hadriel_logs | Event Log: Dreamwalker the Second

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Event Log: Dreamwalker the Second

Who: All characters participating in the event
What: The event log for the Dreamwalker part 2 event
Where: In your dreams
When: October 14th-20th (the second log will go up on Oct 23rd, please keep the two weeks of the event separate!)
Warnings: All different kinds of dreams falling under the umbrella of Delight, Rage, Sorrow, and Hope.

This time, the weird stuff doesn't happen when you're awake- as a matter of fact, your waking hours are the normal ones. That's because you're forced to sleep by some unknown entity, getting more and more exhausted by the moment as night falls. Better make sure you're always around a soft pillow.

Once asleep, it doesn't get any less weird- your dreams will be influenced by one of the four gods that make up the first week. Something to make you smile, something to make you angry- or something that reminds you of your deepest regret or most vulnerable hope, they're all things that you're dreaming about now for some reason, no matter how hard you may try to pull away from them.

To make matters more complicated, there are others intruding on your dreams who definitely don't belong there, and while they may seem like manifestations at first, it becomes clear that these others are actually the consciousness of other members of Hadriel, getting some top quality exposure to your angriest, happiest, most sorrowful moments. Hope it doesn't get awkward when you see them tomorrow...

► This log covers October 14th-20th.
► Feel free to make your own logs as well
► Please tag headers of threads with content warnings where they apply
► Please put your character's name and open/closed in the subject line of your starters!
► If you die in dreams you don't die in real life, but if you somehow die in real life anyway, please let us know here.

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ooc:Dreams are in comments. I always open with prose, but I'll match whatever format you desire. Plotting post is here or you can hit me up at

sometimesamuse.

For Delight, don't feel obligated to stick to my exact scenario; I will happily customize the game/scene for you, just let me know.

Edited 2017-10-17 04:43 (UTC)

It's nighttime, but the darkness only serves to throw into sharp relief that fire that rushes through the town. The buildings are brick, mud baked in the heat of the sun, hardened and laid as dwellings for a simpler people in a simpler time. This is ancient Egypt, a small village in the middle of the dessert. It's a not always a quiet place but its everyday chaos is nothing compared to what now unfolds.

Screams fill the air — women and children yes, but men's voices as well. They are filled with confusion and with fear; fear is the greater of the two, so thick that the air is practically saturated with it. A woman stumbles into view, her face streaked and dirty with her tears, blood running down her leg as she tries to flee. She's cut down from behind by a soldier's spear, the point bursting from her chest like a sick parody of a flower surrounded by the petals of her blood. She never stood a chance.

She's not the only one.

The soldiers are merciless and indiscriminate; with swords and spears they slaughter the villagers, giving no regard to age or sex or physicality. The few who try to fight meet a particularly brutal end, but from the organization of the soldiers and the pitifully inadequate response of the villagers, it's clear that this is a surprise attack — and clear as well that the soldiers are enjoying the killing. The fires rage unchecked, smoke and flames forcing residents from their hiding places and onto the blades of their attackers. Screams for help and cries for mercy are all ignored by the soldiers and by the priests standing in the center of the village. In fact, it's the latter who seem to be directing the efforts; a man dressed somewhat more ornately than the others calls out orders and directs the bodies to be dragged to a stairway, one that leads to a basement of sorts. Here and there words like sacrifice and necessary are heard over the commotion.

Can there ever be anything necessary about such brutal slaughter?

Amidst all the terror and confusion there's a small sob, cut off almost as soon as it sounds. A child, brown-skinned with pale silver hair, crouches behind the corner of a building that's more rubble than structure; his hand presses tightly to his mouth to muffle his sounds. He's small, maybe four or five years of age, and his eyes are wide as they're glued to the scene playing out in front of him. He cannot look away. That he's thus far escaped the notice of the soldiers is something of a miracle — or perhaps a curse. Soot and dirt stains his face and his tears make trails through the mess. This is his home, these people his people, and there is nothing in his small frame, none of the rage or fear or sorrow, that can stop the killing.

The child bites his lip, hard, to hold in the next sob. Blood trickles in a thin stream down his chin, and he cups his hands over his ears to try to block out the sound of the screams. But his eyes never leave the scene, riveted to the horror of the carnage, and his tears continue to fall.

Above the town is a cliff, a ridge of sand and rock jutting sharply against the sky. On it stands a man. He is dressed in a deep red robe over a linen shenti, with simple sandals to protect his feet from the sand and rock. His arms cross over his muscular chest as he watches the scene unfold below him and his expression is fierce, caught somewhere between anger and anguish. The light of the fires below throws his features into sharp relief and highlights in lurid detail the scar running down the right side of his face; miraculously it spares his eye but makes ruin of his cheek instead and that fact combined with his expression gives him a fearsome visage indeed. Yet more importantly the fire also shows that he has the same hair as that young child hiding in the rubble; his eyes are those same eyes — though they burn now not from tears or from soot, but from barely contained rage as he lives out once more the genocide of his village.

