faderift | open | merry & bright

Entry tags:

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.

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!

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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.

[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!]

If one were inclined to think about it much, it might strike them as odd that such a small town boasts any manner of library, let alone one as well-stocked as this. It's nothing in comparison to—wherever she came from, she can't quite recall, slips off the memory when she thinks of it, but that's unimportant. The library is here, and so is Ness, and she likes it here.

The war is over, and she can pretend that she's a native, as she always planned—and sometimes, she thinks, she really believes it, can't remember a life that wasn't this small Nevarran town and its mysteriously stocked library. She's kept both her arms, and has no anchor, so she must be a native, surely. In fact, her mother runs this library, isn't that nice? Ness has read every book in it cover to cover already, and is working on reading all of them a second time. She loves her life. She loves this town. She loves—

Well, love is a strong word. But there is a distinct flutter in her heart when Messere Orlov comes to the library. He borrows books for his household occasionally, and Ness—she hasn't behaved improperly, she's sure. She's made sure. But Messere is tall and has kind eyes and a pleasant voice and anyone would find themselves taken with him, she thinks.

He taught her Nevarran, didn't he? Or—maybe he didn't. Maybe that doesn't fit this version of them. The dream hasn't decided yet.

Regardless, Messerve Orlov has come to town, and Ness has spent half the day hoping he'll come to the library. She has a new primer set aside for his wife's child, and a book of Orlesian poetry that she's reading behind her desk, trying to decide if it's improper to suggest for him.

When the door opens and he walks through it, she looks up and smiles, cheeks already a little pink.

"Messere Orlov, how nice to see you! I wondered if you might be coming through today. How fares your household?"

"Good day, Miss Tavane." His tone isn't without warmth, but his demeanor is a bit preoccupied. (It often has been, of late.) He can't help but wiggle it like a child with a loose tooth: Did he and Ness fight in the war together? That seems unlikely, surely. Did he teach her Nevarran?

"The family is well," he adds, so as not to leave her question hanging. "I wondered: Do you have a moment to discuss something, today? A ... research question, let's call it, though I'd hate to trouble you if you're busy." He feels a little foolish, even to himself, but he is determined to make a start. Stop ignoring the subtle feeling of wrongness that harries him, one way or another.

"For you, Messere, I have more than a moment."

She smiles, and pushes aside the paperwork at her desk, ignores the stacks of book on rolling carts behind her yet to be returned to their shelves. None of it is urgent work, anyway, none of it absolutely can't wait. There might be a late night ahead of her, but that's alright; it's a worthy trade for a few minutes of Messere Orlov's attention.

Has she always felt like this? It feels new, but she can't remember a time when she hadn't been excited to spend time with him.

"What's the subject of your research? I'm sure we have a book or two to help, or if we don't, I can make the appropriate orders elsewhere."

"I admit it is not the cheeriest of topics but ... do you have any books on the nature of the Fade?" It isn't exactly how he'd planned to start, but face to face with Ness, he falters when considering his original, bolder approach. He's almost certainly jumping at shadows, and there's no reason to frighten her if it's only his own melancholy to blame.

(And, of course, there's the years of lyrium use, even if he's stopped. It's never far from his mind, how it might affect him.)

It's clear in the way she blinks at him that this is not anywhere near the realm of topics Ness was expecting him to be interested in, and she looks a little lost for an answer for a moment while she adjusts to this new reality. Only a moment, though, and then she blinks again, and looks away to squint at one of the shelves.

"Hmm... We're a bit small of a library to have anything too advanced, but I think we have something on the basic theory, if I'm remembering right..."

She comes around her desk, crossing to the shelves where they keep their small collection of books on magical theory. As she peruses spines, searching for the one she's looking for, she calls back to Vanya with a question.

"What's your interest in the topic? If you don't mind my asking, of course!"

He's aware that I think there's something wrong with reality or my mind, and I'm not sure which it is is an alarming thing to say, and probably unfair to put on her besides. But he hadn't fully thought through an alternative explanation. It causes a small hesitation before he says, "I'm not sure if you knew, but I used to be from the city. I have a correspondent back in the capital who's interested in magical theory. She mainly uses me as a sounding board, I suspect, but I thought it would be nice to actually follow what she's suggesting if I could."

It's not entirely a lie; Benevenuta still writes him even buried here in the country. But he still feels a bit guilty for the misdirection, even if it's done out of a desire not to unnerve Ness without cause.

There's something in the hesitation that catches her ear, a quality to his voice when he does answer that's not quite right. Vanya is... lying? No, he's not a liar, and he does have that mage friend he writes frequently. (Why does she know that?) But he's not telling the whole truth, either. Ness frowns to herself over it, eyes still on the bookshelves even though she's not really thinking of them anymore.

In an ideal world, she's not quite so careful about speaking her mind. She doesn't have to be; no one's going to toss her out on her ass for being the slightest bit inconvenient.

