open | merry & bright

[exequy]

WHO: Anyone!
WHAT: Everyone lives happily ever after, forever, for real, wait don't look behind that curtain—
WHEN: Late Haring
WHERE: The mountains
NOTES: No one is late to this. Feel free to get around to it in January. Or February! And if you have questions you can ask me here, but for any question that's "can I do this within my character's dream?" the answer will be yes! You can do anything.

The snowstorm that blows up around them in the mountains isn't unexpected and isn't a disaster. It only dashes some thin hopes that it might not come on so strong or so swiftly. But they've almost reached what they're aiming for — a cave along the cliffy coastal road that's associated with the disappearances of several caravans and now said to be home to a rift — and there's a village up ahead, glowing warmly through the snowfall once they're near enough.

They're not the first waylaid travelers here. The one little inn is full to bursting, with just enough room for Riftwatch's contingent to squeeze in at tables if they get creative about the seating, the lower floor so packed that body heat and the little fire combined make things outright toasty. The beds are all spoken for, but the innkeeper, a warm, upbeat woman with frizzy hair escaping a bun, says not to worry. She's not turning anyone out into the cold. Blankets on the floor is better than that. If anyone finds it too uncomfortable to sleep curled with old blankets on a creaking wooden floor surrounded by the snores of colleagues and strangers — no, they don't. It's comfortable. It's warm. The sniffles and rough coughs from the other side of the room have the rhythm of a lullaby, and the snow-covered roads and the rift and the missing are all problems for a tomorrow that does not immediately come.

They wake, each of them, in a world where there is nothing of significance left for them to worry about. Not the road or the rift or the missing. Not the war; that's over now. Not poverty or obligation or illness. Between them and the life they've always wanted, the way has been cleared of obstacles, and there is nothing left to do but enjoy the comforts of a well-earned easy life — and if something is a little off, no it isn't. Shh. If the victories feel hollow, or the details blur, or the seams begin to show, the world will tighten around them like hands around a wounded bird who needs to be kept from thrashing, whispering that they don't need to worry. Everything will be fine. Just hold still and let it take care of you.

The first to pull free of the delusion on their own will find themselves in the twisting grasp of a lucid dream that's trying very hard to snare them again, stumbling out of their happy endings into the worlds of others'. They might be pulled beneath the surface for a time: the entity saying, all right, if that didn't work for you, maybe this? But the more of them who congregate together, with their incompatible wishes, the more the fabric will begin to fray, until at last it rots away altogether and they find themselves waking on the floor of a cold, abandoned inn, covered in moldering blankets and lingeringly queasy from half-rotted food eaten at least a day earlier, surrounded by the bodies of the inn's other occupants in various early states of decay.

And after, because rest for the weary really is just a dream, they do have to go find that rift.

ooc | Final confrontation with the spirit that allows breaking out into the real world will happen via a log in here I will link when it's happening. But you're also welcome to say your character wasn't involved in that part and went straight to waking up!

Comments

astrid runasdotten | avvar au.

[brennvin]

Happy First Day, the war is over.

It’s a fairly easy edit, everything shunted slightly sideways: Astrid’s subconscious eases into these snowy mountains as if she belongs. You are in an Avvar hold — Rifthold, let us call it — and in the way of dreams, it is both Wulfhold and the Gallows alike, some impossible new amalgamation of the two so she doesn’t have to choose. You might walk up a familiar spiraling stone staircase which feels like it should lead to the eyrie, but when you look out the window, you’re gazing onto the Frostbacks instead.

There’s a contented rhythm to this simple life, and you have a job to do. Dressed in comfortable leathers and hide and pelts, chopping firewood, hunting for food, drinking and singing and cozying up for warmth at night. Astrid’s uncle Pike is augur, and if you’re a mage, you might find the intimidating stony-faced man chasing you down for help melting frozen equipment, lifting a cart which fell into a crevasse, or simply discussing magic.

There are multitudes of nature spirits flocking and thriving in the area, small gods living in peaceable harmony with the settlement. Astrid hauls you along for help carrying a fresh carcass, climbing one of the smaller peaks to make the appropriate sacrificial rites: slaughtering an animal, hot blood spilling over your hands and onto the snow. Perhaps you have a connection to a specific spirit yourself.

