TDM #2

[rhodosmods]

TDM #2: OCTOBER

Jump to: Arrival · Somewhere Under the Rainbow · The Bells of Saint Ioannis · Into the Fog · Waking Up to a Nightmare
OOC Notes · Questions · Manifestation Workshop · New Characters

ARRIVAL

Upon arrival, characters awaken in one of the main plazas of the town, lying on the paving stones around a central fountain. Your pockets are empty and you have nothing with you but the clothes on your back. It is a bright sunny day and pleasantly warm but not hot. A light breeze brings the scent of the sea, but there are no cries of sea birds to be heard.

The buildings of the plaza are all medieval stone construction, but they all have modern awnings and glass fronts. Tables out front display tourist wares: little plastic statuettes, postcards, t-shirts. Among these, it's easy to identify Greek lettering, Greek gods, photos of Athens and Crete. Predominant among the souvenirs are items marked with the name Rhodos.

But there are no vendors selling their wares. Even if characters wander into the shops, they are all empty as if their owners just stepped away for a moment. Lights are on, and some of the larger and nicer shops even have the whirr of air conditioning. Food stands waft the aroma of freshly grilled kebabs, and a gelato cart is cold to the touch and the ice cream inside is frosty and delicious.

The plaza where you arrive is set on a slope, and the direction of the sea breeze and the faint sound of waves against a shore indicates pretty strongly that down-slope is the direction of the sea. But looking down the slope from the main plaza, you can see an open archway in a tall stone wall, and beyond it is nothing but mist. Despite the clear sunny day in the plaza, the mist is a dense fog with barely three feet of visibility. If you enter it, you can see your own arms in front of you, but nothing beyond that. The breeze has gone still and the waves no longer sound so much like waves--the sound is warped through the mist so that it almost sounds like sobbing. After about five minutes of determined walking across what feels like flat ground with no other landmarks, you find yourself back at the archway.

Housing can easily be scavenged. Doors are unlocked and the interiors are clean and welcoming, beds freshly made, as if it is a hotel that's been prepared for you rather than anyone's personal residence. And yet, once you've settled upon a place to live, you start to find little signs that you have lived here all along. The photographs on the wall (which weren't there when you first arrived) depict you and your family and friends, even if you came from a world without photography. Upon arrival, you have only the clothing you are wearing, but within a day the closet begins to fill with familiar outfits from home, and within the first week you may find up to five of your own possessions around your new residence.

SOMEWHERE UNDER THE RAINBOW

CONTENT WARNING: DRUG ADDICTION

There's an old clock tower near the center of town, very visible from many locations on account of it being the highest point in Rhodos. It's set up on its own little acropolis, with a ramp leading up to stairs around the squared-off fortress sides of the tower. Like most of the doors in town aside from the opened locations and housing, the door has been locked since arrival, and the walls are impossible to climb without magical ability or specialized equipment. The clock faces on each side are all operational, but never in agreement as to time, and some of them seem to run faster than others. Even if you set your watch to a particular clock face, within an hour your watch and the clock will disagree.

One evening mid-month, the clock faces begin to spill out some kind of iridescent liquid. It cascades down the sides of the tower in a glimmering waterfall and then rushes down the stairs and ramp, quickly flooding the streets of the town. Though it eventually drains out through the gates of the town, disappearing into the mist, the flow continues at a steady rate, so that all the streets in town and the first floors of apartments are flooded one foot deep with shimmering goo. It's only a little viscous to the touch, and seems harmless aside from evoking immediate drowsiness.

Within seconds of touching the liquid, you will begin to yawn, and within a few minutes it's difficult to walk a straight line or keep your eyes open. No matter your determination, you'll be asleep within ten minutes, so you'd better find a safe place to sit or lie down.

The first dreams you experience are beatific. You may be drawn into someone else's dream, or they may be drawn into yours, but the first two or three dreams are wondrous, breathtaking experiences, showing your hopes and dreams come true, your fondest memories, or an imagined paradise just for you.

After experiencing one of these dreams, it is irresistible to seek out another one. You may touch or drink the strange liquid without experiencing ill effects aside from the need to sleep and the shared dreams that follow. But the original transcendence has quickly begun to tarnish, and the next handful of dreams will be complicated things, showing secrets and mistakes, the what-ifs of your life that you wish had gone differently, or the perfect version of your life with some kind of awful twist at the center, something dreadfully wrong.

These dreams should be a lesson, but the liquid is a drug. Anyone who experienced those initial good dreams will be driven to try again and again, but each time the dreams grow worse. Soon, you'll be drawn into someone else's nightmares, or they will be drawn into yours, and you will see your worst outcomes, your greatest regrets, your deepest hells. Your Manifestations may or may not star in these dreams, or there may be terrors far worse pursuing you through the depths of your subconscious, vast cosmic horrors chasing you no matter how fast you run or how far you flee.

After a few wretched nightmares, characters will do anything to avoid sleeping. The drug craving of the liquid still itches under your skin, whispering to you that perhaps the next hit will bring back those original perfect dreams, but your better sense knows that sleep will bring only more of those nightmares, even if it has been hours or days since the last time you touched the tainted liquid.

THE BELLS OF SAINT IOANNIS

Around the fifteenth of the month, or as near to it as anyone is capable of keeping track of days, the flood of dream water finally stops, and within an hour the liquid has all drained away through the gates. A few shimmering puddles remain here and there on the paving stones, but they're easy to avoid, and an afternoon rain shower washes away the last vestiges of the iridescent liquid.

One day of fresh air follows, and that night you are able to sink into dreamless bliss--for at least a few hours. In the depths of the night, you are knocked out of slumber by the tolling of a bell, loud and reverberant enough that you can feel the shockwaves of it vibrating through your bones. Twelve head-spinning repetitions later and it finally stops, leaving you dizzy, ears ringing with echoes of the sound.

No doubt you're exhausted after the past week of restless dreams, falling easily back to sleep, but you're only just sinking into a deep sleep when another toll of the bell slams you awake again. Just one this time, but an hour or so later and it's two, then three. The clock tower is telling the hour, but no one will be able to sleep through its vigilant time-keeping.

Sooner or later, sleep-deprived characters will head to the clock tower in desperate determination to find some way to stop the ringing of the bell.

This time, the tower door stands open.

Making your way up the winding stair within, perhaps you stop to admire the view across the city, and this may is the first time you find yourself at a height that allows you to see over the city walls. The mist beyond the walls is like a solid thing that surrounds the town on all sides, fading to blue in the distance so that you can't quite tell where the horizon line is between mist and sky and whether there's any glimpse of sea to be found in the middle.

You climb the steps to the top floor of the tower, and then ...