"I said if you don't mind me asking, Messere," she says gently, because she's more straightforward but no more unkind, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. There."

She points to the top row of the bookshelf, just barely reaching the lip of the shelf with her fingertip, and smiles at him over her shoulder. If he's concerned that he's offended her, he needn't be. Some part of her still understands keeping things close to the chest.

"The book you want is up there, top shelf. I have a step ladder around here somewhere, I keep misplacing it..."

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wearyallalone - 2025-02-16 01:39 (UTC) - Expand

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aberratic - 2025-02-20 19:30 (UTC) - Expand

It's a peaceful little town. Pretty. Abundant. No one here expects trouble, and that’s gotta be what makes it so perfect, just his kind of happy ending.

So here and there: He carries off a lamb. Splits a buxom young lover from her beau. Lifts handsome, steaming pies from windowsill. Tells elaborate stories of the world beyond, and maybe some of them are even true. Who cares? Story's a story. No point in looking close.

There's never a noose of it. The town constable is a fat man on slow legs, and Lazar a beloved local rascal. There's always one of those. So he's not worried when he sidles up to the ranch, a bouquet of pilfered flowers in hand; Orlov's often gone, takes long rides on his beautiful horses.

And his wife –

Madame Orlov is an attractive woman in her early forties, with dark hair streaked with a few strands of silver. Her round, pleasant face tends toward openness, though her expression is wry as she pauses in her walk to the stables to regard her visitor and the flowers in his hand. She's dressed for riding, though she hadn't been moving with a purpose suggesting more than a leisure outing. She pauses, now, to let him catch up.

"Now don't tell me that those are for the horses," she says lightly. Not not flirtatious, though more amused than actively charmed for the present.

"Thought I'd pack lunch," He waggles a daisy beside his own mouth, the tip of his tongue catching between teeth, the breath gone out of him a little. Way it always does for a look at her: Smooth and clever with her boots up to there, "Been working up an appetite."

She laughs, clearly at him, but not unpleasantly so. "It seems your appetite is always formidable on days my husband happens to be off on a long ride. A remarkable coincidence, I wonder if the full moon is involved." She comes to lean on the fence, near enough to pluck the daisy out of his hand if he doesn't fight her.

"Maybe you shouldn't take such a long walk out here, if it exhausts you," she adds, idly.

She reaches, and for a second she's got it –

"Funny thing about it," He palms the flower. "Never sleep easy without one."

Lazar leans into the space between them, presses the daisy back to her hand. Heavy fingers close over her own, briefly; his touch lighter than it's got any right. A single petal cleaves from stem: He loves me,

Hooves. A rider, coming fast, and that's odd. Vanya oughta be gone all afternoon.

Edited 2025-02-06 08:22 (UTC)

Vanya had, in fact, planned to be gone all afternoon. He'd ridden faster than he'd noticed, though, attempting to clear his head and not doing an especially good job at it. At least he'll be tired enough to sleep that night, he thinks idly as he approaches home. He's sure he'll find something else to do with the afternoon.

When Madame Orlova hears the rider too, she straightens, though not abruptly. Her tone is still warmly amused as she observes, "Well since you miss my husband so often, if there's anything you have to say to him, it seems to be your lucky day." Certainly there's no reason Lazar shouldn't want to see Vanya Orlov, her framing suggests, though the amusement in her eyes betray that guilelessness is deliberate.

Lazar doesn't scare easy. Lacks whatever it is that takes a look at a bad situation, and says: Worry up. But he's got the sense to know when it's gone wrong, how to set down a fight he doesn't care to pick.

His outline ripples at the fence, gone briefly hazy as a sunrise; thinking how easy it'd be to be gone. It hasn't, the dream insists. Everything here, it's right on track,

So Lazar lifts a shaggy brow back at her, and turns.

"Ser Orlov," Gotta be a joke, that. With his money and a sword like some old chevalier. "Only riding the finest."

Stephen Strange is a lucid dreamer with experience slipping between dimensions; his abilities in Thedas still in need of practice, but he has been honing and sharpening them as each of these dreams folds in on themselves. Becoming aware the first time was difficult, like clawing his way out of tar and molasses. Each subsequent time is a little easier, a little faster to spot the seams and start to unpick them, ripping and unraveling the illusion as he goes even as it fights him harder. (It is starting to be very annoying for the dream.)

This time, he walks right into the bucolic farming scene: a quiet sunny rural day, a bustling market with benignly friendly villagers, sheep rustling down the lane with the incessant clanging of bells. The scent of fresh produce and tilled earth and manure, a familiar tapestry like his childhood in Nebraska.

“—Oh, absolutely not,” Strange says, and turns around.

The world blurs, flickers and jolts like a skip in the record; and when next someone looks in this direction, the lane is empty once more and the sorcerer gone, moving on to the next dream.

The spot where there'd just been a person is overtaken by plodding cattle, driven from behind by an enormous man in a straw hat.

"Well," he remarks to himself at the sight, and continues on his way.