You might have an animal companion: a hawk circling overhead, a fox rustling in the woods, a loyal hound at your steps. For Astrid, there’s an over-large grey wolf pacing her heels most days: Raskmodig, and he’s a very good boy. Friendlier than he was in life, content to be scratched under the chin, and you’ll sometimes find her napping with him in her cabin in a pile of blankets.

She’s content, here.

When the dream eventually starts to curdle and turn, the snow comes harder and harder in a growing blizzard, blisteringly cold. The mountain pass is cut off; the buildings fade into white. If you try to convince her this place is fake, it starts to sever you from the rest of the hold, lost, wandering, as it prepares to toss you out and to somewhere else.


( ooc: pre-dream sharing a chair for dinner or cuddling to fall asleep? or an encounter in your own dream, or waking up, or the trip back home, or something else entirely? feel free to toss something at me! also hmu @ quadrille on plurk/discord if you wanna brainstorm. )

open sandbox

[brennvin]

( stealing this idea from hope below, who is a genius. feel free to use this subthread if you want to do your own thing set in astrid’s dream, whether open or closed to another character or whichever; it doesn’t have to be with astrid! this world is yr oyster, have at it. ♥ )

[elegiaque]

Crows follow Gwenaëlle — and of course they do. It was always going to be crows. They follow her as she makes her way up the hill alongside Astrid, a little girl with paler skin and lighter eyes holding onto her hand: today, Morgana Hardie is big and brave enough to come up the hill and witness, if not participate. She is carrying her mother’s leather and velvet bag, to help, and the walk feels — new.

But it isn’t. Can’t be. Gwenaëlle is certain that she must have, they must have, walked this hill many times before; it’s only that today, she’s seeing familiar ritual through the fresh eyes of an excited child, and everything feels new that way.

“She might be like her aunt, we think,” she’s saying to Astrid, “so I thought— it would be good to introduce her to the spirits.”

And why shouldn’t Rifthold have Honey Badger’s Avvar? There’s surely a reason they’re here, and not there. She must know it; there’s no need to wonder and worry.

you know the drill hmu if anything wants changing

[dissolving]

He takes her hands in his. A wooden disc presses smooth in palm, surface scored with some deep and foreign pattern. Not a rune, they are not augurs, but just now there's room for something between: A wide, safe swath of belief too formless to name sacred; to limit to her uncle, to Cedric's mothers. Everyone plays at luck. That's living.

Rost flickers by, a dutiful thing, most often hound or hare (dreams are not renowned for their cultural sensitivity). There are blankets bundled about them, dozy of fire and full belly.

"Are you ready?" He couldn't say what's in her own hand, and maybe that's a part of it. The game. "To find out what comes next."

The new year stretches, must be. Why else should it be this cold? The snows have been so thick of late.

[dirthsal]

Talin slots right into this dream as if he's always been meant to be here, or somewhere like here, anyway. It's just close enough to his own ideal world that it's almost as if they're dreaming the same dream, sometimes, like it's difficult to know whose dream this really is, in the end.

Sometimes, Astrid's ears come to a long point. No one in Rifthold has a beard. If there's anyone taller than 6'0", they're never anywhere near Talin.

The dream isn't falling apart yet, not for them, but there's still a blizzard. They're snowed in, and that notion would come with a lot of waggled eyebrows and nudging elbows if Raskmodig and Faron weren't staring at them both. Talin's not really shy about sex, you don't get to be when you grow up in aravels, but there's something about being stared at by two hulking wolves that really puts a pin in one's libido.

That's alright; he likes Astrid for more than her body. The four of them are piled together in the middle of the floor of—a hut, maybe, or a cave, or a very large aravel. It's not quite clear. The important thing is: a puppy pile in the middle of the floor, a crackling fire just bright enough to keep them comfortable, a storm raging outside without touching them. It's a beautiful day, as far as Talin is concerned.

"Did I ever tell you the one about Fen'Harel and Andruil?"

He pushes Astrid's hair away from her face, thumbs affectionately at her cheekbone.

“your faves are unproblematic” au

[bouchonne]

In the real world, people make mistakes. In the real world, people make bad choices. That is not the case in Byerly’s dream, where everyone you love is good and virtuous.

