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

Inspekta's enthusiasm is matched. When Capochin sets eyes on his god, in all his glory, surrounded by his little strands of rainbow pennants and radiant with joy, Capochin's heart swells. Moments like this make everything the two of them struggled for feel worth it. Gratitude overcomes him, and he cannot quell the urge to rush to Inspekta's side.

Why does he feel so relieved?

Capochin practically jogs over, ignoring his own mild huffing and puffing from age. He's still pretty fit, all things considered. Thank goodness he stopped smoking. Now if he could just do something about the arthritis...

"What is it?"

As soon as Capochin is close enough, Inspekta leans down, further and further, slowly, conspiratorially, as if to whisper something to him, even in the privacy of his own domain. The attempt to maintain a thoughtful expression doesn't last long, though; by the time he's beside Capochin's head, a grin's spread across his face.

Before he can get busted, he surges forward.

From an outside perspective, the whole thing looks ridiculous, really. Inspekta, stretching his body out, curls around Capochin and hoists him, looking like an absurd cross between a snake and a spring, both hauling him off the ground and supporting him in that coat-clad coil. Floating hands lace their fingers together in an exaggerated cutesy motion, and Inspekta presses his face to the side of Capochin's head, pressing a playfully-firm kiss to the side of his head.

"MWWWAH!"

When he pulls back, he's all grins, his blue tongue poking out of his mouth with nothing short of absolute glee. After all, in this place, there was no fear of judgement, loss, mortality, appearances to keep up - every bit of love in his heart has been able to be shared, openly and freely. He's loved Capochin for years, and hasn't ever fretted about showing that much. (~~It's been almost an age of this, of course - so why does anxiety still bleed into the affections, as though he's doing something wrong?~~ This is normal, routine. Everything is fine. He shoves the notion aside.)

"There ya have it! Top secret, don't tell nobuddy," Inspekta jokes, still warm and bright. He lifts those floating hands to straighten where he'd knocked Capochin's hat askew. "Yew're free to go!"

He doesn't exactly make any moves to turn him loose, though, content to stay securely wound right here.

Capochin watches with curiosity and interest as Inspekta leans down, down, down to put his divine face just a few inches before Capochin's human one, and just as he catches on that these are some sort of godly shenanigans---- he is snatched up! Fingers lace together, and a comical, adorable smooch is planted on Capochin's face, causing him to bark out a laugh. (The joyful sound, he thinks, sounds so strange in his voice.)

Chuckling warmly, Capochin leans forward to kiss those hands that lace with his own, giving attention to each fuzzy digit. "Am I?" he teases gently. "What if I don't really want to go? I won't disobey your orders, but... if I could have a few more moments in your magnificent presence, I sure wouldn't complain none."

"Oh, yew don't wanna go? Well, supposin' we got a lil' bit before tha next meeting I gots..."

Inspekta trails off, glancing to the side playfully. He knows full and well that he doesn't have anything upcoming just yet; whenever he's had a meeting, he's felt someone on the way, after all! A godly sixth sense of planning and preparation, he's decided it likely is.

"What's a few extra minutes with my numb-her one, after all?" Inspekta teases right back, soaking up those little affections he's given, looking nothing short of entirely delighted. "How's tha day been treatin' my dep-yew-tee, huh?"

A twist, a curl, and he lets Capochin sit upon part of his looping body, with another winding pass made to give him something to lean back against. Supporting him physically, and emotionally, by checking in with him! Exactly what he's meant to do, what he wants to do, and no less. Shouldn't a god pay attention to the comings and goings of his people, after all?

Capochin laughs warmly, reclining on Inspekta's stretched torso and putting his hands on either side of the face of his god, admiring him in all his adorable, divine radiance. He's so cute. He's so sweet. Inspekta is perfect, and Capochin would do anything for him.

"Can't complain," he answers fondly. "Bizzy, as usual. But it's good woik. Means somethin', y'know? And I sleep good at night, too."

"Yew and me both! Bizzy bizzniss, workin', snoozin'. Talkin' with the visitors, too! Whole lotta new folks through the Grove these days, huh?"

The upbeat prattle comes without so much as a budged inch from where those small hands hold his face. In fact, he tips his head to the side of one of them, an affectionate weight bearing down into Capochin's hold.

"It's been a reaaaaal good week, I can tell yew that much! I don't think I've felt dis pro-duck-tive in ages!"

"Right? We always do good work, but somethin' about it has just felt... real invigoratin' lately," Capochin agrees whole-heartedly, letting out a contented sigh as the hands move to pet Inspekta's cheeks. Reverence blends strangely with affection, but in a good way. He's happier than he can even begin to explain.

Why can't he explain it? Haven't things always been this way?

"...I'll admit, though, I also been feelin' a lil' weird today."

Inspekta's eyes had drifted closed by the time Capo makes his admission, and he cracks them open, giving an awkward little smile.