You find yourself back outside the tower, soaked through by the drizzling rain and shivering with cold. Something happened to you up there, at the top of the tower, but your mind skitters away from remembering it, and you grow increasingly nauseated the more you try to remember.

Through all that physical disorientation, it may take you some hours or someone else's reaction before you realize that something is wrong with your body. You're smaller than you were, or taller, or frail and wizened. The experience in the clock tower has aged you. You may be as young as six or as old as ninety-nine, and your memories may be intact or may be altered accordingly to suit what you knew at your age. If you gain years, you will gain memories as if you had lived to that age in your life back home, even if you should have died before that.

No matter how you feel about your age transformation, you are now mercifully unable to hear the ringing of the clock tower bell.

INTO THE FOG

CONTENT WARNING: CRUELTY AND VIOLENCE AGAINST (MONSTER) DOGS

After the characters have been in Rhodos for about three weeks, a heavy fog rolls into town. Unlike the mist that surrounds the city, the fog smells of smoke. Visibility is reduced to a mere ten or fifteen feet.

The electricity goes out, and shops are no longer replenished. Food may still be scavenged, but the food in shops and restaurants will slowly rot and may run out. Battery operated items will continue to work as long as the batteries still have a charge. Running water inside the houses continues to work, but it is sluggish and smells stale, leaving an unpleasant film on the skin.

While out on the streets of the town, characters will begin to encounter the monster dogs of Rhodos. The sound of a dragging chain precedes them, and then the hazy outline of a dog comes into view. It's walking oddly, however, with a sort of staggering limp, and the sound of the chain is underlaid by a low, feral growl. Furless gray skin peels away in patches to reveal bloody muscle. The heavy iron collar around the neck is studded with long black screws, the ends of which pierce the skin of the neck. Hazy eyes are clouded with decomposition, and yet that doesn't seem to prevent the dog from making its way straight toward you.

The dogs are not very fast, nor very smart. They can be outpaced at a brisk walk, and they will lose track of any character who gets more than twenty feet away or behind a closed door. But they are vicious. If you get within a few feet, they will lunge at you and attempt to bite. If two or three of them manage to corner you in a blind alley, you could be in real trouble.

In addition to the dogs, characters will begin to catch glimpses of Manifestations, both their own or those of others. At first you might just catch sight of them through a break in the fog, but after a day or two they can be spotted standing outside of apartment windows and staring in. In either case, they will not approach or attack characters unless you're foolish enough to get within six feet of them. Then, they will attack, and they will pursue at a fast walk until they lose track of you in the fog.

WAKING UP TO A NIGHTMARE

CONTENT WARNING: BLOOD IMAGERY

On the 28th, characters will awaken to find that the homey, quilted bedding has been soaked through with blood. Once you leave the bed, you may notice that the mattress continues to sag in the center with the outline of a human body.

When you make it out into the streets, you'll find that the entire world has changed. Heavy darkness fills the city, and no stars are visible in the sky. A few lights glow despite the lack of electricity, but they only provide a sickly, red-tinted light. Streets are slick with something that looks like blood, and the stone walls in many places have been transformed into metal or grate. Through the grate, you can catch glimpses of black metal hooks and gory, dripping meat that looks human in origin.

There is no palatable food or water. Anything you have saved has rotted or changed unnaturally into what looks like rotting flesh or lumps of bile. Liquid has turned into blood or black water. The only mercy is that symptoms of hunger, thirst and fatigue stabilize after 24 hours and don't get any worse. Don't worry, it won't be the dehydration that kills you here.

Your Manifestation pursues you tirelessly, and the monster dogs are faster, smarter, and moving in packs. Your home is no longer safe, and staying on the streets is deadly.

OOC NOTES

October 1: Arrival and Monthly Reset
October 10-15: Shimmering rainbow flood, shared dreams
October 16-20: Clock tower bell and de-aging event. All de-aging will expire before the fog event starts on the 21st.
October 21-27: Fog World
October 28-31: Nightmare World

The TDM is game canon. New and existing characters are both welcome to treat this as a mingle log, create top levels, tag around. (We got mixed responses when we asked how players would prefer TDMs so we're trying this! Feel free to give us feedback on how this goes and what you would prefer.) The Fog World and Nightmare World aspects of the TDM will almost always be generic, featuring currently active monsters, to allow prospective characters to play with these elements but not including spoilers for the main game Event Part 2 which will be released on the 20th.

Also! Big news, by popular request applications will now be open permanently, and you may begin playing in game immediately as soon as you're accepted. The October Event Part Two will be posted on the 20th and it's going to be bloody good fun, so get your apps in ASAP if you want to get in on that.

For the nerds among you who are enjoying this sometimes-accurate tour of Rhodes, all location images are accurate to real-world Rhodes.

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Comments

Questions / Comments

[rhodosmods]

[kamaz]

Will bullets stop the dogs? Can they die?

[exitlightenternight]

RE: the Clock Tower prompt -

If a character canonically does NOT age and never has, should I still age the body up or down (because humanized) and ignore the memories potentially attached, or could I change, say, his memories and style of dress?

[kamaz]

What would happen if a character boiled the gross nightmare world water?

Newbies Rolodex

[rhodosmods]

Since this TDM allows both existing players and new players to top-level, if you're a new/potential player, go ahead and link your top level here so that people can find it!

Re: Newbies Rolodex

[giveusfreedom]

Markus (Detroit: Become Human) Top-Level

[emyoji]

Abe no Seimei top-level

Manifestation Workshop

[rhodosmods]

We know that coming up with a good Manifestation is the hardest part of the Rhodos app. Comment here if you'd like to brainstorm your ideas with others who are apping in or current players who have already gone through the process and are more familiar with how the Manifestations work in game. Get ideas, hone your existing ideas, and see examples of what other people are thinking!

[funzo]

Hi! I'm Em, I'm new, I'm strongly considering apping Dr. Alana Maxwell from Wolf 359 here, and while I actually have some pretty promising ideas about the general ~vibes of her Manifestation, I could use some help straightening out the mechanics.

My thoughts so far:

Aesthetic: Visual snow. Sickly greenish CRT light. Constant glitching. Poor focus, bad resolution, visible pixels. Objects clipping through one another. The sound of static and crashing waves filtered through blown-out speakers; dial-up internet screeching; very distant, very choppy, very distorted MIDI recordings of Sunday school songs slowed down 800%. Takes the form of a featureless, attenuated human outline. t͖͖̠̬͛ụ̴̴̾̀͟͡n̫̫̘̗͕̲̲̎ͥḛ̡̰̳͓̥ͬ͋ͪͧd̶̵̯̯̼̘ͨ̓ t͖͖̠̬͛o͙͙̙̘̙ͤͫ͞ a͔͔̜̗̦ͩ̅̎ d̶̵̯̯̼̘ͨ̓ḛ̡̰̳͓̥ͬ͋ͪͧa͔͔̜̗̦ͩ̅̎d̶̵̯̯̼̘ͨ̓ c̨̨̣̮̝̈́̔ͯ̀͂h̨͚͚͖ͯ̒̄͗͞a͔͔̜̗̦ͩ̅̎n̫̫̘̗͕̲̲̎ͥn̫̫̘̗͕̲̲̎ͥḛ̡̰̳͓̥ͬ͋ͪͧl͖͖̰̝ͭ̀͘.