Do bad things happen in this vision of the world? Of course; it would simply be too unrealistic if there was nothing horrible going on. But not a single bad thing is caused by, or has ever been caused by, you or by anyone you care for. Anything that anyone might possibly carry blame for actually has some other cause. Did you swear yourself to a bad cause? That cause was good, actually, and just happened to be corrupted by bad actors later on. Did a historical figure you admire commit an atrocity? Actually, they were fine, and it was just misattributed to them, and now you have proof of that. Did a friend of yours murder someone? Nope; that was actually completely justifiable self-defense, and anyway, the person they killed was a complete monster.

And have you ever had doubts about your relationship to someone? Don’t worry. Every bit of apparent conflict has actually always been a simple misunderstanding. They actually love you unconditionally. Whether that’s a parent, a friend, or a partner — there will always be a reason available as to why, in fact, neither of you is to blame.

You can feel free to question this. But there will always be some new piece of evidence that will surface to show you that things are and have always been fine, actually. The more you push, the more outlandish this might get. But it won’t relent.

In the meantime, the war is still on, but only in a distant and abstract sort of way. No battles are being fought; missions are being conducted, but they’re always successful; there’s no lack of luxury, and a person can freely travel wherever they wish. There’s just a sense of doing something for the greater good without any of the hardship one normally suffers while fighting for the greater good.

open sandbox

[bouchonne]

[ Does this premise sound appealing to you, but you don’t want to wait on my slow ass to get to thread this out? And/or do you want to work through some relationship stuff with a non-Byerly character? Feel free to use this subthread for that! ]

In Dragonmount

[bouchonne]

The house is old and musty, and it smells of blood. Distantly, there’s the sound of chanting.

“Venatori,” Byerly murmurs. There’s a knife in his hand. This is a mission to put an end to malicious magic, by any means necessary - the details are fuzzy, but don’t really matter, not right now.

“Remember - we know my father and my mother are under their control. But do not harm them under any circumstances. If we get rid of the blood mages, they’ll come to their senses.”

Benedict Artemaeus | Thedas Resplendent

[altusimperius]

The war is over, there was never a Corypheus, the Venatori never managed a foothold and were extinguished without drama; Riftwatch, too, never had a reason to exist, but its members were united by a drive for technological development and philosophical enlightenment. Circles of Magi are treated like universities, Templars exist only in the Tevene sense as informal buffers against magical mishap, and slavery in the north is conspicuously absent (though what has replaced it is not entirely clear).

Eluvians still exist, supplemented now by gilded vehicles, powered by magic if reminiscent of those found in the home world of Tony Stark and Stephen Strange. Travel has never been easier, food has never tasted better, and financial inequality has been all but eradicated, enabling every living person to live however they please in a paradise of technology. All the way down to Ferelden, the world is a place of beauty and convenience, shining cities brimming with unfathomable delights and proud, happy citizens.

House Artemaeus is but one touchstone in this age of enlightenment, a decadent manor floating over the Nocen Sea and never empty of visitors. Within, a sprawling gallery of the latest developments in art, fashion, technology, and architectural design from all across the world, curated by the svelte, canny, and internationally respected Benedict Artemaeus.

Accompanied always by an entourage of artists and thinkers, Artemaeus has given over his Senate seat-- yes, his-- to a small conclave of worthy minds, allowing him to spend his days attending to the gallery and other philanthropic efforts around Minrathous. Notably, also sharing residence in the home are Calpurnia and Aurelius Artemaeus, the curator's doting and generous parents who, much to his chagrin, can never seem to keep quiet about how proud they are of him. In one of the many guest wings of the house also resides a seemingly unrelated family, the only occasionally visible member of whom is a sweet-faced and beautifully dressed woman in her 40's.
Guests, especially those from the not-Riftwatch days, are greeted at the manor with a hero's welcome and unilaterally fed, boarded, and shown the sights of Renaissance Minrathous.

