Member
HeMandaddy
Fallenreaper
Lord Zee
Force and Fury
King of Rats
Crimson Flame
DracoLunaris
Ti
YummyYummy
Crusader Lord
Wait.
This was the prerogative of his twin, yet, Àicheil had yet to learn the value--or meaning truth be told--of patience. So as the minutes passed, the colossal mind of the Dreaming God began to wander and--soon after--its vessel followed suit. At first, he tread upon the gentle waves and roiling swells of the ocean's expansive tide, the water coiling, and shifting beneath him. When waves grew taller than his silhouette of twenty spans, they parted, never touching his starry form. As he moved, the motions of the salty seas reminded him of the encompassing weave of consciousness, the Web of Minds, the Collective of mortality. Intimately, he sensed every emotion, thought, and experience which rippled and vibrated across the weave. These currents of thought sometimes entwined and from them were created a thing which he held as most valuable and beauteous.
"Dreams."
The word rippled out, a thought, a whim, a statement, but most of all, it was a name. Joy blossomed, like warmth in the center of his being, and he rejoiced. This thing, he must spread it.
Casting his senses wide, Ѻs-fhìreach considered the movements of all things, the patterns inherent in the world, and the forces which underpinned them all. These rigid ideals were the first he discarded, ignoring them. In swift order, he filtered through these concepts until, finally, the intensity of his gaze fell upon the heavens.
Moons, the word came to him unbidden, and in that instant, his mind was set. Tendrils dripping prismatic essence burst from his star spattered form, reaching to the sky. Then, in the next instant, he winked from existence.
A rush of color and intention, a place awash with thoughts. Unbidden, a rippling pulse of whim traveled out from the vast eldritch mind of the being, and with it came change. From the depths of sleep and inattention were born the seeds of dreams. Though significant, this act was one done not with intent, but as an accident of his passing.
Across Galbar, those sleeping beings began to experience things within the throes of their restful slumber. The gift of dreaming had been bestowed upon the world.
Slipping from the endless Dream, Àicheil's awareness emerged beyond the sky. Then, joined once more with his truest vessel, the Dreamer traversed the cosmos. Cutting through the heavens in his great haste, he passed through the purple Moon as if it did not exist. Fortunately, it was unaffected by his passing. In moments the full force of his consciousness--that condensed lifeblood which composed his being--shuddered against the umbral aura of the Moon, his attention unrelenting.
On the lunar surface, a small, groggy head poked its purple self out of a cave opening, scanning the empty space around it in search of whatever was shaking the very foundation of space with its presence. It didn’t take long for it to spot its creation’s purple neighbour, and perhaps even less time to spot the colossal vessel also floating about in orbit.
“What in the world?!” Gibbou exclaimed in bafflement and skipped onto the surface of her moon to get a better look at the menagerie. Her eyes fixed on the great spirit soaring between celestial objects, and she put her hands on her hips in a sort of impatient manner. Visitors were nice - but maybe not all the time. “Hey!” she shouted at the presence, divine voice carrying through time and space.
The words washed over its form, touching its consciousness and from that contact blossomed a myriad of thoughts. They swarmed through the Dreamer's psyche, before coalescing just as swiftly into the outlines of an act.
So impelled by the word of its fellow god, Àicheil sought to speak, but it found only more confusion. Nonetheless, meaning rang out from the depths of its cavernous mind.
"Why?"
The word boomed, full of meaning. Why do your words ring without meaning? it queried, Why are you here? it asked, Why do you brim with these fluttering emotions? It wondered.
Àicheil's form shifted, head tilting slightly, its thin fingers clutching chin as if in deep thought. Then, remembering the effect its form had wrought upon Galbar, and the insistence of its twin, the Dreaming God shed once more its form. Drifting gently to the surface of the craggy Moon, it touched down only eight steps from the Goddess. He appeared as a figure made from darkness and glimmering starlight intertwined. He had no eyes or other features to speak of beyond the humanoid shape of his chosen form.
"Who?" he queried once more. The word filled to brimming with intent. It said, Who are you? What are you? It was as if he asked not simply for a name, but a description inclusive of her entirety. It was intimate, but there was an air about the Dreaming God that spoke of naivety and innocence, though perhaps of a different brand than the Goddess herself.
