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ph_logs2025-01-19 03:59 pm
pumpkinhollow) wrote in ph_logs2025-01-19 03:59 pm
January Event - Lost in Dreamland
**Plain text version here.
You “wake.” Your mind solidifies and reality defines its shape around you. Your eyes focus and you become aware. What are you aware of?
Whatever it is, it isn’t good. Perhaps it seems good at first, but it is not. Wherever you are, only horrors await you here, pulled straight from your own mind. Or the minds of others.
Move. You must move. The dream is a landscape. You must traverse nightmares to escape. Seek other dreamers, and flee. To the center, to safety in false daydreams. To the underground, where the Necropolis will conceal you. To the edges, where you can feel your consciousness break free of this sunken sleep and return to the world of hard objects and light. But you cannot stay here. Gods help you if you stay here.
[ Your nightmare can look however you desire. Laws of reality and physics do not apply. Fuse them, reshape them, choose your flavor. Be liberal with content warnings and respect sensitive content guidelines, but otherwise, there are no rules. ]
What sort of dream do you find yourself in? What do you dream of? Is it success, love, peace? A life that never came to pass? For your troubles never to have occurred? Do you dream of fame or glory? No matter how beautiful or extravagant, no matter how simple or selfish, the things you desire most are yours.
You cannot escape from here. This is the center, as far away from the waking world as you can go. But the dream entreats you, as do the illusory figures within it. ”Stay,” they croon. ”There is nothing for you beyond here. Only nightmares, only terror. You are safe here. You are loved and wanted and happy here. Why would you ever want to leave?”
Time blends together. It often does, in dreaming, but this feels different. How long have you been here? Do you remember what you were doing before? How you got here? Have you ever even been to a town called Pumpkin Hollow? You can hardly remember.
Maybe that was the dream, and this is your reality. Even as the edges of it bleed together with that of your neighbor, even as fleeting memories come back to you, even as a little voice deep within you screams at you to wake up--- you have no reason to doubt the legitimacy of this place. Here you are happy and safe. Here you are everything you ever wanted to be, living the life you always wanted. Here there are no debts, no suffering, and you shall never die.
You belong here. Surely.
A seemingly endless maze of stone walls, mismatched in their depth as if they were patchworked together over centuries. Mausoleums, slotted tightly against one another. Covered marble passageways. Stone statues and carved reliefs depicting gargoyles, knights, Virtues, mages with skull motifs--- necromancers, perhaps? Banshees and dullahans, elves and humans and dwarves and orcs and fae folk of all sorts. All of these things line a network of cobblestone pathways lined with powder snow drifts and crunchy brown grass. Names are carved into the arches above mausoleum doors. Some are familiar, some are not. Fairbanks, Gladwyn, Dirthariel, Leeds, Larson, Endrin, Applegate, Brenning. Above you, white pillar candles float magically overhead, burning bright, lighting your way through the dark pink sunset sky.
In the distance, you see the achingly thin spires of the Winter Cathedral. An austere grey monolith with ornate carvings of horses and snowflake-shaped stained glass windows. Perhaps you will find some solace there. Otherwise, make your way to the river. A familiar ferryman awaits you--- though returning to reality this way will have a small consequence.
[ Encountering Mortanne here is possible, though her threads will be heavily restricted. You can do a thread here with someone else, though! It’s fine to be here without encountering her. Returning to the island by ferry will cause your physical body to die in the process, leaving you a ghost for the usual amount of time. You can also return to the nightmare and get out through the edge. ]
Like breaching the surface of water, you return to the solid, bright sharpness of reality. Actual reality, firm and true. You are where you went to sleep the night before, though some time has passed. It might take you a bit to figure out exactly how much, though…
Lost in Dreamland
Bedtime Story
{ CONTENT WARNINGS: Unreality, dream logic. Mind the CWs in individual threads, as they will vary! }
It is no secret that in the Emerald Isles, winter and sleep have a deep connection. To some extent, this is true everywhere. The whole world seems to fall asleep under the blanket of snow. Plants recede back into the ground, trees stand leafless and slumbering till spring, animals hibernate. Nights are longer. But the local folklore intensifies this, as Mortanne presides over Winter and the Beyond.
