The House was Awake with Shadows and Monsters [Open to All]

[applesaucemod]

This might not be the first time a given dreamer has found themselves at a fancy party in a large mansion, and dressed in something they wouldn't typically wear. If the architecture is more gothic than usual, well, that could just be a coincidence… but it's probably no coincidence that the dreamers are all wearing Halloween costumes that they decidedly did not pick themselves. 'Tis the season! They might look fancy, they might look slapdash; either way, it shouldn't be too difficult for the dreamers to figure out who - or what - they're supposed to be.

The evening's festivities are centered around a grand ballroom. Music is emanating from somewhere or other, and numerous chandeliers are aglow with warm candlelight. Tables line the perimeter, and they're piled with seasonal snacks and bowls of punch. If dancing isn't your thing, there's a whole mansion and extensive grounds to explore.

Those who venture forth will notice that the farther they wander from the party, the less friendly things seem. Tidy rooms with fires in the hearths will give way to dark, dusty corridors and neglected spaces. Manicured lawns grow into tangled hedges. As the music fades out of earshot, the house's settling groans and the hiss of the wind through the ivy will be impossible to ignore.

(It was just the house, wasn't it? Sure it was. It was probably your own footsteps that made that floorboard creak, too. And that rustle on the other side of the hedge was just a rabbit.)

All things considered, it might be more comfortable to just stay in the ballroom, where it's warm and cheerful and there are plenty of snacks. A note about the snacks, though: the dreamers will find that the more punch they consume, the more their own identities seem to fade away in favor of a persona more in line with their costumes. A dreamer dressed as a tiger might find themselves inclined to hide behind a curtain and pounce on passersby. A dreamer dressed as a mummy might adopt a stiff-legged gait and dole out a curse or two. A dreamer dressed as a robot might start speaking binary.

At least no one will actually turn into anything. That would just be embarrassing.

The good news is that eating any of the available food will counteract the punch's effects, so it's possible to have a fine time and still keep ahold of yourself. But what's the fun in that?


[ooc: the usual dream party rules apply. All are welcome, whether they've been apped to the game or not. Characters can remember or forget the events of the dream at the players' discretion. Any punch-drinking dreamers will take on the personality characteristics - and potentially the magical/supernatural capabilities - of whatever or whoever they're dressed as, though their physical appearance will remain the same.]

Comments

[andhiswife]

Another dream, another stranger's home. This one is grander than usual, and not a little imposing on top of that; the walls seem to frown down at her in the gloomy semi-dark. Greta presses her palms to her skirt as she looks behind her, half convinced she heard something farther down the hall. But she sees nothing, and the feel of the fabric beneath her fingertips is an instant distraction. She finds herself looking down at her dress, instead - gawping, really, because she's never seen anything so fine as this, let alone worn it. The closest she'd ever been to something like this was when she ran into the soon-to-be Princess in the Woods.

There's another unpleasant groan from the hallway behind her. Just the house settling, she thinks, but Greta hustles away from the sound, anyway, listening to the click of her heels against the wooden floor and wondering if her slippers are as pure as gold. Her skirts - the skirts, this isn't hers - are too voluminous for her to check, which is probably just as well.

Her steps slow as she nears what sounds like some sort of large gathering, her eyes drawn to the warm light spilling out into the hallway. It sounds like a party - the desperately fancy kind - and it pulls at her even as she inwardly protests the absurdity of it all. As if she has any right or reason to be here. This isn't a free-for-all in the TARDIS; there was no invitation, cryptic or otherwise. She'd be trespassing. She'd probably make a fool of herself.

Greta turns her back to the doorway, as if it won't tempt her if she just doesn't look at it. The move only serves to bring her face-to-face with her own reflection in a high, arched window, and she can't help gasping. It's not just the dress: there are strings of pearls around her neck, and her hair is done up in some kind of elegant twist with a few artfully stray curls.

She could almost be a Princess. She could almost be a Queen.

She tears her eyes away from herself - she has to, this is getting ridiculous - and instead finds a reflected slice of the ballroom's bright, bustling interior. She could just take a quick peek. Couldn't she? She might not actually have any business here, but she must blend in - at least enough to look before she makes her necessary escape.

