"Stop it... don't cry," the general, now boyish and desperate, finds himself pleading against reason, his chest tight with sorrow as the tears begin to flow from her lovely faceโtoo pretty a face, the kind face that launched a thousand ships. Prettier still when she cried and sobbed and pouted like this, relentlessly tugging at his heartstrings.
His heart was racing, beating faster now; a clawing desperation swells in him, the desire to soothe inflamed. "Stop... don't cry," he begs of them, tugging on that frail wrist to bring them down to himโhe needed to console them, to feel the weight of them as his arms ensnared him, stole him from his vices, from his dangerous ambitious; he needed them too the delicate scent of perdition filling his nostrils as he burrowed his nose into their hair, the softness of their hair slipping between his fingertips.
"I'm here... I'm here, don't cryโ" but he isn't, is he? He presses him against his chest, a hand cupping the back lf their head with underlying possessiveness. "Donโt cryโ" the beat of his heart thunders against his chest, loud and painful, he cam feel his breath growing ragged and thenโhis body jolting awake, grasping onto nothing, cold, alone.
His hand clutch to his chest as if a phantom ache lingered there, hands patting the empty space beside him in the dark as if he expected to find him there, real and tangible. His eyes dart around the dimly lit bedroom and he can feel his heart in his throat, trying to jump out. His eyes are open, but he could still see them so clearly in his memory. Adrian... the image haunts him. The name haunts him.
Were they calling for him or was there a mere acho of his own weakness calling for them instead?
He needed to see himโto find him. He stumbles out of bed still drunk with slumber and tripping over his own feetโhe needed to see him. That is all he could think of, and he walked hastily now, with the single-minded determination of a man possessed.
It is a small door, of weathered cypress wood and rusted fixtures of bronze. A way in, left unguarded and unlocked for the night. One foot, then the other, and youโve come to be in what used to be a house of dreams, now dissolving. The corridor branches out, then, like an old tree, like dried out veins: a small courtyard where the well laid, bucket still wet; empty kitchens of unlit stoves and cracked clay; and empty rooms. Too many empty rooms, cursed with dust and memories.
But then, one would take another step, and find a stray rabbit making its way around the corner of the hallwayโs end. Deep, where the stubborn heart yet beat, even if faint. The garden had grown unruly and wild, more a forest of creeping vines that ran up the pillars and flowered on what framed the open sky. The pool around the statue of a lounging nymph had become emerald pond, and she, herself, grew moss on her skin and became one with the nature that reached from below.
Adrian sat there, heart stuck in the swell of their throat. Every once in a while, a bandaged hand would gently nudge away a bunny sniffing their lap, where a handkerchief of berries had grown bruised from the wait. The moon above still shone, but it felt as if it was sprinting to making space for the sun. Maybe he would come on the morrow. Adrian thought. It made their eyes narrow, and fingers clench. Perhaps he would never come. Then Adrian would have to reach, again, and again and again.
Did he go back to sleep? What did he dream of, when Adrian was not there? Beautiful things, matching the brightness of his soft smile; and surely there were softer creatures there, as well. The thought makes Adrian seethe, twist their face into an angry grin. It unravels with less than a touch; just by the sight of him. Adrian stands quickly, without thinking, some berries falling from their clumsy fingers even as they try to catch them without looking away from him, making the rabbits jump. They drink him in like water for a throat parched, ecstasy lasting until they catch the bruises underneath the waterlines, under the blood-red.
โSheng.โ Adrianโs voice breaks in pain, closing the distance between them in quick steps. The handkerchief just falls, now, then, Adrian uncaring as the hands rise to cradle Shengโs face as if it were crystal glass, tip-toeing to reach. โHave you not been sleeping well? There are shadows under your eyes...โ
๐๐ฅ๐จ๐ฌ๐๐ ๐ฌ๐ญ๐๐ซ๐ญ๐๐ซ for rook ; @tolvajok
the seediest tavern in aurea you will most likely ever find, quite deep into the night
Weary and wrinkled eyes catch on the mask, and brighten as if decades younger. The old woman shakes her head, laughs. So you actually came, ha! She wipes the tankard with an old, moth-bitten rag. It is late into the night enough that the clink of drinks has turned into loud bellows, high yells; fists hitting the tables without rhythm, knowing only one would bring song. Youโve got someone waiting for you, donโt you know?
