this didn't perform well on the site it was initially posted on but i had fun writing it so whatever. this is my character sorcha, she is a dreamwalker vampire played on reign of blood.
Multicolored snowflakes drifted down from heavens touched with the deepest hue of violet. The kaleidoscopic arrangement of the falling snow mingled with streetlights tinged the pigment of soft azure. When the snow came finally to rest upon the cobbled stones, each individual flake fractured and turned into tiny marbles before fading away again. And she watched with eyes of deep sapphire, plush lips of pale pink parted to take in such sights as none would see save her and the dreamer whose slumberous mind she currently inhabited. The old woman did not appear half so old in this reverie, dancing in the street in a gown made of clouds and spun-silk, alongside the love she had lost so very long ago. Sorcha observed from afar, one alabaster hand wrapped ‘round the post of a streetlamp, and smiled to see such free and open love, even in dreams.
The two lovers, made whole and hale by the gift of the dream, leaned in to embrace, lips finding lips. Sorcha knew then it was time to take her leave, for this was not meant for her to see. Into herself she reached, finding that wellspring of power that had been with her from birth, and then her arms spread out to allow herself to drift up. The Dreamwalker floated through raw dreamstuff, that ephemeral existence that was given to all humans (and those who, she supposed, were human-adjacent, like herself) to allow their subconscious minds to form the phantasms they played in when night fell and the call of repose was strong.
Now bare feet descended down an endless spiral staircase enclosed in a circular room, with casements revealing images both spectacular and frightening all at once. Here, a cloud with fairies upon them, reveling in their beauty with minute wings fluttering; there, a specter shaped terrible and fell, gnashing fangs and dripping saliva out of a maw burning raw flame. Yet, the girl who she followed down the staircase seemed not afraid, for she faced things far more fearful in the light of day and the low hours just before the sun began to show its visage once more. She skipped fearlessly down the stairs with never a thought of falling, though the Dreamwalker followed more slowly, more hesitantly, not out of fear but because she could not stomach the idea of shattering this sweet dream, touched only softly by darkness. Who knew, after all, better than Sorcha that without light there was no dark and without dark, there was no light?
A window was open and so she reached to lift herself up and out of it. Sorcha dropped down upon a passing cloud, wrought of daydreams and vapors, and permitted it to take her away. Somehow, intruding upon the girl’s dream felt wrong, even to she who walked in dreams as easily as she walked the pavement of city streets, free and fey and wild.
Lightning crackled across firmament so dark that it seemed to swallow all illumination, altering even the hue of the lightning as it flashed. The sea nearby was storm-tossed and violent, whitecaps snapping like living beasts hungering for that which they could not swallow. She crouched to trace her fingers through sands that clung to her delicate dermis, nearly a threat, though she did not feel threatened. Particulates trapped themselves against her feet, their scarlet hue made all the darker by the black, black sky. Yet, before the Dreamer, there stood a woman staring out at the sea. Though her back was to Sorcha, she knew that were she to look upon the visage of this other, she would see an expression carved of such unique and exquisite longing that it would stop the breath of most others. An unfelt wind tickled at ebony locks that fell down to gently cover pale shoulders.
The dark-haired vision turned her head slightly, just enough to allow for one eye of etiolated blue to catch upon the darker pair observing her. “Go, child, and do not come upon my dreams again.”
The tips of her digits trailed through cotton-candy clouds, disturbing them only lightly and causing their pigments to ripple and alter. Before her was a mirror, reflecting her image back to her. The mirror shimmered faintly with each step she took towards it, sometimes reflecting her, other times reflecting those she had met, had touched, even in passing, even just to help catch them when they fell. Here, an old woman, her countenance lined to speak the years she had borne witness to, times of good and ill, of famine and abundance, of love and loss; there, a child who had known the loss of innocence too soon, too early, before it was her time.
Sorcha came to a halt before the mirror, a hand rising but not yet touching. She gazed at herself, sapphire into sapphire, her lips contorted into an expression of cheek, soft and pale skin glowing under the beautiful illumination that came up from the clouds. One eye closed and opened briefly, a wink to herself, and then Sorcha, the Dreamwalker, stepped through the mirror into wakefulness once more.
