Between the Roots and Branches [Open to All]

[applesaucemod]

Don't worry, dreamers of Manhattan. There will be no humiliating episodes of sudden-onset-clumsiness tonight - at least, nothing more severe than what you might experience naturally. Your physical and mental faculties will be left perfectly intact. What a treat! And what luck, because if you do lose your footing, it's a long way down to the forest floor.

But hey, who wants to be on the boring old ground when there are so many wonderful treehouses to explore? There are dozens of them spread throughout the surrounding forest, connected by a series of bridges and catwalks (some, admittedly, a bit more stable than others). It's easy to forget - or fail to notice - that there really is no easy or conventional way down to the ground when you're surrounded by such splendor.

The houses' styles range from charming and rustic to modern and sleek, with many falling somewhere in between. There are viewing platforms for bird-watching or simply taking in the scenery (trees, mostly, though if you venture high enough, you'll be treated the sight of the forest canopy stretched across a valley far below). But the insides of the treehouses are comfortably furnished to varying degrees as well, so there's no need to immerse yourself in nature if you'd really rather not. Some are complete houses in their own right, with all the amenities of a Manhattan apartment and then some.

Go for a climb, or kick back and relax. The only enemies you'll find here are other dreamers... and, potentially, gravity.

Comments

[peacefulexplorer]

Historically, Daniel hasn't been fond of heights.

He is especially not fond of them now.

There's a house, solidly situated several feet from him and supported by several gracefully arching branches, indisputably well-constructed and ordinary-looking, if only he could take the steps necessary to shift himself along the thick bough he's found himself on and propel himself to that relative safety.

The sole thing separating him from a terrifyingly steep drop is this gently creaking, swaying limb, and this is not a good thought for Daniel to be having right now. His grip tightens on the wood. He's going to scoot along his branch and get into that house and everything is going to be okay.

Any minute now.

[powerdealer]

Oh, great. Because Seth's just had the best of luck with unconventional city locations. The last time led to his brutal death by falling, and now the Dreaming is putting him dozens of feet above ground? Fan-fucking-tastic.

At least he can appreciate the openness of the location - no oppressive, enclosing structures that feel like they're about to suffocate him. And fear of heights doesn't rank very high on his list of phobias, though one could argue it's a bit too airy.

Still. He finds himself in a decently sturdy structure, so for right now he's not going to tempt fate. He's just going to wait here in this tiny semi-open cottage of a treehouse, and hope someone will come to him first, before he gets too bored.

[postictal]

No. Nope. No.

Cozy little cabins are okay. Weird houses where everything keeps breaking? Less okay, but doable. This? Not okay. Not in any way okay. At all.

It's not the houses that bother him. It's not the fact that they are so very, very high off the ground and one look out the window is a bit vertigo-inducing, but that's fine because Tim has a stomach for that sort of thing and it's never bothered him before, that's perfectly fine and all right and normal.

No, that's fine. He's okay with that. He is. That's not what's got him worried. Not the houses or the heights or any of it.

It's the goddamn trees.

Tim doesn't dare smoke in any of these obviously wooden houses, not even outside on the viewing decks - however subtly and darkly and unthinkably he's tempted to drop his lighter down off one of the bridges and watch the whole thing go up in flames, and that's an instinct that rings a little too unnervingly Kralie-esque for him to be set on examining and being altogether comfortable with, like, at all - so instead he settles for ducking into an orblike little house that makes him feel intensely, claustrophobically, uncomfortably like some sort of Christmas ornament or a piece of particularly overripe low-hanging fruit.

It's not a pleasant sensation.

The interior creaks and rattles with every step. The boards are ashen. But no one else seems to be around, and that's usually a good sign. Usually. In Tim's case, anyway. He sits down carefully in the center of the floor, crosses his legs, hopes the floorboards won't give way, and, with a trembling, dread-saturated instinct - pulls out his lighter and fixes it with a wondering look.

The thoughts urging him to flick it on don't feel entirely his own.

[biscuit_powered]

"Can you see anything?" That'll be a tiefling shouting up into the branches from the porch of a sizable (and surprisingly luxurious) treehouse. Something is scuttling about on the roof, sending leaves and twigs raining down over the edge, and a shrill whistle echoes in reply. "Hey, I didn't tell you to go up there!" protests Asmodia, attention still focused upward.