"Feelin' weird? What'cha feelin' weird about? Yew sleep funny on yewr back or somethin'?"

The joke only just barely guises his own admittance right alongside that of his second-in-command's; he can't shake the unease that weighs down harder in knowing that he's not the only one feeling strange today.

"I mean, when do I not these days?" He jokes back. "But no, not that. I can't help feelin' like I'm forgettin' something. Or I'm s'posed to be somewhere."

"Ohhh, yew know, I had dat worry earlier, and I think it's 'cause I forgot about all o' these a-point-mints!"

Surely that's all it is, of course! He's certain of it. He pushes that confidence forward as firmly as he possibly can. If he believes it's true hard enough, that must be all it is, right?

"Not to worr-ee, though! I been handlin' em just fine, even if I didn't eck-speck-t 'em. But it sure did scramble up this morning, huh?"

"...You sure that's all it is?" Capochin asks quietly. "I--- My chest was really hurtin' earlier, too, I... Somethin's odd."

"'Cawse I'm sure! Yew poor thing," Inspekta tuts, lifting his hands to Capochin's face this time, doting on him for a moment. He tips him ever-so-slightly to and fro, as if taking a good look at him.

"Yew know how I always been tellin' yew to slow down a liddle bit, or else yew're going to pop a heartery! Yew gotta take it easy n' relax, Cappy! When'd'ya wake up today? Yew had a lil' midday schnooze yet?"

"I-it's not that kinda hurt, boss, it's more like--- like cutting, I dunno," Capochin mutters, increasingly nervous and not at all calmed by the doting. "Plus there was that guy who was talkin' about--- other worlds and junk, I... I think we're--- I think somethin's wrong." He looks up to Inspekta in distress. Why isn't his god taking him seriously?

Edited 2025-02-11 20:41 (UTC)

The distress is something that is felt through all of him, through his empty core. (Empty, why is he still empty in this perfect place?) He knows that he's felt things that he shouldn't, either; strange pain, a crawling unease, a creeping dread like he's forgotten something important.

He's struggled not to look at it. He can feel wavering in Capochin's faith, that sheer trust he'd felt the entire time they'd been here.

Somehow, he's got to toe that line. Believe enough to hear him, but fail to do anything to shake things up. Carefully bend himself into shapes to keep everyone happy, and keep everything stable. There's no choice otherwise. He can't look at this for what it is.

"Listen, Capo, I think dat guy might'a been off his rocker," Inspekta insists, frowning gently. "But I tell yew what. We'll keep an eye on it! Bizzies always got the best scope on the happenings in tha Grove, right? If yew feel or see anything else strange, or wrong, or somethin' hoits ya, yew come right up here and tell me, and we'll look into it together! How'zat sound?"

Capochin's instinct is to relent. To swallow his dread and pretend to believe Inspekta, even if he doesn't. To let that fear bubble beneath the surface but clamp down the lid.

But he shouldn't need to do that. Inspekta is his perfect god, his leader, his protector, his love. If anyone will hear him about this, if anyone will truly listen, it's Inspekta. Right?

Right?

Suddenly, he's not so sure.

Capochin raises his hands back to Inspekta's cheeks, his tone pleading. "Spek," he murmurs, fearful and hopeful all at once. Please, please hear me. I'm trusting you. "Somethin's really wrong."

Inspekta's eyes don't leave Capochin's face. His heart clenches in his chest.

...No, it doesn't, does it? There's nothing in this chest of his. He's empty, all over again.

Again?

No, no, no.

If this place isn't real, if those glimmers of things that he'd chalked up to nightmares are the true life he'd lived, that would mean that he'd climbed to the top, and thrown himself off of it for nothing. That he tried to pull everyone else down with him in that fall, all in the name of his efforts to push them away.

It would mean that his life was for nothing, that there's no reason for him to be, not anymore. Not like that.

A hero forgotten - a villain to be remembered for the rest of time.

The harbinger of the apocalypse.

There's a flicker of fear in those large eyes, and he pulls his face away from those hands, before, with an effort unlike he's ever had to put into it before, he puts on a consoling smile, lifting his hands. One holds Capochin's cheek, the other smoothing down his back. If he still had arms, one would wrap around him, but this would have to do.

It feels like soothing him from waking up out of a nightmare.

"We'll try to keep an eye on it, okay? Yew pass along da word to da Boys that somethin's amiss, and I'll see what I can't find up here! Eyes in da skies and on da ground, alrighty?"

Capochin feels his heart break. A million shards wreak havoc on the inside of his chest, phantom blood filling his lungs. He clutches the front of his uniform as the chest pain comes back.

He swallows his fear, and he nods. Inspekta is right. Even if this isn't the truth, it's better to pretend that it is. Because the alternative is---

Maybe if he keeps playing make believe, they don't ever have to go back.

I'll do this for you, Hector. For us.

"Alright. Will do." He tips his head and presses a kiss to the hand on his cheek. "Whatever you need of me, boss. I'm all yours."

