No Place Like Home [Sjel]

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[ music ] It was midday, or perhaps just before, or perhaps just after. Hard to tell; the pale blue-green light was being diffused by a thick fog, heavy with the scents of pine needles and fresh soil. It moved slowly through the air, carried along by a chill wind channeling from an unseen source. The cold had a familiar bite, though; it was that cold which embraced you like a firm mother, straightened your posture and told you to stand strong against it. It was the cold, one might remember, of a wintery Trottheim morning. Judging by the damp dirt under one's hooves, and the faint edges of nearby tree trunks, it was just outside Trottheim, in the woods between the village and the river. But it wasn't quite right—the trees weren't really this sparse, or tall. The evergreens seemed to simply stretch upward forever, with any indication of a top thoroughly hidden by the pale fog. A thin dusting of snow and frost was spread over the ground, collected evenly the patches of brush, the grass, and a beaten pathway that ran straight underhoof. There were no prints coming or going, save for some small ones no doubt made by the woodland creatures. There was a peace out here, something kind of quiet and comfortable and a little lonely. There were very few sounds. The low chatter of what few birds remained during the cold season... the wind whispering in hush through the trees... the sound of running water, a rocky river in high tide. Somewhere a little further, just at the edge of hearing, there was the distant din of a lively village; hammers striking wood, clattering objects, indistinct voices. Trottheim finding daylight. And... there was something else. But it was hard to tell. It came from everywhere and nowhere, like the ringing of your ears; an oaky, melodic sound that shifted and echoed itself. A flute? The whole feeling of the place was at once familiar and foreign, the imperfect memory of a place combined with the strange and abstract space of a dream. One thing was clear so far, though. This wasn't home. Not really. In theory, to one direction lay the sound of water; to the other, town. And every direction away from the freshly-snowed path was that odd, shifting fog, giving way to half-lit landscapes unknown.

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They had not been within these strange lands long before a mystical affliction had overtaken her sister. She would not wake. No amount of water, no culinary bribery, nothing would take her out of her slumber. She had not hit her head harder than usual, not been near any vegetation that might have this consequence. There was magic sensed within her that soul-weavers on their team could feel, but not recognize. So they had taken her to the capital to seek the legendary powers of the princesses. As if straight out of the old stories, the remedy was for Sjel to venture within the world inside and take her sister back. She had taken vows to walk where her hooves would fear to tread, the mind of her beloved Lys was not such a place.

As if to punctuate this, she was brought to a place easily mistaken for home. Was this how Lys remembered it? Surely the trees would seem shorter to one could just walk into the air above them? Would not her poetic soul see them as more vibrant and lively than this? It was a place much like one Sjel would have thought Lys would dream about, but it had foreign touches she did not expect. There was not much of a trail, no real lead as to where to move. But to not move was to not progress. Her mother had told her that all standing around did was get one covered in snow.

Her first instinct was to move toward the town. It seemed the most obvious, especially as it came further into view. But Sjel froze at the merest hint of another sound. A flute. Now that was a clue if ever there was one. She spun around a few times, listening carefully before moving at a hastened pace toward the sound. This was toward the water... Or at it seemed to be.

Without her conscious beckoning, Sjel found herself in her armor. No, not her armor. Without being able to properly see herself, she knew she was in something more akin to what her father wore. Sized to fit one of her stature rather than his. She did not wish it back away, but it worried her that somewhere inside she had believed she would need such things.

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As Sjel began heading toward the river, the wind picked up, rustling the trees and blowing loose snow gently across the ground. The fog moved with it, seemingly endless, and the wind was more cold than harsh—but that was nothing new for them. Chilled cheeks and a runny nose were simply an everyday part of living in Trottheim, especially for one who walked high in the air, where winds were unbroken by tree and rock. As the sound of water and flute grew closer, though, and the noises of town faded away, things began to clear up a bit. Much like the trees, the river was wider, deeper than remembered, and a fair amount rougher. It didn't usually course with such force except in the spring, when ice from the mountains melted and came flowing back down. There were odd red twinkles here and there in the water, too; like bright gemstones, or... There were some shapes in the fog on the other side of the river. Small ones, like calves or moderately-sized woodland animals. The song was coming from one of them. The other laughed, a small, feminine sound. "<I didn't give you that so you could wake the forest! The fish will hear you!>" she said, in their native tongue. Lys, unsurprisingly, didn't dream in Equestrian. The fluting paused. "<She said we should b—wait, do you hear someone?>" The shapes stopped, growing quiet. The fog made it hard to see them; since they seemed to be looking in Sjel's direction, she was probably hard to see as well. "<...Who's there?>"

