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]

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.