Emotional state: Splintering focus. Fragmentation. Shutdown. Anxiety. Dissociation and disorientation. Sensory overload. Isolation. The absolute certainty that everything you're doing is wrong. The people you trusted will abandon you; the people who trusted you were wrong. They're all going to die. They're all going to watch you die. No one is coming. There's someone else crawling under your skin. I can't do this I'm not good enough I can't do this I'm not good enough I can't do this

Relevant traumas: Terrible fundamentalist upbringing running right into Child Prodigy Problems running right into "all but two of the people she actually cares about are AIs and her employer routinely requires her to do what she knows to be awful, awful things to them." Eight hundred different kinds of trauma about being used and controlled and abandoned, and about turning right around and inflicting that on other people. The fear of never being quite smart enough. The fear of not being able to think straight. Letting a perfect copy of her best friend die horribly in space while he begged her to help him.

Like... is this anything? And how would something on those lines work in-game?

Morpheus/Dream | Sandman (Netflix)

[exitlightenternight]

Arrival

[He should not be waking up.

That's how he knows that something is wrong, before all else.

If he didn't know that, he could mistake this place for The Dreaming. The idyllic day, stilled as if the whole world had decided to take a break. Greece, from the looks of it (and oh, OH is he ever familiar with Greece), some time reasonably modern. But as he draws himself to his feet, he feels...weak. Small. Within and without, disconnected from the world around him. Mortal. Human. Waking up, because he had been asleep. Pale hands dart in and out of pockets, finding them empty.

No. Not again. This can't be happening again.

With long strides, he coasts through town, long black coat billowing behind him as he regards his surroundings. The archway sets his hackles up, but he moves with purpose through the fog, only to be spat back into the town. Dream logic. But he is awake, and this is still not the Dreaming.

Panic suits him ill, but it tries to well within him all the same.

Hoping to find answers, he knocks at the door to a home, unsettled when it creaks open to no objection. It's pleasant inside, clean, but...sterile. Hollow. Morpheus is about to turn, to leave, to abandon this useless endeavor when he hears it - a caw. Looking towards the sound, he recoils at the sight that meets him; a birdcage, containing one ordinary raven, sitting just beside an end table. On the table sit three objects, black spots on the light wood, unmistakable for what they are.

His pouch of sand.

A tiny skull with two sets of teeth set into the eye sockets.

And a framed photograph of himself with his sister.

His brows knit as he stares down at the little framed picture, taking it in his hands. In it, Death has her arm thrown over his shoulders, a wide, warm grin on her radiant face, while he looks as weary as ever, only the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. The sight of it unsettles him as much as it stings. He sets it back down, at first on its face, and then upright when the memory of his sister's smile needles him with guilt.

Dream of the Endless deals in impossibilities - but this? This is nothing of his creation.

Checking the pouch goes just about how he had feared it might. The sand within it is without limit, yes...but it is inert. It does not respond to his control. It is... ordinary. Still, into his pocket it goes, clutched in a fist tight with mounting rage.

He ignores the skull. He is shaken enough.

Morpheus wanders back out of the house, shielding his quicksilver eyes from the sun. Surely, there must be some other sign of life here. Surely-

Panic curls cold against his spine at the encroaching thought - what if. What if he has been captured once more, bound away from his domain...and what if he is alone?

No. Someone must answer for this. He calls out, low voice rumbling in the warm breeze.]

If anyone is there, come forward before I find you. I need answers.


Somewhere Under The Rainbow

[Foolish. He should have known so much better than  to touch the candy-colored oil slick flowing through town - and yet curiousity had gotten the better of him.

Now, he is assaulted by a feeling both alien and familiar: the irresistible weight of sleep. The irony is not lost on him as he stumbles to a nearby bench, lanky limbs only halfway making it before he succumbs.

As he falls under, he wonders, idly -

Did they take this from him?]

Sweet Dreams

[Part of him wishes he could simply enjoy this.

Morpheus is home, standing before his throne. The sands shift and form under his hands, and he feels the euphoria of creation, the joy of crafting a new story, a new dream. This one is for a little boy with a love of fairy tales, one who fills his head with knights and dragons every night before slumber.

But in the back of his mind, the Endless knows the joy is false. Even as the haunches and strong legs of the being take shape against his fingers, it isn't quite right. It's not the same. It's a placation. He is only as in control of this as any other dreamer would be.

The newly formed unicorn tosses her head and whinnies. He pats her nose, expression simultaneously pleased and mournful.]

So this is what it feels like. To have a good dream, but to know it will end.

It's different firsthand.

Bitter Nightmares

No...no....

[Once again, he is in the heart of the Dreaming, in his throne room - but this time, it is crumbling, decrepit, neglected. He wants to repair it, wants to make right what has gone wrong - but he is in no position to do so.

Morpheus is naked, imprisoned within a large, thick glass tank. There is no entrance, no exit, just the same prison he had spent a century caught inside...with two key differences. The first is that it is in the center of his castle, forcing him to watch his world crumble brick by brick around him.

The second is that he is human, and the air in the tank is all too finite.

He desperately punches and scratches at the glass, leaving only shallow gouges and tearing up his hands.]

Help - please, I - help me-!

[He coughs - it's no use. The air will only go faster if he screams.

The Lord of Dreams slumps down the glass, raw knuckles leaving a smear of blood on the way down. In the distance, the sound of chains dragging can be heard.]


Clock Tower

Stop it. Stop it. Stop. It.

[It is bad enough that he now needs to sleep - but the incessant tolling of the clock tower barring him from any real rest is working away at Dream's last nerve. He huffs as he ascends the tower, lips curled back in a curt snarl as his boots fall heavy on each step.

It needs to stop. He needs it to stop. Just a little further now-

And he's out of the tower again, the air still. He frowns, looking about, narrowing his eyes in confusion. To the outside observer, he is precisely the same age as he had been before he started to climb...but his hair is longer, drawn back in a ponytail, and his clothes speak of the late 1700s, an era long past, ornate for all they are dark.

What had he been doing just now, again? A hand flutters to his head. He feels fuzzy.]

Was I...ah yes, I had just...met up with Hob, did I not?

No, that...that doesn't seem quite right.

