Event | Landfall | Dreaming

[ironwood]

Characters: Any and every!
Date: August 10th - 31, 2013
Location: The realm of Dreaming as accessed via Sinbrilee
Situation: Dreaming is but one of the three realms and here characters are subject to their fanciful thoughts.
Warnings/Rating: Please place content warnings in subject headers!

Sinbrilee | Dreaming | Death

Life. Dreaming. Death. Three realms overlaid upon one another and yet each distinctly their own. They dwell in Life and do so live upon the back of the great turtle as those of Sinbrilee did upon the shell of his sister. However, there stand numerous arches of marble throughout the ruined city that are inlaid with runes beyond understanding. Those that live and breathe which step through those whose runes glow with faint, iridescent light tread instead into the realm of Dreaming.

Here, there exists no single defining characteristic beyond the visitor's imagination. The landscape sculpts to their individual thoughts, the events to their dreams. From a drab gray nothing to the most brilliant of displays, the senses perceive all that they wish to perceive for all that nothing here truly exists. This far from Tu Vishan, the ability to shape their surroundings is all they have, for Sinbrilee's Dreaming does not have the energy to sustain powers, only the bodies of those that dwell here.

Should two parties near, then the Mesh begins. Dreams, you see, not only can be shared, but they strive to be. These visions sculpted into reality reach out for one another and blend. They begin an exchange akin to a linking of the minds, within which one visitor can learn the other's deepest thoughts. Their limitation is but compatibility, for two minds that cannot flow upon the same current cannot hold the Mesh.

Happiness or loss, the landscape and events play out memories and fancies with a most convincing air. The mood rises and falls with the tide of the visitor's mind, detached as they are from the soothing influence of a great turtle's mind. Nothing here, however, is real; 'constructs' simply fade if taken through the archways and even the greatest scientific minds or tools will reveal nothing of its source. This is an ancient magic of an ancient realm, long practised in concealing itself from any prying.

Note: Due to the fluid and highly individual nature of Dreaming, no official subheaders will be provided in the comments of this post. Feel free to post and thread however you like, so long as the rules of Dreaming are adhered to.

Comments

cw: death, some violence

[constants]

[ OPTION A ]

[ The room is quiet, the air still. In fact, there is almost no sound to be heard at all. No one moving around, no clock ticking, no traffic outside. There's a window and the light shining through is dimmed by clouds that are dumping snow on a untouched landscape dotted here and there by trees. The furniture in the room is dark wood, a table with two chairs. The quality is good, and they look nearly new, hardly a scratch or fingerprint on them.

Empty. That's the feeling.

At the table sits the Archive, perhaps a few years younger than she is now. Somewhere around ten. There are papers in front of her in neat piles and a box of crayons. She fills the papers out in perfect stillness and silence, hardly a fidget or peep out of her. The dissonance of her demeanor and age is even sharper. Every once in a while she changes crayon colors, but otherwise she continues to fill out paperwork in silence. ]


[ OPTION B ]

[ There's noise. Shouting, inhuman screaming, gunfire. Things that look like humans but clearly aren't (Red Court vampires), a tall man in a black trenchcoat holding a staff, and another tall man with a shotgun. A baseball stadium, Wrigley Field. The vampires are sort of spread out between the dugout and home base, attacking the man in the black coat near home base, and the man with the gun and the Archive near the dugout. The man with the staff is spouting fire out of his staff, and the man with the shotgun is firing flames.

The Archive, for all that she's seven and a tiny child with baby fine blonde hair, a black dress, and silver cape, is perfectly calm. Between her hands floats what might as well be a cloud of ink in clear water, except it has nebulous tendrils floating around. With a single gesture it speeds out and hammers into one of the vampires. There's a terrible sound, like sizzling bacon and a wildcat screaming, a flash of purple light, and a swell of darkness. Then it passes straight through, leaving only ash and dust behind. ]


[ OPTION C ]

[ The Archive sits at a nicely polished wooden table, filling out paperwork with pens arranged in rainbow order. Outside it's clearly fall, the leaves are red and falling. It's quiet and still, and although it feels empty, she's not vastly out of place in the setting. There's no traffic, no extraneous noise, clearly an isolated location.

Something is very slightly off about her. Perhaps her hand is a little stiffer, or she bumps a pen before picking it up. Whatever it is, she's a bit on edge. And then, inexplicably, she stops. She's not moving and no one is there, but the words are being whispered throughout the room. A police report from Chicago. A bullet hole in a boat, blood spatter, no body. Single shot. Name, Harry Dresden.

Slowly, mechanically, her hands push the paper work away from her and tears just start flowing. Her face doesn't scrunch, doesn't change a fraction, and she doesn't make a sound. Her head bows until it rests on the table and she cries in silence, shoulders shaking with sobs. ]

option a!

