lonelysmiles (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lonelysmiles) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
songerein2021-11-14 09:01 pm
lonelysmiles) wrote in songerein2021-11-14 09:01 pm
Entry tags:
[OPEN] Adventures in Dreamwalking
Who: Alastor and YOU!
Which: Open, Combination Log and Interactive Dream
Where: Your character's dream!
What: Alastor decides to do some experiments with dreamwalking, trying to figure out the extent of the ability. So he decides to wander about Reverein's dreams to test the waters.
Warnings: None in the top level but might be some for people's dreams.
Dress shoes with cloven hoofprints strode in time to the sound of Glenn Miller and his orchestra's "Moonlight Serenade" played on an old radio, their owner humming along. Whether or not it would all blend with the current dream remained to be seen.
Dreamwalking was such a fascinating ability. Alastor himself had a highly irregular sleep schedule plagued with nightmares (just another in a long list of punishments for his dark deeds committed in life) so wandering into the dreams of others was an interesting way to spend his nights. Reverein wasn't like Hell, after all, with a nightlife that seemed to be twice as sinful as the daylight hours. Things could get very boring.
The Radio Demon looked idly about, taking in the current sights and sounds as he kept up his humming. Whose dream was this? Would this turn out to be a pleasant dream or a nightmare? And was it possible for an outsider to influence it one way or another?
((OOC: Alastor is randomly dreamwalking so you get to choose what sort of dream he meanders into to meet up with your character! Have fun!))
Which: Open, Combination Log and Interactive Dream
Where: Your character's dream!
What: Alastor decides to do some experiments with dreamwalking, trying to figure out the extent of the ability. So he decides to wander about Reverein's dreams to test the waters.
Warnings: None in the top level but might be some for people's dreams.
Dress shoes with cloven hoofprints strode in time to the sound of Glenn Miller and his orchestra's "Moonlight Serenade" played on an old radio, their owner humming along. Whether or not it would all blend with the current dream remained to be seen.
Dreamwalking was such a fascinating ability. Alastor himself had a highly irregular sleep schedule plagued with nightmares (just another in a long list of punishments for his dark deeds committed in life) so wandering into the dreams of others was an interesting way to spend his nights. Reverein wasn't like Hell, after all, with a nightlife that seemed to be twice as sinful as the daylight hours. Things could get very boring.
The Radio Demon looked idly about, taking in the current sights and sounds as he kept up his humming. Whose dream was this? Would this turn out to be a pleasant dream or a nightmare? And was it possible for an outsider to influence it one way or another?
((OOC: Alastor is randomly dreamwalking so you get to choose what sort of dream he meanders into to meet up with your character! Have fun!))
no subject
He slept, sometimes.
Whenever he did, it was sparse. Snippets of visions, concepts, things seen and unseen play at the fringes of what would be reality. Everything feels alive- moving, breathing, trembling with so many things, so many possibilities of things that has happened, not happened, is yet to happen, and what may never pass.
It's enough to drive any lesser than him mad.
Even this room. The surroundings- a vast, expansive room with walls and ceilings blacker than black is dotted with greyish paint splatters. Stare too long at them, and they'll start to shake. They'll move, resembling planets, stars, suns. They'll orbit each other. Some splatters will grow in intensity. Some will fade.
But in the middle of them, tangible, real- are three pillars.
One bears the outline of an angel. The angel is robed, head bowed solemnly, hands clasped. The other appears to be a hooded reaper with a scythe. The reaper stands, back straight, proud.
The middle pillar bears a snake.
In the centre of the pillar is a being.
The being is chained to what resembles a throne.
The being does not breathe.
The being does not make a sound.
But the being is everything.
Alastor might find it difficult to turn his gaze to anything else.]
no subject
[For a moment, the sight of someone chained to a throne teases his memory but where he might've seen something like that evades him. Abandoning the mental search, he walks closer to the being.]
Hello?
no subject
Simultaneously. Unceasing, intensely. Every bout of murderous rage, every instance of purest joy, everything inbetween.
Yet the being does not move.
The being does not speak.
The being does not even seem aware he is even being addressed.
Out of nowhere, coming from every corner, is a voice. Yet there is suddenly a man, long, dark hair, dressed immaculately in snakeskin, and every inch the demon Alastor is even though technicality would say he is not, addressing him.]
You think you have the right to lay your eyes on He, so far above you?
