Dreams of a Wolf

Just a journal of my dreams and visions. More for me than anyone.

[huntress-dreams]

I feel a horrible dread deep in my chest. Every step I take down this hallway makes it gnaw on my heart, but I can't stop walking. My feet move on their own, something pulling me deeper into the darkness. And all around me, the hallway is getting bigger, emptier, longer. I'm alone.

There's a door. It's made of fine wood I recognize from home, and it looks almost exactly like the door to my parents' room. The knob is right at my forehead. I'm a little girl again.

And when I open the door, I see her there, sitting on that fucking Karrakin throne. Smug as a house cat. Her eye turns to look at me, and I know it's her, but I don't see the love there anymore. There's no tenderness for her daughter.

My name drips like poison from her lips, and my knees give out beneath me. I hear the clicking of heels against the floor, and the pressure spikes so hard it feels like I'm choking. I feel something on the back of my head, and then I'm shoved into the floor.

[huntress-dreams]

A mask covering his face, but I still knew it was him. A ghost, there to haunt me, to taunt me. He was real. He told me to come find him, and I dropped everything to chase him, but he wasn't there. And then he was in front of me, masked, getting someone out, just like I'd been sent to get someone out.

He put his hand on my shoulder, and there was weight and pressure, but there wasn't warmth. It was his hand, but it wasn't him moving it. He left a coin in my hand, and I feel more exhausted than ever. I can't move, I can't even talk. I still feel that ghost touching my shoulder, and I can't feel anything else.

I'm standing in the void of space. No floor, no walls, just stars and darkness. No one else is there but me and the ghost, and all I want to do is say his name, but I'm terrified that if I do, he'll go back to being dead, and I won't even have the ghost anymore. I'm holding his hand to my shoulder, the way I held his hand when we were kids.

Please don't let go.

Please don't let go.

Please.

[huntress-dreams]

I was a little girl again, sitting on Mom's lap by the fireplace while Mother was in her chair knitting. Mom gave me my dagger, and told me the story of the First Hunt. Mother had spent the front half of the day baking little treats to share for the holiday, so the house smelled like warm spices and sweets. It was soft and warm and... safe.

Mother had a look in her eyes like she was biting her tongue, like there was something she wanted to say but couldn't because I was there. There was... coldness... and pain. The way she looked at me was warm and loving, but the way she looked at Mom... It was like she was seeing a stranger holding her daughter and not her wife.

I thought I remembered it all so clearly. The love, the warmth, the happiness, the comfort and safety... But my parents were strangers to each other, even back then. They raised me together, but they weren't partners. They were always on opposite sides.

[huntress-dreams]

A cycle of building something beautiful, struggling to defend it, and destruction. We were building a temple when one of their Kuirassiers fell from the sky and shattered the floor into rubble and debris. We all screamed before they opened fire. At us. At the temple walls. Stained glass shot out, light pouring like blood through the shards. Bodies and blood and warfare in a holy place.

When tyrants rise, people try to go on living, try to maintain normalcy, but that power takes over and now they're forced to change something about their way of life. Some try to carry on anyway, and are punished to cement the new authority. Some try to run, but empires don't stop until they fall.

The only option is to fight. Tyrants are gluttons who never stop taking and consuming; sick deer overgrazing until they puke, over and over and over without end, making the land barren. This is what must be hunted. This is what threatens us all. This is why we must bare our fangs.

Fuck Karrakis. Fuck Ras Shamra. We deserve better than tyrants and warlords.

[huntress-dreams]

A friend's face, aged a bit since last I saw him. He smiled and told me things would be alright, but I couldn't believe him, despite how much I wanted to. The gun on his hip whispered, saying that people like us weren't meant to be "alright". Pilots like us are blessed to be the fangs of our goddess, and cursed to be soaked in blood until we break.

It wasn't his face I wish I'd seen, but I'm not complaining. Being out in the sticks of the Rim puts things into perspective, and makes a good argument to upgrade "acquaintance" to "friend" in the small hours.

[huntress-dreams]

Listen. This blog isn't for anyone but me. I'm not looking for friends or companionship or validation or anything like that. I'm not here to chat or answer questions or talk about my life story. I don't care if you follow me. I'm probably not going to follow back. This is just where I put my dreams so I can look back at them later.