A white poodle mounted on a gold-feathered Drokar with white raiment and great feathered wings rides slowly towards an archway whose statuette stands enfolded by a white cloak. Beyond the archway, a path the bleached white of the bones of the long-dead stretches towards an ominous mountain, while the gray sands swirl and the unfelt winds stir with cries like slivers of glass, piercing the flesh with the ears.

The poodle rider shivers at the blowing, and at the desolate landscape she soon will tread. Her right hand grips the reins of her mount while her left hand is removed from the butt of her blade and used to comfort the winged Drokar as they make their approach toward the arch. "Well then," begins Elise as she stares off into the expanse, "to Sunala. It has been a long time in coming."

The mount's first step onto the white path makes a soft crunch, like brittle bones crushing together under her weight. Mystery shivers and snorts, hesitating, while the wind dances around them, lifting her mane and Elise's hair. The hissing of the wind sounds almost like words as it whips around the poodle's ears.

Elise runs her hand through her mount's wind-blown mane, smiling faintly. "Do not be afraid. And do not listen. What could call us here could only be those who have passed on, those tragic ended lives, their loss scars on the living. It is life we should focus on: others', and our own. For this we go to meet Sunala." The words spoken are directed to her mount, though by the way she whispers them one would imagine they are more for the speaker than for a listener who may not even understand their meaning. The woman knows once she finishes what she has to say and lifts her hand, pointing forward. "Mystery forward! Ya!" She spurs her mount onward and charges forward.

Mystery gives a start at the sudden spurring, and surges forward a half-dozen paces. But the soft crunching beneath her hooves continues with each step, and the Drokar soon slows to a walk, her body trembling at each hoofbeat. The wind around them varies in intensity, sometimes gently teasing, sometimes violent, sometimes dying to nothing. But the sensation of speech persists, the same words repeated over and over again. "… going … ," Elise hears, and she abruptly has the feeling that there is not one wind here, but many, each moving at its own unique pace.

"Mystery, into the air. The faster we proceed, the less we must endure this," speaks the rider to her mount. Accordingly she tugs back on the reins to indicate an upward movement and slaps her mount hard enough to direct her and get her attention. All the while Elise cannot help but wonder at the words spoken. Going? Going … where?

"… Where … ," the wind whispers, echoing her thought softly, as Mystery surges forward again under her rider's urging. She leaps into the air, and the wind hits the Drokar in the face like a hammer blow, the impact so strong that it nearly tumbles Elise from the saddle. A crosswind batters at one side, then the back, and the mount staggers as she drops back to the ground, forelegs buckling to the knees on the crunching path, while the wind surges all around, like laughter. "… you … "

With a gasp from having been thrown against her saddle so roughly, then forward again as her mount tumbles from the sky, Elise finds herself hunched forward and hair fallen over her face. She takes a moment to recover and then straightens herself while again patting her mount. She resumes looking forward even as the wind buffets about her. "Silence whispers. I care not for your tricks and your games, for I will continue forward regardless," she tells the winds calmly, defiantly.

If the wind understands her, it does not respond. As Mystery regains her footing, quivering, the winds pulse. "… where … are … ," the whispers continue, overlaying each other with a murmur so that no other words are distinct.

Something of a pattern becomes apparent to the poodle, though she is uncertain if it has actual meaning or simply more sorrowful babble that she recalls the dead often doing. "Where am I going? I venture toward going to Sunala. To the summit, to meet her," she tells the air, ear perked for any response. She also pats her mount and directs her to walk forward slowly given other methods do not seem to be an option.

At her answer, the winds rush around her, and their separate queries are now distinct. "Where are you going?" they echo and cry. But other words are still hard to understand within the chorus. "… Bellefeuille… ," a single voice on the wind cries, and the voice seems familiar, though muffled.

Despite the change in the winds' attitude, Elise keeps her eyes forward and set upon the mountain before her. She does not intend to let the queries distract her, for she believes remaining in this place too long is detrimental to her wellbeing. Given the voices are not attempting to stop her however, she perks both ears and attempts to filter through the whispers and determine what that one unique and familiar voice is trying to say.

"… Where are you going, Elise?" the wind asks, and it is her mother's voice, the query warm and gentle. "Where are you going, Lieutenant?" Captain Granistar questions gruffly, as if in reprimand. "Where are you going, Mistress?" Sabel asks, her voice on the wind submissive and diffident.

Elise's brow narrows as she begins to understand and identify the voices. Her ears cease to perk and rest again against her head, and her hand trails from her mount's mane to rest on the butt of her sword. "To Sunala. But not for you … ," she answers, calm and defiant as before.

"Where are you going, mes jeunes courageux?" her father asks, his voice as strong as life – even carried by the wind – and pleased. Mystery's ears are flat against her head, and she strides, stiff-legged, forward, her wings held tight to her sides, teeth bared. "Where are you going?" other voices cry, angry, pleading, hopeful, afraid, each with a different name for her, each hauntingly familiar.

Elise reaches forward and strokes the winged Drokar for a moment, turning her head so that she can smile to her before she returns her gaze to the path. Now she sets herself upon ignoring the voices totally and focusing wholly upon continuing forward and monitoring the condition of Mystery.

