this house so haunted, won't ever let go of me.

[nightmarist]

WHO: Residents of the Meadows & OPEN to visitors
WHERE: The Meadows outside De Chima
WHEN: Throughout October
WHAT: Day-to-day encounters at the magical farm commune.
WARNINGS: Look to the subject headers.
NOTES: This is a mingle/catch-all log. Start your own threads! Tag around!

The Meadows, being a place largely created from magic, has a subtle strangeness to it. From the outside, it could be taken for any old Appalachian farm: scattered barns and stables, a lakeside castle, a roomy wooden farmhouse, a 19th century stone chapel that some hoodlum graffitied. There's evidence that the farm is home to unsupervised teenagers, too, in the donut tracks that mar the grass and the remains of regular bonfires. As long as the monsters are out of sight, everything seems ordinary.

Once inside the farmhouse, however, the odd discrepancies become more apparent. The layout of the rooms doesn't quite match how the house appeared from the outside. There are windows where windows shouldn't be, stairways like vertical mazes to secluded rooms, and views from rooms that look into other worlds entirely. Half of the appliances work without any source of electricity, fresh coffee's always waiting in the pot without anyone having to brew it, and the refrigerator never seems to run out of leftover pizza. Things are simply wrong about the place, for all the cozy warmth of its design.

Comments

the morning after (nsfw-ish)

[nightmarist]

Last night had been eventful, to say the least, and Ronan's paying for it this morning. Walking down the stairs or around the house is altogether out of the question, though his body won't heal if he doesn't spend time in it, so he can't wait out the next several days as a dream, either. He only spares himself the journey from his bedroom to his destination, materializing outside Murphy's door.

Ronan could have gone straight inside, but he values his privacy and respects others' in turn. Instead, he knocks quietly. It's pretty late in the morning, so he doesn't think Murphy's sleeping. It's possible, however, that he's hiding.

"You up?"

[mofi]

Last night was eventful, but not nearly as eventful as Ronan's night.

Murphy had indeed woken up early, a few hours before Ronan knocked on his door. In those few hours, he's cleaned up his room. Picked up all his dirty clothes and put them all into a single pile. He rearranged the items on his desk a few times.

Jerked off. Took a shower. Brushed his teeth.

When Ronan knocks on Murphy's door, he feels his heart stop before surging up into his throat. Murphy doesn't say anything right away, thought about saying nothing at all.

That's dumb, he thinks right away.

"I'm up, " Murphy says, voice small. A few crawling seconds later and Murphy's door opens up. Fully clothed and not looking as though he just woke up.

He hasn't looked Ronan in the eye just yet. Cheeks blush faintly and he can feel them warming up, all the way up to his ears.

"- What's up?"

[nightmarist]

Ronan, who's normally content to wander the house in his sweatpants until required to put on more clothing, happens to be wearing his boxing robe this morning. Possibly, it's because the autumn chill has begun to settle over the farm. Possibly, he needs to hide a few nasty bruises and bite marks.

He notes the blush creeping over Murphy's skin and gets straight to the point: "Do you wanna talk about it?"

[mofi]

The robe is noted and filed away in his memory. Murphy notices the small things, things that some people will overlook. He assumes it's because of the weather, it's autumn now and things are getting a little chilled. It's nothing pressing so Murphy doesn't scrutinize it any more than he has.

However, when Ronan asks him that particular question, his eyes grow wide. He tips his chin, daring to look up at Ronan. "I-" His eyebrows knit together, thinking. "Do you want to talk about it? I mean - it was just a dream. Nothing serious."

Ah, that's why Ronan is here. To Murphy remind him that it was just a dream. Nothing more and nothing less.

[nightmarist]

Ronan looks past Murphy, briefly, at the room which is also just a dream, inside a house made of dreams, on a farm that contains more dreams than anything else. When the Greywaren's involved, there's nothing that's just a dream.

"People get confused," he says, sliding his gaze back to Murphy. "Don't pretend for my sake. If there's something you wanna understand about it, I'd rather you ask. No point in being ashamed when I was right there with you."

early october or backdated mid-late september (open)

[deadthing]

Noah is still trying to work out where he fits—in this world, in his own body and life, and in the home Ronan has made here. He wanders the farmhouse like, well, a ghost. It likely takes a few days following his arrival before anyone (aside from Ronan, or perhaps Kylo) sees him at all. Enough of him to understand that they're seeing a new resident and not a trick of the light or some new bit of dream stuff, that is. But in time he settles in enough to consistently be a solid, living boy.

