SLEEPING BEAUTIES: DREAM LOG

[yourkeepers]

Bewitched by the thorn's touch, you have been ensnared in the deepest of sleep. Fortunately for you, the world of Faerie doesn't end with the waking.

The world of your dreams is brighter now, more clear than you've ever witnessed it. You've been it before, you think, there fragments of yourself become reality. But now you are somehow more lucid in its presence, and it's more real - something you can reach out and touch.

You find yourself in this world, and you are not alone. Your dreams and those of other join at the edges, pulling into each other along similar threads.

And you are watched by something even greater.

Comments

OTA

[peafowl]

The twins had finally succumbed to the vines and here, in this dream world, they walk endless dark streets of tenements and crumbling stately houses. They don't know it and won't remember it, but the streets are a dim echo of the ghettoes of their childhood.

The wind rises and whistles down the narrow streets and high above them, a pinprick of a blood-red moon casts baleful light on sheer walls umarred by windows.

The twins huddle together in an alleyway, covering their faces, trying to hide from the wind and the feeling of being watched.

[seerchlight]

And somehow, the purple beehive streets shift into something more coherent, something a bit more down to earth. Lights drifts down these now foreign alleyways, wondering why everything went from familiar to unrecognizable.

This isn't really what he wanted to happen.

As it turns out, the two in the alleyway are the first other changelings he sees.

"Yo! What the hell are you doing over there?"

[familicide]

It starts as a roar, far-off at first but growing closer at an alarming speed. At first, it's indistinct, only a mess of raucous sound, but as it gets closer, individual bursts of noise start to make themselves known. There, a crack of stone, bricks and tiles shattering as old wooden beams snap and splinter. And there, a crackling explosion, a rush of intense fire.

It's the fire in particular that's the loudest and black smoke, peppered with cinders and sparks and ash, begins to streak across the sky. The inferno is consuming the beaten homes at an alarming rate, stretching from visible horizon to visible horizon, painting the land in ominous, nightmarish hues of orange and red.

There's someone running ahead of it all, a young man in what might might have once been lavish and well-made but were now charred and torn. He's armed, a golden polearm slung over his shoulder, but his only intention at the moment seems to be to get away.

[ovidscholar]

This is a college town, he thinks, small, busy, and neat. He peeks into shops; no one tends the counters, and everything stays curiously quiet and still as though suspended in resin. He passes through the market and briefly considers taking apples from a cart. (He doesn't. He couldn't.)

The moon glares down on him. It seems to rise a little higher with each step he takes away from campus. Statues of wolves leer at him from every threshold and portico.

He thinks he hears wheels rattle on the stone, and he whips around the corner-- oh, but it's cold here!-- no carriage, just birds.

"Good evening."

[bloodand]

And there's a small shift, and there's a cathedral at the end of the street, and giant metal bars arch over the city. It's different, but not too different - even the cleanest of pilgrim cities still has some level of dirt and grime, some bad end of town.

That's where the redhead walks now, following his own footsteps through streets that seem too empty and too lively all at once. It's half-familiar, and he knows the path he's walking but can't remember where he's going. It's frustrating.

He sees motion in the corner, in the shadow of one of the arches, and stops in the moonlight (still red, somehow not a part of his dream). "Who's there?"

open to one thread

[virulentvexation]

It's evening here, inside the room from her memories, lit by torches near the door and moonlight in the back, through an open window carved out of the wall. The smell of the sea wafts through the room, filling the air with salt. Hardly anything is made of metal; those that are have corroded over years of salt exposure.

The woman stands before her, long and blonde of hair, clothed in dark browns and olives, a crossbow at her hip. She appears just as she had in the hydra's memory, save for one detail -- she is not moving. She does not speak, does not react. Rather than a person, she is a prop, without action or reaction.

The hydra stands where she had seen herself standing in the memory. She reaches out to touch the plate the other woman, the hunter, holds, sharp, black nails brushing against the ceramic, smearing one of the two drops of blood on its tip. No matter how long she stares, she cannot see what she had seen before-- no farther than the blood, nothing microscopic.