As the dream begins to turn, the world begins to break down: any technology powered by magic fails intermittently, including that holding the manor aloft, and a foul-smelling, grimy smog begins to seep into the setting, poisoning the color and flavor of all the world's luxuries. A general sense of unease overtakes the populace, and violence begins to erupt as resources grow thinner.

sandbox

[altusimperius]

[go drive your cars around vroom vroom]

dinnertime

[boeric]

The small fork is in her hand. It scrapes a steady circle through meals that never seem to diminish: Fresh and vivid with the green color of bounty.

Sennara blinks. Presses harder, experimental, and watches a gold tine bend against shimmering plate. The embossing ripples out into new pattern.

(Who made this? How would you make that?)

"Spot," The name tastes strange. Must be fond, for the indulgent smile of a woman who looks very much like him. Sennara knows her from description alone, "What do we eat?"

a party;

[portalling]

Benedict liked New York well enough that his subconscious moulds itself after its conveniences, and so it stands to reason that Stephen is similarly drawn in. This dream catches him like a particularly honeyed trap, tantalising, precisely the sort of thing he might like, too: all of the magic, none of the guilt.

Doctor Stephen Strange has attained a professorship at the Orlesian university, the first rifter allowed to do so, and teaches magic at one of the Circles which feels so much like an academy. He is anchored in this reality, with no risk of unexpectedly vanishing someday (and how does he know? don’t ask, it just is). His usual sass about Medieval Times is— gone, actually, because of all the gleaming magical conveniences and Tevene delights that he admires so much, stripped of any reason to feel bad about what went into making them.

So he’s at one of the House Artemaeus salons, breezing through crowds of the magical aristocracy, meandering through the gallery and taking in the sights. He’s comfortable and very much in his element, sipping a cocktail, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the host in question as he takes in one of the art pieces, glittering with illuminated arcane glyphs.

“I like it. I have this set of seven rainbow lamps at home, they’re like enchanted multi-coloured lights, I imagine the principle must be the same,” Stephen says to his friend.

(and for a moment the details are hazy, because he remembers those lamps illuminating something else — the floorboards tilting slightly underfoot, a houseboat, winding stairs, a view of the bay through the windows — and that’s not the Hightown house he lives in now, is it?

— in this dream, that manse looks very much like the Sanctum Sanctorum. This is on purpose.)

ness tavane | candlewall? kirkeep? faedas?

[aberratic]

The war, as it happens, is still ongoing—but the tide has turned, and everyone is in good spirits about it. Your work, whatever it is, has turned out to be vital to the efforts against Corypheus. Down to the lowliest servant, each and every member of Riftwatch has contributed in some major way to the near-complete downfall of their enemies. It's a matter of weeks until Corypheus and the Venatori are defeated for good, but until then, work and purpose remains.

The Gallows is recognizable as such due to its layout and not much else, though you'd swear you've never known it different: the cobblestone courtyard, the ashlar stone walls crawling with ivy, diamond-paned windows set in dark wooden frames are as they have always been. The interiors of each tower are lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, as they have always been. This mix of Thedas and Faerûn, Kirkwall and Candlekeep, reflects its dreamer and her priorities perfectly: every book you could ever ask for can be found on these shelves (whether they are legible, gibberish, or in any way accurate depends on if you've read the book before and remember its contents). "Dark academia" eat your heart out.

There are some things that immediately and deeply distinguish this dream from Thedosian reality, chief among them being: there is no taboo or restriction on magic of any kind for any purpose. Blood magic is just another way of accessing magic, and holds no stigma. Templars act only to suppress magic that cannot be contained, and do not need to use lyrium to do so. Additionally, elfblooded humans look like proper Faerûnian half-elves, with the attendant pointy ears and other uniquely elven features.

Ness herself has reverted to her normal Faerûnian appearance: lavender eyes, white streaked hair, distinct purple cast to her skin, pointed ears. She remains Quartermaster, but she doesn't work alone—her drow father Vazeiros has arrived in Thedas via rift as well. His dark amethyst skin, stark white hair, and red eyes set him immediately apart from native elves, but no one's weird about it. He loves his daughter, and has forgiven her for the hideous sin of (checks hand) ever having become his problem.