On the corner of the room, near a fogged window due to the inner heat despite the cold above, a figure in an embroidered cloak sits. By themselves, even, though all the chairs of their little table seem to have been taken away to make space for others to sit a further distance from them. There is a half-empty tankard in front of them, alongside a rather high stack of little clay plates; all chipped and of different sizes and shapes.
Asked for Rook, knew all about ye. Told โem you would be here โfore long, just wait over yonder. Aye. Theyโve been waiting since before the sun set. Iโve been getting eaten out of my hearth and home with the cheese-fingers we started serving alongside the ale. Funny at first, but not so much now. Go on and speak to them, yeah? I want to still have fare to serve. She kindly shoos him away.
๐๐ฅ๐จ๐ฌ๐๐ ๐ฌ๐ญ๐๐ซ๐ญ๐๐ซ for spike greaves ; @mortifere
the ghostlight market, a stall on the quieter of ends
Beady black; dark pools like void mirrors. On someone, on somethingโit lays docile behind thickened bars of a silver cage, shackles of flaring runes binding together bent and battered legs, wounds stitched. When it looks, its eyes are like dead fish, and then it groans, half-bellow and half-bleat. Trapped, broken, weak.
This one is already spoken for, the voice is muffled and deep. It startles Adrian enough to flinch. Move along, there are no further wares. โHow much?โ They blurt out anyways. The raised brow is enough of an answer, it seems, for such a stupid query. And yet, Adrian keeps on, as if blind. โMy master might be interested.โ He smiles under the mask: moon twisted in pain, stars of their eyes wrinkled as if in a smile. โAnd when the master is happy, does the servant not rejoice? Perhaps I could speak to your client, make them understand.โ A shake of the head, turning away. Speak to him yourself.
Adrianโs head tilts. The steps come, then, each time closer and stronger yet. Their back turns ram-road straight. Hanging lanterns flicker around them as if a gust of wind had followed; sickly dancing lights, darker shifting shadows. He creeps closer, taller, until he looms over herโand then Adrian turns, slowly, and raises their eyes, up, up, higher yet. โAh.โ They say. This will bring back the crick to my poor old neck. โYours, I imagine?โ
did the ocean not speak in tongues? with each syllable hidden in the vast waves of the seaโs unwilling ribs. riddled, like the songbird of sailors. she looks at the stranger, cloaked and hidden, like a treasured jewel fallen on the seabed. tilting her head, morgana blinks. " youโre at iuana harbor. " says she as if the answer was written in the sand; easy to read, gentle enough to decipher. and when she looks at the giant in the sky, it was granting each ship direction. yet as the wind trails with a cutting edge, thereโs a blast of a firelight not far off; a drunken magiโs spell gone wrong most likely. yet, morgana only glances, eyes flickering downwards to the sweep of grime that hangs on the strangerโs clothes. with the word treasure, her ears perk, and morgana wonders when sheโll stop being predictable.
so she nods once, though tentatively, and lets her footfalls close the gap between them. her boots are heavy on the pavement, with a few charms dangling off her shoelaces. as the waves crash, a slow still of the night followed, as if the ocean water was listening for something to obey. but it never had been a softhearted sovereign; for it was ancient and violent, a mere lover to the pale moonโs dominion. when morgana finally speaks, itโs not unkindly, though it's laced with a refined steel. spine held straight, guard held up. " well, speak then. where do you live? "
They flush at the words, exchanging them for an abashed smile. "Oh." Adrian gives a little sheepish titter of a laugh. "It's good to know I've not drifted all the way to another shore..." Though here the ships groaned still like ghosts, and despite the noise of bodies nearby, perhaps because of such, the darkness loomed. When the roar of fire joins the cacophony, Adrian cowers, and steps closer to the stranger as to hide behind in what seems a reflex they only manage at the last moment to halt.