As the tales go, the Beyond is the realm of souls, the place where the essence of a person goes when it separates from their body. And while this primarily refers to death, it can also refer to the half-step between living and dying--- the unconscious mind. Sleep, and moreover, dreaming. And thus, winter and dreams have always been kindred spirits. Connected through their ties to Mother Mortanne and to a hushed and sleeping world.
Perhaps it is for this reason that when you go to sleep on the night of January 19th, 16:55, it is a deeper, more consuming sleep than you’ve ever felt. One that swallows you whole, dragging you down, and down, and down, into a sunken place that is deeper and more terrifying than dreams.
By the time you think to feel afraid, it is already too late to jolt yourself awake.
It is no secret that in the Emerald Isles, winter and sleep have a deep connection. To some extent, this is true everywhere. The whole world seems to fall asleep under the blanket of snow. Plants recede back into the ground, trees stand leafless and slumbering till spring, animals hibernate. Nights are longer. But the local folklore intensifies this, as Mortanne presides over Winter and the Beyond.
As the tales go, the Beyond is the realm of souls, the place where the essence of a person goes when it separates from their body. And while this primarily refers to death, it can also refer to the half-step between living and dying--- the unconscious mind. Sleep, and moreover, dreaming. And thus, winter and dreams have always been kindred spirits. Connected through their ties to Mother Mortanne and to a hushed and sleeping world.
Perhaps it is for this reason that when you go to sleep on the night of January 19th, 16:55, it is a deeper, more consuming sleep than you’ve ever felt. One that swallows you whole, dragging you down, and down, and down, into a sunken place that is deeper and more terrifying than dreams.
By the time you think to feel afraid, it is already too late to jolt yourself awake.
LULLABY
Beautiful Dreamer, Wake Unto Me
You wake. Or do you? It feels a bit like waking, and yet, it does not. It is similar enough to waking that one might believe it to be so. You feel ground beneath your feet, or perhaps a bed beneath your back. Or something. You feel… something. It isn’t like waking. But it’s a little bit like waking. Perhaps it is not. But perhaps it is as close as you are able to get. Let’s try this again.You “wake.” Your mind solidifies and reality defines its shape around you. Your eyes focus and you become aware. What are you aware of?
Whatever it is, it isn’t good. Perhaps it seems good at first, but it is not. Wherever you are, only horrors await you here, pulled straight from your own mind. Or the minds of others.
Move. You must move. The dream is a landscape. You must traverse nightmares to escape. Seek other dreamers, and flee. To the center, to safety in false daydreams. To the underground, where the Necropolis will conceal you. To the edges, where you can feel your consciousness break free of this sunken sleep and return to the world of hard objects and light. But you cannot stay here. Gods help you if you stay here.
[ Your nightmare can look however you desire. Laws of reality and physics do not apply. Fuse them, reshape them, choose your flavor. Be liberal with content warnings and respect sensitive content guidelines, but otherwise, there are no rules. ]
Starlight and Dewdrops are Waiting For Thee
If you reach the center of the dreamscape (or perhaps you “woke up” there), you will find an oasis. You find yourself immediately embraced by a beautiful dream. All of your wishes granted, your deepest desires pulled directly from the core of your soul and brought to life before you in vivid detail.What sort of dream do you find yourself in? What do you dream of? Is it success, love, peace? A life that never came to pass? For your troubles never to have occurred? Do you dream of fame or glory? No matter how beautiful or extravagant, no matter how simple or selfish, the things you desire most are yours.
You cannot escape from here. This is the center, as far away from the waking world as you can go. But the dream entreats you, as do the illusory figures within it. ”Stay,” they croon. ”There is nothing for you beyond here. Only nightmares, only terror. You are safe here. You are loved and wanted and happy here. Why would you ever want to leave?”
Time blends together. It often does, in dreaming, but this feels different. How long have you been here? Do you remember what you were doing before? How you got here? Have you ever even been to a town called Pumpkin Hollow? You can hardly remember.