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[/b] She said loudly, mustering up the strength she had to be as commanding as possible. If they sounded like fawns, they might behave like fawns as well. All any Trottheim fawn ever needed was a little stern direction and they would move with the herd just fine. “<Point me in her direction and I will not interrupt your play for long.>”

She concentrated, thinking on her father's armor, but making it more radiant, having a light of its own like a star, in hopes that she might see better in the fog. If only it would just go away...[/ul]

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At first, the shapes ducked, as calves tended to do at the immediate, commanding voice of an adult. But soon they straightened, seeming confused for a moment... then one of them—the one on the right, without the flute—giggled, coming closer to the river's edge. Between the light and the closer distance, it was clearer to see her now, a young female whose years you could just barely no longer count on your hooves. She was dressed in clothes, simple but warm, likely due to the cold weather. Her head remained a little ducked in the face of a commanding, but she had a big smile on her face... one that looked familiar, somehow. "<It's just us! She's letting us play while she went into the woods to find, ummm... stuff for the festival. It has been about an hour. What was it? The bonfire stuff, right?>" She turned to the other shape, who remained in the fog. "<Holly bush and oak,>" said the other, his voice younger and a little more worried. "<Is... is something the matter, Aunt Sjel? Do we have to come home?>"

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Letting us. Aunt Sjel.

Sjel had no blood siblings and neither did Lys. There was no mystery to what meaning these words had. Only Lys' own offspring would call her that. This was what her sister envisioned her children would look like. Sjel was enraptured by this thought and she couldn't look away from them. Maybe it shouldn't have felt like she was looking at her actual niece and nephew, but she couldn't shake the feeling entirely.

”<Just you... Her calves.>” She had been warned that the dreams could be inviting, but she had not been prepared for this. This was not some flight of fancy. In this dream, Lys had concocted an entire life. Her body shook, the army's plated clicking lightly a single time where they touched before their visage disappeared entirely. It was not the right kind of armor for this moment.

”<Nothing is wrong, do not worry. I just need to find her,>” she said quickly, bolting away, her body becoming aloft as she walked on a trail of bifrost identical to her sister's in the waking world. She moved into the woods as quickly as she could, the new elevation giving her as much distance in as fast a time as she could imagine.

Her daughter and son... Ancestor's help me...

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[ music ] As Sjel bypassed the two calves and entered the opposite forest, her surroundings took on a quick change. The tree canopies got thicker, darkening the world around her and casting everything in a faintly greener light, one or two steps removed from the blue of a foggy sun. The woods were still spacious, but a bit more overgrown than in reality; it was as if nature had at some point begun fighting back against the frosty climate, gained an extra foothold. It felt... eerie. Off in a way that the other side of the river hadn't been. It shouldn't be as dark as this, or this grown. The cloudy North had a hard time sustaining life as it was. Some of the trees were wrong, too; little gleaming red objects were embedded into the bark, the grain of the wood simply going around them, almost like they were knots. Their red shine contrasted against the ambient green light. However, Sjel's bifrost cast a different color, bright blue, and more than enough to see with daylight clarity. A few things were apparent; the thicker brush made it more clear to see the commonly-tread paths, and revealed a set of tracks going off of the beaten road, deeper into the forest. The tracks were large enough to be a caribou's, but it was hard to be sure. Behind her, the sound of the river continued unabated, and after a moment a few toots indicated the fawns were returning to their play. There was a noise of wind brushing the leaves overhead, passing in waves across the forest.

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So here she was, in this dream world of her sister's and her goal was to drag her out of it. But this was, by all indications, no nightmare. Now, there were not that many indications, yet. Perhaps at some point she would find something more grim, but as of now... She could not run fast enough. She could not face any calves claiming to be Lys and take action to unmake them. The longer she stayed near them, the harder this would be. Every step was a step toward clarity, a step away from the feeling that she might be tearing her sister away from a sweet dream, something worth holding onto for as long as she desired.

