event } a dream is a wish your traitor brain makes

[seeingyou]

WHO: All passengers currently aboard!
WHAT: Shared dreams.
WHERE: All y'all's subconscious...es.
WHEN: Nov. 7-21.
WARNINGS: If things get messy/triggering/sexually explicit, PLEASE put warnings in your comment subject lines! And if you die in the dream, you just move on to the next dream, no need to report deaths.

There's no warning - when the ship passes through the nebular cloud and Navi falls asleep, passengers on board will also find themselves dozing off at various times, and whether it’s after tucking themselves in for the night or passing out in the middle of doing something, unusual dreams will follow. Much like dreams normally behave, passengers will find themselves somewhere that may or may not be familiar, doing something that may be mundane or fantastical, but whatever and wherever the setting, dreamers will more or less accept it as reality.

Sweet dreams, passengers. Enjoy getting to know each other a little better!

Comments

Isaac Dale | Open to anyone | TW: bad times, plane crash, mentions of alcoholism, PTSD

[waxenwing]

Isaac is used to falling asleep in odd places, but usually when he's blind drunk (in fact, that's usually the point, he's usually drinking until he passes out to avoid dreaming) - falling asleep in the middle of the day is something new.

The dreams he has when he does fall asleep aren't new, in fact they're very, very familiar. There's some variation on the theme, but they all have a common thread of memory running through them, and they're all dreams he's had before - the very dreams he works so hard to avoid, in fact.

The fact that he may be sharing them with anybody else only makes it worse.

This Life

Isaac - and anybody sharing the dream with him - is sitting in the cockpit of a state of the art fighter jet, the clouds rushing past and the sun shining bright and perfect in the blue sky above. It's a euphoric moment, Isaac bright and happy and delighted in a way that he never is in the real world, not these days. He manoeuvres the controls expertly, pulling the jet into a spin with an exhilarated whoop of joy before righting it again.

Then something changes. The sky darkens somehow, despite the jet being above the clouds, the controls are suddenly not so smooth. There's a shudder, the various lights and dials on the panel start flashing, beeping wildly as something - everything - malfunctions. A feeling of panic overtakes the cockpit as Isaac starts flipping switches and desperately trying to regain control. The nose dips, the jet starts spinning again - this time downwards.

It takes longer than it should, the moment of freefall stretching out for seemingly forever. Attempts to eject from the cockpit fail and the panic mounts.

The dream ends just as the plane hits the ground.

The Last

There's no jet here, and Isaac looks different somehow - younger, his hair a little longer, his skin a little more tanned, his clothing straight out of ancient Greece. He soars through blue skies with wings strapped to his arms, the wind rushing through his hair - and anybody sharing the dream with him is flying too, gliding above the waves with that same feeling of euphoria and delight.

He climbs higher, the warmth of the sun on his skin, the occasional feather fluttering away from his wings and trailing off behind him - and then the heat gets stronger, hotter, the feathers more frequent, the feel of melting wax slipping down his arms. He starts to drop.

It's the same, then, a desperate spin, the time stretching out to impossible lengths, the panic overtaking him, until he plunges into the sea, falling deep below the waves - and as the darkness of the ocean consumes him, the dream ends.

Somewhere in Between

The worst dreams, in Isaac's opinion, are the ones that mix the two. He's in his jet, but dressed in a toga, shivering against the cold of the upper atmosphere and struggling to breathe at the same time as the plane controls go haywire. The plane explodes into feathers and then he's falling

Or he's got his flight suit and helmet, but he's flying on wings, the beeping filling his ears with no discernible source or anything to do to stop it. A confused jumble of memories all piled together and constantly changing, but the consistent fact remains the same - everything is wonderful, until it isn't, and then he's falling and falling and there's nothing he can do to stop it.


Regardless of what form the dream takes, he always wakes the same; abruptly, drenched in sweat and heart pounding, desperately in need of a drink.

_{[The dreams are sort of written up as the full thing, but I'm open to jumping in at any point and playing the dream out, or 'what happens next' type scenarios after waking up]}

Something of everything?

[albatrossomen]

As it turns out this dreaming and sleeping thing? Sucks. A whole lot of sucking. Murmur had never experienced it before and now he definitely could confirm that not only was he not interested, he would not recommend it.