Is it bad, to miss when this had been easy? When he could do what he needed to, without worrying too deeply about the wider impact, so lost in himself that the outside world might have existed?

Of course it is. It's awful. But he wishes it could be easier.

This place isn't easier anymore.

"Thank yew, Cappy," Inspekta leans down once more, pressing a little kiss to his forehead, short and sweet. "Do ya mind checkin' in on da boys for me? I think we got an ah-point-mint soon, and yew know how they get lost..."

"You got it." Capochin hops to his feet, a hand lingering on Inspekta's long torso for a moment before he hurries off to do some meaningless task for the good of a world that doesn't exist, and never has.

And when he finds himself alone next, he rams his fingers into the gaping wound in his chest, blue blood hitting his bathroom tiles with a wet slap, a gap already filed into his ribs for easy access.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

A twinge of pain at first. So strange that it seems to barely hurt. But as those fingers breech beating, twitching tissue, a familiar agony wracks his body. He contains a scream, letting out a low and shuddering moan instead as he reaches in and pulls out a long, wet strand of--- what looks like ribbon.

But he knows what it is. Tasteless garbage. Doubt. It isn't useful.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

He pulls, gasping and panting, until the long strand is free of him. Then he casts it into the trash bin in his bathroom, cleans up the blood, and takes the trash out. He covers the wound, and goes to bed, and the doubt is never to be seen again.

The next week passes in a blur. A bright, shiny, golden blur of utter perfection. No one to question their beautiful perfect world or beautiful perfect god. Perfect Inspekta. Perfect Bizzyboys. Perfect Capochin. Bliss. All worries are forgotten.

Until, in the middle of a conversation with some tourist or Bizzyboy or whoever, something in him snaps into place like a rubber band, and in a blink the bright and golden world is replaced by a dim and dull one.

Capochin awakes in a dark room in a cozy tudor home, next to Hector, dizzy as he bolts upright. He takes in air sharply before the world--- the real world--- comes into focus. He looks around slowly, taking in every detail. The little old-fashioned clock on the nightstand, his medicine from Blackberry Apothecary, the hand-quilted red blanket, the dark wood floors. Hector beside him. The winter cold having set into a home whose hearth had not been lit in two weeks.

He sits there in dumb silence, then drops his head into his hands.

"Fuck."

When Capochin awakens, of course, Hector does, as well.

He doesn't dare move, however. Pain, only newly familiar and so easily forgotten, flares at his joints. The cold of the room sears his lungs. The weight of the world feels as though it could suffocate him. He wouldn't have been able to see without his glasses, but bleary eyes squint into the dark even still. There's nothing that he's ready to see. The world tips and pitches on its axis as his head swims.

Gods, he was hoping that, should he have ever woken from that beautiful lie, it would have killed him, perhaps for good.

Such mercies aren't on the table for him, apparently.

He doesn't speak. He doesn't even know what he could possibly say. A new world, a new set of failures, all easily avoided by anyone that wasn't him. A pitfall carefully crafted to snare his selfishness. He'd promised himself he'd do better, after he'd snapped out of his downward spiral the first time, but that was undeniable proof that he's just not capable of such a thing.

Hopefully that shakes out whatever hope for him Capochin might have seen, and laid him bare as the lost cause he is.

Not realizing that Hector is also awake due to his stark stillness, Capochin takes a moment to just... process. Breathe in, then out, face still in his hands. A few repetitions pass before he lifts his head, looking to Hector.

"...Amo? You awake?"

The nickname dashes any thoughts of a quick tear, like ripping off a band-aid. Some lessons can never be learned, it seems.

All that he can do now is try to face the music.

"...Yeah. Yeah, m' up."

He turns over, slowly. It hurts. He doesn't bend, twist, stretch with the ease he'd had before; any of the adjusting he'd had during his time in Pumpkin Hollow has been forgotten in the dream. How long were they asleep? Why does every motion feel like he's trying to remind his body how it ought to move?

Clenched teeth and ragged breath get him through to rolling to lie on his back. The searing hurt mingles strangely with the cold.

"...Yew alright?"

He knows he isn't, of course. How could he be? But it's worth asking. One step at a time, after all.

"Yeah. I'm okay." The lie comes easily. He lays back down, resting his head on Hector's chest, looping arms and legs and tail around him. Trying to be close. To make them both warm.

Capochin falls quiet, fingers clenching in the fabric of Hector's sleep shirt. "That was pretty weird, huh?"

"...Same dream as me, huh?"

He's certain it was, of course - what else could leave both of them like this? But it's better to know, in case Capochin got some specially-curated torment he ought to hear about.

"Weird's one way to put it."

"I figure the whole island, based on what I saw," Capochin mutters. "Seemed like everyone got a slice of their own."

He feels his throat try to close. Does Hector even still want to be with him after that? Is this the end?

"It felt like a trap."

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cw: gore, self-harm

CW: suicidal ideation

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