Event Log: Dreamwalker

[hadrielmods]

Who: Everyone!
What: The Dreamwalker event
Where: In your comfy bed and your sleepy head.
When: May 16th-26th
Warnings: Good dreams, weird dreams, bad dreams, straight-up nightmares. Please remember to tag for warnings in the header if things are going to be bad!

Have you been having trouble getting a good night's sleep? Tossing and turning, unable to rest those tired eyes? Or maybe you don't sleep at all, and never have. Not to worry! For a little while, you'll have no trouble at all falling asleep - in fact, as night falls, you'll find yourself overwhelmed with exhaustion whether you want to sleep or not. Lay down and rest your weary head, friends. Everyone could use a little extra sleep.

But what will your dreams bring? Something happy, images of a perfect day? Something hopeful, something you've wanted for a long time? Maybe you'll dream of anger, of the face of your worst enemy. Or maybe - just maybe - you'll have a horrific nightmare, and wake screaming, covered in cold sweat.

Not before others have time to see it, though. As you sleep, as you dream, the other residents of Hadriel, friends and enemies and people you've only met once, might find their way into your dreams. Or you might find your way into theirs - and then have to deal with someone's else's nightmares, or hopes, or anger. For the next ten nights, you'll find yourself either a host or a visitor, and no matter how you try you won't be able to stay awake once night falls.

Sweet dreams, Hadriel. Don't let the asshole fear gods bite.

► This log covers May 16th-26th.
► 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!
► You can't die in the dreams, but if you somehow manage to trip and fall and kill yourself getting out of bed, please report it on the death post.

Comments

mello | open

[torrefied]

(ooc: i'm happy to match prose or brackets, whichever you prefer! a lot of these are written from mello's pov, but feel free to have your visiting character switch to their own after the initial experience.)

wake up, dead man. (fear) - cw blood, mild gore

[torrefied]

You find yourself in a high-ceilinged, dimly lit room. Multiple sets of stairs spider up to other floors, and the smell of something stale and oily hangs in the air, like old cigarette smoke in a bar after close. Once upon a time, this was a factory. Now, the room serves as a clandestine hideout, sparsely furnished with tattered, dingy couches and warped tables propping up a cluster of computers. The monitors here have all gone dead.

You see a number of burly-looking men scattered along the floor of this room, bodies and expressions distorted in poses of undeniable agony. They all died screaming, clutching their chests, collapsing into haphazard piles.

And in the midst of this scene of carnage, you see one man standing, taking in the spectacle before him. He’s relatively lithe of build, clad entirely in black leather, blond hair singed, blood trickling down the left side of his face. Someday, the wound will heal into a grotesque burn scar instead of the bloody blisters there on his face. You look at this man - he’s barely more than a boy, but he carries a heavy weight with him that perhaps makes him seem older - and you might even think he probably used to be quite attractive, before whatever ensued here left its indelible mark on him.

You see this figure - he’s silent, still. The faint ins and outs of his breathing are the only indication that he’s any different from the corpses sprawled out on the floor in front of him. You approach - slowly, hesitant, because there’s a certain air of something fearsome about this entire tableau - and the man turns to look at you.

“‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,’” he says.

Gansey | Open

[quaerit]

❚❚❚❚❚ A. FEAR - STINGING MEMORY (cw: insects, body horror)

[ The scene is idyllic. There is grass everywhere, and trees that stretch far above your head. In the distance, you can hear music, and laughter, and you somehow know that there's a party going on, and that this is a happy day. It's warm, so warm that the sun splits through the trees and heats your skin. Ahead of you, there is a young boy - or is it a teenager - or maybe an old man? - but in the end, when you get closer, it's just Richard Gansey. You can see time slipping through him; youthful one minute, elderly the next, and himself the moment after that - but because this is his dream, and because you are in it with him, this doesn't seem strange, and you always know that it's Gansey.

He seems not to see you when he turns, and goes into the woods. But you are brought with him all the same, and as the little copse of trees thickens, the quality of the dream seems to change. The sounds of the party die away, and there's something in the background instead - something moving, vibrating, teeming with life, and you don't know why, but it feels like there's danger in it. Ahead of you, Gansey is a little boy again, and his foot falls into something in the ground. There's a scream, and suddenly, that moving, living thing is all around. You see them first on Gansey himself - crawling out of the hole his foot is in, crawling up his leg. Then they're crawling out of the ground around you, too. They're creeping out of trees, they're flying around you, and all you're aware of is the heat on your skin, and the buzzing in your ears.

Hornets. Deep black, striped with yellow, their stingers strangely visible as they fly. And you know, because the dream knows, that there is poison in their sting. If they sting you, you'll die. You know because Gansey knows. You see them surround him, and then they surround you too. They're not just around your ears, they're inside them. It doesn't matter what you do; if you run, they'll chase you. If you're still, they'll creep all over you. They'll land on your arms and your face. They'll find the ends of your fingers, and they'll burrow beneath the skin. They'll crawl along the inside of your arms, and they'll burst through the flesh and then they'll aim for your neck.

Their sting is as vital and as fatal as a knife in the gut. You feel it, over and over and over, stinging every part of you, and the poison is in your veins. You feel your hands swelling. You feel your throat closing, until you can't even scream with the pain of it. And before you, Gansey the child, the teenager, the man, is curled into a ball and he's dying, and crying, and it must be too late to save him but the stings don't stop.

Then finally, terribly, he sees you. Terrified hazel eyes fix on you, and he thrusts out a hand that's swollen and covered in stings. His throat is closed, but his eyes are begging for your help.

The hornets keep coming. The sky is black with them, and the sun keeps getting hotter. ]

❚❚❚❚❚ B. FEAR - DEATH AND DARKNESS

[ There is nothing around you. You have no weight. Your eyes are sightless, or the darkness is so heavy that it seems like they are. Your ears are booming with the sound of your own heartbeat, because there is nothing else to hear. There is nothing in contact with your hands or your feet, and if you move them, they'll brush empty space. Even if you scream, there'll be no sound, and if you make a fist, you won't feel your own hand. Perhaps you don't have a body at all. Perhaps there is nothing to feel. This is oblivion, and you are caught in it. You are caught and there is no way out and no one to help you -

Sudden change. You are on the ground. Gansey is ahead of you, and he is running. Despite this, he seems to get no further from you, and in fact, you are gaining on him. He keeps looking back, and his expression is full of terror. You don't know why until you feel your hand reach for him. It's skeletal, and cloaked in black. You are the bringer of death, and you are chasing him.

Another change. The ground is damp, and you can't quite tell its texture. It could be a wooden deck. It could be the rock floor of a cave. It could be soil and grass. It seems to shift between all of them for no clear reason, yet within the dream, this makes perfect sense. By and by, you become aware that there is someone beside you, and when you turn, it will be Gansey again. A moment passes, and he seems confident and calm, a charismatic boy who fears nothing and no one. In the next moment, he turns his face away, and terror is written in it. He looks at you. ]

It's coming.

[ And he runs. You're taken with him, pulled along by the dream because this is his dream, and it can't exist without him. Around you, the scenery changes much like the ground; you can't tell if you're in a forest, or a cave, or something else entirely, something wooden and constricting that keeps brushing up on your arms. But behind you, now, you'll see the figure that you were before; a skeletal creature cloaked in black, and draped in shadow, and you know without knowing that when it touches you, you'll return to oblivion. You can see it creeping from behind, darkness that grows and builds and seems to seek you and the boy you're with. It walks at a steady pace, yet it's always gaining, and ahead of you, you can hear Gansey's ragged breaths. He's running, still running. He's afraid of what comes next. ]

Re: Gansey | Open

[fuwatokurage]

[That scream...that scream...He needed to help that scream.

Pain has never scared Clear before. It registered in his electronic brain and he could feel it. He was aware of it and it was just apart of getting "hurt". But he never feared it. He could heal, he could be fixed, he wasn't human so getting hurt was okay.

But Gansey's fear was radiating off of him and for the first time in his short life, he was terrified of pain.

He was hyper aware of the poison and pain and danger that these small bugs held in those tiny stingers.

He watched as Gansey's bright eyes were fixed on him, screaming for help and Clear was compelled to do so.

He's not human, the stings can't do anything to him. He's not human, the stings can't do anything. He's not human so--]

Gansey-san!

[Clear reaches out and grabs the hand outstretched to him.]

Damen | Open

[barbarus]

❚❚❚❚❚ A. HOPE - AN IDEAL LIFE

[ There is a courtyard within the grounds of a palace. All around, as far as the eye can see, there is decoration. Plants and trees have been sculpted with shears, the pillars and spires are adorned with precision artistry. There are wide colonnades covered from floor to ceiling with tiles, and there are patterns across each of them. In this dream, that patterns are even more intricate and confusing than they would be in reality, since to Damen's mind they have always been too much, too busy, too colourful, and they are everywhere.

But despite that, it's beautiful. There is a bright and sunny sky above the arching domed palace spires. Damen moves through the courtyard on horseback, without his armour. There are no scars on his back, and no golden cuff around his wrist. You, the visitor, may be one of his party - you may be riding on horseback alongside him, dressed in the short Akielon tunic called a chiton, with sandals on your feet and a scarlet cape around your shoulders. Alternatively, you may be one of the party coming to meet him. They are dressed in figure-hugging clothes that cover them from collar to toe. Their jackets are almost as intricately patterned as the tiles on the wall, and they are led by two prominently blond-haired leaders; one tall and brought, built similarly to Damen but slightly smaller, with dark golden hair and a broad smile. The other, with lighter hair and a more careful expression, is Laurent of Vere.