In fact, he would go so far as to assume several of the passengers on this ship felt the same. Like the poor guy in the kitchen, who didn't look like he'd had much in the way of restful sleep at all, trying to find something to take the edge off.

"If you aren't finding what you're looking for, I could make us both some tea." He offered. Sure it wasn't exactly going to keep either of them awake but it might help. Strangely relaxing tea, this stuff.

Re: Something of everything?

[waxenwing]

"I could do with something a little stronger than tea." Isaac commented absently, realising belatedly that he should actually look at the person he was talking to rather than continue to hunt through the cupboards for something alcoholic. He had his own stash tucked away if he needed it, but he'd rather save that for emergencies if he could.

He turned to lean against the counter and look at the person who'd just entered the kitchen.

"But if you're offering a cup, I'll take it."

He could always top it up with something else if he found anything.

This Life

[unnecessaryflourishes]

Emet-Selch is not, entirely, unused to flying. True, the airships that he's accustomed to are nothing at all like the cockpit of a modern fighter plane, but the concept isn't unfamiliar. Even the controls and dials aren't something that are completely incomprehensible to him, though he makes no real effort to decipher them - it's clear he's not the pilot here.

(He also cuts an odd figure amongst the gleaming metal and dials, his clothes unchanged from his usual fur-trimmed layers. But he pays that no mind, and here in dreams perhaps it barely raises any eyebrows.)

"Would it have killed them to leave more room, here?"

Presumably he means whoever happens to be in charge of the jet's design, but he'll take any answer Isaac cares to give.

[versifications]

ONE - DREAM
There is an old country house in a field. V finds himself in the middle of the field, by a tree, transfixed by the sight of the building for a time. Somewhere in the distance, a lone bird sings. A gentle wind rustles the branches. Finally, the man finds the courage to move, to walk towards the home, even if he has a heavy weight in his chest, even if his reluctant feet feel like lead. He opens the wrought iron gate to the garden, his tattooed hand trembling on the metal.

But he doesn't dare go inside.

Instead, he moves to the windows, peering through them. Sunlight streams through into the entrance hall, bathing the family portrait hung there in a soft glow. From an adjoining room he can hear soft laughter; he moves to another window to find its source.

A woman is there. She has two young boys sitting in her lap, and all three are the same as from the portrait: she blond, the boys identical twins, each with snowy white hair. They're seated in a large armchair together in the library, and she's reading a storybook to them. One boy is dozing off, but the other boy with swept-back hair is listening attentively, hanging on to her every word and gazing at the pages as she follows the words with her finger.

V lingers at the window, so close he can see his own breath against the glass, barely daring to move lest he disturb the scene. And he watches.


TWO - NIGHTMARE
Inky blackness all around. V walks through the darkness of a nightmare he's all too familiar with by now. Somewhere along the way, he lost his cane, so he can rely only on his own footing and his sight to see where he's going. His breath is so loud in the silence, it sounds deafening to his ears.

Then the floor beneath him sinks suddenly and he gasps, tripping him up until he throws out his hands to stop him tipping face-first into the darkness. He isn't falling, but he doesn't dare move lest the floor sink further.

He's afraid, and alone -- or so he thinks. Then he feels two hands grab him from the darkness, coated in armour black as night. Too weak to wrench himself away, he can only watch as the hands use him to pull itself up from the depths, revealing a face white as a sheet, hair equally as white, and glowing red eyes. Lines of demonic corruption mar its features, and from the neck down, it is encased entirely in demonic black armour and a cape.

"Haven't you tormented me enough?!" V hisses, still struggling to pull away in fear and revulsion. The knight doesn't respond, doesn't perhaps seem capable of a response, its face a blank emotionless slate. Still, it does not let go.


[Feel free to have your character watch or intervene in the dreams at any point. For anyone who might decide to interact with others appearing in the dreams, I'm happy to NPC them accordingly. Will match brackets or prose as you prefer!]

Dream

[albatrossomen]

Dreams are... a strange thing to experience. This was something Murmur had never bothered to put much thought into, the dreaming thing. Oh, he was aware mortals did dream, certainly, but he neither cared to understand nor experience it for himself.