When the dream begins to turn, once-familiar hallways turn into labyrinths and mazes, preventing you from ever reaching Ness. Every door you open brings you to a different room, each one pleasantly quiet and filled with bookshelves, all filled with books that attempt to tempt you, personally, from your goal, with whatever information would do that. If that doesn't work, the stacks begin to close in, slowly but surely doing their best to squish and smother you entirely.

sandbox

[aberratic]

[ do whatever you want my friends, i am hella not the boss of you! ]

[ipseite]

For all her years toiling at one desk or another, with one stack of research materials or another — Madame de Cedoux is not, in truth, nearly so enamoured of literature as either lover or effective stepdaughter. The closer that they come to the end of the war, and the more she is called upon to step outside of her office — to treat with this ally or that, to prepare for what will come after — the more she seems to flourish, spirits high and temperament rather more vivacious than most within Riftwatch might readily recall. She is difficult to miss, nowadays, the blues she favours turned vibrant and accented with shimmering embroidery to catch the light and the eye — the enormous tilted hat that matches her capelet and riding gloves making her easy to spot as she comes and goes.

So it’s certain that Ness has already seen her on the docks long before Petrana’s attention is drawn, the gentleman who’d escorted her back from Hightown saying, pleasantly,

“Ah, Madame, your daughter has come to meet you,”

and it’s not an uncommon misconception— three rifters, so closely associated, the vague questionmark around all of their ages and the plausibility that Vazeiros and she might result in someone who looks rather a lot like Ennaris. There have been occasions, surely, where the misunderstanding was promptly corrected, but today, a good day, Petrana tilts with the ease of practise not to collide hat with head when she presses kisses of greeting to Ness’s cheeks,

“What luck to be so thought of,” she says, with only warm acceptance.

turning;

[portalling]

This one almost gets him.

So much of what sings to Ennaris Tavane’s subconscious appeals to him, too. Stephen has always wanted to see Candlekeep, and this altered version of it presents such an alluring image, an oasis he could sink into: wouldn’t it be nice? just to stay here for a while, read a book, settle into your studies, the war is on the brink of success and all is tranquil and well,

and he’s almost sold on it, until he finally meets Vazeiros. The wrongness of it sinks and hooks deeper under Stephen’s skin every time he has to see the girl so glowing and happy with this father who Stephen knows neglected her, this man who always called her Ness for selfish convenience and steamrolled over her own preferences —

The moment Stephen becomes self-aware, he drops a book on his foot. “Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

Shaking himself out of it takes concerted effort; this feels less like waking up and more like ripping out his own stitches, bleeding and limping down the hallway of not-Candlekeep-not-the-Gallows. He’s psychically tired. He feels like he hasn’t actually slept in weeks. He hasn’t been able to properly reach Gwenaëlle in any of these worlds. He wants it to end.

Every time this happens, always, part of the dream starts to warp and destabilise around him as if the very landscape is trying to fight him. Whatever’s driving the illusion is onto him, just as he’s onto them, and nobody’s happy. He’s really starting to get pretty pissed off, actually. He’s pretty sure the last dream killed him and yeeted him out by dropping an actual piano on his head. This migraine has not abated.

But for the sake of not ripping apart reality from the get-go, he’s trying to find Ness for the subtle and polite approach first, even as doors slam in his face and the hallway twists labyrinthine, and he comes face-to-face once more with the adult drow.

“Sorry, I just, I’d very much like to have a word with Ennaris,” but Vazeiros cuts him off again, blocking his path.

“I really need to speak to your daughter,” Stephen says, through gritted teeth.

[dissolving]

There are days, entire weeks, that Cedric doesn't tense for some off-hand display: The casual gleam of a warming glyph, the creep of spell-grown skin. There are even moments, rarer still, that some piece of him forgets to be afraid.

That piece is all of them, now; never burned, and so never shy. Scars smooth over soft as putty. His ears are whole. His beard is grown. And yet — evidently dishuman. That ought to be a problem. Maybe somewhere, in distant Tevinter, it still is. There's a reason he's here, after all, that Riftwatch is fighting (winning) this war.

There’s a reason. If he doesn’t look too closely, it can’t slip away.

"Got a letter," Mail call. He slides it onto her desk, sealed in thick wax; the shape worked such that only Ness' mind can name. "Think 's from your ma."

gwen

[dissolving]

"Fuck," Death's chosen should probably pick more inventive invective. "Won't budge."