She probably shouldn't.

Greta shifts uncertainly from one foot to the other, and lets out a sound somewhere between a considering hum and an agonized whine.

This is terrible.

[lottawork]

"You seem rather lost," remarks a voice that may strike her as familiar, subtly amused.

Between his fervency to get as incredibly fucking smashed as immediately possible, there had been the sensation of some sort of vague struggle taking place at the epicenter of himself, a desperate, wild, frantic energy to tear loose from whatever influence has begun to take root. Far too soon, the struggling had subsided. The scrabbling, frenetic power of the man he was, is, will become - syntax has begun to grow unbearably slippery, in his mind - had been almost intolerable. Upon its decision to subside, he feels - steadier, cleaner.

Better.

"Nervous?" He steps forward so he is standing beside her, hands in pockets, pose relaxed. Something scratches at the posterior of his mind, that this woman should strike him as familiar. He smiles without a hint of irony. "I wouldn't be."

Possibly it is the fact that tonight Rush resembles who he once was that has caused his sense of self to suffer accordingly.

[andhiswife]

The voice startles her, but its familiarity registers in almost the same instant, and Greta relaxes a little. It's just Rush. He won't be here to throw her out - or, even worse, have a good laugh at her expense. She turns her head to look at him, taking in his unusually relaxed posture and easy smile, and wonders for an unsettling moment whether she's wrong about that last. It's not like him to be so kind - at least not to someone who hasn't earned it. Greta might be terribly embarrassed, but she isn't in a state.

No. She's being unfair. It wouldn't be like Rush to tease her, either.

"Of course you wouldn't," she says with a wry, tentative smile. He looks nicer than usual, but not as if he's trying to worm his way into a drastically different social class. Add that to the fact that he's all but professionally indifferent to what others might think of him, and it's no surprise that he'd have nothing to worry about. "You look nice." Just nice is the implication, as opposed to her ostentatious finery.

[lottawork]

A faint frown nestles over his features. Her response would indicate some measure of familiarity with him, personally, but he's reasonably certain he hasn't seen this woman before now, though something about her does strike him as uniquely familiar. It's not anything that would remind him of Gloria - her dark hair, dark eyes, her period-style dress all contradict such a notion.

He allows the oddity to drift aside.

He inclines his head evenly. "As do you. I doubt anyone would be critical should you choose to enter. It is a costumed sort of gathering." His eyes are dawn to the light, the soft auburn glow limning the doorway.

"Here." He opens a hand, the invitation implicit. "I've a mind to be ruthlessly critical to whoever it is who thinks this discord constitutes as music."

[andhiswife]

Greta purses her lips in playful recrimination at the compliment, because honestly, but Rush's mild explanation and outstretched hand are enough to snuff out her good humor. She might be persuaded to believe that he's feeling exceptionally charitable towards her for some reason, but inviting her to take his hand is too far beyond the call of duty. If he had no choice, if things were desperate... he might allow it then, begrudgingly and with ill grace. But not--never like this.

The faint memory of another person who looked like Rush but wasn't rises to the surface, and Greta takes an uncertain step backwards. "I--who are you?" she asks, far too bluntly. She can feel her cheeks coloring, because whoever he is, he doesn't deserve her snapping at him. But the question is out, now, and she's too unnerved to apologize.

[lottawork]

Her familiarity fades into unease in an abrupt transition that leaves him confused. Nicholas lets the hand drop and steps back, his expression arranging itself into one of wary neutrality.

"Dr. Nicholas Rush," he says in as calm and introductory a tone as he has available to him. "I don't think we've met."

The vague prickle in the corners of his memory would indicate otherwise. He disregards the encroaching abnormalities. Straining to access those distant areas would be, some dark instinct insists quietly, antithetical to his present state.

[andhiswife]

Wait, what? Greta's shoulders drop, and she stares at him in open bewilderment. So he is Rush, but he doesn't think they've met? "Wh--" she starts, at a loss, before pausing and making a visible effort to collect herself. There must be some sort of explanation. She just needs to root it out.