[The man moves his hand upward to press some shades- expensive- up the bridge of his nose. There's faint distorted rattling- earphones. Red, and again, expensive, coiled around his neck.]
You're not even on the same plane!
[The man raises a hand. The snake seems to shift.]
He must be left to rebuild!
[Then, a shift. A flash of brilliant white, and Alastor's view would be obscured utterly. The man lies at the foot of the throne, reaching out, in vain, for the being.]
S-sir...
[Another flash. And the man is gone.]
no subject
[A snake man. Why did that sound familiar?]
...Do I know you?
[He shakes his head.]
Rebuild what?
[Only the snake vanishes before he can get an answer.]
no subject
It's not all that bad at first.]
Pirate fashion...
Take off! Better...
B-boy?! I'm actually-
Lotto tickets!
CDs based on...
I don't have any-
Bigger size-
[Fragments of internal conversations here and there, mental notes, private thoughts, begin to flood the room. Perhaps Alastor would find it enchanting- being privy to all manner of little secrets which are certainly not meant for him.
But then it becomes deafening.
More, and more, and more thoughts come in.
It's going to get pretty uncomfortable, because the words lose their meaning. The fragments of internal thoughts, feelings, become shattered further- turning into nothing but conflicting, combative noise.
A cacophony.
An unceasing, unending cacophony.
Perhaps focusing on one of the other pillars would make it cease?]
no subject
[So many dull, useless thoughts floating about from God knows how many dull-witted fools. This is certainly a unique form of punishment. One he'd certainly despise having to endure. As if the radio in his head that never stops playing can't be maddening in its own right.]
