R. R. Hunter
Troubadour
I have a sequence written where a POV character is attacked and he thinks he's being brutally murdered, but, unbeknownst to him, it is actually far worse than that. I use a scene break to transition into a dreamlike state for the POV character. After a few paragraphs, he realizes that he is not asleep but rather under someone else's control. I've already had a few readers question if he's actually asleep or not after the scene break... It's like... *sigh* I want the reader to be in the mind of the POV character, that's the whole point of 3rd Person Limited, right? So, if he thinks that he's dreaming... so should the reader, right? I am asking because they (the readers) wanted it to be more clear. But, but, but, I can't just shift out to 3rd Person Omniscient for a single sentence that's all "Wink, wink, nod, nod, he's actually awake, hehehahahahoho"
I'll provide the scene for context:
-Setup, Daerion (POV) is on his back and just had his eye plucked out and replaced with a glowing orb thingie-
The large, menacing figure crouched over him. The mangy robes hid his features well. The ground beneath him seemed to rock and slant, teetering back and forth. He thought he would slide into the surrounding walls, but his body did not move from under the stranger. The rocking slammed to a halt, and a weighty sensation of tumbling backward assailed him. The rolling increased its turbulent motion, and his gorge rose once more, yet there was nothing left to spew. Blackness closed around the outside of his vision and melded with the figure's cloak until all was dark. Rolling transitioned into falling, and he drifted into slumber. His last thoughts were warm and inviting. Soon, all of the pain would be gone.
⁂
Daerion did not welcome dreams because he only ever had two types. The first type culminated in a nightmare and the second type would remind him of things he had wished to forget. In this dream, he was walking somewhere familiar to him. The rich aroma of fresh-baked bread greeted his senses. The morning markets reminded him of the constant gnawing of his stomach and so Daerion assumed this would be the second type of dream.
It was early, too early for most customers. The cold air was biting, and low morning fog ghosted along the ground. The merchants were still preparing their stalls and would typically ignore him if he just kept moving. The open well was nearby and he thought of how nice it would be for a quick wash and a drink. He would also like to rinse the taste of blood from his mouth. His dream took him past the well, so he continued to search for other meanings of this subconscious vision.
A clay jug shattered on the street in front of him. The woman who had dropped it was staring right at him. Daerion hated those all-too-familiar looks of disgust—if they could only see his true nature and come to know what kind of man he really was. A beggar, yes, but not a thief or a brute. He was much more than what he is now. Though, his heart wondered, am I truly so different from the man they perceive?
The woman backed away with a frown as he approached, her face still scrunched and her nose upturned. Daerion’s bare foot stepped on a piece of the broken crockery. It was cut but not deep. His foot stung, but he took another step. Dirt smeared into the wound, causing the burning sensation to flare. He kept walking, even though he wanted to sit down. He wanted to grab his foot and squeeze, to limp back to the well and clean it, yet he kept walking. This dream was quickly shifting into the nightmarish first type of dream.
Help, he wanted to scream, help me! No words left his mouth. He tried to turn. He tried to blink. He tried to stare into the eyes of any hate-filled onlooker, but Daerion was not in control. Is this a dream? Am I still asleep on the alley floor? How can I not be in control of my own body?
I'll provide the scene for context:
-Setup, Daerion (POV) is on his back and just had his eye plucked out and replaced with a glowing orb thingie-
The large, menacing figure crouched over him. The mangy robes hid his features well. The ground beneath him seemed to rock and slant, teetering back and forth. He thought he would slide into the surrounding walls, but his body did not move from under the stranger. The rocking slammed to a halt, and a weighty sensation of tumbling backward assailed him. The rolling increased its turbulent motion, and his gorge rose once more, yet there was nothing left to spew. Blackness closed around the outside of his vision and melded with the figure's cloak until all was dark. Rolling transitioned into falling, and he drifted into slumber. His last thoughts were warm and inviting. Soon, all of the pain would be gone.
⁂
Daerion did not welcome dreams because he only ever had two types. The first type culminated in a nightmare and the second type would remind him of things he had wished to forget. In this dream, he was walking somewhere familiar to him. The rich aroma of fresh-baked bread greeted his senses. The morning markets reminded him of the constant gnawing of his stomach and so Daerion assumed this would be the second type of dream.
It was early, too early for most customers. The cold air was biting, and low morning fog ghosted along the ground. The merchants were still preparing their stalls and would typically ignore him if he just kept moving. The open well was nearby and he thought of how nice it would be for a quick wash and a drink. He would also like to rinse the taste of blood from his mouth. His dream took him past the well, so he continued to search for other meanings of this subconscious vision.
A clay jug shattered on the street in front of him. The woman who had dropped it was staring right at him. Daerion hated those all-too-familiar looks of disgust—if they could only see his true nature and come to know what kind of man he really was. A beggar, yes, but not a thief or a brute. He was much more than what he is now. Though, his heart wondered, am I truly so different from the man they perceive?
The woman backed away with a frown as he approached, her face still scrunched and her nose upturned. Daerion’s bare foot stepped on a piece of the broken crockery. It was cut but not deep. His foot stung, but he took another step. Dirt smeared into the wound, causing the burning sensation to flare. He kept walking, even though he wanted to sit down. He wanted to grab his foot and squeeze, to limp back to the well and clean it, yet he kept walking. This dream was quickly shifting into the nightmarish first type of dream.
Help, he wanted to scream, help me! No words left his mouth. He tried to turn. He tried to blink. He tried to stare into the eyes of any hate-filled onlooker, but Daerion was not in control. Is this a dream? Am I still asleep on the alley floor? How can I not be in control of my own body?
Last edited:
Archmage
Myth Weaver
