Tim W█████ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
postictal) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
applesaucedream2015-08-12 10:13 am
postictal) wrote in applesaucedream2015-08-12 10:13 am
deeper and deeper we go, where there is no light [open to multiple]
[Takes place after the events here.]
They drift without purchase and run without purpose.
Something is missing.
They are not whole. But they are and they must be; they can see themselves, they can hear the warped susurrus of their thoughts as they run without running, spun and torn from the body that is not theirs, except for the times where it is.
But where is it. Where are they.
It is too dark and they run, sluicing through forest and trees, searching for the splash of red on brown and black that is their friend, or even the slash of black and the pale glow of white that would denote the thing that follows them, the thing that they hate. But there is nothing. Simply black, endless, a formless landscape stitched over the murmur of a ragged-torn mind. Trees loom, jagged. Always those burned-black sheathes of wood and leaves, stretching ever upward, obscuring all light, branches to sky.
They run in a blur of gray and white and black, their form ashen, their face bright and smooth, dark eyes staring.
There is something ahead.
There is something ahead, and they slam into it, feral and frantic and afraid.
L̙͖̦̫ͩͬͦ̏̀o̸͕͇̒ͨͦ̉o̰̺̠̳̮̤͗͑ͯ́k͖̯̑̏̔̇͂ͬ̉ ̷͈̉͆́̋̇̓̊b̋̃͒ͬ̅ͯ͆ë̗̩̖̺̹̎͐͒̓̿̈h̘͂ͦ̄̍̄̐͆i͙̳̤͛̌ͥͧ̈́̃n̖̠d̯̺̥̗ͪ́̆ ̯̺͈̟ͫ͆̈̃ͫ̏̇ỹ̹̣͙̂ͪ̅͟o̗̯̟̗u̬͉̼̼͓͇͑͢ͅ
[ooc: Tim's other self has currently been detached from his body and is now roaming about the dreamspace - mostly in the interest of avoiding the cats, who are curious as to what they're about. They'll come into your dreams. They'll come into anyone's dreams. Or you might end up in theirs. It's up to you, really. They're not likely to be pleased about it either way.]
They drift without purchase and run without purpose.
Something is missing.
They are not whole. But they are and they must be; they can see themselves, they can hear the warped susurrus of their thoughts as they run without running, spun and torn from the body that is not theirs, except for the times where it is.
But where is it. Where are they.
It is too dark and they run, sluicing through forest and trees, searching for the splash of red on brown and black that is their friend, or even the slash of black and the pale glow of white that would denote the thing that follows them, the thing that they hate. But there is nothing. Simply black, endless, a formless landscape stitched over the murmur of a ragged-torn mind. Trees loom, jagged. Always those burned-black sheathes of wood and leaves, stretching ever upward, obscuring all light, branches to sky.
They run in a blur of gray and white and black, their form ashen, their face bright and smooth, dark eyes staring.
There is something ahead.
There is something ahead, and they slam into it, feral and frantic and afraid.
L̙͖̦̫ͩͬͦ̏̀o̸͕͇̒ͨͦ̉o̰̺̠̳̮̤͗͑ͯ́k͖̯̑̏̔̇͂ͬ̉ ̷͈̉͆́̋̇̓̊b̋̃͒ͬ̅ͯ͆ë̗̩̖̺̹̎͐͒̓̿̈h̘͂ͦ̄̍̄̐͆i͙̳̤͛̌ͥͧ̈́̃n̖̠d̯̺̥̗ͪ́̆ ̯̺͈̟ͫ͆̈̃ͫ̏̇ỹ̹̣͙̂ͪ̅͟o̗̯̟̗u̬͉̼̼͓͇͑͢ͅ
[ooc: Tim's other self has currently been detached from his body and is now roaming about the dreamspace - mostly in the interest of avoiding the cats, who are curious as to what they're about. They'll come into your dreams. They'll come into anyone's dreams. Or you might end up in theirs. It's up to you, really. They're not likely to be pleased about it either way.]
no subject
It is an ugly death, for how clean it is. That's always how it is with this spell. There's no scream this time, only the twitching of a dying body. She's glad, as she always is, that she can't see what her
victimattacker sees. Asmodia lets herself breathe a sigh of relief when the body stops moving; she remains trapped on this hellish demiplane but she can allow herself the luxury of a moment of relief, can't she?Except....
Cold dread twists in her gut and she doesn't even know why at first, only that something is wrong as it can be. It's not until she looks up from the dead body that she sees -- something looking back at her. The wispy shape that formed at her command a moment ago is forming again now and she knows full well what it is but still can't look away, can't convince herself that it's hers to dismiss when it forms into something she doesn't even recognize. This isn't right, that isn't her fear before her. It's not Asmodeus that reaches for her but something primally wrong with arms that outstretch --
"No --!!" The cry is choked off, unfinished as the dream spirals away to nothing in the absence of its dreamer.