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

Current Music: October 22nd/23rd, 2013

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.]

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If Daine had her druthers - not that she ever expects to, in dreams like this - she might keep the clothes she's wearing, but she'd definitely lose all the paint. The breeches are a bit tight, almost like hose, but at least they're thick enough to be warm in the drafty hallways. Her shirt is sleeveless, though, even if it is pretty - a deep, thunderous grey around the back and fading to a lighter, pearly sheen in the front. Her arms are done up like a player's, painted the same deep grey as her shirt, with subtle highlights giving her skin a pebbly look. The first mirror she passes reveals that her face and neck are painted the same way, and when she carefully cranes her neck around to look behind her, she can see a lightweight, false tail pinned to the back of her breeches.

This is stupid. She's too short to be a basilisk. But it seems the rift has seen fit to dress her like one, anyway. If Tkaa could see her now, he'd probably be speechless.

Daine sighs, then wanders towards the faint strains of music she can hear coming from around a corner. She'll see whatever it is the dream wants to show off so badly. Then, maybe she'll try to find a bathroom where she can scrape some of this paint off. She's certain she'll smudge it horribly even if she tries to be careful.

[[ hello, I stumbled across your rp a while ago and have been thinking of apping ever since. So, mind if I cut in? ]]

The dress she's stuck in - silver, floaty, and completely wrong for her preferences - makes Kate wriggle and stand awkwardly to the side of everyone walking by. She doesn't even notice, until she passes a mirror, that every part of her flesh and hair has been whited out and that her dress is decidely more... ethereal than she realised. The folds of the skirt shimmer in the light until she almost looks like some form of spectral illusion.

A ghost, her brain echoes as she drags her eyes away from the mirror and towards the grand hall that sets the stage for tonight. Fancy - the kind of fancy she's only ever been exposed to when someone needs monitoring as a suspect of some kind of supernatural ability - and completely... and utterly not her.

At the very least, Kate knows this isn't something she's getting paid for, so the urge to hide in the corner and observe peters out, replaced by a notion that drink would be excellent. With an entire table there, filled with food and punch, there's no reason not to indulge.

So she has a glass. And another. And her brain fogs and suddenly the only acceptable idea is to grab a passer-by's glass and float it in mid-air, because - hey - no one can see her, right?

"Boo," she drawls, hoping to see her victim jump with surprise.

It doesn't hit him what he's wearing until he glimpses himself in one of those old-timey full-length mirrors, and his heart thuds in his chest.

Black suit, crisp shirt, and the white mask that's just a little too eerily reminiscent of that thing of his nightmares. He swallows hard, unable to tear his eyes away. Even without the freakish height, the eyeless, smooth, skin-taut face, it's darkly obvious what he's come dressed as.

Great. That's just - that's just great.

Tim breathes out shakily and turns away. It's a dream. It's just a dream, and it's some stupid, spooky old mansion. He sniffs the punch suspiciously in case any of it's spiked - dream or not, alcohol's not a risk he's willing to take. When the scent doesn't burn his nostrils, he pours himself a hefty amount and drains it in one gulp. He's never been a party-goer, as that that would require him having a number of friends greater than two at any one time, but he imagines that if he were, he'd be the designated broody punch-drinker lingering in the back out of everyone's way. Might as well fulfill that social obligation.

"What's this, WHAT'S THIS - what's - oh."

Wheatley blinks at the colorful red-and-gold costume he seems to have been unceremoniously forced into. What sort of bizarre human ritual is this? Why go to all the trouble of painting little robot bits on if you're not going to complete the whole picture and make it an actual robot suit?

The mask is really terribly hot, his breath bouncing back his face - what a horribly poorly-structured mechanism this human business is, honestly - and beads of sweat collecting beneath his untidy mop of dark hair. He yanks the mask off with a gasp that sounds rather like someone resurfacing from near-suffocation and promptly crashes into a nearby table of d'oeuvres. Who put that there? Was this set up specifically to unbalance him? You know, he's starting to suspect it might have been. Humans. They're loud and inconsiderate and smelly - but, he reflects without a trace of irony as he rescues one of the d'oeuvres from the floor and pops it experimentally into his mouth - eating really almost makes the whole inconvenience worth it, almost. Right fantastic cooks, humans can be.

Wheatley's so taken by the taste and texture of the dream-food that he hasn't realized he's left something of a trail of destruction in his wake, having successfully and noisily toppled one of the snack-laden tables without making any motion to clean the whole mess up.

