+ First Dream +
Warnings: 2nd person Gopher creeperness, language, non-interactive
Effects: Any of the emotions in the dream?
You (simultaneously yourself and the dreamer, and you are yourself and the dreamer is Gopher and you are both at the same time) are walking down a path, which is lined with trees that are so tall that you could easily fly below their branches with room for whatever complex maneuvers you wanted to try. The road is dusty, a red dirt that catches on the hems of pants and sticks to hair and skin. It's disgusting and you hate this fucking dirt you hate it so much you could explode.
The man in front of you is the most important person in the world (the world your world Gopher's world all the same). He walks calmly along, ignoring the dust, ignoring the occasional passerby who steps off the road as you pass and glances sideways and makes a quick hand movement that superstition says will protect them from evil, ignoring everything but his goal. Of course you don't know what that goal is. There's no need to know your master's goals. Just follow, follow, follow, because that all-consuming devotion in your soul drives you to follow him. He is everything and you are his willing slave. So of course you follow.
A cathedral looms up out of the fog, and your master (master-god-object of desire) stops. You wait for a split second, take a step forward, watch his expression. No condemnation, no annoyance at your movement, and so you open the door.
Inside it is dark and quiet, walls and pews and floor covered with a thick layer of dust that spins away from your master's feet as he walks inside. You keep your head bowed, fix your eyes on the path that he leaves. The door swings shut. You kneel.
"Gopher." His voice is the most perfect sound in the world, and that perfect voice saying your name sends a thrill through every fragment of your body and soul.
"Yes, master?" You glance up, take in the sight of him covered in the colors filtering dimly through cracked stained glass. He is beautiful.
"My collection lacks a Grigori soul." And your soul is grigori. He can have your soul he can keep it locked up in his book, in his collection, he can catalog it with a thin silken bookmark and press its feathers between heavy sheets of paper, he can do whatever he wants he can--
"Maka Albarn's soul will do nicely. Fetch if for me."
HELL NO
"Lord Noah," you say, reminding him and shaking with rage at the idea that someone else could be in his book, "my soul is Grigori. Take mine inste--"
"Gopher." Your master is angry, calm as murder. "Do not tell me what to do. You have no right to an opinion."
You want to die. You want to melt into the floor and scream apologies until your throat goes raw and you choke to death on your own blood.
"You are dismissed."
You rise, eyes fixed on the floor, tears streaming down your cheeks, and leave the church. Your wings unfurl from a wrist, black as ink and bright yellow as poison and you take to the air.
Effects: Any of the emotions in the dream?
You (simultaneously yourself and the dreamer, and you are yourself and the dreamer is Gopher and you are both at the same time) are walking down a path, which is lined with trees that are so tall that you could easily fly below their branches with room for whatever complex maneuvers you wanted to try. The road is dusty, a red dirt that catches on the hems of pants and sticks to hair and skin. It's disgusting and you hate this fucking dirt you hate it so much you could explode.
The man in front of you is the most important person in the world (the world your world Gopher's world all the same). He walks calmly along, ignoring the dust, ignoring the occasional passerby who steps off the road as you pass and glances sideways and makes a quick hand movement that superstition says will protect them from evil, ignoring everything but his goal. Of course you don't know what that goal is. There's no need to know your master's goals. Just follow, follow, follow, because that all-consuming devotion in your soul drives you to follow him. He is everything and you are his willing slave. So of course you follow.
A cathedral looms up out of the fog, and your master (master-god-object of desire) stops. You wait for a split second, take a step forward, watch his expression. No condemnation, no annoyance at your movement, and so you open the door.
Inside it is dark and quiet, walls and pews and floor covered with a thick layer of dust that spins away from your master's feet as he walks inside. You keep your head bowed, fix your eyes on the path that he leaves. The door swings shut. You kneel.
"Gopher." His voice is the most perfect sound in the world, and that perfect voice saying your name sends a thrill through every fragment of your body and soul.
"Yes, master?" You glance up, take in the sight of him covered in the colors filtering dimly through cracked stained glass. He is beautiful.
"My collection lacks a Grigori soul." And your soul is grigori. He can have your soul he can keep it locked up in his book, in his collection, he can catalog it with a thin silken bookmark and press its feathers between heavy sheets of paper, he can do whatever he wants he can--
"Maka Albarn's soul will do nicely. Fetch if for me."
HELL NO
"Lord Noah," you say, reminding him and shaking with rage at the idea that someone else could be in his book, "my soul is Grigori. Take mine inste--"
"Gopher." Your master is angry, calm as murder. "Do not tell me what to do. You have no right to an opinion."
You want to die. You want to melt into the floor and scream apologies until your throat goes raw and you choke to death on your own blood.
"You are dismissed."
You rise, eyes fixed on the floor, tears streaming down your cheeks, and leave the church. Your wings unfurl from a wrist, black as ink and bright yellow as poison and you take to the air.
