#that is in part. my doing. we had a very long discussion about dreamweaver

[dreamlightgallery]

I don't know if it'll be easier to write a whole analysis + my theories on Dreamweaver or a whole work of fanfiction but by God do I want to write about them. There is a lot more to them than some may believe.

[maplesweater]

Okay so I am really disappointed with how the dawn front event went down. I am not „horny“ for shade and i find it dumb that salty players reduce us to that. You’re freaking ace and I’m on the spectrum too. We’re not salting about people for picking their queen kimi either jeez. Let people allow to pick characters they want, its not hard.

Ya know what me too

((RANT INCOMING BOIS))

Like I'm sure there are some people who picked Flynn bc "he's hot" to them-and don't get me wrong that's perfectly fine-but just assuming that's the only reason anyone would ever pick said character is just honestly kind of rude to everyone who chose him. As if he doesn't have his own story, personality, motivations, etc. that might make him an appealing choice to players. No he's just an edgy uwu animu boi fangirl bait design right?

Thing is we're only having this discussion because we won. If the majority of night order players flocked to Shade but the dawn wings ended up winning no one would give two shits about who chose Flynn or why. Lemme tell y'all something. I chose Flynn because as an aspiring author I found all of the good guys boring and stealth has always been my shit. Yes all of them. Louie is barely a character as of right now, Orlando is fine but he's so typical morally just man in a suit. Kimi is overrated imo and don't even get me started on Bai Yongxi. I know we have a dreamweaver for this guy but I still feel like I've never met him before. So then, what about the night order? We barely know Reid and the guy he teamed up with so that choice was out for me, and Nidhogg's abrasive personality just wasn't doin it for me personally.

Who does that leave? Flynn. Shade. The secret weapon. The assassin with two names.

Ever since I was young I've always found sharpshooters, assassins, ninjas-basically anyone who could outsmart their opponent with not only tactics but agility and speed-cool. I'm a small girl and I was never very strong, so that kind of thing was the kind of stuff I idolized-and part of what lead me to develop my aesthetic the way I did. THAT's why I picked Flynn. It was my personal opinion and preference.

Do I expect anyone to know that? Of course not. Only my close friends know about my childhood. However, I'm not the only person who picks characters based on things other than "how hot I find them," clearly. I'll admit, Flynn's character design is aesthetically pleasing to an edgelord like myself. But if that was the only reason, I'd just go with anyone who remotely resembled that sort of style.

Not to mention the psychological aspects of it all. Morally grey characters are always more interesting from a psychological standpoint, as they present as more human-more relatable to the average person.

I'm getting a little bit off topic but my point is that there's more than one reason Shade won the war. Something else I need to mention is the pre-war salt.

All over the facebook, amino, reddit, etc. before we even got the event implemented were people salting about losing last time and making passive aggressive comments about how they'd lose to " Shade's thirst army" again. Now I had already made up my mind to choose him again, but think for a second about how a new player would feel seeing all that. Do you really think new players would want to join a team full of passive aggressive people who can't let the fact that their fave lost essentially a fictional popularity contest go after a full year? Because I sure as hell wouldn't. That's an extremely unwelcoming environment right there.

So what do I have left to cover? The morality speeches? Yeahh.....

So listen. I saw this mostly on the facebook, but I'll mention it here.

Fiction and real life are two separate things. People are allowed to like problematic charas so long as they understand that said chara is in fact problematic. Supporting a character who's done morally wrong things does not mean said person supports said morally wrong things. If you sit there and try to guilt trip people who just wanted to pick their favorite character in a fictional event that effects nothing ever because they like a specific character and tell them that means they support murder or whatever, I'm sorry but you need to go back to elementary school or something because that's not how anything has worked in the history of things working.

Now with all this said I want to stress that not everyone is like this of course. There are people who remained silent. There are people who know how to make jokes about their loss, and I thank those of you who have done so-you're bridging the gap, my friends. Of course I don't believe everyone is like this. But the sheer amount of people degrading others and belittling them because of a character preference both pre and post event is astounding.