This dream fits Astrid a little better than the rest; it’s not like putting on a well-worn coat, but at least a comfortable one that doesn’t chafe and pull at her shoulders. It’s a Nevarran town, but it looks so similar to the Fereldan lowlander villages she’d once frequented for market.

So she is a seasonal trader: she passes through on a predictable schedule to barter hand-made tools and supplies and dried jerky, buying and selling crafts, whatever someone might need. (Where does she live, and where does she actually lay her head at night? Don’t worry about it.)

And today Astrid comes meandering, with a click of her tongue to make the horse keep pace beside her. They make their way up the lane towards the Orlov ranch. The mare isn’t wearing a saddle, but Astrid only winds her fingers into mane and tugs lightly to redirect it, showing an easy confidence in handling the animal and trusting it’s not going to bolt when she reaches the outer fence of the ranch, undoes the gate, and ushers it through. Once she sees the silhouette of the man himself outside his home, in the garden, she whistles for his attention —

“Oy,” she says, gesturing with a thumb to the horse. “Got a runner.”

(It had leapt the fence a day earlier, escaped off onto the moors, tried to leave. He can’t settle.)

He looks up and his face clears momentarily. The something bothering him about this life is a toothache of a feeling that's hard to ignore, but one of the few things that can pull his full attention away is the herd. "Oh, wonderful, we thought we'd lost her altogether," he calls back.

He sticks the trowel in the earth and comes out to meet Astrid, her figure familiar enough to seem in place but not well-known. His smile is small, but unusually, it does reach his eyes this time. "My thanks. Can I offer you a meal in gratitude? Do you have time to linger for a moment?" Once he gets close enough, his hand goes to the mare's neck, absently checking that she's well for all the animal clearly seems to be unhurt at a glance.

“Wasn’t a big hubbub or anything, just found her wandering,” Astrid says easily. And perhaps some people might politely wave it aside and say the meal itself wasn’t necessary, not wanting to be an imposition, or avoiding taking a meal with an almost-stranger, but Astrid brightens at the offer.

Food is community; a stranger might become a friend yet. Also, she is peckish and the wallet of a traveling tradeswoman isn’t exactly heavily-loaded, although something in this countryside means she never quite starves, either: the stakes are always low, a cozy predictable routine driving you onward but not to the extent you fear for your life. Her thin ribcage still remembers hunger, but it doesn’t seem a problem here, lately.

“That’d be great though, yeah,” she says, “if you’ve got another seat at your table. If it ain’t too big a hassle for the wife, like.”

Vanya Orlov's smile is a quiet thing, but not a disingenuous one. "Not at all. She cooks as if we have seven children, instead of just the one. And she's always glad for company." Satisfied that the mare is in good order and that Astrid is staying, he adds, "I'll get her back where she belongs, and then we can go in. Your timing was good, I was about to stop regardless."

Assuming no objections, he gets the horse back in her enclosure and cleans up his gardening tools brisky but without rushing. Worth doing a thing right, if he's doing it at all, it seems. Still, he doesn't leave Astrid cooling her heels too long.

As he rejoins her, he asks, "When did you get back to town?"

Astrid drifts along in Vanya’s wake, stealing the opportunity to apprise the animals and the garden and the thatched roof and the stone walls of this cottage; usually they conduct their business at market and in town itself, there’s not much call to make house calls, and so she hasn’t gotten this up-close look at the ranch before. She finds herself fascinated. It’s not what her own home is like, but there’s something toothlessly unobjectionably cozy about it.

“Just recently,” she says, vaguely, and tries to remember specifically how long it’s been. After a moment, delivered with more confidence: “Getting ready for next week’s market day. You got any plans for it?”

"Nothing worth mentioning," is the truth. Vanya Orlov's home is neat but not bloodless; it is very clearly a place where people live, even beyond the gardening that he'd been doing when she arrived. There are some sheets drying on a line out behind the house and a saddle resting on a sawhorse near the barn, probably in need of some minor repair. There is, one imagines, never any absence of things to do.

Elaborating on his initial answer as he leads them toward the house, he adds, "We might go in, all three of us, this time. Sometimes it's just business, but it's been a while since we made a day of it properly." A while is no more specific than she can be about her arrival, but it doesn't catch at him. (This time.)

The inside of the house is much like the rest of the ranch; tidy but not a showplace, some knitting left on a chair by the fireplace in the main room, appetizing smells coming from what is certainly the kitchen further in.

Astrid follows Vanya in and finds herself rudely poking around the inside of the house, like a dog nosing around the corners of a room, poking the knitting and flipping through the books. She’s interested in what this is like: the marks of a permanent home, a settled life in town.

“What’s your wife and kid’s name again?” she asks, curious.

She must’ve known, at some point. She’s definitely spoken to them before, exchanged friendly words in town, empty pleasantries. But her memories of them are inexplicably blurry for the moment.

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open | merry & bright

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

sandbox

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im sorry

I don't think you are

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a driveby.

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