And this, of course, is Vere, and Damen dismounts to greet his hosts. Pleasantries are quickly exchanged; it's obvious that these two parties are friends, not enemies. And then Damen is taking Laurent's hand, and bowing to him, and asking him to walk along with him...

Perhaps you'll interrupt this moment, or perhaps you'll wait until the golden princes have retreated, and Damen is alone in the courtyard again. Either way, the overwhelming feeling that comes with the scene is one of hope and pleasure, and it's clear that Damen's eyes rarely leave Laurent while he's in view. This is hope that could become something more, and as Damen turns to look out over the courtyard, his expression is full of peace. This is a good place to be. ]

❚❚❚❚❚ B. FEAR - WAR AND LOSS (cw: death, danger/harm to infant child)

[ This is a terrible place to be. Above your head, the sky is a fractured mass of storms, with thunder rocketing through clouds and lightning arcing across to illuminate the scene. It doesn't make for pleasant viewing; there are corpses all around. Even if you've never seen them before, they will feel familiar to you in the dream; they are bodies of friends and kinsmen. Their dark, quiet eyes seem like ones you've known before, and their scarlet capes are blackened with drying blood.

Damen is on his knees. You might be beside him, or you might be one of the horrified Akielon spectators, watching as the man who had been their crown prince is driven so low. Perhaps you are even one of the bodies on the ground, lying among the dead. Wherever you find yourself, you'll have a view of two men approaching. One looks very like Damen, though older, and with an expression twisted by hate. His name is Kastor, and he is Damen's brother. The other is older again, and bearded, with deep blue eyes that seem to stare right through you. This is the Regent, uncle to Laurent of Vere. The two men begin hurling accusations, at first one by one, and then their words become a chorus as the crowd around picks up the chant. ]

Prince-killer.
You murdered your father.
You bedded the enemy.
No mercy.
Kill them all.

[ The 'all' gets Damen's attention. His head whips up, while Akielon guards drag others into the field - Laurent, tied and bound, and beside him a blonde woman who looks like his double. Her hair is falling out of its curls, and she's struggling in her bonds, and begging for Kastor to intercede. He ignores her. And then a third guard emerges, and he's carrying a tiny, newborn bundle, which is crying. The baby's cries grow louder and louder, and it's suddenly clear that all three of them are to be executed for Damen's crimes. That's when he starts to struggle. He cries out and leaps forward, fighting against the crowd of soldiers that descent on him. Perhaps you will try to help him. Perhaps you are one of the soldiers holding him back, or perhaps you are one of those holding a knife of the throat of one of the three prisoners. Perhaps these are events you can change, if you can break through Damen's fear. The sky seems to darken around the scene, while the soldiers wrestle Damen into chains. ]

[ ooc: I would also draw your attention to my post on triggering material which may arise when dealing with Damen's hopes and fears in general. ]

Hope

[dogsanddaughters]

You only have one sun.

[Miriam sits on a bench in the courtyard, Barnaby resting at her feet, a bouquet of blue flowers in her hands. There are a few tucked into her wild hair. She grins, then offers Damen a flower.] 's okay. It's a very nice sun.

kate galloway. open.

[dedikated]

DELIGHT
[ Enough packs of dynamite to demolish most buildings without any trouble sit next to Kate, as she stands on the rooftop of the Hadriel library - which is far too tall to be the real building. With her pink hair (finally back as it should be) pulled into twin plaits, her stylised origami elephant tattoo is - for once - visible on the back of her neck, along with the glint of several dermal piercings directly below it. She's too busy glancing up towards the roof of Hadriel to notice if anyone's walked into her dream though, peering at the domed expanse as if trying to locate something.

Eventually, she turns and speaks. To you? Or to someone behind you? ]

Reet. How are we doing this?

RAGE
[ Bare, sleek brick walls tower above, around in a perfect circle. Too tall for Kate too jump, too smooth to scale. It's the Colosseum, but not as anyone here in Hadriel knows it. It looks redone, with nowhere to sit and observe, like a Colosseum is meant to.

It looks more like a prison than an arena.

It's silent as anything, practically echoing with the noiselessness. Kate takes a moment to head towards the walls of the Colosseum, looking closely as if she hopes to find some weak point or exit. ]

... Katherine.

[ The voice is steel, cold, calm and edged like a blade. Kate spins, looking around wildly, because it can't be--

In front of her, directly in the centre of the Colosseum's arena, is a woman. Tall, muscular, sporting an eyepatch and a shaved head. Her scars are plentiful and her left hand missing. Despite - or perhaps because of - the handicap, she exudes nothing but intimidation, and magic-sensitive people may notice a chill in the air, like she's a void pulling all warmth from the arena. The jabberjays flit around her, silent at first, but one picks up the sharp tone of Julia's voice and echoes it until the birds are all singing in a round that bounces off the walls of the Colosseum.

Kate's hands move immediately - pulling her sunglasses down over her eyes and grabbing a knife from her hip bag - and a snarl tears from her throat, dark and guttural. ]

Who the fuck let you out of hell?

FEAR
[ It's a Spire apartment, a one bedroom that would look completely uninhabited if not for the odd clothes tossed over chairs and the rubbish in the bin. Noise comes from the kitchenette, alongside a definite waft of burnt toast and Bar-procured coffee (aka, the good stuff). Kate is half-bent over, rummaging through the shelves for something to spread on toast - that is still burning.

Eventually, she sighs and gives up, tossing the toast and returning to nursing her coffee instead. Everything seems normal, so you might be forgiven for wondering if this is a dream and not some weird hiccup in Hadriel. With her pink hair scraped into a ponytail and clothes for the day already on, Kate leans against her countertop, relaxed. This is as good as it may ever get in Hadriel, with good coffee and relative silence.

It happens without warning, that low, familiar hum she'd long went without. It buzzes in the back of her head, steady and constant and Kate pales. She clings to her mug so hard her fingers go white and her hand shakes until she eventually drops the mug, letting it shatter on the floor, bolting out of the apartment like it was on fire.

She springs down the Spire staircases, jumping several at a time and slams the building door open without stopping to wait. She springs onto the nearest building, running at her full eighty-mile per hour speed without noticing how strangely whole Hadriel looks - no destroyed buildings or broken windows - and heading for the Colosseum. ]

AWAKE [ during fear & rage dreams ]
[ If you happen to be near spire 4, apartment 801 in the earliest hours of the morning, you will probably catch the sounds of someone who is very distressed. Slamming doors and drawers, thundering footsteps and muffled, blood-curdling screams of rage or fear are all possibilities. If you're (un)lucky, you might also bump into a grouchy 5'3" ball of not-quite-pink as she foots it out of her flat.

If you don't live near Kate, you might find her in one of two places:
- The Caves, where she'll be hunting with a whole lot more vigour than she normally does.
- The Clinic, where she'll be undertaking all sorts of busy work to keep herself distracted. ]

[[ notes for the fear dream: if you want, you can have your character experience the telepathic link. Generally it sounds like a low buzzing noise, like electrical items left on (think the fan in your computer or similar), but if your character is especially sensitive to things, they may sense the presence behind it. Also, if your character can't keep up with a full-speed free-running crazy lady, they can find themselves warped to the entrance of the Colosseum. Or maybe they just start there and see her barrelling in - it's up to you. ]]

delight.

[torrefied]

It depends on what your objective is.

[Mello sits cross-legged on the surface of the roof, next to the stacks of dynamite. He picks one up gently off the top of the pile and holds it up to inspect it, turning it from one side to the other. There's a plan here, and he hasn't been informed about it, but it doesn't upset him as much as it should.]

Obviously, the end goal is going to inform the methods we use to get there.

Castiel | Open

[strangelic]

[ Will match style. I'll try to direct the dreams as reflects Castiel's psyche as we go along, so ah. Be prepared for very sudden changes in the dreamscape. Fun fun. ]


1. Delight Fear

[ Heaven is not a half-pipe. In fact, in this case, it's a beautiful park, with flowers growing and beautiful, well loved trees, trimmed grass, the sweet smell of nature all around. The taste of late summer is in the air, and the hum of insects, the laughing of children--everything is remembered and therefore rendered in incredible detail.

There's a light breeze, as is evidenced by the man flying a kite some thirty yards away. He seems to be thrilled, utterly delighted. The wind is perfect, the day is perfect.

Heaven; he's in Heaven...

And there stands Castiel, too, just inhaling it all. This is his perfect place. The man had been 40 when he had drowned accidentally in his bathtub, but this was his perfect memory. Castiel felt the same joy that he felt--because how could he not? It permeated everything. Nobody could stand here and not feel the pleasure brought on by the summer sun drenching them.

It was a safe place. A beautiful place.

And that was fine, except out of the corner of your eye, a corner of Castiel's, there would be a body lying in the grass, angelic wings burned into the grass. The body wouldn't be there, when whoever glanced it turned their head.

At least not yet, but that could all change. ]

Setting info: heaven; dead angels


-----


2. Hope Fear

[ It's a desert.

No. I mean, it may be a desert but it's really not that bad. In fact, it's just rained, a light whisper of water from which the smell of ozone and life is wafting. Sure, it's humid, but it's beautiful. In a day or two, plants will be unfolding from the earth, flowers will be blossoming, hidden Creation coming to life.

God is here. It feels like it, anyway. Where else would He be? There's a certainly a feeling of divinity in the air.

Castiel is climbing up a rocky outcrop, clearly hunting for something, and the hope that is filling his chest is superb, blossoming outward. He's certain, too, it seems. His hand is knotted tight around a pendant dangling in his right hand, and as he reaches the top of the mound of rock and dust, pulling himself up underneath the Joshua tree looming at the top of it, it begins to glow.

