[center][color=SeaGreen][h3][b]Daimyon Londe[/b][/h3][/color][/center]

[center][i]O blessed swallow, show me the way
To a land where the dryads stay
Where on golden fields fairies play
O blessed swallow, show me the way![/i][/center]

So said Daimyon Londe who stood entranced by the sight of a beautiful white bird fluttering its wings ahead of him, a heavenly glow around it. It heard the poet's words and took flight, gliding through the clouds with grace. Daimyon leapt after it, off the mountaintop and into the air, carried forward by a gale of wind as if he was weightless. He kept the swallow in sight and flew behind it, inching closer but unable to ever catch up. He did not mind that too much, though. Being here in this magical place filled him with bliss and elation in itself. He floated in the air for a good while before he was satiated with the sight. After which he took a glance downwards from the dizzying height and—

—woke up.

[hr]
Rough awakening, it was. The endless mountains were replaced by suffocating steely-grey walls; gone was the smooth wind as well, instead he felt a bit of sweat trickling down his brow. In the moment he opened his eyes he desperately sought the swallow, the last but brightest memory of the dream, but that too had disappeared, perhaps flying to greener pastures. The only source of light in the dim place was a shining screen which displayed nothing else.
Once the last vestiges of his wonderful adventure in dreamland were kicked out of his mind by the harsh reality, Daimyon instinctively reached for his vest pocket. What followed was a relieved sigh as he fumbled—limbs still feeling kind of numb—to pull out the notebook that laid inside. His focus was now all on the pad which he held delicately in his hands: with an unassuming, plain brown exterior and small size for a notebook, it was a question why the poet regarded it with almost feverish attachment. The pen that was neatly affixed to it was quite stylish with its black cylinder and golden roller ball, sure, but that alone was not satisfactory explanation.

Daimyon wasted little time in opening it up and flipping through the numerous pages in the thick journal. He allowed himself another sigh and a reassured smile upon seeing writing, his own handwriting in fact, on the papers. This notebook was his safe, his diary and his treasure trove all at once: filled with poetry, thoughts, musings and even the occasional mundane reminder. Without it he felt lost—with it he was ready to take on any of life's challenges.

Such as this one.

He stood up and assessed the situation. There was not much to investigate, even for a groggy poet—a minute later most things were clear as day. He was in an elevator of normal size and interior, except for the slight inconvenience that the apparent lack of buttons meant. Oh, and the somewhat bigger inconvenience of not being able to open the door which, as icing on a lousy cake, also had a scary blood-painted message on it.

Another minute later Daimyon had to realise that nothing at all was clear: he did not know where he was, how he got there and how he was going to get out. His problems encompassed past, present and future. The orderly man he was—in that situation, not many would agree he was particularly organised in general—, he was going to tackle them in that order and reopened his notebook to do just that. He skipped to the last entry:

[center][i]Been prone too long
Glad to be upright again
I'll soon be o[/i][/center]

It was not like him to leave works unfinished, so the fact perturbed him a great deal. Still, his memory got the refreshment it needed and he now remembered spending his last day in the hospital after a successful treatment of his pneumonia—the process of which was outlined in previous poems—and getting ready to return to the normal world. These facts answered fewer questions than he would have liked to, but it was all he had to work with. Figuring it was useless to slam the iron door, cry for help or just generally panic, he slumped back down on the floor to read some more from his notebook.

Before he sank too deep into the realm of words however, the screen which until now was only bright whiteness came alive with a different picture: that of a black-and-white bear. A talking black-and-white bear. With a name and a doctorate.

Daimyon Londe listened intently.

Listened intently and scribbled furiously, to be precise. As the bear listed people one by one, he took the sudden inspiration and wrote a few lines for everyone with commendable speed. He only looked up from his work when he himself was presented—with a poem no less. His smile widened at the gesture.

By the time he was done with everyone, the impenetrable-seeming door had already slid open smoothly.

[color=SeaGreen]“That's two out of three,”[/color] he noted to himself casually, putting away his pen. All but one of his immediate problems were dealt with and that was without him allowing his blood pressure to spike in even the slightest. All right, he conceded, perhaps the beginning was a bit disconcerting. Uncertainty, after all, was often worse than a brick wall right in a man's face. Once he was equipped with his notebook and his carefree attitude though, the troubles started melting away. He ran a hand through his grey hair and found it more unkempt than usual...but that really was just a poor attempt from life to aggravate him.

Stepping outside the confines of the elevator was an all-around exhilarating experience. The freedom to move, to explore, to breathe without hearing your breaths were entirely fantastic. Daimyon placed an emphasis on these small joys instead of letting the heavy presence of white concrete walls weigh him down. The last push he needed to ignore these material worries was the sight of another human being in the flesh: ahead of him walked a man, younger than the poet at first glance, wearing a proper black suit that suited his dark hair. Despite his earlier decision, he could not disregard the similar-looking elevator that stood next to his either. Though he had a sinking feeling that this man had been in the same exact situation as him, locked inside the transporter, but he did not give up the small glimmer of hope that he was actually some kind of official or staff member who could tell him something about the situation.

[color=SeaGreen]“Hello!”[/color]  He approached him cheerfully. [color=SeaGreen]“My friend, I am in quite a bind. Could you help me with my plight?”[/color] 

While he quickly stepped up to the accosted, he noticed other things vying for his attention: more elevators ahead of him and to the left, a long hallway to the right just begging to be explored, and most importantly, a host of other voices bringing the cold, concrete-walled area slowly to life.

[color=SeaGreen]“Oh, excuse me for being blunt. I'm Daimyon Londe.”[/color] He continued talking to the man, neglecting any outside influence for now. [color=SeaGreen]“Rhymes with bond and fond; not with blondie, sorry. And you would be...the politician, right-y?”[/color]

Okay, that last one was a bit forced. He blamed it on the circumstances.