no subject
.̶͕͔̘͕̮͚͂͐̄̓͊̇̏.̸̛̘͍̦̘̙͒̈́́̄͗̈́r̵͉͙̫̈́i̴̡̛͔̼̖̱̻̮̍̏̃͗͝g̶̡̬̭̫̲̦̍̄͂̕h̵̟̹̞̦̩̋̔̐̾͊t̸͓͉͈͑͌͂͘ ̴̪̟̾̃̋͂͊͘ẗ̷̺̫̰͇͈̜̈́̀̏h̸̘̀̀͂̑̿ȩ̵͈͙̖̖͖̀͂̽̈́̑.̶̡̭̳̓̿͊̓̀̒̈́͘.̶̢̛̛̤̩͌̎̈̇.̸̝̤̺͖̥̮̫̦̘͂̄́̕ ̶̧͖̣̳̮͇͈̮͛͊̾͜ȏ̶̡̪̗̯̤̝͔͂̓̍ͅf̷̛̱̈͆͊͋̀̈́́ ̵̧̻̱̘͚̙͚͙̹̃̊̉̍̀̇ͅo̴̩̿ͅų̷͚̭̯̩̻̹͉̰̜̽̊̅̌̈͝r̴̬̱̳̣̤̜̟̗̆͒̌̅̾̓̽͋͝ ̸̣̬̰̥̤̿ď̴̢͔̦̄͛̓͒̚̚a̵̧̻̐̑͆̔̃͊̈͠y̶̛̠̟̣͈̙̠̫̏̄̀͂̊͝,̷̪̞̖̠̖̲͝ ̴̧͙͕͍͚̯̝̤͗̆w̴̛̛͕̤̝͊̽͒̃́͂̀e̴̫̯̖̯̬̿̑.̸̛̲̦̭̞̿̆̉͗̀̃̌͋.̶̱̭̗̫̹͓͍̣̮͋́͛͑̂̓̇̓͘.̸̥̎̄̂̀͗t̷̢̫̬̦͉̋ṛ̷̙͂̄͌̍̂̊ù̷͓̩͔͔̙͛̐͆́͑̕e̵̢̫͓̾̓̚ ̸̧̞͈͔͔͔̝͕̒͑̆̊͐͝r̵̞͚͍̖̰͎͗̑͘ͅe̸̡̝̳̎̽͂́̈́̎̈́̚d̵̯̑́̓ĕ̴̗̳̦̻̦̙̾̊̀͑̔̚m̵̧̡̖̼̤͖̯̞̩͂̓͂̈́̾̉́̃p̵̣̃̑͠ṯ̸̬̣̩̤̹͈̫́̈́̏̅́͘̕͜i̶̢̞̼̇̍̄ǫ̷̣͍̳̫̙̰̺̆̕ǹ̶̲̬̬̣͍̦͔̰̯̯͘͝,̶͚͈́͑ ̶̢͉̟̱̹̭̼͙̈́̅͛̀̆̇̉͠t̵̬͈̏̏͠h̴̨̢̧̲̜͚̰͖̪̫͐ȁ̵͎͍̎̑̌̍́́͛̓̕ț̵͘ ̷̩͖̲̞̺̲̄̽̍͆͘t̴͚̫̻͕̓̑͂̀̄h̶̙͚̱͒̍́͑̍ǐ̸͓͜ş̷̟̹̲̼̘̻͖͇̩͛͑͑̈̋̈́̿̍͝͠.̴̛̺̺̭̇̏́̆́̽̎̅͜.̶̝̲͉̺̗͊̎̓̿.̸̢̢̲̇͋̈̒̉̕b̶̗̼͈͔̲̃͒̌̿ë̶̩́̑͑̅̈̚͝c̶̛͇̩̯͐͌̌ǫ̴̣̤͖̫̭̲͙̈̔͗̈́̀̏̈́́͜͝m̸̦̀́̈́̏͌͌̀̑̅͝ē̵̯͈̩̦̤̬̫̤̤͛̈̔͒̾͊͝ ̷̨̡̢̝̤͍͛̾͌̑̽́͠a̶͖͇̓̈́͛͊́͜s̸̛̛̭͕͈̒̓͝ ̸̣̦̦͎̲̦̲̘͎̣̆͗̽͋̍̈̑͛p̴̙̯̻͚̹̹̥͙̻̓́̿́̿̋ą̶͓̝͉̗̟̕ȓ̶̢̘̜̺̣̹͚͉͇̀̓̂̂̽͐́̕͝ã̷̯̹̖̉̚d̵̝͈͍̬͒̅̓̊̀̇͛͜ͅi̷̧̽̍̓͐͠͠͝s̴̨̡͎͚̙̦̥͈̐͌̇́̅̅͋̀͜͠e̷̱̐͂̏̈͒̈̚ͅ.̷͚̩̻̹͛̑̌̏͝͝ ̶͈̝̫͔̭̠̞͆̿̂̾̋̂̃͌͊.̶̡̯̰͚̩͙̹̇̈́̇͊͆́͠.̶̧͓̫̞̹̥̑̌̌̆̅̐̐̏̈́͘.̵̗͕̈́̃̽̅̃̐̈́̈́̽ ̸͓͇̣͓̗̫͊͒͘ẁ̶̱̹́͑͌̂̃̉̿̕͝o̶̳̹̪̰̩̫̩͚̹͛n̶̢͓̦̻̬͇̻͚͍̈͑͜d̴̟̦͈̭̰̞͋̀̈̈́̈́̉̐̚ȅ̷̡̧̛̹̖͓̰͚̓̌͠r̵͓̲̤̬̻̩̝͗̎f̸͔̥͎͛̋̉̍̈́̆͠u̴̡̮̝̟̘̩̰̿̓͊͊͜l̷͉̻̲̬͌̎̆ ̴̘̻̲͚̩͛̇͊̒̂͛̎͠͝w̵̢͛̓̄̾͛͗̈́̎̈́͝ö̶̤̼̦̺́̅̓̀͛͘͜r̵̡̨͚͔̦̞̬̻̖͇̓̿̉͆̀̅́͛̑l̴̘̲͔̤̹̂d̵̥̙͇͍͆͛̿ ̸͓̜̠̞̐̒͂̓̈́̔̓̀͐̚ș̶̢͎͉̈̀̇͒̌͋̐͝͠͝u̸͔̽͆̊̕c̶̹̺̖͍͈̽͒̕ḥ̷̂ ̵̧̼̣͇̫͇̍̋̑w̶̙̗͓̑̍͋̀̊͝o̸̢̽̔̇̎͝u̴̡͙̮͖̜̟̲̱̒̊̏̆̀́̆̎ľ̴͍̥͈͎̞͕͠d̴̡̻͎͂̂̈́̒ ̷̳̬̗̎̽̊̿́͛͐͘̕ͅḇ̷̝͍̦͈̗̱̔̑̇̓͂͒ę̶̨͖̻̙̱͐̂͂͋͊̚͠.̴̤͈͚̅͘͝.̷̧͗̚͠͝ͅ.̴̛̠̙̪͖̃̓̄́̿͑͜͝͝
It's staticy. Obscured.
