The past couple of days have been very tiring on the big black Vartan. He has hacked his way through dense jungle, trying to find some sign of that strange glowing apparition – or some other clue – and found little to nothing. At least, nothing that easily lends itself to a clear interpretation.

Jezebel, through all this time, has been quiet – in that sense beyond just voice, of course. Everything is just fine, she assures, or something to that effect. But something is different. There's something … odd about her. Odd about everything. And the cheetahs on the ship. Every time Zoltan passes, he can feel their stares on his back. And somehow, the way they look at Jezebel … it's as if they see her in a different light. They fear her.

Consequently, Zoltan's sleep has been troubled. His dreams have been … unusual.

Zoltan lays sprawled out on the floor of his cabin. He's almost didn't make it there, after exhausting himself in the jungle for yet another day. Almost moments after he's down, he's asleep… and like all who sleep, he dreams. Dreams of friends, of places he's visited, of treasures he's never seen, occasionally of his father as well… and Master Nicodemus back in Rephidim.

The Vartan dreams of his childhood. The time when he first learned to fly… ah… the complete sense of freedom he felt during his first flight, and the look of pride in his father's eyes. He dreams of when those eyes took on a sad cast, when his dear son became a wild monster instead of the bright-eyed little chick he remembered. How those eyes faded when he was brought in by the Jupani guards that fateful day for beating up a merchant in Darkside. The memory of WHY he did it has long faded.

Dreams of his second father, the Cervani/vartan who took him in also come to him. The patient old man who woke up one morning to find a half dead Vartan on the front step of his shop, whom he took in, healed, and raised to adulthood. How kind those eyes always were… even when he was unworthy of it. He dreams of the time he smashed one of the old man's glass cutting tools just to see how far he could push things… and instead of going into a rage, or pounding him into a pulp… the old Cervani simply shook his head… and sent his adopted student to work at cleaning his sewer pipes. Nothing he did ever seemed to send the gentle old man into a rage… and eventually his nature managed to filter into the younger Vartan.

Slowly, he learned patience, he learned kindness… and most importantly he learned to reign in his temper. Zoltan learned honest work, work he could take pride in. He remembers helping to erect the great bell at the mage's guild… Ahh, he still takes pride in hearing it ring. The Vartan also remembers the many friends he's made and people he's met over the many years. He remembers Jarik, the brash knight from Himaat. The K'hu'an, who marked him. Envoy, the aeolun who's too curious for her own good. Kaela, the little Savanite kitten.

Then, Zoltan's memories go back again, to when he is not more than a kitten. He remembers his family. His doting mother and father. His younger siblings. How, with each new little sister, his parents spent less time with him. And he remembers becoming angry for reasons he didn't understand – being alone in the woods, capturing small animals, trying to make them do what he wanted them to. Finding that pain was a useful way of teaching them, just as much as offering little tidbits of food when they did things right.

Sneaking in the night. Going to Grandmother's hut. His little sister tagging along. Promises not to tell. Grandmother talking about the glory of ages past, and enemies abroad. Teaching of ancient mysteries of dance. A feeling of power … of STRENGTH … something so out of place in the hands – and feet – of a kitten.

And then, a fateful night. So full of knowledge, so certain of the future, but still hungry for more. Candles lit all about. Darkness. A storm brewing outside. A faintly sick look in Grandmother's face, but her head nodding as she yields to the pleading of two young kits, and gets up to lead them in the dance. Going around. In a circle. Faster. A crackling in the air. A smell of ozone. Out of the corner of one eye, seeing Grandmother falter. But, no – Must go on! It's not fair! Grandmother always gets tired, and we have to stop first! DON'T STOP! A loud crash of thunder that shakes the foundations of the flimsy hut. A barking cry, and a body falling to the floor. A sensation like a tear in the fabric of reality. A pain in the forehead.