And next to the man in red...?

Yes, you guessed right. There is Atem, there is the great Pharaoh staring in complete distraught at the scene below him. The fires intensify his fear, the horror and the grief on his face, mirroring his counterpart to perfection in the complete opposite way.

His knees give in, for as strong as Atem might be, he cannot take this. The pain down his stomach, down his chest is way too much to bear. The agony, it only reminds him to the time the spirits of these people took over him, how they violated the sanctuary of his body trying to reach for his soul, to tear it apart. He feels sick, he doesn't know what to do with all the vile down his throat, so he swallows and swallows, trying to keep his breathing even -- he can't.

Is this what his uncle had done for the good of all of Egypt? Had it truly be worth it?

No, no of course not. But he cannot go back in time, he cannot fix it, and it makes it all worse.

He cannot take his eyes off the child. It's impossible, for him, not to know who he is, it's the worst part of it all. The look on his face urges him to reach for him, to take him away from that terrible place. But the shame is way too much him to deal, he wants to run away instead, leave this place, leave his memory behind, forget it all over again.

Atem does not need to look up to know he is there, beside him, and that his attention, for now, it's not focused on him. He can feel the rage, the pain and his lust for vengeance coming from him, he can almost taste it in the atmosphere and it makes him want to throw up, it reaches for his heart and crushes it without any mercy.

And Bakura he... has every right to it... He always did...

The day was wearing on toward evening, though the city lights assured that night would be anything but dark. The fall air was crisp and the occasional breeze ruffled the leaves on the trees dotting the park. All in all it was a pleasant evening, perfect for a walk — but this was the Battle City tournament, and the entire city of Domino was its playing field. For a duelist like yourself, a simple evening walk could invite a challenge at any time.

Really, you should have avoided the park entirely.

Your challenger had certainly appeared unassuming; dressed in a simple tee and dark jeans, duel disk on his skinny arm, he looked like any other teen competing in the tournament. Perhaps you'd even laughed as he challenged you in a small voice. But as you drew your opening hand and the holographic projectors warmed up a strange, dark fog descended around you. Perhaps even more strangely, your opponent seemed somehow more sinister than a moment before; his movements sharper, his eyes crueler, and his voice much more commanding in tone.

His deck ripped yours apart. And every time your life points decreased, it felt as if a part of you was being ripped away as well.

Finally, the duel ended — but as you handed over your ante, your rarest card and your locator card, the darkness swirling around you only seemed to get worse. Surely it's just your imagination and it's not actually getting darker? You look up at your opponent, those cruel eyes and that mouth twisted around a cruel smirk as his lips form two words: "Penalty Game."

Edited 2017-10-17 05:34 (UTC)

[Harlan has seen this before. The aftermath, at least. He would never ask Kyna for details, but he couldn't stop himself from wondering how this went down when he was cleaning up the blood in her apartment. Is this how it happened? Maybe, maybe not. The edges of things are hazy. This isn't real and brains are funny about that sort of thing.

He kneels down next to Kyna and watches for a moment. The blood doesn't bother him. It should, he thinks, but he's used to bleeding and he knows how to get the stains out of denim.]

Hey. Stop. [He closes his hands over Kyna's and tries to gently tug her away. Her dad's going to die. That's just how this one goes.]

It's not your fault.

「He is the Pharaoh of friendship, of course he's your king.

Atem, yet again, says absolutely nothing, there is no need, but he gives Law a rather brilliant smile instead, going as far as to give him a ridiculous (but well-intentioned) thumbs up. Then, Law turns and the kid simply starts to fade in the background, hoping, with all his being that the pirate gets his wish.」

[Harlan is here and that feels... wrong. Off. She can't pinpoint it beyond vague instinct, but her heart leaps to hear his voice anyway. Then his hands close over hers, and for a second, she freezes, simultaneously wanting to link her fingers with his and afraid she'll move too quickly and scare him off. She's breathing too shakily, throat tight with emotion, and when he tells her it isn't her fault, her vision blurs. It's not for her father—she knows it isn't her fault, and she know he did this to himself, but Harlan is one of the very few people who can make this feel anything close to okay. She hesitates, and then lets him pull her away, leaning back. For the briefest second, she squeezes his hand.]

I can't just leave him.

[But she doesn't move, either.]