Sunshine has had enough experience with the Rift's idea of appropriate wardrobe choices to figure she's gotten off light this time. The worst she can say about the jeans and sweater she's wearing is that they're boring, matching shades of tawny-beige that would actively repel her if she was out clothes shopping for herself. But it's better than a too-familiar red dress, so, fine, she'll take it. Things could be worse.

Things actually are worse, as she realizes when she catches her reflection in one of the ballroom windows. Her face is made up with kiddie carnival finesse, her nose outlined in black, her cheeks bronzed and speckled with white, and her eyes deeply shadowed. Add the headband with two oval ears attached, and the whole 'deer' thing is pretty hard to miss.

It also feels vaguely insulting, like the Rift is prying into her personal business, but should that really surprise her?

This calls for punch. This calls for all the punch. Sunshine makes a beeline for the nearest snack table, ladles herself a glass, and knocks it back. She can't say it makes her feel better, but the night's still young (probably), so she serves herself another.

There's a tiny red person in the center of the room, toddler-sized and dressed, fittingly enough, with plush wings and a cartoony fanged hood: a miniature dragon.

She's also smoldering, quite literally, curls of steam boiling off her as she makes her displeasure at this entire set-up extremely, extremely palpable.

Almost immediately, Ruby sets off at a sprint, darting effortlessly between legs and threading around anyone in her way, disregarding the presence of nearly everyone else as she belts a single name at the top of her lungs:

"SAPPHIIIIIIIIIIIRE!"

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.

Did somebody say Draco Malfoy?

Probably not, but that can be forgiven, because the brilliant young wizard with the best dance moves in the room is currently dressed as a magnificent centaur. You can tell by the disproportionately tiny horse backside that he has strapped around his waist. Firenze, he thinks, would be proud.

So would Daddy.

Draco is flitting around the room's perimeter when one of his more balletic leaps sends him crashing into another partygoer. Obviously this must be all their fault, since Draco is the epitome of grace. "Clumsy oaf!" he accuses from his new position down on the floor.

Well, this is unexpected. She's apart - they're apart - and in a very strange place, surrounded by humans. She floats a few inches off the floor, drifting past all the taller people who seem absorbed with their own business, searching for Ruby.

After a moment she realizes she's leaving a trail of frost in her wake. Oh, dear. She isn't doing that on purpose, is she? But the cold air is just emanating off her in waves. It's only then that she notices outfit has changed. A fur wrap over her small shoulders, a tall icy crown on her head - she doesn't think she did that.

Something very odd is going on.

She must find Ruby. She floats on doggedly, hoping she doesn't make anyone too cold as she passes.

Iman has wasted no time spiking her punch with a healthy dose of dream tequila. She's into this premise. Fancy costume party. Kinda fun. Weird to be wandering around without her hijab, hair just flowing untamed behind her - she feels a little exposed, but on the other hand, she has a huge plumed hat. And a flashy tunic, and a SWORD. She can dig this.

She stands on the mezzanine level, surveying the crowd below, arms akimbo, one booted foot resting atop a conveniently placed ottoman. What this party needs is some excitement. Some adventure. A dashing rogue to come stir shit up. And look at that, a perfectly good chandelier.

It's a simple feat of muscle memory to hoist herself up on the balcony rail and throw herself into the air, one heavy gloved hand grasping onto the chandelier's edge, letting out a loud whoop as she swings over the room, sword drawn. She uses the momentum to hurl herself over it all, landing loudly on the stairs opposite. Now that's an entrance.

She strides down into the thick of things, looking for someone appropriately impressed by her daring tomfoolery.

Of course it's a house. Why wouldn't it be. It's always a fucking house.

Johnny doesn't want to be around people right now. He can't stand the mingling voices, the clink of the spoon on the punch bowl, the warmth of everyone together in a room.

Besides, it's a costume party, isn't it? He's not in costume. He doesn't fit in. Doesn't fit. Never did. Doesn't belong here. There. Anywhere.

He prowls the outskirts of the house instead. Here it's damp, dark, dusty, unfriendly. This is more like it. That's what he was looking for. What's that word again? Unheimlich.

Safest where it's unsafe. Where he blends into the background.

Nobody should be near him. No one should touch him. He's poison. Sickness. Razor's edge. He'll only hurt you.

He listens to the crisp creak of the floorboards beneath his feet, listens to the draft that has one of the doors rattling open and shut periodically. Makes him jump everytime. Good. Be afraid. He deserves to be afraid.