Stillness. A storm dying away. Candles flickering and dying. Long moments, fumbling about in the dark, and finally getting torches to light. A still form on the floor. Grandmother. So still. No breathing. No pulse. A sobbing kitten. A look of accusation. Then a look of horror. The room spins. The walls close in. Take flight! Run away! Into the darkness! Hide from their eyes – Only in the darkness is there safety!

Darkness. And the sound of wind blowing across a great expanse. A gentle bobbing of a wooden deck beneath Vartan hooves.

A new scene appears, but somehow as if through many eyes – many fragments of vision.

It is like looking through a multi-faceted gem, though the views through each facet are so different. It's hard to put together a single image. But there's something floating beyond. And there are many shouts and exclamations in Vartan tongues all about – "Paradys!" is unmistakable amongst them.

Shouts of warning. Someone lands on the deck. A haunting sound. Singing voices in a ghostly chorus, coming from the island. "Plug your ears!" comes a command – from Zoltan's own throat!

The scene spins. Being drawn inward. And then there's that storm again. How did it get here? The jungle intrudes upon the dream again, and there are sounds of fighting – Vartan shouts, and bestial roars in some alien tongue. Flashes of images … Vartans fighting spotted felines. Vartans fighting each other.

Golden trees shine in the sunlight. They look so alien, so bizarre, but somehow they are alive. They sing. But there is a rumbling, and the trees fall away … they sink into the ground, and the singing goes away.

A room full of great, glowing shinies. Hands reaching for them. Taking them away. They're gone! More fighting. Monuments rising to the sky, built of bones. And a dry chamber with flickering light, an old Vartan scratching away in a weathered book, gasping his last breath, and falling forward over the desk.

"How did you get here?" comes a half-heard voice from behind. That is, provided there's such a thing as "behind". Or even truly hearing.

The surroundings rearrange themselves to … a generic room. The details don't seem terribly important, unless one bothered to focus and force some sort of form onto them.

In fact, Zoltan could probably do just that. Focus on that blur over there and turn it into … a bunch of shiny bottles on a table?

Zoltan looks around shakily, taking in his surroundings. He turns to face the voice behind him.

Jezebel is standing there, looking at Zoltan. Her mouth does not move, nor do her hands. "How?"

Zoltan looks around a bit more. "Perhaps if you told me where I was, I could answer that."

Laughter. "Nowhere at all. Where should we be?" Jezebel looks around as well. "I haven't much imagination just now. Let's pretend this is all real." It's Zoltan's cabin, formerly Shokar's cabin.

Jezebel touches her forehead. "And let's pretend I don't have that third eye." Nothing disturbs the smoothness of her spotted, golden-furred forehead. "That disturbs you, does it not?"

"And I'll just pretend that I understand what's going on here." The Vartan sits on the floor. "Yes, it disturbs me… but it also disturbs me to see you wipe it away like a bit of face paint."

Jezebel leaps down to crouch beside the Vartan, her hair dancing with the shock. "But it's only a dream! Are you afraid of dreams, too? It's your dream. What do you bid, Master? What shall we do? Where shall we go?"

Zoltan sighs. "It's all a dream, is it?" He looks into the cheetah's eyes. "Right now I would like nothing better than to go home, sleep in my own bed, and go back to carrying boxes in the Bazaar.

The cheetah leans forward and kisses the Vartan on the cheek. "So be it." The scene changes. Zoltan is now sitting in his bed, with a silly-looking nightcap on his head, in his house … surrounded by boxes … and vendor booths, with Naga salesmen loudly hawking Wonder Oil. Jezebel stands beside, looking amused. "Hmmm. Is that quite it?"

"Oops! I missed part!" She grabs a box and tosses it to Zoltan. "Here! Catch!"

Zoltan acks and tries to catch the flying crate.

The crate has all the weight of a pillow as Zoltan catches it. Jezebel giggles, her ears wiggling.

Zoltan gently sets the box down. "This is a bit to surreal for my tastes in dreams. Perhaps… perhaps I could dream of being inside Master Nicodemus' Shop?"