Maybe that was the dream, and this is your reality. Even as the edges of it bleed together with that of your neighbor, even as fleeting memories come back to you, even as a little voice deep within you screams at you to wake up--- you have no reason to doubt the legitimacy of this place. Here you are happy and safe. Here you are everything you ever wanted to be, living the life you always wanted. Here there are no debts, no suffering, and you shall never die.
You belong here. Surely.
Sounds of the Rude World Heard in the Day
With how far you had to sink into unconsciousness to be here, it’s hard to believe one could go any deeper. But the Beyond is a many-layered place, and perhaps by descending a bit further, a bit deeper, a bit closer to death, you can find another place. Maybe you have a connection to death that brought you here. Perhaps you find your way by mistake. Either way, you may find yourself on a more peaceful journey through the Beyond through the Frozen Necropolis.A seemingly endless maze of stone walls, mismatched in their depth as if they were patchworked together over centuries. Mausoleums, slotted tightly against one another. Covered marble passageways. Stone statues and carved reliefs depicting gargoyles, knights, Virtues, mages with skull motifs--- necromancers, perhaps? Banshees and dullahans, elves and humans and dwarves and orcs and fae folk of all sorts. All of these things line a network of cobblestone pathways lined with powder snow drifts and crunchy brown grass. Names are carved into the arches above mausoleum doors. Some are familiar, some are not. Fairbanks, Gladwyn, Dirthariel, Leeds, Larson, Endrin, Applegate, Brenning. Above you, white pillar candles float magically overhead, burning bright, lighting your way through the dark pink sunset sky.
In the distance, you see the achingly thin spires of the Winter Cathedral. An austere grey monolith with ornate carvings of horses and snowflake-shaped stained glass windows. Perhaps you will find some solace there. Otherwise, make your way to the river. A familiar ferryman awaits you--- though returning to reality this way will have a small consequence.
[ Encountering Mortanne here is possible, though her threads will be heavily restricted. You can do a thread here with someone else, though! It’s fine to be here without encountering her. Returning to the island by ferry will cause your physical body to die in the process, leaving you a ghost for the usual amount of time. You can also return to the nightmare and get out through the edge. ]
Lulled by the Moonlight, Have All Passed Away
Should you find the edge of the nightmare, you will be able to push yourself through the iridescent membrane at the edge of consciousness. You float through the seemingly endless darkness for a moment, then another, then a third, senses dull and drifting drunkenly, until suddenly---Like breaching the surface of water, you return to the solid, bright sharpness of reality. Actual reality, firm and true. You are where you went to sleep the night before, though some time has passed. It might take you a bit to figure out exactly how much, though…
Those who escape the nightmare will find themselves home sometime between 1/20 and 1/30. Those who stay in the dream oasis will be comatose until the dream ends, and will not wake until 2/8. They will find the return to reality deeply unpleasant. What are you willing to endure to keep dreaming a while more?
3
There's something of a late Tsarist idyll about this place, and it's such that it makes Alex feel as though he's stepped into a painting for a moment. He's out of his element, and it feels...odd. He doesn't like that.
As he gets closer, he sees Lev and Anzu, and waves a little at them. "Nice place you've got here," he says, and eyeballs one of the destriers. "Seems a bit too much of the Romanovs for my taste, but what do I know?"
no subject
Both Lev and Anzu look at Alex mutely, and then, all at once, they both burst into hysterical, helpless laughter. A nearby destrier shies at the sound, and bolts into a stable. A scarecrow stuffed into a stableboy's uniform runs after it.
"Ah, darling, who else would it be, but the Romanovs?" Anzu says, having somewhat gotten hold of himself. "I'm old, but feh, not so old as to have served the Rurikovitsh dynasty."
Lev says nothing, only shakes his head. Behind the lenses of his spectacles, his eyes are still glazed with exhaustion and shock, but the tension in his features has eased a little.
no subject
"Old? Anzu, you're a spring chicken." He leans against his cane and looks around some more. His father, God rest his soul, would probably have loved it. He'd hated the communists, hated what they'd done to his beloved Russia, and had been a capitalist to his core. If he'd lived to see Alex join the CIA, fighting the good fight against the commies, he'd doubtless have been proud.