Big sisters were not made to break their sister's dreams, but to help them come true...

Only as her mind cleared did she begin to see her new surroundings. Though it was an odd sight to behold, this comforted Sjel. In fact, it wasn't quite wicked enough. She was no fool with more bravery than head, but give her something vile so she could feel like she was walking a heroic path, not a world of sweet faces and memories of home. The red objects were curious, but she had never been one to play with things she did not understand.

She descended down to the floor, having trouble seeing much from where she was. On again came a new suit of armor. This time, her mother's, one that she had rarely seen in use. It had always hung proudly within the home, but even when she set out on expeditions, Sjel's mother would always claim she would place it on 'later.'

Having nothing else to go off of, she followed the tracks, believing little could be wholly insignificant in this world.

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The forest darkened as the bifrost dimmed away, seeming to expand in the low light, though it was likely just a trick of the eye. The tracks led further into the woods, where the brush got thicker, the air darker, and the beaten paths were left behind. Although the fog was a bit more broken up by the presence of the trees, it would be easy to get lost here if she didn't keep her wits about her or check over the treetops. These were not quite the woods of home anymore; more like the kind in legends and faerie-tales, places of strange magic and uncertainty. The tracks steadily got more defined the longer she followed them, and it became clear that they were of a Caribou's hooves, though one in a bit of a hurry. They left a great deal of crushed twigs and brush beneath and around them, and an icy-wet ring of frost at the edges. The path they left was curved, bending back in—maybe?—the direction of the river. Wherever they were headed, though, Sjel was catching up; somewhere in the distance came the telltale thrash and rustle of another walker, which meant she was likely being heard now as well. It was too far away to see anything clearly moving, but... if she squinted just right, she could make out some lights at just about eye level. Blue, or perhaps green? Not firelights, at least that much was certain. But they were dim, flickering, and did not follow the path left by the hooves. There were faint rustles coming from that direction as well, though softer, as if trying not to be heard.

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The changes in scenery were disconcerting to say the least. Immediately as the world grew darker from the lack of the light platform, Sjel missed it. But with so much to think on, she couldn't be truly sure that she would keep steady concentration upon it. She did not want to know what it would feel like to fall in the dream of another. Perhaps if she did not so strongly know that armor was of little help with falling, she might have changed the ways of this world for it to be so. However, she imagined that within that fall, she would have no concentration left to defy her instincts.

It seemed that despite the lack of light, her trail was fruitful, though concerning. At a certain point, they seemed to lead back to where she had already been. Though, at least she believed she knew what to expect from that direction, even if facing it again would be no easier.

She allowed herself to be distracted by the new source of light. Sjel had been making progress with the tracks, but in so many stories, it was essential to not ignore new signs. Sure, she might catch up with her quarry, but what if she needed the knowledge to be gained from this source?

”Hail, I am Sjel Jernsdatter, make yourself known,” she said, her mother's armor still in place as she moved closer to these lights.

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As Sjel turned from the tracks and went toward the lights, the sound of the other forest occupant ahead dwindled, heading further toward the end of the forest. They would be easy enough to follow, though, so it was only a sacrifice in that she would have to catch up if she tracked them again. The light continued to waver against the trees and the brush, and as she got closer she would notice a certain difference in the air, a chill not of the wind, and there was the faint smell of crisp water again. (Much like the river she had left just a few moments ago, actually.) The ground felt muddier as well, and it clung to her hooves in patches. Best to watch her footing. As she spoke, Sjel saw over a bush the source of this light. It was in the shape of a caribou, but it certainly was no caribou—it was like a mist, half-translucent and standing above the ground without a bifrøst, that eerie blue glow emanating from somewhere within. It also appeared to be soaking wet and dripping with unreal water. That wasn't the strangest of it, though. The unsettling thing about this apparition was that it had taken the apparent shape of a small cow... and a deeply familiar one, at that. It looked slowly in Sjel's direction and blinked with her sister's eyes. "<Hail, friend Sjel,>" it said, with a voice like stray thread. As it spoke, it looked over her with reluctant curiosity. "<...Are you friend? Do I know you?...>" It wavered uncertainly. If this spirit-thing was a threat, it wasn't acting like it... at least, not yet.