Now that he found himself here, he was quite certain his initial thoughts on the whole subject were the correct ones. This was bizarre, more surreal than the various celestial realms. Particularly because they manifested in ways controlled entirely by the person doing the dreaming, and something about that really bothered him.

Well, if he was going to get pulled around by the whims of another he might as well investigate what's going on. And right now he found himself following after an unfamiliar pale man peeking into windows.

"Why not go in?" He asked, curious if he could even be heard. Was he even here, or just an unwitting observer? How do dreams work even anyway?

[versifications]

"Another sun feeds our life's streams,
We are not warmed with thy beams;
Thou measurest not the time to me..."

V seems to rehearse the lines from memory, reluctantly tearing his gaze from the window to address the man. Odd, that someone else should be here, and someone he doesn't recognise at that. Still, if this is a dream, there's no reason not to answer.

"...In short, I have no place here."

nightmare.

[sisterswitch]

The darkness feels familiar, but this isn’t Jack’s part of the Primordial Dream, and she doesn’t recognize the man in front of her, or his opponent. She isn’t here to punish him; she knows of no injustice he’s committed to warrant her Horror’s attention.

“Why are you being tormented?” she asks, slipping silently out of the shadows. “What for?”

cw: strangulation

[versifications]

"You're mistaken. This... thing cannot torment me. It no longer exists."

He hears a woman's voice and answers, but he isn't so much as looking at her. Though he's trying to sound calm, he can't hide the frantic expression on on his face, transfixed with increasing horror as the black-clad knight continues to pull itself out of the inky darkness. It isn't letting go of the death grip on his arms. And when it finally reaches its full height, it easily towers over any ordinary man.

The knight doesn't seem to notice her, either, its attention wholly on V. It grabs him by the throat, lifting him off the ground like a ragdoll.

V gasps, even as his neck is being squeezed by a massive gauntleted hand. "Miserable... wretch..."

Nightmare

[sinkthe8ball]

There's little that keeps Lady from helping the man from his plight with the demon. In a way, it's good to know she isn't the only one from a world where they exist. Though the fact it holds enough similarities to the demons she knows should probably give her some pause. But that is something to consider later when it isn't using the man as a ladder out of whatever hellhole it was trying to climb out of it.

There are three loud bangs as she fires, running up to the stranger to pull him back just in case three bullets to the head wasn't nearly enough to put an end to the demon. It rarely ever is, but sometimes she comes across a demon weak enough that they can't come back from such a shot. Usually though, it's more bullets to the torso and head before they finally stay down.

Fingers wrapped in the collar of his jacket she yanks him back in an attempt to break the demon's grip. "You need to push if you want to break free."

[versifications]

The knight lets out a demonic howl and lets go of V to clutch at its head, and V feels himself yanked back. The irony of Lady being his saviour isn't lost on him, but he has barely any time to savour the rescue before Nelo Angelo has recovered. It lunges forward and seizes V by the neck, effortlessly yanking him up into the air.

Scrabbling uselessly at the gauntleted hand crushing his windpipe, V gasps to Lady, "You should... run...!"

Murmur | OTA | CW: Violence, religious imagery, eldritch insanity

[albatrossomen]

Brother against brother

Conspiracies and plot

Murmur, Duke of Night. Teacher of Philosophy:

The Rift


[If you want to interact with the dreams feel free to pop in at whatever point, or just hang out along for the ride! Otherwise if you want to go try to figure out what weirdo is responsible for this mess Murmur will probably be usually hanging out in the observatory.]

[sisterswitch]

Jack wanders in and out of all of Murmur’s dreams, silently observing, until she reaches the scene of summoning. She doesn’t call on entities like this is her own magickal practice, but she knows enough about the process to understand what’s happening here.

To Jack’s knowledge, one typically doesn’t summon an angel, however. Not like this, with so much fear and caution. Humans believe angels to be benevolent, helpful in their times of need - they’re prayed to, not summoned against their wills. Of course, Jack now knows that there’s more to the celestial picture than popularly thought, but this still doesn’t strike her as angel business as usual.