Joy blossoms in his chest. All this searching, and he's found Him. Found God. Surely, now, they can stop all this silliness, and put everything back the way its meant to be, everything in its place. Perhaps--perhaps if God is appearing to him, it means he forgives him. He can only hope.

But it's not going to go that way; it never does. ]

Setting info: desert; joshua tree; samulet; glowing


-----


3. Rage no it's Fear again

[ This is not your average dream. Imagine that you can listen to a hundred songs playing at once, fifty television shows played over it, a book open in each hand, while having a conversation with a thousand people in your head--and one in real life. That's what this dream is like. Not convoluted noise, no, but every single part of that information clean and bright and complete. The mysteries of the universe seem to unfold, and everything is at once jumbled and linear, but clear as day. It's only a snapshot of what it's really like to be inside the head of this particular angel, and even then it's tamed; it only feels that way for a moment, before the all consuming power of it subsides abruptly, leaving only a feeling like a bad headache.

There's still voices, burbling. It feels like there could be hundreds of thousands, or perhaps millions of them, and some of them are quiet and subdued, but others...others are powerful. Together, they have control--a sort of control. It's hard to discern what is his own thought and what one of the voices tells him to do. They're insistent, and he knows them all by name. And they know him.

You're - in the dream - just another voice too. You see everything Castiel sees, hears everything Castiel hears, and you can talk to him. He's as trapped in this nightmare, after all, even if his hands feel like they're his own. Even if his power feels like his own.

And when his eyes open, they reveal a concert crowd at Madison Square Garden--it's odd that it's called "Square" when it's so clearly round. But there's a band on stage, and they stumble into silence when he appears, as though from nowhere, right in the middle of their set. ]

Hey, man. Get off the stage! Where'd you come from, anyway? [ The lead singer is incensed, and he gestures to his crew of burly bodyguards to deal with Castiel.

HoW DiSrEsPeCtFuL, hisses a voice. and Castiel narrows his eyes and flicks his hand toward the stage hands. They seize their throats and crumble to the ground, going blue. wE WaNt tO sPeAK TO tHe CrOWD says the voice, and Castiel cuts off the band. Their shouting at him cuts off half way through, and Castiel touches his throat, looking toward the booing, yelling crowd. ]

Your Creator has abandoned you, [ he calls. ] But a shepherd had come for you, you little lost sheep. I've come for you, to raise you from your lives of sin. To save you.

[ The booing only gets louder, and now the crowd is starting to turn. The people in standing room only, undeterred, are clambering over the barriers, and as Castiel has to vanish the guitarist, who suddenly swings his Stratocaster at his head, all Hell breaks loose.

They're supposed to love him.

THeY ShOUlD bE pUNISHeD! snarls the voice, anger boiling, and it feels right. It feels like a good idea. They should be punished. ]

Setting info: madison square garden


-----


4. Fear

[ He was falling.

Really, truly falling. Not from the clouds; he wasn't up there strumming a harp and singing hymns, a cumulonimbus between his thighs--that wasn't how it worked. He'd been in Heaven, surrounded by his own kind, embraced by their warmth and their love, and now - now - he was falling, a fireball tumbling from the sky.

As he fell, his wings burned. Every feather seared and ripped away, the smell of them pungent, melting keratin. There was nothing to break his fall when he reached the ground. The earth crumpled around him instead, and he was aching, trembling, when he pulled himself shakily up to his feet in the dark.

He'd been ejected from the garrison, once upon a time, a long time ago, but it wasn't like this. This was something else. This...felt permanent. It felt like he was unwanted, unloved. No longer an angel. He stared up at the sky, fear and misery overwhelming him, the ashes of his broken wings in the dirt around him. ]

or

[ Welcome back inside his head, where you are being tortured. It's a white room - all white - and someone, a woman, is driving steel spikes into your head. Well, into Castiel's head, actually, but guess what? You're trapped in there with him.

It's painful. It's agony. His scream shatters glass. It's your scream too.

Enjoy that. ]


Setting info: falling; yes she is about to shove that in your eye; brainscrews


-----


5. Closed to Sam and Dean

[ Sleeping was disturbing. Dreaming, even more so. Castiel had decided, based on the fact that when he did sleep those dreams were terrifying and horrible, that he simply wasn't going to do it. Ever again.

And that was wonderful, when he could actually stay awake.

Waking up terrified, though, starting up, soaked in cold sweat, trembling from head to toe, was something he had come to dread. He refused to go to bed, however; it wasn't normal for an angel to sleep, and so he refused to admit it could happen. He dozed off curled up on the floor, instead, or leant up against some piece of furniture.

But when he wasn't sleeping, he could watch Sam and Dean sleep instead. That was safer, more natural. And he could walk in their dreams himself, try to get control of them. These gods were the kind of creatures that Sam and Dean might take a weekend over icing; they were seeking power, forcing obedience, and this...this was them just getting started. They had to be stopped. If they could do this to him, to anyone, they had to be stopped. ]

Hakkai~Open~ (cw:a lot of gore and blood with a hint of incest)

[stepford_smiler]

恐懼:FEAR

[If you've never known the feeling of your very existence slipping through your fingers like running water, you'll know it now. Imagine watching yourself in a mirror turn into someone, something that is both foreign and familiar at the same time.

Look at your hand, are those claws? No...they're just your normal fingernails, blunted and harmless. Has your heart stopped beating? No, no, it's still there.

Who are you? You are you? But who is that?

After you're finished examining yourself and making sure you're all there, you see a man who has lost himself. Is that even a man? It is not. It's a monster. That's what you're looking at, a monster.

Three men are at his feet, their forms barely recognizable from their guts strewn from their bellies. Blood is everywhere. In fact, it's even on you. Blood is on your clawed--oh wait--normal hands.

The first man you see on the floor is blond, his face was once beautiful. He looked holy from the robes that used to be white now stained with a deep red. A piece of his neck is missing.

The second man, or is that a boy? Is laying close to the blond as if he tried to protect him. His eyes are wide open. They're gold and looked like they had all of the warmth of the sun, but were now cold and soulless. There was a hole burned through his stomach that smelled of cooked flesh, blood and bile mixed with each other to create a putrid smell.

The last man was closest to Hakkai, his hand clamped onto his ankle, but it wasn't attached to his arm anymore. The blood that coated the rest of him was as red as his hair. He looked like he was strangled by something, but what could it have been?

Hakkai was holding something, a woman's body. The woman was bleeding through her stomach and her face looked similarly to his own. She was holding a dagger in her lifeless hand as if she died holding it so tightly. He gently stroked her hair, only making streaks of blood through it. His eyes were crying in spite of their dangerous appearance.

Bring him back]

[inappropriatelaughter]

[ The details are all there, if smudged, finished at the expense of other senses: the magnetic, sensible closeness of two of those bodies, the exact shade of his hair—and it must be his. He's dead. Of course he's dead.

But if he's standing here, it occurs to him, there's a chance that he can tell Hakkai that it's okay.

He steps forward. The soles of his boots crack, sticky. ]

Hak—

[ His voice cracks, too, and it startles him. He raises a hand to his throat and tries again. ]

Hakkai?

Emily - 4 ota

[unfollowing]

(OOC: One of each dream, each in its own comment, so I can track them better. Will match format. You are free to decide if your character first sees the dreams from Em's pov and then switches out to be themselves, or if they're watching the dreams unfold and then get to join in, etc. Feel free to jump into the dreams at ANY point at all and take on any role. Help her, hinder her, watch her, have at it! And if anything is unclear, or you have any suggestions you want to talk to me about, feel free to PM or PP me!)

HOPE: the image in the mirror

[unfollowing]

[The top-floor office has wall-to-ceiling windows along one side, and today the drapes are pulled open enough to let sunlight shine through, warming the cozy leather couches off to the front of the suite. In the dimmer back end of the room is the editor's desk, immaculate and sparsely decorated. Everything about the office says class and style, and is definitely worth stopping and admiring for a few minutes, but by far the most impressive feature is the wall behind the desk, where magazine covers have been printed in large size and high-quality paper, a visual timeline of the progress made by the magazine under its new leadership.

That's where Emily stands, in a mid-thigh length black skirt and a violet silk top, admiring the work she's done as editor. In particular, it's the cover with a gorgeous blonde model that she is inspecting. It's perfect, by far the one she's proudest of.

Even though there's some part of her that says this can't be real, there's a warm, happy feeling in her heart. She has made it. This is everything she's dreamed of. She is powerful, she is in charge, Jessica has shared this dream with her, and she is wearing the ring of the only man worth the words "I do." So what if she can't make out his face in the picture on her desk? So what if she can't remember his name? She's here, and so is Jessica, and she wants to stay in this moment forever.]

We did it. [She says it softly, as if to convince herself that this isn't just what she's wishing for, it's real.

Right?] We did it, Jess.

(OOC: For reference, Emily's mirror)

Clear : OPEN

[fuwatokurage]

☂|DESIRE:

[This is Clear's first dream and he's loving it. His happiness is translating through the dream and you can feel it. Your skin probably starts feeling warm and tingly, your heart starts filling up with elated feelings of joy, and there's a song on the tip of your tongue.

There's a melody playing around you as you seem to be standing in the sky. You're not floating, but there's nothing there that seems to be supporting you either.

The sky is blue all around you and there are clouds drifting. They're reflecting off of the platform that you're standing on.

The scenery only evolves further as round clear bubbles start floating magically with the clouds. Glass flowers sprout from the "ground" you're on and emit glowing specs of light. Jellyfish dance around you, drifting and swaying to the melody being played.

In the center of it all is Clear with his clear umbrella, his arms outstretched wide and looking up at a mechanical heart surrounded by clear gears. The closer you get to the heart, the lighter you feel. The song on your tongue may even come out as a hum.

