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open | merry & bright
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.
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!
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!
“your faves are unproblematic” au
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
In Dragonmount
“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.”
no subject
Blade slips from scabbard, and doesn't make a sound. It's easy here, moments narrowing taut before battle. Because certainly, there will be a battle —
At least, the threat of one. The house smells like blood, but even in darkness, people often see reason. In the face of overwhelming odds, of death and horror, the truth has a way of shining through.
(His armor is bright. Some soft light has smeared the details: The sculpted edge of muscle, and bone, and the old dents of misuse. It looks almost Ferelden. It looks like it's never seen a battle without surrender.)
"They might recognize you. You can still get through."
He speaks very clear Trade. Elegant, really.
no subject
“Yes. I can.”
He meets Cedric’s eyes. He nods. And then he kicks down the door of his old home. And there they are: a circle of three Venatori, weaving threads of blood magic that plunge into the wooden floor and run through it like veins, pumping poison into the foundations of the home.
There isn’t any cry of rage or triumph. Even though Byerly has found the source of the wickedness that has corrupted so much around him, he does not give voice to any catharsis. Instead, he moves quickly to draw his knife quickly and efficiently across the throat of the first masked figure.
no subject
But the dream insists: Sometimes you do, and it's alright; different. Violence here does not beget itself, but reduces it. Reminds you of the stakes. And anyway, when he opens his mouth, it's already done.
The Venatori gasps, clutches for his throat, where spills a brief and artistic wash of blood. A little may stain Byerly's hands; it washes out. These things always do.
The second man quails to see it. A coward, ready to scramble out the window. He gives it up — too high — and seems for a moment to muster a stand. Cedric lifts his sword (forged out of star-metal or something suitably important) and the room rings in distant, echoed melody. The spell percusses, heavy, heartbeat after beat,
And the masked figure bolts past him, tripping clumsy over his own robes. Gone. That vein of power pulses, and abandoned, withers onto itself. One left, and no doubt wickeder still of it.