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

[una_persson]

A door opens and from outside there's a faint sound of reggae music—the sound of the Notting Hill street fair, sometime in the 1970s. Then the door closes again and there is only the piano. A woman slips off a dark-green military greatcoat and drapes it over a nearby chair; then she sits quietly, listening and waiting for him to finish.

[depicted]

Dorian's fingers come to a rest after the final note. He smiles at Una, too. "I hope that wasn't 1976 out there." Dorian half-turns towards her. For her, he wears a timeless black coat. "How are you enjoying Dreaming, Ms Persson?"

[una_persson]

"I'm afraid it was. It's an era I'm fond of, and I make no apologies for it." She rises and steps out of the shadows; at first glance it appears that she's wearing a man's suit, but in fact it's a St Laurent le smoking women's suit, in midnight-black velvet. "The music is better in here, though. You play beautifully."

[depicted]

He nods the outfit with appreciative amusement; he always did love that kind of look. "Perhaps I should play something different for you?" He starts the first few bars of a song she may recognize before letting the notes trail away.

[una_persson]

She laughs and sings along until he stops playing, though she doesn't recall the exact words—only the melody.

"Play anything you like, so long as it pleases you. I'm happy to listen." She leans lightly against the side of the piano. "Have you any favourites? Songs, composers?"

[depicted]

Dorian hums a thoughtful note as he starts the first few notes of one of Chopin's nocturnes before transforming it into a mazurka. "The Romantics, perhaps? Schumann, Chopin, Wagner . . ." He changes his mind again and it's the Grand Valse Brillante, op 18. This one he settles into, working it out across the keys. "Saint-Saëns I can't say I enjoy much. Too restrained."

At one of the rests in the piece, he looks up at her. She is quite a picture there. "I'll beg you to sing more if you're not careful," he warns, and resumes the waltz.

[una_persson]

She's fascinated by the way he changes from one piece to the next; she is musical, to be sure, but she doesn't have that kind of gift. "No Schoenberg or Cage?" she teases. "Ah well—the Romantics seem to suit you best."

The comment about her singing makes her laugh. "Well, if you beg very nicely, I might oblige."

[depicted]

"Schoenberg does have the merit of being a degenerate," he answers. He finishes off the solo piece and then gives her a pretty smile. "And I have it on good authority that my begging is very nice. So would you sing for me, please?"

[una_persson]

She leaned forward slightly, smiling. "That is very pretty, but you do realise that I'll have to prevail upon you to play? I hope you know your Noel Coward and the like. 'Parisian Pierrot', perhaps?"

[depicted]

"Ah," he says, "and now I am left out of sorts." He is no such thing. He remembers the song and takes a moment to find the right keys. He settles on the right chords for the main theme, then looks back over to her. "Whenever you're ready, Gertrude."

[una_persson]

She grins, and with a graceful gesture, indicates for him to play.

Parisian pierrot, society’s hero
The lord of the day, the Rue de la Paix
Is under your sway
The world may flatter but what does that matter?
They’ll never shatter your bloom profound
Parisian pierrot, your spirit’s at zero
Divinely forlorn, with exquisite scorn
From sunset to dawn
The limbo is calling, your star will be falling
As soon as the clock goes round

She can't help acting just a little as she sings—not as broadly as she might on stage, but she sings it to him, with a little wit and melancholy. It doesn't occur to her at that moment that anything in the lyrics might trouble him, especially as he agreed to it so readily.

[depicted]

It is a beautiful song, and Dorian is so good at brushing past the meaning in a work of art. Basil's painting, Oscar's book, Henry's manipulations. So he plays for her, watching her perform out of the corner of his eye, and he lets the lyrics slip past him just like everything else.

He thinks, Why break the habit of a lifetime? She has no idea what she is saying to him. It's only right that he tries not to hear what she says.

He brings the number to a close and smiles at her. Parisian pierrot, your spirit's at zero. "How much acting have you done?"

[una_persson]

If she'd understood, she would have suggested a different song. She's only ever seen the lighter side of Dorian, the magic-carpet daredevil, the plotter of intrigues. There is more, she is sure of it, but the details are thus far elusive. If lightness is what he requires of her, then it's what he shall have, though she would accept the darkness as well. She always does.

Meanwhile, all innocence: "More than some people do in a lifetime. To say nothing of the fact that some people would say that I never really stopped."

[depicted]

"Ah, well," he laughs, "my cohort was never one to decry the habit of acting in life. Something you might know personally?" The shift in scenery is almost imperceptible. The era is the same, and the furnishings very similar. But it's Mayfair, not Kew, and everything is set such that Dorian almost expects Basil and Harry to walk through the door at any minute.

They might, if he keeps thinking like that.

[una_persson]

"A bit." She grins. "I've read my Pater, after all, and the nineteenth century was always my favourite, after the twentieth."