He's part of this place. Why didn't he see it before? The house - the house - every house. They're part of him, and he, them.

It makes so much sense.

He cuts little paths through inter-connected rooms, each darker and colder than the last. Rusted doorknobs, rotting wood, mirrors shattered and coated with black residue, so he can only see himself through the cracks and gaps. As it should be.

Johnny doesn't have a costume here.

Johnny is himself.

Ianto's been stuffed into a sexy Little Red Riding Hood costume, which is pretty far down on the list of weird things that have happened to him, so he powers through it. It's a fancy dress party, right? It's not that out of place. He had a mate once who dressed up as a sexy cop for Halloween, for a laugh. (Jack. It was Jack.)

He's wandered away from the ballroom to a decrepit library, near enough to hear the music but none of the warmth. He was never much for dancing anyway. He slowly pulls a moldy tome off the shelf, holding its neighbors in place to ward off a dusty domino collapse. He blows the dust off the cover, but the gilded letters are too worn to read. He opens the book with the corner of his cape, a cloud of black moths escape, fluttering up to the ceiling as Ianto drops the book in shock. They settle on the shelves and Ianto watches them in mild horror-slash-curiosity as they bring their wings up and crawl between the gaps between the books. When he picks up the fallen book, the pages are blank.

Edited 2015-11-01 01:33 (UTC)

And the Doctor is there, appearing in a shadowy corner as if by magic. Which is hilarious, considering his costume--cheap, magician, how can fabric even be so shiny? That doesn't warrant more than an eyeroll from him by now. It's not the nightgown, and that's what matters. Rubbish magician is a step up over some of his previous dream attire. And the cape is pretty much the height of fashion. Never turn down an opportunity to wear a cape. Is it possible he's just an MC or some other sort of entertainer? Nope, there's a dove in this pocket. Thankfully not alive. And also not dead, just fake. He re-pockets it, just in case.

The ballroom into which the Doctor has dream-apparated is grandiose, but the candlelight reveals details that are more shabby than elegant. There are huge windows, but the grounds outside them are too dark to inspect carefully, except in the occasional stark flash of lightning. Something is probably going to break through these windows any second, right? Maybe a wolf. Maybe a wolf that breathes fire. The Doctor grins. It's probably the scariest thing in this mansion. "Oh, hello, is this a murder mystery?" he addresses circumstances at large, without any concern for whether or not he has an audience.

He feels the pull of the group dream and lets it bring him in. He's dressed in his normal clothes when he arrives, but as soon at he catches on to the theme he changes into something a little more fun.

Once changed, he starts wandering down the hall and poking his head into rooms.

Sometimes, it can be difficult to distinguish a dream bubble from yet another splendid room in the TARDIS, for a moment anyhow. Such as now, when Calliope finds herself at the bottom of a grandiose staircase, thick carpets and intimidatingly tall pillars all around, a huge shining chandelier above. Though, just what is she doing not on the floor, but balanced atop the railing on a small, ornate pedestal? How did she get up here? And, blimey, what is she holding in her hands? Her... claws, actually, oh. All at once, Calliope is both delighted and troubled to realize she must be asleep - she loves to dream, but she does not love being forced to wear her true appearance, to put it kindly.

At least this sort of accounts for the queer devices she is holding; a golden arrow with a wee heart at the tip, and a corresponding bow. Looking down at her admittedly quite pretty white and golden gown, she's surprised again to have yellow curly hair dangling in front of her eyes, a wig if there ever was one but better than a bald skull any day. The shiny halo attached to her wig by a thin thread of wire is too light for her to notice, but there appears to be something rather heavy on her back. Craning her neck, she discovers two elaborate white fluffy wings. Now that is... inappropriate, almost; she never did earn her wings, lost any rights to them along with her life. It brings about a familiar twisting feeling in her stomach, the one she gets when she's reminded of her old home and her vile brother and the responsibility she's been dodging. This fanciful getup is not as splendid as it might seem.

But before she has time to consider ripping off the wings, she's distracted by the cheerful sounds of music and laughter drifting over, and large doors opening and closing. Oh shoot, she's terribly exposed up here, why didn't she think of this sooner? Anyone might come in and be horrified at the sight of her! She quickly tosses the bow and arrow to the ground and clambers after them. Not wanting to leave a trace, she picks them up before heading off to find a place to hide and regroup. Though her sneaking about is rather hampered by the fact that her bare claws keep getting caught in the bloody carpet.