Uneasy, she turns away and leaves the familiarity of the room. Now it is her imagination that supplements her knowledge -- the hall she enters is similarly carved from earth, but unlit.

[intothehedge]

[ooc: hi! this is an NPC, so please don't feel obliged to use your one thread on this if you'd prefer to save it for an actual character c:]

Something moves there in the shadows – someone. A woman. She'd blend into them completely if it weren't for the shining blue marks on her skin. Unlike the motionless blonde woman, she is real, and it's clear just by looking at her.

Her black eyes shine; she touches the rough carved wall as if something about it, or about this place, intrigues her. She smiles.

"Hello there," she says. "Do you come here often? Or are you lost?"

OTA

[nosentimentalist]

It's an endless corridor.

No, really. It goes on forever, twisting and turning into places that look exactly the same, with bookshelves stuck in the walls and glass windows that show a hazy beige sky filled with clouds. And there's the omnipresent sound of ticking everywhere, filling your ears and distracting you from the possible right way to go.

The typewriter walks the corridor, and in front of him a very, very strange creature runs away. Occasionally, it falls over, but gets back up, dashing in different directions and never, ever staying too long for one to get a good glimpse of it.

This is odd. Very odd. The typewriter frowns, but he keeps following the thing, feeling somewhat paranoid that someone is watching what he is doing.

How can he find a way out of this place?

[seerchlight]

And from entering a building, Lights somewhere ends up here. Fuck, he knew that was a mistake. He should have stayed outside.

"Hello?" he calls impatiently down one of the endless corridors. The first thing he sees is that weirdass motherfucker running down the hallway. It doesn't seem to pay any attention to him as it runs by.

"What the fuck, even."

ota

[vinetattoos]

Chaos: a dream of death and fire, the screams of triumphant soldiers and wounded civilians, blood and smoke.

He struggles free of burning debris, watching a boulder fly overhead, launched from a catapult. His breathing is ragged, his eyes watering: he begins to run. He doesn't know where, just that he must run, he must hide.

[fuzzyduck]

Well, she definitely took a wrong turn somewhere.

Once the initial shock has passed, the Dog Girl runs too. She doesn't care where she's going, as long as it's not a warfield. Heck, the distressing quietude of the cloudy place would be very welcome right about now.

And so she bumps into someone else.

"Dude, get outta the way!" she roars, teeth bared.

OPEN

[chromaticscale]

You are now underwater. Or at least, that's the feeling you get from the myriad of fish and other aquatic life. Whales swim in the distance, keening mournful songs to each other. A pod of dolphins rushes by, chasing a school of frantic fish. Seahorses bob in what must be the current, though you can't feel it. You can't feel anything like water, really, and all other evidence aside, you're certainly not drowning.

Despite the deep blue darkness surrounding you, everything else is brightly lit-- the scales on the brightly colored fish shine, almost glowing, bioluminescent streaks on the hides of the dolphins leave light trails. The only thing not lit by this vague and unidentifiable light source is beneath you. Inky blackness stretches out below, but it seems like there may be something lurking down there-- but you can't quite make it out.

If you swim far enough, even back in the direction you came from originally, you'll see that the world curves around noticeably, as if in some kind of round container-- or bowl. Getting close enough to sides, you can make out a world beyond, but you cannot go there. It is brightly colored, perhaps made of coral? And while the distortion makes details difficult to discern, but you can see something shaped like a giant conch shell off in the distance. If there is a sky out there, it's not recognizable as one.

Feferi doesn't care about any of that. She's happily swimming amongst the fish, a little swarm of cuttlefish and there are even some crabs and clams click-clacking about her. It's like meeting an old friend again after a long time, and they frolick without purpose, because it's fun and they can. She laughs when she draws a cuttlefish up to her face and it tickles her with its tentacles.

Re: OPEN

[intothehedge]

And through the water comes another woman, this one a snowy white in body and dress. Her eyes are a deep and fierce red, in the same pitch as her long hair - hair that flows around her like a cloud in the water.

She swims slowly but confidently through the water, though she shows no labor for lack of air. She approaches the fish girl with her cuttlefish and begins to smile. She is very beautiful.