[traitorously]

[This room reminds her of her father's house.

Catty resists the urge to tear it apart, peering around curiously instead. Her eyes light on the crayons before the girl, and her entire demeanour shifts from wary to pleased, like flicking a switch. She walks over, shoes clacking against the floor.]

You know how long it's been since I even saw crayons? Like, way too long. At least. [She drops into the spare seat, tilting her head curiously at the girl] I'm Catty. What's your name?

[constants]

[ The Archive doesn't even seem to notice Catty until she speaks. At that point she pauses what she's doing and glances up, not actually moving. Her crayons are the complete 120 set, arranged in perfect rainbow order in the box, minus the one in her hand, Turquoise Blue.

When the older girl takes a seat, her eyes drop back to the paper and she returns to filling out her page. She doesn't respond for a few seconds, but eventually does, voice as neutral as her eyes. ]

I am the Archive. [ A pause, almost as if she isn't going to say anything more. ] Who are you?

[ The question sounds uninterested, like a formality. ]

[traitorously]

[Catty is, quite frankly, jealous of that crayon set. Even if she personally wouldn't have kept it in rainbow order, that's still a pretty impressive collection.

She's also kind of creeped out, though. Young girls in rooms that remind her of her father's mansion pretty much spell out horror movie. But Catty's life has been one big horror movie, really, so she's going to pretend like everything's normal for right now]

The Archive? You don't really look like an Archive. More like an Emily. Maybe an Anna. [Catty's a big believer in picking out your own name] And I'm pretty sure that's the million dollar question right there. I'll get back to you if I find out, promise. But for now, I'm just another girl.

[There's a brief pause] Hey. Why are you writing with the crayons when you could be drawing?

now with proper icons!

[constants]

[ She's not interested in names and pays no attention to Catty as she rambles, and even though she continues writing without looking up, she responds showing that she has been paying attention. ]

The paperwork isn't going to fill itself out. Besides, I can't see what use I would have for drawing.

awwww yeah

[traitorously]

[Catty doesn't really mind that the Archive isn't really listening to her. She's not entirely convinced this is real, and so long as the young girl doesn't freak out and try to strangle her or something else that's creepy, Catty is content to chatter away.

Besides, it's kind of sad. All those crayons and nothing to draw] What's a girl your age doing filling out paperwork, anyway? And drawing - who said drawing had to have a use? It's about expressing yourself, it doesn't need to have a purpose beyond existing.

[constants]

I'm filling out paperwork because it needs to be filled out, and I'm the one in charge of filling it out.

[ Spoken as if Catty asked what color the sky was. She's not going to bother addressing the bit about expression, they would probably get in a bothersome conversation about age appropriate behavior etc, etc, etc. The woman in the grocery store last week had been quite content to lecture she and Kincaid about until they both grew tired and simply walked away. No need for round two in her house of all places. ]

A

[imaginate]

[His footsteps are slow, deliberate. He's been in the realm of Dreams several times, most recently with Asti, and this feels nothing like it. Morpheus - Kyle can't sense him around, instead, he's feeling the press of a mind similar to his, oil meeting vinegar, and he's wary.]

[When he reaches the room he watches her for a while, attempting to determine where (or when) he might be, before he approaches her cautiously.]

Hey. Seen a guy, tall, black hair, glowing white eyes?

[constants]

[ She doesn't notice him until he speaks; she's easily sucked into the past, given how much of it stretches behind her. Her mind recognizes him on some level and she stares at him for a bit before putting her crayon down. Even though she doesn't actively know who he is at this moment, there's enough familiarity that she isn't suspicious or uninterested in his presence.

At this age, the Archive is even more reserved and closed, and when she moves there's some distortion around her. A hint of a different figure- elbow, shoulder, wisp of hair; translucent and lasting no longer than a flash- plays around her like the sun in a mirror. Reflections of her past lives echoing through her mind. ]

No, I haven't seen anyone like that.

[imaginate]

[He watches the distortions with some interest, but doesn't scrutinise them too hard. He doesn't know where he is, exactly, and he needs to focus on that.]

Huh. Again.

[He sits down at the desk, and picks up the crayon, doodling on one of the discarded papers.]

Where are we?

[constants]

[ Her eyes track all his movements carefully. Cautiously. She's not completely complacent about him being here in her space. ]

My house.

[ Deliberately she closes her 120 crayon set (minus the one unfortunately in his hand) and gathers the two piles of papers into one, putting them both next to her and further from Kyle. She's already going to have to reprint and fill out the paper he's scribbling on. ]

[imaginate]

[He puts down the crayon when he's done, and pushes over the paper. It's a drawing of her, as detailed as he can make it, with the medium he's afforded.]

