lies, Little Lia. It is about fact. Simple fact. What was, and therefore, what will be. My contact, is dead. One out of the balancing two, diminished. A pity, a great pity."

 

"Mistress, if only you could..."

 

"Listen? Oh but I am. Tell me more about this delightful find of yours. You'd given her a name, hmm?"

 

"Jesabel, Mistress."

 

By the description that was drawn out of Liadin after a little persuasion, it had been her first choice to draw upon the dreams filled with the most hatred. Blood, gore, anger, malice...she pulled at them, calling and probing, but finding no answer to her riddle. It perturbed her, but more than that, it intrigued her. A minion who did not fall into the stereotypes of the Great Lord's regime? Possible links flickered into existence, streams of thinking that were yet to be nurtured, but had developed together.

 

"She is nothing special at first, Mistress. But there is one thing...a spark in her. I would like to even be given the liberty to call it...determination."

 

Finally, she chose the one that seemed the most likely. Intuition was not the path Graendal would just to lay her cards by, but the unnatural tended to call for it. She now searched for ambition above all things. Ambition, and all the other traits that wrapped it into the one big package people fondly call, desire.

 

And then she had her. With a smile, Graendal stepped into the dream.

 

"I hope you don't mind me interrupting this little song and dance, but I believe, I owe you an appointment. Would you care to take a seat?"

 

Graendal

Chosen

Determined

OOC: Rough, hurried and whatnot, but it's up. Have fun describing the dream. Left those details open for you. ;)

[Guest Estel]

She stretched luxuriously on the chair, idly running her fingers along the grotesque gold inlays along the arms of the thing.  The chair, more like throne, was massive and could have easily fit two of Jes if the Dreadlady—no, Chosen!—was in the habit of sharing anything, with anyone, ever.  It was an epitome of the excess in which she indulged herself, the chair had taken some years to carve out of sung mahogany and each of the nearly hundred scenes, featured in its polished surface, was also inlaid heavily with gold.  Despite the ridiculous gaudiness of the thing, though, it held more than just monetary value to the otherwise entirely unsentimental Dreadlady.  The cushions of the chair, both the seat and back, as well as the numerous pillows supporting Jes’ reclined position, were made of an odd, unnaturally light leather—human skin.  Let it never be said that Jesabel was not a woman of her word!  Well, perhaps it was better said that Jes “did not always go back on her word”; after all, let’s be honest with ourselves, the rank of Chosen was not obtained on the moral code of honesty and integrity.  In any case, she-whose-name-was-feared-more-than-Ishamael-or-Lanfear’s had made a promise, bordering on threat, which she saw through with; now a certain Dreadlord’s only legacy was to be sat upon by the supreme behind of the woman he had thought to control and intimidate.

 

On the topic of human contributions to the newest Chosen’s glorious throne, those polished, yellow skulls wreathing her head like a crown—not gold!  It was incredible what time and polish could do to bare bone and Jes, who, on occasion, fancied herself as something of a biologist, had the art of getting that perfect colouring for her skulls down to a science!  Once the right amount of discolouration and decay was reached, a simple Keeping kept her crown from disintegrating into dust.

 

“Are you lonely, my pets?”  The skulls had the nerve not to reply to her-most-excellent-evilness, but Jes was feeling particularly merciful and deigned to answer for them.  “I suppose it’s time I add to your number, then.  Who next?  Lanfear?  Be’lal?  Moghedien? Samma—"

 

"I hope you don't mind me interrupting this little song and dance, but I believe I owe you an appointment. Would you care to take a seat?"

 

Jes jumped in her chair, swinging her legs forwards and off the arm of her throne.  A pair of knives leapt instantly to hand.  Saidar flooded her easily, but the presence of the stranger occupied a monopoly of her conscious mind so that the ease with which she embrace the One Power, prevented in the waking world by her block, went unremarked by her constant sarcastic commentary.  As it was, the voluptuous blonde had her sarcasm running wild as the far more useful sections of her brain set about figuring out who in the Pit of Doom this woman was—and where in hell did she find the audacity to speak to the greatest of the Chosen so?

 

“It appears I already have one.” smirked the Altaran, making no move to give up her seat for the other woman.  Jes leaned back in the cushions, determined not to let the stranger realise how much this unexplained presence was irking her.