The Tower draws near again, or at least, the city is drawn back to it, reeled in as it is during these times. It's evident that the dreams will come as it does, and this night will be a dark one.
Around the square, and along some of the main streets, a few strange shoots have sprouted up during the night. They are small, but will not stay so for long. The morning is cold and crisp and clear, wintry, even, as the rest of the day will be - enough for frost, though you still have a good few weeks before winter sets in. Over the course of the day, those shoots will sprout up and begin to flourish.
They are roses, and the many thorns will give that away before anything else has shown yet. Some of them seem to be those that come from the Tower itself - those velvet red blossoms that smell so sweet, that seem almost to sing as you draw close. But they are only a few.
The rest are made of glass.
Yes, they are growing, but they appear to be made of the most finely cut crystal, perfect and shining, gleaming along the edges. And those edges are sharp. Sharp enough to slice through gloves and skin if you seek to pick them.
And those thorns, those thorns that prove so difficult to avoid should you venture close, are just as capable of pricking your skin and drawing blood. And as they do, it might seem strange, might seem as if it's being sucked out of you. And sure enough, a red mist will spark and shift inside the delicate glass stem, spreading up to the petals. The more it drinks, from you or from another, the redder it becomes. And if you don't pull yourself away - it is a trifle difficult, truth be told, difficult not to stand there and watch - the chimes will start up in your head, the whispers, the images scrolling before your eyes --
Careful not to pass out from blood loss on the street, as the flowers are unbreakable through any means. Leave the roses, go about your business, and the dreams come tonight.
((Last call for dreams, guys!))