When the assent comes, they scutter closer yet immediately, like a little mouse fleeing a vicious cat. Reddened cheeks still, Adrian looks up with gratitude in their shining, dark eyes. "Thank you. I just wish to get to back to the รกgora, the one near the hanging gardens that bloom over the riverside. I thought I knew the way, but..." There is a break in the sentence, brought by a small yawn. "Ah, it is just so much harder to find your way in the night."
Their head tilts, then, as they look over her. Her face, her straightened posture, the charms that hung from the cloth of her boots. "Are you from here?" Adrian blurts out. Then, they cringe. "Forgive me! That was so rude of me. I just... I don't believe I've met any dressed like you, before. Are you..." The whisper betrays curiosity, excitement. "Are you a sailor, from a far away land?"
He cannot stand to see their little face covered in distressโhe never could. When they fight, he flees like a coward to where he cannot witness their wrath or their sorrow; he knows he'd crumble otherwise.
Perhaps if he was awake and conscious of his pious mouth he could quiet it into unruly submission once moreโbut he is stripped of his defenses here, and the admissions come pouring in his sleep, unguarded and susceptible to their demands more than ever before. His hand drops slowly, sliding down their arm to find Adrian's handโthe one curled too tightly, he feels no bandages and the sensation is unfamiliar and strangeโhe is used to gauze, not skin. He drapes his own hand over his, curling it around their balled fist as his sleep softened face twisted with quiet, unspoken worry. "Stop that..." always trying, always pleading for the same thingโdon't do this, don't hurt yourself, I cannot stand it. But they won't listen will they? They never listen. His voice barely audible in the quiet evening. It feels difficult to speak, for some reason, and looking at them, a rind of sunlight behind their pale head, they look sanctified and his heart skips a beat.
"I miss you..." He pushes through the dog of slumber, brushing his thumb against their knuckles to soothe. Does that suffice? It feels silly to even say. Who wouldn't miss the warmth of the sun after years or winter? His voice sounds hoarse from misuse, as though he wants to scream but cannot, trapped inside the sluggishness of his own reverie. He brings his hand to his mouth instead, turning it over, pressing his lips to their pulse point. "I always miss you." He lets the admission be smothered against their olive skin.
Oh, how he bullies himself past their guard, settles himself in between the hands that bring about their pain and the wicked flesh. Adrian has to sheathe the claws, lest the edge of them bite him. Just let him curl their hand around his, around their throat. Snarling beast collared with red silk and brought to heel, turning and baring the soft flesh of its belly for Sheng to do as they must with him. Prey slowing their thrumming pulse and rushing pace, resting on his hands. For him, all for him. There was a different feel, the way he molded her stubborn clay into that softer, from the way it was when Adrian did so themselves. Kinder, loving; absolution that would not stay.
Her face twists at his words, fear that had turned heavy stone dissolving and making her free, too free, enough that it feels empty and scary still. Their mouth curls into a pout, eyes tittering on the brink of starting to weep. They sniff and wipe their face with their white sleeve. It comes out damp, stained red. โYou are so cruel, sometimes.โ Adrian admits. โTo yourself.โ To me, but that, Adrian is aware enough was just desserts.
If only awareness came with acceptance. โCome to me.โ These words had been meant to be spoken in a soft whisper, a suggestion curling in his spine. Think a little of me, take pity on me, let me in. Adrian could not weave lies into the threads of oneโs soul, for it did not work like that; or if it did, it would be a needle that pierced both ways. But they could nudge. If they were subtle. This pleading, this begging, was everything but.