Fists planted against a bookshelf that's gone the weight of stone. They've been closing in, obstructing doors, flinging their contents into desperate view. Cedric hasn't stopped to look too close, or he would've spied his father's journal; else the secrets to being taken seriously, or that song he heard once and never again, and an illustrated account of everyone he's ever thought about naked –

Different, of course, for Gwen.

"Y'really reading right now?"

"pride, prejudice, and bridgerton" au

[reparo]

It's an endless ball - a little less Orlesian Winter Ball and a little more magical Yule Ball, only nobody is a fumbling teen being pressured to making nice and dancing with the students from other visiting schools here. The dancing happens because the market is open.

What market? The romance market.

Come, enjoy a world of no worrying about the war. All the men are dashing, the women are dressed in fine silks, and those who identify as neither are probably the sexiest people in the room. Or not - the dream's not the boss of you.

It's not immediately clear who this dream comes from. It is quite the mish-mash, actually: ballgowns straight out of a Jane Austen novel, but the politics of a Thedosian court's Game, and there is of course the magic. It's happening, but it feels natural - unfeared. Almost like someone who been wary of her magic not matching Thedas' this whole time has gotten her hands on a few too many romance novels to read in her spare time, supplemented it with the few experiences of a school dance here, a wedding there, and the result is this.

But hey, what does it matter if the mages are wandering around free, unbothered by demons or spirits, and if there are any Templars in sight they're not wearing armor? There's punch to be consumed, it might be spiked, and dance cards to fill. Can you feel the love tonight?

sandbox

[reparo]

[ use this thread for any shenanigans you want to play out in this dream, but for the love of god, you better link to the hot outfit. i am the boss of you. ]

(version 1) a truth universally acknowledged

[reparo]

A covetted bachelor(ette) stands by the punch bowl, deliberately avoiding the dance floor, her dance card empty for now. She is dressed in a very well tailored suit, and the heels on her feet miraculously do not hurt her feet. (That should be a red flag.)

Her appearance and attire don't seem to bother most at the ball. From Hermione's perspective, they are happy to ignore her in favour of more interesting attendees. So she is going to pour herself this drink, and find a way out to the gardens (surprise, the ball spills out onto beautiful pleasure gardens, now) where she can get the book out of her waistcoat pocket and keep reading.

What, lo! Her fingertips have brushed yours by accident, her eyes darting quickly to meet yours.

"Ah, pardon - go ahead."

I wrote this whole starter and then realized Vanya's dream is stardew valley, you're welcome

[wearyallalone]

If you find yourself in Vanya's dream, you are likely to notice it's quiet, first. Not empty, but the peaceful quiet of the way a city boy would imagine the countryside: wind in growing grain, birds in the trees, occasionally the lowing of a farm animal but never in distress. The light is warm and golden. The weather is fine, seasonable for the time of year.

A small market town in Nevarra, the name not important enough to be fully consistent from visit to visit. The inhabitants are friendly, and their few problems are simple one. A single lost sheep, young lovers who haven't raised the courage to speak of their affections, a rivalry for which town resident makes the finest savory pie. They see few strangers but aren't hostile to them, inclined mainly to ask for news of the much more exciting outside world. There's no mention of a civil war in Nevarra. There never was one, here. Corypheus is a recognizable name, but that war is long over.

They speak well of Orlov, if he comes up. A quiet man, clearly once a soldier but disinclined to speak of his past. He bought a horse ranch a half day's ride out of town, moved in with his wife, a widow with a son from her first marriage. He's quiet, yes. But does his part for the town and is honest in his dealings. Brings his family in for festivals, says hello if you pass him. No crime in wanting a quiet life, as long as you aren't unfriendly.

If you make your way out of town in the direction of the Orlov ranch, it is a plain place but well-maintained and large enough it must have cost a fair amount to acquire. There's a small staff of ranch hands and a few servants, who all seem content. The horses, it goes without saying, are beautiful.

For his part, Vanya takes a lot of long rides. There's plenty for him to do if he wants to, but the ranch runs fine without him. His wife and stepson are always happy to see him but disinclined to worry if he's gone now and then. He is aware he should be content with a quiet place to retire and no one looking for him. No more battles to fight. Good work to do. But something niggles at him, like it's at the corner of his eye and vanishes whenever he turns to look at it full on.

