January Event - Lost in Dreamland

[pumpkinhollow]

**Plain text version here.

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.

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?

Comments

Cassandra de Rolo | Critical Role | OTA

[not_the_last]

There's an attic room, one long hall running the length of a castle wing, dim and dusty and so long neglected that it's hard to tell the dustcloths from the cobwebs trailing from the rafters. Trunks and boxes and chests stand about, singly or in stacks, labeled in neat but somehow still illegible handwriting. Each label only becomes distinct when focused upon.

Lift a lid or peer more closely at a label to see what's inside, and --

nightmares

diningware, assorted

Tall candles stand in polished pinewood holders, casting warm golden light over a dinner table, long enough to seat nine and more, set for three. The plates are porcelain, the glasses fine crystal, the silverware delicate and ivory-handled and only there at two of the places. At the third, the only utensil beside the plate is a wooden spoon.

At the head of the table, is a tall man with broad shoulders and a finely tailored suit, smiling in the depths of his neat dark beard. To his right is a lovely woman in a high-collared gown of pale purple, chestnut hair caught back in an elegant coil, smiling back at him. To his left, Cassandra sits motionless in her seat, her wrists bound together with white ribbons, her long dark hair somehow woven into the carved wooden chair in such a way as to give her only a few inches of movement.

Silent servants bring in the next course. The lady leans forward to cut the meat on Cassandra's plate, with an air of businesslike maternal indulgence. A hollow-eyed young man pours wine into two glasses, then stands beside the tall man's chair and presents his bare wrist.

boots & shoes, to repair

She's lost track of how many times she's tried to escape the castle on her own, and this time she hasn't even made it as far as the treeline.

There are so many undead, so many, coming in waves, enough to drag her down by sheer weight and mass even if she fights them. And she wants to fight them, but her limbs are weighed down by something more, some energy-sapping exhaustion that feels like she's moving through thick mud, even before they reach her.

Sometimes there's someone beside her as she struggles to run, sometimes there's a bundle clutched in her arms.

curios

Living servants can't be trusted in the necromancer's workshop, and undead ones have to be kept a distance from certain workings. She stands silently at Delilah's elbow and holds things as she's directed: a bowl, a cord, a knife, a struggling child's wrists, a lit candle.

holiday decorations

The sky is bright and clear and chilly: Winter's Crest, with the Briarwoods gone, and the whole of Whitestone is celebrating. She's standing on the platform by the Sun Tree, laden with layer on layer of rustling paper chains, holding her head high for Father Reynal to put the rope around her neck.

It's only right. It's her turn on the Tree.

oasis

baby clothes, fine condition

It's a late summer afternoon, in a castle courtyard with walls of white stone. Someone has set up an outdoor buffet table, bowls and platters and trays heaped with food, pitchers of chilled drinks; children are running and laughing, watched by a handful of adults with indulgent smiles. (Some of those adults may look familiar, to people who've been in Pumpkin Hollow for a while; a round-faced man with a pistol on his hip, a slightly taller man with a scarred eye and large feathered wings. Some of the others may look familiar as well, if only by family resemblance.) Also observing the children, with a similar air of watchful affection, is a large brown bear lying in the sun with its chin on its forepaws.

The two youngest children run past, each holding a long stick, playing at swords. The smaller of the two is a girl of about seven, with dark brown hair streaked with white. No, with wholly white hair. Maybe both? It hardly matters.

Everything here is fine. Everything is peaceful, and full of love, and safe.

surcoats & banners

Everything here is safe. The Lady of Whitestone keeps it that way.

Oh, there have been times in the past when this place was threatened by dangers from without, but no more. Now the country is kept safe by the wise and gentle lady on her throne, beloved of her people and the gods, ever true and faithful. She holds court today by the Sun Tree with some of her advisors, if you'd like to ask an audience.

Welcome to Whitestone, lucky traveler. We hope you'll choose to stay.

miscellaneous

[Wildcard prompt! Not limited to oasis, despite placement. Hit me up on discord to discuss options.]

[decrypter]

There is a young woman who walks in the attic, cane tapping her way through. The contents are a mystery, while the dust makes her sneeze, and she pulls her coat just a little bit tighter as she travels through. All these boxes. All this space. Is she looking for something, or is something waiting for her?