This dream seems pleasant enough from the outside to be worth investigating, so the TARDIS follows the tug of the telepathic current until she manifests in a cozy little alcove off a grand ballroom (no match for her own on a good day, though). The somewhat severe looking blue dress and cap she appears in isn't what she'd had in mind, but besides the mild vexation of having her psychic avatar's appearance manipulated, it doesn't seem immediately offensive, so she lets it slide. This is apparently supposed to be a costume party, anyway. Perhaps Ianto could throw one in celebration of those human Halloween festivities and she could show the guests a real grand ballroom.

The TARDIS goes on her way amongst the party-goers, letting their enjoyment trickle against her awareness, critically regarding the ostentatious trappings of the location, and looking for snacks or familiar minds, in that order.

Peter's looking a bit Roman tonight (though the sandals are surprisingly comfortable, all things considered). Actually, he's looking a little biblical tonight thanks to the neatly folded white wings strapped to his back that he hasn't quite realized will unfold should he pull on the cords dangling from their base.

He hasn't made a drunken nuisance of himself yet, too busy checking out the decor -- though he does, of course, possess a glass of punch liberally spiked from a convenient hip flask that does not at all align with the general spirit of his costume. He's not particularly impressed with the Rift for dressing him as an angel, but at least he's a sexy angel. He'd be a sexy anything, but he'll sure as hell take angel over that time it turned him into a dream vampire. He turns to glance at something across the room, not noticing that he's about to hit someone with one of his wings.

Edited 2015-11-01 20:05 (UTC)

Ecks stands staring at herself in a full-length mirror at one end of the ballroom. Gone are her weapons, which is...regrettable. Dangerous, in such an unfamiliar place, though there is no overt sign of danger as yet and she at least remains confident in her ability to dodge or flee any attacker. Her stitches remain, though her skin is all over green as if she got halfway through imitating Mazon's appearance, and try as she might she can't make the change in the mind's eye to smooth it out. She doesn't mind the color itself, but it is troubling to find herself unable to use the young psion's gift to her so soon after receiving it.

What she can't figure out is why there should be bolts attached to her neck, or why her armor has been changed out for a black suit with impractically heavy boots. The bolts serve no purpose that she can observe, and they do not seem to be attached any deeper than at skin level.

"I don't get it," she finally admits out loud to no one in particular. Then, looking down, she adds somewhat resentfully, "And I don't like these boots."

~~Nhodd~~ Rashad is an angel of Heaven, an ancient and ~~powerful~~ formerly powerful being of righteous Order and now one of the few beings in this mortal city working to bring peace and organization to its microcosm. He is above such petty human things as vain concern for dignity, as he is inherently dignified at all times, but he is still fairly certain that the pink jacket and matching sweatpants in which he finds himself are an affront unto him and unto Heaven. He can currently be found skulking at the edge of the party, hood down and shoulders hunched as he scowls at passersby.

Edited 2015-11-01 20:46 (UTC)

The Balladeer knows right away this is a dream, because he would never choose a costume like this.

It is a bit ironically fitting; he tugs away the black hood obscuring his face and studies the scythe in his hands with an incredulous snort. "Funny. Veeeery funny." It feels too heavy to be plastic, and suddenly he's not quite willing to test the blade. Maybe he should just keep this with him. He doesn't want just anyone running around with it.

Anyway, it'd be rude to clutter up the party! He's never been to a costume party before! The costume choice isn't enough to put him off, and he merrily wades into the ballroom, careful to avoid smacking anybody with the scythe tucked under his arm. There's dancing! And punch! This should be a fun dream!

"...Hang on, that's not right." A waist-high blue and white pony stands tapping at the red, hand-shaped gem set into the necklace he's wearing (one might note that it matches the handprint marking on his butt). With a sigh he lets it alone and looks around at the mostly human crowd, only to be distracted again as he realizes he's not entirely naked apart from the necklace -- there's a papier mache horn on his forehead, and wings made of wire and feathers strapped to his back. Neither matches his coloring quite right. "Riiiight," he says once he's worked out what's on him.

Not where he meant to go. Not what he meant to look like when he go there. "Weird," he concludes, then shrugs. He'll get there when he gets there, but now he has a party to check out. He'll just be trotting among the people, craning his necks to check out their costumes. "Nice -- not sure what that is -- ooh, that's a good one...."

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kate galloway. oc. open obvs.

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