โCome to me.โ He repeats, voice breaking. โI miss you so much, too. I can only see the shade of your eyes in the blood, and it is not enough.โ She blinks and tears drip down, like rain onto Shengโs scarred skin. โWonโt you come back and hold me?โ A sob breaks through. โWho else will do it, if it is not you? I miss you.โ They bend further, fog-like breath, cradling his face in their covered hands. It feels truer and uglier beneath the gauze. โCome to me.โ
This is where he'd buried his heart, and left the map in the only hands he trusted. They come to him like a sylph carried in a breeze, fingertips soothing and meek as they prod the harshness of the bone, harsh features turning soft under their exploratory touch.
It was often he would lie upon their thighs and beckon them closer: 'come here,' he'd say, to the only person his tongue was ever allowed to ask for such frivolous self-indulgences;'hover over me' he would plead, smiling like a boy, foolish and carefree, as the wisp of a boy catered to his whims, leaning over him, sequestering him all to themselves, robbing him of a world that demanded too much, too often. White would cascade around his face, shielding his peripherals like sheets hung out to dry, as it does now, the ticklish, fair ends brushing against his chiseled jaw, making him laughโa sound he could scarcely recognize as his own as all pretense of sternness was abandoned.
Do you miss me? Comes an echo, almost dissonant, as if to remind him they're walking through a memory, straying far, far away from the land of the living. His lungs expand and deflate, and he feels his dark brows push together in a small crease. "You're here... why would I miss you?" he does, though; it's strangeโhe misses them as if they're already gone, feels this ache in his chest he cannot name as his too large a hand reaches for their cheek, cupping it gently in his palm, trying to hold them there. "Mmโฆ" he admits finally, pressing his lips together, stroking the softness of their skin with his thumb as if trying to soothe an invisible ache.
Pupils shrink. His smile freezes in place, like a lake against the chill. Here, Adrian could be as pleasing and tame and as light as the wind as Sheng might wish them to be, as long as they tried to be, and that is what should be. Let Sheng see how well behaved they can be, and perhaps that be enough lure for him to allow Adrian to reach. It would be a mask to don, to be sure, but the cost would be a worthy one.
And yet, and yet, โHm?โ They repeat, sweet, almost mocking. His laughter pierced like rose-thorns, digging. What did that mean? Hm. Youโre already here, he had said. But Iโm not, they thought bitterly. This cannot be me; Adrian instead was all the ugliness beneath. Desire battered against the walls of their resolve, and their dark eyes turned sharp, narrowed into slits. This was enough for him?
โYou donโt miss me?โ Sweet and playful, as their hands leave his warm skin. They curl as to dig into their own palm; dagger of nails that outside does not exist. Adrian had wondered, onceโif them against the dreamer was an eye for an eye, and for the dreamer to grasp at them was as if trying to hold onto air, what happened to the pain, when they turned the hand against themselves? The answer was yes.
Like cupping the reflection of the moon on shallow waters, the ripples making it shift. Adrian tries again, to remain pretty and still. If only they could hold back their tongue and pretend further, with him, but with just a touch he unravels the string in which Adrian has wrapped himself in, bares the ugly thing at the core that wants to wrap around him, force him to take all of them with. Their eyes sting from the longing. โSay you miss me.โ They demand, raw. โYou have to say it.โ
The waves crash upon the docks, rotten wood holding even as it croaks. Moonlight beckons the sea close. Firelight flickers from the torches, and laughter and shrill screams of delight twists together both, the ruckus from the docksideโs taverns enough to make oneโs ears buzz. A cloaked figure stands there, alone, peering at the signs on the stone. Looking curiously and lost. They turn to one side, straining their neck as if hoping to glimpse something, then the other side, where they catch a strangerโs gaze. Adrian stills, then, like prey. Then, their mouth curls into a tight, awkward smile.