Clear is singing with his eyes closed. Come join him in his happy dream.]

Firo Prochainezo | ota

[foundafamily]

1. Fear

There comes a time in every casino’s life when—even though the right palms have all been greased—a heavy boot crashes into her door and the G-men come bursting in. Tonight, the jig is up for the joint you happen to be in.

The shouts of the law enforcement agents—you may notice that they don't have a specific uniform or badge, just a general 'cop' look—mix with the clangs of slot machines that just won’t shut up. For some odd reason, they've all decided to go off at once with loud, jangling bells.

Adding to the chaos is the fact that nobody seems to be actually doing anything—just yelling a lot and milling around to add to the confusion. At least, for now. Will you try to slink off with your winnings in this commotion? Or maybe you can use this as a good opportunity to disappear if you wound up owing.

2. Rage

The 1920s weren’t booming for everyone. The street you stand in is filthy and crowded with litter. On top of that, it just looks… off. As places do in dreams. Anyone paying attention to the run-down tenements will notice they look copy-pasted—just the same dirty brick over and over—and somewhat warped. Some are leaning, some are only half-there, wavering in and out of view.

The passersby on the street are much the same—they’re more shapeless coats and shadowy forms than real people.

Except for one who may be coming up behind you. Unless you’re particularly alert, you may not notice little fingers reaching into your pocket for the wallet (or other valuable) you somehow have. Or maybe you will. Catch the little gremlin?

If not, seeing the kid suddenly bolting away from you may also be a dead giveaway.

[ooc: If you'd like to work out something else, feel free to pm me!]

Rage

[circumitus]

The city sights reveal and unfamiliar scene; someplace in which Rey has never been to before. She'd try to take it all in, but there's something about everything that doesn't seem quite... right. This one memory doesn't belong to her, or even any of her past selves.

"What th...?" Even her clothes are different, as she's sporting a quaint worker's attire. Something with pockets, which a little tricky hand sneaks its way into in order to grab something and make off with it.

What it is, she can't tell. But it doesn't take her very long before she realizes that she's just been pickpocketed.

"Shit-- Hey!" Rey yells, giving chase after the runt down the street, teeming with an oddly shaped crowd of people.

Maketh Tua - ota

[mismanagement]

[ooc: organized for easier tracking. Feel free to pm me for details! Your character can experience things from Maketh's pov, do a fly on the way sort of thing, or directly interact with the events taking place. Have at it!]

Fear (love song, drug song)

[mismanagement]

[There is a rush of noise through the halls, classes disturbed, instructors snarling at each other, orders tapped madly into data-pads. Something has happened. The whisper is thus: traitortraitortraitor and something must be done. There’s blood in the air. Maketh is sixteen years old, dressed in her cadet uniformand lined up with her fellows on the practice flight deck. The whole place is shining and immaculate, and smells like engine fuel. Maketh stands tall, back perfectly straight.

Today is her birthday.

Today she’s standing at attention in front of a line of eight bloodied TIE pilots, senior cadets with their helmets removed, all of them down on their knees with Imperial guards standing behind them – awaiting judgment. One is already dead, face burnt beyond recognition, teeth shining on the floor. Her gunner isn’t far behind, one eye gone, the other riddled with gleaming shrapnel, bleeding from his neck, each breath a rattling wheeze. The others aren’t looking much better. They’ve obviously been in a crash and then beaten. And though they’re still wearing their flight suits, all evidence of rank has been cut off – not at all gently.

Maketh is focused on two of the pilots at the far end of the line - the only two in the group to hold the same name on their uniforms: Deol. A young woman and her snarling brother. Twins.

Some of you might recognize the woman from Maketh’s mirror. Her name is Itani and her face has been slashed, hair falling out of its tight braids. Her brother is Kareem, one arm broken, and he’s trying to protect his sister, snarling whenever anyone approaches and getting himself beaten for it more often than not. Itani stares resolutely ahead, bleeding onto the floor in complete silence.

Maketh watches this, crying under her helmet, and trying not to draw attention to herself.

This is her sixteenth birthday. She is going to watch her the Empire execute her friends for desertion.]

Mitsuhide Akechi

[wavesoakedlegs]

[OOC: Prose or brackets is fine! I'll be handling Mitsuhide as well as Nobunaga in the open dream, with the dreamer coming in as their own individual, but events and focus will vary wildly depending on the response to Nobunaga's question. Feel free to PP me or plurk me if you have ideas or things you'd like to include, otherwise I am happy to wing it, and you can also start your character's role in the dream at any part of the scenario I lay out. ♥]

Open to all / Fear / Devil's Advocate (Warnings for descriptions of violence and death)

[wavesoakedlegs]

[Everything is burning.]

[This place was probably beautiful once; the buildings wreathed in hot flames look like they were masterful and ornate, classically Japanese architecture designed to home something important. Nothing important can be left in them now, of course. Only ashes and death. The fire is too hot, too wild, to leave any chance of survival... and yet there are screams too. Screams that don't get any quieter no matter where you walk. Peak into the buildings and inferno and you will see soldiers clutching somehow-intact banners adorned with the symbol of a bellflower; they are writhing in pain, calling out to someone. 'Help us, please... save us, don't let us die, we did this for you!' The situation is hopeless for them, though. They won't stop screaming, won't stop burning.]

[Wander for a short while and one might spot the single building spared from the flames, grand and imposing. The front is open. Inside, stood on tatami stained in countless places with blood, is two men. One is the dreamer himself, Akechi Mitsuhide, the traitor who turned against his Lord. Blood stains his armour too, and is streaked across the blade he holds firmly in his hands. His stance suggests he is preparing to attack, but there is something hesitant about his expression. Even fearful. Sad. He didn't want to do this but he was left with no choice... no choice...]

[The other man, tall and imposing and apparently very amused about this situation, is that Lord; Oda Nobunaga, known as the Demon King, who turns to address the unexpected visitor when they enter. He doesn't even seem surprised, and asks a question:]

...what is your desire?

[To the side, Mitsuhide's eyes widen, deep worry seeping into his features.]

Miriam Day - ota

[dogsanddaughters]

[ooc: organized for easier tracking. Feel free to pm me for details! Your character can experience things from Maketh's pov, do a fly on the way sort of thing, or directly interact with the events taking place. Have at it!]

Fear (when in rome) tw for rape

[dogsanddaughters]

[You’ll find a place on a metal planet, a building with red doors, and in that building you’ll find a room with silk carpets and a large bed, and in that room you’ll find Miriam – kneeling on the floor and holding hands with a dying man as Barnaby paces, tail tucked between his legs as he whines. Miriam is crying and rocking back and forth, begging the man on the bed not to die as he wheezes, pupils shot, blood in his mouth, dying by inches from what they did to him. His hair bright green and his name was Gilly, once. Miriam has a blanket wrapped around him, slowly going red, and keeps petting his hair. Trying to help.

It doesn’t.

Outside, the city is burning. Miriam can hear gunshots and screaming, and she cries as Gilly wheezes, going pale like paper in front of her. The Sons have broken through the barricades, took out the guards and the big cannon on the docks. There’s nothing left to stop them. Gilly tried, fought them off with a knife, but they got him in the end. Laughed while they did it. She hid under the bed while the Sons hurt him, too scared to make a sound, and she can hear them outside right now. Laughing about what they did to Gilly. They’re saying it was fun, saying they should do it again before it dies, why not, why not, why not? Never waste a good fuck.

Miriam cries, trying not to get tears on Gilly’s face.] Don’t die. Please, please, please don’t die….

[Gilly’s eyes are closed. He tells her to run.]

arya stark | rage, fear, hope

[whichend]

RAGE. cw: blood, gore.
[ You see a frozen landscape. At its center, a ruined castle, charred and crumbling. The dream takes you into the ruins. The winds howl, but no snow blows. In the center of the ruins is something that looks like it was once a courtyard, but is now littered with stone, ash, and blood. The blood is vibrant when everything else is dull, an unforgiving red and a piercing iron smell. You follow the blood. The trail leads you to a shuddering heap of human bodies, barely alive, definitely scared. They cling to one another for hope, warmth, safety. You have never seen anything so pathetic.

A shadow looms behind you. As you look at the trembling figures, you realize you cannot help them. The shadow grows longer, closer, and soon, it's Arya who steps in front of you. Her face is set, focused in a fury that is unmistakable. In her right hand she holds a sword, dripping with blood. She smiles, thinly, and her smile is almost as sharp as her sword. ]

Valar morghulis.

[ She raises her blade. ]

Please. Allow me to show you the weak hearts of women.

[ Arya lunges, plunging her sword into the chest of one of the figures. They all scream, a collective howl that seems to rattle the ruins. Arya plunges her sword into flesh again. And again. And again. The blood spatters red on the white snow, dark on her pale skin. It runs thick through Arya's fingers. And as the lives of these poor, sad people drain away, Arya seems to become more alive, laughing and stabbing, laughing and stabbing. ]

FEAR. cw: child abuse.
[ The room is dark, lit by a few candles here and there that serve to make the place more eerie than to guide a person's way. You step inside, and see others praying at several different shrines, each to a different god. Some of them cry, some of them smile. Some say or do barely anything at all. Some of the devout are corpses.

A girl -- someone who used to be Arya Stark, a long time ago -- moves through the shrines, silent as the shadows she inhabits. A man joins her, and perhaps you relax, a little. He seems kind. The girl sees someone just past you. She smiles. You turn around to look, and you might smile too -- this man is clearly her brother, someone she loves very dearly.