In the end this whole event was basically just a popularity contest. And you know what I see? I see people who can't handle that not everyone shared their character preferences. I see people who don't understand that just because someone favors one character over another doesn't mean they automatically hate the other character. I see people who are so petty that they'll go out of their way to make excuses as to why they lost. Yeah, it was a population imbalance. But you know what? That's just how it happened. If the population imbalance had favored Kimi, or Orlando, or Bai, or Louie, would we be seeing this level of garbage? No. This event effects nothing. Not the story, not real life, nothing.

But you know what does? Unbearable amounts of salty people pointing fingers and yelling "thirst" to the point where I've started to wonder why I got involved in this godforsaken community in the first place. Let people enjoy their dressup game, ya watery salt cubes. You'll get another chance next time around, and I'm just saying-maybe you'd do better if you focused a bit less on yelling about how it's other people's fault you lost. Yea, losing sucks. But in order for there to be a winner, someone has to lose. That's how competitions work.

I feel like I had more points but I'm just so done with this garbage. Whatever. Point is let people like the characters they like instead of getting salty that everyone doesn't worship Kimi as much as you do. It's not that deep.

I'm done here. This stupid. Sorry to anyone who isn't contributing to this who had to see this. I appreciate you. So much. Oh and by the way, I have nothing against Kimi stans, so long as y'all don't do this kinda shit. Everyone has the right to have whatever character be their favorite no matter which one it is.

[spiteweaver]

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None of them had ever said so in so many words, but they were not the fondest of one another, neither as colleagues nor individuals. Phobos thought Mímir too fanciful and Lestat too flighty; Lestat thought Phobos too frigid and Mímir too forward; Mímir thought Lestat too sneaky and Phobos too stuffy.

Understandably, it made meetings like this one uncomfortable, and away to the west, in Feldspar Proper, Dreamweaver was currently thanking their lucky stars that they had not been asked to attend. The Wardens felt this was a matter that should be discussed among themselves, and had assured them that their presence would not be required.

(Privately, however, they all agreed that Dreamweaver’s presence would have been a comfort, because none of them wanted to be alone with the others--but their founder was very busy, and there was no reason to drag them from their duties for a matter as trivial as comfort.)

Thus, they sat, each of them absorbed in their own busywork. Phobos shuffled through his notes again. He had done so several times already. Lestat tended to his nails. They were manicured to perfection, but he was an expert at finding minute details to fuss over. Mímir, meanwhile, had only a goblet of wine to distract him, nursed slowly and with reverence. It was some of Bordeaux’s finest, sent up fresh from the western vineyard.

But Mímir was not as patient as his peers, so finally, and with great reluctance, he set his cup aside and tapped a finger on the table. “Let’s dispense with the formalities,” he drawled. “We all know one another, and I’m certain we all know why we’re here.”

“Patience is a virtue,” Lestat chided. All the same, he tucked his file away in his sleeve, where they all knew he kept more than just beauty products. “What you’re referring to, I presume, is that unpleasant bit of black magic from the other night? It woke me out of a sound sleep!”

“Yes,” said Phobos, “it woke me as well. From that alone, we can assume it was either an expulsion of an immense amount of magical energy, or of very potent magical energy--or, gods forbid, both. Regardless, something must be done about it, preferably without Dreamweaver’s involvement.”

“The poor dear,” Lestat tutted, “they really are on their last legs. I do wonder, though, how we’ll ever be able to settle this matter ourselves. Unless...” He flashed his colleagues a distinctly insincere smile. “Would either of you like to take a stroll through the Hewn City?”

Mímir and Phobos exchanged wary glances. Dreamweaver paid them both very handsomely, but not nearly enough so to delve into the City itself. Guard its borders, bar entry to troublemakers, report any abnormalities, certainly--but to pass through the Hewn City’s gates was to pass into hell.

Lestat shrugged daintily. “I didn’t think so.”