Jezebel hops onto the bed, bouncing a couple of times. "Shinyshinyshiny!" she chants, mimicking this in hand sign, with a wicked grin. *POOF* The bed, vendors, boxes, Zoltan and Jezebel are now … right in the middle of Nicodemus' Shiny Shoppe. Oof. Awfully cramped in here!

Nicodemus blinks, evidently surprised by the sudden appearance of all of THIS in his shop!

Jezebel grins. "Good thing this isn't three wishes. At this rate, it'll take a lot more than three to get it quite right!" She winks.

Zoltan balances himself on a table. "Er… Perhaps we should start over."

Jezebel hops up onto the table, her tail dangling off the edge and swinging back and forth. "Okay. A clean slate, then!" *POOF* Aside from the table, Zoltan and Jezebel, there's nothing but darkness beyond. It's as if they're in a dark room with a spotlight shining down on the table … except that there's no sign of where the light is coming from, and one can't see the floor underneath. At least it doesn't bob.

Zoltan looks about nervously. "Jezebel… if this is my dream… why are you here?"

Jezebel frowns. "You don't want me here?"

"It's not that. Just… you seem to have been showing up a great deal in my dreams as of late. Perhaps listening to you snore at night has something to do with it." The Vartan winks.

Jezebel looks offended. "I do NOT snore!" She pauses. "Do I?"

Zoltan squawks, "Well, it's more like a loud purr actually… " The Vartan sinks down a bit as shreds from his last dream sting at his insides. "Jezebel… "

Jezebel sits, hands folded. "Yes? If you want me to go, I'll go." Not her usual pose for discussion, of course, but, again, in that ever convenient land of dreams, it seems the two can communicate fairly well with each other, without bothering with Savanite sign, or the stumbling of a Vartan beak with Rephidim Standard.

Zoltan squawks, "No… I don't wish you to go. If I did, you would not be in the ship with me right now. It's just… oh Dagh, I'm so confused. Jezebel, why do the other slaves on the ship fear you? And why do they seem fearful of me as well?"

Jezebel smiles. "Don't think of it as fear. Think of it as respect."

Zoltan scratches at the wood of the table with the talons on one hand, cradling his head in the other hand as his elbow rests on the wood. "Do you know how badly I would like to pluck you away from all of this? To take you back to my home and forget about all the talk of priest-kings and mages. I'd give you my voice, and wipe the spots from your fur if I could… "

Jezebel hmphs. "I know you mean well, but I actually rather like my spots. And there's nothing – " She pauses. "No, actually, a voice would be wonderful."

Zoltan squawks, "I meant… make it so that you're not a Savanite anymore. Or at least, recognized as a slave."

Jezebel purrs. "But that won't be necessary. Spots will no longer be a sign of slavery. They will be a sign of privilege." She reaches forward to brush at Zoltan's feathers. "And they'll learn to respect big black Vartans, too!"

Zoltan squawks, "But I don't WANT respect like that. Seeing the other Savanites cringe away scares me a little. It feels as though there's a large knife dangling over my head that everyone can see… except that I'm the only one not sensible enough to get out of the way."

Jezebel's tail twitches back and forth. "It's the only way. SOMEONE has to be in power. And it's better that it be you than your enemies."

Zoltan scratches deeper into the table. "It can't be the only way. Bah, I know I'm not a slave … and I never was one. But I wish… " He looks up from his scratching. "I'm worried that your way will hurt a lot of my friends."

Jezebel frowns. "I'm going to be Empress. And you – " She pauses. "Do you not want that? Would you rather my weak little sister be charged with reuniting the Savanite Empire?"

Zoltan squawks, "The kitten? I don't know the child well enough to judge. But… hrr, I can't see how you could stand it, all those faces staring at you in fear. I would get lonely very quickly."

Jezebel frowns again. "You can't pick between me and Emerald-Eyes?" Her eyes betray a flash of anger.