[He turns to you, tilting his head in a catlike fashion.]

What - what just happened?


Into The Fog

[Monsters - or what most people might consider monsters - just don't trouble Morpheus the same way they might trouble the average human. He has seen and created many in his time, but every time, they were under his control.

Not now.

He is powerless here. He's not precisely what one might think of as ready for a battle, after all. So the two snarling dogs that have him backed into a corner of the town square are a definite threat, closing in upon him while dribbling their sickly ichor. He holds a discarded walking cane as a makeshift weapon, but the distress in his sharp, stoic face is palpable. He needs help.]

Stay back! Stay - back-!


Waking Up to a Nightmare

[The last time he had run like this, he honestly could not say. His boots resound against rusted grate, splashing through the gore-slick streets. It's coming, he can hear it - the low drone of it, calling to him through the dark.]

Where were you...where were you...?

[He doesn't look back. He can't, or he might be caught. How many times has he crafted something like this for a dreamer? How many times had he governed a nightmare like this?

But now the nightmare is his own, bearing down on him in waking hours, long, warping limbs dragging thick glass chains and manacles across corrugated steel with a horrific screech of friction. He's hungry, he's thirsty - he can't keep up the running forever. All he can do is get around a corner, hide, hope -

Blindly, he darts into an alleyway, ducking down behind some garbage bins and flattening his back against the wall. A street sign about ten feet beyond where he hides begins to scramble itself, the letters worming out of place, into nonsense at the approach of the thing around the corner.

He dare not look. Morpheus shuts his eyes, covers his mouth with one hand to try and temper his gasping. He hears sand shifting en masse.

He is afraid.]

Arrival

[messageforyou]

Well, that's an awful polite way to welcome yourself to the neighborhood, hmm?

[Out of the fog emerges another (painfully, unnaturally) ordinary young man. He wears a chiton, wrapped and clasped with practiced ease, and he carries a messenger bag over his shoulder. But otherwise, he's a normal human, albeit an extremely attractive and fit one.

But he smiles at Dream, and it's clear from his demeanor that he doesn't actually hold any ill will.] You know what they say about honey and vinegar. I take it you're new here?

Waking Up to a Nightmare

[midsommaring]

(cw: body horror, hanahaki)


[Dani, too, is hidden behind the trash cans. It seems they had similar ideas. Similar escape routes. She reaches out to grip the man's shoulder, and when he turns to her, she holds her finger to her lips. Yes, they should keep quiet.

There's a gash on her arm, and while they wait, brightly coloured flowers bloom from it. Hibiscus and bluebells and geraniums popping up along the edges of the wound and she has to bite her fist to keep herself from crying out at the pain of the roots digging under her skin.]

I know -- [She hisses as more flowers sprout, pressing her forehead against the man's shoulder.] I know a place. If we can get there in time.

jen walters — she hulk

[cheetosfingers]

01 ARRIVAL

[ okay, waking up on the ground in an unfamiliar place? not the most comforting thing and she's been deep inside a lot of uncomfortable things lately.

but this is something entirely different. as far as she's aware, she doesn't remember anyone kidnapping her but — no, bruce hadn't kidnapped her. she'd gone with him of her own volition to try and learn this hulk thing.

this wasn't him. ]

Uh, hello?

[ her voice just echoes which is the kind of creepy thing that she's seen happen in horror movies. this isn't good, this really isn't good. ]

Look, I've had a really bad day and the last thing I remember was ruining a wedding except the bride was drunk so it's okay so I would advise you not to mess with me.

[ she gets no answer. ]

Okay, guess I'm...walking.

[ to where, she doesn't know. ]

02 THE BELLS OF SAINT IOANNIS

[ she is going to go hulk on that bell, that's for certain. this place is already unnerving but the bell ringing over and over, making it impossible to get any kind of restful sleep?

yeah, she knows that she's supposed to keep herself calm but this is worth getting angry over. she stalks her way over to the tower, already feeling the changes settling over her body and when she steps inside and starts climbing the stairs, she —

is right back on the bottom floor, outside the tower. she's dizzy and a little out of it, reaching to put a hand on the wall to keep herself up. that's when she notices that her wrist is different, it's...pock marked and covered in a few liver spots.

jen pulls her hand back and stares at it, bringing her other hand up and yep, same look. ]

Oh my god.

[ even her voice sounds different. she sounds — ]

Old. I sound like my mother's friend, Diana, who was fifty three but looked like she was eighty.

[ she stumbles away from the tower, staring at it in horror. ]

03 INTO THE FOG

[ she's heard about the dogs. heard enough that she knows if she sees one, that it's probably not going to be a good thing.

but, it's hard to see anything in the fog and she'd gone out to get some food. she hadn't wanted to because looking out the window this morning just gave her a sense of unease.

except, she needs to eat and so here she is, standing a few feet away from a dog, holding a hand out like that's going to stop it. ]

Good doggie?

[ that just seems to piss the dog off and he starts towards her which just makes jen turn around and start walking fast, away from it. ]

Great job, me.

04 WILDCARD

[ for things that you wanna do that i haven't mentioned. ]

03. time for Maxwell's opinion, apparently.

[funzo]

[ The gun was on her bedside table yesterday morning.

Maxwell is just refusing to think further into that one, thanks, than "when there's a weapon just lying around, you absolutely want to take it." There's no way to be certain whether or not it's the gun, anyway, same model or not, and even if it is: who cares? It's a mass-produced object. Having been killed with it (maybe) doesn't make it special.

She spent all of yesterday carrying it around her apartment just to be absolutely positive her hands weren't about to start shaking if she had to draw, but that's just common sense. It makes a nice upgrade from the hammer and the kitchen knife she's been carrying in a makeshift leather-and-duct-tape sheath, not that she's about to start leaving either of those at home; the powers that be have seen fit to provide her with one (1) clip. Fantastic.

All of which is to say, when she rounds a corner and sights the other woman holding out her hand for one of the dogs -- ]

Jesus Christ, are you stupid? [ Shit. Okay. Don't waste time needing to apologize for hurt feelings. Hands on the grip. Nice and steady. See? It's just an object. ] Sorry. People things in just a second. Now if you're not actually trying to get maimed, reel your frigging hand in and come towards me nice and slowly. Not in my line of fire please.

[ She probably sounds a little wild-eyed. She probably looks a little wild-eyed. She's wearing looted cargos and an ancient Johnny the Homicidal Maniac t-shirt she stole from Daniel once upon a time: and? ]

Arrival

[messageforyou]

You ruined a wedding? Sounds like an interesting story.

[In the fog, there's a young normal-looking (if very attractive and fit) man wearing a chiton and a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He has a notebook, and he's in the middle of shoving a window up on one of the houses with his notebook tucked under his elbow. For a guy who's technically in the middle of breaking into a building, he seems very relaxed as he tosses Jen a cheeky smile.]