Gibbou recoiled into a somewhat defensive stance and eyed the form up and down. “That, that’s a lot of questions, hold on.” She hummed. “I aaam Gibbou - a goddess in the same way that you, I presume, are a god. I keep this moon and all life safe and sound. Uh, let’s see, more whats… Oh! Despite what people say, I’m not actually a type of blueberry. That’s just my complexion.” She offered a polite smile and eased her stance. “And you? Same questions!”
Nodding slowly, Neo-Àicheil tried to grasp the ideas behind each word uttered by the violet Goddess, yet...as the words piled one atop the other he soon found that they had become cumbersome to bear. So, as he considered these many words--each in isolation--he found that with each one he understood he lost more and more meaning. Oddly there was a paradox there, for though she had uttered more words than he, each one held within it less meaning than even his one.
It was as if they were diminished.
Struggling to understand, and burdened now with growing confusion, Àicheil bestowed to Gibbou the simplest of inquiries.
"What?"
Though he possessed no face, the god's bearing could not have more loudly screamed befuddlement.
Gibbou blinked and crossed her hands over her chest. “Y-your name. What’s your name? Oh, and, uh, what’re god of, hmm?” She eyed him up and down ponderously. “... I would say ghosts.”
Each word uttered seemed to instill within the Dreaming God yet more confusion and after a time he was forced to stop. Withdrawing several steps as if afraid, though not a drop of fear existed within his demeanor.
Gibbou gave a small wave. “H-hey, come back! I didn’t mean to be rude! Was I rude? I’m sorry I was rude! Please don’t go! I literally -just- scared away my other guest, too!” To emphasise, she approached with her arms stretched out.
These words helped him none, but he did not retreat further, allowing her approach. Though, beneath the surface his thoughts were muddled as he grasped at the notes of her meaning, seeking understanding. For, you see, in his mind every word was considered in isolation, all its many meanings included. However, when words were expressed aplenty, lined up neatly in a row, he did not see them in this way. Instead, it would be as if you took each idea that filled those words and placed them on a canvas all at once, each overlapping and entwining. In their dance they gained meaning, but so too did they lose it.
It was in this way that Àicheil perceived both the world and her speech. However, not knowing that others saw the world in more concrete a manner, the god had no reason to express this. Nonetheless, in his frustration, he hazarded a query, hoping perhaps that he might understand her response.
"Connect?"
He wished to make contact, lay a hand, a finger or perhaps a thread, upon her person. In that word was held this meaning and several others. The implication of intimacy was there, but it was truncated, meaning only a melding of the minds. He sought to communicate. In that word also was his frustration with whatever it was he did lack and--certainly--the confusion he clearly held.
He hoped she might respond. He hoped for affirmation.
Gibbou slid to a halt and held up her hands. “Woah, what do you mean ‘connect’? Like, like talking, you mean, or…?” She eyed the presence up and down again. “Oh, sister, you are pretty shy, aren’t you? C’mon, come out of your shell! Or, wait, sorry, that wasn’t nice of me - y’know, I also occasionally have stage fright, and that’s totally fine - I kinda just want to know your name, though. Could, could you help me with that?”
The stars across the Dreaming God's form narrowed to pinpricks. The intensity of his attention rose sharply at that moment as he tried, desperately, to understand this woman, this goddess, this...Gibbou.
Seeing her hands--for they gave more meaning and structure to him than her words--Àicheil held out his own, palm up. A drop of desperation touched his mind and spread like a contagion through his aura.
"Connect," he replied emphatically, almost pleading. This time its meaning was somehow less, his desperation and focus narrowing the scope of its intent. The word provided an intuition in place of context and understanding. It said, Communicate, it said, take my hand, it begged, please?
Gibbou’s frown only worsened at the few words, but she nonetheless took his hand in her own, looking up at the starry form as politely as she could. “Alright, uhm… Will you now tell me your name?”
As her fingers grazed his palm and their hands met a ripple of pleasant warmth coursed between them. It spread, suffusing her, and it was like suddenly being clear and awake. Àicheil immediately calmed at the touch, and the narrowed blaze of the stars bound within his void-flesh expanded as if relaxing. He shone from within, and as her words organized themselves and their meaning became clear, he spoke.