Then, it all goes horribly wrong. The kindly man grabs the young girl by the shoulders, forcing her to face him. ]

Who are you?

[ He asks, low, menacing. The girl shakes her head, tries not to cry. ]

No one -- I'm -- I'm no one, please, he is not a girl's brother, she doesn't know him anymore.

[ The brother's face falls, betrayed. The girl shakes her head, crying. She never wanted to give up this. She can't.

The kindly man strikes her. The girl falls. She does not rise again. ]

HOPE.
[ A forest, lit by the full moon. You are surrounded by a pack of wolves. Perhaps you belong to them -- perhaps you are a wolf now, too. The pack is led by a great grey she-wolf, stronger and sharper than all the rest.

The pack catches a scent. The she-wolf howls. The pack responds, and the hunt begins. Off they go, running through the woods. They are free, fearless, powerful. Nothing can touch them now. Nothing ever has, and nothing ever will.

The she-wolf comes to you and grins, toothily.

Come! ]

hope

[unknowable]

[Adam has had some experience with not quite being himself, but this - this is different. Different and more than a little incredible, and he can't quite think. Or maybe he doesn't want to, maybe he wants to just be a wolf. There's a power there that's unlike the power he knows, what little he's ever had.

How could he refuse, when he is invited? So he doesn't, of course. The forest calms him the way Cabeswater does, a way that isn't really calming. More like cleansing, maybe, but that a distinction he doesn't care about.

The cool moonlight is an invitation in and of itself. The power of it is more than that. He smiles, as best he can, and follows.]

Rey

[circumitus]

[OOC: Going to make individual comments for easier tracking purposes! If you need to contact me for anything, hit me up on AIM, Plurk, or PM!

OPEN

[circumitus]

I. Fear: Dreamfall

At first, it's the sound of gunfire.

Then she falls. And she is afraid, because she will fall forever. Plummeting headfirst down an indiscernible black.

You may find yourself here by chance. There is a bridge that presents itself, all the while a scar-faced woman with a bullet hole in the side of her head plunges from a skyscraper. She may pass by you, but don't worry -- she'll (somehow) come falling back down again from that empty nothingness that seems to stretch on and on into the heavens.

II. Hope: The Hotel

It's called the Dvina Hotel. Not that you can read it, unless if Russian happens to be your thing. What had once been a thriving establishment is now completely frozen over. Abandoned. There are no people, no signs of life here.

That is, save for the fireplace in the lobby, where some frozen furniture lies. A lively flame burns from the bricked hearth, offering the only warmth there is in this lonely room.

Except you're not really alone. As you approach the couch, two women lay curled up over the icy cushions, one of them holding onto the other. The redhead shivers, dead to the world in her cold sleep while the scar-faced woman brings her close. You may notice a heat radiating from her body, inviting more heat than even the fire.

"Don't wake her," the scarred woman whispers.

There is something nice about people when they sleep. She just likes them better this way.

lilith | open

[cashlin]

[interact however you feel, i'm totally open! c: if you'd like to hash out something more specific, pm me here or pp me at smithsyndicate.

cw for violence, death, gore, and scary monsters from outer space]

RAGE; she bruises, coughs, she splutters pistol shots

[cashlin]

[It's Brick who goes down first, thrown back with a sickening crunch of bone into the stone Eridian ruin. Mordecai dives after him with a shout, flanked as ever by Bloodwing; Lilith's eyes dart from Mordecai jamming a healing injection into Brick's thigh to Roland, hastily reloading his rifle with ammo looted from a dead Lanceman. He looks her in the eye and barks something in her direction, but he's completely unintelligible. Above the hail of her teammates' gunfire, and not above the deafening roar of the otherworldly beast that looms above them, she can't make out a damned word.

The Destroyer is enormous. It writhes. It hisses, spits acid and a crackling purple energy that makes the skin on her tattooed arm crawl. But she isn't afraid. She faces the creature with both feet on the ground and with her gun in her hands.

Don't give up! pleads the Guardian Angel, directly into her communicator. She can't make the rest of it out--]

Roland! [--nor does she particularly want to. It quickly becomes apparent what he'd been yelling at her about: she narrowly tumbles out of the way of one of the creature's thick, whip-like appendages. Her de facto commander, however, isn't so lucky. It lashes at him, and with a harsh crack the thick material of the Crimson Lance armor on his shoulder breaks into four jagged pieces. The force sends him to the ground. Lilith wastes no time in shooting the tentacle down at its glowing, knuckle-like joint.

--in this reality, it cannot survive without a host! That makes it vulnerable. When it becomes flesh and blood, it can be hurt, even killed, continues Angel.] Shut up, shut up, shut up, [mutters Lilith, through gritted teeth. She moves on instinct. Dodge everything that flies your way and pray your team has your back enough to keep most of it off you. She's by Roland's side almost as fast as if she'd phased there, pulling him to his feet and kicking the shards of armor away into the dust.

There's no reward here. There are no riches, no cache of alien weaponry, no boundless Eridian treasure. Only a mysterious voice that fed them lies and got the three people on this godforsaken planet that she cared about the most to throw their lives at some stupid fucking space octopus.

This is not what they were hunting. This is all wrong.]

You all right?

[Roland nods and rubs gingerly at his shoulder. Together, they draw their guns and point them at the mass of wet blue matter that is the Destroyer's eye.

You just need to know where to aim...]

johanna mason | fear, rage, delight

[morphinum]

FEAR. cw: torture.
[ Johanna Mason steps out into the rain. Everything is peaceful for a moment, but then the drops hit her skin, and everything falls apart. The dream blacks out, and the only thing that the visitor perceives, for now, is Johanna's muffled cries.

The dream appears in flashes, harsh, dissonant, disjointed.

A cell. No windows, no door. Johanna paces around it, muttering to herself. She has not eaten in days. When she still has energy, she punches a wall or yells. She sits on the edge of a cot. She doesn't have much energy next door.

Screams from next door. Blackout.

Two men open enter her prison. Johanna remains rooted to her spot, gripping the edge of the cot. The men are wearing surgical masks. Johanna can see nothing but their eyes. They grab her. Blackout.

We have a couple questions for you, Johanna.

They strip her naked and plunge her in an icy bath. She shivers, not only out of cold, but out of fear. Blackout.

The men bring wires. The dream becomes more piecemeal at this point, flickering in and out of awareness. They tape the wires to Johanna's skin. They leave no body part untouched, not even the head, which they shaved for this purpose.

Tell us about the Mockingjay.

Johanna screams when the current enters her body. She screams and she shakes, but she does not speak in words. She can't anymore. She gave up all her secrets a long time ago. The current keeps coming, and coming, and coming. When they remove the wires, Johanna is shaking, unable to move. They drag her from the tub and throw her back in the cell.

The screams next door still don't stop. ]

RAGE.
[ The rebels win. They decide to hold a Games for the people of the Capitol, to give them a taste of their own torture. No one is more supportive about it than Johanna. She even volunteers as tribute, to represent the victors.

You and Johanna stand in the center of a large arena. This year's theme is a ruined cityscape. Johanna has an axe, but more importantly, she has bloodlust. She moves through the ruined city in the dim lighting, snarling, ready to kill. She sees you move, and assumes you are an enemy. This is a fight to the death, after all. She glares at you, stands up straight, and hurls her axe with sickening speed in your direction. ]

DELIGHT.
[ You are standing in a beautiful pine forest. The trees are tall and old, strong and fragrant. There is no one cutting them down today. Nature is completely unaltered, except for the small stone path that meanders its way through the forest. Off in the distance, a bird sings.

You see two figures walking along the path. One is Johanna, and the other is a boy younger than she, but somehow, you know that this boy is her older brother. That the only reason she is older now was that he died too soon.

Johanna doesn't speak much, but the brother does. He is lively, obviously intelligent. When he speaks, he talks with his hands, and his whole face lights up. Johanna's face is different, too. It's softer than it ever was in the waking world. She's smiling, just a little bit, and holding the boy's hand tightly. She loves him. She loves this place. The dream itself seems to glow with that warmth, that peace. ]

delight

[strangelic]

[ Castiel is drawn in by the beauty of the forest. Normally speaking, he's learned not to intrude in other people's dreams unless there is a good reason to do so--unless the world is on the line. It feels intrusive to be forced into it now, slipping into another's dreaming unwillingly. It's unfair on them.

But the forest is different. It feels different to his own dreams, all of which turned to horrors. No--this is peaceful, and Castiel feels its warmth sliding into him, filing him absolutely. He breathes in the pine smell, and exhales relief.

When he steps onto the path, he knows it's the dreamer who walks just ahead of him. She seems content, and he's not in a hurry to disturb her, although he supposes the presence of a stranger in something so peaceful is bound to be exactly that. He could tear himself away, probably, use his own ability to wrench himself free and leave her be, but this is an oasis, a peaceful spot in all the horrors he's been enduring here, and after facing Hell itself in his own mind, it's something he needs. Craves. The sun cutting through the greenery is alive, thrilling nature, and oh, he already misses the sun.

It'll be okay if he stays just a little longer. ]

gojyo | open

[inappropriatelaughter]

FEAR ☠ WEEDS (cw body horror)

[ A thick forest at night. The moon is impossibly large, and it lights in blue what doesn't lie in the shadow of foliage: dense undergrowth, a circle of dirt about as wide as a person is tall, someone's campfire long since gone cold.

Off in the darkness, echoing, the sound of crashing leaves: something large is moving. Not quickly, not in any particular direction; but if you wait and listen you can hear his voice. He's struggling, out of breath, shouting for effort. Trying to reach something in the branches, maybe. He is desperate.