It's a nice place, and it's a lovely day outside too. Think you could change the ceiling to reflect the sky?

[Playing with dreams was always his favourite part, but this is her mind. He's not about to fiddle with it himself.]

[constants]

[ She looks at the drawing for a few moments, but then simply looks outside at the snow. Then the takes the paper from him and walks into another room, the kitchen. It's as pristine and empty as the other room. She takes a magnet and pins the picture to the refrigerator door the way she knows people do, then returns back to her chair.

Once seated again she pulls a paper out of the stack and picks up his crayon, returning to filling out her paperwork. ]

Thank you for the picture. The ceiling is fine as it is.

B

[angermanaging]

[Bruce is in the midst of one of his flashback dreams, where he sees glimpses of what he does during his time as the Hulk, so he's not properly himself right now. In dreams, the line between man and monster becomes distorted and much blurrier than it does in waking life; all of their mutual attempts, rooted in sneering resentment, at maintaining their separate identities are for naught.

With a roaring crash, Hulk lands directly on top of one of the vampires and starts to pull it apart bodily with his bare hands. Whatever the actual rules are for killing the Red Court, they're immaterial in his perception of his own strength; he is the strongest, and he is unconquerable. That girl that had gotten his name from him is even smaller than usual, more like a minuscule gnat than a real person, to his eye, and is in danger. His protective instincts rev up to full gear, and he wades into the chaos to destroy all who threaten her.

Hulk/Bruce are in agreement: able to protect herself or not, she shouldn't be harmed. She's a child, and one who has shown them both kindness.]

[constants]

[ Ripping them to shreds works very well against them. A bullet or two won't kill them outright, but being in pieces is a whole different story. They might live a little longer than other victims if he goes for things like limbs, but they die quite well when their head gets detached or something.

The Hulk and Bruce are familiar enough to her mind that she doesn't even blink when he shows up. They have a spot in her heart, in her mind, and they're welcome in this dream. His presence shifts her mind enough away from the memory that the man in the black coat sort of fades from existence, though the one with the gun keeps on shooting the vampires dead. He doesn't react to the Hulk, and he certainly doesn't fire at him, instead sticking close to the Archive in a protective way.

As for the Archive herself, she keeps her attention mostly focused on the cloud thing, clearly controlling it. The mordite smashes through vampire after vampire, leaving nothing but a sort of wrongness and death in its path.

At this rate they're going to kill the Reds pretty quickly. There's no way the Reds are good enough to stand a chance against one of them, let alone three. ]

[angermanaging]

[Ordinarily having another presence around, especially one with a gun, would be a major point of interest to the Hulk. Right now, he barely notices it; it seems an extension of the Archive, who's, just as he thought she would, taking out vampires with alacrity. It's that kind of strength that the Hulk respects, even if it's still inferior to his with its ephemeral and incorporeal nature as magic.

Before the Reds are all completely destroyed, a tank comes screaming into the scene, appearing out of the ether as if rising up a hill. It loudly grinds to a halt some distance away, and immediately takes aim at the Hulk, whose responding roar is nearly shattering. He tosses the mangled pieces of a vampire to the side, where it lands with a dull thud on another corpse, and takes an enormous, bounding leap toward the tank.

He recognizes it. He knows who this is. And as the Hulk crashes beside it, a swarm of blank faced, black geared troops file in from behind it, spreading out in formation.]

Open fire! Light that thing up!

[The tinny voice of a gruff commander fills the air, though where he is himself can't be seen. But everything starts firing on him, and some break off to attack the Archive and her companion as well, for now as an afterthought. The Hulk grunts and shudders back with the force of the higher caliber bullets, but otherwise ignores them, and starts reaching up to grab hold of the tank's main firing muzzle to bend it down with a squeal of metal.]

[constants]

[ As soon as the military shows up, the Archive gets serious with the Reds, sending the mordite effortlessly pounding through all of them, zipping the little ball of deathly anti-matter around the field in a matter of seconds with a few flicks of her hand. Kincaid has stopped firing at them and instead gets out a wooden box, which he opens and places on the ground before her so she can carefully drop the mordite back inside. Even in a dream she's careful with that stuff, it's just bad news all around.

By the time she's finished with this, they start opening fire on the Hulk, and she whips around to see, a look of concern on her face. As she sees him waver under the fire, the concern drops for anger. Even if they're not hurting him terribly, they're hitting him. Her friend. The person who helped her back to her apartment, the person she works with, the person who gave her hugs when she was upset and offered to look after her. And that makes her mad.