“Don’t pretend you’d go in,” Mímir snorted. “You’d break one nail and run crying into your new boytoy’s arms--what’s his name? Killian?”

“Oh no, Killian was last week,” Lestat replied, twirling a lock of rose-gold hair around his finger absently. “This week it’s Gabriel.”

“And people call me a slut.”

“That’s because you are one, darling dearest.”

Phobos heaved an exasperated sigh, adjusted his furs, and tossed his painstakingly organized notes down on the table. The papers spread out across the wood in a perfect fan. “This,” he said, “is a far more pressing matter than which of you is the most promiscuous.”

“Is it?” Mímir asked. “If Lestat keeps on like this, he might actually steal my title.”

“I stole that long ago,” Lestat cooed.

“There is something in the Hewn City,” Phobos pressed on, “and it is powerful enough to withstand whatever else skulks beneath the Black Veil. With Ozymandias playing pet to our young heir, we are defenseless. People are going to die--our people.”

Lestat shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but Mímir met Phobos’ heated gaze defiantly. “Fine,” he said, sweeping his arm theatrically across the table, “let’s hear your grand plan then. The floor is yours.”

Discreetly, Phobos averted his eyes. “I never said I had a plan,” he murmured. “That’s why we called this meeting: to discuss what is to be done. I’ve compiled as much data as could be gathered. I’d like the two of you to look it over.”

They did so--Lestat, for once appearing quite grave; Mímir, grinning at his triumph over his older and more experienced colleague. His victory was short-lived. The more he read, the darker his expression grew.

“This can’t be right,” he muttered. “Crucis gave you these readings?”

“Yes,” Phobos said, “he was fortunate enough to be awake at the time of the surge.”

“It’s not draconic,” Lestat noted, “at least, not entirely. That narrows it down a great deal.”

“Could be a demon,” Mímir suggested.

“Faust and Holloway would have taken notice and come to us,” Phobos replied. “Even through the Veil, a demon’s signature is distinct. It would have to have been severely distorted by the Veil to give readings like these.”

“Then the Shade?” Lestat proposed.

“Possible,” said Phobos, “but not probable. Crucis knows the Shade’s signature. He assured me this was not it--barring, once again, any distortion.”

“You don’t suppose it’s...” Mímir looked away, his face somehow simultaneously thoughtful and absentminded. “Dreamweaver told us they accepted the nightmare back into themself,” he said tentatively. “Is it possible some part of it lives on outside of their heart?”

“Don’t say such things!” Lestat cried. “Don’t even think it! There must be a more, er, pleasant explanation, don’t you think?”

“I’m inclined to agree with Lestat,” Phobos said, in a tone that betrayed his displeasure at doing so. Lestat gave a relieved sigh. “If it were the nightmare, Dreamweaver would have insisted on attending--no, more likely, they would have forgone the meeting and set out for the City to rectify their mistake. Seeing as they have not done so...”

“So what is it?” Mímir asked. “Beastclans don’t have access to magic like this, and there aren’t an awful lot of other non-draconic beings living in Sornieth that do.”

“What does Crucis think it is?” Lestat pressed. “He must have some idea.”

“There are...” Phobos clasped his hands in front of him. Both Lestat and Mímir stiffened and leaned forward. “There are two possibilities he is considering,” Phobos went on. “First: an unidentified being native to the Hewn City. Commonfolk know almost nothing of its residents or their natures.”

“That’s true,” Lestat was quick to agree, “and its residents are bound to it, for the most part, so whatever it is wouldn’t pose a threat to any of us here in Feldspar!”

Mímir noticed that Phobos did not seem convinced. The Imperial’s face was impassive, but there was a subtle tightness to his lips that set Mímir’s teeth on edge.  “What’s theory number two?” he asked.

“An Outsider,” Phobos said simply.

Lestat gave a startled wail and slumped back in his seat. “Oh, my stars,” he sputtered, a hand pressed dramatically against his forehead, “oh, it simply cannot be! An Outsider, here, in the Sunbeam Ruins?! No, no, no, you must have misheard, you must be mistaken!”

