"And the moon -- ever white -- was proud.
She offered respite and comfort from the sun of wilting-heat
And thought herself better. Kinder.

The sun, she said, was fearsome.
Kin and creature hid in the shade
Reaching tree limbs had nothing to hide under
And flowers were mostly stupid.

Still the sun shone on and made the living sick.
And the moon hated the sun for this.

She looked down at night
When she ruled and took pride in the slumbering kin
The prowling creatures and wise flowers that only opened their petals to her.
And she wished that the sun would not rise so that she would not have to set.

But she would set and let the sun rise,
Until one perfect night, she met her reflection in the stillness of a clear lake.
And she, at once in love with the splendor that was she, refused to move.

The sun continued his journeys,
Confused when he did not pass her in the early morning hours.
It was the second moonless night that he found her, settled in a tree and enamored of herself.

'The sky misses you,' he told her.
'The sky is a fool, he loved you first,' was her reply.
He could not refute that and took to speak with the Motherfather.

The Crane did not sit beside the moon,
Did not beseech her to return to the sky.
Instead it waded into the waters where the reflection shimmered
And took it, a large glittering fish, into its beak.

Into the sky the Crane took the reflection
Setting it loose in the sky to light the night.

The owl, besotted and distraught,
Flew into the waters and drowned in search of her own beauty.

'What a vain little moon,' the sky thought.
'She will learn,' the Motherfather replied."

This part of the swamp was on the brink of death.

He was on the cusp of adulthood and he had wandered, perhaps a touch too far, in search of a name. It had begun to bother him in a nagging sort of way that they were all the same. Totoma. And the urge to define himself as another name, his true name, had built until it was unbearable. It was little wonder that some were driven insane by the desire, indeed driven into death's arms like a wayward lamb. His current surroundings made it all the more... the word escaped him.

There were signs of flooding in the past. Now there was standing water from the snow melt that turned the ground muddy. It was a desolate place of brown and even the high sun did not quite seep into this haunt. However the longer he stood, letting his eyes take in every faint detail, he thought it could be healed. It could become a home; perhaps even his. Already he could see the plants that would grow, the trees that would be felled to make way for sunlight, the happiness that could reside here.

"Who are you?" a voice crooned from the shadows. All sing song and sickeningly sweet.

The buck's eyes followed the sound unable to find the source in the dim of light. It moved; it chanted and sang. It left him utterly bewildered and he stood still as stone.

"Who are you?" the voice cried once more; haunting and taunting.

"Totoma," he replied with confusion for he had no name of his own yet.

The voice seemed to dwindle until it merely echoed then reemerged once more with a touch of bite. "Not what are you. Who." It sounded irritated -- stationary -- and he raised his head, straightened his shoulders, in alertness. And then it was once more weaving and echoing, resounding it's question over and over. And it occurred to him that perhaps it was attempting to drive him off or envelope him in conversation. A lonely or vengeful spectre.

"I have no name, yet," he clarified. The question fell in volume and then a rather snotty reply challenged him to name himself then. As if it was that simple; all but the Totoma dreamed names with ease. It was not so simple as that. A name had to be won. And the voice rung back now even more insistent.

He thought and let his eyes roam; breathed in and out. He had long thought his challenge would be physical. His mother had fought for hers; his father had overcome broken bones. His elder half-brother had run off a thief for his (even now he still did not know the full story to that -- no one did except mother). And he had thought it would follow that he too would overcome an obstacle of the physical realm. It had not occurred to him that it may be entirely different.

The voice crashed into his head, crescendoing until his thoughts were shattered. It took all his resolve to find a focus -- an uncovered bone grave -- to steady his mind, to block out the voice. And as he stared, he took in his previous state. Yes this place could be saved. And perhaps the spectre, too.

"Spectre. Are you lonely? Is this your home?" he questioned.

Taken-aback the voice was soft when it spoke. "Yes."

"Do you like your home like this? All gloom and dim?"

"It was pretty once."

And he had his answer then. For it. For him. Indeed he had his name.

"Then I will make it so again. You may call me Hope."

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

A battle -- even a challenge -- was not the right term. Youth was much more accurate. For the young believe in immortality, invincibility. And he, well he had never thought either were real.

The clan -- it was more than three but less than eight -- that stood before him was green. They believed, falsely he might add, that the land he stood on was theirs. He had inclined to tell them he was on a journey, to the swamp, and cared not about their delusions of ownership and then the leader began to speak. And had not stopped speaking. It had gone to the reaches of ridiculousness and beyond, really.

