The dream (unfinished because it's damned hard to write on the bus. Or draw.)
Cross-posted to 
waterscribe:
For some reason, everything was an eye-burning shade of purple.
It all slowly calmed and darkened to a deep indigo, still formless, but pulsating gently. The place (not a room or a hall or a street or field, just a place) was breathing, quickly but steadily.
She wondered how she'd ended up here.
It wasn't as if every dream she had took her to Balatengi, the Realm Beyond Worlds. Normally she had to ask for it, light the violet fire, weave the grey-green embers. Settle into trance in the protective wrapping of the new-made, softly smoking Ca-en-phalta, which would dissipate when she awoke. It wasn't unheard of for her to get there by accident- her childhood journeys had certainly been unwilled- but it always meant there was something she needed to know. She looked around at the (now-amber) setting and saw only that she was standing in a stream.
It never came easy, did it.
The message always came in the most obtuse manner possible, and the ever-shifting surroundings weren't exactly bursting with clues. She sat down bonelessly in the stream, legs crossed at the ankles, arm around one knee, elbow on the lower knee and chin on hand. She stared down the blankly blackness and got wet.
She'd been wet before she'd come here, hadn't she?
Rain, roof, leaves, dragon, wet cloak floating about- no, that was here, in the stream, wet cloaks don't float. Roof and rain. Those were right. Dragon? Bielti had something to do with it. Leaves were floating in the stream (leaves meant time, didn't they?), but they'd been there, too.
Inn.
Roof.
Fall.
So that was how she'd gotten here. Now, why? There was still nothing but stream and leaves and she, wet and silent and wet. Not that she gave two geens about wet.
(That's all I could get down, between the turns and the bouncing/vibrating and the noise.)
waterscribe:For some reason, everything was an eye-burning shade of purple.
It all slowly calmed and darkened to a deep indigo, still formless, but pulsating gently. The place (not a room or a hall or a street or field, just a place) was breathing, quickly but steadily.
She wondered how she'd ended up here.
It wasn't as if every dream she had took her to Balatengi, the Realm Beyond Worlds. Normally she had to ask for it, light the violet fire, weave the grey-green embers. Settle into trance in the protective wrapping of the new-made, softly smoking Ca-en-phalta, which would dissipate when she awoke. It wasn't unheard of for her to get there by accident- her childhood journeys had certainly been unwilled- but it always meant there was something she needed to know. She looked around at the (now-amber) setting and saw only that she was standing in a stream.
It never came easy, did it.
The message always came in the most obtuse manner possible, and the ever-shifting surroundings weren't exactly bursting with clues. She sat down bonelessly in the stream, legs crossed at the ankles, arm around one knee, elbow on the lower knee and chin on hand. She stared down the blankly blackness and got wet.
She'd been wet before she'd come here, hadn't she?
Rain, roof, leaves, dragon, wet cloak floating about- no, that was here, in the stream, wet cloaks don't float. Roof and rain. Those were right. Dragon? Bielti had something to do with it. Leaves were floating in the stream (leaves meant time, didn't they?), but they'd been there, too.
Inn.
Roof.
Fall.
So that was how she'd gotten here. Now, why? There was still nothing but stream and leaves and she, wet and silent and wet. Not that she gave two geens about wet.
(That's all I could get down, between the turns and the bouncing/vibrating and the noise.)