โUh. Hello.โ She curtsies. The edges of her clothes sweep the thick wet grime of the stone below, and she grimaces. โIโuh. I appear to be lost.โ The tight smile widens, looking ridiculous. โDo you think you could help me out? Iโllโโ Their dark eyes flicker over the strangerโs frame, lacking any lust, full instead of cautious hope. โI canโฆ give you a reward?โ
The nights are turbulent and unkind, the war follows him even in slumber, and seldom does it offer any sort of reprieve; he finds himself sinking, perpetually, in a darkness that knows no end. Every night is the same, and every morning, he wakes up more tired than the night before. Sometimes, he cannot contain himself, and as his soul lifts for his body he can feel it seekingโsolaceโdesperately drifting back to the only place it knows where to find it, untethered of the prison of his earthly body, it always goes back to this, to himโon this patch of grass, dark hair spilled over their thighs, face softened in the morning light of his idyllic daydream. The wind rustles through leaves, sunlight pouring down a green ceiling of phantom trees as his consciousness is carried adrift; it travels beyond the borders of the salty sea and across cloudless skies to land hereโalways here. Nothing bad could touch him here, he is a peace hereโhe looks at peace. Serene. Selfishly, he pushed his fingers through their own, measuring their disproportionate size and tugging at them playfully, he would wish never to leave; to abandon all responsibilities and burdens in the world he'd left behind, and exist only here, forevermore. Leave him here where he is happy, to fade, to be forgotten and remembered, and forgotten and remembered, in the arms of his love, in this small pocket of eternity, safeguarded so fiercely inside the haunted corridors of his mind.
Nobody else held the keyโthere was only one who could visit, and nothing could touch them here.
The very air felt honeyed, pregnant with the sweet smell of flowers and gentle susurrus of a summer breeze whispering against the grass; it was always an eternal spring beneath this tree. He said nothing, there was nothing to sayโhe'd only blink sluggishly up at them while failing to conceal a smile, twirling a pale streaks of hair around his finger and letting go, just to watch it bounce back into place.
They touch him with bare hands; a fingertip down the slope of his nose, pressing to the edge of his jaw, feeling the dip and the rise of the brown boneโwhere his grief and anger most came to haunt. Despite the sharp edges all have thought to fear, Sheng is soft all over. Precious and beautiful, silk that slips like water from between your fingers, silk that had. The sash is tied around Adrianโs throat like a ribbon, like a wound; it is a reminder of what scars without mark. If only, comes the wicked thought. Adrian eats it raw.
Only beautiful things must be here. No bandages because there is no meat of their bitten fingertips, a under their eyes the shade is lighter. The smile on Adrianโs face is soft and kind. The first time this had happened, the tip of Adrianโs ears had burned bright in shyness, and they had held themselves still as if a stray kitten had crawled onto their lap. Now the nerves had moved elsewhere, the desire around it dug deeper into the sinew.
Pull, Adrian thinks, as Sheng grasps. It would be worth the sting. It would be worth feeling it through the exhaustion, pain when they did not know if they had left themselves back then, if when they woke it was still yet nightmare, yet dream. Press harder, bruise me there. Stay.
But he lets go. Adrianโs heart both swells and shrinks. โSheng.โ Softly said, as they bend over him. Their hair falls like willow leaves, a curtain that surrounds them and sets them both apart. โSheng.โ The corner of their dark eyes crinkle. โDo you miss me?โ
( none*, 22, bigender, he/she/they)
*traditional gifs won't be used for this muse
foretelling of ( the white fog that comes and swallows you whole, all the softness in the world cupped in your hands, running barefoot on the dew-grass ) comes ADRIAN SOMNIARI of house SOMNIARI, hailing from aurea. will their position as a sagire and a dream-weaver bring forth fortune or misery to them, when left to Aurea's wicked hands? it is whispered they are volatile & selfish, and yet kind & sweet.
Long, long agoโbefore the dome that covers Aurea now, before the wallsโthe Somniari were a name to behold. Known, far and wide, for the crafters they were. They were weavers, yes, ones that crafted tapestries of untold beauty from the rarest of threads: those pulled from the wool of the sheep one counts when they slumber. The Somniari were crafters of dreams.