I take it you're new?

Hermes ☿ Hades

[messageforyou]

Somewhere over the Rainbow

(CW: child abuse, implied SA)

First

She can't be older than seventeen. She's so young.

"Dad, what are you doing? Dad!"

A girl in an ancient Greek wedding dress, bound by a golden girdle and her face covered by a veil. But her gown is smeared with dirt--she's struggling to pry herself away from the tall, imposing warrior king that is dragging her to the altar. The ocean crashes on the coast. Men are bearing knives at the altar.

The girl's mother is screaming, calling out to her daughter, but she's held back by more men. "Father!" the mother howls to the sky. "Father! Help her! Please!"

The sky crackles with thunder. Almost like laughter.

Through it all, Hermes stands unseen. Somehow still powerless, still without wings or magic or ichor in a dream.

And he has his eyes closed, face calm as the screams wash over him.

"She's already dead. She's already dead," he murmurs softly as the king forces his screaming daughter onto the sacrificial altar.

Second

Hermes is still powerless. Still wingless. On a mountain. The mountain seems like it's covered in grass when looked at directly, but from the corners of one's eye, it seems to melt into inky night, like the mountain is made of strung together stars and void.

There's a cave. Hermes sits at the mouth, covering his ears, repeating over and over as he squeezes his eyes shut, "It's not real, it's not real, it's not real--"

Like a dreadful, horrible cycle, a woman is screaming inside the cave. The timbre of her screams change. First they're coupled with a grown man laughing--"Let me go, please--" "Now, now, don't be like that--"--and then the grown man is gone, and she's screaming alone until the sound of a baby crying, and they're screaming together until the woman's scream is silenced by sickening crunches.

"It's not real, it's not real, it's not real--" Hermes murmurs over the sound of smacking flesh and cracking bone. And then out of the cave crawls a horrible, mutated orange cuckoo bird the size of a baby, its feathers still mostly bald and downy. It crawls, its wings and legs moving too much like a human's arms and legs, and blood and viscera drips from its beak.

"Fuck off." Hermes kicks the cuckoo away from him without opening his eyes, and the bird screeches, rolling pathetically on the ground and howling in pain.

stephen strange . mcu

[rehandle]

ARRIVAL

a)

[ There's nothing like waking up to too much light and a stiff back. Stone underneath him, sunlight too warm to be anything other than direct... he's outside. What happened? Heavy night at Kamar-Taj, passed out in the courtyard? A groan and crack of one eye says... no, actually.

This isn't Kamar-Taj at all.

There's a merciful stretch of seconds spent taking in the beautiful tourist trap in which he finds himself where the whole thing is still just weird. Funny, almost. Go to sleep in his own bed and wake up in the Med? Sure. Why not? A week or so ago he was piloting his own corpse across a mountain range, shit happens. But then he swipes up with a hand to change from street clothes into his robes and— nothing.

He tries again: nothing. The last fog of sleep slips. Dread, stone-heavy, drops somewhere in his stomach, and his hands dart through a simple pattern. The shaping of it hurts more than it should - none of the usual passive support for his crooked joints from channelled ambient magic. Even before he's finished he knows it's just movement, just gesture.

All at once he realizes he can't feel the world beyond the boundary of his skin.

Stephen totters the few steps to the fountain, leans heavily against it, surroundings rendered irrelevant as he coaxes his hands through spell after spell. He tries everything: mutters incantations, tries complex and simple and so easy a child could do it. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

No. No. Consequences he understands, consequences of course, but not this. Surely not this.

Distracted as he is, he won't notice he's not alone until someone's presence gets too obvious to ignore. ]

b)

[ Sometime later he stands by the archway looking out into dense mist. There's a beer in his hand, a crate with a further five bottles and an opener at his feet, and this time he doesn't need an introduction to sense somebody else's approach.

He doesn't turn around, just bends down to grab a bottle by the neck and the opener by the handle and hold both out for whoever it is that's wandering down the hill. ]

SOMEWHERE UNDER THE RAINBOW

[ After his third horrid dream he'd learned something close to a lesson. That's how he ends up sitting at his first floor window instead of asleep when a straggler trudges by through the endless shimmering sea, drowsy and fighting for consciousness on their way to somewhere it doesn't look like they'll have time to arrive.

The window opens and Stephen leans out to raise his voice for the ears of the person below: ]

Hey. In here. Before you drop.

[ The door to the street is open. Downstairs is a wash, but the height of his window promises the refuge of another floor. ]

WAKING UP TO A NIGHTMARE

[ They've been running for what feels like hours. Darting from building to building, hiding, darting again when the dogs catch their scent or the sounds of something worse drift in on the wind. For the last five minutes, this space between buildings has given them refuge from a chase that had felt like it would go on forever. Back pressed to the wall, no longer concerned for the blood that congeals on his clothes and matts in his hair, Stephen takes what precious seconds he can to fully catch his breath.

Somewhere beyond the alley's mouth, hardly any distance at all, a voice calls, the sound of it reaching out like ripples over water. Or maybe it's a chorus of voices. So gentle and well-synchronised that it could almost be just the one. ]

Please. Let me help you.

[ It's his voice. All his voice.

Wide eyes search for his companion, blood-stained palm lifting away from the wall to gesture sharply back the way they'd come. They'll have to risk the dogs. ]

WILDCARD

( anything else you want to try out just hit me up with a starter and I'll dive in! or if you'd like to chat it through first, feel free to find me at miscreates )

Arrival: B

[midsommaring]

Oh -- [Dani wasn't expecting to be handed a drink when she approached someone she hadn't seen before. But what the hell, right? There are worse ways to be greeted.

She pops the top and hands the opener back over, studying the man with a curious expression as she sips her beer.]

Did you, um. Did you just get here?

Waking up to a Nightmare

[messageforyou]

[Hermes--but he hadn't given that name when asked, he'd said to call him Outis, and who knows if a doctor remembers that small detail of the Odyssey if he'd ever read in the original Greek--may not have his power or his wings, but he's still effectively at the fitness level of an Olympic athlete. Even hungry and thirsty, he can keep up with the grueling pace of running and hiding, resisting the urge to run ahead and find safety at the cost of his new companion.

Hermes stops when his companion stops, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his chiton.]

Hand on your chest and belly, breathe in through your nose, hold, and out through your mouth, breathe with your stomach, there's a good man-- [If Hermes knows anything, it's how to run effectively. Part of that is knowing how the best athletes catch their breath fast in between sprints. It may be redundant to say this to a doctor, but one never knows.

But then he hears... something. Somethings? And his companion is gesturing for him to back it up. Hermes curses softly.] Malakas. Do you know what that is?