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Even though the conjured armor was modified to fit her, it seemed to cause her hooves to press more deeply into the mud. Still, better to keep the metal shell in place. Her mind could latch onto the protection it was supposed to offer when trouble arrived.

The visage that formed in response to her call was not a creature she recognized, all that was obvious was that it was not one of her kin. Perhaps this was entirely a creature that only existed within Lys' imagination. The way it stood on air without a platform was enervating in itself.

As Sjel's weight shifted to, as subtlety as possible, put herself into a defensive stance, the shape took on further coherence. Suddenly, it seemed to be Lys' own features she was seeing. Her posture quickly straitened, no longer battle ready and her mind-loaned armor once again faded away.

”I would think so,” she said. This did not seem to be her sister in her entirety, but perhaps it was her sister's spiritual representation. Sjel was no master of dreams and their workings.

”I'm looking for my sister,” she explained, trying to sound strong, ”We have much to do and I would very much like to start doing it.”

Best to avoid battle where she could, best to use their bond and their culture of duty to press toward her desired result. She could but hope that it would see reason from one source or another and would be able to point her toward a useful direction.

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Sjel's words seemed to unsettle it. The spirit-thing's face—such as it was—fell a little, knotting its eyebrows together in a faint haze of confused concentration. "... Sister," it said slowly, as if tasting the word in that high, thin voice. "I ... remember a sister. Woodsmoke and seawater and tree-grove... Is that who was here? I saw them leave, yet not arrive..." It came forward another few steps, walking just past her, nearly close enough to brush her side. Sjel could feel the chill that flowed from it, the cool touch of the water that flowed and pooled under the spirit, like just-melted ice. The spirit couldn't seem to focus or keep still for very long, though, and turned back, walking the other way even as no hooves quite touched earth in the right place. "They went ... this? ... That way ... I do not know. I don't... am I lost?" It stopped again and looked to Sjel, luminescent eyes glinting strangely in the low light. "You... seek blood in the trees. Please... tell me, do you know the way?"

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Despite her intentions, Sjel's expression took on a more sour disposition at the disjointed response. She loved puzzles when they were harmless or the only penalty was a few weeks worth of labor. The importance of her sister's well being transcended any other love, let alone a paltry hobby.

The eerie chill she felt upon its light contact with her body contrasted with the fire she felt inside. But moved back before her patience for it expired.

”I do not know the way, but I am beginning to rule out one course of action,” she replied as she began to lose faith in this spirit. Not all denizens of this land were sure to be helpful. She could not argue that it was likely lost by some definition of the word. ”And I do not seek blood, but a higher connection. I seek a bond of iron-words, spoken in the mind's eye in the morning and as the day ends.”

The armor on her tightened for a moment, as if clutching her, before relaxing back to its proper fitting.

”But I must go forward, it is the way I was going and it is as good as any other. Circles and backtracking will do me no good.” Not necessarily true, to be sure. But she had only stopped here to speak with this wisp, not because she had a true dead end.

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If the spirit noticed Sjel's discomfort, it didn't show it. It simply looked to her, and then through her, like it was trying to see something on the other side of her head. The whole thing appeared wavering, insubstantial; yet a slow kind of focus was starting to draw down on it. The light (such as it was) seemed steadier, even if it remained only at a glow, like a refraction of Sjel's bifrost. "Blood dries. Iron is ... brittle. Words and woods change between day-end and morning," it said, voice lower, almost sadder. "This place is dark and changing ... I do not know who you seek, but ... if you know the way forward ... please, may I follow? I think I am hurt ... And the other ... the one of fang and two-faces ... they left too quickly..." Above and around them, a soft hushing sound blew across the leaves. The wind was picking up from the direction of the mountains—assuming there were still mountains in this place. The spirit's water was slowly beginning to collect in Sjel's hoofprints as well, cold and muddy. For the intangibility of the thing, it seemed that the liquid was quite real enough.