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Description
Long time no post.
Got nothing much to share, I've currently been away from home and not enjoying it at all. Hope to be home again soon.

But until then I've had this sitting around since before I left.
Not sure what the quality of this is like on other devices as I'm uploading on my phone after sending it to myself. So its probably shitty.

........

Allowing the Dream Walk to end, Waloga was alone on the stage in the dark and gritty silence. The past was gone, but he was here and needed to make amends for what he had been unable to destroy.
Perhaps Ilswetht was right, and his pacifism was stagnating, while Lucien was out there, gathering force and strength.
“Action is needed.” he said as the last tinkling shreds of mana floated away like embers.
Releasing him fully into an unusual reality.
He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he could feel the air…ticking?
Like the invisible disturbance of a metronome in motion.

The hairs prickled on his body.
He was not alone.
Someone had entered the theatre despite the weavings upon it to make passers-by uninterested. Someone had bypassed his dream magics.
The ticking air distorted at the edge of his vision, like the rippling surface of a bubble, just beyond his sight, and at the centre of it stood the source. A lone figure in a white, featureless mask, skull-like over the entire face and head. How long had he been standing there while Waloga wandered?
“What brings you here friend?” the Magician asked, amiable, remaining calm. The tinkling of his staff and bells were the only sound in that muffled realm of grey noise as he gripped it tighter.
The black lenses of that mask gaped hollowly at him, impassive, devoid of emotion. “The nature of our relationship has yet to be determined.” The trembling of the air shifted to the timbre of the voice.
“I welcome all as equals,” Waloga smiled, spreading his hands out in openness, offering a short bow. “All are friends to me.”
The other remained still.
Far too still.

The Dream Walker didn’t let his smile falter, though his heart was beginning to race, quite unsettlingly in contrast to the slow rhythmic pulses of that mute ticking throb. His head was starting to ache.
“I mean you no harm,” the masked figure assured him, and Waloga believed it and distrusted it in paradoxical unison. “For how long, however, is up to you.”
The Magician looking this way and that, disarmingly, he could see no others hidden in the aisles or balconies, this one had come alone and he couldn’t read him or his intentions. He could not even find the echoes of a dream to grasp and weave.
“What would give you reason to consider otherwise?” he asked, keeping his manner casual.
“Your choices of action.” said the other. Impassive, as if the words were delayed in reaching those hidden ears. “You are a relic, an out-dated myth struggling to retain relevance in a world which does not recognise you as anything else. You will stop trying.”
And now the amiability in Waloga began to hesitate, the voice sounded familiar to him, and yet, not. That paradoxical sensation of familiarity and incomprehension fluctuated inexplicably, simultaneously calming him and causing anxiety in a steady pulse.
“Who are you?” he asked, moving closer and trying to penetrate the fog of nothing his dream eye searched.
“This is no longer your city, Magician.” The other replied. “You have no place here, dispossessed by the ones who once praised you. You are unwanted, can you not see that?”

The pain in Waloga’s head was now becoming quite acute, like pressure building within his ears—or as if something was trying to get in. A blink to clear the sensation and regain his composure. Panic bade him act in defence. Setting his staff before him and grasping a hold of the mana on the air, Waloga wove.
The world swam, warping and opening a dream and—
A gauntleted hand wrapped around the staff between them, dominating the intimate space with control, leaving the mana of thought to untangle and unwind, like water down a drain.
“I cannot reach him.” Waloga thought, with sudden chill fear at the ease in which the body broke the trance it was never subject to in the first place. “The dream is not effecting him.”
How?
“Have a care,” the masked one, in a tone like the sound of a snarl curling itself across unseen lips, sharp and feral, inhaling his scent and licking canines in anticipation of an exposed throat. “Take heed of whose house you bandy tricks in.”
And Waloga could see himself too clearly, infinite, reflected back in those obsidian lenses. A tiny portrait in the endless void, reaching on into an eternity of nothing. And he felt alone and vulnerable.
A weak child shivering in the dark.
Powerless.
“You will not try to weave your stories again.” the figure said, so low his voice was a purr in Waloga’s mind, vibrating the tiny bones of his ears with intense oscillations almost near agony, yet closer to exquisite pleasure. “You will forget them. The past is irrelevant; your attempts to resurrect it, futile. You are incapable of fighting against the tide. It is better this way.”
The voice…the voice spoke truth.
Fatigue washed over him...bringing with it the overwhelming desire to simply lie down in calm acceptance…
“Step away from this,” the voice continued, stroking away the nagging desire to fight against the pleasant tones. “Leave this place and accept obscurity. My words are not a request.”
Nodding, his head was nodding, agreeing…

Related art

Description
Long time no post.
Got nothing much to share, I've currently been away from home and not enjoying it at all. Hope to be home again soon.

