Post by exmeralda on Feb 25, 2009 10:59:56 GMT 1
Deep within the Emerald Dream the Tapestry shook. It wasn’t a tapestry made of cloth and thread, embroidered with strange and fanciful scenes, but a tapestry of boundaries, of horizons, of possibilities. It was the meter by which all things in the Emerald Dream were judged and weighed; either they were Within the grasp of the Tapestry, and as such as real as dreams could be, or they were Without, and then they were something else. Things Outside were fears and dreads that were not part of this world or any other, but the minds of the living were good at conjuring things that never were, to make as real as anything they could touch. They were the Outer lands.
Humans had always been governed by their fears, and they had corrupted the dwarves with the very same, as their cultures had mingled. Even the elves, once too proud to be fearful, had now started looking over their shoulders in the night, even in the heart of their cities. Some resisted this lapse of resolve, like the Cenarion Circle, while others embraced it and rushed through it, like the Argent Dawn.
But fear did not control the Sleepers, gathered in the quiet places in Moonglade, in hollows under the stilts of Darkshore, or even in the houses of Teldrassil. The Sleepers wound away the weeks and months, listening in their Dreaming state, for things moving in the Emerald Dream, for the lapping at the shores of waking, and for the shaking whispered rattle of the Tapestry.
Exmeralda slept, wrapped up in her burnished cloak, in a dug hollow under one of the lonely houses in Darkshore, Dreaming. She was not stirring, but keenly aware that the Tapestry was shaking, almost being rent apart as Light and multi-coloured glyphs shone through it. Through her Dream, the Keepers of Moonglade were aware what was happening, and they were at this very moment notifying eyes and ears all over Kalimdor, as something was about to happen.
Then, with a thunderous rending whisper, the Tapestry opened, and something came rushing through it, rolling under its own weight, splintering and burning up as it entered the Emerald Dream, and tearing a passage into the real world, the world of the Waking, outside of the Sleepers’ vantage-point. All that remained were spinning debris, upsetting the equilibrium of the Dream, startling many of its denizens and burning brightly as they perished.
When the thunder had rolled out, and the rifts had sealed themselves, the Dream knew nothing about what had happened save the lingering of the Light and those glyphs now imprinted here and there in the nooks and crannies of the realm of Dreams.
The ground shook, even in Darkhore, but Exmeralda merely smiled in her Sleep.
The Exodar had arrived.
Humans had always been governed by their fears, and they had corrupted the dwarves with the very same, as their cultures had mingled. Even the elves, once too proud to be fearful, had now started looking over their shoulders in the night, even in the heart of their cities. Some resisted this lapse of resolve, like the Cenarion Circle, while others embraced it and rushed through it, like the Argent Dawn.
But fear did not control the Sleepers, gathered in the quiet places in Moonglade, in hollows under the stilts of Darkshore, or even in the houses of Teldrassil. The Sleepers wound away the weeks and months, listening in their Dreaming state, for things moving in the Emerald Dream, for the lapping at the shores of waking, and for the shaking whispered rattle of the Tapestry.
Exmeralda slept, wrapped up in her burnished cloak, in a dug hollow under one of the lonely houses in Darkshore, Dreaming. She was not stirring, but keenly aware that the Tapestry was shaking, almost being rent apart as Light and multi-coloured glyphs shone through it. Through her Dream, the Keepers of Moonglade were aware what was happening, and they were at this very moment notifying eyes and ears all over Kalimdor, as something was about to happen.
Then, with a thunderous rending whisper, the Tapestry opened, and something came rushing through it, rolling under its own weight, splintering and burning up as it entered the Emerald Dream, and tearing a passage into the real world, the world of the Waking, outside of the Sleepers’ vantage-point. All that remained were spinning debris, upsetting the equilibrium of the Dream, startling many of its denizens and burning brightly as they perished.
When the thunder had rolled out, and the rifts had sealed themselves, the Dream knew nothing about what had happened save the lingering of the Light and those glyphs now imprinted here and there in the nooks and crannies of the realm of Dreams.
The ground shook, even in Darkhore, but Exmeralda merely smiled in her Sleep.
The Exodar had arrived.