Helena doesn't know, so she focuses on what she does. Sound. Scent. Feeling. Her free hand outstretched, feeling for the edge of one of the containers, trying to determine which one she needs - or which will prey upon a curious mind.

[not_the_last]

Her hand brushes the lid of one of the chests, nudges it upward.

She's outdoors, warm air around her and warmer sunlight brushing one cheek, surrounded by the smells of grass and trees, flowers and herbs and ripening fruit. Children are laughing and shouting somewhere nearby; older voices are talking in comfortable relaxed tones, still nearer.

"Helena!" says a voice she may recognize. "I'm so pleased you could come."

[decrypter]

For a moment, she's taken terribly aback. It's too warm to be winter, so why is she here and now? It feels nice, but sudden niceness is as strange as sudden terror in her life. And then that voice...familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

"Am I terribly late?"

Maybe she can sort this out through context.

[not_the_last]

"Not at all!" It's definitely Cassandra's voice, if not quite how she's ever heard it before; more comfortable, more confident, more relaxed. An arm tucks through Helena's companionably. "Have you come far? Would you like to sit down? Oh, everyone's going to be so pleased to see you."

[decrypter]

"It's been...quite a long journey, yes."

But she trusts her friend, lets her lead on, and so far she doesn't feel danger lurking. Maybe she stumbled into a place where she really does need to visit with them, at least for a little while to sort out what's happening.

"Who all is here? So I can greet them properly."

[not_the_last]

"Well ... everyone." Said with simple delight, and at the same time as though it should be obvious. "Crichton and Okie, of course, and Erin, and Master Connors -- oh, did Darcy come with you? He'll want to know -- and Dimitri and Dedue, and Max, and Crabb, and Security, and Tayrey, and Eddie and Steve, and Ossie and Giles, and Peter and Ava ... I think Fio's over with the children ... oh, and of course you should meet my parents, I know they'd love to meet you."

[decrypter]

For a moment, her throat closes up. Some of those names strike tender, tender places in her heart, and she wants to start running, start calling for them. Could it really be? Could they actually be here? It's been so long...

"I don't want to keep them waiting any more, then."

She has to know. She has to know now, or her chest is going to burst from all the not knowing, the longing that's drawn up so fiercely in her.

[not_the_last]

"Of course. Here, this way -- Jem, could you find Erin and Security for me, please, and let them know Miss Helena is here?"

The voice that answers "Yes, m'lady," is that of a young boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen, and is followed by light footfalls hurrying away.

"That'll be faster than us searching on our own," Cassandra assures Helena. "And in the meantime ... will you come meet my family?"

Boots and Shoes, to Repair

[redlightgreenlight]

This time, there is someone beside her, someone capable of not only taking on her necromancer tormenter, but carrying Cassandra far away from her pain.

"Cass," she says, pulling the young woman to her feet. "Do you want to fight or flee?"

[not_the_last]

The Cassandra who looks up at her in bewildered despair is subtly younger than the one she knows, her figure a touch shorter, her face a little rounder.

"I don't," she says, and "I can't. Either one. They always catch us."

[redlightgreenlight]

Valdis can tell by looking at her that this might be one person she can't break out of their nightmare, but she's going to try. She looks back at the undead, and takes the power piloting them for herself, removing the spark of animation and destroying it within the void, buying them more time.

"Don't be afraid. You have time to make a decision."

[not_the_last]

The undead bodies struggle, for only a moment, then drop to the ground like so many sacks of bones. Cassandra stares at them, then up at her.

"Who ..." She blinks. "I -- I know you."

[redlightgreenlight]

She feels that tug of resistance, but necromancy is part of her in a way that no human like Delilah can claim. Valdis glances back as Cassandra, sees that glimmer of her Cass and feels more hope than she did moments before.

"And I know you, which is why I know you are stronger than the monsters chasing you."

[not_the_last]

Blankly: "I'm not. They always win. It doesn't matter what I do."

[redlightgreenlight]

And that glimmer is gone.

"You aren't alone now though, so do you want to try?"

[not_the_last]

Gone, and then just barely back again -- like a candle guttering in a cold wind but not quite, not quite, extinguished.

Cassandra's mouth trembles and firms, and she straightens.