[His head is already whirring with ideas. Go up. Go up and barricade the stairs. But he doesn't know what's lurking and speaking with all those voices.]

somewhere under the rainbow ; it's like its meant for them

[kletva]

( the irony isn't lost on her, reflected in the iridescence of the viscous liquid and the inevitability of the dreams that dragged her under the first time she's set an accidental foot in it and she had to watch, again and again, the sum of her errors.

the streets shimmer now, reflecting on old stone walls and if she has to move anywhere, it isn't without trudging in foot-deep liquid.

the fear of her dreams is the only thing keeping sleep at some sort of bay — reminder after reminder of how powerless she is here — as she makes her way through a narrow street in some attempt at finding higher ground. there's some metaphor to be made here, about having the footing give way under you and then there's a voice cutting through her irritation, cutting through the haze of almost-sleep that's jolting her awake long enough to look up and stare near owlishly at the face she sees, recognition suddenly sharp enough to send her ears ringing.

but there's something about this that pushes her to action instead of firing off questions and barbs and anything else that might come up and she pivots herself towards the open door without thinking.

in short order, she stands on the floor of promised refuge some feet away from his perch, breathing shallow and eyes firmly levelled on him. she thinks there'd be a time she would have been more relieved to see him, but even in this place, even with everything she's already seen here, this only feels complicated, painful. )

This wasn't me. ( she says, quietly. )

Markus | Detroit: Become Human

[giveusfreedom]

Somewhere under the rainbow
[Markus is not sure how he ended up here, for all he knows this is just a new city that he reached by walking a bit too far. Certainly it isn't Detroit, but it wouldn't make sense, would it? Enjoying the architecture, it strikes him as familiar, as something he studied in Carl's company, but just when he's about to activate his processes to analyze it it occurs to him: he's not an android anymore.

He looks down at his hands, reluctantly pokes at his palm, and the texture is different. He can't turn off his skin. The sound he hears when pressing his hands against his ears is more of a flowing river as opposed to rattling machinery. He's human, at last. It's so...Odd. Undescribable, even.

Walking through the fog, he feels way more sensitive to the humidity. Yet that iridescent liquid flowing towards him is something so deeply unnatural that he just knows can't be attributed to the human experience. It stops an inch away from his foot, but he decides to touch it on purpose.

The dizziness hits him all at once, and he can just envision himself on top of what looks like a makeshift stage. North and Simon are with him, Connor is with him, while he is making an inaudibile speech to this huge crowd of androids, some liberated from the recycling camps. They won, they are finally free.

Markus has never felt such relief in his entire life, so he indulges just a little bit longer. He is not aware of the negative effects just yet, but someone is trying to warn him. 'Hey, you! Yeah, I'm talking to you!' shouts the voice.]

Huh?

[Markus is slightly startled as he's pulled out of that vision. Turns away slowly and stares at the person that was calling him, staying silent for a moment. He greets them awkwardly.]

Ah. Hi...What is this place?

Wildcard
[Bring your own prompt!]

Somewhere under the Rainbow

[messageforyou]

[Hermes looks like a completely normal, exhausted human. The iridescent liquid sits thick around his ankles, and he has to fight every urge to drink it in even knowing what horrors it'll inflict on him.

He doesn't even answer the naive new arrival. He grasps the new arrival by the elbow, tugging him towards the nearest buildings, a restaurant with a house sitting atop.]

We need to get away from this stuff.

cho cheol-gang | crash landing on you

[kamaz]

[ cheol-gang is a major in the north korean state security department (secret police) who runs a side business trafficking drugs, hiding fugitives, and looting artifacts; he seems very normal (albeit very confident and intimidating) because he's gotten excellent at masking and imitating compassion and remorse, neither of which he is able to feel. his manifestation is The Other, a human-fox-dog thing that reflects the trauma of his childhood as a homeless orphan during a famine and his manipulative, insincere nature/generalized sociopathy and the way that estranges him from other people. more info here. ]

I. WHEN THE WOLF COMES HOME
fog world | meeting the manifestation / 1 taker please!

[ Cheol-gang watches the creature, or the creature watches him. It's taller than the other dogs, and more sickly: he can count all of its ribs where they surface in missing chunks of red fur, the thin skin draped over them ochre like his own, almost humanoid: not unlike the thing's arms and hands—forelegs?—five human digits and unused opposable thumbs reduced to something to walk on, their fingernails traded for curved nails that jut from the tips of the fingers, not the tops. The legs, too, seem human: they're bent inward at the knee, but even if they were to completely straighten, the thing's topline wouldn't slope downward too much. They're shorter than a person's.

It doesn't pursue him: just hangs there at the edge of the mist, the tawny tail of a dog slowly, almost cautiously swinging back and forth, its thickly furred, triangular ears upright and forward behind the white of a humanoid mask. It takes a faltering step forward on human hands, stepping into the orange-yellow glow of the streetlamp as its black-tipped ears flatten against the top of its head in evident submission. Light glints off of something around its neck: a watch, identical to the one in which his own best friend hid the evidence of his business. Unease stirs deep inside of him; Cheol-gang draws his gun and takes a slow step back, knowing better than to turn his back to whatever kind of animal or creature this is. Regardless of how it might be categorized, it's clear that this is a predator of some kind; the sound of a gunshot would almost certainly draw some of those dogs.

Another step forward. The tail swings faster, its movements small and understated, mostly limited to its very tip. The thing whines softly, a few pitches higher than the sound a dog would be able to produce, but still familiar as the tone used by strays in the villages where he too begged as a child.

Footsteps resonate on the cobblestones to his left, but Cheol-gang doesn't turn his head—it's imperative that he doesn't break eye contact with the long slits in the stone mask—but he does speak when the creature issues another quiet whine. ]

Don't feed it.

[ He doesn't give a rat's ass what happens to the random unperson who's just appeared in his peripheral vision, but Cheol-gang is concerned with self-preservation, and luring an apparently dangerous beast closer to his person will put that in jeopardy. ]

II. I RUN TO THE SEA / IT WAS BLEEDIN'
nightmare world | cw: discussion of food insecurity/famine

[ It's been years, years since obtaining food has been a conscious worry (as opposed, possibly, to an unconscious one), and yet the feelings erupt at almost full force without much notice at all, surfacing like shingles after a case of chickenpox years prior. Cheol-gang's on edge as the hunger gnaws at the pit of his stomach and thirst dries his mouth, a growing tension no amount of cigarettes fully diffuses. He remembers this feeling deep in his bones, the memories carved into his very being like scrimshaw: the persistence of it, the fear that always underlaid it - begging for food, the calluses on his bare feet from the distance he traveled in absence of a single adult, the experience of famine on the whole.