“It’s only a theory,” Phobos assured. “Outsiders are often drawn to places such as the Hewn City. These places are isolated, and brimming with magical energy more in line with that of the Outside. They seek to escape into our world, but even once they do, they find themselves longing for familiarity.”

“Just as dragons do,” said Mímir.

Lestat, still beside himself, scrambled out of his chair. He did his best thinking on his feet, or so he would claim if his colleagues questioned him. “How,” he began breathlessly, “how did an Outsider get into the Hewn City? It can’t have come through Feldspar lands! Dreamweaver would have never allowed it!”

“Its quickest route would have been to the south,” Mímir surmised. “It came up from below.”

“That easily?!”

“We have no territories south of the Hewn City,” Phobos said, “and to my knowledge, that area is almost entirely uninhabited, save by errant wanderers and Beastclans with no obligation to help keep dragonkind’s secrets.”

“That’s how most troublemakers get in these days.” Mímir drank deeply from his goblet, his face twisted in annoyance. “No matter how observant we are,” he sighed, “someone always sneaks in and ends up dead. It’s a damned mess. Now there’s a godsforsaken Outsider firing magic off all over the place, and that’ll only draw more reckless thrill-seekers to the accursed place.”

“We don’t know it’s an Outsider,” Phobos reminded.

“You think it is,” Mímir replied. “I know you. I know that look on your face.”

“The readings are unlike any Crucis has ever seen,” Phobos conceded, “so the likelihood of it being an Outsider is uncomfortably high. Still, it could be some other dark thing, born within the City itself. If that is the case, it will likely be trapped within the City, as Lestat said.”

“If it’s not, though,” Lestat groaned, “oh, oh, if it’s not, if it is an Outsider, what then? We’ll have to involve Dreamweaver!”

Phobos joined Lestat on his feet, and Mímir, sensing that the meeting was near its end, followed suit. “If a time comes when we feel we must act,” Phobos said, “then we will call upon Dreamweaver. Until such a time, however, we will do as we always have: tend to our own people, in our own ways.”

“Crucis will tell them his findings,” Mímir said. “You know he will. That fool--they’ll probably involve themself unnecessarily and wear themself even thinner. Our founder’s got a nasty hero complex.”

“We’ll just have to find a way to put their mind at ease then,” Lestat asserted. “If they won’t look after themself, we’ll do it for them.”

“Perhaps...” Phobos tucked his hands behind his back. He did this whenever, on rare occasion, he was thinking something devious. “Perhaps we might ask Lady Telos for her assistance. If she were to tell Dreamweaver they were in need of rest, I believe they may...acquiesce.”

“Oh?” Mímir’s smirk had returned. “They listen to Lady Telos, but not their own husband?”

“Banrai, they feel, worries too much,” Phobos elaborated. “Lady Telos, on the other hand...”

“Phobos, you’re far more manipulative than I gave you credit!” Lestat said. It was meant to be a compliment, but Phobos did not take it as one. Noticing this, Lestat hurried on. “I’ll write the letter then--only, how much should I divulge, do you think?”

“She’ll already be aware of the surge,” Phobos said. “Tell her whatever you’d like.”

“Just so long as Dreamy’s taken care of,” said Mímir, and pulled a cigar from somewhere on his person. He offered one to his colleagues, out of politeness, but in the end, he smoked alone. It was not quite so fine as the Firebird a certain detective had been gifted, but its smell was just as potent. “I don’t care what we have to do,” he added, “just so long as they’re safe.”

“Still nursing your little crush on them, are you?” Lestat teased.

“It’s called having respect for one’s superiors,” Mímir replied. “I wouldn’t expect you to know anything about it, though.” With another, somehow smugger smirk, he exhaled a cloud of pungent blue smoke into Lestat’s face, sending the Skydancer into a coughing fit. “Mind your own heart, flowerboy.”

“Only if you mind your manners!” Lestat gasped in response. “Oh, you’re a foul one, Mímir, you really are! How that harem of yours stands the smell of that smoke, I’ll never know!”