"I'm sorry," she says first, because now he's looking at her as if she's the one who's gone mad. "We have met, but... perhaps you don't remember?" she hazards. She could joke that she doesn't normally dress anything like this, but it's not as if she's unrecognizable, so that can't be it. "I'm Greta," she adds, in case that jostles something loose.

[lottawork]

There is something about her that is truly, achingly familiar. The accent is a shade too redolent of Gloria's, though her startled anxiety runs counter to that association.

"Haven't the faintest," he admits dryly. "Possibly you've read something. I'm a mathematician."

He looks back to the open doorway, to the varied assemblage. Upon secondary inspection, he finds that he recognizes next to no one within.

"If you don't mind, I happen to be looking for someone," he says with a faint impatient twist to his tone. "If you're not planning to enter, I'd rather not waste my time."

[andhiswife]

This is bizarre. Not just that, it's almost... well, it hurts a little, the tandem realizations that it truly is Rush being so nice to her, but that he hasn't any idea who she is. Not that she's seen him be all that nice to anyone else - except Iman, when things were as bad as they could be. He's brusque with everyone, almost always.

It's still hard not to take it personally, seeing him dredge up such nice manners for her now that she's a stranger to him.

But it isn't personal. Something's wrong with him; he's lost his memories or something. He's not himself, or not the Rush she knows, and she doesn't want him just wandering off. Someone should keep an eye on him.

"Who were you looking for?" she asks, taking a few steps forward. "I--I might be able to help."

[lottawork]

He starts walking at a pace halfway between a stride and a saunter, apparently entirely at ease.

"My wife," he says simply. "Short, blonde hair. Possibly wearing a mask of some kind." It would not be beyond her. Presumably this is some sort of function relating to those involved in the mathematical intelligentsia. It's dubious he would attend a social gathering for any other reason.

He scrutinizes the scatter of people in the central room but a swift appraising look pinpoints no one matching Gloria's description. He disregards the tingle of unease chasing his spine, the sensation of wrongness that seems like it should be synonymous with her very name.

He shakes the feeling aside. He can think of no reason to worry.

[andhiswife]

Greta's steps falter, and it's all she can do not to stare, not to gape. He's married? She was stunned that he'd consented to share his space with a dog; she never would have imagined he had a wife.

When did he lose her? Was it before the Rift took him, or...?

It's none of her business. No matter how much she might ache with sympathy, no matter how free he is with this information, she's certain that her Rush wouldn't want her to know any of this. Does Iman even know? Greta swallows, head ducked as she schools her expression into something neutral. What else can she do but play along? She isn't about to tell him the woman probably isn't here. She can't calmly explain that the Rush she knows has no wife, that he's so prickly and guarded that he'd never voluntarily make mention of her, and that he'd probably be furious at having this aspect of his life laid bare. Would this Rush even believe her? What good would it do, even if he did?

Against her better judgment, unable to help herself, she finds herself asking, "What's her name?"

[lottawork]

The stumble in her step and her subsequent alarm does not go unmissed. He keeps her in his periphery without facing her directly. Something contained within that answer startled or otherwise unsettled her, though the specifics remain somewhat beyond him.

He keeps his tone neutral, as if such obvious things were entirely beyond the scope of his notice. "Gloria."

He waves an equivocal hand in the direction of the tables stretched out throughout the room.

"Our gracious host has something against alcohol, it seems," Nicholas says wryly. He thinks he might have intended to drink himself into a state in which he could be beyond the state of caring, but the assertion seems far too vague to have been a recent idea.

[andhiswife]

It's a beautiful name, and she wishes she didn't know it. Why did she ask? Maybe Rush will forget this, too, but she knows better than to trust to luck. If he does remember, he'll resent her for prying, for taking advantage of how forthcoming he is right now, and how easy he's made it for her. She hums in acknowledgment of his bland commentary about the punch, but she knows she can't just keep up a light conversation with him. This is wrong.

She has to tell him something. Not about his wife - she won't touch that subject again if she can avoid it - but if there's the smallest chance he'll remember this, she has to put an end to it.