All of the voices repeat it, over, and over, and over- but it's still difficult- markedly so- to understand a single word.
And it's only getting louder.
The reaper and the angel pillars seem to shift, just slightly.]
no subject
[Alastor looks towards the remaining pillars.]
Ah, so I need to deal with you two first?
[He walks towards the angel first, looking it over carefully.]
Let's see...
no subject
Eerily, its position has changed. Whereas before it sat in a relaxed manner- one leg crossed over the other and slouched in the chair, it is now sitting upright. Features should be dimly visible on what should be its face- resembling those of someone Alastor was beginning to know quite well- but different. Older... and unsaturated- devoid of any colouring whatsoever.
However, he's not looking at him. He's looking at the angel figure.
It must be thirty feet tall, if not, taller. Despite the fact its hands are clasped in a manner that should suggest prayer, it's still imposing. Perhaps more so for Alastor, given his experience of them, than anyone else.
Finally, something happens.
Alastor's vision should fade, utterly.
The voices from before are still there.
But his vision should leave him, entirely and utterly.
Has laying his eyes on something so different from him blinded him?
Flickers of light will eventually play at the corners of his vision, forming a picture in due course. Is it a few minutes later? Or is it an hour later?
"You can't do it. I'm tellin' ya, J- it's not going to come to that!"
Finally, he should see a man.
A man with a wrinkled shirt. A shirt that was probably once white, but a strange off colour due to incorrect washing. A man with deep, pronounced lines on his forehead that indicate a habit of frowning, around his mouth which indicate a habit of smoking, and underneath his eyes- which indicate a habit of not sleeping.
"Just give it- I mean- give them, a chance! Things're bad, but-"
A man that could only have been in his early fourties, but with the eyes of an old man. Tired eyes. Drooping eyes. But eyes which are animated- possessive of the deepest, most utter look of betrayal as they focus on him, briefly, harden, and then look away as if deeply hurt.
"Shibuya's still got possibility! Can't you see-"
Should Alastor find the look funny, it wouldn't last long.
This is Joshua's dream, after all- and his sentiment?
It's unusual, for sure. But it's a sinking feeling.
And yes. He hates it.
The picture will shift to some alley, with a half-finished mural. A reaper's smiling face is visible. As is what can only be described as a panther, a series of skeletons (one is covering his ears. The other, his eyes. The other? His mouth.) the start of some crosses- but while the locale is certainly different, the sentiment will stay with him.
If anything, it grows.
The man is up a ladder, yell!speaking through a mask. There's tins of spraypaint littering the ground underneath the ladder, more lined up at the side of the wall.
"Ah, yeah. Yeah, sure. Look, I got things to do and I'll never hear the end of it if I get paint on ya. So you've got to go-"
Another shift.
This time, the man's eyes are hard. They don't look his way. He's walking down a street, murmuring to himself.
"2-3... 2-3..."
Alastor probably won't know why he suddenly feels as if the floor's swallowing him up.
Suddenly, his vision returns. He's back in the room, but the feeling lingers. The angel is gone... but the sense of loss lingers. The being in the chair is now looking away, toward the reaper.
no subject
[The snake pillar disappeared after the snake man. Now the angel is gone after the stranger vanished. An angel? The "ride" Joshua had mentioned before even?]
[He follows Joshua's gaze.]
...I suppose if I must.
[Alastor walks towards the reaper. In a strange sort of way, this figure seems almost welcoming to him. Perhaps the kinship of those who dealt death?]
no subject
Power comes from him. No- he is power. Something otherworldly, something indescribable, something truly and utterly unknown.
Yet as Alastor approaches the Reaper, a horrible smell should overpower him. Refuse. Filth. Grease. Sewage. He'll find himself truly, utterly alone, traversing a long pathway in the blackest darkness.
High walls, stained with exhaust fumes and filth. As Alastor walks, and walks, and walks, there is finally light. Yet this light comes from a perfectly straight white strip of water, yet not water, on the ground.
Eventually, there's sound.
Sounds, even. Sounds that can be seen in discordant shape and colour. So many sounds, so much, all at once, all playing at different tempos, different pitches, different styles - that it's less music, and more a cacophony. It's discordant, it's messy, it's noise- dissimilar to the voices from earlier. Simply static, in so many different pitches.
Then...
