Action: but you never tire of dreams

[ofthebeast]

Characters: Any willing dreamers
Open? Yes
Where: In your minds
When: After the party
What: Part two of the dream plot!
Warnings:


The party went on, with the beast's head on display. A proud, twisted thing. Behind false ruby eyes, it waited. And as the music became slower and the wine less plentiful, it waited still.

Those who had gazed upon it at the ball. Those who had seen it once living in the forest. All heroes who dared to look upon its face and dream still that they would be able to live another day...

There are all sorts of ways of living. In waking. In sleep. Perhaps, now, they would find one in between.

(ooc: Feel free to keep tagging into the party post! Once your characters go home and go to sleep of their own accord, that is when the dreaming will begin. Remember, it is up to you to set up what kind of world your character is trapped in and how best to help them. Plotting post is here, make use of it!

The beast's power will wane once the bulk of the dreamers have escaped his curse. If your character was not at the party but you still want to involve them in the dream plot, that is fine! They can either help get people out or have seen the beast wandering in the woods before it was killed and have caught its attention that way.

Comments

[brosif]

Sif does not fear the guards, nor Lady Stark. One of her would be enough of a match for all the guards of this keep. Yet her tone is nothing but respectful. When she looks at Cat, time shifts around her, in a way that available only to the very old.

She sees Alayne, stilled by terror in her courtesies. She sees what this castle must have been, that the girl remembers it so perfectly. There are no foul smells here, which would be etched in even the best kept of manors. Everyone is quiet, at the command of the Lady – no guards are as well trained as that, even the most loyal. Everyone is content.

Alayne remembers this place perfectly. Which means that wherever it stands in this world, it stands broken.

“Your story is set.” A sadness there, but everything about Alayne screams that she is without a mother. “I have lived longer than your oldest scribes, than their own ancestors, and your story is set. But hers is not. That is why I am here. To save your daughter.”

[ladysarmour]

Two guards approach, and each grasps Sif tightly round an elbow to restrain her. Lady Catelyn's face is as cold and smooth as frozen water.

"What do you know of my daughter? You speak of stories and yet you know not hers; you speak of safety as if such a thing exists." Somewhere outside wolves begin to howl, but it's as if their voices seep through the very stones, so near do they sound. "Nowhere is safer for her than here; no place is happier."

[brosif]

"This place no longer exists."

When Sif is ever in doubt, she holds the truth to be a shield. Here, it is no different. But her face is kind, in the midst of what some might consider to be a battle. That is different.

"You speak of safety. Of happiness. But would you really have your daughter live here? In the past? Have you ever seen what happens to men that live in the past? What lives they lead?"

Truth, as she looks Lady Stark in the eye:

"You would not wish that for your daughter. No mother would."

[ladysarmour]

In this moment, time freezes; a hush settles over the castle as thick and impenetrable as its stones. Lady Stark meets Sif's gaze without flinching, deep and blue as the Trident.

"Yet who will protect her if she leaves? I cannot; these men cannot. She is alone."

[brosif]

Sif meets Lady Stark's gaze, unblinking. Though it isn't really Lady Stark, is it? Lady Stark’s true eyes are long dead, long clouded over. Sif knows this, but doesn't know how.

Just as she knows, in her bones, that she is speaking to some of the strongest parts of Sansa. The parts that would see her protected. They have kept her head on her shoulders, so far.

"Yes. She is. And she must learn to protect herself, alone. Parents die before their children. Retainers can be bought. Good men can turn evil. To be protected, truly, is to protect yourself."

She leans in. Every word she says is true. But so is this:

"I can show her how. I cannot promise to protect her forever, but I can promise that."

[ladysarmour]

"Very well," the lady says. Suddenly they are alone, the guards disappeared. Footsteps approach Sif from behind (and when she turns, Catelyn will be gone too).

A girl advances down the opposite length of the hall: small, dark and pale, clad in a simple dress of soft-spun wool. At her heels a wolf treads, immensely huge and brown as tree bark. "That's better than nothing," the girl says without preamble. Her face has a sullen, impertinent look. "She's completely useless as is."

[brosif]

Doubt, then. Or loathing. Or a space between the two. She fixes the girl with a curious look.

"Why do you name her useless?"

[ladysarmour]

"Because she is. She always has to be a polite, helpless little lady, and she thinks her life's some stupid song." There is nothing ladylike about this child: not the tangled, braided mess of unruly dark hair, nor the direct, insolent cast of her gaze, nor the way she walks, all heavy stick limbs with no amount of grace.

She walks past Sif and down the hall, the wolf a great savage shadow padding silently at her heels. "Are you coming or not? I'll leave you behind, don't think I won't."

[brosif]

Growing up, Sif often looked like Sansa at the start of the day and the girl before her by the end of it. She hated the things she was encouraged to adopt. Dresses, dolls, and songs. And she had no use for other girls that clung to them.