"Rush," she begins, forcing herself to turn and face him directly, "this might sound mad, but you ought to know..." she hesitates; he ought to know a whole slew of things, so many it's hard to know where to begin. "I think, perhaps, you've forgotten some things." She watches him carefully, hoping for recognition, expecting scorn. "I think you've forgotten... quite a lot, actually. Like me, for example; we've known each other for months. We're in Manhattan. We're both friends with Iman Asadi. Does any of that sound familiar?"

[singthesong]

As the evening wears on, Greta might start to notice a tall dark-cloaked figure watching her through the crowds.

There's nothing visible of his actual features; the black hood covers his face, and he's wearing black gloves with carefully-stitched white bone patterns on his hands. These are folded carefully around the handle of a tall, wicked-looking scythe. That's...probably just a prop, right? Something to sell the costume?

He's always just standing still and looking at her when she sees him. Never moving. But he does seem to be getting closer.

[andhiswife]

Greta's helped herself to enough of the hors d'oeuvres to no longer be laboring under the embarrassing delusion that this is her party. 'Embarrassment' seems to be the official mood of the evening, now. She pried into Rush's private affairs before being terribly cold with him. And Iman... she can't even think about it.

But she can't bring herself to leave the bright safety of the ballroom for the chilly corridors outside, either, so she lingers near one of the walls and debates the relative wisdom of drinking more punch when she's fully aware of what it will do to her. It might be nice to go back to that warm certainty that things were as they ought to be, even though they weren't.

The eerie sight of a hooded, scythe-bearing figure apparently watching her puts even that vague wish to rest. All the punch in the room wouldn't be enough for her to not recognize Death when she sees it, and she straightens away from the wall with a tight frown. Why would anyone dress like that? And why would they be interested in her? Is this some sort of--of cruel joke?

Greta sets down her plate and starts across the room, no real plan in mind aside from putting more distance between herself and whoever is beneath that frightful get-up.

[singthesong]

She's running away.

Well, of course she is. Deep down, the idea that no one is ever pleased to see him does ring true. He follows, cutting through the crowd with the cold determination of someone on a mission (of course it has nothing to do with his carrying a giant weapon and being terrifying). She is unnatural. Her heart still beats, but it should have stopped long ago; he knows this with certainty. It doesn't matter how it happened. He must simply correct it.

He doesn't take any pleasure in hunting her down like this. He doesn't really take pleasure in anything. It is just the way things must be.

[andhiswife]

He's following her. Oh, no. The crowd just parts to let him through, and though a few partygoers give the figure uneasy looks, none of them seem the least bit curious as to where he's going or who he's after. No one follows his implicit gaze and looks to her. No one attempts to stop him.

She's probably no safer here than she would be if she fled the ballroom. She could scream, make a scene, but would anyone step in if she did? There's no sign of Iman or the Balladeer, or even Rush (though goodness knows if he'd be feeling at all charitable towards her after their last encounter). And while she doubts this is anything more than a confused dreamer who's had far too much punch, he's still wielding an enormous weapon. She doesn't want anyone getting hurt on her account, even just in a dream.

It's just a dream. She's died in one before. Maybe she should just let it happen.

No. No, no, no.

She skirts a step or two up the grand staircase, craning her neck to look for anyone she might recognize, before the figure's proximity sends her scurrying back into the crowd and towards the opposite wall.

[singthesong]

Is she looking around for help? That...well, it doesn't give him any actual pause, but he turns it over in his head as he follows after her. Something in the idea catches at his mind. Who could possibly help her now? There are people who would, he thinks, who'd step between her and Death itself, but he doesn't actually know her. How could he know that?

Maybe someone's going to challenge him to a game. Yes, that sounds right. That's definitely a thing that happens.

She can't do it herself though, and there don't appear to be any champions stepping forth. His cloak swirls about his booted feet as he picks up his pace.

[andhiswife]

Greta glances back at the figure, tall and imposing enough that he's having no trouble closing the distance between them.

What if it's really Him? Would that be any less likely than the rest of it? Who does she know who could possibly stand up to Death itself?