She’s aware of these thoughts, distantly, as she finds herself taking the summoner’s place in this scene. Copper and parsley are what Murmur requires, so that’s what she conjures for him with a few muttered words. Jack holds out the offerings toward him in upturned palms, leaves in one hand and three small lumps of metal in the other.

“What can I learn with these?”

[albatrossomen]

Jack's observations were quite correct. One does not summon an angel, one certainly doesn't attempt to bind one during that process. Angels answered willingly, and didn't typically threaten to tear their caller's souls from their bodies.

Unfamiliar as he was with the process of dreaming and mutable nature of dreams, Murmur hadn't yet surmised that anything was off. Indeed, reliving a memory was strange enough, but for a being ever on the precipice of slipping into a different form of time it wasn't so outlandish. This is normal, everything is proceeding as it should.

Copper and parsley as requested. He reached out a hand, notably clawed, and the items in her grasp went up in a puff of cold blue-white flame. The contract was bound.

"Your offering is accepted," He growled out. There was a chill with him, permeating and haunting. As though the dead themselves rose from their graves to observe their dealings. "I will teach you the art of thought, philosophy. Or, should you will it, I may command a spirit to answer your questions truthfully." Whichever this summoner so desired. For so long as he felt like putting up with it.

[betterhavemammoney]

It's rare for the imagery of a nightmare to be the least frightening thing about it.

Of course Mammon is frightened, but it isn't the savagery and dismemberment around him that does it. He's done this before, dashed between the shining and distorting forms of his fellow celestials and sliced into angelic bodies, took blows from them, kept fighting on until he'd had to stop.

But all he'd done was fight. He hadn't used magic in his defense to throw up ice walls, or to channel lightning strikes to his foes. He hadn't watched from every angle and seen every move before it happened, in fact he hadn't analyzed the situation at all. He hadn't thought at all.

That disturbs him far more than the war itself.

It was the worst thing to think about and as the song of mourning starts up Mammon can't handle it. He doesn't know where he's going, but he has to run.

Rift

[unnecessaryflourishes]

The idea of rifts is not something that Emet-Selch is unfamiliar with. Nor the idea of voids. Both are things he's seen before; one is something he has significant experience with. This one though... this one feels different, and for a long moment he simply hovers over it, observing.

(That, at least, is not so different from anything else he might have been doing.)

It's only at length that he finally speaks up, even despite the fact that there doesn't see to be anyone to speak too.

"Well. That's certainly new."

[sinkthe8ball]

Dream
The dream is hazy at the edges. Not for lack of detail or imagination. More it’s a well-worn oft dreamed kind of dream. One that Lady has had more than one night in her years of hunting demons. It’s one of the few positive dreams she can remember having over the years, most are dark and depressing. But the worn edges of the room make the already yellowed wallpaper seem dingier than it really is, the desk blurring into the large piece of – is that a skull – “artwork” hanging behind it. How very like a hunter to display his kills on the wall for all to see.

Speaking of a hunter there’s a red and black clad figure sitting on the edge of the desk, the face indistinct except for the blue eyes. The expression unreadable, but for this Lady doesn’t need to read his expression. He’s his standard asshole self, not apologizing even a little bit for keeping her waiting so long.

“It’s all there?” She asks arms crossed over her chest her frilly purple suit standing out like a beacon among the haze.

There’s a vague sound almost a snort, maybe a chuckle and the mans shoulder just barely twitches a shrug, the kind of blink and you miss it move that she’s learned to watch for over a decade of business dealings and bad decisions.

“Just checking. You’ve only told me how many times you aren’t ever paying up.”

“Changed my mind, besides it seemed like a good way to stop having you steal my pay for your shit jobs.” He nudges the case beside him as if to say come and get it.

And just like that she’s across the stained floor, the case open and she’s counting out stacks of bills, the other figure fading away with only the fading echo of a chuckle to ever prove he might have been present in the space at all.


Nightmare of a Memory, Memory of a Nightmare
Every good thing to happen in her life involved a full-moon. Or was it every bad thing? It’s dark with only the silver light of the moon to light anything. The room is cramped, crammed full of books but the floor is littered with strewn pages, something dark seeping across them with the sort of slow flow that has to be blood. There’s a lump at its source, crumpled in the middle of the floor, dark hair obstructing the few of the face, but the way the body is positioned at the center of a carefully traced summoning circle explains so much.

