fracturedvoyagerpg | two - on books and the nature of creation

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two - on books and the nature of creation

I realize that some might have questions about the nature of England I inadvertently sent us to. I shall happily answer any questions one might have about my world, it's magic, my magic or anything of the sort.

But before that, I have much more interesting news. I was going to the Captain's library to try and find a book on the mechanics of ships (Capt. Crozier and Messers. Jopson and Goodsir, please give me recommendations if you have them) when I found new books in the library! Most of them seem to be after my time and a few seem quite salacious but two of them are quite familiar to me. One is a children's book from my England and the other is a book on magic I wrote myself!

The appearance of my book is notable as all copies aside from one were destroyed in my world (and I doubt this is that one copy). If we all agree with Ms. Persson's theory that this is a dream, then perhaps our unconscious mind created the books, rooms, fruit, et cetera. Which leads me to wonder: what marvels could be made if we turned our conscious minds to creation?

J.S.

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As can I.

[Like marriage.]

Strange, I have a question, that I hope will remain just between the two of us.

You can rely on my discretion, Captain. What is it?

Has any magic lingered since the ship has been restored?

Edited 2020-06-08 20:11 (UTC)

Aside from the raven, I do not think so. But if you wish, I can cast a spell to find out.

You could, but I'll warn you now -- I think the source might be me.

[ It's a good thing that the text can hide how downright interested Strange is. ]

Why do you think that?

[Okay, and here we go--]

I had dreams when the ship was changed. The oddest, most persistent dreams. I saw things I feel I wasn't meant to see - moments in time, memories lived by other people, events that haven't happened yet.

They haven't ceased, Strange. I'm still dreaming them.

If you're still dreaming them, then I suspect you always had the magic and the events in London were simply a trigger for it to awaken.

Forgive the odd question, but what do your dreams feel like? Do they simply feel like dreams? Or is there more to it?

Sometimes I'm simply in the room or area as a witness to events, others times I seem to be the person. I feel what they feel, see what they see.

I see.

I'll fully admit that magic involving dreams is hardly my specialty. Still, I do have some experience (though mostly regarding crafting dreams and conversing with others in their dreams). I cannot do anything to make you stop having the dreams, but perhaps I can help teach you how to control them. So that if you wish for a night of blissful sleep, you are able to obtain one.

[Somewhat scratched out, but not heavily enough it can't be read.] ~~Bit of laudanum might do it too.~~

I will consider it.

Edited 2020-06-09 02:25 (UTC)

I hope this new revelation does not trouble you too much, Captain. Though you may not think it now, your magic is a gift. With guidance and practice, you can learn to direct it and possibly even expand past your current limitations.

Magic is not a part of the history, Strange. The fairy tales were just that - tales our ancestors told each other. Granted, what we saw in the Arctic was enough to shake our faith, but the existence of magic isn't commonplace.

I just want the dreams to stop.

You might not be able to stop them entirely. Think of yourself as a river that has overflowed its boundaries. You may attempt to shore it up, but it shall be damned hard to do so as long as the water flows.

Oddly poetic way to phrase it.

Even odder, I think I may accept your help.

You should not be surprised—you started this conversation by calling my writing flowery.

Captain, I will be happy to help you. To start with and with your permission, I would like to see this magic for myself. I know you can only access it while you sleep so the circumstances shall be unorthodox at best, but I would like to attempt to enter one of these prophetic dreams while you are having one.

[There's a lot to process here, give Crozier a minute.]

[Maybe a couple more minutes.]

[Maybe like two more after that.]

How does it work, and when will you attempt this?

You do not need to do anything. One night, I shall sleep in the cabin next to yours and attempt to enter your dream. As for the time, when shall be best for you?

I suppose this means I should try to sleep. Midnight is safest.

Then midnight it is. I shall hopefully see you then.

If all goes according to plan, yes.

Goodnight, Mr. Strange.

Goodnight, Captain. Pleasant dreams.

Crozier doesn't know if he's going to be able to fall asleep that night. He's craving whiskey - or the damn drops MacDonald made for him - but he has neither and so he paces for a while, tries to read, and then crawls into his berth to stare at the ceiling.

He rubs his eyes tiredly. The relative comfort berth is gone, replaced by a rocky hill that overlooks a few shabby canvas tents.

Crozier starts walking towards Rescue Camp.

Strange passes out sooner than expected. Because as much as he crows about his magic and proclaims his self-confidence, he knows that he hasn't ever cast a spell like this before. He's holed himself up in the cabin next to Crozier's and spends the next few hours in a fit of study, writing out multiple drafts of the spell, and secretly wishing John Segundus were here so he could pick the man's brain about how he managed to intrude on dreams in the first place.

Eventually, Strange casts what he hopes is the correct spell. Work continues for a while before Strange feels his eyelids flutter and his head slump against the table...only to feel the chill of the Arctic air around him soon.

Crozier is visible but slightly away from him, walking towards some tents. Wordlessly, Strange follows behind Crozier. He doesn't know how long this period of not being seen will last, but the last thing he wants to do is startle the man into waking up.

Everything's sort of numb in the dream - and distant in a way - but Crozier has enough of his mental faculties to think and feel and react. There's dread pooling in his stomach as he stops before an open tent, and he bends down to touch the gray, cold head of his former steward.

"I know you're there," he says, peering over his shoulder at Strange. He looks back down at Jopson's body and sighs, pushing his hair back from his still face. He doesn't witness the young man's dying hallucinations this time, and he's relieved.

"We need to go. There are others we need to see."

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