The Tale of the White-Kitty of the Plains
Prelude: The Whispering Veil
In the endless expanse where the grass sings under silver moons and the wind hums forgotten lullabies, a legend rides: the White-Kitty of the Plains.
Her name is whispered through campfires and carved into sacred stones — not as a warrior, not as a queen, but as a vision. Skin like snow kissed by twilight. Eyes of sapphire, twin to her silent companion — a majestic white panther with steps that make no sound and a soul that sees beyond the veil.
Together, they are not two, but one vision split in duality. They see as one. They dream as one.
She wears no armor. She doesn’t need it. Her scent is the perfume of rain on dry soil. Her hair flows like midnight ink spilled across starlight. She rides bareback on her panther, gliding across the sacred plains that pulse with the breath of a sleeping world.
But peace is brittle.
Beneath the crust of the world, deep in the Vein of Aether, pulses an ancient, untamed energy — a source older than time’s memory, sealed by the Dreambound. If released, it would not explode — it would transform. Magic would twist into chaos. Dreams would melt into nightmares. The Veil between worlds would shatter.
And someone — something — wants it released.
To stop it, she must not wield a sword. She must not spill blood. She must dream.
In her possession lies the Dreamcatch, a talisman woven from the breath of stars and the hair of forgotten gods. With it, she may enter the dreams of those tied by fate to the Source — dreamwalkers, guardians, heretics, and lost children of prophecy.
Each dream is a realm. A battlefield of desires, regrets, and twisted truth. And in each, she must seduce, soothe, or shatter the dreamer’s hold on the energy before the real world fractures.
But dreams have their own predators. And not all who sleep, sleep alone.
And so she rides — the White-Kitty of the Plains — wind on her skin, moonlight in her veins, hunting through the dreams of the unwilling and the damned.
The world sleeps. But she dreams awake.
Chapter One: The First Dreamwalk
The plains were breathing.
Under the hush of violet twilight, she stood barefoot in the whispergrass. Her body, pale as morning frost, shimmered faintly, pulsing with the hum of the Dreamcatch strung tight between her fingers.
The white panther circled once, then lay at her feet — breath steady, sapphire eyes locked with hers. In that gaze, the world blurred. Two minds, one pulse.
Tonight was the first.
The talisman burned cool in her grip, its threads twitching like veins alive. She pressed it to her heart. It drank a sliver of her essence, then opened — not with light, but with silence.
And she fell.
Into the dream.
It was fire.
A child stood in a ruined orchard, screaming at nothing, eyes glowing with the raw blue of unreleased power. The trees were made of bones. The sky, a wound.
She stepped barefoot into the dream’s soil — warm, sticky, unreal. The child turned. He didn’t know her, but something in him snarled.
“You’re not real,” he hissed.
She smiled, slow and unafraid. Her voice was silk through smoke.
“I’m more real than your fear.”
Behind her, the white panther emerged — not summoned, but born of the dream’s own flesh. It growled once, low and deep. The orchard trembled.
This was no memory. This was a defense.
If she could not calm the child, he’d rupture in sleep — and with him, a pulse of the Source would leak.
She knelt before him.
“You’re not alone.”
He blinked. The fire in his hands faltered. Just for a moment. And in that moment, she placed the Dreamcatch over his heart.
His breath caught.
The orchard groaned, shook — then collapsed into wind and feathers and light.
She opened her eyes.
Still in the whispergrass. The panther rising.
One down.
Too many to go.