There’s a young girl just beyond its edges chanting eyes closed, a book clutched to her chest. Or is she crying kneeling in the blood? The circle glows as she chants. The circle glows as he chants. She laughs as the demon appears and she makes her bargain. Wealth for the life of her mother. A chance at something more, something better than this boring life in academia. The corpse has not yet cooled as the deal is struck and the anguished howl from her father as he finds the great mess she’s made only makes her laugh.

The dream flickers the girl and the man switching places over and over again as if one image were recorded over another. One a memory the other a nightmare but separating the two seems near impossible the more they flicker. She’s a little girl watching from the crack in the doorway as he plunges the knife into his wife over and over in pursuit of power, fully grown she’s the one holding the knife seeking money and endless opportunity. The life of her mother is a small price to pay for those things.

The little girl screams clutching at her mother while Lady laughs over the corpse pleased with her deal.

[Feel free to have your character participate, watch, interrupt, what have you. I will match brackets or prose.]

[fuckregularpeople]

It was like a really good horror movie, the kind even the Oscars acknowledged. One of those horror movies that goes beyond regular blood and guts and is horrible in its beauty, touches on some chord that resonates throughout. Jane watches, rapt, as the girl man? chants, as she they? cries, watches the bargaining and brutality, familiar emotion rising inside of her like a crescendo.

She reaches out (for the girl or the man?), hand searching for cloth or skin, something she can grip to pull them to her, to comfort stop them.

"What are you doing?" she screams, adrenaline spiking in her veins. "Why?"

jack } ota } cw: eaten alive

[sisterswitch]

You’re running. It’s dark and hard to see where you’re going, but you press on, because you know that if you stop, the monster chasing after you will catch up to you, and you will die.

You’ve had this dream so often that it’s difficult to discern where one night ends and the next begins. You feel like you’ve been running forever in search of a safe place to hide. Sometimes you can run fast, so fast you’re nearly flying, but sometimes, it feels like you’re trying to run through a swimming pool of waist-deep water, or maybe even molasses - some invisible force slowing you down and holding you back, and you struggle to break free and find safety.

The locations change from night to night, melting into each other seamlessly the way dream locations do. Sometimes it’s an unfamiliar shopping mall, and you weave between displays and racks and shelves in search of a place to hide, or an empty office building, with secret passages and twisting hallways and locked doors where no one answers your pleas for help. On other nights, the chase takes you into the open, through a dense forest you don’t recognize, or cutting through your neighbors’ yards.

Only once does this chase find you back in your home, and it’s the last time you have this dream. It’s dark, of course, and the monster pursues you into the living room. You feel so small and helpless; you fall down to the floor as you take your first clear look at the horrifying creature that has pursued you for so long, and you’re frozen to the spot with fear.

It’s a mass of black smoke shaped like a giant dog, growling quietly with fangs bared as it takes torturously slow steps toward you. Its eyes are points of blue fire, staring right through you, into your soul. If you could only shake off your fear and move, you could make it to your parents’ bedroom. They would know what to do to save you from the horrible fate creeping ever closer.

Suddenly, the smoke-dog is right in front of you, and you’re hopelessly pinned in place as it crawls over you. Its mouth closes around the tips of your fingers, and you know this should hurt, but you feel nothing. You can’t scream - you open your mouth and no sound comes out, only dead air.

Slowly, the monster inches up your hand, your wrist, your arm, devouring you one languid bite at a time. You can’t scream, you can’t look away - all you can do is watch as your arm disappears down the monster’s throat the way a rat disappears into a python. It moves closer, taking your elbow next, then the rest of your arm, then your shoulder.

You finally close your eyes and wait for the creature to unhinge its jaw and finish what you now know was always inevitable. Everything is dark and quiet as your head slips into its mouth, as you disappear inside of the monster that chose you. The fear that you’ve carried with you for so long melts away, replaced with complete calm, because you now know that this is how you were meant to be all along - not a frightened child, but a powerful monster in your own right. The creature that pursued you for so many years isn’t your enemy - it’s a guide, come to show you the truth of your nature, a truth that has been hidden from you for far too long.