But until then I've had this sitting around since before I left.
Not sure what the quality of this is like on other devices as I'm uploading on my phone after sending it to myself. So its probably shitty.

........

Allowing the Dream Walk to end, Waloga was alone on the stage in the dark and gritty silence. The past was gone, but he was here and needed to make amends for what he had been unable to destroy.
Perhaps Ilswetht was right, and his pacifism was stagnating, while Lucien was out there, gathering force and strength.
“Action is needed.” he said as the last tinkling shreds of mana floated away like embers.
Releasing him fully into an unusual reality.
He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he could feel the air…ticking?
Like the invisible disturbance of a metronome in motion.

The hairs prickled on his body.
He was not alone.
Someone had entered the theatre despite the weavings upon it to make passers-by uninterested. Someone had bypassed his dream magics.
The ticking air distorted at the edge of his vision, like the rippling surface of a bubble, just beyond his sight, and at the centre of it stood the source. A lone figure in a white, featureless mask, skull-like over the entire face and head. How long had he been standing there while Waloga wandered?
“What brings you here friend?” the Magician asked, amiable, remaining calm. The tinkling of his staff and bells were the only sound in that muffled realm of grey noise as he gripped it tighter.
The black lenses of that mask gaped hollowly at him, impassive, devoid of emotion. “The nature of our relationship has yet to be determined.” The trembling of the air shifted to the timbre of the voice.
“I welcome all as equals,” Waloga smiled, spreading his hands out in openness, offering a short bow. “All are friends to me.”
The other remained still.
Far too still.

The Dream Walker didn’t let his smile falter, though his heart was beginning to race, quite unsettlingly in contrast to the slow rhythmic pulses of that mute ticking throb. His head was starting to ache.
“I mean you no harm,” the masked figure assured him, and Waloga believed it and distrusted it in paradoxical unison. “For how long, however, is up to you.”
The Magician looking this way and that, disarmingly, he could see no others hidden in the aisles or balconies, this one had come alone and he couldn’t read him or his intentions. He could not even find the echoes of a dream to grasp and weave.
“What would give you reason to consider otherwise?” he asked, keeping his manner casual.
“Your choices of action.” said the other. Impassive, as if the words were delayed in reaching those hidden ears. “You are a relic, an out-dated myth struggling to retain relevance in a world which does not recognise you as anything else. You will stop trying.”
And now the amiability in Waloga began to hesitate, the voice sounded familiar to him, and yet, not. That paradoxical sensation of familiarity and incomprehension fluctuated inexplicably, simultaneously calming him and causing anxiety in a steady pulse.
“Who are you?” he asked, moving closer and trying to penetrate the fog of nothing his dream eye searched.
“This is no longer your city, Magician.” The other replied. “You have no place here, dispossessed by the ones who once praised you. You are unwanted, can you not see that?”

The pain in Waloga’s head was now becoming quite acute, like pressure building within his ears—or as if something was trying to get in. A blink to clear the sensation and regain his composure. Panic bade him act in defence. Setting his staff before him and grasping a hold of the mana on the air, Waloga wove.
The world swam, warping and opening a dream and—
A gauntleted hand wrapped around the staff between them, dominating the intimate space with control, leaving the mana of thought to untangle and unwind, like water down a drain.
“I cannot reach him.” Waloga thought, with sudden chill fear at the ease in which the body broke the trance it was never subject to in the first place. “The dream is not effecting him.”
How?
“Have a care,” the masked one, in a tone like the sound of a snarl curling itself across unseen lips, sharp and feral, inhaling his scent and licking canines in anticipation of an exposed throat. “Take heed of whose house you bandy tricks in.”
And Waloga could see himself too clearly, infinite, reflected back in those obsidian lenses. A tiny portrait in the endless void, reaching on into an eternity of nothing. And he felt alone and vulnerable.
A weak child shivering in the dark.
Powerless.
“You will not try to weave your stories again.” the figure said, so low his voice was a purr in Waloga’s mind, vibrating the tiny bones of his ears with intense oscillations almost near agony, yet closer to exquisite pleasure. “You will forget them. The past is irrelevant; your attempts to resurrect it, futile. You are incapable of fighting against the tide. It is better this way.”
The voice…the voice spoke truth.
Fatigue washed over him...bringing with it the overwhelming desire to simply lie down in calm acceptance…
“Step away from this,” the voice continued, stroking away the nagging desire to fight against the pleasant tones. “Leave this place and accept obscurity. My words are not a request.”
Nodding, his head was nodding, agreeing…

Related art