She giggles as the cuttlefish tickles, appreciating the other girl's fun.

Open

[whitepawn]

[He's not sure how long he has been wondering the halls of the castle grounds, but it's long enough that the peaceful quiet of the grounds has been interrupted by the fast clinking of armor as small groups of guards begin to rush frantically about. Names and orders have been shouted, but the thick walls of stone between the unicorn and the others make it impossible for him to determine what is really going on.

Something continues to niggle at the very back of his mind, something is without a doubt wrong. However, unable to ignore his own curiosity he keeps wandering, a pale hand set on the wall as he continues to move forward, guided in what direction he knows not, but it feels to be the right way.

Eventually, corridor of stone widens to reveal a much more open area lined with stone columns and archways that surrounds an interior garden. Finding comfort in the presence of the trees Anduin quickly takes his leave of the marbled pathway and slips among the foliage. Nearby he can make out the sound of slow moving water and the thought of a small lake comes quickly to his mind, which makes him smile.

However, the sound of approaching footsteps causes him to recoil against the nearest tree. Since his arrival on the castle grounds he hasn't actually physically seen anyone else and as the shadow cast on the stone wall grows larger he readies himself to greet friend or foe.]

[intothehedge]

"Don't be afraid," says a gentle voice. From behind him approaches a woman. She is so fair of skin as to be like porcelain, with shining red eyes and long red hair that trails behind her like a train. Her dress is simple and white to match her skin, though it seems to be comprised of nothing but a shifting cloud of mist that clings to her body.

She smiles at him.

OPEN

[fuzzyduck]

There are clouds beneath your feet and an open sky all around you. Everything seems serene--

Aside from the Dog Girl punching away at the glass cage she sits in. It seems big enough for at least two of her, but she's the only one there. Eventually, she resorts to throwing her (muscled, furry, clawed) weight at the glass wall in front of her. She crashes through. For a moment, she's sure she will fall right through to whatever's below, but instead she lands on soft, cotton-y fluff and gets back to her now less furry feet.

And then, the cage is gone. Or maybe it isn't. She isn't turning back to look at it, that's for certain, so it's up to you. And besides, it hardly matters at all if she happens not to see you. Shouldn't she be seeing someone, though? This place feels emptier than it should.

[nosentimentalist]

This place certainly is empty, and it almost makes the typewriter a little nervous. Shouldn't he, you know, be falling through the clouds right now? Whatever. The sight of this beast in her cage, piques his interest, though, so wanders over- and then stops in place when she crashes through the cage.

It takes him a few seconds to gather himself and respond.

"...You're not hurt?"

open!

[ex_maelstroms207]

[ Tea for two: a blanket upon the grass, the venue a meadow overlooking a mountainscape of russets and a cloudless sky of blue. With his palms to the earth and his legs tucked beneath him, the Fairest relaxes, leans back to take in the view—a pity, that he hasn't anyone to share this with, that one porcelain cup has gone untouched, its contents allowed to cool. Glancing down, he first considers the tea-tray, then its accompanying array of sweets, but finds himself tempted by neither, his gaze falling instead to the blanket beneath him.

But ah, it isn't a blanket, now is it? It is a vibrant garment, pink silk patterned with colored jacquard, and in his mind's eye, the escort fashions an image of the person who might wear it: someone brazen, ostentatious, and without a care in the world. Shifting to stand, he takes the robe in his hands, holds it out before him as if studying it might sharpen the picture he's crafted, but to no avail.

Nothing comes, though perhaps he's managed to hail a different companion with the show of color. ]

[nosentimentalist]

"What, are you counting how many threads are in that thing?"

If the Fairest turns, he might see the being striding over the grass towards him with his hands within his pockets. The typewriter does looks quite out of place here, but he doesn't seem to mind. It's a nice relaxing place, really.

"If I were you, I'd be staring at the sky, not at some pink robe."

Open to ALL! I lied

[justbeclaws]

This is an oasis. All around a desert stretches, limited only by a range of distant mountains black against the burning white of the sky. There is nothing else there, only the sand and the great crimson eye of the sun blazing down. If something seems to move, it is at best an illusion, at worst...worse.