Your limbs are oddly numb. You feel sure that the longer you stand still, the harder it will be to move them. Your heart is working very, very hard. ]

FEAR ☠ BBQ '79 (cw general brutality?)

[ At first glance it's a beautiful evening: pleasantly cool, the sun is setting behind a hill, and the smell of a wood fire drifts out of a little shelter—a rustic log-built pavilion with a shed attached. A large stone firepit full of nice red coals, popping and crackling, sits in the center of that pavilion; there's a cast-iron grate on top for grilling what would have to be an inordinate amount of meat.

And there's Gojyo, poking at the coals with a long stick. A couple of beers, fresh out of a cooler, sit on a workbench behind him. Oh—he's noticed you. He raises a beer in your direction, friendly and inviting. ]

Hey, c'mere. You know how to grill stuff the right way?

[ There's a lump on the other side of the firepit, person-shaped, curled up in a protective ball in the dirt. Their clothes are soaked with blood. They're still breathing. ]

[NOTES if you want anything different/specific (dean??), feel free to pm or pp elegiae, or, you know, go nuts and I'll run with it.]

BBQ

[foundafamily]

[Booze and the promise of food, huh? This doesn't seem so bad. Firo puts his hands in his pockets as he eyes his friendly host. He doesn't know this guy, so he's wary at first, but that doesn't keep him from nodding a hello.]

There's a right way?

[He glances around the area, then freezes, staring at the crumpled heap on the ground. His mind doesn't yet connect the dots--not consciously--that's just too sick, right?]

What's up with him?

[ooc: Please let me know if this isn't okay!]

Noah | Fear and Delight | Open

[casperdisaster]

Noah's dreams play out almost like movies. They'll go on without any interaction from the observer, but a visitor is welcome to try to tear them off their chosen path.

FEAR - Two lines, no waiting nights (cw gore)

The and last night of dreaming for Noah are old territory worn down for Noah, for his friends. It starts off earlier than the one act tragedy they're used to, murder in eleven minutes.

It starts over an hour earlier, and isn't frightening at first. In the dense Virginia forest a living breathing Noah parks his bright red Mustang and climbs out of the driver's side where a familiar figure gets out of the passenger side. Barrington Whelk, 2006 edition. The features that required a bit of look to find attractive, that just seemed a little large on the face of a man in his mid-twenties look perfectly in place on the seventeen year old. His black hair is mussed from running his hands through it in the stress that's threatening to overtake him. Whelk and the car are in stark detail, almost too much for reality compared to Noah, compared to the forest.

Noah tries to talk to Whelk a few times, to distract him from whatever is troubling him, but Whelk isn't interested in what Noah has to say. Noah shrugs and moves on with what they came here to do. He's worried about his friend, but he trusts he'll get over it. They're best friends but it isn't like they'd die for one another.

The woods get darker, traveling through them. The branches above block out all sunlight, and something about them seems sinister. There's an eerie quiet. Noah takes no notice of it as Whelk lags behind, grabs Noah's skateboard from his car. Noah's concerned with looking for something, calling back to Whelk from time to time.

He doesn't notice anything until Whelk - face stricken with grief but a grim determination - brings the skateboard down on the side of his face. Hard. Hard enough for there to be a sickening crack.

It takes more than one blow. Whelk struggles through each, but it doesn't stop him. Noah doesn't even get a chance to scream, gasping wetly for air as he starts to choke on his own blood. Between the first blow and Noah finally stilling on the ground takes only six minutes, but they stretch into forever, the world growing ever dimmer until darkness takes the whole dream with the last beat of Noah's heart.

The lights return to Noah parking his red Mustang in the dense Virgina forest. He gets out of the driver's side, while Whelk climbs out of the passenger side...



DELIGHT #1 - Someone you can kiss

It's home.

Well, it's Monmouth Manufacturing, the office space above the warehouse that Gansey retrofitted into an apartment. Beautiful with its vaulted ceilings, walls taking up whole windows, an assortment of books and artifact treasures scattered carelessly about. His model of downtown Henrietta in miniature across the floor, a loving construction made of cereal boxes, paint, and glue.

Noah (dead, faded) opens the door and lets Blue inside. Compared to how faded Noah is, she's as stark and real, the colors on her eclectic wardrobe even more vibrant and bright than they were in reality. Monmouth has the same care taken for it, hyper-real in this dream space. Only Noah and Blue are there, and they proceed to waste an afternoon together. They jump on Noah's bed, Blue drinks a juice, they take turns trying a leaf each from Gansey's mint plant. Just two youths being youths and wasting time together. It's idyllic in the peace it offers, Blue's laughter echoing in the space like music.

They end up laying on Gansey's bed in the middle of the room, just talking, then more than just talking. The first kiss is hesitant and doesn't go too well, but Noah talks Blue into giving him another shot at it and the second goes much better - one slow and sweet kiss merging into the next, then another, then another.

It's Noah's dream. They kiss for much longer than it happened in reality.



DELIGHT #2 - When you were young


It's no season.

It's every season.

It's the kind of vague that insists that the observer not think too much on it, not try to make sense of it. Noah and Whelk sit on the hood of Noah's mustang. As before, Whelk and the mustang are in hyper-saturated colors, their details even more real than reality. Everything else is faded, washed out, like it can't decide or remember what it's supposed to be. They're... under one of those overhangs at parks that are above areas that you can rent for barbeques. Is it because it's raining? To function as cover from oppressive sunlight?

They've got a bag of fast food of some kind between them, but they're more interested at throwing what's left of the meal to the lake ducks than actually eating it. Sometimes they throw bits of lettuce at each other though. The dregs of fast food is never ending as the two teenagers talk about inconsequential things. Parties, drinks, classes, whatever Whelk wants to do next about ley line hunting.

It's peaceful, and there's a sense of warm contentment across everything.

It wasn't all bad. There was a reason that Noah trusted him. They had been friends.

Noah's Mustang is functioning as a radio, Carbon Leaf's Indian Summer album playing on eternal repeat as the background music of the dream.

delight #1

[unknowable]

He thinks it might be Gansey's dream, at first. It's Monmouth, after all, so Gansey's dream or Ronan's, and Adam's been in enough of Ronan's that he thinks he'd know. So it must be Gansey's - or so he thinks until he sees Noah. Until Blue comes in.

He watches, awkwardly. But it's a happy dream, they're enjoying themselves, nothing seems to be about to leap out of the shadows to tear them to pieces. That's nice.

Adam isn't expecting them to start kissing. It's embarrassing, more because he's an unwilling witness than anything else. He isn't going to judge if Noah dreams about kissing Blue - Adam has had his own allotment of dreams about kissing, and while he doesn't need to dream it anymore, he still would be bothered if someone judged him for it.

He thinks he should probably leave, but he doesn't know how, so he lingers and hopes that clothing doesn't start coming off.

cullen rutherford. open.

[smited]

[ dreams in subsequent comments because otherwise this'll get hella long. content warnings at the top of each comment. feel free to jump in wherever or hit me up on plurk (chanterie) if you want to hash something specific out! c: ]

FEAR.

[smited]

CW: GORE, DEATH, TORTURE, SEXUAL ASSAULT.

[ he is nineteen.

there are no age lines on his face, though his dark circles are darker then ever, bruise-like under his eyes. his hair is curly, matted with sweat and blood in spots, much like the gambeson he wears. across the floor from him is his breastplate, discarded and slightly misshapen, leaning against the purple barrier that separates cullen from the rest of the room.

strange, fleshy messes coat the walls and part of the floors of this small room. there are bodies strewn across the floor. there is farris, his throat slit and a look of horror frozen on his face. there is beval, his armor and ribcage both ripped open, vital organs spilling onto the floor. annlise is still alive (for now) but a mage stands over her, pulling blood from her wounds and casting a spell that has her screaming and clawing at her face. the sound mingles with the sounds of horror coming from up the stairs--shouts of pain, curses, horrible wet sounds, and the crack of breaking bones.

in his cage, cullen trembles. he sits on his knees and presses his forehead to the floor. though his mouth and throat are dry--have been for hours or days now, he can't tell which--he prays. recites the chant of light until his voice cracks again.

behind him, a desire demon laughs. its hands rest on his tense shoulders then dig in, hauling him upright. come now, it whispers, lips pressed to his ear and breasts pressed against his back. you know that won't help you. just give in. i could give you everything you dream of.

it shifts, covering itself in an illusion of some kind that makes him see it as human. the voice it uses is different. familiar to him. ser cullen, please, the demon says, hands slipping around him and sliding slowly down his chest towards where his tassets are still buckled on. i've seen you watching me in the library. the way you blush when i say hello. don't you want me?

cullen rips himself away from the demon with a strangled yell. his palms slam into the barrier like they have so many times before and it doesn't budge. across the room, annlise's screams fade as the mage pulls the last of her lifeblood out of her body.

his knees slam into the stone floor once again. ]

No more. Please, no more.

Bigby Wolf | The Wolf Among Us | OTA | CW: gore

[blowyoudown]

FEAR (1): Alone in the world

[Youngest of seven, runt of the litter, abandoned by his brothers who left to seek out their father, alone to protect the corpse of his mother.

To protect it, but he's failing.

His mother's body, another wolf, lies motionless behind him, too large from his perspective: or perhaps he is that small, just a babe, unable to stop the scavengers moving in. Every time he spots one, two more step in from the shadows; for every one he stops, another has reached his mother to desecrate her corpse.

Feel free to simply watch him struggle; the dream won't until he wakes, monsters simply coming ad infinitum until he wakes up. Or you can help protect him, stopping the faceless, shapeless masses from eating his mother.]

