Dreams of Green

[purplishgreen]

Who: Shiala and open!
What: She's barely got herself settled in and she already has to deal with her crazy dreams, honestly.
Warnings: Mind control, giant plants, evil robots.

Note: Several threads will be down below, and unless otherwise noted as being for someone in particular. Please feel free to jump in. The more the merrier! If you have an idea for something else you'd like to tag into, then by all means hit me up.

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The Thorian on Feros

[purplishgreen]

Feros is a world of ancient, crumbling ruins, but below and within those ruins is something older, something that has been sleeping for many millenia, a plant and yet not like any plant ever seen on earth. The tendrils of its growth span half the planet, twisting through rock and soil, far from the central node that is safe underground.

It's waking now, sensing, aware of things that crawl and scurry, fast things that lead short and insignificant lives, things of meat that can nevertheless be useful tools. The spores it sends out are painful, but only if its commands are now followed.

Within it in the consciousness of an asari, recently absorbed, but her personality is gone. There is only the Thorian, listening, waiting, growing, and attending to those who might be foolish enough to stumble upon its lair

Sovereign

[purplishgreen]

Shiala sits in a place of darkness, the depths of a ship kilometers long. In the dream, her skin is purple, as it once was. The only beings near her are mechanical in nature, ignoring her for the most part, but with quiet bursts of clicking amongst themselves they move through the ship on whatever business they have been ordered to by Saren.

She is meditating, or attempting to; her mind is full of throbbing, whispering, itching words: Obey. Obey. Obey. She is trying to fight it; in the manner of dreams she knows what will happen, so she fights it now as she never could then. She is failing.

For Erik: the Thorian Abroad

[purplishgreen]

This is not Feros, and the Thorian isn't sure how it came to be here, why it's no longer twisted through Prothean ruins and growing as it always has been.

But above its subterranean lair, as it stretches tendrils up to sense this strange new place, it's aware of great numbers of scurrying meat creatures. They are unaware of it. It sends its spores, and obedience follows. These will be good tools; they will dig for it, and tend to it, and help it to grow before its next great sleep.

It is turning this world, this dream, into its own toolbox.