Vashtya's Naming Dreams

[Vashtya]

This will start out as a compilation of some of my older (gaia-era) naming dreams, and then will be where I post newer ones, as well.

[Vashtya]

The darkness felt oppressive, almost as if she was trying to see through thick, viscous swampwater. The thin glimmer of a crescent moon cast deep shadows that seemed to have a life of their own as they danced across the mire, to a tune that was, at first inaudible. She looked on, detached and uncomprehending.

But...there. A single chirp broke the pregnant silence, the haunting yet cheerful sound cutting through the quiet like a knife, that single note opening the floodgates.

It was almost like seeing in color for the very first time--as if the washed out, greyish-brown filter had been pulled away, allowing her to see the deep greens of the swamp-grasses, glistening wetly. She suddenly burst into motion, her hoofbeats strangely muted, taking a back seat to the sporadic bursts of sound that seemed to summon forth something from deep inside her.

She slipped, knees sinking deep into the quagmire of muck and grime, although she hardly seemed to notice, intent upon one small, seemingly insignificant insect. As if aware of her attention, it lifted one of its forewings, rubbing it sharply against the other in a series of sharp, but surprisingly lyrical chirps. It was painful, the strident sounds weaving themselves into her very essence, heart-stoppingly poignant.

She forgot to breathe, ears jerking forward of their own accord, every fiber of her being absorbed in catching one more jarring note. She was no longer kimeti--she could feel the rough rub of wings against one another, the only intent to angle them just right, to make the noise resonate more sharply...

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the song was cut short. A sticky pink tongue, followed swiftly by a large, cavernous mouth, enveloped the unfortunate insect's body easily. crunching down sharply, the carapace gave way, no match for the frog's powerful jaws.

Near-forgotten, her body fell slowly to the side, gaze never leaving the scene that had unfolded so abruptly. Her eyes glazed over, and the mud slowly, painstakingly sucked her under, stillness reigning in the swamp, silent once more.

[Vashtya]

The air was cloying, thick and inviting, caressing one's senses. A light breeze ruffles his mane. He closes his eyes, listening to the sounds of the swamp around him as the residents of day sought shelter for the night, and the creatures of the night strode forth.

Crickets called him forward, inciting a wild restlessness, like a drug, pulling him forward, hoofbeats growing gradually faster as he obeyed the night's whim

[Vashtya]

The snow swept by, crystals sweeping across his field of vision like the wispy tendrils of a doe's mane, carried by a strong breeze. They danced across the landscape like a youth in spring, haphazardly tumbling over themselves as if uncertain which way to explore first, every option so full of promise that one was afraid one might miss something, by choosing.

Picking up one heavy hoof, he pushed onward, stomping his hooves to return feeling to his limbs, fighting the lethargy that invited him to indulge, forevermore, in errant thought...

[Vashtya]

The meadow sat in ruins, charred, cracked earth a depressing counterpoint to the deep greens that had sat there mere hours before. Parts were still smoking, a reminder of the fire that had swept through so brutally, unexpectedly destructive given the swamp's usually damp atmosphere. This season, however, there had been far less rain than usual, providing the perfect setting for the flames to sweep rapidly through the more dry areas, leaving only the deepest recesses of waterlogged swampland untouched.

One solitary pale ball of fluff lay, dirty and slightly singed--a sole reminder of the majestic pussy willow tree that had stood there for generations, a prominent gathering place for the many kimeti that inhabited the area.

As life slowly returned, along with the rains, the long meadow-grasses were the first to sprout once more, slender leaves reaching stubbornly upward towards the sky, followed shortly by the thistles, and nettles. Many of the trees, who had suffered a less extreme fate than the pussy willow, sprouted new greenery, until one would hardly know just how much damage the flames had wrought.

Without the willow, with the distinct, ghostly-white balls of fluff, however, the meadow was one of many, and as time began to pass, memories began to fade, and the once-boistrous meadow remained silent, save for the occasional howling winds, or the deep-throated croaking of bullfrogs.

As the seasons bled into one another, a thin sapling slowly climbed its way upward, gradually making its own place in the middle of the clearing.

A sharp autumn wind howled softly through the marsh, a reminder of the chill yet to come. Weary to his very bones, a kimeti happened upon the once frequently-visited place, nostalgia directing his feet, almost without his willing it. He was nearing the end of a very long, very fruitful life, and had, subconsciously, been making his way towards the once-familiar clearing for days.

As he stepped past the tree-line, rheumy, watery eyes blinked in surprise, disbelieving as he directed his gaze upwards, hooves still carrying him slowly, inexorably forward until he stood directly beneath the sturdy branches, white puffy dots seeming to taunt him. They teased at the very edges of his memory, to carefree days as a colt, chasing fireflies with his siblings, and of huddling to keep warm in the evening chill.

Sinking to his knees at the tree's base, the kimeti relinquished his hold on reality, lost in the near-forgotten memories, even those wispy tendrils slowly fading once more, as he slumped against the willow's trunk. As the last puff of breath left his body, a silvery wisp of condensation that lingered for only the barest of moments before dissipating, carrying his memories away with it.

[Vashtya]

Eyes open slowly, painstakingly. The first rays of the rising sun spill across the swamp, bringing the landscape to vibrant, bright life. Color spills forth, a million different hues revealed by the retreating darkness. The cheerful song of a bird seems to invite you to wake up, to come out and play...to revel with it in the daylight. The meadow is emerald, with wildflowers sprinkled playfully amongst the green stalks; playful dabs of color.