He can be found:

a) Curled in a cushioned window seat, drowsy but not napping. Noah's relationship with sleep is rather more fraught these days than it was when he was alive the first time. He remembers the joy of sleeping in late on weekends, the ease of it. His dreams back then were bright and colorful and never more upsetting than that old standard, forgot-to-go-to-class-all-semester-and-today-is-the-exam. Now they contain terror and tragedy and bittersweet loss. So no, he isn't planning to drift off here.

He tucks a pillow under one arm and leans toward the window. Breathes on it warmly and draws aimless doodles in the fog. Smudges over the existing shapes with a tight spiral that wipes it all clear and then repeats the process.

b) Sitting on a fence outside, swinging his legs. He scraped his knuckles climbing up here and he's oddly pleased about it. The slight sting, the tiny spot of red, that means he's alive. He may not know what to do with it yet, but he's so very grateful that he is. Noah tips his head back and takes a deep breath, savoring the feeling of air filling his lungs.

When he feels someone nearby, he turns to watch them with mild curiosity.

b

[mofi]

It's hard to make out the person on the fence. Murphy is too far away to see any details of what makes a person. What he does is know that it's not Ronan or Kylo. They're both tall and broad-shouldered. This one, whoever is on the fence, is neither of those things.

As he steps closer, Murphy can see the tufts of blonde curls. He can see the boy is gangly. It is safe to say that Murphy has never seen this person around the farmhouse before now.

How many people live here?

"Hey," Murphy says, trying to sound as cordial as possible.

[deadthing]

Perhaps it's more than mild curiosity in Murphy's case. Noah could never truly mistake him for Ronan—aside from any superficial outward differences, their insides just aren't the same at all—but the resemblance is still uncanny. Noah is staring.

"Um," he says, rendered more inarticulate than usual for a moment, and then, "Hey." Doing great so far. "I'm Noah. Who're you?"

[mofi]

Noah is staring and his gaze feels like it's penetrating directly into Murphy's soul. Murphy looks at Noah pointedly now.

"Murphy," he drawls.

Beyond the fence is a pasture, just acres of grass for animals to graze on. Murphy's attention drifts for a moment, eyes ticking at things over Noah's shoulder before: "You just move here?"

[deadthing]

"Yeah. Sort of." It takes him a while to drag his eyes away from Murphy's face. Seven years of deadness and limited social interaction have left his people skills a little rusty.

"Do you... live here too?"

Looking like that, it would be strange if he didn't.

bee

[crassidy]

When Cassidy's at the Meadows, it's often outside and just as often at night. He's just that odd guy stomping around the woods with no light source and no apparent reason for being there, don't mind him. Other times he's a little more standard, hanging around the house drinking whiskey or finding somewhere to sleep, and just generally getting in the way like the drunken uncle he is.

For once, though, he's out during the day exploring the grounds, a sizeable umbrella slung jauntily over a shoulder and providing him with just enough shade from the sun.

"Nice day for it, eh?" Whatever 'it' is. Fence climbing? Sitting? Breathing?

[deadthing]

It is a nice day for it. Which makes the umbrella somewhat puzzling—like one of them should have checked the weather this morning and now Noah's not sure which of them it is.

In any case, he says, "Yeah. It's wonderful." For being alive. Breathing and climbing and sitting on fences and so much more besides. He's still somewhat skittish with new people - and he doesn't know if Cassidy is a visitor or a roommate - but he's trying. He manages a fleeting smile.

"Are you going anywhere in particular?"

[crassidy]

There's a lot of layers being worn, but also sunglasses? Probably best to just leave this guy to his weird "wrap up warm but bring the summer gear too" fashion.

"Yeah, off to find the unicorn. See if we can't give her a few treats." He pats the pocket of his heavy jacket, grinning softly over at the kid. Any supposed pal of Ronan's is a pal of his, and surely Noah is if he's sitting around the farm.

"Wanna come see? Dunno where the feck it's hidin' right now, but that's half the fun, is it not?"

murphy and hentzau sword fun times

[leatherboots]

There's something strangely slippery about the quality of reality surrounding the Meadows. Every time Rupert tries to peel apart the fabric of reality to make his usual entrance he can't seem to be able to catch it in his fingers. He's experienced this before, this feeling of not being able to quite grasp the edges; it slips through his fingers like oiled silk, again and again, and Rupert eventually settles for tearing his portal beyond the field lines instead.

It's a walk away but it's a nice walk at least.