“The smell’s prettier than your personality.”

“I’m going to bed,” Phobos announced. “You two are welcome to stay up bickering, but keep in mind that you’ve got work in the morning. Wardens don’t get vacation days.”

“We’re only having a bit of fun,” Lestat placated. “No need to scold us, General.”

Phobos said nothing, but the swiftness with which he abandoned them to their banter spoke volumes. Now was neither the time nor the place for clever back-and-forth, playful or otherwise, so, with one final, tense glance shared, Lestat and Mímir followed Phobos out into the bitter October evening.

[webstory7-blog]

4 Part Three Keywords Tags Categories Oh Vey I Am So Mixed Up

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[spiteweaver]

Interview #2: Dreamweaver

[ From the private files of Delucius Shadowheart ]

They can tell I’m nervous, and them knowing I’m nervous only makes me even more nervous. Sweat beads on my brow. I clear my throat and shuffle my parchment into place (an action that is commonly used to set the scene). The atmosphere is heavy. Describing they and their husband as “night and day” strikes me as, perhaps, the most apt description of a pair of mates I have ever penned.

I look up.

Dreamweaver smiles.

“I don’t always approve of your snooping, Delucius,” they say, “but I wouldn’t have agreed to this interview if I wasn’t prepared to answer uncomfortable questions.”

It’s not asking the questions I’m worried about, I think.

“Or perhaps you’re afraid I’m using this interview as an excuse to get you alone and ‘bully’ you some more,” they add. I force a smile. It is the single most pitiful smile I have ever forced. “I must admit, you’re awfully fun to tease, dear. You give the best reactions.”

“That’s--”

“You get so indignant!” They chuckle behind a politely raised hand, then drop another sugar cube into their tea. “I’m only so hard on you for the good of the clan, though. I promise, I’ll behave myself today. If you don’t give me a reason to put the fear in you, I shan’t have to put the fear in you.”

“You’ve already put the fear in me,” I grumble.

“Good! Let’s begin then, shall we?”

“You’re way too giddy about scaring the hell out of me.”

“I’m someone who believes very strongly in justice,” they say. “All actions have consequences. The consequences may be more or less severe depending on circumstance.”

They then fix me with a stern look. I feel my innards drop into my feet.

“You, Delucius,” they begin again, “are in full control of your actions. You know that what you are doing is a gross breach of individual privacy, and you continue to do it, anyway. That’s why, for you, the consequences are so much more severe.”

“As opposed to, say, Seaglass.”

Dreamweaver frowns. “Yes,” they say, “as opposed to Seaglass.”

“I don’t suppose you’d object to me asking about him?”

“I would not,” they say, “but it’s certainly not a topic I enjoy discussing. It’s been months. I would like to lay it to rest.”

“There are still those who would call what he did worthy of punishment,” I say, “regardless of circumstance. He destroyed half the village and nearly drowned one of its founders.”

“The drowning bit was as much my fault as his,” Dreamweaver insists. “I opted to stay with him, to try and quell the anger in his heart. I knew going in that I would very likely fail, weak as I was at the time, but there was a chance I may not, and I felt I had to take it. If it could save even a small part of what we’ve built here, it would be worth it.”

“Your life for some buildings?”

“My life for the continued livelihoods of my people,” they clarified. “If he had succeeded in destroying our village entirely, we would have had to rebuild from the ground up. Those who survived the flood may not have survived the winter. Their businesses, their farmlands, their homes; we would have lost everything. Feldspar can live without me. It cannot live without this village.”

“The fact remains that he did cause significant damage,” I persist, “and he could have caused much more.”

“But he didn’t.”

“But he could--”

“But he didn’t.” Dreamweaver stirs their tea. I can’t tell if they’re agitated or contemplative. “I don’t punish people for what could have happened,” they say, “I punish them for what did happen.”

“He wasn’t punished at all,” I reply.

“He is punishing himself,” they say. “He will always remember that day, and it will always be his darkest. He lost his mentor, his lover, and he caused the village a fair amount of strife. We have forgiven him, but he will never forgive himself.”

