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ph_logs2024-08-10 07:04 pm
blindwatchersees) wrote in ph_logs2024-08-10 07:04 pm
Mockingbird, Mockingbird, Mockingbird
Who: Sheogorath, SQQ, Tarantulas, Jeff, Shouji, and you!
What: Assorted 'meetings of madness' across the island
When: Over the course of August
Where: Various
Warnings: Heavy discussions of identity, possibly discussion of fugue states, possible mentions of violence, unreality
Is that a sound you've heard? [Closed w/ SQQ]
It's as Shen Qingqiu is seeking solitude in the temple that he's visited by a strange sensation. It starts as a physical one, the faintest breeze dancing around the tip of one ear, but then it becomes a song- the erhu part of the Butterfly Lovers begins to play. The sound seems to tug at the end of his sleeve, the way that a narrative piece often seems to pull the listener along with it. Gently, gently, it implores him towards the door, and out into the daylight.
Is that a song you know? [Closed w/ Jeff]
At this point, Jeff's been given a good idea of what to look for when trying to identify Sheogorath. Of course, no one's account of the man is exactly the same, but there seem to be some common elements. He has a beard, and a walking stick, and his eyes are all sort of colors but always strange and piercing.
In the late afternoon, Jeff spots a man who is almost certainly Sheogorath, heading into the woods alone.
Perhaps he ought to follow, and try to catch up to the fellow?
One that was layered with the crackle of a radio? [Closed w/ Shouji]
It's getting late, about the time that businesses are starting to shutter for the evening, when that strange old man who fought off the Tristitia with Shouji a little while ago wanders into the Burger King, his cane making a soft tap tap tapping sound on the floor. He walks up to the counter, and stands there, not making a sound, as he looks around the place, a placid smile plastered across his face. He clearly wants something, but what?
What makes him call in the pouring rain? [w/ Tarantulas]
It's raining.
The drops are big and heavy, and they make a noticeable tapping sound against the window panes. Every so often, a gust of wind will rattle the glass. In the distance, there's a long, low rumble of thunder.
As Tarantulas works on whatever it is he's working on, his auditory sensors suddenly pick up on the sound of purring. Should he take a look around, he's likely to notice a large, gray cat in a little vest, perched atop a nearby shelf. It's staring at him with a familiar pair of eyes, their pupils fractal and ever transforming at their edges.
Is it a song of pride or an alarm of pain? [wildcard]
Anything you've been itching to say, or do, or think with the Madgod? Go crazy!
What: Assorted 'meetings of madness' across the island
When: Over the course of August
Where: Various
Warnings: Heavy discussions of identity, possibly discussion of fugue states, possible mentions of violence, unreality
Is that a sound you've heard? [Closed w/ SQQ]
It's as Shen Qingqiu is seeking solitude in the temple that he's visited by a strange sensation. It starts as a physical one, the faintest breeze dancing around the tip of one ear, but then it becomes a song- the erhu part of the Butterfly Lovers begins to play. The sound seems to tug at the end of his sleeve, the way that a narrative piece often seems to pull the listener along with it. Gently, gently, it implores him towards the door, and out into the daylight.
Is that a song you know? [Closed w/ Jeff]
At this point, Jeff's been given a good idea of what to look for when trying to identify Sheogorath. Of course, no one's account of the man is exactly the same, but there seem to be some common elements. He has a beard, and a walking stick, and his eyes are all sort of colors but always strange and piercing.
In the late afternoon, Jeff spots a man who is almost certainly Sheogorath, heading into the woods alone.
Perhaps he ought to follow, and try to catch up to the fellow?
One that was layered with the crackle of a radio? [Closed w/ Shouji]
It's getting late, about the time that businesses are starting to shutter for the evening, when that strange old man who fought off the Tristitia with Shouji a little while ago wanders into the Burger King, his cane making a soft tap tap tapping sound on the floor. He walks up to the counter, and stands there, not making a sound, as he looks around the place, a placid smile plastered across his face. He clearly wants something, but what?