"Where are you going, Lady de Bellefeuille?" The words take on a sudden solidity that contrasts sharply with the plaintive cries of the winds, and they abruptly stop, leaving an almost eerie silence in the wake of the simple statement. In front of the winged Drokar, and just to one side of the path, stands a black Eeee with startlingly large and vivid green eyes. He gazes up at Elise with his arms folded across his chest, one brow slightly raised.

Eyes shoot to the Eeee by the side of the road, and a look of surprise washes over the warrioress's face. She considers him for a moment, then turns her gaze forward again, thinking he may well be another illusion or echo. However, uncertain of this and without the heart to ignore him, she does respond. "I am going to speak with Sunala," she tells him simply.

He frowns, and takes a half-step forward to lay one hand against the Drokar's neck. The animal's nostrils dilate and she snorts, but does not move away. "Why?"

Elise blinks as the man makes contact with her mount, and she frowns, turning again to look at him. "Because there are matters of life and death I wish to address," she explains. Her head tilts slightly and she lifts a hand to gesture to the mountain. "I am uncertain the goddess truly understands death."

The Eeee smiles, and his expression is infectious. "You go to tell the Bright Lady her own business?" he asks, his voice holding an amusement that seems like a physical warmth around Elise, inviting her to share in it.

The noblewoman cannot help but smile, too. The man beside her is perhaps one of the few things in this world or the waking one that could illicit such a response despite her surroundings. For it is not a smile of grim determination, but genuinely pleased one in response to his presence. She holds up a finger. "Now, I cannot tell you just what I intend … but, as you undoubtedly see, it is of such weight that I would venture forth to speak with your death-goddess," she says.

"My death-goddess," he murmurs in echo, shaking his head for a moment before lifting his eyes to meet hers. "I will not ask what you cannot answer," he says softly. "But … Lady de Bellefeuille, do not do this."

Her smile wavers at being requested to not do as she has intended, and in what may be nervous motion caused by consideration she reaches once again to run her hands through her mount's mane. "You believe I will not return," Elise tells the Mystic rather than asks. She searches his face, looking carefully into his eyes and beyond. "I despise her, you know. It is not that she is a death-goddess. It … it is how she is only partly aware. Or perhaps she is aware and simply ignores what is. You yourself have felt it, I know you have. And I felt it through you and through others. And I know the pain myself. Death is … natural … but must the needless waste of life be acceptable? I … cannot bring myself to think so. It is the manner of death she represents I find so terrible, and it is that I intend to address."

"Elise … Lady de Bellefeuille – I do not think you understand what She is. She is Death. It's not just a name, or a manner of dying, or … whatever you think it is. It's death. The end. All endings. Not just the good ones, or the bad ones, the ends of long lives or short lives … all of them. She doesn't care, Elise. None of it matters to Her." His hand reaches out to hers where it rests on the reins, fingertips just brushing over her fur. "You don't matter to Her."

"It should all matter," says Elise, sadness in her voice. She moves her hand free of the reigns and places it upon that of the Mystic's. "Her indifference is a weakness I intend to exploit. I am … ," she gazes off toward the mountain again and closes her eyes, "no, I will not say it. I ask you this. Do you believe she will deny a contest of death? I have reviewed her as best I was able, but it would seem to me she would accept for the sake of pride."

"You can't kill Her, Lady de Bellefeuille." He sounds dismayed. "You can't … I do not know what you plan, but you cannot defeat Her. She is the end. Nothing you do can stop Her. I do not even know if She would deign to notice you if you tried. Elise … please. Do not do this. Go back."

"I have no intention of killing her," says Elise. Her head lowers and she tilts her head to the side so that she may watch the man near her. "I have for her … a gift. And defeating her may be unnecessary." She frowns all the more, clasping her hand around his. "Have you learned anything further of our shared dreams? Now, likely, would be the time to speak."

"Anything you offer Her … She would say is Hers anyway. Everything comes to Her, in the end." His voice remains low, urgent, almost pleading, and the Eeee turns his hand over beneath Elise's to grip her palm. "I suspect much, and know nothing," he whispers. "The Babelite Royal Mages must be the force behind the dreams. I suspect they have some others, within the College, aiding them, but I do not know whom."

"Oh my … ," says Elise, surprise in her tone. She shifts in her saddle, then stands, moving to dismount near the Mystic. "I believe I may well know whom. I imagine we are safe to discuss these matters for the moment?"

He shakes his head. "No. We are never safe here." The bat glances to one side, at the bleached white path and the gray sands that swirl even with the breeze dead.

Elise takes a step forward and holds the Mystic's hand between both of hers. She gazes downward, studying the ground below. "I will return," she says after a moment of silence. A pause and she smiles a little. "What say you to a foolish woman who would stand against death itself? I intended to, you know. For all of what has occurred and those that remain. I wanted her to feel all that pain. My pain … " She sighs softly, closing her eyes once again. "Does that make me such a fool?"

