Bethen, the Lost Dream
Ten Thousand Gates > An Impromptu Picnic in a Starlit, Ancient Arena

Let your ax stay resting, pale warrior, just as my blades stay sheathed; though lately met we are not foes, this much I feel - and the feel of dreams is the truth of dreams. Such is why to dream is the duty of wise women, while the menfolk tend to the world of waking; save for this remoteness, it would seem. I have come far indeed from the known ways and the great spirits who guide.

Yet I must perforce agree with he of the ax, as this nighted desert and its great arena is unwelcoming - save for present company and this little torchlight in a great darkness of things I would rather not see. There is a greatness here, before us and after us, an ill brooding that is beyond and away, above and beneath. This much I feel, and the dream path twists with it.

Mayhaps our host, kind provider of cloth laid upon sand and sweatmeats laid upon cloth, feels more than I, and knows yet more again?

[ Posted by Reason on September 30, 2005 ]