Meaning: Wish, Dream
With the proud body of a Bald Eagle in waking form, this male looks as impressive as he acts. He is cocky, boisterous, and often flirtatious with the female gender no matter what the species. But fear not--this doesn't mean he's not a sensitive guy. Granted he won't be too willing to sit down and watch a chick-flick with you, but he will be the strong father figure when things turn ugly and the gentle shoulder to cry on when the day has been too hard. If he were a humanoid one might call him quite a catch; the ultimate dream boat that romance novels are based around. His dream form, however, is far from that image.
With flame-red feathers dappled with stripes and specks of burnt orange and low-lit with black, this male looks far darker than most of his kin. Also a rarity for his rank, this male doesn't always delight in the flat out fall-off-a-cliff type adrenaline rushes. He prefers to mold dreamscapes that amplify every day occurrences--like a child getting their ball back from that creepy old lady's yard who everyone says is a witch. He delights in taking these simple ideas and making them into seemingly impossible tasks. Think the old lady was scary? Wait until you meet the Cerberus she keeps in her yard! His goal, in the end, is to make his bonded relish in the grand adventure that is everyday life and to make them realize that there is no task they can't conquer. His dreamscapes always have a victorious ending--hey, they're his dreamscapes after all. He'd never fail.
Meaning: Brain Helper
A pessimist at heart, this Sonata seems incapable of taking anything at face value. Things may seem nice and wonderful, sure, but he knows that deep down it’s really all just rotten. Your friends don't really like you, you're going nowhere in life, and you're not nearly as good a person as you think you are. He's quite open and blunt with his opinions, though you won't find a reforming crusader in him. He knows what the world is, and he greets it with flat, utter apathy. He can't change things, after all, so why even bother? His ennui extends to nearly all walks of life - he hardly seems to really want anything at all. He does seek out people after being left alone too long, though, which seems to suggest a certain fondness. He'd never admit it, though, not out of pride but more because he himself doesn't quite recognize the concept of actually caring about anything, much less another person.
His dreams are mainly geared towards pointing out to his dreamers their own shortcomings and failures. It isn’t a malicious act – in all honesty, he doesn’t care if they accept his lessons and is already convinced they probably won’t. All the same, he figures someone ought to speak the truth, with no sugarcoating or varnish. Nothing can sway him from this course, and he can watch even the worst of breakdowns without batting an eye. Very little fazes him, in or out of the dream world.
Bold Italic #251D19
Meaning: Night Dream
Everyone has a face they hide. One so much different from the mask they wear in public the contrast is nearly gruesome. Things are never what they seem. Nothing is every normal, and [i]everything[/i] has to potential to hurt you- mind, body and soul. ‘Everything’ is what this Requiem is going to teach his Bonded to fear. Strangers and Friends, Shinies and Beasts, even her own soul. It is a big, scary world out there, and he is going to show Sal every nook and cranny of it. Nightmares with monsters wearing familiar faces, sicknesses of the mind that turn even the mildest of creatures against the dreamer, and even dark versions of the facets of herself Salimity keeps hidden away. This Requiem doesn’t punish interloper Rackets for invading his dreams, not exactly. In fact, the dreams start out innocently enough, as if to lure them and their riders in. Sunny days, busy markets, and calm rooms inside Sal’s house are all common venues. But there is always something... wrong. A book of cannibalism she doesn’t own, spread wide on her table top. A crying child, their jaw unhinging just a little too wide. Finding the spider she swear she killed creeping under her shirt. It’s just the little things –at first- but they purvey such an atmosphere of uneasiness, there is rarely any semblance of rest to be had during these nights. And he won’t stop until the Mandalorian suffers from paranoia to the tenth degree. He will bring her to the dark side of the moon... and then he will leave her to rot.
In the waking world, this Lord looks like a generic black bird but of course people never feel certain enough to label him as anything they are familiar with. Too large to be a raven, too small to be a crow. In reality, this Requiem takes the form of a [url=http://fc05.deviantart.net/fs71/i/2010/077/c/8/Rook_by_Purplejackdaw.jpg]Rook[/url], a bird not normally known for eating carrion. Or known at all. Dense, silky onyx feather have an almost purple sheen to them, and would be pleasant to the touch, if one were to pet him. Feet and talons are a dusty yellow, his beak a dull black at its tip, lightening to a dusky grey near its base. All in all, just a regular looking bird that usually goes unnamed or remarked upon during the daylight hours. Nobody seems to notice his beady black eyes watching them. In Salamity’s dreams, however, he is truly something beautifully chaotic to behold. The black carries over from his Rook form, and paints the main bulk of his huge body that deep, light-swallowing colour. Even his surroundings seem darker when he is present, his plumage draining the life and colour out of everything, living or not. His head is devoid of anything resembling feather of flesh, leaving nothing but a bleached skull with glowing green orbs for eyes, exposed nostrils always seeming to trail steam. His feet and talons are also gnarled looking, curling in on themselves and as sharp as barbed wire. Other than the skeletal head, he seems mostly whole in body, for a Requiem. When he flares his wings, baring the feathers underneath, it is another story. Painted on the undersides of his wings is what looks like thousands of eyes. Bright green, dripping reds, toxic yellows... they all stare accusingly at her, maggots and beetles squirming in the frayed feathers. There is no fighting him, there is only hate and fear. And, really, he wouldn’t have it any other way.