[once his body slumps to the gentle slack of sleep, Zhongli exhales a soft sigh. his astral energy is so twisted up, even before he's found that connection to delve deeper into it. how much can he help with this? his abilities aren't what they were... but it should be enough.
it should be enough, especially with Dohalim's draw to him. as he steps through the veil of sleep into the realm of dreams, he can feel his body change, tail flicking behind him with each step. his hair is longer, too, a form he hasn't taken for so long... but it's that form that he needs to show the Renan anyway. the gentle proof that he is not of mankind, robed in white and adorned with lines of gold over swaths of black skin and scale.
regret, he thinks, lords over this place. it blankets the realm in a hazy whisper, one the deity dispels around him with every step.]
You seem lost in thought, Lord Dohalim.
[even his voice is different, resonant and rippling in the space; though there's also a good chance Dohalim won't really register it as strange at all. it's powerful and commanding, and as his hand sweeps across the scenery, it begins to shimmer and shift. rippling silver recedes, rises into the air in small motes that dissipate after a moment, until what lies beneath the Renan's feet is nothing more than fresh grass. silence, forcible and insistent, is unwound into the soft sound of a faraway bustling, not unlike Viscint itself on a particularly average day. everything is a slow process, from the way the veritable wellspring of tragedy and regret is turned and returned to the 'realm' to the way it all seems to become a warm, welcoming feeling.
dreams, after all, are simply intent, and the two were intertwined even before the admixture of herbs and spices meant to give him fuller control here. sadness may exist, and he certainly cannot pretend to cure it in the real world, but here... here it is so distant as to be unimaginable, suddenly. the pull of it toward depths unknown, toward some unspoken and ill-considered attempt at recompense.
more still... the deity's arm movement wasn't to simply break the pall of those feelings. it's a hand, delicate and gentle, extended as an invitation, with a picnic basket cradled in his other arm. this is not the Elde Menancia Dohalim knows in the real world, nor does it allow even the slightest interruption from his own fears, doubts, and regrets. at least here, he can offer the man a little more self-assurance.]
Shall we have a walk? I've prepared a small basket for lunch. I'm sure you've been overworking yourself again, after all.
no subject
it should be enough, especially with Dohalim's draw to him. as he steps through the veil of sleep into the realm of dreams, he can feel his body change, tail flicking behind him with each step. his hair is longer, too, a form he hasn't taken for so long... but it's that form that he needs to show the Renan anyway. the gentle proof that he is not of mankind, robed in white and adorned with lines of gold over swaths of black skin and scale.
regret, he thinks, lords over this place. it blankets the realm in a hazy whisper, one the deity dispels around him with every step.]
You seem lost in thought, Lord Dohalim.
[even his voice is different, resonant and rippling in the space; though there's also a good chance Dohalim won't really register it as strange at all. it's powerful and commanding, and as his hand sweeps across the scenery, it begins to shimmer and shift. rippling silver recedes, rises into the air in small motes that dissipate after a moment, until what lies beneath the Renan's feet is nothing more than fresh grass. silence, forcible and insistent, is unwound into the soft sound of a faraway bustling, not unlike Viscint itself on a particularly average day. everything is a slow process, from the way the veritable wellspring of tragedy and regret is turned and returned to the 'realm' to the way it all seems to become a warm, welcoming feeling.
dreams, after all, are simply intent, and the two were intertwined even before the admixture of herbs and spices meant to give him fuller control here. sadness may exist, and he certainly cannot pretend to cure it in the real world, but here... here it is so distant as to be unimaginable, suddenly. the pull of it toward depths unknown, toward some unspoken and ill-considered attempt at recompense.
more still... the deity's arm movement wasn't to simply break the pall of those feelings. it's a hand, delicate and gentle, extended as an invitation, with a picnic basket cradled in his other arm. this is not the Elde Menancia Dohalim knows in the real world, nor does it allow even the slightest interruption from his own fears, doubts, and regrets. at least here, he can offer the man a little more self-assurance.]
Shall we have a walk? I've prepared a small basket for lunch. I'm sure you've been overworking yourself again, after all.