He can't settle. He can't shake the feeling that if he were to set his horse's feet for Neverra City, he'd somehow never get there.

sandbox

[wearyallalone]

[Do you want to do something in the farming sim without Vanya's sad face weighing you down? Romance an NPC, win the pie contest, live your his dream!]

her serene majesty, empress petrana solene

[ipseite]

The empire is not Orlais.

The empire is not not Orlais, either. It’s not Lamorre, god knows, but it’s — something between those. The Lamorran influence of its undisputed ruler is distinct in the heavier architecture and the battle-mages who have been knighted in her service; in another life she had had the Queen’s coven, in a tower all their own, and in this one her ladies-in-waiting (of which you might be one—?) are colloquially known as the imperial circle. If not amongst their number, one might be vying for a look at them resplendent in their court finery here, now, as a petitioner to the court—

Once every season, the throne room is thrown open to supplicants who have business for the court and though all appeals to present are vetted thoroughly, all are permitted to appeal for the opportunity to present their case or their cause. It’s a full day, and with the tradition now several years well established, something of a festival in the city.

What city?

Kirkwall, sort of. Halamshiral, maybe. The Holy City of Lamor, in that the seat of her power remains the same as it ever was, the palatial residence of the Archbishop now the spoils of conquest. Whose conquest is a blurry thing, too; it was the Emperor, Maker rest his soul, but there is no Emperor, of course. And no need to concern oneself with him, either; if one should aspire to militaristic greatness, then look no further than Knight General Rowntree for an example, gleaming and armored upon his warhorse.

(Kevin. It’s still Kevin.)

The streets of definitely the capitol city of certainly an empire remain lit long into the night, strewn with banners and lined with tables and benches — the visitors from further afield an opportunity to peddle and purchase, and to gather with those you might not see so regularly. Outside of the palace proper there is more raucous music, dancing, and those privileged enough to a more private audience with the empress’s court can still hear the revelry floating in the night air from open balconies, though the musical accompaniment within the throne room was arranged particularly by the Chancellor (it’s exactly who you think it is) and it would be polite to listen.

and all is well.

sandbox.

[ipseite]

( combine elements of any other dream that makes sense with this one. or that doesn’t! go to the festival, make conversation in the halls of power, go nuts. )

kirkwall: the herald's collective (oblique spoilers for Arcane s2);

[grindset]

The city has changed.

The memorial garden has grown, and grown, become thick with grasses slim and tall or bent beneath seed heads, leaves spreading broad or in fine sprays of green, flowers upon flowers upon flowers. Trees raise twisting branches in praise of the sun. Vines stretch, coil, and cling to weave canopies over walkways. And the building of metal and glass, standing where once stood Kirkwall's Chantry, dominates the skyline with a silhouette of spiralling organic forms.

Within the structure, consuming much of its footprint, is a hole, carved straight down through the city to open its long-neglected depths to filtered light, to air that moves, and life has mustered in village terraces all around its circumference, from Hightown to the lowest of the low. Vent shafts, marked by windmills, pierce the city's crust all around. Darktown's air flows as fresh as that of the clifftops.

Visitors will find the streets clean and lively, its dwellers united by a spirit of progress. All ornament is evolving toward the biotic: ancient stone walls are refined, additions are wrought in iron and steel, round windows form new spirals of coloured glass. Fellowship pervades and technology flourishes. Machines are everywhere: a wagon of alloys pulls itself; sleek-built golems share a heavy load; enormous engines nod, nod, nod their steel beams in ponderous rhythm; others bore through the rock below. All are inscribed with flowing runic sequences and limned in lyrium blue.

Loitering around the greenhouse tower will soon prompt a question from a placid man with iridescent marks, like scars, maybe, across the upper half of his face: Have you come for an audience? It's not a trick—one need only ask, and be led inside.

Or, perhaps one is far below, one of many in a tended garden of gently pulsing vesicles, ready to emerge. The chrysalis stretches, splits for determined fingers. Luminous film sloughs away in strings. Of the body emerging, what was damaged is now whole again; what once was frail is now fortified by a scaffold of some unnamed alloy, branching across the skin to form a shimmering mesh wherever it's needed most. The metal is unyielding to touch, to grasp, but flexes like flesh—alive.