Everywhere he turns, what little food is available has spoiled. Whatever the meat on those hooks is, it's probably contaminated, too, considering that it's been sitting out without any sort of curing or immersion in salt; the water coming from every goddamn fountain and tap in the city seems to be similarly vile. There seems to be no source of anything essential to human life that hasn't been rendered completely useless.

He needs to find out what's going on; Cheol-gang knows that he has, at best, about 48 hours before the dehydration responsible for his headache kills him. Probably less than that, given the oppressive heat. He's losing water at a faster rate than he would be if it were cool out thanks to the sweating.

There had been clothes and linens hanging on lines outside of a few of the occupied residences, which implies some of these people have been here longer than he has—and they might know something that he doesn't. Once he can secure his own survival, he may be able to leverage that secret—whatever it may be—to accumulate currency and power here, to start rebuilding what he had in North Korea.

When he sees someone who looks slightly better dressed for the current weather, as though they have a selection of clothes, he speaks up, confident, conversational. ]

Have you been here long?

III. WILDCARD

[ for the most part cheol-gang's going to be very fixated on amassing resources like food and water, at least until the nightmare world takes effect. he'll also be doing a lot of exploring! it's worth noting that at least initially he'll be in full uniform as an officer in the north korean state security department, so he'll stick out like a sore thumb. feel free to pm me or pp me @ bluehellgazette to plot! ]

closed // for javert. cw blood, wounds, animal death

[kamaz]

[ Cheol-gang is no stranger to food scarcity or empty shelves. The childhood spent roaming the countryside begging for food and the experience of enduring a famine serve him well as he scrounges for what he can find throughout the town. Some of the stores are shuttered, their doors locked: not a concern for someone used to taking what he wants when he wants it.

Cheol-gang steps back and delivers a hard kick to the door in question, landing a strike above the cast-iron doorhandle. The wood creaks; something inside splinters. It's not reinforced. Another blow beneath the handle and—like so many others he's kicked in throughout his career with the North Korean State Security Department—down it goes, falling forward and stirring up a small cloud of dust as it hits the floor. His footsteps take on a hollow quality as he strides over it without much ado and surveys the stores in the half-light.

There's more food here than in the shops that hadn't been barricaded, but not by much. The miscellany remaining includes some bread, some cans, figs, lemons, bags of rice spilling grains out onto the floor from holes presumably chewed by rodents. Cheol-gang grabs one of the worst gnawed and empties its contaminated contents onto the floor with the sound of shifting sand, then starts filling it with what cans he can find: sardines, olives, beans, soups. He stacks a few figs and lemons on top, where they won't be bruised, tosses in a few packs of cigarettes.

Cheol-gang freezes in reaching for a loaf of bread when something scrapes against the fallen door, metallic and heavy, like the massive chains used around the shipyards of Kaesong. It's followed by footsteps and the clicking of nails, the four-beat gait of some kind of animal. Cheol-gang sets down the bag as quietly as he can, then gives the shelves another glance: absolutely nothing here can be used as a weapon except maybe the cans if one were to throw them, so he'll have to rely on his martial arts skills if this thing attacks him, which it probably will.

That's exactly what happens seconds later. The dog, a Doberman like the ones used for police work, lunges with a snarl. Cheol-gang strikes it with one foot and it recoils only to regroup and come at him from the side; a few seconds pass in which he's keeping it at bay but nowhere near killing it. He needs something heavy, some kind of blunt object for that, or the chance to get closer to beat its head until it dies.

No such luck, but he finally manages to strike the thing hard enough for it to fall onto its side on the floor, his only window of opportunity. He jumps closer with the full intent of pinning down its neck—only for it to lunge.

This time the dog gains ground. The teeth puncture the wool sleeve of his uniform effortlessly and he feels his flesh give way to the long canines. It tears at his arm as it drops back to all fours and tries to bite again; despite the searing pain and the wet heat of the blood already soaking his right sleeve he finally manages to land a kick just above its collar, that much stronger with rage. The thing falls with a yelp and he moves in, kicks the stupid thing's head again and again until it falls motionless.

And then he stands there, catching his breath, staring down at it as his arm continues to bleed through his uniform and the thing's saliva potentially infects him with rabies for which he can obtain no treatment. When he finally looks up, there's a man in the doorway, watching him—handsome, he registers through the hectic storm of thoughts and sensations, nicely built. One of the people lucky enough to be born like that. ]

You. I need bandages.

robert joseph maccready | fallout 4

[heckofashot]

i. arrival

[ It's not unusual for MacCready to wake up uncomfortable on a solid stone floor — it is, however, unusual for him to wake up in a place that is so open to the elements, and even more out of the ordinary, without some something over his head; rock, wood, sheet metal — anything, really. It's bright too, blindingly so, and as he sits up, it makes him squint and rub at his eyes.

Immediately his surroundings are wrong, the buildings look alien and out of place. Nothing like what he's grown used to seeing in the Commonwealth, not to mention they're intact. The only holes in the walls he can see look to be largely intentional — an architectural choice, no doubt — and everything looks cleaner than it ought to. ]

What the heck is this place… I've never seen anything like it.

[ Stumbling to his feet, his hand reaches up on instinct to the rifle holstered on his shoulder and finds only empty space where it should be. A quick glance around tells him all he needs to know: his rifle is not here. He can tell because the floor isn't littered with debris, it's easy to see there's nothing else in his immediate vicinity except his cap on the ground. Returning his headwear to where it belongs, he paces towards the fountain, peers inside at the water. The crystal clear liquid shimmers, sunlight reflecting off of its surface and glittering. Anyone would think it was beautiful — MacCready only wonders how it's possible for water to look so clean. Is this the work of The Institute? ]

ii. bells

[ He's holed himself up in a building somewhere, avoiding most of what he's been able to for the last week or so, only leaving to scavenge what he can — he's still not entirely unconvinced that this isn't an experiment, that The Institute are out there somewhere watching him, or maybe he and Sole wandered into a Vault somewhere on one of her wild goose chases only to have their heads filled with noxious gasses causing them to hallucinate.

What he does know, for certain, is that if he has to listen to that thunderous sound of the bell any longer, it will surely drive him insane, and so he sets off, determination in his stride. Each step further up the clock tower is filled with infuriation, it feels like no matter how high he climbs he's getting no closer to the top, until eventually—

A child in a comically large overcoat, soggy cap askew atop his head, stands outside the tower. He stares up at the structure, with no recollection of how he got there, where he is, or why he's here. Scampering away from the building, panic rising on his small features, he shows little regard for anyone else who might be in the area, stumbling over the coat and into things. If he runs into someone of a similar age, he'll narrow his eyes at them, but anyone who looks to be an adult will be met with immediate distrust and aggression— ]

Get the fuck away from me, you stupid fucking mungo!

iii. fog

[ When the fog rolls in, things begin to feel a little more familiar — lack of light and poor visibility, the smell of smoke in the air. When he turns on the faucet in the place he'd shacked up in, the liquid that comes out is brackish and looks like the closest thing to the water in the Commonwealth that MacCready's seen while he's been here.