"I am, the Dreaming God," he began, and the words were like a tapestry of meaning, an expression so pure and so exact that all other communication before it would pale in comparison. It was with this single phrase that Àicheil came to understand something, the confusion he had felt from the overwhelming nature of her speech; it mirrored something else. In them, he saw how a mortal might find the intensity of his divine intent too great to bear.
For the first time, independent of his twin, Àicheil understood.
"I have many names," he continued, a clarity forming in his mind as the bridge of consciousness between them provided him context and truth with which to sort his thoughts. “You would do well to recall three." He paused, his form pulsing, a sense of contentment and comfort wrapping itself about them like a blanket as he grew satisfied with their new arrangement.
"I am Ѻs-fhìreach, I am Àicheil, I am Neo-Àicheil."
Gibbou nodded slowly, pondering for a moment how to pronounce those sounds herself. “C-can I just call you Aichie?”
A gentle vibration jostled the essence of their surroundings for a moment, the impression of a smile casting itself across the surface of her mind. It lasted the span of several instants before fading into silence. This, too, was fleeting--for after a moment of brief consideration, he spoke once more.
"You may call me Àicheil," he replied, and with the name's utterance came an understanding intrinsic, the whispers of a dream seeded with intent. He gifted her a simple thing, small, but more meaningful to the Dreaming God than perhaps she would know. He gave her the capacity to say his name and, held within that utterance, its most authentic meaning.
"If you call me, with need in your heart, I will come," he paused, a pensiveness falling across his visage.
"You have helped me."
The statement, though it was not a question, gave rise to a desire. He wished to repay Gibbou for her kindness and understanding. For her patience. He wanted her permission to enrich something, to bring greater potency, connection, to a creation of her making.
Gibbou blinked a bit awkwardly, finding her expression slipping into a slight frown. She offered a nod and said a punctuating, “You’re welcome!”
Nodding, Àicheil gently removed his hand from hers, and with it slowly faded the warmth of unreal clarity. He nodded, regarding her a moment before his body unwound like a spool of threads and rejoined his greater vessel. Hovering then above the sphere of her Moon, Àicheil considered what may have been the greatest of her creations.
“This place is special to you," he said, his words echoing through space like starlight given purpose. His gaze fell upon the Goddess, but it was no longer so crushing; instead, it possessed a gentleness and care that before had been wholly absent.
“Might I protect it and enhance its beauty?"
Gibbou looked down at the ground, then all around, then raised a somewhat suspicious eyebrow at the starry being. “What exactly did you have in mind? I’ve had quite a few people do stuff to it, so forgive me if I come off as a little unconvinced.”
Sensing the apprehension in her words, its taste drifting from her like subtle waves, Àicheil nodded his understanding and raised a hand. Gently, the tip of a finger brushed against the surface of the moon. So careful was his touch that when he finished, the only evidence of its occurrence was the faint residue of moondust upon his raised finger. He exerted his will and in doing so the stars upon his form flared to life and the dust rose from the surface of his fingertip to drift in the air before him. He observed the essence of her creation and found in it a record of all that had transpired since its making.
“Another god has flung her into orbit," he acknowledged.
Then, his gaze turning upon her he clarified the flow of his thoughts, “I will do nothing so sudden and unwanted, this to you I promise."
Gibbou made hard eyes and pursed her lips. “... Fine… But be nice, okay? She’s delicate.”
The gentle sense of a smile passed between them, and he nodded, the weight of his attention shifting once more to the Moon. There he remained for a time, drinking in the silence, observing her Moon and its intricacies, coming to understand it. Then, its image held within his psyche, his attention drew in and all at once he vanished.
In the place where once Àicheil's truest vessel had been, there now dwelled only a shifting haze of moondust, its twisting in patterns most intricate and strange. Threads of particulate coiled in looping patterns and with each revolution more joined their twirling dance. A sense of subtle power began to grow, and the space between Galbar and her Moon seemed to warp and twist.
As she watched, Àicheil drew upon the Dream.
It responded.
A blooming cornucopia of color and sensation rose from the planet's surface; it surged forth beyond the sky. Gently, cosmic wind brushed against Gibbou's skin and fluttered across her creation's surface. The pattern laid out before her became laden with experience and a swelling joy condensed to bursting within its glowing loops.
Slowly, the spatial undulation of the Dreamer's starlit vessel faded into being, and with it came both order and chaos. Light erupted, the thrumming of a far off song rose to a fever pitch and the Id of many egos coursed forth from the coiling pattern. Before her, displayed in that moment, was the eldritch beauty of the vast Dream, unleashed.
