A Time to Rise and a Time to Fall [Open to Multiple]

[andhiswife]

Greta dreams of falling (again, and again).

The path ends abruptly. Maybe there never was a path, only a deceptive stretch of ground, free of any undergrowth, that looked like it could be one. Either way, she's left standing on the edge of a sheer cliff, looking down at the leaf-strewn forest floor far below her. A small rock tumbles down, as if for the sole purpose of illustrating the length of the drop. It seems to take ages to reach the bottom, clattering off exposed roots and finally thudding to the ground.

There's a roaring in her ears like a great wind, but it isn't the wind. The earth shudders beneath her feet. She reaches out wildly for something on which to steady herself, knowing even as she does so that she'll miss; she always misses, it's so stupid. Maybe she deserves whatever comes next.

But she doesn't miss. Her hand closes around something - not a branch. An arm? Whatever it is, she isn't letting go.


[ooc: whoops, Greta's dropped into your dream. Or you've dropped into hers. Whether you want them both to be in her giant-plagued forest or in a setting more familiar to your character is up to you. Poor Greta's just gonna have to roll with it either way.]

Comments

[lottawork]

The most inconvenient aspect of willfully continued wakefulness is the inevitable collapse that follows. Blinks become agonizing stretches of time lost with escalating frequency until sheer overwhelming exhaustion overtakes Rush's mind and brings it to infuriating stillness.

Or not, as it were.

He groans his frustration immediately upon opening his eyes, sprawled as he is over densely carpeted leaves and fingers digging into loose-packed dirt. Spatial inconsistency indicates the dream's nature. Causality is a linear beast.

Rush rights himself, brushing scattered leaves from his shoulders and knees. Forceful waking is an art he has not yet mastered, unfortunately, so any attempts to generate the ideal output will be rooted in the disappointing, intellectually lazy practice of trial and error, reset and resolve. He pushes hair from his eyes wearily, preparing to better evaluate the environment of trees and gloom his mind has stranded him in, when something lands beside him with a muffled thump and seizes his arm.

"Fuck off!" he snaps out of mindless impulse, and unsuccessfully attempts to tear away in an effort that simply brings him crashing back to the ground.

[i_jones]

"Steady on," Ianto says, a little surprised - he definitely did not dream up a somewhat frantic woman - but generally reassuring as he puts his hand over hers, reflexively supporting her. In dreams, he doesn't need his cane, and he can hold up Greta just fine without its aid, which is probably the only upside to dreaming. (Downsides include being in the dreaming again.) He glances at the canyon below, looking mildly impressed by its depth and general ominousness. "Nasty drop."

[johnny_truant]

It's sheer reflex that causes Johnny to grip the hand that grabs him. Good thing he does, too, staring wide-eyed at the steep drop. No fucking thank you. He pulls the woman back, steadying her, steadying himself even as the ground rumbles slightly. Earthquake? He's lived through plenty of those.

No forests like this in LA, though. Being in a forest again is unsettling. He remembers Eliot's dream last night all too clearly, and though that was a very different kind of forest, it's still not something he wants to look at again so soon in any shape or style. He focuses on his companion instead. He doesn't know her. She looks flustered, and who wouldn't be.

"Hey," he says. "It's okay. We're dreaming."

Funny, how much he's been reassuring people like this lately. Usually right before something horrible happens.

and now for something completely different

[singthesong]

"Woah! Careful!" The Balladeer catches at Greta's arm, pulling her back upright and away from the edge of the wooden platform they're now standing on. "You don't wanna fall off there, that's a bit of a drop." There's no sign of a forest anywhere; this is a drab, fenced-in clearing behind a tall stately building. Beyond, a city is visible. It's not anywhere near the scale of New York, but it certainly still dwarfs the village. The sun is beating down on them, but the few men moving about the yard below them are still dressed formally, all in black despite the sweltering summer heat.

The Balladeer himself has a different instrument slung over his back, and seems unconcerned with the fact that they're both literally standing at the gallows. There's no noose hung up yet, but they would definitely be in the way if someone came up here.

Give him a minute, and he'll realize the incongruity of Greta being here at all.