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The bonfire was burning brightly that night in the center of the clearing, the dancing flames visible for miles around on the flat prairie he called home. Far off in the distance the herds rested for the night, hiding under the protective cover of the Penmaster's guidance. Resting on the ground four figures sat, legs crossed with their artifices resting before them. The Foodfinder (Thermal/Biological vision augmentation goggles), The Penmaster (Portable forcefield generator), The Waterfinder (Echo location ground sonar tuned to quaffable liquids), and the Pathfinder (Satellite uplink control with visual displays of a fifty mile radius) all sat facing the fire and the assorted members of the tribe on the other side of the burning fire. Behind them, standing on a wooden podium with his muzzle pointed to the sky, the Dreamweaver stared into the night, his mind seeking out the night's dream. His body was covered from head to toe with the markings of his office, his gift, his fur carved in patterns of the intricate dreams he brings to his people. Tonight's dream would be a special one, a dream that only takes place once a decade to remind the people why their life is good, and why the Artifices are holy. His eyes close as the dream reveals itself to him. Tens of thousands of stars within the puzzlebox, their light shining though the thin atmosphere of the night sky. Light from tens of thousands of systems, reflecting off of the surface of the planets, bringing with them the images of life, the feel, the essence, the knowledge of who they are, what they are, how life is, everything about each society. The particular stray light that Rostrath's mind seeks tonight contains the images, the world of a fairly advanced society at it's end. War, conflict, perhaps millions of years old as the star is perhaps a million light years away, forces itself into his mind. The Dreamweaver locks onto the single, solitary beam of light from this far distant star and lowers his head. The dream must be carefully edited, not to show the particular Artifices of the Artificers. As soon as the dream shines crystal clear within his mind, his mouth parts and he starts to sing. The song carries to his people the scenes, showing them a world at it's end, letting them feel the horror, the pure fear, rage, love and loss, the emotions of the dying world. The conflict itself plays a much smaller role, as the dreams is purely there to show why the simple, if hard way of life is better. This particular dream will last untill the dawn, but as the song progresses into the night Rostrath cant help but feel a sense of wonder at all of the different machines, whether mechanical, electronic, biological, a mix of the three or something totally different washes though his mind. The machines themselves and the sense of wonder is carefully edited out of the dream, as it has no place in the scene he's creating within the tribe's collected conscious, but he cant help but feel it himself. 'What would it be like?' a distant, locked away corner of his mind wonders, 'To see, to feel, to revel and bask in the wonder of these Artifices?' The answer, he knows, will continually elude him, but he cant help but wonder. Would he be able to adapt? Would he spend the rest of his life worshiping these? What about those that fully integrate themselves with the machines they wear as clothing? Edit that out, move back to the city... Most importantly, are these just dreams, or are they real? Do the dreams he snags from the stray strands of light show real places, or are they just figments of his imagination? 'I could adapt...' that tiny corner of his mind protests silently, 'It would take time, but I could become a part of these worlds, these dreams. There would be trouble, there would be confusion with those like that large walking thing, I would end up worshiping those and his ilk, but I could adapt.' Far above the planet, resting upon an ancient temporal pathway that connects this world with the myriad of others that make up this region of space, a nebulous entity rests. It's mind mostly comatose, lost within the dream of that single individual over a hundred miles beneath it's illusionary bulk. The Puzzlebox has existed for nearly forever, but there was a time, eons ago, before it was constructed. Then a race of space dwelling creatures lived, their minds and bodies thousands of light years in size, yet transparent to the eye and touch. They lived their lives as pure intelligences, a species that long ago disassoaited themselves from their material bodies, existing only now as the essence of thought. Eternally curious, patient creatures, they watched the stars, puzzling out the wonders of the universe, their past forgotten. They had no concept of physical form, no need for conflict as they had no bodies in which to fight with. But as time wore on, others appeared within this system, this large collection of stars. They multiplied at a truly frightening speed, building ethereal connections between their planets for communication, then for transportation. They had no knowledge of the elder intelligences, so when the first of their transportation pathways struck one of them, sucking it's being into the power network, transforming the ancient intelligence into a random collection of charged particles, they did nothing about it. The elder race saw the threat, but they had long since forgotten about the concept of death, they had no defence against such a threat. One by one, as the pathways exploded across what was to be known as the Puzzlebox, they died out, sucked into the energy streams to become nothing more then a brief flash of light. One survived, however. It sought out a distant corner of the galaxy, wrapping itself around one single world that already had a connection, it's nebulous form constructing, diminished upon itself to become a light haze within the night sky. Over the eons it thought, learning about the deadly pathway, about the inhabitants of the world below it. IT bore them no malice, as such a thing was unknown to it, watched as the society grew, then diminished again to a purely tribal society, where it remained. It eventually learned enough to alter it's own body in just the right method to avoid the energy spear and covered it, attempting to learn further of these creatures. The unforeseen, however, has a tendency to bite one upon the rear. The spear had changed over the eons, the power source changing, altering the stream just so, so when the entity covered the spear, it put it's mind into a comatose state. Centuries, perhaps eons later, a single individual broached one of the tribe's most sacred of rules. He was a Dreamweaver, a position that only gets filled every fourth or fifth generation due to the special talent he must possess. He knew what he was doing was very, very wrong, but a little voice in the corner of his head insisted, and he was caught in opening the Penkeeper's Artifice. Death would be too good of a punishment for this outrageous offense, so instead he was cast though the doorway, a structure build to last forever, yet had been shunned and guarded since the cataclysm. This Weaver was thrust though the doorway to meet his fate. The altered energy of a individual in transit caught the Elder, sucking him into the being instead of the spear itself, melding the ancient mind with the Dreamweaver's own |
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