Àicheil never lost control. The power of his lifeblood held tightly within his grasp; the Dreaming God wove the many threads about the sleeping form of Gibbou's Moon. Serenity and calm, clarity and peace, guidance, love, and passion--all of these united became the song of Gibbou's firstborn child. The storm of emotion and intention began to calm, yet it seemed he was not done.
The dust wrought pattern that had channeled his intention now expanded beyond its limits, taking only ephemeral dust from the surface of her cherished child. It cast itself upon the Moon, a shroud against calamity, then billowed out into the heavens. Its motion caught the glowing feylight of the woven Dream, and in a moment, the two expanded, deepened and combined.
Twas then, that silence fell, and all that remained was the beauty of his gift and the promise he had given. For though his power had been a storm of movement, the Moon remained unblemished and unbroken, its placid serenity unmarred.
“It’s…” Gibbou drew in a shivering gasp. “It’s so beautiful.” She reached out to one of the little dream-strands and it tickled her hand. She let forth a giggle. “Y’know, mister Àicheil, this is actually one of the nicest things someone’s ever done for me. You, you really did this just because I was nice to you?”
Stirred from the rumination of his work, Ѻs-fhìreach settled his gaze once more upon his sister. The faint echo of a smile settled over her, it felt as if the Dreamer's mind was far off and distracted. He was silent for a moment, the gently writhing mass of his cosmic cloak billowing about him, but when finally he made to speak, the sound was almost thunderous with joy.
"Kindness is no simple thing, Mother of the Moon. You see it as an act inherent, a thing done almost in passing, without thought." He trailed off, as if ensnared by the idea, but his next words still came, if perhaps more dreamy and aloof.
"I see the truth of your intent; the complexity behind that which you disregard, thinking it mundane."
Àicheil stopped and began to turn, the weight of his attention drawn by a shift in the cosmic dance.
"Compassion is not without effort. It is filled with energy and purpose." A pause, a long moment of silence, unbecoming. It dragged on and on, wishing to be broken, but only when time bid him, did the Dreamer finish his reply.
"I value all things, but do not understand them. The kindness of which you speak means more than the sky or the glittering sphere below. Emotion, intent, purity of purpose, these things hold weight. Few truly see them." The Dreaming God glanced back to the Moon and his attention focused once more upon her form, its weight crushing and intense.
"I am Ѻs-fhìreach, I do not see the world. Not as you do. It is inscrutable to me, alien and shallow, though beautiful all the same. This thing called reality; I do not know it. No, my realm is one of nebulous form and aimless purpose, a boundless Dream, a vagary unending and colossal in its depth. In this conglomeration of experience, I dwell, gazing upon the endless depths of mortal minds. All notions, in their totality, I find them to be true. So, know this, Gibbou-sister. This I do in clarity. I know it is atonement. I know it to be a thing which to you holds value." A brief disturbance in the weave of his thoughts rippled out, and it would feel to the Goddess as if--for barely an instant--the Dreaming God was just a confused and frightened child. It would feel as if a being like herself, one of boundless knowledge and wisdom, looked upon the world and saw beauty, but also...a vast unknowable thing. In that moment perhaps its confusion could be understood.
He did not seem to notice. The moment passed. Àicheil turned away. "Do not..." he began, but the thought was incomplete, the words began to flee him, tangling in his mind. Struggling, Àicheil tried again, but only one word, filled beyond its limits with meaning, struck against her, ringing like a gong too-close.
"Know."
It was the essence of forgiveness asked. An apology given with passion, but without reason. His word was a vast collection of thoughts, most alien. They were the truth of him. A being without context, a mind with boundless capacity, yet without the framework of understanding. It was filled with both hope and despair. It spoke of one who knew it could hurt, one who had, and one who surely would again. It begged understanding in place of judgment, knowing that many would not give it.
It asked of her a simple thing, a thing which he still could not truly grasp.
It asked for her compassion.
Àicheil drifted then, the weight of his intent swiveling upon the axis of his form as he cast out beyond her child. Left behind was his work and the echoing memory of their encounter. Where before her Moon had been a faintly glowing stone, writ cosmic in proportion, now about it swam and sang a corona of sensation. He had given it a light, to mirror its burning twin.