You smile in the dark and slowly exhale a breath of relief, of understanding, of fulfillment. You are finally home.

closed } murmur

[sisterswitch]

Jack hasn’t been able to dream even once in the years since her Devouring. Wandering through the dreams of others is less strange, but reliving the nightmares that plagued her childhood? She never expected that.

She wakes up screaming and thrashing against her bed in her cabin, and for a moment, she forgets where she is. This dream is a painful reminder of what it feels like to be helpless, and that’s something Jack swore she would never be again.

It’s probably no surprise that once she catches her breath, Jack turns on her side and begins to quietly sob into her pillow.

Alex Reagan | OTA, will match formats! | Nightmare.

[11calls]

CW: Child abuse and neglect, demons, violence, murder, non-graphic allusions to CSA, but no child is actually in danger from it, food insecurity. [Oh hey have a link to Tall Paul in a long shot and up close. ]

Alex Reagan is three, almost three and a half. She’s cold and she doesn’t know where her mommy is. She feels like she hasn’t seen her mommy in a long time. Paul, her friend, is wrapped around her tightly, trying to keep her warm. He promises her that help is coming soon and Alex trusts him. When the door opens, Alex Knows that it’s the help Paul promised, but it’s not her mommy. She will never see her mommy again. Instead it’s a tall man named Markus and he promises her that she’ll be safe. He wraps her in a blanket and takes her for a happy meal. She doesn’t have anything in the dirty apartment but Paul and that’s all she needs.

Markus drops them off at the Laurent household. There’s a lot of other kids there and it smells like smoke. The kids are mean to Alex and she misses being alone with Paul. The kids start having accidents after they hurt Alex: doors closing on them, food being too hot, getting stung by a bee. The kids are afraid of Alex and that makes Mrs. Laurent scared of Alex too. She locked them in a closet but Alex didn’t mind. Paul was there and that meant she wasn’t alone and she was safe. He’d always keep her safe. Markus didn’t think she was safe and he took her away to another foster home.

Alex didn’t like the Fisher family. There weren’t as many kids there as there had been at the last one, but the food was scarce. This time, Paul brought Alex food even though he didn’t say where the bags of chips and cookies had come from. She shared them with the other kids every time, and Paul just sighed and would steal more. He took care of the wrappers, but Mrs. Fisher was mad and accused the kids of being thieves. It got worse when she took them to the store with her and Paul stole the strawberries. They were Alex’s favorite and when the kids were caught with them, Mrs. Fisher called Alex a demon and told her she was going to hell. Paul raged and the house shook and Mrs. Fisher ignored it. Paul was more careful about stealing food, but Mrs. Fisher blamed Alex for it anyway. It was only after Markus saw the burn that he took her away.

The Lyons seemed like they would be the best fit. Alex is happy there for several months. She’s the only kid there, there’s food and toys and clothes and Mrs. Fisher calls Alex ‘a little doll.’ Alex loves it but Paul doesn’t. He tells her never to be alone with Mr. Lyon. She never is, but when she’s there two months, Paul makes him fall off a ladder. Alex rages at her friend but he promises her that he’d always protect her. Without Mr. Lyon, Mrs. Lyon doesn’t want a little doll anymore. She sends her away and the ache that is always in Alex’s chest hurts more as Markus picks her up again.

Markus promises that the Reagans are different. He promises that she’ll be safe and happy there. They always wanted kids, he tells her. Mrs. Reagan teaches kindergarten and Mr. Reagan is a police officer. Alex is five and she doesn’t believe him. Paul seems too, but Alex doesn’t. Mrs. Reagan tells her to call them Alice and Danny and they’re nice and slowly Alex lets herself be happy there. Paul starts to slip away, a forgotten memory. One day he comes to her and tells her that she’s safe here and that Alex doesn’t need him anymore. But that he’ll always be watching her and always always always keep her safe.

Alex Reagan forgets Paul mostly. She becomes herself as she grows and the Reagans adopt her. She’s happy and healthy and Paul is a distant memory, locked behind what she’s forgotten of foster homes and abuse. Some weird things happen around her occasionally, but it’s chocked up to circumstance and coincidence. There’s never any thought of her imaginary friend. These things happen sometimes and it’s nothing for Alex to worry about. Her therapist assured her that the bad things she’s wished on people aren’t her fault. Alex believes them.

