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

[lottawork]

He cannot restrain the instinctive flinch away from the blade but she strikes him with its flat, little more than a slap on the wrist.

He does not tear his eyes away.

"I'd rather die," he says coolly, and he means it.

With the recognition of this circumstance as a dream came with the willing desire to escape from those parts of himself that have offered an unwanted resurgence.

Possibly once he is awake, the memory will fade.

One can only hypothesize.

[etherthief]

She falters.

She doesn't like this. There is something very wrong here. He is familiar and he insists that he knows her and he is not afraid of her and he would rather die.

He means it. She knows that he means it.

She pauses, long and uncertain, before slowly sheathing her blade.

"I will not grant you this," she says. "Somehow I do not believe you deserve it."

She feels extremely uncomfortable right now. Itchy. Overheated. She needs to drink something. More punch will help.

She hesitates, looking at the floor, before back at him. Never has anyone set her at such unease, certainly never a man. What is it about him? Is there some sort of enchantment at work? Bullshit. She knows, regardless, that she needs to get away from him. Suffer the consequences at the Queen's hand for not completing the task. This she can suffer. Standing here under his unbroken, harshly familiar stare, she cannot.

"Please," she says quietly, "do not force my hand."

She turns away slowly, and attempts to reassert her hold over herself as she makes her way back to the Queen.

[andhiswife]

Her heart actually skips a beat when Iman bends to kiss her hand, and she tells herself it's only because it's rare to see such gallantry from a woman. Iman has it in spades, or so it would seem. A flush creeps down the Queen's neck and spreads across her chest as she watches Iman approach the man and draw her sword. It's all terribly dramatic, isn't it?

But it's all wrong, too. She can't hear the conversation clearly, but it's obvious that the man is treating Iman as callously as he did herself, if not more so. This wasn't supposed to happen; he was only meant to leave, not dare Iman to slaughter him. She can see how little appetite Iman has for such drastic measures, and the Queen can't hold that against her. She doesn't know why, when he's behaved so poorly, but the sight of them so close to blows makes her feel sick at heart.

Her hands are shaking. She ordered this.

Iman turns her back on the man, who mercifully chooses that moment to make a swift exit. The Queen releases a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The urge to pull Iman into her arms rises within her: stupid and wholly irrational. She hardly knows the woman and she has to maintain some semblance of order and--and propriety.

She makes an effort to school her expression into something appropriately neutral as Iman reaches her, but she can't quite banish the apology from her eyes, and she doesn't really want to. "The task is done," she says briskly, with a glance towards the now-deserted table. "You have my thanks." She extends a hand, wishing she could offer more than this, more than polite, bland favor. Being a Queen can be uncomfortably stifling at times like these.

[etherthief]

She shrugs, brushing the whole odd encounter off as best she can. The feelings stirred up were... uncomfortable, to say the least, and she has no time for that nonsense just now. Not with a beautiful lady to attend to.

"Odd chap," she says lightly. "But nothing that couldn't be handled." She takes the offered hand, bending to kiss it again, her lips lingering just a few extra moments over the Queen's knuckles - rougher than she'd have expected - before she straightens up again with a slow smile.

"There, now," she says. "Parties are meant to be enjoyed."

[andhiswife]

Iman seems to be recovering herself, which is good to see, and the brush of her lips against her skin does an effective job of banishing any lingering, uneasy thoughts of what's-his-name. The Queen's fingers curl around Iman's without any explicit orders from her brain; she isn't even fully aware that she's kept ahold of the other woman's hand. It would probably be more noticeable to lose it.

"Then I must see to it that you enjoy yourself," she replies, returning the smile. It's the least she can do, after putting Iman in what looked like an uncomfortable position. "Perhaps some refreshments?"

[etherthief]

"Must you," says Iman, straightening up and leaning a little closer. "I'm pretty well refreshed already, I must say. Perhaps a dance? Or would that be dreadfully unseemly."

She steps back without waiting for an answer, drawing the Queen along with her, still with her roguish grin. "Because you should know I am a very unseemly sort."

[andhiswife]

It would be unseemly, provided anyone was paying any particular attention to them. But though the Queen looks around for any disapproving observers, her free hand unsuccessfully trying to hide a grin of horrified delight, she quickly reaches the conclusion that no one's paying any attention to them at all. That doesn't seem quite right, but on the other hand... well, Iman has her other hand, and she's tugging her along with a mischievous smile, and where's the harm, really? Why shouldn't she enjoy herself?

"I suppose this is no more than I deserve for employing a troublemaker," the Queen says as she settles her hand on Iman's shoulder and arches an eyebrow at her. Then, leaning forward until she's only an inch or so from Iman's ear, she playfully requests, "Do be gentle with me."

[etherthief]

"As you request, my lady," says Iman softly, smiling to herself, less roguish now with no one watching. She wraps her free arm around the Queen's waist and guides her into the midst of the dance area, leading her along in time to the music.

There is something distantly familiar about this, something that makes it more - potent of an experience than it necessarily should be. Iman never was one to swoon at royalty. It must be something else - but how important can that be, with this gorgeous tall elegant creature so close and so willing to play?

"Is there something else I might call you?" she says after a moment, eyes darting to her majesty's. "If I may be so bold as to ask."

[andhiswife]

The Queen's eyes narrow incrementally in playful reproach. It's a bold question, but at this point, standing on ceremony seems a bit ludicrous. They're already dancing; she can hardly classify a proper introduction as too personal in comparison.

"I suppose you could call me Greta," she replies at length. "Though not in public," she adds, because that wouldn't do. Certain standards need to be maintained, even among friends.

It seems odd that she would consider Iman a friend, to say nothing of the implication that they'll be doing much conversing in private, but she finds herself disinclined to challenge either assumption. She's almost more concerned with what Iman will make of her name, which never struck her as particularly royal.

[etherthief]

"Greta." Iman smiles, slow and pleased. "How lovely. Just like you."

She holds her a little closer, lacing their fingers together. "In public? Wouldn't dream of it." She takes a step and pivots slightly, leading Greta along. "I assure you, my lady, your royal secrets are quite safe with me."

Been a while since she danced, but it seems to come natural enough, though she's less graceful than the Queen. "I should thank you for doing me the honor," she remarks.

[andhiswife]

She could easily accuse Iman of being far too charming for her own good, but something stays her. Charm, she thinks, is rather like a glaze: nice and delicious but not of much real substance, when all is said and done. Goodness knows why, but she doesn't think Iman is just spinning pretty words to flatter her or earn herself favor. It feels sincere, and--and real.

Iman pulls her closer, and the Queen fancies she can feel the other woman's body heat radiating the little distance between them (though perhaps she's just flushed from the dancing and the punch). Her hand shifts a little from Iman's shoulder as they spin across the floor, ending up closer to her neck - just near enough to curl her finger around a wayward lock of Iman's hair.

It's beginning to feel almost too real. Yet she doesn't want to stop.

"I wasn't always a Queen," she replies, lightly teasing, though there's a faint undercurrent of wistfulness. For the first time in as long as she can remember, she wishes she still wasn't - then, she could do--

What, exactly?

--whatever. Whatever she wanted.