Time tempered that loathing. Showed her that it was not the dresses she hated, but the assumption that to wear one was to put aside all else. It took years to believe that she could be a warrior and a lady, and lose nothing in either.

This child has not had years. Alayne has not had years.

She follows.

"There are all sorts of songs in the world. Not all of them sweet."

[ladysarmour]

"You don't have to tell me that," she protests. "I'm not the stupid one."

They reach the end of the long hall, where a staircase winds its way up from the corner. The girl climbs quickly, the movements of someone not used to staying still, and her beast follows. The steps fall away beneath them.

[brosif]

Sif walks in time with the girl. She does not look behind her.

“I have seen how quickly your sister adapts. Stupid people are not capable of that.”

[ladysarmour]

"There's more she could do, but she hasn't got the courage."

They reach a door and stop.

"You can't save her. Nobody can."

[brosif]

She looks down at the child, but her tone and bearing still manages to place them as equals. It was how she preferred to be spoken to, as a girl. Something Frigga was always capable of.

"I have made no promises to save her. Only to help her try and save herself. Does she not deserve that chance?"

[ladysarmour]

"She's past deserving anything," the girl responds, her voice trapped in a place between cruel and mournful and resigned. "But you can give it anyway."

She turns and grasps the door handle, presses the latch and pushes it open. The wolf steps forward, all wild beauty, and snuffs at Sif. Presses a wet nose into her hand. "Go on, then," the child says. "Go while I'll still let you."

The way is open.

[brosif]

Sif has never had a sister, and Heimdall was long since grown and at his post when she was born. The siblings she knows best are Thor and Loki. Thor and Loki, who have nearly torn worlds apart between them.

When she looks at the girl, she thinks of Thor: dead. Of the destroyer, walking away. The months that followed.

“It would shock you, what siblings will truly forgive each other. Even after death.”

She pats the wolf’s head, and lets herself be led.

[ladysarmour]

The girl and her wolf do not follow; they are swallowed up by the darkness. Sif will find herself in a walled-in wood, older than the ages of men, where trees have stood together in silent camaraderie for ten thousand years. The light here is dimmed by the thick canopy, though here and there a small patch of sunlight peaks through the leaves. And in the center, white as bone with vivid red leaves, stands the heart tree.

It is Sif's to find her way there. The way is not difficult or easily lost, but she can still turn back.

[brosif]

Before she was a prince, before she was a warrior, Sif was a farmer’s daughter. Her father’s land was surrounded by the forest. Bright and new during the daytime, with sunlight streaming in through translucent leafs. Dark and ancient at night, the calls of beasts too numerous to name echoing across the lonely valley between homestead and woodland.

She does not remember fearing the forest. Not once. She walks to the center of the woods, to the heart of it. Experience tells her that is where hidden things wait.

[ladysarmour]

She feels Sif's approach in the tread of supple leather over tree roots and dead leaves. This is a forest of bones arrayed in a cage around Sansa's heart. Beside her sits a man, tall, solemn, dark and pale. His hands rest on his knees and he has his eyes closed in prayer.

Sansa does not rise, does not turn to greet Sif, her gaze locked on the haunting face carved into the bone-white heart tree. But Lady acknowledges Sif's presence, approaching to sniff at her hand and give it a brief lick before returning to Sansa's side. A breeze shifts Sansa's hair, the same as the lady of the castle's, more Tully than Stark. "The Northmen believe these weirwood trees are their gods," Sansa says. "Will you sit and pray with me, Lady Sif?"

[brosif]

Sif does not believe in Gods -- belief is something she has long since set aside in favor of knowing. She knows what the path to Valhalla is carved in, knows that her ancestors wait in those halls. She is glad to pay price for it, proud to live and die for Asgard.

Belief is a mortal thing. But she looks at the face in the tree, and is reminded that there is still power in it.

She sits by Sansa's side, gentle in her movements. There is a quiet to this place that suits the both of them.

"I admit that I have never prayed. What is it that you pray for, princess?"

[ladysarmour]

Sansa, for her part, has always believed, but in the Seven who are One. Yet here she prays to her father's gods, the gods of the cold, sparse land of her home. If there is any wolf inside of her, it howls to the great cold wilds.

The title makes her flinch inside. "I pray for home." Her dreams, once so vast and grand, have grown smaller.

[brosif]

“A home that no longer stands.”

It is not a question. Every part of the girl: her manner, her courtesy – they speak to someone without a home. Without a place to claim a sense of identity.

[ladysarmour]

"Sacked and burned to the ground," she answers. A simple 'yes' will not suffice. "Those who once lived there, now all dead."

She turns to Sif then, and there is something in her gaze. Wariness, and a sort of melancholy wisdom. She let Sif come here, but that does not mean she'll leave. Where once trust was so quick and easy, now it is so very hard. "You've come this lonely way, my lady. What is it you want of me?"