Even if this was real (which it can't be, she knows it's not, just a dream) she wouldn't care about those people. They're drops in the ocean, nothing of consequence, as important to her as any single ant is.

The first order of business, of course, is to stop the bullets. It takes nothing more than an application of will and a gesture across the field for every single gun and weapon to jam. Modern technology fails spectacularly around magic, and the more modern the better the effect. Secondly she has to deal with the people coming toward her. She's not used to dealing with large groups of people advancing at once, but it's certainly nothing she can't deal with. Force will be the least messy, and so with a flick of her hand with them, she smashes them back. The effect is something similar to being hit by a semi going full speed down a highway, and nearly every bone in their bodies is smashed as they go flying, landing like rag dolls a far distance away.

Kincaid has been standing behind her, keeping an eye out for any trouble that might be coming her way, but not interfering. It's clear that she's the one in charge here and that he knows when to help and when to stay out of her way. Her loyal Hellhound. She turns to see how the Hulk is faring, knowing that he will do suitably fine at fighting his own battle, especially with the broken weapons, though it's very possible that some will intermittently work. ]

[angermanaging]

[Although Bruce tries not to overtly agree with the perception of people as ants, inconsequential and trivial to his existence, sometimes he does think that. Sometimes it butts up against his morals and comes out the victor. As the Hulk, there's even less debate; although not intrinsically cruel, Hulk has no hesitation whatsoever about enforcing what he needs to in order to protect himself and those around him. He doesn't need her help, but he doesn't mind it-- or the form it takes-- either.

He doesn't want to devote the time it would take to tear off the muzzle of the tank's main gun, so instead he hauls himself on top of it, the metal groaning and buckling under his weight. Hulk pries the lid off the hatch without a trace of effort, and reaches in to grab the soldiers inside and toss them up and out. One, two, then three, until it's empty inside, and he's roaring again as he leaps off, still holding onto the lid, and back into the fray.

The thick rounded shape of steel could make an effective shield, but Hulk doesn't use it that way; instead he starts battering people with it, sending them flying as well. Whether even all this combined is enough to take out all of the soldiers is debatable, given that they seem to keep respawning (or healing?) as fast as they're knocked down. In the Hulk's mind, this is an endless fight, one he will always win but never truly stop fighting.]

[constants]

[ She spends only a little time killing the unending stream of soldiers, until she grows bored with it. To her they are finite, and it's annoying to have to rinse and repeat. There's a sort of pressure in the air, like the world is about to take a huge breath, and all the technology completely fails. She speaks with five thousand years of voices, ringing and clear in unison, the coldness that comes with the length of time this part of her has existed for. It doesn't care, it just sort of... is. ]

Enough.

[ And then the pressure is lifted, expanding out from her. There's a ringing sound, and a sort of translucent and shimmering bubble expands from her, out. It catches the soldiers as it hits them, and they're pushed outward, as if the shimmering glass of the bubble is impenetrable. However, it simply sweeps around the Hulk, leaving him on the inside as it pulls the soldiers away from him. Even the tank is swept away, much like a leaf in a wind, effortlessly carried away. The whole process takes no more than ten seconds, and by the end the field is domed by the shield with no soldiers or weapons in sight. In fact, even Kincaid is gone and only the two of them remain. This time she speaks in a voice that is just her own as she walks toward him. ]

That's better.

(c)

[wintershepherd]

[ There's a chill breeze that curls through the room, ruffling the edges of the paper like a tiny sighing breath and then a gentle hand rests on the Archive's shoulder from behind. He doesn't say anything (there aren't any good words) but he's there, nonetheless. ]

[constants]

[ She stiffens ever so slightly at his touch but doesn't move away. It's uncertainty and surprise instead of displeasure. Lifting her head a bit, she presses her sleeves to her eyes (though it's not terribly effective since she continues crying anyway) before turning her head to look at him. Her voice is far from steady, and quiet. ]

Hello, Jack.

[wintershepherd]

Hey kiddo.

[ The nickname is purposeful, far from demeaning. Jack knows a thing or two about letting kids be kids, whether they've got millennia of information stuffed into their heads or not. ]

Bad day, huh?

[constants]

[ Just for a moment she squeezes her eyes tight, as if banishing the tears. It works. Sort of. Instead they just sort of sit in her eyes, a sort of endless watery mess, and she nods. ]

Yes. How are you?

[ Even at a time like this, her conditioning to respond in a proper manner kicks in. ]

[wintershepherd]

I'm all right.

[ He withdraws his hand, coming to perch lightly on the edge of the desk instead, watching her compassionately. ]

Is there anything I can do?

[constants]

[ She shakes her head. ]

In six months he will return as a sort of ghost, and then after that he will return to his body and be well again.

[ It doesn't make this moment any easier, though. ]