But here for some reason trees are growing, towering ancient forest matriarchs whose branches tangle and trail vines. The ground beneath is soft with fallen leaves; the air is cool and dark. Water pools in the hollows of stones, and just out of sight birds are calling each to each.

She stands at the very edge of the oasis, looking out. Her toes brush against the sand; every now and then a stray sunbeam lances across her, heating her metallic skin. She rocks forward onto the balls of her feet, then sinks back again, like a diver on the edge of a deep unknown pool.

Aww, I was hoping to have you all to myself :p ;)

[hand_of_courage]

He walks through the desert, a perpetual sandstorm raging around him as a spirit of one who had passed from the physical world spun and floated ahead of him. It was leading him through the storm to safety. That was it's purpose. He waked for hours, it felt like days. Perhaps it was. The spirit left him when the hazy forms of two thick wood posts came into view. He was only few feet from them when that happened, so furious was the raging storm.

It was gone as soon as he stepped through the markers. The wind was no more, completely calm, and the sun beat down on his shoulders. He was wearing too much for such a place. But he was made of wood and wood wouldn't burst into flames under the sun's gaze. So he walked on. And on. And on. For as long as he had spent in the raging storm, he spent trailing through the endless ocean of sand with nothing to guide him.

It was only when he began to despair for a guide that the vision of the trees came over the horizon. They gave him new hope and renewed strength and he picked up his pace, coming toward it at a run. The sun glinting off something gold at the oasis' edge told him a great treasure was waiting for him.

OTA

[seerchlight]

There's bees everywhere, he notes. That really the first thing that comes to his attention.

He's in a room - his room, he thinks, he remembers - and there are square shaped hives in there will him. The little purple insects buzz around excitedly, and great gobs of sticky, sweet smelling something leak from the bottoms of their homes. Why are the walls covered in red and blue writing, he wonders. Why is there honey all over the goddamn floor?

He doesn't know.

He goes to stand by the window sill, the place where a weird mechanical device is sitting. Outside, there is an entire city of tall, purple beehives with even more bees buzzing around them. Also the beehives are on fire.

"This is stupid," he remarks.

[fuzzyduck]

The Dog Girl doesn't remember going through a window, but that sure is where she's coming in from right now. She looks behind her. Are those beehives? Are those beehives on fire? Well, she's not going back the same way now.

What's in here, then?

Oh. Bees.

And a lighty person too, she supposes.

"What's up with all the goddamn bees?" she asks. Honey - is that honey? - leaks under her footpads. Gross.

Open!

[creased]

Trees surround the book, appearing to reach endlessly upwards. Barely any light breaks through their massive leaves, brief patches of light appearing and disappearing with the wind. A sense of belonging comes over the woman, despite the forest's oppressive nature, and she wanders among the thick trunks.

An eerie cry echoes from the forest, seeming to come from every direction at once. She startles at the interruption, but once she's recovered she feels only annoyance. It's a trespasser and she plans to get rid of it. She just has to find it first. Picking a tree at random, she starts to climb.

[intothehedge]

And as the book climbs the tree, she will find that there is already another woman sitting in its branches, as if waiting for her. Her hair is about as long as she is tall, and as red as her skin is snowy white. Mist clings to her body in the semblance of a simple white dress.

She waves, smiling.

"Hello there!"

OTA

[fifty]

The sky seems infinite here--cloudless and sparkling with ten trillion stars above and the little glittering lights of buildings far below. While the messenger himself flies about easily, it seems just as easy to stand still--the air supports weight on its own with no apparent issue.

It's impossible to reach the ground right now; it never grows any closer, though going higher does make the ground recede even farther. There doesn't seem to be a specific structure to the ground itself at the moment--with no memories to build upon, it seems more like an instinct included for completion's sake.

The messenger darts about in the night sky. Flying is fun, of course--but on the other hand, he'd like to have someone to talk to. He searches around; he can't be entirely alone, he hopes.