When he could take no more words, "Famous last words are not to be proud of, whelp."

He had cowed the young ones and left them shivering in shame, fear, youth. And though he had said little, nothing compared to the clan leader, he was forever known as Famous Last Words. He, the pale totoma with plate like bones, had become a legend of sort -- all who met him eventually spoke their famous last words of youth.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

As a lamb he had heard and that had turned into thought. He had grown up in a heavy community where strategy was heralded and foolhardiness shunned. Cowardice was a sin and bravery was a virture. And he had been scared. Petrified; flesh turned stone. What would he do -- this community of voices around him do -- if he was a coward? And by the time he was a foal he had learned to plan and plot.

He was ridiculed by other foals for his tail that was smooth and long with a tuft. It was an odd trait that the elders did not seem to understand. A tail from a more ancient ancestor than they knew perhaps. Or maybe he was special. It mattered not to the foals and he retreated often. Coward. Until a plan had hatched. It was complex but he was not given to the ways of brute force. And even if he was, it was not brute force that would drive the eldest grumpiest totoma out -- show the foals and all that he was not to be made fool of. It was smarts. (Even so, in his petulance, it did not stop him from stamping a hoof down on a wayward moth -- the summer always brought creatures of flight -- until it was crushed into a fine dust.)

It had been weeks of subterfuge and redirection until everything was ready. He approached the elders and in a voice meek but lilting told of how the eldest Totoma -- Digs Deep -- had stolen the dwindling food stores. A rush of voices. Threats. A cacophony of noises and emotions assaulted the foal. He shied in falseness and then he trailed as the elders went to investigate. It was not long before the entire tribe knew of the stolen food. Nor did they wait to drive Digs Deep from the land. And only the shunned saw the cruel smile of the foal heralded a hero. A foal that was never to be picked on again.

There was no remorse. No guilt. Cold and calculating, undoubtedly excessive, his means may have been. His actions were warranted to meet the end he desired. And he became known for deals. For a trill that warned of prices. An ice frozen heart that cared not. He was Justified.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

It is pink, the sweetest pink of dawn's early morning rise, spread upon the white of innocence, settled around the yellow of sunshine. A beautiful yet simple thing. A mere rose.

And like all beautiful things it is sought after. A treasure to be stolen, a flower to be plucked, a temptation to be tamed. A possession to be loved.

It is oft forgotten that sweet roses have briars. Prick. And bleed.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

The world was on fire. Thick black smoke rose into the sky and blotted out the moon; night itself was plunged into a void. And in the center of it all, a shade stood.

It had been a light once. A hero swathed in sunshine only to have its heart broken. And broken and rent and bent and shattered until its chest was empty of all but a small dark shard that pulsed anger and hate.

Anger was a boon and a curse, for the shade plunged the world into turmoil. Fire ravaged the greenery. Storms bled the sky of the sun. Water turned to ice. And all suffered.

(The shade's laughter danced--it was winning; life could not beat it back down into submission now.)

(How blind; there was always further to fall.)

The shard pulsed once as a path of red roses bloomed but a lifetime of darkness... Red turned brown and decayed. Anger and hatred had turned inward and remorse bled into veins. But it was too late. The shade was evil; hope was dead.

And so the world was alit with flame--its own hatred taken out on that which lived despite its pain--until there was no one and there was nothing.

Eventually the fires must die and the smoke must clear. And the sky above was awash with stars. Dying lights watched the shade as it wept. Amongst themselves they whispered for they had seen the horrors and injustices that bright heart that endured. Perhaps in another land...

One by one the stars fell to kiss the shade's body; their whispers grew in volume until their was nothing but one word that echoed.

Atone.

And now many times again reborn the stars once more plead: remember your mistakes and learn from them.

Do better, child; make amends. Redeem yourself.

(Love.)

It is warm against her side. "It's time to wake up."

The dream shifts: blue water cascades into red fire. A crack of lightning threatens a tree, yellow light protects it.

A gentle nuzzle presses just behind her ear. She shifts and murmurs -- the voice replies, "You must awaken, it's important."

The sea rises, high and mighty, and crashes into the ground. The earth shakes, the wind blows. The world cracks, ruined, but it is reborn. Time, stops.

"That's a good little rabbit..."

She yawns, blue eyes open to find herself alone.

The moon smiles.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.