They're too short, of course — the sleeves, threadbare with ragged strings trimmed, old stains bleached, but a fine fabric once, because we can't have gossip about how poorly kept the servants are, but no one can be expected to buy the boy clothes at that rate. A wave of cold shame heralds the uncanny stretching of spindly wrists, Cedric's shadow lengthening beneath him, before the dream's attention can be forced back toward light.
Light, ash, pattern. The lattermost is as much felt as seen, the lines as indistinct as in any sleep haze but still known, recognition cementing inch by inch. Barrier glyphs encircle the outermost edge. A few feet in, with room to stand between, another barrier trails round something more elaborate.
It's complex, and hard to quite see around the mountain of cloak that unfurls out of the darkness above it. A towering figure hunches into the back half of the room. One long arm snaps out from under fabric, unfolding at an elbow, then another elbow, to concertina a stick of red chalk across that elaborate design.
It doesn't notice Cedric. Its attention is fixed on the book in front of it, the ritual at its many fingertips, and not the boy sneaking in for a closer look — but for how long? It feels so important, vital, that he see this final piece, but the risk of drawing this creature's attention turns the air in his lungs to ice. His breath leaves white trails in the air.
He'll be seen. He'll be caught. The shadow tethered to his feet jerks back against its binds. But he needs to understand.
It pulls strange: Another boy's steps, another man's shadow; someone else's drive. Cedric knows the taste of his own inquisition. What propels him forward now feels different.
A little more like hunger.
Darkness streams. The creature is too vast for the beetling arc it occupies, and the fear that spikes up through his lungs isn't Cedric's either. Awake, his eyes would find the joints of limbs and guess which way to twist; awake, he wouldn't wait to be caught.
(If we're caught, we’ll never know what's next.)
The shadow jerks, and Cedric steps over it, a smear on fine threshold. The fear isn't his, the hunger isn't, but Maker if they aren't: Sewn tight about some common thread. They deserve better, don't they? Better than tattered cloth and cold terror. They deserve to see,
Cedric stretches — not for knowledge, but a hand. Umber coats his fingers. When they look at the rings, he's searching for weakness, for the place where two things meet. Because it's a dream, they find it.
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Light, ash, pattern. The lattermost is as much felt as seen, the lines as indistinct as in any sleep haze but still known, recognition cementing inch by inch. Barrier glyphs encircle the outermost edge. A few feet in, with room to stand between, another barrier trails round something more elaborate.
It's complex, and hard to quite see around the mountain of cloak that unfurls out of the darkness above it. A towering figure hunches into the back half of the room. One long arm snaps out from under fabric, unfolding at an elbow, then another elbow, to concertina a stick of red chalk across that elaborate design.
It doesn't notice Cedric. Its attention is fixed on the book in front of it, the ritual at its many fingertips, and not the boy sneaking in for a closer look — but for how long? It feels so important, vital, that he see this final piece, but the risk of drawing this creature's attention turns the air in his lungs to ice. His breath leaves white trails in the air.
He'll be seen. He'll be caught. The shadow tethered to his feet jerks back against its binds. But he needs to understand.
https://media.tenor.com/UsIgy-qrPX8AAAAM/simba-lion.gif
A little more like hunger.
Darkness streams. The creature is too vast for the beetling arc it occupies, and the fear that spikes up through his lungs isn't Cedric's either. Awake, his eyes would find the joints of limbs and guess which way to twist; awake, he wouldn't wait to be caught.
(If we're caught, we’ll never know what's next.)
The shadow jerks, and Cedric steps over it, a smear on fine threshold. The fear isn't his, the hunger isn't, but Maker if they aren't: Sewn tight about some common thread. They deserve better, don't they? Better than tattered cloth and cold terror. They deserve to see,
Cedric stretches — not for knowledge, but a hand. Umber coats his fingers. When they look at the rings, he's searching for weakness, for the place where two things meet. Because it's a dream, they find it.
Because it's a dream, he reaches out to write.