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

photo gothic halloween party_zpshzlnzwra.jpg

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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Something really weird is going on. He feels like maybe he knew what, at some point, but then everything started to regress, like it's become inconsequential. It's all something of a blur.

He drains his glass and looks over to her as he strains to remember who she is to Tim. To the liar. Did she know him? They were friends, weren't they?

Friends. Funny, how the liar should know better than to form such things.

He smiles and nods to her once. The instinct to reply verbally feels strangely secondary at this moment.

Oh. She pulls back slightly, looking more carefully now. This isn't just odd, it's wrong. Tim's not Tim, or he's becoming less Tim by the moment. But she feels that in herself, too. It's terrifying. How can she grasp the situation when she can't even grasp herself?

She trembles slightly and then straightens herself up. Be still.

"Tim," she says slowly. "Are you still there?"

It's like his other self, but not like that either. And she doesn't even have an other self. Why are so many dreams making her forget herself lately?

Are you a good witch or a bad witch she wants to ask, and says nothing.

Him? He's always here. Doesn't she know that by now?

His their his head tips to one side with slow deliberation as he they we consider the question further.

There.

They we it does not make any motion to step closer, but they he they glide forward between eyeblinks, close close close close and it will be close enough to wrap fingers around the little thing's neck and pull it taut.

They it has a mouth now and we use it to smile.

A scream gets swallowed up in a gasp and she pushes away, forces herself to push, he is gone, there is something else now taking him over, and she needs to run, run, get away get away right now. He is powerful, and her own strength is not enough to outpace him, but she has more than that, she realizes, and with a frantic wave of her wand she vanishes into a bright pink bubble and drifts away, somewhere far away, to someone else.

She left him. She left him behind.

She had no choice.

She is not a very good witch.

The punch lost its flavor almost immediately. Everything lost flavor. Color. Everything is muffled now. Scent and sound is all that's left - the odor of bodies, the pounding of blood. He's hungry, but none of this food serves.

His eyes are glassy as he scans the room, dragging himself slowly, shamblingly along. His body is delicate, barely holding its dead self together, but he is determined. He has to feed.

Something snaps at his attention.

The girl who has vanished into the air was familiar, as is the man left behind, or is it a man, it smells right, but it's not - there is something else there.

Something tugs at him. More powerfully than the tug of Hunger.

He moves toward it, saying nothing (the dead do not remember speech), breathing slow.

It is a pathetically human reaction to simply run and hide when no other option presents itself. They it turns away in apparent boredom, to face something that is familiar but then is not.

If it were a thing that would smile, it would have done so. Satisfaction roils off it like an unholy stench.

What a lost little thing this broken puppet is. In the moments between its steps forward, he they have shifted from standing before it to looming behind.

He shifts, slowly, his steps stuttering to a swaying halt. It is behind him. It is always just behind him.

He bristles but there is no reason to attack. This thing is not for eating. It may feed him, but not like that.

He lets out a soft grunt and turns slowly. Odd that he doesn't have to look up. He feels like he should have to look up.

He it they tilt their head to one side with dispassionate curiosity. This little wretched tool is not much more than a disappointment. Odd, intriguing, but ultimately, scraped clean of anything useful or immediate.

There is nothing left in its head but a pulpy mass of flesh devoid of all but one single driving instinct.

It extends a tendril of its consciousness to pierce the cut-string puppet's, coldly. If it can offer nothing they he will watch it break.

Jay's body rocks forward, arching unnaturally, like he's being pulled on a string. He lets out a strained, deathly gasp as the tug becomes a push instead, tearing into his extremely limited self-awareness, shredding it down to nothing. He sinks down to his knees immediately, no breath even to cough, staring dead and still at nothing. There is no hunger now. There is nothing. There was so little left and that little bit is rubbed out now, leaving only a shell to be filled.

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

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