On the face of every emergent soul are ovoid marks, like scars, maybe: five of them, around the brows and eyes, spaced like fingerprints.

All those similarly blessed, their thoughts half-open to one another, to murmur nearby, like the muffled voices of family in another room. Emotions soften toward the pleasant. Heads turn to look, eyes and mouths smile. There are no strangers here; not anymore.

Those who came before, who now dwell here, do so happily—they start families, make lives, enriched by community and all they share. The citizens of Kirkwall share everything, happily, from the food on their plates to the marks on their faces: five, spaced like prints. Some are tasked with bringing unmarked visitors to the towering, twisting, hive-like greenhouse. One simply must be led inside.

The turn begins as a slow erosion of mood. Vitality drains from the streets, though the bodies linger. Gazes persist, smiles lose their warmth. Food spoils in the mouth. Machinery slows, stops. Glass cracks in its frame. Clouds thicken to overcast. The many-hued metals begin to spread, to envelop surfaces indiscriminately with a gleaming, creeping, plasmodial film, sharp-edged where it sets, which mages fall sick to touch. The blue glow dulls to purple, then to a deep red.

Soon, fluid drips from the eyes of citizens and those newly hatched alike—first eyes, then mouths; first pearlescent, then viscous black, as all iridescence decays. They engage in fleeting squabbles among each other, but outright attack visitors on sight, viciously, mindlessly, tooth and nail. It spreads and spreads and spreads, withers the gardens, chokes the air, darkens the sky, gurgles in shrieking throats, rot upon rot upon rot.

Too late to run. The city has changed. The Blight is everywhere.

[be a tourist, live here your whole life, hatch from a magic blister, become darkspawn, present your friends to a twink against their will, etc. will NPC the friendly forehead guy on request, and if anyone enters the greenhouse Viktor will join the thread. catch me on plurk at abyssal or discord at whalesfall if you want V some other way (oh my) or have any questions.]

hatchling in the greenhouse

[portalling]

As always when there is something in the dream to appeal to him, Stephen Strange is successfully caught and snared at first, dropped into it like a fish hauled wriggling over the edge of a boat —

And he lands in a better Kirkwall. There is much to draw him in here: the same simpatico that made Viktor and the doctor first start to compare notes, beautiful glowing runes, magic married to science, societal conveniences, remarkable achievements, pushing the envelope ever further and further and further.

Stephen crawled out of a blister only a couple hours ago, reborn, reforged once again. He has the five-pointed marks on his face. He is here at the greenhouse to seek an audience with the mind behind all this (once a colleague, a patient, a friend), and to marvel at his own improvements.

His hands no longer shake. The prosthetic fingers on both his hands are beautiful, that mysterious living alloy melded to his flesh, the seams indiscernible. His fingers flex and move with all the same crisp delicacy they once did as a surgeon; there is no longer any pain.

sennara | qunandar sandbox

[boeric]

Welcome to Par Vollen.

Or something like it. This dream better resembles pictures in books than living terrain, and where the details bloom it's into misty jungle. You have a job. A life. Expectations, and duties, friends and neighbours; in vast, honeycombed ziggurats. Children congregate in distant packs. The buzz of industry is constant, alive: Everywhere, someone is building, sowing, planning,

But there are soft places. Patches where something goes a little grey and vague. There are no saarebaas here, there are no mages at all. If you recall your powers, it is as a strange dream.

It's different, here. Better. Safe. There's no hunger, no disease. The elderly are tended. The infirm and wounded still have roles to fill – and there are few wounded, any more, for the war is won. All the wars are won.

There are soft places, ideas and notions where the dream's fabric struggles for shape. Tug at its threads, and you may find the whole thing unravels. Without structure comes intensity. Magic grows abruptly, briefly, stronger; but twisted from control. Even non-mages might wield it.

There are eyes in the streets, now. They aren't all friendly. A fond touch might linger, or drag a bag over your head. There are eyes in the jungle, too, old ones. To run is to be hunted.

She'll be doing the hunting. Nameless and aimless. Without magic, there are no Isskari. Without meaning, men are as beasts.