Most of the time anyway.

[ancestor]

Something is not quite right, but Azem doesn't question it. She is where she is, and that's where she is most needed. It doesn't take long to discover why she's needed in this foreign place. There is a child nearby, frightened and alone save for the creation of shadow that remains by the girl's side.

Azem walks steadily toward her, steps faltering as she brings a hand to her face to check for— For what? It takes her a moment to recall. Mask and hood. But that is not the way of things here, in this grim and quiet reality.

Once that's settled, Azem continues forward with renewed confidence, long auburn hair flowing freely behind her like a cloak until finally she halts a polite distance from the little girl. With the drastic differences in their sizes she takes great care not to seem as though she's a looming presence, yet makes no move to crouch or sit until she is given permission.

"Hello," she greets, voice ever so soft; gentle and lilting like a song. She remembers what it was like to feel lost and alone. It was part of why she had dreamed of being a mother one day—to have a family of her own, and never feel alone in the world again. "Is it all right if I join you and your friend, little one?"

Julia Bellamy | Nightmare | OTA.

[relance]

Julia doesn’t want to save the world. In some ways the world isn’t really worth saving. But Sarah had seen those visions (had them implanted, but that’s a different nightmare) and Bianca’s dumb ass was MIA like it always was. So now Julia and Harry were on their own (which is fine considering how well the two of them worked together) in a park in the middle of the workday.

The box that was embossed with the Usher Foundation’s logo was on the ground and the two of them were wrestling with a giant fuck all goose who had a stolen ancient medal of Osirius around its neck. Harry hits the goose with a stick and the stick just breaks the stick as he falls over and Julia just sighs dramatically as she tries to get the goose’s attention again. At least it doesn’t seem as dangerous as the ducking demon bell thing did. That time ended with her having a shattered ankle and thank fuck for being able to heal fast because otherwise the two of them (and the world honestly) would be really fucked. Especially because this thing has already escaped the box once even when her and Harry had sat on the damned thing.

In the end, Julia just extends one claw to remove the medal from around the goose’s neck and the damn thing flies away. Harry mutters about a net and Julia just buys him one at the first opportunity she can. It’s too bad that they don’t get to use it when they end the Slaughter’s ritual.

It was a nice net.

Azem ☉ Open to All ☉ 20th-21st only

[ancestor]

DREAM 1 (CW: SEXUAL THEMES)

You giggle breathlessly against his smiling lips as he pins you against the wall. Your legs wrap themselves firmly around his hips, pulling him closer to you and offering more of that delightful, distracting friction. He laughs into your skin, lifting you into his arms and carrying you to his chair. He buries his face into the crook of you neck when he sits, leaving you to settle on his lap. A shiver runs down you spine. You heart sings, blessedly deaf to the world around you for this brief moment.

"One of these days they'll catch us," he states while kissing a line down your collarbone, seemingly not at all bothered by the thought.

"Oh, what a scandal it would be! The Chief and the Traveler indulging in the most sordid of acts!" You laugh, fingers pushing the fabric of his robes out of their way with practiced ease. "...If they did, would you stop?"

He pulls away with another laugh, answering your question with another kiss that you return with great enthusiasm until they part for breath.

"...I'm sorry," you whisper. "I couldn't save you."

The mood has shifted from light-hearted distraction to mournful regret in an instant, and you find yourself up in your oldest friend's arms just as quickly. You breathe deeply of his scent, wrapping your arms around him in turn.

"It was not your fault," he tells you, voice as soft and understanding as ever. "They chose not to listen."

DREAM 2

Children dressed in identical robes and masks file out of the grand arched doorway of the classroom, chattering and giggling to each other as they leave until only one child is left, sitting all alone at her bench near the board. She appears no older than seven and wears a robe and mask just like every other soul in the city, though the warm, coppery curls that tumble from the front of her hood set her apart from the rest. Frowning down at her notebook, her posture is the textbook definition of dejected.

"Hemera..."