Edited 2017-10-17 05:29 (UTC)

[Alas. It is far more likely that anyone else visiting this dream is going to get to see Corazon set himself on fire with his own cigarette...]

Yeah, you can. He left you.

[He should just say that outright, but it's true and he's finding it difficult to maintain a filter in here. It's like she'll hear it whether or not he says it, so he may as well lean in.

She squeezes his hand. Nothing happens, so he squeezes back. Huh.]

There's nothing you could've done, anyway.

[He doesn't pull away, and it's all the excuse she needs to cling, her fingers threading through his.]

Sorry, I-I shouldn't...

[Shouldn't be taking advantage that way, but she can't focus enough to say it. Her breathing is shuddery now, as though she's trying very hard not to start sobbing.]

I hate this. Who the hell does this to their kid?

[The prisoner that gets brought in... is a trembling, scrawny mess of a human that looks like they've been bawling their eyes out ever since they got captured. They can't move... and even without shackles, they'd be too frozen in terror to run anyway.

Napstablook glances up at the crowd they've been thrown towards, and they shrink back, almost looking like they're trying to sink through the ground and disappear.]

[Holding her hand is uncomfortable because of the blood. It'll make his skin itchy if it dries there.]

A fuck-up of a parent. [Harlan glances down at their hands, and then at her father, still bleeding though there isn't much life left in him. He shouldn't have left Kyna alone. Harlan shouldn't have, either.]

You don't have anything to apologize for.

[Then again, wait, what did she mean? Why is she sorry? He's not sure if he should ask, but he does anyway.]

You shouldn't what?

[Her father is still sucking in choking, gurgling breaths, although they're getting quieter and quieter, and Kyna squeezes her eyes shut. Harlan is a centering force as he always is, so she manages to answer his question.]

I shouldn't be... pushing this. Holding your hand.

[Ah. Right. He's vaguely aware that her fingers twined through his should bother him more than it does. No, wait, "should" isn't the right word. It shouldn't bother him. It doesn't bother normal people. He doesn't want it to bother him, but it always does. Except now. He's busy. Kyna's dad has fucked her over and she's still a kid, basically. Close enough. She's not much older than he was when his mom got out of prison and managed to track him down despite his best efforts to ditch his old life. He didn't know what the fuck to do then. He wishes he'd had someone there to clean up the blood. He wishes he would've stuck around to help Kyna deal with her dad so she wouldn't have had to watch him die. She shouldn't have seen this.

He eases his hands out of hers but just so he can wrap both arms around her and pull her into him.]

[She goes rigid out of sheer shock, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides. He's hugging her, and as much as she promised to help him get over his issues with being touched, this is a line she'd never cross. For a second, she feels like she can't breathe, like something is squeezing her chest and her throat. Her emotions are so tangled up she can't even pinpoint them, and oddly all she can think is that maybe that's okay, as long as Harlan's here with her. He'd probably tell her to just let herself feel it, wouldn't he?

Kyna wraps her arms around him, hesitantly at first, and then then more tightly when she realizes he's okay, clinging and burying her face in his shoulder. It's too much, and this time, she can't choke back a sob. She's so glad he's here, but she's not sure if she should be doing this, either. She screwed up so badly with his secrets that she's not sure she deserves this from him anymore.]

[Michael sees Delmar grab the lamp, but he doesn't register what he's planning to do with it in time.]

Wait- Don't!

[But the lamp leaves Delmar's hand and goes sailing through the air, smashing to the floor just shy of the Visitor, right next to Michael. The beast's reaction is instant: it begins to shriek and howl, rearing up on its hind legs for a moment before surging toward Delmar.

This time, Michael is not so slow on the draw. He manages to snatch the monster's arm as it passes, wrapping both of his own around it and digging in his heels. By all rights, the thing should be able to just toss him like a sack of flour, but for some reason, he's able to hold it back. It struggles, clawing at the floor, trying to reach its new target.]

Not him. Stop it!

[It's been a long time since he's hugged anyone, especially willingly. There was Panna, sort of, but that wasn't really a hug and it feels like another lifetime by now anyway. He's not sure what he expected to feel, but strangely, he doesn't feel much of anything. Kyna has him in a vice grip and she's sobbing into his shoulder. He rests his chin against her hair, cradles her head with his hand to let her know there's no timer. He's not sure how much of his body is in contact with hers but it's far more than he'd ever be comfortable with, than he could ever imagine himself being comfortable with, but he's not scared.

He's not scared, but he's not much else, either. She's warm and thrumming in the way that alive things have a sort of buzz about them but none of that really registers. He may as well be hugging a chair.