[wildmage_daine]

Well, this is different. Daine's never seen dwellings like these, and she can't quite decide if she loves the fact that they're up in the trees or worries over the fact that they're attached to the trees in ways that might not be the healthiest thing in the world for the trees in question.

Regardless, she wants to see everything, and she's not going to let her two-legger shape slow her down or confine her to the bridges of dubious strength. Sometimes she flutters between the branches in the small, speckled form of a starling, or her heavier crow shape. Sometimes she's an ermine or a cat, scampering along a wooden railing or poking her whiskers into a cushion-strewn interior loft. But she's far more interested in covering ground than being stealthy, and she won't be difficult to spot.

[insectreflection]

Tara probably doesn't know just how lucky she is to have her first dream party be this nice.

She's sitting in the middle of a sturdy rope bridge, her legs dangling over the edge, arms leaning one of the lower rungs of rope. There's enough ropes that she's not in danger of falling off, and the bridge itself seems to be proper craftsmanship, as safe as can be. She's far enough down that it's almost dark, most of the sunlight blocked by the leaves above her.

The setting makes it impossible to resist doing some magic, and for some reason it feels safe enough to do so here. So she makes several little tinkerbell lights in various colours, then sits there watching them dance around the foliage, smiling to herself.

[driftseeker]

The sprawl of greenery is jarring and unfamiliar, so incredibly isolated from the industrial grays and browns and oxidized coppers of the Shatterdome. The branches remind Mako fleetingly of the snaking pipes that chased the corridors with their flecked, alloyed steel, but the careful brush of a fingertip rewards her with something inherently, gratifyingly organic.

She smiles, ensnared in silent rapture.

Free of the toxic, vibrant Kaiju blues and the dour gray-black cast that always hung perpetually over the city, Mako climbs. She shoots up one of the great trunks with whip-like precision, hand over hand, darting nimbly from bough to limb as she tests each sturdy, supple handhold, and it takes no time at all to reach the top of one mammoth of a tree where she crouches, triumphant, to stare at the wind-rustled treetops with a hungry curiosity. She sears the memory of the colors and textures into her mind, so different and disparate they are from what she's come to expect of her life; the brilliant spectrum of greens and browns, the clear air, and the thick, roughened bark beneath her fingers are all surveyed with melancholy-tinged reverence.

A breeze hisses through the upper leaves, tossing up her hair. She drinks it in with a deep, slow breath - and laughs.

[omnomnom_feels]

You know who doesn't appreciate the gorgeous views? This asshole. He's also not the slightest bit afraid; he knows the exact extent of his own reflexes and balance and exactly where he is capable of walking without facing an unacceptable risk of a fall. With no particular reason to go anywhere and no particular way to feel about any of this, though, Rashad is just wandering slowly from one platform to another, idly keeping an eye out for living things.

[all_the_gifts]

Melanie knows this is a dream, and that she's therefore safe to be around. But it might not be safe to be seen, not with ROMAC sending people after her in the waking world. It would be best, she decides, to try and just stay out of everyone's way.

She doesn't have that much experience climbing trees, but she's light and strong and not afraid of falling. Besides, she doesn't think anyone else will be inclined to take to the trees, which makes them that much safer. They're an avenue for birds and animals and her, not humans who might want to catch her.

That being said, it's hard to completely vanish when you're a pale, blonde child wearing pastel hues, and it's hard to hide from trafficked areas when they're everywhere. So she's settled for heading upwards, into branches so thin that even her weight is enough to make them bend. And there she perches, thirty feet above an observation deck, her arms wrapped around the trunk of a shaggy hemlock and her feet braced against its branches. It's a nice view from here, and she guesses most of the people on the observation deck will be looking out, not up.

[andhiswife]

To a casual observer, Greta appears to just be taking in the view from the broad porch that encircles the little, pod-shaped treehouse. One hand is wrapped around an elbowed branch - anyone could be forgiven for wanting to steady themselves, with the railing so low and the drop so considerable - but it's a nice view, well worth some contemplation, provided you don't look down.

Greta looked down three minutes ago, and she's been standing stock-still ever since. Her hand is starting to cramp from gripping the branch with white-knuckled desperation, but she can't let go. Not again. Each subtle shift of the planking below her feet seems to reverberate with the intensity of a giant's footfall, threatening to send her over the edge of the inconsequential railing and tumbling into the void. Leaves are already showing her the way, little brown-gold fluttering things, and it's only a matter of time, this is what happens, this is what always happens.

Her hand slips over the bark, no more than a hair's-breadth, but she still lets out a tiny squeak of alarm.

