SIM:Through the desert of truth

A sim of Saveron

"I was searching for something

Taken out of my soul,

Something I'd never lose

Something somebody stole." ~ Billy Joel, River of Dreams

((Saveron's Dreamscape: The An’ahyaes Valley, T'ralorian Plains, Han-Shir, Vulcan.))

The blades of red grass that stood forth from the ochre soil were wilting. Where normally the milder breeze off the southern ocean blew across the T'ralor Preserve and brought the life-giving mists to the An'ahyaes Valley at the end of the day, only the hot breath of the Go'an Desert blew, drying and dessicating, giving nothing and taking everything away.

The Go'an itself was an inhospitable place, though not entirely lifeless. The dark-skinned tribes made it their home, their genetic heritage protecting them from the merciless wind and sun, but they were nomadic, moving from place to place, always in search of water. The land could not sustain them for long.::

But the Nel-Gathic peoples were not nomadic, had never been. They were agrarian and had been the keepers and caretakers of the southern, temperate parts of Han-Shir for as long as any could remember. Their pale skin and eyes were an adaption to the frequent overcast, their pronounced ectomorphism allowing them to lose heat quickly to adapt to the changing temperatures of the region. They were a people who had been one with their land for millenia, tending it and nurturing it, fighting for it and dying for it.::

The butt of the rauh-uhrozjhitao dug into the light, friable soil and turned a clod over. There was not even a trace hint of moisture. The distinctive farmer's staff was a long, slender rod of very hard wood, one end carved into a flattened blade that was used for making shallow furrows in the soil, and for removing weeds. It was a characteristic tool of the region, and it was wielded expertly in long-fingered hands. Three ribbons hung from the top and floated in the hot breath of the Go'an; one white, one silver, one black.::

It was the same here as everywhere, the land was drying up. He had walked in from the edge of the Go'an itself, representing the outer edges of his consciousness where he'd been flung. Almost, Saveron could have believed himself to be home, but he knew where he was. He had created this dreamscape as an aid to meditation; now it was his prison. The valley represented his physical presence and most basic level of consciousness. There was nothing that he could do from here however, so he kept walking.::

Bare feet trod the dying grass and the parched soil as he walked, clad only in grey trews and a tunic such as any T'ralorian farmer might have worn in ages past, the barest hints of simple embroidery evident at the collar and cuffs, more visible in where it had worn away to leave darker fabric beneath rather than where the tattered threads still showed. The original pattern was impossible to discern.::

Long black hair stirred in the hot breeze, and a faint green flush rode his cheeks as he fought the unaccustomed heat; two brilliant green spots showed at the nape of his neck as capillary beds expanded to emit more heat; ozhider t'Ny'one; Ny'one's fingerprints, where according to ancient legend the now long-disreguarded Goddess of Fertility had marked the Nel-Gathic people as her own.::

Bare feet and the butt of the rauh-uhrozjhitao left the only marks in the soil; in reality this valley was filled with people and life, the bread-basket of a world. But in Saveron's mind the valley was dying. He knew he was dying.::

Feet moved from soil to stone as Saveron finally reach and climbed up into the foothills at the head of the valley; there lay his destination. Here in his dreamscape a tower rose from these hills. On Vulcan there were the remains of an ancient fortification that had been a key site in battles long past. Now there were only the stone foundations, carved into the hills themselves, an ancient stronghold of the Ayein Clan. In his mind however Saveron had used those foundations, representative of all that had gone before him and all that his people had achieved, as a basis for his own stronghold, the mental stronghold that every Vulcan learned to build.::

On the foundations carved into the native stone Saveron had set cut stones of will and determination, and upon those built with the bronze and glass of reason and logic. Atop that, rising to a pinacle that reached for the stars, were philosophies and aspirations shaped from duranium and transparent aluminium, polished walls and windows of a thousand facets that gleamed in the light of Yel. It was his bastion of thought from which he could protect and nurture his valley and keep invaders out; only now he was on the outside of it.::

The hot, drying wind sighed about the tower, drawn by the one who now dwelt within it, but it's soughing was not the only sound. Through the walls of stone at it's base Saveron could hear a crashing, a howling; something was loose in the tower. There were locked rooms in the basement of it, places where he kept his most violent emotions tightly chained amongst their breathren, and others where he stored those memories that were best kept at a distance lest they affect one's composure.::

Such things need constant maintenance however, and just as no one had cared for the valley, the tower was being used but not maintained. Even as he watched, a pane of transparent aluminium fell from the upper reaches and smashed on the rocks like so much glass, each tiny shard sparkling like diamond spray as they hung in the air a moment before falling like mist. The laws of physics didn't have to apply here. There was other debris strewn about as well, pieces of bronze and shards of ordinary glass, the odd stone. And plainly something had not been kept shut in it's prison inside.::

Leaning on his rauh-uhrozjhitao, Saveron contemplated the tower. It was designed to be impregnable, of course. Remembering their violent history his people trained to resist and repel mental attack. He just hadn't been prepared for the sheer power of his attacker. Even as he watched a beam of pure, firey energy shot from the facetted transal dome at the pinacle of the tower and up into the heavens. The Pah-Wraith was using his own structures against him, and against everyone else.::

Concentrating for a moment, Saveron could hear voices, shouting, the sound of phasers, but they were at a distance, like a half-remembered dream. The tower was real. But the situation was untenable. He had been able to interfere at certain key points, but it was a subtle interference only, and was grossly insufficient. His crewmates were out there, in grave danger; perhaps they did not even realise how much danger. And he was the only one on the inside.::

If the Pah-Wraith was using the structure of Saveron's mind as it's defence and it's seat of power, then there was only one logical conclusion; it had to be deprived of the ability to do so. Unfortunately he had never designed the tower to be taken, that was largely the point, it was a defensive seat. There was only one logical alternative. This was Saveron's mind, the rules were his; he had built that tower; he could take it down.::

Sticking the blade of the rauh-uhrozjhitao into a tiny crevice between two large cut stones, Saveron applied pressure to it like a lever. In the real world the wood would have simply snapped, but in his world the simple farmer's tool was a symbol of his care and his control, here it was stronger than duranium. After a moment's resistance the stone slid from it's place in the wall and fell down the slope to the valley below with a solid thud. A second application of pressure and a second stone followed it.::

Above him, the tower began to list...::

((USS Thunder, High speed turbolift))

Leaning against the wall as the car raced down through the decks, long fingers reached up to pinch the bridge of a narrow nose right next to an impressive black eye. The headache was getting worse.::

Pah-Wraith: oO No matter, this will be over soon. Oo

The door of the lift slid open and the wolf in sheep's clothing stepped from it, consulting the photographic memory it had stolen for the layout of this deck, then heading unerringly for the hanger that housed the Captain's Yacht.::