And yet you hesitate, something teasing at the back of your consciousness, a niggling sense of something...forgotten. You hesitate, and a second bird's song joins the first, distracting, as if to pull you free from the mire of your own sluggish thoughts. A moment passes, then two, and you wonder what this lingering thought is, and is it really important? Worth keeping you here, when the very swamp is inviting you out to play, to frolic in the new day?

You take one hesitant step forward, then another, before kicking up your feels, dashing between two massive tree trunks, lost in the moment, your intent forgotten in the beauty around you. In the meadow, left behind, a small mark, made in the base of a giant tree trunk lies forgotten, a testament to one who'd come before...the story you'd come to try to remember, passed down to you from another nothing but a distant memory...a fading thought, lost on the breeze.

[Vashtya]

He quivers, lip drawn back in a snarl. The rough edge of a rope dangles between his forelegs, his teeth having made short work of it...but unfortunately, not short enough. His vision is hazy, rage making it difficult to focus, to pay attention to anything but that which he would give his life for--crumpled on the forest floor, and far too still.

Body held low to the ground, he charges, making no sound--a sound would have given warning, and have given them time to prepare. His jaws close around the jugular, ripping and tearing, and moving on to the next without hesitation. Finally, an eternity, or perhaps only moments later, the clearing lies silent, save for his furious panting. Fury spent, he practically collapses, dragging his own body, marred by a dozen small bleeding wounds, over to his beloved, who already cools, and curling his own body around it protectively, nose buried against it. He'd been too late, and all his willingness to die in their place couldn't change that.

[Vashtya]

It was that magical hour where the dawning of a new day slowly stole back the marsh from the darkness of the night. Delicate rays of light slowly warmed the air, as they colored the ground in vibrant hues of gold, orange and pink.

With the brightening of the sky, misty, ghostlike tendrils began to curl back lazily from the surface of the swamp. Suspended, they lingered above the moist earth before dissipating, only to be replaced by more of the velvety fog, serpentine coils engaging in a captivating dance, twisting and writhing to a rhythm all their own.

The early morning silence was broken only by the hushed, almost inaudible whispers of the rising mist. A low hiss that seemed just barely out of hearing, but that beckoned so sweetly as to say that surely, if one listened just a little bit harder, it would speak of secrets so profound as to be almost beyond one's comprehension.

As the sky continues to lighten, the colors change, from warm pinks and oranges to pale yellows, the soft whispering seems to intensify, running together into a low buzz, as the mist seems to move of its own volition, slowly thinning, extending its reach farther from the ground.

Finally, as the heat of the day finally won over, dissipating more and more of the vapors, the swamp-speak seemed to grow more intense, a crescendo of soft, indistinguishable noise that teased at one's ears.

And then, conceding defeat, the last coil of mist disappeared, leaving behind no evidence of its passing, aside from the heavy, cloying silence that seemed to cover the marsh like a blanket.

A heartbeat passed, then two.

And then, like some unheard command had been spoken, sound washed back over the swamp, the sudden onslaught of noise near-deafening to ears still straining for one last wraith-like whisper.

[Vashtya]

The wind howled, kicking up flurries of soft white snow and flinging them about, the airborne flakes so thick that it was impossible to see even a few inches in front of one's face. It was bitingly cold, and any creature with any sense whatsoever was holed up inside, where they were protected from the deep freeze. The ground was hard, frozen solid, and some of the trees, unable to stand against the strong winds and the weight of the snow that had settled in their branches, had fallen, their bare trunks' jagged edges sticking up out of the white snow.

Deep within the snow, inside of a protective sac, new life waited for the cold to recede. Protected from potential foes, it was forgotten, buried, the warmth within insulated by the very blanket of cold that kept all others in their own homes, the dreamer within feeling nothing more than a soft, cooling embrace, like a kiss on a fevered brow...Winter's Kiss.

[Vashtya]

Foreign, sharp, and yet at the same time inviting to the nose, the smell lingered. Earthy, but alien, so different from the normal smells one might expect to find in the swamp, it clung in the nostrils, teasing at one's consciousness, the scent so intense as to be almost tasted, a phantom flavor clinging to the back of one's throat.

Cinnamon.

[Vashtya]

The loud crack of colliding antlers echoed, followed by the frenzied thud of hoofbeats, panting breaths...and a pained grunt. Their gazes met, both pawed the ground in time with the other, then lowered their heads and charged again. One of them lowered his head further, his velvet-covered antler catching his opponent in the shoulder, digging deep before ripping swiftly through flesh.

As abruptly as it had started, it was over. The now-injured buck, his shoulder dripping blood down his side, stumbled out of the clearing, crashing off through the trees.

A shock of red trickled down the victor's antler, still covered in velvety skin, a somewhat-grisly testament to his win. Pawing at the ground, he threw back his head, the crimson stain drying slowly, changing from bright red to a more sedate reddish-brown stain of blood on velvet.

[Vashtya]

A pit fills their vision, filled with cloyingly thick muck. It seeps up between one's hooves, a vibrant reddish brown that stands out from the duller colors that surround it. It's a pleasing sensation, even as it sticks to their fur, like being embraced by the earth itself. Squish.

Red Clay.

[Vashtya]

The moon hangs low in the sky, so close it feels as though one could touch it, if only one could walk a little bit closer, or reach a little farther, and yet it remains just out of reach, no matter how long they walk.

At long last, As they top a small rise, feeling like an eternity has passed, the moon is there, so large that it seems to take up the whole sky. and then below....a gift. A small, jagged fragment that seems to glow from within.