CLOSED ⤧ light cuts through the clouds and haunts me like bad dreams, outside lookin' in.
Who: prayforprey & curious_copycat. Later, nicotine_patch.
What: Polly needs to die again. They're more than memories now.
When: Last night? Night before? Somewhere around there. Also after this thread.
Where: Dreamscape, and then real life.
Warnings: violence, weirdo dream voodoo, chronovores, etc.
He'd given her no warning. There's a knowledge there that he's a visitor to her memories, that he's got a free pass through the gates (barbed wire lining the perimeter now, too much like a prison, off in the distance like small lines of grey teeth) to come and go as he pleases. An invader of the night -- while she could rest her dainty head against the pillows with a certain delicacy, his own skull throbbed as a single line of blood dripped down from the ache above his brow.
It takes him too long to realize the pulse isn't just from the sting, but from the rain that catches the red right from the welt and lets it run pink clear to his robes (no commoner clothing when it's all a dream).
The once mosaic-like city of stain glass and sunlessness has taken a turn towards opaque. The beauty it had once beheld is muddled. The creatures stilled in time obtaining passive faces are contorted into silent screams, jaws tight and pulled open (not unlike a Chronovore's, he notes as he passes one), eyes begging for salvation. It wasn't the dreamlessness stupidity they always possessed.
He seeks her out like following a scent he can't get in the rain, boots slipping on the cobblestone.
It's different this time. The dream is living ... breathing and sweating and growing, moving like walls made of flesh and organs. Feasting. Feeding. It's not just a memory inside the girl's head any more; he can see it shift in front of him. The temple in the corner of his eyes is moving with shadows he'd rather forget; he passes through it like a ghoul wading into the fog, dispersing the miasma.
All that's left to find is her sunken bones and her dig (dream) her a graveyard.
What: Polly needs to die again. They're more than memories now.
When: Last night? Night before? Somewhere around there. Also after this thread.
Where: Dreamscape, and then real life.
Warnings: violence, weirdo dream voodoo, chronovores, etc.
He'd given her no warning. There's a knowledge there that he's a visitor to her memories, that he's got a free pass through the gates (barbed wire lining the perimeter now, too much like a prison, off in the distance like small lines of grey teeth) to come and go as he pleases. An invader of the night -- while she could rest her dainty head against the pillows with a certain delicacy, his own skull throbbed as a single line of blood dripped down from the ache above his brow.
It takes him too long to realize the pulse isn't just from the sting, but from the rain that catches the red right from the welt and lets it run pink clear to his robes (no commoner clothing when it's all a dream).
The once mosaic-like city of stain glass and sunlessness has taken a turn towards opaque. The beauty it had once beheld is muddled. The creatures stilled in time obtaining passive faces are contorted into silent screams, jaws tight and pulled open (not unlike a Chronovore's, he notes as he passes one), eyes begging for salvation. It wasn't the dreamlessness stupidity they always possessed.
He seeks her out like following a scent he can't get in the rain, boots slipping on the cobblestone.
It's different this time. The dream is living ... breathing and sweating and growing, moving like walls made of flesh and organs. Feasting. Feeding. It's not just a memory inside the girl's head any more; he can see it shift in front of him. The temple in the corner of his eyes is moving with shadows he'd rather forget; he passes through it like a ghoul wading into the fog, dispersing the miasma.
All that's left to find is her sunken bones and her dig (dream) her a graveyard.