The kindly voice of her teacher causes her to look up, then quickly look back down as she catches the disappointed curve of the woman's mouth. She quickly shoves her hair back into her robes and out of sight. Her teacher lets out a quiet sigh and sits down beside her, reaching over to look at Hemera's notebook. "You have so much potential in you, little one, but I cannot help you reach it if you refuse to listen."

"I— Um—" The little girl stumbles over her words, struggling to get them out despite knowing what she wants to say. That she does listen. That the way she does things just sounds better. But no one has ever listened to her, and so she lets the words die on her tongue. "I... I'm sorry, Teacher. I'll try harder."

Her teacher lets out a quiet sigh, patting her on the head as she stands up.

"It's a beautiful day we've been blessed with. Why don't you go and play before your next class?"

They both glance out the window beside them, watching her classmates play games with each other in the courtyard. Hemera looks back down at her lap and nods, murmuring a soft 'yes, teacher'. Silence falls between them, broken only by the faint sound of children's laughter from outside. Eventually Hemera gathers up her notebook, clutching it to her chest as she quietly makes her way out of the classroom, head down and shoulders hunched.

She turns her back to the courtyard exit, desperately holding back tears. She's tired of always playing by herself. She's tired of being different.

Why can't she just be like everyone else?

DREAM 3

"I think I've figured it out, see?"

The young woman smiles at you from beneath her hood and mask, holding up her hand to show off the golden, radiant swirls of magic dancing around her fingertips. Once she knows you're paying attention she gives a small flourishing flick of her wrist and the swirls react, shifting and solidifying into the shape of a longbow. Another flick of her wrist and it shifts into a war fan. Another, and a cloud of glowing, golden butterflies bursts outward from her hands.

"If I create a malleable thread of aether I can transform it to suit my needs in an instant, rather than creating something new!"

She practically vibrates with excitement, clearly eager to hear your opinion.

NIGHTMARE (MINOR 5.0 SPOILERS)

{{ found here. }}

Emet-Selch | OTA | Shadowbringers spoilers at the link

[unnecessaryflourishes]

[Finding the future]

He's younger, in the dream's weave.  Not by much, but enough to be noticeable, and wearing the simpler fare of a legatus - a soldier - than the finery he'd later grow accustomed to.  But he wears that simple practicality with as little thought as anything else - it serves a need, and that is enough.  Admittedly, it seems like he has more than enough to keep his mind elsewhere at the moment, as he all but stalks his way around what looks like it had been a training room, before having been hastily - and somewhat haphazardly - converted to something closer to an alchemical workroom.

"'Too volatile by half'," he grumbles, as he snatches up a vial of unidentified liquid and some copper tubing; the half-mocking tone of his voice making it clear he's parroting something someone else has said.  "'Scarcely worth the effort'."

He turns back to his improvised workbench at that, and what is presumably the material in question - it looks like nothing more than than a large chunk of rock, save for the part where it seems to be lit from within with a blue glow.

"Well, of course it is.  If one means to leave it in its base state."

And he does not.  The possibilities of ceruleum - of refined ceruleum - are nigh boundless.  More than enough to provide an advantage on the field of battle, and turn the tides in their favor.  If he can get it to work.  If he's done the calculations correctly.
It should work.  It has to work.

"No," he murmurs to himself, unconsciously answering his own thoughts.  "It will work."

He just has to find the way to manage it with what few resources he has.

[A dream of crystal]

This particular location, deep in the middle of tall cliffs and the forests that cover them has always been a favorite location of his.  Not just for the tranquility that can be found under those boughs, but also simply for the aesthetics of the location.  Today, however, that aesthetic is to be forever changed.

It's odd, perhaps, to call it an unveiling, when the structure in question is a spire of crystal, tall enough that its gleaming peak very nearly touches the heavens themselves.  But that is, essentially, what it is.  A gathering of minds, come together to see the culmination of this great work, this spire that seeks to turn the very energy of the sun itself into nigh-boundless energy.  As indeed it seems to already be doing, as the crystal seems to almost glow in the sunlight.

"Quite the marvel of engineering."

He sounds genuinely impressed, too, and it be hard not to - even aside from the sheer height of the tower, the very concept of it is beyond what even he might have expected.  To say nothing of what lies beyond the great doors resting at its base.

"Would you not agree?"

[A nightmare of the past]

CW: fires, apocalyptic imagery