Thomas preferred not to dream. He didn't go so far as to take any drugs for it, as he found it better to have nightmares and be a bit tired the next morning than to be groggy for much of the day, but he preferred to rise with no memory of what, if anything, had transpired. This dream seemed different, though. For one thing, he wasn't reliving something from his past: this was not Starkwayte, nor the cozy confines of his wagon and any of the cities and podunks he'd passed through on his travels. Instead, he was on a stage, and a far grander one than he'd ever merited. The audience was hard to discern, but different presences in the crowd were glowing with faint lights. He could perceive them, but it was hard to see much of anything beyond the stage lights. He had the sense that the theater was mostly empty. He tried monologing a bit to see if the audience would provide any energy or reaction, but got nothing. Not so much as a clap.
If he weren't aware that this was a dream, his feelings would have been hurt. Which was another thing -- it was unusual for him to dream at all, let alone to be cognizant of the fact that he was doing it. For lack of anything better to do, he tried to use Mentalism to establish a tether to the presences in the audience that he could feel but not see, but nothing happened. Frowning, he crossed over to sit at the edge of the stage, legs dangling into the orchestra pit -- completely empty, of course -- as he tried to establish a connection. He could tell they were out there, but no tether would form. While he was admittedly not the best at doing this, still, it seemed like something else was at play. Maybe it just didn't work because a connection had to be between two people, and he was functionally locked in his own to dream.
"This is boring," he said aloud, appreciating the acoustics that his mind had built for the occasion. "What's the point of a dream if nothing actually happens?"