-----

FEAR (2): Monster in the Mirror

[His studio apartment is a single room, barely enough for the couch he calls a bed and the fridge around the corner. But even as he reclines in his chair, it seems to shrink, and as claustrophobia starts to settle in he rises from his chair - only for a black boot to land and forcefully push him back into his seat. He looks up, and Bloody Mary, human in the worst possible way, staring down at him with glee as she bounces the Woodsman's axe on her bony shoulder. She lifts it in both hands to swing as his head, but the room tilts and throws them both into a factory, filled with ugly yellow lights that make black shadows between titanic vats and looping conveyer belts, all supported by girders extending off into infinity.

There's a sense of panic and urgency in the dream; Bigby is being hunted, by Bloody Mary's true form, a glass-embedded demon that hisses and darts through the building, too fast to follow and out for blood, and she doesn't care whose.]

-----

RAGE: Who's afraid...

[Bigby is a monster and he knows it. Everyone is so quick to remind him, after all. He used to relish it. Live for the thrill of taking down a larger opponent every day. Growing bigger and more monstrous, more terrifying. And the dream he has, courtesy of Rage, is less of a fantasy than an amalgamation of old memories.

He rips at anything that stands in his way, teeth sinking into flesh and armour alike and swallowing whole. Armies fall before him and he's left in the centre of a ring of dismembered, bloodied corpses, howling for more.

Then, somehow, he's the werewolf: grey fur, golden eyes and claws that rend flesh like silk, and his targets are somehow more and less human. Weak facsimiles of the Fables he's supposed to protect fall before his fury and might. Grendel, his head missing along with his arm; both Tweedles, indistinguishable before, are even more so now that their chests are both caved in; Bloody Mary in pieces, the Crooked Man in twain, the Woodsman's axe buried in his own stomach...

Even his friends don't escape. Those who know them would recognise the corpses of Snow White and even Colin lumped in with the rest. And Bigby still stands, still panting, still burning to destroy more.

Then he turns to you.]

fear 1

[murderpotato]

[Gren ought to just sit back and let the little runt suffer, just watch all of this and see how it plays out. Hell, he's stronger than Bigby Wolf is right now, so he'd be justified in going over and holding him down and making him watch what happens next. It would be cruel of him, but Wolf is cruel too and he doesn't kid himself to think that he's any better.]

[Except that Gren knows what it's like to be motherless; he held the headless corpse of his own once, the end result of violence of his own making, and he knows very well that nothing quite cuts like it.]

[Something darts past him, heading for the body while the wolf runt is busy with others, and Gren decides in that split second.]

[He grabs the thing by its back legs with one monstrous hand and tosses it away; it squeals in pain when it strikes ground again. More come in to replace it, but he is much bigger than one lone wolf cub and a harder barrier to get by.]

steve rogers | open (cw: sickness, blood)

[prespangled]

Fear:

[The room is small, which makes it easier to smell the sickness that permeates it. It's uncomfortably warm too, enough to make a person break out into a sweat, cooling the body until the shivers follow. There's not much here, just a record player that's spinning a warped record skipping words, dragging. There's a surreal quality to it all; all the colors seem muted.

There's a bed in the middle of the room, and in it the thin figure of one Steve Rogers, twisted up and fighting the white sheets that cover his feverish body. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated. He takes in ragged breaths, but the the rapid way that his narrow chest works suggest that it's not making it to his lungs. He arches off the bed with every futile attempt.

He's alone, and he's been alone for a long time. Look away from the pitiful scene and you might see an opened, very official looking letter on the floor:

It is with our sincerest condolences that we write to inform you of the death of Sergeant James B. Barnes of the 107th...]

Delight:

[The brass band on the other side of the room is bright and lively, but so is the chatter and laughter that can be heard just beneath it. There's plenty of couples on the dance floor, but there's also tables full of men in uniform, drinking, laughing. The war has been left at the door. Everything feels simpler, but happier too.

Steve is at least a head shorter than most of the other soldiers. But his uniform is crisp and modestly decorated. He stands just at the edge of the dance floor, closer than he normally gets. He's watching, looking, yes, delighted. When he turns to face you, he seems a little nervous too, but his voice is confident as he offers his hand. You look like the perfect partner.]

I think they're playing out song. Care to dance?

Rage:

[Blood splashes against the brick. The back alley is narrow, and two broad-shouldered guys all but block either end of it. They sneer, they call names.

Steve Rogers is trapped between them, knocked down and bloodied. It's not escape that he's going for once he's back on his feet. He sways on unsteady legs, scraped knuckles lifted before he lunges again. Another knockdown. Another struggle to his feet. His lip is split and bleeding down on the teeth that he bares at the guy like some angry little dog.]

I could do this all day.

[You could watch all day, this endless loop of piss and vinegar. Or maybe you'll step in and put an end to it.]

fear

[whichend]

[ Arya doesn't know what this place is called, but she knows exactly what it is. The sickbed, it seems, is a universal constant, and even though the beds are a little different, the smell of death is the same. It's strange, though, that there's only one person here, and Arya moves towards the bed to investigate, quietly. She doesn't want to disturb this person's rest.

When Arya gets close enough to realize it's Steve, her chest tightens, and she stops, just briefly. But she knows she can't leave him -- he's her friend. Always has been. So Arya pulls up a chair and pointedly ignores the letter on the floor. ]

Hello. [ Arya says, softly but not overly sad. ] If I knew you were here, I would have brought your little fireflies.

adam parrish | open | fear & delight

[unknowable]

[fear: it's in your blood; cw: abuse]

[The room is dingy, cramped, small. The kitchen is the dining room, right next to the living room, right next to the master bedroom, everything crammed into a small space. Nothing is nice, nothing is expensive, everything is old and used up and stained. It's all washed out, sickening yellow light coming from nowhere in particular. There's a messy pile of empty beer bottles by the old sofa, a pile of ancient car magazines, old plates stacked on the tiny endtable.

Adam's father doesn't look much like him, not until you look hard enough to match the ashy blue eyes, the furrowed brows. He's got at least fifty pounds on his son, maybe more, and a couple inches as well. Adam's not a small person, normally, but right now he seems smaller, shrinking beneath the weight of his father's anger. Cringing away, because he knows what's coming and he knows there's no way to stop it. If he can find the right words, say what his father wants to hear - it doesn't help, usually, but once or twice it has. It's the only defense he has. No one will step in, no one ever has.

His mother is there, in the kitchen, watching her husband and her son. Her lips are pressed together, eyes judging rather than afraid. Surely Adam did something to deserve this, after all. He has a smarter mouth than he should, snobbish airs about going to school and getting out of here, he disappears at odd hours and tonight he missed dinner, out with those rich brat friends of his. Not at work. That might have been okay.

Adam's father shouts in his face, red with anger, and when Adam doesn't respond with the right words - his eyes somewhere between distant and frantic - he grips Adam's collar, shakes him hard.

You think you're too good for us now?

And Adam denies it, of course he does, but it's not the proper tone of apology, or not quite the right words, or maybe Robert Parrish was always going to hit him. And he does, hard across the face, letting go of him at the same time so Adam stumbles and catches himself against the wall. The shadows in the corners of the house grow, whispering.

Look me in the eye when I'm talking to you, his father shouts, and wraps his hand around Adam's upper arm, pulling him up straight. You ungrateful piece of shit.]


[delight: arbore loqui latines]

[Far more serene and peaceful than the nightmare of other nights, in this dream there's a forest. The sun shines down through the trees, softening the light, and the grass underfoot is the softest of natural carpets. It's not a cultivated forest, it's old and wild and there are things that are hard to understand, shadows and brightness that doesn't quite make sense. But it's beautiful, impossibly so. Maybe because it's a dream, except of course it isn't quite that. This is a real place, for Adam.

He's not immediately visible. Only the forest is, colorful wildflowers nestled in soft clumps of grass, the gentle sound of water flowing not far away. Idyllic.

The wind blows through the trees, and as the branches move, they shiver against each other. It almost sounds like they're talking, distant and improbable, but slowly it resolves into what is definitely speech. It's not something understandable, though, not unless you speak Latin. But if you do - the trees are talking, and they're welcoming you. Where are you going? Go in peace. This isn't your place, but you can come.

There's an edge of danger to it all, this is not quite paradise. But right now, in this dream, it's perfect.

From deeper in the forest comes the sound of laughter, quiet but still audible. Magician, the trees say, if you can understand them.]

[or contact me for something else!]

delight

[whichend]

[ Arya does not know this place, but she thinks she knows a place like this.

Of all the dreams she's visited, this one is more obviously a dream than any other. How could it be anything but? There is too much power in this place to exist anywhere else, Arya thinks. It's too perfect. She moves silently, respectfully though the forest. It reminds her a little of Winterfell's godswood. The gods spoke there, too, although they did it through wind and not through language.

She comes to the edge of a small clearing, and doesn't dare go any further. She doesn't want to trample on the wildflowers. Instead, she tries speaking back, for once. She figures the trees might not listen to someone like her, but it's worth a shot. When she speaks, she speaks in careful, slow High Valyrian. It's not the exact language of these trees, but if Westeros had a language of the gods, she figures High Valyrian is it.

She asks the trees the question she's been struggling with for so long. ]

Who are you?

Wade Wilson | Fear, Delight, Hope | OTA

[ishotyouuu]

FEAR (cw: torture, medical horror)

[ishotyouuu]

[He's hoisted unceremoniously from his cot in the dead of night, half-dragged out of his medical room-cum-cell before he even has a chance to find his feet. Wade lets them drag him for a while; goes limp like a child so that they'll have to use more of their strength to move him. In a place like this, you have to grab whatever freedom you can find it.

Christ. Don't you fuckin' guys ever sleep?