“Guilt isn’t a very satisfying punishment,” I say.

“You can say that,” they reply, “because you have never experienced guilt.”

Ouch.

They’re right, but it still stings. They have a way of speaking that drives harsh words like nails through a drake’s heart.

“Anyway,” they continue, “it was an accident. It’s unfortunate, but magical mishaps do happen when you live in a world as unstable as ours. If he had flooded the village intentionally, I would have punished him severely, perhaps even killed him in my rage--but that simply isn’t what happened.”

“What if someone were to accidentally kill your husband or son?” I ask.

“I can’t say what I would do then,” Dreamweaver replies. “If someone harms me, I can forgive them. If someone harms my people and those close to me, well, I find it much more difficult to look past their transgressions. I like to think I’d keep a level head and act accordingly, but death and flooding the village are two very different matters.”

“I suppose so,” I say. “I was just wondering how you might react to an extreme magical mishap, like, for example--”

“You’re going to ask about Clan Aphaster, aren’t you?” They sigh and pour themselves another cup of tea. “I knew you would,” they say. “Clan Aphaster didn’t handle the exodus optimally, and, again, I’d like to think I’d keep a level head--but there are times, even in recent history, where I have panicked and very nearly made terrible mistakes. That’s the price I’ve paid for living among dragonkind.”

Now this is interesting. As far as I’m aware, Dreamweaver has never spoken much to the nature of their being. We know what they are, shape-shifter, dreamwalker, but the finer details of being Other, as they term it, have always been murky.

I’ll have to come back to Clan Aphaster. I can’t pass this opportunity up.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

They chuckle again. “I shouldn’t have said that,” they say. “Now you’re going to ask me all sorts of questions I simply cannot answer.”

“Surely you can answer some.”

“This one isn’t too bad,” they concede. “Before meeting Banrai, I wouldn’t say I was particularly well-settled here in Sornieth. I had been under the Lightweaver’s banner for a good long while, but dragons and all of their subtleties continued to baffle me. Emotions were not something I naturally possessed--at least, not in the way dragons possess them.”

“Really?” I ask. “Why is that?”

“That I cannot say,” they reply, “or, rather, will not.”

“Well, how did you come to possess more, er, draconic emotions, then?”

“The nature of my magic is to be ever-changing,” they explain. “I adapt. I shift. I am molded by my surroundings as much as I am by my own imagination. Once I became more involved in draconic culture, it only followed that I become more draconic in nature.”

“Is Holloway the same?” I ask.

“Oh, no,” they reply, “Holloway is a demon.”

“But he’s a shape-shifter.”

“His shape-shifting stems from a different place.” They tap their chin in thought. “If I had to say, I would guess that Faded and I share a similar makeup. We are beings made of nebulous things--dreams, concepts, ideas. That is where our nebulous forms stem from. Holloway is not nebulous, he is firmly rooted in the physical.”

“This is...” I stare hard at the information I have gathered. It is a veritable treasure trove. “Honestly, this is fascinating. I never expected to get this much out of you.”

“Mmm, well, these aren’t exactly secrets,” they reply. “I just rarely have need to discuss them. If others wish to know more about my nature as a being of dreams, I’m happy to elaborate. It’s my past I prefer to keep to myself.”

“So you won’t take any questions regarding it?”

“I’m afraid not,” they say. “Anything pre-Banrai is off-limits. You can ask, but I won’t answer.”

“Back onto the topic of emotions then.” I pick up my quill again. I’m sure they can sense my eagerness, but I’m too deep now to bother hiding it. “Banrai mentioned during his interview that he ‘helps you sympathize.’ I didn’t ask for elaboration at the time, as I didn’t think he meant it quite so literally, but--”

“But now that you know about my funny relationship with emotions,” Dreamweaver cuts in, “you have to ask.”

“Yeah.”