Their influence was a behemoth to behold. Many came from far and wide to lay upon their silken pillows and be indulged, and paid not in coin, but in secrets of great worth. But while those rich slumbered peacefully, calloused hands bled and yet remained at their toil. It was only because of their eyes being willfully shut that the violence was not one they had foretold.
And yet, few suffered as much as the Somniari, when the non-magi revolution came and went. It was not just those with righteous fury that tore them apart, but that their entrails were cannibalized by those jealous of their power. Little of them was left, besides a seat that would be nothing but a showcase, and a bloodline that had weakened enough it was a wonder it did not wither away.
Adrianโs childhood was a painting stored away. Running barefoot in the green grass, dirtying their hands with the earth and the little wondrous bugs. Splashing in the heated thermae and being chased by harried servants who worried at their health. Playing with the bunnies that seemed to multiply each time more yet. And, when they had so much energy they did not know what to do as of yet, surprisingly, Adrian slept.
Their parents had taught them of this gift: that if Adrian reached, they could slip far, far away. Feel and touch and follow a thread that had been forged even without them being aware. They slipped into the mind of the slumbering gardener, and made the flowers bloom brighter. Sneak into the night-thoughts of a saddened maid, and made her smile when the morning came. All could be beauty.
But one could not cover the ugliness from the soul with mere paint. Once at a party where patricians and magisters rubbed elbows and shared laughs, Adrianโs parents brought them to marvel at the eveningโs delights. Dancers and jugglers and mummers and their bards mingled and weaved through the crowd, all masked as to hide their common face from the esteemed crowd. A magician procured a bird from his sleeve, and a coin from behind Adrianโs ear. Then, from the pocket above his heart, a knife sharper than his carved smile.
Sheep that one counts as they chase after the succor of sleep. Their parents were butchered for meat in a matter of moments. Were it not for a dazzling show of magic covering them, protecting them from deadly harm, then Adrianโs guts wouldโve joined theirs on the ground. Shaking and cowering, that was the last sight any had for a long while of what was left of the Somniariโs line. Soon after, Adrian was delivered to their grandmotherโs arms, and they scurried back behind their town-house's safe walls.
The Somniariโs seat was given away, to safe-guard, you see. Adrian was too young, too inexperienced, how could such a weight be given to a child? Unthinkable. No, efforts were best given to attempting to find justice, find the culprit. No answers, no thread to follow, despite what it wouldโve taken for such to come to pass? What a curious thing. Well, there is nothing further to be done. Aureaโs wheels keep turning. They cannot just stop.
The newly-appointed magister flourished in his position, and, well, you see. Maybe it was for the best. Meanwhile, of the Somniari there was only this left: a growing child, and their aging grandmother, frail. The gold that shouldโve allowed them to live comfortably dwindled suspiciously quickly, and many of the servants left, leaving behind only those that took pity. But as Adrian grew older, even those left, as well. The name became just as the dreams they used to craft: forgotten, slipping away in the morningโs light.
It was a surprise, then, to see such a curiously familiar name submitted for consideration for the Sagire. Their father had been known to be nothing but a pretty face on the magisteriumโs halls, so what thoughts did they have? But Adrian had come to beg on their knees to be allowed. Let me prove myself, they had said. And what they had done, had amazed. For the other side of the coin of a dream is a nightmare. And Adrian could make those flourish, and let them take root, and tear.
Information easily spilled, as they slipped into dreams and spoke with a kind voice to those that thought themselves still safe in sleep. For those meant to be punished, then they could twist their hand: a shove instead of a nudge, a scream where the whisper should be. They would put these skills and more in the Magisteriumโs hands, asking for only one thing: justice.
Let them attempt to find their familyโs killer, let them try to find these wicked fiends that spit so long ago in Aureaโs face. Their future superiors smiled indulgently, and nodded their heads, pleased. They would have great use for this naive, innocent child with sharp teeth. And if said use ran its course by getting too close to what they should not, well. The Somniari had survived for too damn long.