[fucking_ebay]

"Fuck." The tree supporting this little crow's nest is nowhere near as thick as Peter thinks a tree with any kind of structure ought to be -- not that he's spent a lot of time thinking about how to build a really good treehouse, but someone should have been thinking about it before they tacked some boards in a circle around the titchiest fucking tree in the forest and then stuck Peter on there. The railing doesn't even go all the way around, and he' not about to climb down the 'ladder' of boards nailed to the trunk when the whole damn thing sways every time he moves. A rope bridge to a sturdier refuge is only about eight feet below him, but it might as well be at the depths of the ocean for all the good it does him.

[johnny_truant]

Johnny doesn't remember the last time he felt truly comfortable in a dream.

He doesn't know what it is about this one - it's all trees and houses, both things that almost never make friendly appearances in his dreams, but somehow this time they're combined to comfort.

He drifts immediately to the edge of a platform, grips onto the railing, gazing out over the treetops, enjoying the feel of breeze across his skin.

He's needed this.

He lets his focus drift. If anyone should approach him they might catch him unawares.

[singthesong]

This time around, the Balladeer is fairly quick to catch on to the dream-like nature of his surroundings. Causality here isn't really such that he could just wake up in a treehouse for no reason.

That doesn't change how neat this is, though! Central Park is essentially the closest thing to nature he's ever had a chance to experience. Technically he's maybe not really experiencing this now, but it's close enough. The house in which he awakens is small, with wooden furniture and red drapery, but he abandons it quickly to wander the criss-crossing network of buildings and catwalks, mostly ignoring the houses to gaze up at the canopy of leaves blocking out the sky.

Some of the bridges sway more than others under his weight, but he's surefooted and confident in his movements. Eventually, in fact, he finds a small treehouse with a sloped roof dappled in sunlight and scales the outer wall to rest on top, hands folded behind his head, and watch the movements of birds and small animals in the branches above.

[howverydareyou]

Amid the gentle rustling of leaves and branches there is a distant noise. It sounds like "HHHHHHRRRRRRRHHHHHHHHHH"

"HIGH," screams the Earl of Lemongrab. He clings to his tree, noodle appendages wrapped around the whole entire trunk. "VERY HIGH! VERY HIGH UP. UNACCEPTABLE!!!"

"HELLO," he shrills to any who can hear (or who will listen since hearing isn't entirely optional). "HELLO SOMEBODY. I AM IN NEED OF ASSISTANNNNNNNNNNNHHHHHHHHHCE!"

And so on.

[soft_robot]

Do robots dream of electric sheep? Apparently not. Baymax is seated placidly on the porch of one of the houses, blinking as he idles and listens for sounds of pain or distress.

"Hello," he says to passersby. "I am Baymax."

[deadeyedchild]

For a minute he thinks he's falling - for a minute he almost does. Awareness comes with him already pointing downward, lurching, skinny body folded halfway over a railing. All he can see are trees obscuring the distant ground; orientation comes with a shock and he jerks backwards, landing on his ass, scrambling away from the edge.

"Fucking christ," he whispers, and then looks around.

He's on a platform which is altogether too exposed for his tastes. He sees a little hut - some kind of overwrought treehouse - not too far away from where he is now. Connected by a rickety looking bridge.

Well, it's that or sit here like an idiot.

He creeps toward the unsafe looking walkway, jittery and paranoid, forcing himself to look ahead. Fixate on the hut. Don't look down.

He's halfway across the bridge when it shakes unnervingly and he utterly fails this plan, crumbling to his hands and knees, staring numbly through the boards.

Oh god. Oh fuck.

He can't move.

[peeta_mellark]

Having found himself in a house in the tallest tree he's ever seen, Peeta takes stock of the situation. There's some thin fog down below that - assisted by foliage - obscures the ground, thereby making it impossible to determine just how high up he is. Various walkways and bridges stretch out from the house he is in - some to platforms or houses on other trees, some disappearing into the surrounding greenery. There's a gentle stillness to the air, as if it is simply waiting for the next breeze, and he can hear birdsong.

He's dreaming. Months of shared dreams have helped him to more quickly recognize the feeling, one that's overlaid with a sense of calm and peacefulness this time.

Peeta pours himself a drink - a sweet wine, from the smell of it - lowers himself into a chair on the house's wraparound porch, and relaxes. If he has to be here, he's going to make the best out of this good dream.