Eliot knows it's a dream from the familiarity, this is like a place he's been before, but that was years and years ago and a traumatic, hateful human melodrama that masqueraded as a family vacation. It has to be a dream, because he'd never end up back in Oregon.
But the Pacific isn't pounding away at the large rocky outcrop he finds himself standing on; through the scattering of trees he can see other little islets, a calm sea, so this isn't his dream, most likely. Less chance of horrible memories rearing their heads. He sighs, relaxing a fraction.
"That's a relief," comes a voice down in the sparse underbrush. Eliot jumps, and catches himself against the trunk of a scrappy spruce; he'd thought for certain he was alone.
"Who the fuck said that?" he asks, peering around for the source.
"Well don't go falling off the cliff, it's only me," says the voice, female and faintly exasperated and not one he's ever heard before.
"Yeah that doesn't help thooOH holy shit-"
"Oh would you hush," says the bird that's looking up at him from a perch on a stump. It's large and blackish and somehow gangly and dumpy at the same time, and it has a horrible garish face. Eliot dislikes it immediately. "All the things we've seen, a talking animal should not surprise you."
Eliot frowns, not liking the fact that a bird is talking to him, let alone that she's taking a tone like she knows him. "I don't have to put up with judgey attitude from some dream creature," he huffs, looking around for a way down the side of this rock, eager to get away from the bird. It's giving him bad vibes.
"I rather think you do," the bird counters, hopping along after him. "I am you."
Chilled, Eliot stops his survey of the island, and turns and glares at the bird. "Bullshit," he snaps, and if he's trembling it's because of the cold. "I did not sign up for any bullshit vision quest woo-woo soul searching, so you can just take what you're selling elsewhere, bird, I am not buying it."
"Good thing I'm not selling it, then," says the bird, cocking one bright teal eye at him. "But you just keep on doing what you're doing, I'm sure you'll catch on eventually."
Eliot scoffs and soldiers on ahead, determined to ignore any higher meaning this dream seems to want to force on him.
It is at this point that he slips on a wet patch of rock and finds himself face down in mossy gravel, with a cormorant flapping about in an uproar.
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But the Pacific isn't pounding away at the large rocky outcrop he finds himself standing on; through the scattering of trees he can see other little islets, a calm sea, so this isn't his dream, most likely. Less chance of horrible memories rearing their heads. He sighs, relaxing a fraction.
"That's a relief," comes a voice down in the sparse underbrush. Eliot jumps, and catches himself against the trunk of a scrappy spruce; he'd thought for certain he was alone.
"Who the fuck said that?" he asks, peering around for the source.
"Well don't go falling off the cliff, it's only me," says the voice, female and faintly exasperated and not one he's ever heard before.
"Yeah that doesn't help thooOH holy shit-"
"Oh would you hush," says the bird that's looking up at him from a perch on a stump. It's large and blackish and somehow gangly and dumpy at the same time, and it has a horrible garish face. Eliot dislikes it immediately. "All the things we've seen, a talking animal should not surprise you."
Eliot frowns, not liking the fact that a bird is talking to him, let alone that she's taking a tone like she knows him. "I don't have to put up with judgey attitude from some dream creature," he huffs, looking around for a way down the side of this rock, eager to get away from the bird. It's giving him bad vibes.
"I rather think you do," the bird counters, hopping along after him. "I am you."
Chilled, Eliot stops his survey of the island, and turns and glares at the bird. "Bullshit," he snaps, and if he's trembling it's because of the cold. "I did not sign up for any bullshit vision quest woo-woo soul searching, so you can just take what you're selling elsewhere, bird, I am not buying it."
"Good thing I'm not selling it, then," says the bird, cocking one bright teal eye at him. "But you just keep on doing what you're doing, I'm sure you'll catch on eventually."
Eliot scoffs and soldiers on ahead, determined to ignore any higher meaning this dream seems to want to force on him.
It is at this point that he slips on a wet patch of rock and finds himself face down in mossy gravel, with a cormorant flapping about in an uproar.