( open ) let me tell you a secret —

[delphian]

WHO: Tsenka Abendroth & some strangers.
WHAT: Tsenka dreamwalks through the Gallows.
WHEN: Over the course of this month.
WHERE: Asleep in your beds.
NOTES: You do not have to have commented on my OOC post to participate. Details within. Chicken horse not guaranteed.

HOW THIS WORKS.

Under ordinary circumstances, Tsenka is an expert in the delicate, painstaking manipulation of a dreamscape in order to extract the information that she wants—in this case, she is seeking knowledge of Riftwatch, the Inquisition, Kirkwall, the state of things and the safety of mages within the Gallows presently. Unfortunately, in this case, she is also fresh off about two and a half years in captivity during which she was often kept drugged out of her mind and exhausted from sleep deprivation; these are not ordinary circumstances, and she is not at her best. Her attempts to guide dreamers to what parts of their psyche she wants to see may not be as deft as they ordinarily would, and she'll have less patience for dreams embedded in less relevant information.
I will write Marcus's starter, but your character's dreams will begin like any other; set up your dreamscapes below, and await the chicken horse.

Comments

[exequy]

Kostos doesn't know he's dreaming, but he knows the door is trying to piss him off.

The window behind him is barred, and beyond it there's only blackness. His arm is wrapped around a heavy bundle of papers that he knows are important, that are too heavy, that are digging into his skin. His key turns easily in the lock, in either direction, without making any difference.

He kicks the door, which somehow—without moving or making a sound—smugly purrs. And more than he wants out of his room, he wants to not give this bullshit door the fucking satisfaction, so he doesn't do it again.

[delphian]

The door bursts open, which punctures its satisfaction somewhat—

filling it almost completely, a horse. No; a chicken. No; both, somehow? A chicken of improbable size, in the rough shape of a horse—like someone had seen a chicken, but only heard a horse described, perhaps, with four strange legs and clawed feet, a horse-shaped body, an ordinary chicken torso and bright eyes. The unsteady stillness of a chicken's head, and its tiny-eyed gaze alighting on Kostos.

It has no expressions, truly, but somehow he gets the impression that it's pleased to see him.

“Kostos,” his superior says, obviously this is his superior within the command structure that both is and somehow is also not Riftwatch, simultaneously, “are these your reports on Riftwatch? You're going to have to read some of them to me.”

He doesn't have hands.

“Let's walk and talk.”

He hunkers down, so Kostos might get on his back.

[exequy]

Kostos considers the chicken horse, looking it in one black eye. Next considers the disappointed door, emanating its invisible sense of spoiled fun. And back to the chicken horse, brow furrowing at the absurdity—not of the long feathered legs or griffon-sized chicken face, but of the fact that it's glad to see him. What self-respecting chicken-horse would ever be glad to see him?

But it's his superior. So he hoists the papers, heavy as bricks, higher against his side, and he swings his leg over the chicken-horse's back.

"Right," he says. He dreams himself good at riding, with none of the stiff-backed anxiety he would feel on a real horse, chicken or otherwise. "What should I start with?"