She ducks behind some snack tables, and the hysterical urge to just start chucking food at the figure in the hopes that a few crumbs might make it into his mouth takes her, but she doubts it would be enough. And now she's cornered, and even though she knows this would be a terrible time for Iman to show up, she still, selfishly, wishes she would. Maybe she's even within earshot, but Greta doesn't want her impotent cry for help to be the last Iman hears from her until morning.

But there was someone else she could call--the memory strikes her suddenly, and she shuts her eyes as her back hits the wall. Gabriel, she thinks--prays--desperately. Please help.

[has_a_horn]

What was that about champions? Because Gabriel is here. Wearing tight leather and munching on a chocolate chip cookie. He focuses in on Greta first, then follows her gaze to the dark figure heading towards them.

He takes a startled step back and the cookie disappears, but his surprise doesn't last for long. Back home, Death is one of the only figures that could really, truly scare him. But this isn't death. This is a strange man in a cloak. Theres something a little bit off about him, but if this was Death, the power would be radiating off of him in waves.

He situates himself between Greta and the cloak. "What the fuck, man?"

[singthesong]

Well, he's certainly Death as far as he's concerned.

The sudden appearance of an interloper draws him up short. He doesn't want collateral damage. He just does his job, he doesn't go around killing people. The cloaked figure gives no response to Gabriel's question. It's hard to read any kind of emotion in his posture, but he doesn't seem intimidated. Just confused.

At least until he reaches out to try and determine just what he's dealing with. His grip tightens noticeably on the scythe, and somewhere wrapped in black a forgotten part of himself quails. That's too big, that's loud and bright and not for him. He can't -

- shut it out.

Fine, he's immortal. They should have no quarrel. The cloak shifts slightly as he looks past the newcomer to the woman. Look, he's only trying to do his job here.

[andhiswife]

Oh, thank goodness. Gabriel's here, and he's looking a bit ridiculous, but at least he doesn't look intimidated. Greta curls her arms around herself, digging her fingertips into the rich fabric of her gown, and edges as much behind the angel as she can without letting the cloaked figure out of her sight.

"I don't know who it is," she explains, wishing her voice would quaver a bit less. "They've just been following me, with--with that." She nods at the scythe, which scares her rather more than the cloak does. It doesn't look much like a prop.

[has_a_horn]

"Don't worry about that," he says to Greta. "It's just an outdated metaphor." He reaches out and takes the scythe from the hooded figure. It's easy enough to let it slip from the man's grasp. This is a dreamscape, and he has the control here.

"I grant you it has style, though."He looks up at the curved blade, but only briefly. He wants to keep himself between Greta and the figure. "Can't really look ominous on a combine harvester."

[singthesong]

What.

What.

What is this.

He makes a grab for the scythe, but misses and rocks back uncertainly on his heels. Even without listening in, he's got an instinct that he doesn't want to challenge this one too far. Besides, he doesn't fight people. No one tries; no one can. Should it even be possible for someone to just take that from him?

This is making his head hurt. He can't quite wrap his mind around it. Something is wrong. Abruptly, he holds out his hand. Getting the scythe back will make things better. Give it back.

[andhiswife]

Greta's not entirely following (what's a combine harvester?), but the casual air with which Gabriel takes the scythe is reassuring. Without that weapon in hand, the cloaked figure looks a great deal less intimidating. Their evident bewilderment helps, too. All traces of their former, chilly resolve are gone, now, replaced by uncertainty and even petulance. The way they thrust their hand out, they might just as easily be a child demanding a biscuit.

Her spine straightens, and her hands shift to her hips. She has officially had enough with being terrified. If the figure wasn't still significantly taller than she was, she'd be tempted to dart forward and snatch that dratted hood right off of their head.

"I think someone's had too much of the punch," she says dryly. "It's been making people forget themselves." She's inclined to be forgiving - goodness knows she had a few too many, and she can't even say she refrained from menacing people while she was under the influence (though she carried her mischief out by proxy). But if anyone ought to stay in their right mind under these circumstances, it's someone kitted out as Death.