"I'll try," she whispers.

Diningware, assorted

[lordoftheozarks]

Erik steps into this grim dinner setting and freezes in place as he sees the figures around the table. He only recognizes Cassandra, but he cannot give in to his urge to rip the bindings free when his eyes move past her to the man with a servant's wrist exposed before him. The world narrows into a sliver of rage, but he lets none of it show. He can't. It's far too dangerous.

His voice is cool and calculatedly unbothered, "I'm sorry, I seem to be interrupting. My apologies."

Re: Diningware, assorted

[not_the_last]

"Oh, not at all," says the vampire at the head of the table, with a genial smile. "My Lady and I are very fond of guests, isn't that right, dear?"

"Of course," agrees the woman -- clearly human, to Erik's senses, and just as clearly no one's prey here. "Won't you join us for supper? Just a simple family affair tonight, but we can certainly set a place for you. Especially as you're a friend of Sylas ...? Cassandra, sweet girl, where are your manners? Say hello to our guest."

"Of course," echoes Cassandra, and her own smile is pale and precise. "Good evening, sir."

Re: Diningware, assorted

[lordoftheozarks]

"Family, is it?" Erik says in a tone of interest and surprise. His gaze flickers to all the faces around the table, ending at Cassandra's. The smile she wears is almost like looking into a mirror through time... to himself.

"Good evening." He maintains his ruse of polite indifference despite how rage rattles against the inside of his chest. No sooner has he answered that greeting than his attention turns back to his hostess. "Yes, I worry he may not remember me as it has been some time, but I would be very glad to sup with you if it isn't too terrible of an intrusion. I am ashamed to admit that it has been a while since I had the opportunity to enjoy the company of a peer. I crave intelligent conversation." He intends to sound a little desperate for company, to give them something they might try to lord over him as a distraction. The less they think about if they really recognize him, the better.

[not_the_last]

"Intelligent conversation," the lord repeats, with a little chuckle. "Yes, it is hard to come by in these parts, isn't it? All the more reason for Delilah and I to welcome you to our table. And of course I remember you ... Lord Osborne, isn't it? Please, take a seat." And he gestures to an empty chair at the lady's other side.

"By all means," Delilah agrees, smiling. "Would you care for a glass? Or will you take your refreshment directly from the source? I know Sylas likes either one, from time to time."

[lordoftheozarks]

"Yes," he cannot quite hide his surprise so he fashions it to seem flattering. "Your memory does serve you well."

He makes a show of taking his seat, the better to stall for time while he considers his next move. He can't--no, won't--drink directly from a servant with Cassandra seated here to see it. That gives only one other choice.

"A glass will be fine, please. I can tend to be picky when it comes to drinking from the source. I have a type I favor. Do you know what I mean?"

[not_the_last]

Sylas chuckles. "Indeed I do. Here, lad," this to the young man who stands beside him, "bring us another glass from the sideboard."

The young man nods and turns to obey, moving like a sleepwalker, his eyes distant and empty under the snow-pale hair that falls over his forehead. Cassandra sits very still, a similar blankness in her own eyes.

"So tell me, Lord Osborne," says Delilah in bright sociable tones, as she begins to cut a bite of her own meat, "what brings you to our humble home?"

[lordoftheozarks]

Is that boy under a spell, Erik wonders as he watches with almost equally as blank of an expression, or is he just that beaten down? Are they both? He can't waste time pondering that now, he needs to make this next answer count.

"Curiosity, actually, about her," he gestures to Cassandra. He's reviewing what he knows about her in his mind, what she's said, what he's heard and seen--what does it all add up to? This. "I heard rumors that she is as good as a daughter to you and I wanted to see for myself." It's a bluff, but it's one he's growing increasingly sure of.

[not_the_last]

Cassandra's flinch is almost invisible, covered almost perfectly by reaching for her waterglass. Her back stays very straight, her head immobile, not disturbing the intricate braiding woven into the back of the chair.

Delilah's smile brightens even further. "Isn't that lovely? She's become very dear to us, yes. Poor girl, we're all the family she has now."

The pale young man steps up beside Sylas, setting down the wineglass and again proffering his bare wrist, just above it. It would take preternaturally powerful hearing to catch the tiny sound that's stifled in Cassandra's throat as he does.