"Yes, it does," he says, and for a moment his voice is flat and harsh with pain. He closes his eyes and exhales, clasping his other hand around hers, and the warmth of his touch takes some of the sting out. "Forgive me, Elise. You do not know what you are attempting. You cannot know. Please, go back. There are six other paths – take any but this one. Please." His eyes snap open, and they seem luminous in the ashen twilight, the green so deep and intense it could take Elise in and swallow her whole.

The woman's eyes open, and she looks up at him with raised brows at his response. "Then, you must leave it too … ," she tells him, surprise in her voice. The reaction fades and she looks carefully in his eyes. "You have been dwelling here, have you not? Since that time?"

"No – I have been elsewhere. The waking world. The others' dream realms." Something else creeps into his voice, a rough edge to otherwise gently-spoken words. "I get around." He almost laughs. "But I keep coming back to here. Elise. You cannot." The last two words take on an otherworldly quality, as if another voice spoke together with his.

The hand is released and Elise takes a step backwards. Her eyes narrow and she glares at him. "Foul puppeteers, there will be a time for you," she tells him, a hint of a growl forming on her voice.

The Mystic's large eyes blink, and he starts to shake his head. His hands fall limp to his sides, then he faces Elise squarely, gaze locking with hers. "Lady de Bellefeuille," the wind rips through his voice, a single force that rises from behind him, rippling his fur and clothing. "You have entered Sunala's realm twice already." A glowing white nimbus surrounds him, and a second voice – deep yet female, thunderous and yet not loud – joins with his, making the words vibrate through the poodle's body, sinking through armor, cloth, fur, and flesh, penetrating to the bone. "If you enter again, it will be the last time."

The sheer intensity of it all causes Elise to stumble backwards away from the Eeee who resonates with the power she can only assume is Sunala's, or perhaps even one of the controllers of this world. She stops when she backs into the winged Drokar and sets her jaw, grinding her teeth together as she tries to remain composed despite the force, unable to speak.

The unnatural wind dies, and the aura fades from around him, as his eyes blink, and the Mystic staggers, dropping to his knees, a marionette whose strings were cut. His arms drop limply against his thighs, and his eyes close for a moment.

Elise's hands shake even after the possession. She inhales deeply, holding her breath for a moment, then exhales in a ragged and angry burst. Her right hand curls into a fist as she glares balefully off to where the Mystic was standing. "Curse you," she tells the wind.

The wind makes no answer. Time trickles past, and the Mystic's eyes flick open, his gaze clear again as he looks at the white poodle, not moving from the position he slumped to, knees and wingtips against the path, rear resting on his heels.

The poodle holds that look about her for some time. Eventually however she does break from it. She lets her hand relax and shifts her gaze to the Mystic, who she finds now gazes up at her. The poodle watches him for a moment before lowering herself to a knee and folding her hands together. She just watches him quietly and with an expression that is indeed sad, though reserved.

The Mystic breaks the silence first. "I could make you go back," he says, softly.

"But you will not, because then you would be using me," says Elise softly. She glances from her folded hands to off toward where she came. "To be quite honest, I do not belong here. I am not the sort of hero that can tread these paths. I have … no idea what I am doing."

"I did at one time, but it is not so very great now. I am not much of a dreamer," she adds quietly.

One black-furred hand stretches out towards Elise's. "Then do not do it. You do not have to go this way, Elise. Because you said you would does not mean that you must. There is no shame in turning back."

Like a reflection in a mirror of opposites the Templar reaches over and takes the Mystic's hand. "I intend to leave. But where I will go from here, I am uncertain. There is one here who continues on and I would not think to follow her again. Paradise, I fear, would not welcome me. So then, where to go … or perhaps I should simply wake up," says the poodle.

The Mystic blinks several times, his fingers interlocking with hers, the grip almost uncomfortably tight. "You will not go on?" His voice mixes fear with hope, as if he dared not give credence to what he heard without further confirmation.

"No, I will not," admits Elise. She shakes her head and lowers herself from kneeling to sitting near the Mystic. "I fear I have lost my way, and continuing would lead to disaster. I did wish Sunala to know … but it is also revenge." A faint smile crosses her features again. "Perhaps I should see Rephath." The smiles fades just as quick as it appeared, and she doesn't say anything else for the time being.

The Eeee before her visibly sags, relief flooding his body, his eyes closing. "Thank you." The two words are charged with emotion and heartfelt. "As for what you do next… " He leans towards her, rising up with his thighs until his face is just a few inches away, so that his next words, breathed out in the barest of whispers, are just audible. "… waking might be the wisest choice."

Elise looks upon the Mystic curiously as he leans forward, and at the mention, she nods her head a little. "Indeed." Her hand lifts and she traces a finger along the side of his face. "Until we meet again," she says, smiling now.

"Until then." His tone makes the gentle words a promise, and he places his free hand over her hand as her finger traces down his cheek. Turning his head, and curving back her fingers, he presses his muzzle into the palm of her hand for a gentle kiss. The wind rises again around them, but this time it is gentle, tugging at her clothes. In the distance, she hears the a voice again, carried by the breeze, but this time just one word: "Lieutenant?" A sharp sound, like flesh against wood – and then she is awake, on the airship, with someone knocking at her cabin door.