Christmas Sweets And A Little Productivity

Half-past eleven; it is a blustery, frozen, almost blizzard-esque morning, perfect for staying in and finding excuse for hot drinks and little productivity. The parcel of left-over Christmas-sweets tucked under Hallowrove's arm will pair nicely, they imagine.

Thankfully, of course, what with the nature of visiting a silverer, they also needn't dampen nor freeze themselves on their way into town. The path through ever-summery Parabola has been hammered firmly into place by numerous, consistent travels, and leads demurely through the viric undergrowth to that familiar unassuming door. There are not many, of course, and what few intentional entrances into Oversol's parabolan defenses are generally quite skittish, but this one purrs and arches its back as the hunter swings it open with a shoulder and slips inside. The sound of a lock gently clicking closed again behind them is only promise that nothing else follows them, and nothing more. 

Any wanderer more unwelcome would find the well-dressed hallways uncooperative and winding; but, as always, this dreamish labyrinth knows its master's companions and how it is meant to treat them. The fifteenth door on the right creaks open as Hallowrove approaches, then conveniently blocks the path stretching to its left to shuffle the hunter in the correct direction. Dola chuckles, perhaps shaking her head at the ever-constant feeling of being chauffeured by a series of over-polite house-staff — a year ago, perhaps, they would have found the clearly-defined path unnerving, but nowadays it is easy instinct to stride from hallway to less-Euclidian hallway without worry of a wrong step. 

This door on the left, then that one on the right, as always, masquerading as a shelf of heavy, empty books, then straight ahead; time makes itself amicable and swift, allowing the hunter's ambling pace to yet still resemble the invigorating nature of a brisk morning jog. Cosmogone sunlight streams in through the occasional false-window; warmth blossoms across his face as the beams stretch to brush against him. It is easy to forget they do not still preside on the Surface, here, but neither does the nostalgia sting. 

Door to the right, avoid the potted snakebush, turn down the leftmost entrance. The last doorway should be just a minute down this last hallway. 

Something is off.

The hairs at the back of Dola's neck prickle with the unconscious, trained instinct of a hunter prepared for venomous, sharp things hidden dangerously out of sight. Immediately, their footsteps fall silent; a second later, they halt. This door, unmarked, unassuming, and plain as the rest, is not as it should be. Is it the number engraved? No— the hallway agrees it has always and will always read '45'. Perhaps the size? No, again, repeats the hallway. It rumbles in a manner suggesting it feels unfairly accused, and subtly attempts to raise a floorboard in front of the hunter to trip them. They, of course, step over without much thought, and the walls resort to sulking. 

Something is off, even if it is not the door itself. If it is not the door, it must be whatever lies behind it. A hesitant hand finds the polished doorknob. Should they be snooping? These halls are as much the silverer's mind as they are the walls that protect it. On the other hand — what if something had snuck in? What if something had hidden itself away, inside, with malicious intent? Surely the man would not blame them for checking. The knob turns before they realize they are turning it.

A wash of dream-laden air, thick and wet, hits Hallowrove's face as the door inches open. Shortly thereafter, a muted haze of rotten fear follows. Within only seconds the hunter recognizes the scent — Oversol had offered, once recently, to share with them the barest beginnings of oneiropompy, with the suggestion that it could perhaps be applied to beasts. This is the scent, rank and choking, he attributed firmly to a nightmare. A nightmare? As far as they were aware — which, they note, is an awareness not particularly detailed — dreams should not exist within these walls, and certainly not nightmares. These walls explicitly deter terrors. 

The door is pushed further open. Ah. There is their question, answered. 

They suppose a terror that originates within the walls might have freer reign.

A makeshift operating room, dim and empty. The scene is not necessarily gory, nor the slightest bit bloodied, but even so the silverer is laid out flat on a metal table and opened like a carnival attraction. Misty hands and figures comprised of swarms of corpseflies prod and neatly slice at the man's internals, serving up a wedge of brain for display and chiseling away at bone to reach deeper into his chest. The man is not strapped down, yet clearly immobilized, chest rising and falling in rapid, rabid pace and wide unseeing eyes stuck to the singular pale light on the hazy ceiling.

Of course, (Of course?), the researchers invite the hunter in. Come, marvel!, they laugh, waving a shining scalpel towards their experiment. Look at what we found! What else could be inside? What else could we do with it? 

