Discover Top Posts Tagged with #cylion

Oneirology Lesson

I don't think I can actually say it's been a week at this point anymore. LMAO. Lets see what Cylion is up to. doc

-- Anger flashes across the mutant’s face so violently that it even manages to cause a ripple across the pupiless eye, illuminating it with barely contained rage. It is not hard to see the resemblance he has to his ancestor on a good day, but when he looms and twitches restlessly like he is only a half second away from losing it all together, well it is uncanny. Not that anyone was eager to voice that thought when he lets himself get whipped up into such a frenzy.

A much more articulate, calculating, monster pacing his kitchen as if to walk off his irritation, wings twitching and fluttering to communicate his mood when he turns to face away.

When he reaches the far end of the kitchen he turns again to fix his glare on the subject of his ire, the troll Weasel dug out from the belly of Kildeau in the early morning, just after dawn, and deposited at the foot of his bed.

The troll is silent, watching the yellow blood begin his trek back. It has been a mostly fruitless morning – He, for whatever reason, was resistant to giving up where Nymira could be found. Refused to even be a little bit helpful, as if staying loyal to Persep meant anything. It so clearly didn’t. Weasel almost feels bad for the kid, though.

Evicted by Persep Lycaon.

Hunted by Dorili Duxile.

Menaced by Cylion Lefera.

Not a very enviable place to be by any stretch of the imagination, a terrible month to be this poor fuck he never even bothered to learn the name of. Naldis must have told him, but it slipped away. It didn’t matter. Empathy stripped away by the larger swell of satisfaction of a successful hunt; he plucked the boy, his scent, the threads back to Persep practically from nothing. He’d like to see Gracious do that.

Cylion is already standing over him by the time Weasel is done patting himself on the back, a low growl ebbing away to leave room for him to speak.

Low. Gravel. Favion’s voice on Cylion’s lips.

“I am going to ask you just once more–”

“He’ll kill me!”

“And I will not?” Probably not, not from where Weasel is standing. Allied to the Roatus clan of all people? In the name of Nymira? The guilt would chew her up if she knew that someone died for her safe return, to say nothing of whatever self-righteousness Arkiro has hidden up his sleeves. Not that this trembling fool knew to poke any such holes in the logic, not even a sensible ‘And how will you find her if I’m dead?’ Just pursed lips, a desperate urge to get out from Cylion’s shadow.

“Where is my sister?” He enunciates slowly, obviously doing his level best to not send a fist into a wall or perhaps a skull.

His quarry doesn’t get the hint, though, shaking his head fervently. In an instant, any patience he had evaporated, Cylion’s hand shoots up to grab a fist full of hair.

“Fine,” he grits, Weasel hardly noticed the glow of that pupiless eye intensifying until it became a brilliant, unignorable beam. “Fine, fine.” The troll whimpers softly in his grip, unable to tear his eyes off of the light, and then Cylion does something that surprises Weasel: He takes the conversation elsewhere. Somewhere he couldn’t go. A waking nightmare if he had to hazard a guess.

–

Maybe not a waking nightmare in the traditional sense, but there is certainly something dreamlike about it. So unexpected that if Weasel was surprised, then Cylion himself is astonished as the world around the pair falls away. Though, he is still dimly aware of Weasel watching somewhere on his periphery, a muddling of light blue fog separating him from them. A forest of trees grows in between.

“What…What is this?” A meek, irritating whimper.

Cylion says nothing. Not for a while. Dreams when someone is asleep are one thing. A subject that is awake requires infinite more focus. The scene around them starts to come into a much sharper focus. The smell of long grass after rain, of leaves rustling in the wind, all fading in from nothing as he broadens his search, all the while the troll in his grasp squirms uncomfortably but cannot pry his attention away from the depths of that irregular eye. Lacks even the ability to shut his own to keep the depth from leering back at him. Into him.

“What are you doing?” He begs, scrabbling to get a good grip on the vice holding his head in place.

“Shut up.” Cylion sneers, the scene wavers for a split second. The shape of Weasel, the dining table, the outline of his kitchen, a phantom among the trees for only a tick and then gone.

“I’ll tell you! Please! They’re… They’re…” The plea dies on his lips. Again, Cylion is silent. This time a growl that turns into thunder all around them is all the reaction that pathetic display earns. Once he finds what he’s looking for, a wild grin spreads across his face. A hive, nondescript, really nothing special, looms high where once the entrance to the kitchen was. The recreation of the place was not intentional, but apparently rooting around for the details brings it to the forefront. A thrill rushes from his finger tips to his spine.

Having never navigated this aspect of his power before, the absolute control is almost enough to make him lose focus.

The dream flickers, solidifies again.

“You’re – You’re in my head!”

“Mm. Did you know that dreaming helps with the organization of memories, emotions, and the like?” A gasp, something overturned in the mind that makes the dreamer go rigid, then slack. The scent of lavender hangs in the air.

“They are said to contain fragments of the waking world, influenced by the humdrum and day-to-day, a consolidation of it all. Snippets pulled from the long term.”

The dreamer winces.

“Or, being organized for the long term. Oneirology is a fickle science. Hard to pin.” Ah, there it is. “I have long wondered what so-called dreameaters, of legends of course, might actually subsist on.”

An empty stare back into his eyes, the smell of lavender so heavy now Cylion scrunches his nose at it.

“Tell me. Where does Persep have my sister?”

“My – They’re at my… He has plans for my hive…”

“Mm. And where is that? Your hive?”

“I,” he shakes his head. “Where… I live. It’s…” He doesn’t know. He can’t remember.

Cylion’s grin borders on the manic as he releases his hold of the dreamer, metaphysical and otherwise, watches him fall unceremoniously at his feet as the thicket of the forest fades back into the kitchen.

Weasel stares back at him with wide eyes.

#cylion

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#cylion