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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?
no subject
How odd. In every hallway, every foyer and mudroom, every bedroom and office--or whatever passes for any of them--there are no windows or doors. Well. There are, but not really. Instead there are posters of them, like wall decorations, flimsy magazine-like images taped over the plaster with idyllic, vectorized and pillow-shaded notions of a pastoral summer day outside. They don't mean much when the world inside is this dark.
(Oh, sure, Jon can find the occasional lamp or two, maybe even an overhead light switch as a treat, but none of them make the world any more friendly. Their illumination is wan, sickly, stark; they hardly dispel the shadows so much as make them feel darker.)
no subject
By now, he isn't sure how long he's been walking through this maze. An attempt to turn back is short-lived, for the fear that he may never find his way forward again. Even the mere attempt leaves traces of doubt in his mind that he may have turned, and that all his progress has been for nothing. And yet, what is there to do but push forward?
No rooms yield anything more than the last. For a time, he looks past a few, sparing little more than a glance. He finally stops to, if only for a brief test, to check a door. Fingernails scrape paper, as he'd worried they would.
Perhaps he'll have better luck up a flight of stairs, when he reaches yet another foyer. Hopefully those prove to be as real as they look.
no subject
The windows and door in the next foyer are exactly the same, and exactly as fake. But, oh: as Jon's hand meets the glossy paper and brushes over where the handle is, his fingers meet cold metal.
It is an impossible door. An illusion made real. If he chooses to open it, what is beyond the door is light, difficult and welcoming. It could lead anywhere. The oasis or another nightmare have an equal chance of being beyond there, all holding the same whispered comfort: at least it's not here. Not this dead place.
The house would let him leave. It does not care for him. Is that all he's here for, though? Just passing through?
no subject
...But that's much too easy, isn't it?
This place isn't holding him here, that much is clear. His trespass seems unintended at best, at least by the oversight of whatever has made this place. Or perhaps the idea that there could be more inside is a trap, laid out for someone just such as himself?
He agonizes over it longer than he should, staring between searing light and unfamiliar dark. His fingers tighten on a handle that shouldn't be there. He draws in a breath, slow and shaky.
Well. He's found the door once. Surely he can find it again, can't he?
He lets the opened door go, and slowly moves his shoe from where he'd held it open, just in case. He's bolder, now, as he begins to step slowly back towards the dark. Should there be anything in here that would mean him, now he knows that there is an escape, difficult to see as it is. If the door should close, he'll wince, but continue. If it stays open, he'll struggle, but tear his eyes from it eventually.
Either way, he finally calls out into that darkness that swallows all inside of it. If there's something or someone here, he can't deny the call to know what exactly that is. He isn't optimistic about how far his voice will carry, but, at the very least, the next unfamiliar hall will hear it.
"Hello? Is anyone there? Can anyone hear me?"
no subject
Something in the far distance drops to the floor, hard; and Jon knows it's the floor, because he can just faintly feel the tremor in his feet, bare against the hardwood.
Soft footfalls. Hesitant. Heading his way.
no subject
He calls down the hall again. It's almost more hopeful this time. His words are a hand reaching into that oppressive darkness, to see if he might pull a victim of this place, a friend, or--- god forbid--- a combination thereof out of the pitch black.
"I--- I can hear you down there. Can you hear me? Are you alright?"
no subject
A distant, soft, male voice: "You."
Jon Knows this voice. He pulled a statement from it. This is the one who lived forever to die forever.
Suddenly closer, through bared teeth: "You."
no subject
The sudden closeness has Jon stagger backwards, lifting his hands defensively. It's hard to tell just how close someone could be, with how strangely sound carries, with how his eyes never manage to adjust.
"I-I--- you're---" His stammered reply tumbles out while he tries to get his distance, even if he isn't sure what distance could look like here. "Phil? Phil Conners? Listen, I---"
His attempts to defend himself fall flat, his voice catching in his throat. He hasn't had the time to come talk? He's sorry? He regrets it? The first one is outright false, and the others wouldn't exactly hold any water right now, would they?
no subject
"I was doing so well," he hisses. His face appears from the dark, twisted into an expression of grim rage; but there's a strange effect to his face, the hateful wrinkles of his skin. Something is wrong. "I was getting better. For the first time in ages, I was feeling okay, and then you--you--how could you? Do you know what you did?"
no subject
It almost looks like this place threatens to pull him away from himself, down to the floor, whether he likes it or not.
"I--- I don't---" Jon starts to stumble over his words, having to take a moment to swallow roughly and collect himself. "I-I know I've reopened old scars, and..."
Daisy's words come to mind, a notion that, at the time, he'd hoped wouldn't be the case: But you're still putting these poor bastards through the same thing that made me try to kill you. And you know it's horrible.
"...And the wounds continue to reopen, over and over again. I'm sorry."
Even with how hesitant he is, how it feels like two words mean little in the wake of what he's done, it's no less genuine for it.
no subject
His grip tightens at the same time that it doesn't; there's a flex of muscle there, but it seems to be losing efficacy, structure. "You like to think it's just the dreams. You took my winter from me. You're taking my job from me. You're taking the good world from me. You're taking me away from the people who love me. From my own kid. Your nightmares lie on me like a parasite."
He turns and starts marching to drag Jon somewhere, but the force behind it is waning. He's already losing momentum in the cold silence. Fires don't last long in this place, and the air weighs heavy on them both, as if crouched, lying in wait.
SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG AAA
He finds himself like this, often, it seems, where he's done something with such a gravity to it, that he can't even begin to try to justify it, nor admit to his wrongdoings. The horror creeps further onto his features, and it doesn't take long for it to be given more than one source; first, what he'd done, then, the shift of flesh against his skin, and at last, the tug.
At first, it's so firm that he has no choice but to stagger along. It doesn't take long for it to falter enough that he could tear himself out of it.
He does not do so. He follows along, fearful and quiet, save for a hushed question.
"Where are you taking me, Phil?"