"She's only a child. I admit that I would not feel comfortable being ruled by a child… but I'd rather not be ruled by anyone if I can help it," scrawks the Vartan.

"Don't you UNDERSTAND?" Jezebel looks at Zoltan with a look of frustration. "You don't have to be ruled by anyone!" She grasps Zoltan by both shoulders. "You can rule WITH me!"

Zoltan blinks at Jezebel. "This is still my dream, right? I can dream whatever I ask for, then, right?"

Jezebel lets go of Zoltan. "Of course." She looks down.

Zoltan stands and folds his arms. "If this is my dream, then I ask to dream this. I wish to dream of the world as it would be if you became Empress. If it is such a great thing, then let me see it for myself."

Jezebel smiles fangily. In the middle of her forehead, a thin horizontal line appears, making only a very small trickle of blood as a milky-white, pupil-less eye opens to join its two sisters to gaze at the Vartan. "As you wish, my master."

Zoltan braces himself, but shrinks back.

The darkness closes in … then explodes outward as a new scene presents itself, full of violence and fury. Jezebel stands, adorned in flowing black and silver robes, a crown of obsidian and ivory placed upon her head, all three eyes open and watching the battles before her. She stands atop a rocky precipice, overlooking a wide valley. In the distance, there are rumbles of thunder, and flashes of blinding light, as bolts of pure energy strike down from the sky, leaving gaping craters in the ground.

Armies clash, and Jezebel watches with a wild look in her eyes, as she sees her forces victorious. Then, there is a howling sound, like the scream of a dragon, as some strange airships, crackling with magic, soar over the precipice … and climb up toward Rephidim. The proud Temple fleet exchanges volleys with the attackers – And they succumb, one by one, even the monstrous great warships, floating impossibly with their armored, vacuum-filled shells and bristling with weaponry.

Temple craft burst into flame, collapsing, their ashes raining down on the field below. Jezebel's mouth opens as if in laughter – She has no voice, but she needs none, for the thunder laughs for her. Balls of fire erupt on Rephidim itself, and its very structure is shaken. The Inquisition, the Audit … all the things that strike fear into the hearts of Rephidians … none of it can withstand the ferocity of the attack.

Strange creatures are arrayed in the armies below – races Zoltan has never seen before. Or are all of them truly even alive? Some take grievous wounds, yet refuse to fall. Even the Knights Templar cannot stand before the onslaught, for their weapons do naught. The battle rages … the sun passes from day to night for cycle upon cycle … and then the unthinkable happens. The very sky island itself splits asunder. But Jezebel's smile of triumph turns into an expression of horror. There is a blinding flash – searing heat … her magical wards fail to protect her … her flesh is seared from the bones …

And when the light subsides … there is a desolate wasteland. It is colorless and gray. Even the rolling dunes of the Himaat have more color and life.

A lonely wind cries as it scours the dead landscape.

Zoltan, watching from his dreamish perch and unable to do anything to stop the destruction, does the only thing he can do: he screams. He screams louder than any earthly voice could … and slowly his shrieks die down and crumble in to wracking, sobbing whimpers.

There is no answer in the stillness. No consolation or comfort.

Zoltan covers his face, not wanting to see any more of this nightmare.

The wind silences, so that not even a sound penetrates Zoltan's desire to shield himself from it all.

After what seems like an eternity, he Vartan slowly pulls his madly trembling hands from over his eyes…

Zoltan awakens to find himself in his cabin. Not the one in his dreams, but his real cabin with its uncomfortable floor and musty smell. He glances over to the bed where Jezebel lies, trying to make out her form in the moonlight. Is she asleep?

She's not even there. But … it doesn't take but a moment to locate her. There's a pressure at Zoltan's side. Jezebel is curled up next to him, rolled up in a ball.

Zoltan winces, and as slowly as he can, he eases himself up off the floor. He's never been very good at stealth, but as quietly as he can, he exits the cabin… heading towards the deck for some air, and some time to think about many things…