What makes him call in the pouring rain? [w/ Tarantulas]
It's raining.
The drops are big and heavy, and they make a noticeable tapping sound against the window panes. Every so often, a gust of wind will rattle the glass. In the distance, there's a long, low rumble of thunder.
As Tarantulas works on whatever it is he's working on, his auditory sensors suddenly pick up on the sound of purring. Should he take a look around, he's likely to notice a large, gray cat in a little vest, perched atop a nearby shelf. It's staring at him with a familiar pair of eyes, their pupils fractal and ever transforming at their edges.
Is it a song of pride or an alarm of pain? [wildcard]
Anything you've been itching to say, or do, or think with the Madgod? Go crazy!
no subject
He Understands, even as he's lost in riddles. He thinks about the story it told when it was a butterfly. The caterpillar-- the worm-- spinning until it became something new. And a door. It's always doors. Everyone expects him to have a door now, but he doesn't know where it could be.
(If he opened himself up, would he become a door?)
Jeff's heart is racing. Strange, because he doesn't feel afraid. His head's full of clouds and dreams and bliss, but his heart's racing like a rabbit and his breaths come in short bursts.
There's some disconnect between the human animal that Jeff was and the idea he is becoming.
"That's okay," he whispers, though whether it's to himself or to the great worm, he can't say. "I can change." He looks down at his too-human, too solid feet. "I can..." He lifts one, as if to test it. It comes away from the ground easily, and he immediately begins to wobble. Ah, fuck. Gravity.
cw: blood, flaying, eaten alive, images assd with drug/alc abuse, claustro, unreality, infestation
Then he’s back, falling through an endless canopy of colorful silks, as he rolls from sheet to sheet, a rainbow whirl consuming his senses. Then, the endlessness draws closer around him, infinity becoming smaller and smaller, until it wraps snugly against his skin.
There’s something crawling inside of him, just beneath the skin. It plucks at the threads that hold his skin in place, not breaking them, but making them sing like the strings of a guitar. It plucks, and it plucks, and it plucks, sending vibrations spiraling into Jeff’s core.
He’s lying on a bare mattress in a smoky room. There’s the muffled sound of a live band playing downstairs. He can smell cheap booze and cigarette smoke. Unfinished lyrics lie strewn on the bed around him. They’re stained with bloody fingerprints. When he looks closer, he can see that the music isn’t written on paper, but rather, skin. Something is dripping down from the ceiling. Was there always that human-shaped spot on the ceiling? Wait, no, it’s not a spot… it’s a body, his body, skinned and wide-eyed, suspended by a net.
It’s just a dream, the other Jeff mouths, over and over again, lipless mouth stretched into a grotesque grin.
The dripping blood is hardening on Jeff’s lying form, which he finds is too exhausted to move. The blood drip and drips and drips, flooding the room with an impossible deluge, until it drowns him in a shell of amber. Again, the world goes dark as he’s buried.
There are muffled voices. Suddenly, streams of light reach him through a hazy golden filter. Through an amber lens, he can see a giant, holding him up in the air, examining him.
It’s like a dream, says the giant, voice far away and distorted. Jeff is placed in a velvet-lined box, and the lid is closed.
He’s walking in the woods, an axe in his hands. Instinctively, he stops at a tree, and begins to chop. He chops and he chops, with more endurance than he’s ever had, until the tree falls with a crack and a thud. As he strips away the bark and starts preparing it for processing, he finds his own face already carved into the wood.
You’re a dream, the tree-Jeff sighs, humming to himself, seemingly not bothered by the axe still lodged in his tree abdomen. Treedomen?
He can’t remember forming the boards, can’t remember where he got the nails, can’t remember where he found the hammer, but he’s got everything he needs to make a door. He just hasn’t, Getz There’s a threshold in the void, in a place he can’t see, can’t smell, can’t taste, but he knows that wherever this is, he’s been here before. And before that threshold, written on a doormat made of butterflies, are the words:
“Is a song you hear in a dream no less real?”
…
He wakes up, whole and unharmed, on the soft, fibrous ground.