[depicted]

"Ah, the hard, gem-like flame." He strikes a few bright notes. "What about alternates of the nineteenth century?" There is something that Una that is familiar. She is strange and new, and he feels like he could have met her somewhere before. To meet her again outside this place—with her multitudes, his eternity might be more bearable.

He extends his hand to her, wearing that pretty smile. "My memories just have my history. Take me to something new?"

[una_persson]

"Variations on the nineteenth century, even the twentieth—oh, I think I can remember more interesting things than that." She takes his hand and turns toward the door through which she entered.

When she opens it, London is gone, and they stand on a bluff above a grassy plain in brilliant hues of scarlet, blue, and gold. High up ahead, a thing that looks like an enormous jewelled swan flaps slowly through the air; if you listen carefully, there's a faint clink and creak of machinery. Someone is sitting on its back, but their features cannot be distinguised at this distance.

In the far distance on the horizon, the humped shapes of ruined cities can be seen. Closer, hills and mountains, and a thing that looks like a gigantic skull.

"Welcome to the End of Time, Dorian Gray," she says.

[depicted]

'Something new.'

The phrase tugs on his thoughts as he takes in the strange cacophony of sights, the familiar sounds that don't work quite right. It looks like a dream, or the patching together of a dozen different dreamers' thoughts.

He wants to have it. He wants, and it will always be someone else's dream.

Dorian smiles at Una and discards his melancholy. "I can sign on to some of the aesthetic, but I'm not so sure about that skull. Not with a bang but a fantasy?"

[una_persson]

"The skull is one of Werther de Goethe's, from one of my recent visits there. He calls himself the Last Romantic and is very fond of grand gestures and binary statements, and is the worst poet I have ever met in a very long lifetime of meeting bad poets." She starts off down a path which descends from the bluff and runs alongside the multicoloured field; instead of ordinary gravel, it seems to be made of bits of marble and precious gems that glitter in the odd sun.

"A fantasy. Yes, I suppose you could say that. There's very few people left on Earth in this time, and those who are here have such enormous power at their disposal that it practically looks like magic. And so what is there to do but to make art on the grandest possible scale?" She smiles. "I like it here. Somehow it helps me remember to take myself less seriously. And one of my oldest friends spends much of his time here as well."

[depicted]

"'Werther de Goethe.'" Dorian repeats the name and lets his incredulity speak for himself. "Good God."

Dorian walks with her, curving down every now and then to swoop up a gem or a marble to see how it catches the sun in his hand. "It certainly has a certain artistic uselessness to it all," he agrees, onyx and ruby clicking between his fingers before falling back to the dirt. "I can see why you enjoy it. Are we going to meet your old friend?"

[una_persson]

His reaction to Werther's name gets a what-are-you-going-to-do shrug. That's the End of Time for you.

"I rather thought we'd just see where the world takes us—but you know, I think we'll go pay Lord Jagged a visit." They round a curve in the path and some short distance ahead is Jagged's castle, all gold and yellow spires on a fanciful reproduction of King's Cross station. "There's Castle Canaria, just ahead."

The jewelled swan seen earlier can be seen descending on the castle, to some roost hidden behind the towers.

[depicted]

Dorian appraises the sight. "No wonder you like your Lord Jagged. Are all people at the End of Time as interested in the United Kingdom as you and your friend?"

But excitement bites at his nerves. Something new—an illusion of it, but still, an illusion founded in a reality. Dorian has come around from envying that he can't have this to delighting in knowing it exists somewhere.

[una_persson]

"Some of them picked up the interest mostly through Jagged and me. Their tastes are pretty varied. Jagged's an unusual case." The path winds toward a small footbridge that seems to be carved out of a single giant ruby, which spans a wide stream through which flows a swift cascade of cartoon-blue water. "Jagged's like me. A traveller. One of the greatest." She sets foot on the bridge, which makes a pleasant sound like a tapped crystal glass with every footfall. "He taught me everything I know."

[depicted]

He isn't so much a tourist that he stops and gawks, but his head does turn so that he can catch the full details of unreality—a descriptor not merely an effect of dreams. "Your mentor, then." Having had enough of mentors that he'll wait until he meets the man, Dorian sets his attention back on Una. "And do you have an unreal castle of your own here?"

[una_persson]

"I suppose you could call him that." Up ahead, she can see one of Jagged's robotic servants standing watch at the castle; she raises her hand in greeting and the clockwork man bows (making a melodic chime as it does so), and as they approach the front doors, it pulls on some mechanism in the wall and opens the doors for them. "I don't keep a residence here, myself. I'm rarely here for long enough. Jagged decided to settle down ... go a little native, perhaps."

Inside, the entrance hall glitters with gold, silver, and precious stones, and from some other part of the building, a Mozart piano concerto can be heard, with that sound that comes from a record played on an old-fashioned gramophone.