But, Alex knew, he'd also been an asshole, and they'd never seen eye-to-eye on everything.
"This is not my idiom, not even close," Alex says finally. "I'm used to seeing austerity in - I'm not sure if it's the Soviet Union, where you're from, or Russia, or something entirely different. Feels like I stepped into War and Peace by way of Narnia."
no subject
Anzu and Lev exchange wild looks with each other, and then both stare at Alex. Never mind the Tolstoy namedrop, or Narnia, they're both aware that fiction seems to permeate between worlds easier than other things, it's the other thing—
"Sasha," Anzu begins, carefully. "Nu. The sovyets" — he uses the common noun, the one simply meaning workers' councils — "what became of them? What union?"
His eyes are wide, a little anxious.
Lev clears his throat; behind his specs, his eyes narrow, half with confusion and half with a sudden hunch, and he says, "nu, it is, like, Sasha? Not, like, naught else?"
no subject
He smiles, a little sardonically. "By an accident of birth and a father who was a dyed-in-the-wool capitalist, I spent my life working for the 'other side'. Whatever the hell that might mean anymore." He hadn't been concerned with the Cold War as more than academic for years now, and he'd never been one of the true believers. Truth be told, he'd essentially been press-ganged into it, looking back--
--Sasha. The diminutive hits; not his own but Jesus he hasn't had one directed at him in forty-odd years. He and Krupkin were on first-name terms, sure, but to maintain a modicum of professionalism as each other's opposite numbers they never, ever went beyond that. It'd be fraternizing with the enemy or somesuch if Alex called him Dima, even though they were certainly that familiar. Or if Dimitri called him--
"Not quite," he says, tilting his head at Lev. "Alyosha."
Pointless to deny it, to laugh it off, to say just because I'm fluent doesn't mean I'm Russian, and even if it wasn't he respects Lev and Anzu too much to lie.
no subject
Lev and Anzu look at each other, then at Alex. Then they look at each other again.
"Романовы," says Anzu, in a hollow voice.
"Der tzar?" says Lev, and starts laughing again. "Blitiker g'hinnom!" He leans on Anzu, who's shaking his head.
"Come'st thou from where we came from, then, Alyosha?" Anzu says. "The sovyets— okh, they call them sovyets in Bayern too, but ..." He takes a sharp breath. "But, nu. What other side? Surely not the Whites— when Paris put up the barricades again, they had few places left to go—"
And left unspoken, not thy style at all, the White Guard.
He doesn't seem hostile, merely curious. And really, he's confused. What other side? The old guard of the Occident had crumpled.
Lev is looking around the courtyard, in the meantime. Making sure they aren't attracting attention.
no subject
Bayern. Paris. Both Continental.
He shakes his head. "No, not the Whites, thank God. Later and further afield. The Americans. Though we can hardly be said to have less blood on our hands." We,, because he is American, born in Brooklyn, but he's Russian, too, raised in an enclave. Less torn between two worlds but a man from one world forced to live in another, to fight and die for that world, because in his young adulthood those two worlds had become at odds and his family had seen which way the wind was blowing. Aleksei Nikolayevich had become Alexander Nicholas, the Konsolikov long since shed for Conklin in his father's quest for Western assimilation.
"Where I'm from it's communism versus capitalism, to oversimplify. The East versus the West, to simplify even more. Berlin's the dividing line in Europe. We've been at war for most of my life, but a cold war rather than a hot one. Any violence is done using proxies." He taps his cane against the ground. "Courtesy of one such proxy."
no subject
Lev and Anzu exchange looks again, but they're too tired to really guard their expressions. And they both figure there's little need to be guarded around Alex. Around Alexei.
"Half the places thou speak'st of sound like nothing I've ever heard of, darling," Anzu says, carefully. "I imagine thou might be shocked to hear us talk of Bayern, nu? Thou mention'st Berlin."
He snorts.
"Of all the things, it has to be Prussia that's the universal bloody constant," he says.
Lev frowns and looks between Alex and Anzu.
"How long has ... how long has the war dragged on?" he asks, looking at Alex's foot with a sort of resigned sympathy.