To weave a dream is to weave a tale. A simple-minded grown child, one bloodying their hands unaware that they were aiding those that sought their sure end. It was a pitiful story, to be sure, and the perfect disguise. Did they think them a fool? It wouldโve been easy for those greedy to wait for their branch to wither and rot, and let them slumber their life away in pretty dreams. But instead, they had forced Adrian awake. They had made themselves a puppet, knowing the string pulled both ways. And even if they had to strangle themselves for it, they would tighten the noose around their enemiesโ neck, and bring them down with them.
Adrian Somniari is a member of the sagire. They are servants that answer to the Magisterium and those that belong to it, and none elseโnot even themselves. Detectives, enforcers, torturersโฆ if need be. The watchful eye, and the hand that wields the blade in the shadows in their name. For it is the Magisters that dictate what Aurea needs, so surely, none would twist such for their own needs. Or would they?
๐๐ฎ๐ซ๐ซ๐๐ง๐ญ๐ฅ๐ฒโฆ
The exile of Nerys Pullo has made those within the Magisterium turn their sharp eyes to one another, attempting to dig. Who was it? Whose influence unearthed for all to see that which was meant to kept quiet? And whose secret is next? That foolish Somniari is lucky to keep their head. Someone mustโve ordered them where they should not, for their own gain. Were it not for the whispers of Zhouโs influence, that scapegoat wouldโve long been bled.
Adrian counts their lucky stars. An overextension of the hand, a first big step, followed by a stumble that has left them with skinned knees. Attention turns to them, but hopefully, soon it will turn away. It would be stupidity bordering on suicide to bite the jeweled hands that brings them their daily feed; they will hide under that assumption until the storm passes over them. Meanwhile, the work continues. The Magisteriumโs enemies are many, you see.
full name: adrian somniari
nickname(s): n/a (for now)
doppelgรคnger: hunter schafer & jamie campbell bower
age: twenty-two
gender, pronouns: bigender, he/she/they
orientation: demiromantic, demisexual
relationship status: it's complicated ( unavailable )
hails from: aurea
pets: many bunny-rabbits. they're named after fruits, and vegetables.
height: 5'6" (167cm)
physical description: a slender frame. hair a white moonshade, curly and long, reaching their lower back. dark, dark eyes; like deep black pools. adrian seems as if they seldom sleep.
further description: adrian's hands are usually bandaged. they wear loose but light clothing that covers most of their body, unless dictated otherwise.
etc: pinterest & spotify
+ positive: pleasant, kind, diplomatic, sweet, determined, delicate, graceful, inquisitive, persuasive
- negative: short-sighted, impulsive, volatile, selfish, two-faced, deceitful, vengeful, prideful, obsessive
Back in older times, the Somniari could easily help lead someoneโs dream into untold beauty. The most precious of patrons could request to remain lucid through their dreams, and the Somniari would gladly deliver, though the shepherd would then need the next afternoon to recover. Even with those willing, the manipulation of the unconscious mind was a heavy task. And the Somniari's curse is this: when inside another's dream, they cannot sleep.
It is an understanding, then, that with those unwilling it is a heavier one yet. The Somniari is much like a bloodhound: if they caught the scent of their prey, they can follow their trail. The more familiar the Somniari is with the dreamer, the easier it is to find them while they slumber, even from a distance. A single meeting is not enough for such a bond to exist. To turn a dream into a nightmare takes effort that goes untold: it is manifesting that dark within the Somniariโs own mind and infecting with it the flesh and sinew of the dream. The Somniari will wake with it curled around their mind, as well, and suffer it. For whatever harm you cause in dreams that follows into reality, it is caused then upon yourself as well. The other side of such curse is that the dreamer can attempt to hurt the Somniari, but they will always remain unscathed once they wake.
Could a Somniari kill? It is a good question. But for a Somniari to claw a dreamer is to leave gashes on their own skin, and to bruise is to make themselves black-and-purple. Death, would most likely, beget death. A precious last recourse, not one to be risked lightly.
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