A man- or what once was one. The man had tanned skin, but it was darker than tan. His body was a perfect black, the sort of black that absorbs light itself. Yellow, harrowed eyes stare with an expression that is more instinct than anything conscious, anything meditated; a base drive which could only be described as murder.
Hands turned claws not unlike Alastor's own, grasping incoherently at the air. The man wheezes, as if he can't breathe. The vaguest suggestion of strangulation is in the grasping of his hands, his beleaguered breaths- the arching of his back.
This is the shape of a man.
Yet it is not a man.
Not any more.
Then cracking. The sound of bones- the pelvis, back, legs, ribs, hips, shattering. Crushing. Bones are forced from their sockets, forced through the skin, and the man crumples from underneath some great weight.
He'd scream all right. If he had air in his lungs.
If his lungs were not compressed, torn apart by the weight of whatever had killed him, without the protection of a ribcage which had instants before, been shattered in every conceivable way.
Maybe Alastor would scream.
For what the man(?) feels, he would be feeling too. Acutely. As if he's the one being crushed himself.
Fortunately, the vision ends quickly.
Alastor should return to the room perfectly intact... if a little (residually) sore.
The Composer of Shibuya is now standing. Before each pillar is a body. The man in the snakeskin suit, the middle-aged man, and the creature, are all dead.
And he's looking to the center of the room, in an area just before of the pillars- where Alastor originally stood. Now, there's a white symbol.
A stylised skull is painted on the ground.
Should Alastor look at it...]
Don't.
[And.]
I'd have preferred you not coming here, you know.
[The being - Joshua - speaks.
...Although speak is somewhat generous. It's more a matter of the words sounding in Alastor's head.]
It's kind of rude to come barging into someone's dreams. Even ruder to have me pull you out of that last one.
no subject
[It brings to mind hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades of walking. He's walked practically every inch of the Pride Ring over the past ninety years. His feet have carried him on so many well-worn paths but walking another long, empty, lonely journey is...familiar. And surrounded by the darkness? Isn't that just his life in general?]
[And then there's the black being. His body contorts with the other being, but it doesn't hurt too much. His demonic body is able to twist itself in the most unnatural positions with very little pain if any. Perhaps he'd simply gotten used to it over time, so much so he hardly noticed it.]
[And then he's back...and being scolded.]
I needed dreamwalking practice. If we're going to do something about our mystery broadcaster, I felt it prudent to learn to work on its home turf.
no subject
[It's a quiet sound, one that would suggest thought- as well as an unmistakable, barely concealed, sadness. This dream was nothing new. On the rare occassions he did so, it was always the same thing. These people.
The sadness is nothing new either.
As a being with the sole task of judging, of caring, the sadness never ceased. He's strong enough to carry it, mentally strong enough to compartmentalize it, to use it appropriately.
His discontent is more the fact that Alastor saw.
But.
One by one, the bodies fade.
And he moves toward the center of the room. The differences between he and the demon now should be apparent.
Alastor is hardly as squat as humans are. He's long, lean- almost elegant, actually, but compared to Joshua, at just shy of ten feet tall? His seven feet makes him almost reminiscent of a human. As he approaches the skull, it begins to fade.
And.]
After last time, you're under no allusions of the way out, I trust.
no subject
Must I always be killed to leave these dreams?
[Wait. "Always"? He's only been killed once to leave.]
[He'll ponder that later.]
Besides, I've been practicing. I've managed to leave on my own without resorting to violence.
no subject
Very sharp.
[He keeps his gaze away, turning, eventually, back to the pillars. Perhaps Alastor would note, given his form, that there's a faint shift. Then the mural of the angel, the reaper, and the snake is intact.
The voices then quiet.]
Regardless, it's time you went on your way. I'm not planning on staying here for much longer either.
no subject
[But he can't apologize. No, he's no good at that. So he defaults to his Southern heritage: food.]
Very well. I need to get started on some jambalaya and cornbread anyway!
[He bows at the waist.]
I shall see you back at our little respite then!
no subject
Yet.
It helps that the demon does not call attention to what he has seen with an apology or questions that would not be answered. That he brings up- absurdly- an ongoing cooking project.
As he stands at the skull, it finally fades. And he moves back to the central pillar. Despite what he said, it seems he's staying.]
See you later.
no subject
[It would take a while to whip up a batch of jambalaya and cornbread, giving Yoshiya plenty of time to do whatever it was he needed to do.]