Scratching at the doors and windows is what drives him out, sends him seeking somewhere more secure with a meagre pack and a rifle on hand. It's hard going, finding somewhere that feels safe — that scratching seems to be following him, growing in intensity. Now and then, there's a sound on the wind that sounds like the cry of a baby, and it has all the hair on the back of MacCready's neck standing on end.

The first sight he gets at the dogs, it occurs to him how different they are to those he's seen in the Commonwealth, and yet there are similarities in how they look. It doesn't take a long time to scramble up somewhere off the ground and set up a spot, laying flat and holding his breath steady as he takes aim. Behind him, there's a guttural rasping breath that rumbles and echoes until it reaches an ear-splitting shriek. MacCready's shot goes wide. ]

fogggg

[standless]

[Perhaps the scratching MacCready hears is that of the dog's claws upon the ground. In the fog, it's not quite dire enough for Jonathan to carry Danny about as they scavenge- they need food somehow, water somehow, and whatever is stored away in anticipation never cuts it in the end.

Everything rots.

Everything falls away.

Jonathan's sword is in his dominant hand, while his other arm is holding a bundled of supplies gathered thus far. If he's careful, he thinks, this just might hold out until the end of the month!

...

He tries not to think about what the end shall mean, instead pausing when he starts to hear that same infant's cry.]

...Hello..?

[So he starts, but his voice comes out quieter than he thinks. The sound seems to move as well, changing where it appears to come from, to the point that Jonathan is left holding his blade aloft and at ready.]

...Who's th-

[A crack rings out. Jonathan ducks- Danny yelps, and both grow tense as smoke rises from where the bullet that just fired lands. With a swallow, Jonathan hurriedly shouts.] HO, THERE!

PLEASE, DO NOT SHOOT! WE ARE NOT MONSTERS, FRIEND!

Need | Heralds of Valdemar

[hasapoint]

A: NETWORK video! un:NEED

[An old woman with a seamed, scarred face peers closely at the camera, frowning and muttering in a deep, gravelly voice.]

-haven't seen a teleson in ages and this isn't even... It's transmitting something now, isn't it? I'm too old for this kind of thing. Is that a writing interface? Why is it laid out like that.

[DISGUSTED. technology NO THANKS.]

let's actually engage with prompts

B: DARE: Dead Angelswords Resist Ecstasy
[Need is deeply suspicious of weird new things and withdrew from the flood of opalescent fluid when it came down, using her hoard of useful items and slow-acquired skills to make waders or long boots and long hand and arm-protecting mitts out of Rhodos-branded rain slickers before being willing to go out into it. Maybe you talked to her then, seeing her in this frankly ugly getup collecting supplies, or finding you passed out or almost asleep somewhere where she thinks you'll be drowned in the colorful cascade, so she drags you up some steps. She does of course also collect some of the fluid in bottles, very carefully. There's no telling what will be useful.]

C: not actually unshakeable

[She did go up to the tower, and has appeared at the base again, down on the ground, on her knees or if it's been longer, fully collapsed and drenched in the rain. Physically Need looks... exactly the same! A tall seventy-year-old, clearly someone who'd once been quite broad-shouldered and muscular, still knotted with some strength remaining. But she's staring at nothing, doing nothing, barely moving, her jaw clenched and her breath coming slow and harsh.]

D: wildcard

[Come up with something! In the fog world she may give you some preserved food or stale conserved water. She'll fight dogs, too, armed with a sword, but she is after all quite old, and can only do so much before tiring.]

Abe no Seimei | OC

[emyoji]

i. Arrival

Ah, excuse me!

[ Seimei's first reaction to being in a strange place is to try to leave, but of course to do that he needs tools. There's only so far raw power can take you, and he's falling sadly short on that. With few options, he decides to use the resources he has and do what any self-respecting magic user would do in his place: he hurries up to the nearest other living person that looks relatively peaceful. ]

Hello! Sorry, but do you have a phone I can borrow?

ii. Under the Rainbow
a. a little inconvenient

[ When the strange liquid comes gushing out of the clock tower, Seimei's first reaction is to retreat to higher ground. It works at first, but eventually as the level of the iridescent lake rises, he ends up perched up on the ledge of a building, or on a conveniently high wall, or the edge of a roof, looking like a cat that hasn't considered the very important detail of where to go after it reached its goal. Now what is he supposed to do? He can't eat from there. ]

Hah... Well, it is dry.

[ If he sees someone else who also happens to be avoiding the liquid and still awake, he waves from his spot. ]

Good day! Do you know if these things happen often? How long does it usually take to go down?

b. caught in a dream (tw: for ghost child harm)

[ If someone happens to be pulled into his dream, they will find themselves in a thick forest outside of an old, but impressive city. The birth of the court life shows in its walls, seen through the breaks between ancient trees towering over everything below. Here and there, small voices can be heard--giggles and whispers, followed by urgent hissing to be quiet. Flashes of silk catch the light as small figures dart back deeper into the underbrush, circling around the newcomer as they try to peek out at them without being caught.

After a bit more rustling and laughter, the area grows completely still. The air feels heavy and slightly bitter, like something burnt, and the light seems to struggle to come through. Somewhere out of view, a bell chimes. Seimei steps into the open area between the trunks, frowning at the dark. ]

I'm sorry. I didn't know.

c. entering someone else's dream

[ In a strange environment, it's always better to play things safe. Seimei's rule of thumb for any new place is simple: be polite. You just don't know who presides over an unfamiliar region, even in a dream realm. So he might be wandering around like someone's lost pet, but he's trying to start without violence at least. Even if the atmosphere is unnerving. ]

Sorry, but I'm going to have to intrude.

[ It's not like he can take it back now--he's already there. ]

iii. nightmare

[ Well, this is an awful way to wake up. As bad as the nightmares are, reality is definitely worse. Seimei retreats down the city streets with one arm covering his face, trying not to add any more blood to his person through contact, although finding safe footing is getting harder even outside in the open. ]

Well, of course we would have tainted dreams if this is what we're sleeping in.

[ It's the sharpest he's spoken out, looking around at the gore and grim terrain with a tense jaw. Speaking catches the attention of some of the twisted dogs, who raise their heads and immediately head his direction. Seimei braces himself and brandishes a rock plucked from the ground, wincing at having to hold the makeshift weapon as he turns to face the pack. ]

Stay there!

[ It doesn't slow them down, but it was worth trying. ]