Middle of the morning, and the cups of coffee or tea that most people start their days with are starting to wear off about now. For Nathania, who just got a few lovely new skeins of yarn, she finds herself sitting in her favorite knitting chair, contentedly knitting alone on this lovely Summer day. An open window sends a warm, comforting breeze across her face, and the repetitive motion has her drifting... off... she snaps up out of it once, twice, but the third time the chair is too comfortable and the breeze too comforting, and her needles slip from her hands to the floor.
The dreams come quickly once she's under. At first, there's just the distant, earthy but not entirely unpleasant scent of a farm, and uneven earth under her feet.
Nathania looks around the dreamscape, her form entirely too human. She frowns softly, but tries to gather more information before making a move.
There's a distant sound, halfway between a goat's bleat and a child's cry, and the earth shifts underneath her feet, leaving her unsteady. Around her are rolling hills, hemmed in on three sides with tall briars. Those briars are draped in what looks like mechanical spiderwebs, heavy steel cording. If those are the webs, Natty might not want to see the spiders...
Nathania winces, but turns toward the sound, before slowly, hesitantly taking steps that way. She feels hemmed in. She hates that feeling. So she walks, inexorably, toward that weird, semihuman crybleat.
The crybleatwhine grows more insistent, and as it grows more and more insistent? It also ... echoes, maybe? Or maybe there's more than one voice? It's almost impossible to tell. Despite all those spiderwebs, there are no signs of any spiders. They crackle with lighting, and storm clouds gather. As Nathania crests a hill, the bleating cries crescendo to a deafening sound, and the sound itself fills her vision. All she can see is lightning and sound waves, rippling purple across her eyes.
Nathania steps back with a gasp, flailing a little. She blinks repeatedly, trying to clear her vision. "What the actual hell?" she says in a normal voice, not her wakingtime hesitant little thing.
The distraught noises fill her ears and her vision, and the lightning crashes, thunder roars, adding its frustrated repetitiveness to the chaos that surrounds her. And then Nathania feels a strange sensation that she can't place at all.
Until she instantly can: there are ants crawling en masse up her legs, over her arms.
She wakes with the prickling feeling of a million tiny feet still shivering along her limbs.
Nathania lets out a shuddering noise when she awakens, brushing her hands over her legs and arms. If her knitting was still in her lap, it's on the floor now. She curls up in a little ball and stares out at the day, grateful for it not being night. For once.
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