[intothehedge]

He's not. It's just that it's easy not to notice her straight away in the dark sky.

She's standing a little way off, a woman, shrouded in shadow save for a few spots of gleaming blue. It's hard to say how long she's been there, but she's watching him with night-black eyes, one hand raised pensively to her cheek.

"Well," she says, almost indulgently, undisguisedly pleased, whether he's spotted her yet or not, "This certainly makes a pleasant change."

ota!

[keepscalm]

From the clouds in this little corner of the world comes a rainfall that is moderate, but unrelenting. The sky is completely blotted out with storm clouds, too dark for the simple rain they're delivering unto the verdant grass. There isn't much colour but for that turf; everything else is muted, but nothing is more grey than the clouds in the sky.

The bright green grass is soft — too soft. It seems to mould gently around anything that touches it, and one might think that their feet were made for walking on this grass, that every footstep belongs right where it is. The welcoming blades of grass cover the ground of every rolling hill (and there are many, here; every step brings one up or down, but never straight forward).

The groundskeeper sits upon the highest hill of them all, his colours running together and down along his body. He's not really certain why he picked the highest hill. It just felt like the natural place to be. Maybe it's the vantage point, though that's a bit redundant with the rain everywhere. He's not really sure if it's his rain; it definitely feels like it, and he can see through it just the same (he can see just about everything here, it's nice).

He's comfortably at home atop the hill amidst the strange grass and constant rain, but he'll know if anyone enters his hilly corner of this world.

[intothehedge]

He feels it when she enters, calmly walking into these rolling hills like its a second home to her. Her eyes and hair are red, a white dress made of mist cloaking her pale form. She is beautiful, even in the rain, and looks at peace as she stares up into the clouds and raises a hand to catch its drops.

"Hello!" she calls, to the sky. "Is that you?"

OTA!

[familicide]

"What...?"

He was terrified.

It was a creeping, smothering, all-consuming kind of horror, not cold and dead but alive and fantastically cruel. Those few echoes he'd felt of it while awake were nothing compared to this insidious, roaring dread and the searing fingers it wrapped around his heart.

It had a face. It had a name, though he couldn't remember it.

It was after him.

"Wait - "

The man couldn't have been a man at all; he towered twice as tall as any mortal and blistering smoke, stinking of sulfur and scorched earth, poured from between his mangled jaws with every bellow's breath that he took. Heat simmered around the molten cracks that opened up the cavity in his great chest, pouring torrid light across his surroundings, at times a baleful crimson, at others a pulsing, tainted gold, pale and painful as old scars. Every step he took shook the room; his eyes were wreathed in wicked fire.

If he had had the wherewithal to notice, he might have taken stock of his surroundings, the interiors of the temple awash with soothing blues and a misty, unsettling darkness. He might have noticed a figure to his right, standing outside of the center ring and more indistinct than the mist, shrouded in a brilliant light that obscured their features. He might even have realized that for the first time since his wakening, he was not only clothed but armed as well, a golden polearm engraved with ornate designs. He might have, and in a way he did, but only the most distant part of him really noticed or cared.

The monster that bled fire started toward him.

"Father."

[ ooc: A quick note! The Image of Deathwing, as I'm calling him, can't be defeated. The Mysterious Figure will heal grievous injuries and prevent death, but this is a match that can't be won. You can flee the temple, with the untouched dreamscape right outside, but, while delayed, the Image will pursue a certain dragon whelp to whatever other dream he enters or shares. ]

[intothehedge]

He is not alone with his dream-images, but the woman who's joined him here is harder to notice than either of the imagined figures he has to contend with, keeping as she does to the edges of the room, to the shadows. Her own dark form, with its strange blue markings, almost matches the surroundings, but she does not belong here.

She is here all the same though. She watches, her black eyes gleaming, and for now she does not intervene.

[ovidscholar]

The library is a church. Or: the church is a library. A church became a library became this library and the books here-and-now mingle with the collection then-and-there. The librarian comes down from his roost, which is a pulpit and also a lectern. He is stepping into mud, at the edge of a lake.

"Stop," says a woman, "or you'll spread the mold. It's all over Dante."

