Conversations [With a Lunatic]

1.0; Varzara://Point of Collision

The city had changed. The debris of the past, the skeletons of broken-down households, and the crumbling skyscrapers, had all subtly mutated: it all seemed like a geometric landscape, under a sky of green haze, covered in tiny sparks from pulsating astral bodies. As if looking at the ceiling of a cave, drowning in the effects of the alchemical mist.

Sitting on the miraculously intact bench of an absolutely destroyed park, surrounded only by the silence of decaying aftermath, there was no reason to fear nor to keep her guard so high. It was all quiet. She could take a breath, a slow inhaling, followed by the sound of a relieved spirit.

It was not every day that she had a chance to meet with solitude, again, in the middle of the magenta's depths; it seemed almost inevitable for an anima to suddenly waltz into her, show her their quartz, and force her
to fight for her life. It was a realm unknown, after all.

In truth, the only reason she didn't feel afraid of descending into the remnants, she thought, was the fact she had nothing to provide her some contrast; it had been the greatest menace to her life, and to her purpose as a dust walker, since there was no other choice. It was normal.

Varzara, the first nation city, had become nothing but a massive, and beyond unhabitable, alchemical graveyard.

She wasn't sure if her dream state was a lucky one, but it certainly allowed her to ignore the disaster: the ghost of what used to be a beautiful, yet harrowing home; within the backyard of her perception, the looming skyscrapers far away from her refuge looked like massive towers, of flat surface and ominous perfection, as if left behind by some sort of entity which could not resemble any of humanity's inherent flaws and mistakes.

And so did every building, every little piece of infrastructure, shaping the world upon the idea of perfectly placed lines. It had become an alien yet so familiar dreamscape, as if carved into the intrinsic mind, but forgotten when it became a waste of space.

Shaywa didn't take much longer to manifest at her side, clumsily dropping her body on the insanely symmetric bench, like she always did; after all, there was no body to worry about, as much as a memory flow that had to be kept well stabilized unless she wanted to disappear.

From behind her grey hair, her emerald iris reached for Shaya's eyes, pulling her attention towards the dark lake she had for eyeballs; she didn't take long to answer, providing a swift glance, sharing the light brown of her native face, before falling back into her relaxed state. She could feel her black hairs on Shaywa's hands, as she confidently began braiding it with her own. A bridge.

A subtle tingling rose from her spine, when she realized what the phantom had been doing, all along; although she didn't ask for it, she couldn't help but very carefully accommodate, as to not ruin the braid she'd done.

—It is quite nice that you don't react with
fear —Shaywa said, with a subtle smile painted across her ethereal face—. Most people do, when something unusual happens. Even if there is no actual danger.

She kept silence, before closing her eyes again, with her dark hairs left on the anima's grasp, in safety.

—But it is hard to deny how unusual that is, considering the way the average person behaves in here —she continued, while pouting a bit—. We've got plenty of material, but most of it is... very prone to falling into terrible moods. Probably so much, that, they could start a war because of little every day mistakes.

—Were the people from this city so? —Shaya asked, in a whisper only audible in that tomb of noise.

—From what we've gathered, pretty much. Not a single son wasted, every single one of them a soldier, and the higher they went, the better. So, you can imagine how much they were willing to give. For the great cause.