“Experiencing emotions in the way dragons do is still difficult for me at times,” they say. “In the beginning, the only person I felt anything for was Banrai. As I adapted further, I began to feel strongly for others--our son, Winter; Boggart and Vigrid; Isaiah; Bellerophon. Slowly, this love grew until it encompassed all of my people.”

“That sounds normal to me.”

“The problem is that I haven’t quite come to grasp sympathizing with outsiders,” they confess, “and my inability to trust and feel compassion for them would have lost us a great many good friends and powerful allies. Abaddon would not be here, nor would Faust or Holloway. Our village would look very different if I didn’t have Banrai to teach and guide me.”

“Would you say he’s been a major driving force behind the alliances with Clan Aphaster and the Nebula Guild? Among others?”

“I certainly would. It is because of what he has taught me that I was able to form those alliances, to put my faith in outsiders.” Like their husband before them, Dreamweaver seems to go soft when they speak of the drake they love. It’s a side of them I’ve never seen. “He’s too good for me,” they say. “Ah, how did I end up married to such a flawless being?”

“I’m asking the questions here,” I joke.

“Sorry, sorry!” They wave a hand to dismiss their honeyed thoughts. “When you’ve been married as long as we have, your mind tends to wander to your other half!”

“How long have you been married?” I ask.

“It will be forty-eight eons this Brightshine,” they reply, “four cycles of marital bliss. We were wed right here, in Feldspar territory--before we knew it would one day be Feldspar territory, that is.”

“You didn’t initially intend to found a clan,” I say.

“No,” they reply, “we wanted to live a peaceful life in the mountains, myself in particular. I was more adventurous in my youth, but I’ve grown weary as I’ve aged--and Banrai met me when I was already very, very old. That said...” They stare down into their tea, lost in thought. “I don’t regret founding this clan,” they say. “It has been such a great honor and privilege to nurture it into the fine thing it has become.”

“You don’t regret it,” I say, “even with all that’s happened?”

“Not at all,” they assure. “This is where I belong. I am proud of what we have accomplished together.”

“What are your plans for the clan’s future?” I ask.

“Too many to expand upon here and now,” they reply, “but I can give you a basic idea. For now, I’d like to focus on aiding and strengthening clans in need. The peoples of Sornieth are scattered, disorganized, and our enemies are both many in number and great in power. The more we band together, the stronger we will be. Alliances aren’t just for making friends after all.”

“What enemies do you think we’ll have to defend against?”

“Hostile Beastclans, for one,” they say, “and the Shade, should it ever regain its footing in Sornieth. If not even the gods could do away with it entirely, perhaps we can be of some assistance the next time it rears its ugly head.”

“Speaking of the Shade, you’ve welcomed the clan’s first Shade-touched dragon into the village recently.”

“Yes.” Dreamweaver clasps their hands in front of them. They look pensive. “Once again, my husband’s soft heart swayed me,” they sigh. “Penumbra is an interesting case. I sense no malice from them, but the nature of Shade-touched dragons is obscure. They are rare--growing less so, but still rare enough that we haven’t gathered much information on them.”

“Do you think Penumbra poses any threat to the village?”

“I would not have granted them residency if I believed they did,” Dreamweaver replies, “or if I thought I couldn’t, at the very least, handle them.”

“You mean fight them and win.”

“Yes.” They shake their head. “I’m optimistic that such harsh action won’t be necessary, though. They’re certainly odd, but their mind remains sharp despite how the sickness has spread.”

“I suppose they and Silas might have a bit in common.”

“They might,” Dreamweaver agrees, and smiles warmly. “I should introduce them. Thank you for the suggestion, Delucius.”

“You can thank me by talking about Lutia.”

“Oh dear.”

Dreamweaver’s smile fades again. They stand and walk over to peer out the window. I watch them tensely. This is a sensitive line of questioning, and I damn well know it.

“I asked Banrai his opinion,” I say, “so it’s only fair I ask yours.”

“Lutia and I--we’re like Silas and Penumbra.”

“You have something in common with her?”

“Yes.”