No response. They want to respond, of course; want to hit him, most likely. But dear ol' Frankie boy won't allow it. Killebrew's gone home for the night, slaked his lust for screams and blood and viscera and headed home to sleep off the heady miasma that overtakes him whenever he's got someone on a gurney. Which doesn't mean that his precious little lab rats aren't out of the woods yet, oh no. It just means that the torture's changes hands, and Francis tends to be just as sadistic as his employer. Not as clever, of course, but he does well with what little brains he has. And he wants Wade all to himself tonight.

Wade has a special smile for him as he's dragged into the room; strapped to a medical table by rough hands-- that familiar sting of ice-cold metal, the pinch of straps against unresisting flesh.

What's it gonna be this time, Francis? Deprivation tank? Acid bath? Or maybe you're just gonna spank me. Do me a favor-- get in real close and smooch my cancerous keister while you're at it. Give it some love.

Francis smiles back, little more than a chimp's grin. He does it long enough for Wade to feel a prickle of nervousness, of uncertainty, before the man reveals his ace. Two little girls-- one with dark skin, one with olive skin-- strapped to some kind of machinery, making them look like odd crucifixion reenactments. They've both been shaven bald. The little black girl is crying; the other one is defiant, downright murderous. She's also bleeding from the nose. It's not hard to piece together what transpired here, but that's not what Wade is concerned about.

What concerns him-- downright terrifies him-- is that he knows these two little girls. All the times he's lived with them in the same house, laughed with them, cried with them; swore fealty and devotion to them with every kiss and embrace and kind word. Jessica. Clementine. His daughters.

White-hot rage explodes in his brain, rage and terror so all-encompassing that he swears his heart stops with it. It must have shown on his face, for Francis grins and sweeps his arm as if he's a game show host presenting a prize. Displaced punishment, Wade. I can't kill you, because that's what you want. So I'm just going to do whatever I want to these two adorable little darlings. Everything I've ever wanted to do to you, I'll do to them. Let's start youngest to oldest, shall we?

Francis crosses the room like a dancer; saunters over to a table full of various implements. He picks up a pair of pliers and moves over to where Jessica is prone, allowing her to see the instrument as if inviting her to share in the beauty of it. Her eyes grow wide with terror, her breath coming short inside her little chest, and yet she doesn't scream. Tears still stream down her face in a flood, but she still doesn't let out anything louder than a whimper.

Wade strains against his bonds until he's close to having an aneurysm. The only thing that occupies his mind right now are the muted frightened noises of his little girl, a sound guaranteed to make even the most cowardly of parents completely morph into roaring, raging weapons of mass destruction. Frances watches his own potential murderer with the quirk of a curious smile on his face before turning back to Jessica, grasping her hands roughly so that she's unable to curl her fingers inward; so that she's unable to protect them. The pliers grip her ring finger tightly.

What is it that Doctor Killebrew always says to you? Oh yes. This is going to hurt, Wade. And you're going to scream.

The pliers twist cruelly in Francis's hands; there is a loud, nauseating crack as the bone is snapped in two. Jessica's tortured shriek reverberates throughout the room, but Wade hardly hears it over the pounding of blood in his ears. He opens his mouth. And screams.]

cecily trevelyan ; fear, rage, hope ; ota

[closerift]

"and the cloud that took the form" ( fear )

[closerift]

(when the rest of heaven was blue) / of a demon in my view --

cw: mild violence, body horror

[ Fire burns hot and bright, searingly so, eating through everything in its path. It comes from somewhere high above, and if ever there was a chance of the flames dying on their own, it's all for naught as something continues to ignite them again and again. The village is small, old, and had been made from wood, had once been timber, but now is ash. From within its former residences and shops, there are screams of fear and pain that rise in crescendo and cease suddenly, unnaturally, only to arise again in other parts of the smoldering village. Those who aren't trapped stumble by, running for a church, or so it seems, though not all of them make it. The spurts of flames from the sky stop them in their tracks, or they're struck down by monstrous-looking soldiers who are almost completely not themselves. Their eyes fall on the dreamer, Cecily, and she has to tear herself away to carry on, tearing down away from the safe haven that the others are fleeing toward and instead making for the gates. Before she can reach them, though, another twisted figure appears in the blink of an eye, towering over her. The Inquisitor comes to a halt, scrambling for a way around him, but she's seemingly frozen in place, shaking but unable to move as the red templars form a tight circle and their master approaches in an almost leisurely way, his distorted figures upturning in a gruesome smile, his hand crackling scarlet--

The scene changes and Cecily is in a dank basement, dark and wet, with only the glow of pulsing crystals to help her see. Their light reflects in her wide eyes and she gets to her feet with a look of mingled confusion and terror. Almost instinctively, the Inquisitor makes for the door, pushing it aside and walking through empty halls. Somehow, she seems to know where she's going, though she looks incredibly uncertain about it all the same. She stops in front of one door and slips her fingers around the heavy, iron latch before opening it... and nearly tripping backwards. In the doorway stands a woman who doesn't move, but hovers, eyes threaded with that eerie red. The other doors (as there are suddenly dozens lining the hall) crash open, each with a figure on the threshold. Some are recognizable as current or former Hadriel residents (Sera, Cullen, Cole, Rainier, Dorian), but others have never been in the city, and are members of the Inquisition gone very wrong. They watch her calmly, but she couldn't be more panicked, seemingly trying to shrink away from them as their calculating stares pierce through her like spears.

"We never saw anything in you. It was all a lie," says the first woman, Cassandra Pentaghast, more factual than bitter. "You are no leader. We were desperate, it's true, but you were a mistake."

Gradually, their bodies morph to become more red lyrium and less human. Cecily can't bring herself to leave, but watches in sickened horror as their skin becomes crystal, as it branches out from their limbs to web in the doorways around them. Eventually, they're almost entirely misshapen, glinting statues, but somehow she can still make out their eyes, fixed eternally on her frenzied expression.

"I went back, we fixed it-- this never happened!" Cecily cries, her voice wavering heavily. "I-- Dorian stopped this, you never had to..."

But, the evidence is difficult to refute when it's right in front of her. The icy hand of truth clutches at her and she shivers violently, wrapping her arms around herself.

The hallway is now a tunnel deep beneath the ground, just as dark as the bleak, nightmarish version of Redcliffe Castle. Gone are the decayed forms of her friends; Cecily is alone. The Inquisitor finally moves, walking with a stunted pace through the chilled corridor. There are no monsters or demons, but there aren't any people, either. She isn't dressed for the temperature or the weather and once the tunnel spills out to the mountains, it's clear that, unless there is a village nearby, she won't make it for very long. The wind howls and batters her, the snow up to her knees as she trudges through it. The cold is intense and settles far beneath her bones, eventually bringing her to a stop. Trees are scarce and barren, she has no weapons or resources at her disposal. Her clothes are thin and no protection at all. It isn't long before she falls to he knees, half-buried, dark eyes dull as she stares ahead into the storm.

She'd volunteered for death, and now she was being held to that agreement. There are no fires, no voices calling out and looking for her.

No one is coming. ]

josh washington | open | fear & rage

[pighead]

[fear: snowy mountain blues; cw: death, cannibalism]

[When Josh has nightmares, they're only about himself some of the time. He's got fertile ground there, of course, plenty of things to be worried about, to be afraid of. But those paths are well-worn, mostly the sort of thing he's been dealing with (failing to deal with) for years. Losing himself, losing control, losing everything. It could happen, it has happened.

But things can always get worse.

He didn't see what happened to his sisters. He didn't see it, but he knows. He knows it intimately, now, particularly since this place worked its terror on him and he fell to the same fate as Hannah.

All that means is that his dreams are vivid, detailed, horrifying.

Beth is already dead, there at the bottom of the cave. Mineshaft? Both, maybe. Her body is broken and still, eyes wide and unseeing. But Hannah is alive. Not intact, no, not quite - too injured to get out on her own. Too injured to do anything but starve. So that's what she's doing. Starving, wasting away, so hungry he can't stand it anymore. So hungry there's nothing else she can do, so hungry she can't control herself.

So hungry that, crying, she sinks her teeth into her twin's arm and begins to tear. Begins to chew.

Josh is watching, in the shadows, unable to stop it, unable to do anything.]


[rage: the house on haunted hill; cw: horror movie tropes]

[The room is dark, lit here and there by the soft light of candles. It should be calming, beautiful, but the overall effect is sinister. Perhaps it's the house itself - old, abandoned, but clearly people once lived here. There's furniture, some of it covered by sheets to make unrecognizeable shapes in the dark. On the walls hang portraits, but when you get close enough to see the people in them - it's hard in the dark - you discover that their features are blurred. Their eyes are empty, mouths curved wide with too many teeth.

Behind you, the door to the room swings open, creaking as it does. Outside the room, everything is dark, but you can faintly see a hallway curving away.

From down the hall comes the sound of footsteps, then faint laughter. Then, suddenly, a piercing scream.

Then silence, and the candles begin to go out, one by one.]


[or contact me if you'd like to do something else!]

fear

[dogsanddaughters]

[This is how it starts. There's darkness and wet rocks, a cave made out of earth and not metal, and two girls on the ground with broken-doll bodies, everything all wrong. One's dead. Bashed her brains out on the rocks. It happens, Miriam thinks, crouching behind a deep shadow, one arm pulled tight around Barnaby. The other's wheezing, alive but not right, crying, crying, crying. Reaching out and --]

No, uh-uh. [Miriam peers out, on her hands and knees in the dark.] Lady, lady, don't, I'll....I'll help you, ain't that nice?

[Barnaby whines. There's something watching, someone else in the dark, but Miriam can't see them quite right. She just knows they're there.]