ph_logs | January Event - Lost in Dreamland

January Event - Lost in Dreamland

**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?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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."

"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."

"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."

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.

"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?"

Swallowing the lump that wanted to choke her speech from her throat, Helena nods, and tries to make sure she's wearing her polite smile.

"It'll be an honor, Cassandra."

Her family. Finally getting to meet them in person, after all this time.

(But something's wrong with that, isn't it? Why does it feel like she's swaddled in blankets, slowly trying to twist herself out?)

Cassandra squeezes her hand, in an excess of emotion, and draws her along the path through the courtyard. The children's laughter and squeals drifts toward them and away again, weaving like a bright ribbon through the light, relaxed conversation of adult voices.

And then there's a slight hush, as the people they're approaching leave off talking to notice them.

"Mother, Father," says Cassandra, "may I present Helena Adams, a very dear friend. Helena -- my father, Lord Frederick de Rolo, and my mother, Lady Johanna."

The voice that speaks next is gentle and resonant, an older man accustomed to command and softening that deliberately. "Any friend of our youngest is more than welcome here. Please accept the hospitality of our house, Miss Helena."

There's a reflex to shrink herself a little, smooth herself over when thinking about talking to important people, people she needs to impress, and Cass will feel the subtle tension that runs through her as she makes sure to smile, bowing her head.

"I thank you both for your kindness. It's been something of a dream of mine to get to visit where Cassandra speaks of so fondly, and the day is finally here. I'm glad I could make it."

Even if she cannot see it, the sounds alone - people sound happy, content. That's a beautiful thing to her.

"It's such a pleasure to have you here," says a second voice, an older woman's, warm and kind, with a decided resemblance to Cassandra's. "Please, make yourself at home. Have you come far? There are seats in the shade, and food and drink, if you'd like to rest and refresh yourself."

"Yes, and you should meet my brothers and sisters," adds Cassandra. "They're all here."

(Something's wrong with that. Something's wrong, why does it feel wrong-)

"Would it be all right if I sat somewhere? It would be easier for me to get my bearings that way, and to meet others when they have the time. I'm sure right now they're all occupied with this or that."

And it will be easier for Helena herself if she's seated, and not fretting that she's going to cause trouble or get in someone's way. Events are easier if she finds a secure place, she's always known.

"Of course," says Lady Johanna warmly. "We'll come by in a little while, once you've settled in?"

Lord de Rolo agrees, likewise warmly, and Cassandra takes Helena's arm again to guide her towards the carved wooden benches under the apple trees.

Once Helena is settled, that's when she seems to relax, safe from too much chaos occurring around her. That uneasy feeling hasn't left her - she could have sworn she was better in groups than this, that she was fine with someone else there. It's a troubling puzzle to have to sort out, but she smiles all the same.

"Is it some kind of holiday, today? I feel like I've stumbled in here with the perfect timing of a storybook."

"No," says Cassandra happily, "just an afternoon garden party. Times have been so peaceful lately that Mother and Father have time to just relax with the rest of us. Julius and Vesper too, they do so much when things are busy. And of course Percy and Vex'ahlia are back home from adventuring, and I think Vax'ildan and Keyleth are around here somewhere too ..."

A servant comes by with a tray, offering cold drinks, fruit, pastries, little sandwiches.

She'll accept a drink, sipping at it and trying to find the right way to square the circle in her mind.

"You've got quite the full house, then."

(But should it be? But is it really?)

"When did the others show up? Have they been here long? I'd hate to think you gave me an invitation and I made you all wait."

(Something burrowing its way into her mind - this isn't right. Cold as the drink in her hand, trickling into her heart. Like her layered worlds, like if she was to feel the back of her hand, it would be etched with the symbols, the slight burning that says there's someone else's eyes upon you - run, run, little survivor, and you can hear the sliding scales when you lay your head down.)

"Why -- no, not long. At least," and there's a faint trace of uncertainty in Cassandra's voice, "I don't think so ... Oh, but please don't trouble yourself about that, you haven't kept anyone waiting at all. We've all afternoon to our leisure, after all. And everyone's welcome to stay to supper, as well."

"Wonderful."

(You remember, don't you? You remember, words spoken in a hushed room, wounds shown to wounds, scars to scars, you remember it all.)

"...I think, though. I think I may have come here for a reason apart from the garden party."

Some greater purpose, leading her here, to where the discrepancy only grows stronger and stronger. Like tracing the sound of the wind to the dungeon, and calling out to another. Here, take the exit, it's right here with us.

"Oh? What reason?" Cassandra sounds curious, and still lighthearted -- but that trace of uncertainty, almost wariness, hasn't gone away.

In the distance, the high voices of laughing children.

"Because you need me here."

And she will need her after as well. Because Helena remembers now, a conversation not so terribly long ago. Hushed secrets, their hearts open, and a bond forged. Pain acknowledged, understood, seen. How could she have ever forgotten? How could this place have obscured her mind?

The drink is set down, and she holds her free hand out, wordlessly asking for Cassandra's.

"Do you remember when I came to apologize to you, after we fought on the bridge of the ship?"

Remember. To say it would be unimaginably cruel. Cassandra must unweave it herself - even as Helena wishes that she did not have to do this. To lose this in any fashion, even the gentlest return to reality would be agonizing.

Cassandra reaches to take the offered hand. Her fingers are cold, as though they know something she doesn't.

"Of course," she says at once, with only faint puzzlement that Helena should ask. "That would be hard to forget."

Helena's hand is warm, closing over hers, as if this could protect her.

"Do you remember what we talked about that day?"

Gentle. Gentle. But it will still shatter her.

"We wanted to understand each other better. We told each other our stories. Do you remember this?"

"Of course," again, still untroubled. "You told me about that terrible place, the Manor, and how you and the others came to be there. And I ..."

Her voice trails off. Pauses.

"I told you," slowly, "I told you about ..."

Another pause.

Very small, and still only puzzled: "That can't be right."

"You told me about your family."

Quiet, and careful, and measured.

"I have not told another soul what you told me on that day. I remember it, clear as if it were yesterday."

Wake up. Please wake up.

"You were only twelve years old."

Nothing disturbs the scene. The air is still mellow and flower-scented, the sun still bright, the breeze still brisk and soft; voices still sound all around them, blithe and untroubled, occasionally laughing. Tiny pieces of ice chime gently against the inside of a glass, very close by.

Cassandra's fingers tighten convulsively on Helena's, and her breath is abruptly too slow, too deep, rigidly steady.

Her hand is still there. Her own breathing even, careful. Eyes closed, unseeing, listening to every little sound, feeling the warmth of the air.

(They're not coming. Even as her heart had ached and leapt at the idea that she could see her sister, her companion again, they're not here. They're elsewhere. She knows. She knows. She's known.)

Here, she waits for Cassandra's mind to open itself, and understand the reality of what is before her. It is a beautiful lie. It is a perfect one. She's so sorry.

It is still a lie.

Ever so slowly, Cassandra leans close, until her temple brushes against Helena's. From any distance it would look like a spontaneous affectionate gesture.

Barely a breath, lower than a whisper:

"Are we observed?"

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