Dola Hallowove is no silverer. They are most certainly not an oneiropomp, regardless of a lesson or two. Luckily, what Dola Hallowrove is, is resourceful, and quick-witted, and awfully good at working under a bit of pressure. Even as the metallic tang of Oversol's panic threatens their carefully-held calm, (Is it wrong to interfere? Is this a breach of the autonomy they try so desperately to show respect for?— No, it is not.), they exhale steadily and close the door behind themselves. 

"Alright," they start, slowly. A few steps towards organs carved as cakes, the work exceedingly careful yet overenthusiastic. The silverer's breathing hitches momentarily. "No, um— This is mine. I'm afraid. Um. Sorry, but I'll need you all to go." A firm look passes over each buzzing figure, daring any denial.

An aggravated whispering fills the room, wingbeats and scissor-snips. One figure merges with the one beside it to discuss. This is yours? You are not using it correctly. We need to do our work. This is mine.

Damn. This is proving difficult. How under earth does an oneiropomp manage this kind of nonsensical mess on the daily? Perhaps they'll bring it up to Oversol, later today. Perhaps this is why the man drinks so much tea — to relieve the stress of it? Perhaps he simply enjoys tea. And— they're getting distracted, damned Parabola and its...

Their frustration sends ripples through the clouds of intruders — and they shy back. Ah. There. That's the key — for all that Oversol is immobile at the hands of the scene and his helpless role in it, Hallowrove is not, and these scalpels are welded by little more than insects. Pity — or perhaps it is more a deep-set anger — strikes momentarily true through their stomach before they shake off the distracting sensation and stride forward. "Alright, out. Out, out with you, get on out of here, all of you—" Hands waved through fuzzy outlines render them immediately dispersed and fleeing, and what the hunter cannot stomp flat or clap between their hands slips between the floor and the wall to emerge another day. Soon, the room is quiet of insectoid static. 

The hunter does not cease their movement, regardless, comfort radiating in the familiar action of action itself as they scoop up plated lungs and coils of brain left in bowls. It is something akin to tetromancy to piece a dreamer back together, returning pieces to their function and intention rather than into their cavities. Hallowrove lays breath back into the silverer's chest, and winds his capability to think back into his mind, and the strength and security of his form between the cracks in his ribs. With an unavoidable wince, they snap the fragile connection between brain and body back into place, and note, only now, that the room had since washed itself of its sterile, cold atmosphere. They blink once, and the man is layered with bandages. Blink again, and he is whole. Oh. Well. They had dealt with that quite effectively, hadn't they? Good, good. They'd had, um, no concerns about their capability to do so whatsoever. Certainly not.

Oversol — his dreaming form, anyhow — lays dazed, seemingly struggling to process the rapid shift in state. Even so, his entire body trembles, subtly; a solemn explanation of the silverer's, days ago, comes to mind. Sleep and fear in tandem demolish one's capability for bravery, and lay bare what is often so very well hidden beneath busy hands and a stoic face. At the time, of course, he was speaking of the dreamer he had allowed Hallowrove to assist in his work with, but the knowledge leaves both anger (at guessing exactly where this fear originates) and guilt (at having laid eyes on what lies behind his barriers, without his knowledge) settling again in their stomach.

Well. Not much is gained by dwelling on that, right now. They had more than expected Oversol to be up by now, but if this was anything to go by the man had seen little in the way of quality sleep overnight. It wouldn't hurt to arrive somewhat later than they had intended to, and allow him to rest a little longer, would it? They find themselves, unexpectedly, sat beside the silverer on a familiarly ugly couch — Their own? Why, does the piece of furniture truly haunt the man so? Perhaps it is only a dreamish recognition of the hunter's presence, instead — and awkwardly slip the man's head into their lap to rest. Oversol's still-wide eyes wash slowly over the new scene, first shining with confusion, then hesitant relief. His shaking drips from his fingers and, appreciatively, melts into the floorboards like snow in an overdue spring. That foggy gaze finally, briefly, meets Hallowrove's, and a hint of something too-conscious sparks before his eyes close and a soft smile settles itself comfortably on his face.

A minute passes. Oversol does not wake, nor fade deeper into sleep.

...

Are they going to sit here until he does?

... 

Yes. Most likely, they will. Damn. 

...

Ah, well. It was meant to be an unproductive day, anyhow, and assisting the man in his rest is not even entirely unproductive. It will do, until it is time for tea and Christmas-sweets. For now, there is sunlight seeping under the door and the weight of a friend across their legs. It will do.