So, is that it? Without the intensity of his fear, there's just... Nothing? He shifts, tightening his grip on her to ground himself. She needs him here. He shouldn't be thinking about this right now, but he can't help it. Even when there's nothing to be afraid of, he finds something. This should feel better than it does. Why doesn't he feel anything? He can't tell what's normal, but he knows this isn't the time to ask.

He decides to just let her cry. He's never been able to do that before.]

Something's definitely weird here. Michael's not entirely sure what it is. Things seem hazy, he doesn't remember much. But one thing that's clear as day is the offense he feels when Rosen snaps at him. Like he hasn't been here, too. He doesn't even know how long. It feels like years, like everyone just tossed him in here and forgot. Maybe they did.

"Well no, technically they can't." His voice is tired and curt at the same time. "But you keep it to yourself. Trying to fight them just makes you crazier, and all it gets you is extra hassle." Among other things. "What's the point?"

[There might not be a timer in his mind, but there certainly is in hers. As far as she's concerned, she's far past the limit, far past what she should be allowing herself to do, and even as he cradles her head, she tells herself she's an asshole for letting it happen. She doesn't know how to talk to him right now, but she know he prefers that she try, so she does.]

I'm sorry.

[Her voice is shaky and quiet, but as soon as she forces the words out, it feels easier to say the rest, even if it comes out all in a panicky, breathless rush.]

I'm sorry I screwed up so bad. I'm sorry I screwed up the one time you needed me not to. I'm sorry I made that whole stupid thing worse and... and I'm sorry I'm using you as a fucking... A fucking crutch again.

[Harlan doesn't recognize the girl in the kitchen, and he doesn't know why she's asking him. Probably because he's the only one in the room, but it's still an unfair question. How is he supposed to know the answer to that? He's not going to lie to her.

He moves to stand next to her, like he wants to get a better look. Who are you? He listens for the car outside but he knows it's long gone by now.]

I don't know. What happens if he doesn't?

[Matthew or whoever isn't much of a fighter, no, but he has the slight advantage of being the one in technical control of this thing. At least, he usually is. That's how it's supposed to work. The system's a little faulty in dreamland.

When Magnus charges up and stands between them, Michael's at first just... really confused. Who is this? How did he get here? He looks kind of familiar- is that an axe? He's still processing, but the Visitor is very ready. It rises up to full height on two legs and screeches, but it doesn't actually attack yet.

Michael, finally putting the situation together, tries to push back in front of Magnus.]

Hey, watch it. I don't know how well I can control it in here.

Thanks for coming. I wasn't sure you could make it.

[He says it as if he knows exactly who she is, and as if she's meant to be here. Why wouldn't she be?]

It wouldn't be a proper party without you.

[It's nice.

Rhy has always liked things like this - friendly gatherings of like-minded folk, liquor and celebration and peaceful joy. He's good at it, he circulates with an easy smile and an open nature. But there's something else going on - something isn't right, and perhaps it's just an undercurrent or perhaps it's something real.

Either way, Rhy finds his eyes on the shadows more often than he'd like. He may not be a tried-and-tested warrior, but he has training in both swordsmanship and tactics. If it feels like something's wrong, something might be wrong.

He keeps his easy smile on, but he gravitates toward the edges of the gathering. Toward the shadows.]

The change from Amon Ereb to the shores of the rolling sea is a little confusing, and for a moment, Curufin does not know where he is or where he is placed in Time. But then he accepts the fluidity of reality, since after all, this is surely Maglor's vision and not his own. Maglor may have dwelt long years in the inland castle in southeast Beleriand, but if he is lonely and truly alone, dreaming of and longing for the past, must he not be wandering the western shores of the Great Sea?

Maglor's spoken question cannot be left unanswered, but his silent exclamation nearly rips Curufin's heart out.

Curufin steps nearer on his quiet feet. Yet his nearness to this beloved brother makes him remember the body, and his feet become less silent. Maglor will be able to see him, even if he is a bit transparent and still bears a resemblance to a shadow on water. His eyes shine in the starlight, gleaming with sorrow and compassion.

"Yes, it's me. I have come a long way."

(But this time I answer, Macalaurë. I am here for you now.)

[Harlan's magic doesn't work here. He knows it's a lost cause before he even tries to cast anything. Magic doesn't work when you're dead. He can't even go after these demons the old fashioned way; the thick chain sagging over his shoulder is too heavy for him to make any physical threats.

He's bigger than Hayden, though. He can take a beating, even from demons.

He grabs a hunk of loose concrete off of the curb and lobs it at the demons as hard as he can. That should get their attention.]

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Page 28 of 104

Event Log: Dreamwalker the Second

Bakura | open to all

Rage & Sorrow | content warning for genocide

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Delight

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sorry delmar...

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sorrow