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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
It's such a far cry from the design principles of CT's time, from the sleek black and grey of ships like the Mother of Invention or the Staff of Charon, all simple lines and squares. But the closer quarters remind her of the tight halls of the Charon, small accompaniment packed in tight like sardines, no space wasted. Of months spent cooped up during slipspace jumps in a ship that was not home, but was her only chance of escape.
Connie looks over Ripley's shoulder down at the opening, then nods and clings a little tighter. "I-I'm secure. Go ahead."
no subject
Ripley’s feet strike the ground with a dull metallic clang!
Heavier is the air here, hot like the pockets and bubbles inside of the stomach.
She treks on. Pauses to listen. No sign of the alien… Maybe it’s fled from this dream, made scared by CT’s ferocious cry.
Down another ladder.
Slide, clang.
Connie’s breath tickles the back of her neck, shallow and labored.
“Not far now…”
There’s tension in her voice, a fear that their good-luck and safety will be spoiled. Turned to a festering rot.
no subject
Whatever it is that keeps Ripley so on-guard, Connie neither knows, beyond a vague impression of threat, nor finds herself worrying to find out. Ripley knows the halls of this ship, knows whatever signs of danger it is to watch out for, and CT knows damn well when to rely on the senses of someone who knows better than you. Never let your guard down, never ignore the signs, but there is no one so reliable as a stubborn woman on her home turf.
(And with Connie's head ringing the way it does and every dreg of energy she has left going to keeping her conscious, it's trust or nothing.)
"Down to F," she echoes, from earlier. Swallows, head sagging against the back of Ripley's. "One more."
no subject
She paints the picture for herself;
Down F, through the lowest corridor. She tamps a finger against the door’s sensor. It feeds back a message.
AIRLOCK IMPASSE. CRAFT NOT DETECTED.
DO NOT OPEN. EJECTION. DO NOT OPEN. EJECTION.
Despair in its most animal form.
But that won’t happen. She commands the universe by her own hands’ strength; its will.
Down to F.
Her feet strike the ground hard. Hands free, she adjusts her hold on Connie. Hoists her further up her back.
Down the corridor.
To the identical white maw.
She taps in a series of digits. The system chirps dully.
Mechanical pause. Longer than she’d like.
Then, click.
The door falls open, leading into the pod’s entrance.
Ripley gasps out a breathless ”Fuck—“, tension melting from her face.
no subject
"Fuck," CT echoes emphatically, and on a breath Connie finishes: "We're here."
Not we made it, not quite capable of being so blindly optimistic as to think that there is nothing else that could go wrong, but relieved nonetheless. They've made it this far. That's not nothing. That's far, far from nothing.
Carefully, Connie moves to climb down. She can make it as far as the interior, she thinks.
no subject
In the middle of the floor, a strange egg-shaped pod, of which there is only one. Its glass door is tipped open, revealing a cushy white inside.
A smaller hanger-room stores space suits, boots, belts and other accoutrements for exposed space travel.
Ripley begins a near-frantic look-over of the shuttle. She shoves searching hands into any nook she can find. Probes dark corners for signs of movement. Nothing, nothing.
A heaving sigh.
She turns toward Connie. “That egg shape is the cryopod. Insufferable when you’re down for the Big Sleep, but adequate enough for lying around.”
She thunks down in the pilot’s chair, flicking switches and dials until the little craft breathes life.
no subject
CT sweeps a soldier-infiltrator-paranoid gaze over the interior, once and twice then twice again. It's unlike any small craft she's ever been inside before. Good. Good. Better to not be caught in memories of the last pod, or of the dropships that ferried her back and forth from mission to starship so many times.
She limps her way across the small space until she is stood leaning against the pod, watching Ripley move and find her place at the helm. Watching her work, take control of their escape.
Fuck she's exhausted.
Only a little hesitantly, Connie pulls herself to sit in the pod and breathes. There isn't a bit of her that doesn't ache like she should be dead ten times over. Probably because she should be.
She doesn't know where they can even go, but she doesn't dare to raise the question. All that finds its way past her lips is:
"...thank you."
no subject
"Of course."
There's an animal tremor at the crown of the ship as it detaches from its mother, finding thruster-controlled gravity and advancing slowly, slowly forward. She mutters directives to herself; umbilicus clear, green on L alignment and starboard, procession, moving forward, steady, steady...; everything she'd learned in her years at school, a comfort to her now.
A black curtain rolls under the craft's belly.
They disengage, take off, off and away from the Nostromo's oil refinery body.
It's over.
Where they go now, she has no idea. ...Well, some idea.
"I'll put out a signal. If we're lucky someone will pick us up. If not, I have us on course to the nearest station."
no subject
Connie nods, even if the motion still makes her flinch. Maybe if she hadn't had her fair share of concussions in her career, this facsimile of life wouldn't be doing so damn well at recreating the feeling.
"Okay," she exhales. "Good enough for me."
It's over. The world did not end in the too-empty bay of a pod-turned-coffin, or in the stark white walls of a deserted ship. They got themselves—got each other—out.