They are silent for a long while. I check my watch. Five minutes have passed, and they show no sign of elaborating. “Yes?” I say. It’s the gentlest nudge I can give.

“I know what it means to be responsible for someone else’s pain,” they say simply. “I know what she must be feeling now. I know how devastating being left alone with your own guilt and bitterness can be. I could never think ill of her--not when I--”

I see their hands clench into fists. A lump forms in my throat. I’ve either pushed them too far, or I haven’t pushed them far enough. I’m not sure I want to find out which it is.

“I will speak no more on it,” they say at last, and the dark aura that has begun to gather around them dissipates in an instant. “You’ll have to get by on what I’ve given you. I understand Lutia. I’m afraid that will have to suffice.”

“It, uh, it will.” I shuffle my parchment again. “So you have no intention of calling for her punishment, then?”

“Of course not,” they say. “That’s Clan Aphaster business. If one of my own was harmed, I might have a say in things--but no Feldspar blood was spilt. Abaddon and Junior suffer greatly, but they live and they will recover.”

“What about Junior?” I ask. “He’s not going to receive any formal punishment?”

“Gods, no,” they reply. “He’s a boy. If we punished every child for their catastrophic mistakes, we’d have no children left.”

“As I said during Banrai’s interview, people died.”

“Yes,” they say, “and I blame Opal for that. He’s already being punished, in the most wonderful, devious way imaginable.”

“So Lutia and Junior are absolved of responsibility for their actions?”

“No,” Dreamweaver replies. “Just because they are not receiving punishment does not mean they are not still responsible for their actions. Like Seaglass, they are punishing themselves. Junior saw the results of his curiosity directly. He was there when Shard the Radiant began to fall apart. He watched his siblings disappear into the Arcanist’s realm. He hurt his own father deeply, perhaps irreparably. The boy is traumatized. To punish him any further would be cruel.”

“What of Lutia, then? She doesn’t seem particularly remorseful.”

Dreamweaver’s eyes narrow. Once again, I’ve said the wrong thing, and they are far, far less likely to forgive me for it than their husband. “Who told you she does not feel remorse for her actions?” they ask.

“My sources--”

“Your sources are foolish and ignorant,” they say. “You cannot possibly grasp the depth of her sorrow.”

“I can’t,” I say, “I know I can’t. Still, this is the second incident in as many months--first Seaglass, then Lutia. Aren’t you worried people may start to fear magic users at this rate? They receive no punishment for their ‘catastrophic mistakes,’ and they’re prone to mass destruction when under emotional duress. Sounds like a political disaster waiting to happen.”

“Do our people appear fearful of magic?” they ask.

“Well, no, not at the moment--”

“If they do not already fear,” they say, “so soon after the incidents themselves, I doubt they ever will. If there comes a time when they do, however, I will do whatever I must to reassure them. That is my duty as their leader.”

“I’d think, if such a time comes, they’d fear you most of all.”

“That would be wise,” Dreamweaver says. “Though I don’t believe I possess the anger and grief to cause the sort of mindless destruction other magic users could, I am certainly the most powerful being in our territory.”

“Have you ever lost control of your magic?” I ask.

“Mmm, I wonder,” they reply.

“I suppose that pertains to your past, doesn’t it?”

“If you have no other questions, I’ll be going.”

“What happened during the meeting with Zo and Techne?” I blurt out. “Techne’s from House Xanna, isn’t she? I’m guessing it was about that mysterious machine of theirs.”

“Neither House Xanna nor their creation are any worry of ours,” Dreamweaver replies. “They pose no threat to us, so I am content to let them keep their secrets. I won’t be pushing Telos or Techne for further information, and if I find out you’ve been doing so behind my back, Delucius, I’ll torment your dreams for a full cycle.”

As they turn to leave, I am already steeling myself for a cycle of nightmares. House Xanna is a juicy pork cutlet, and its being dangled right in front of my nose. There’s no way I’m not going to look into it.

...But maybe that can wait until after I’ve interviewed Clan Feldspar’s many colorful residents.