"La Vita Nuova," he says, "oh, no." He bends and slips it off the shelf. It's shot through with vines. Poor Beatrice, wound with green and bloody thorns!

[armedanddangerous]

As he clambers down the the table in search of more food, the scenery begins to shift until suddenly there's no table at all, just a squawky man on his hands and knees in the middle of some place even more unfamiliar.

He glances up, a chunk of bread falling from his lips, and the only thing that occurs to him to say is, "Heeeeeh?"

A boy and a girl | OTA

[manelesscatking]

The sun shines brightly through the tall and thin window of the wide stone room. The decorations are sparse, but three dresses sized for an eight- or nine-year-old hang from hooks sitting in the brightest patch of sunlight. There are two kinds of familiar smell in the world - the kind that's common, just because of how long one has been exposed to it, and the kind that's feels like home, whether or not it feels right. This room has the latter type of scent to it - as Huǒ stretches out on the bed, a smell like old castle, young girl, and - most importantly - the page, rises from the sheets.

He rolls out of bed, his bare feet striking the warm stone. The page is wearing a nightgown. He looks up. A grey-bearded man with purple eyes frowns at him. "You killed her, and I have to live with that," the man grumbles. "Don't be such a girl", Huǒ hears a foot to the right.

He turns. It's the afternoon; a light breeze blows down the wide road. The page stares at a nine-year-old boy - an exact double of the page himself. The boy's red hair and purple eyes are duller, though, and his skin is ruddy with sun and a bit of dirt. "Why not?" Huǒ hears from within himself. The voice is higher pitched, like a small girl. "I am a girl, after all. Nothing wrong with it." The page realizes his mouth was just moving. He turns to find this girl who was just talking.

There's a woman standing there, but she's older and standing several strides away. The page is seated on a coarse cushion while the woman stokes a hearth flame. It's dark. The roof is too close for total comfort. It feels like the roof used to be farther away, but when would Huǒ ever have seen it? "It's not right for you to be all alone in that stuffy old castle," the woman says finally, "Goddess knows you need a female influence in your life if you're going to grow up a proper woman."

An arrow lands clumsily at the page's feet. "Watch where you're shooting, *static*!" says the child's voice again. The boy from before is in tears. He's smaller. It's midday. A wooden bar lies at shoulder height just in front of the boy and the page. Both of them are holding bows. The page takes an arrow from a quiver, nocks it, snaps into position, draws the bow, and fires. It's a child's shot, but the arrow hits the target nevertheless. "See? I'm a girl and I can shoot a bow better than you!"

A man stands behind the boy and the page. Huǒ turns to look at him. There's no man there, but a well-kept road stretches to the south and west. If the page turns, a castle is in the distance. If he turns back, he may see a traveler along the road.

[armedanddangerous]

The world shifts again, and this time he's outside. The open air would be a relief if it weren't so disorienting. Hunched over and clutching his side, he takes a few steps, stumbles, takes a few more. Gravel crunches beneath his faltering footsteps. He eyes the other figure warily, a challenge on his beaky face, but says nothing.

open

[armedanddangerous]

He's in a hall: bright, warm, hazy with firesmoke. In the air ring sounds of laughter, glasses clinking, feet thumping against the ground. Over the walls drape banners and tapestries: the scenes on them are rich and impossibly real, the fabric woven from thread too vivid to look at clearly, the kind of colors no human has names for. Through the center of the hall runs a table built of solid gold, its hinges made with diamond. Intricate designs web over its surface, inlaid with gems that glimmer beneath a distance light source.

And on top of the table lies a feast, the sweetest richest juiciest food he's ever imagined. He hasn't reached the table yet, but he can smell it, and the smell makes his stomach howl. Before he arrives, the sights and the sounds and the smells are intense, but as soon as he gains awareness of his surroundings they snap into painful focus. In the waking world he was literally starving, but now he's ravenous - like the only thing he is and ever has been is hunger.

He shrieks. The beast who is a man becomes a beast again and from twenty feet away he lunges onto the table. He lands on top of the plates and doesn't stop for anything as pointless as utensils, instead seizes everything edible within reach. He barely pauses to breathe as he shoves plate after plate of food indiscriminately into his mouth. At the rate he's eating, no one would be able to savor the taste, but even so everything is unnaturally flavorless. His response is to eat faster, to eat more, and he hunches over the table, bestial, unable to realize that with every passing second he grows hungrier and hungrier.

[subtleserenity]

Her first thought when she wanders into the new world, stepping out of the door of place she had been, is that it is so very warm. Everything about it is rich and decadent where the she had seen on cold blues and utilitarianism. She doesn't feel like this is a place she belongs, but the sight of the feathered creatures upon the table pulls her forward.

As she draws near, the sound of his eating makes her grimace in disgust. She suspects he's not paying attention to anything but the food in front of his face and grabs a plate with half of some delicacy left on it smash against the tabletop. "You're gonna choke, you keep going like that, Chánzuǐ," she says, voice hard. She does not know this young man, but she doesn't want to see him eat himself to death.

OTA

[subtleserenity]

There are no bullets in this dream, no horrors for once, just corrugated metal and and the low hum of something that's alive as near as a thing that isn't alive can be. She feels safe here, standing in some sort of command deck with the lights dimmed low and the viewport showing the tiny pinpricks of distant stars.

She has no idea where she's going, what this place is. There aren't any people here from what she can tell. But there's the sensation that it should have others in it. When her eyes search further, there are strange figurines along one of the top some sort of workstation. They're not quite like Trinity, the hydra, but a little bit.

There's a sound outside, and she turns quickly, drawing her gun and going to investigate. It's the sound of feet running. She quickens her pace. Frantic panting is in her ears now, then a scream that isn't wholly human. There is someone here, but they aren't meant to be. The corridors go on much longer than they should. She passes through places that might be familiar, but her attention is elsewhere, her gun ready. She comes into an open bay with stairwells that don't all have rails and spots someone.

"Move and I shoot!" she warns. Her heart is racing, but she manages to keep her voice steady, taking light, sharp breaths.

[nosentimentalist]

"And I thought we were on such good terms."

The voice is laidback, relaxed, as if being threatened was a particularly normal occurrence, like reading a book, or eating lunch. The typewriter turns, hands in pockets, his mouth quirked upward in a smirk as he stands face to face with the gun.

"What did I do? I swear I haven't touched anything."

[bloodand]

The where is a white bridge of stone, maybe marble, maybe something else. Part of it is blue flickers, not solid, but something. The whole place hums, a note that's familiar and unnoticeable to him. In the distance below, the scene shifts, a crack in the earth opening up to the framework of rune paths circling with some unknown glow.

He has to hurry. Whether that's a part of the dream or something else, he doesn't know. He doesn't know if he's chasing something or running from something, only (with the illogical certainty that you find only in dreams) that he can't stop.

[nosentimentalist]

"Honestly, what is with everyone running everywhere? It's like most of you don't know how to appreciate the scenery."

There is a man, or rather, a typewriter standing in the middle of the bridge, hands in his pockets as he looks down. The large glasses perched on his nose shine brightly from the glow from below, and he looks calm. Relaxed. Honestly, he feels he's seen worse than a couple of eerily-glowing paths before.

"Should I just tell you the truth about all of this right now, or should I allow you to keep running on your merry way? Your choice."

OTA

[magewarden]

Something is wrong.

Something is wrong in this place, and he has to find it and stop it -- yet as he walks through dark tunnels he cannot place what it is. He should know this place, it's familiar, and yet despite the nagging sense of it all he finds he doesn't.

It frustrates and frightens him.

He shouldn't be alone here, there should be others. There should be others and the thought makes him walk faster, hands reaching out to touch dank, dark tunnel walls as he moves. There is something down here, something terrible, something they had to stop. Something they had to reach. He can hear it whispering, in the darkness, calling to him, shouting and snarling but he can't make out the words.

What is this? Why does none of it make sense?

Yet all the while, his skin crawls. Something is watching him, and the knowledge makes his heart race faster.

He should not be alone, yet he is.