Wear something you can move in Rupert had advised; he's taking his own medicine today, dressed as he is. Having spent most of his life in and out of riding breeches (not all of them his own) Rupert's found that leggings really are his favourite clothes. If only more occasions called for sword-fighting he might even be able to justify wearing them more often.

With a ridiculously oversized leather sports duffel slung over one shoulder - it's a beast of a bag, very nearly three-quarters of Rupert's height - he saunters up towards the farmhouse. He notes the animals - and that fucking lakeside castle - as he passes and casts an appraising eye over the grounds. It's all very... farmy. One might even say picturesque.

He's nearly fifteen minutes late by the time he walks up but Rupert doesn't seem to be in any hurry at all; he raises his hand in a cheery wave as he spots Murphy.

"Such charming rural idyll," He observes offhandedly; Rupert genuinely does not give a single fuck about rural or idyllic charm, but he understands that most people like that sort of thing. "You have landed on your feet, haven't you?"

[mofi]

Unlike Rupert, Murphy doesn't own any athletic clothing. He wears what he usually does because, to him, it will be adequate enough. Loose shirt, cargo pants, worn-out-boots. The entirety of his wardrobe, pretty much.

Murphy waits outside for Rupert. First, he sits just outside of the door and in the way of people who might be coming in and out. When he's bored of waiting there, he moves onto the grass and keeps himself busy by plucking blades of grass. Periodically, Murphy stops what he's doing to look up. His cheeks puff out when he sighs.

"I always land on my feet," Murphy says, turning his gaze to an approaching Rupert. "What the hell are you wearing?" It looks a little ridiculous, the pants. An extra layer of skin, really.

With his palms digging into the ground, Murphy pushes himself up.

[leatherboots]

"Sounds like jealousy to me," Rupert declares loftily. Equal parts delighted by Murphy's clear disapproval and fuelled by his scorn, Rupert can't resist striking a pose; he takes several deeply exaggerated steps, lunging comically as he approaches instead of walking. The expensive (-ly ridiculous) lycra leggings are more than accommodating as Hentzau lunges his way up to the other boy, smirking all the way.

"I'm not ruining the seat of best jeans for you, John Murphy."

[mofi]

"I can see the outline of your crotch," Murphy points out flippantly. It seems so uncharacteristic of Rupert to act so dopey, just to prove some kind of point to Murphy. It affords Rupert a lopsided smirk on Murphy's face.

"Can you swat people with swords because watch out, your seat might get a swatting." A pause and a quick beat later, "You can ruin my pants."

manic pixie dream girl/pony princess mash up

[leatherboots]

Peeling open a portal into the Meadows is easier tonight for some reason but it's still not quite right. Rather than arriving at the farmhouse proper Rupert finds himself short by a few hundred meters, emerging in a moonlit field instead. It must have rained during the day; the thick, wet smell of it hangs in the air and even in his slightly drunken state Rupert can feel the damp cling of cat grass against his shins, even through his jeans. There's an owl nearby, watching him from somewhere in the tree line; Rupert can feel its needle-sharp alarm on the edge of his thoughts - a bright little watchful bundle of instincts, zoopathically loud and unhappy about Rupert's sudden invasion.

He picks his way unreliably across the field by moonlight, drunk but happily so despite his suspicions about the chaos unfolding in the world at large. He wades on through high grass riddled with clover and vetch, thoroughly soaking himself with every step and hoping that whatever direction he's walking in is towards the house and not away. It's dark, portalling is difficult when drunk, and Rupert isn't entirely sure he knows where he's going. It's unfamiliar territory, more so in the dark. Surely Lynch can meet him the rest of the way? He pauses to dig his device from his pockets, firing off a quick text.

Here I am. Outside somewhere.

[nightmarist]

Ronan is already standing in front of him.

Rupert can't be blamed for missing it. It's nearly impossible for anyone to pinpoint the moment of Ronan's arrival in most situations, even though he's a towering and distinctive figure. He's like an idea, that way. And it's not that he's camouflaged by the darkness, either, because he's accompanied by a cloud of fireflies - or, upon closer inspection, tiny orbs of light that only give the impression of fireflies.

He doesn't say anything. He merely waits to be noticed.

[leatherboots]

On first glance he'd thought the strange fireflies were some trick of the light - what little light there is between the moon and the stars - but no, there's Lynch, standing there as if he'd been there all along. Had he been there all along? God, maybe. It's not like Rupert's brain is entirely trustworthy right now (a fact that probably makes all of this a terrible idea).

"Hell's teeth," he hisses, pressing a hand against his hammering heart. "How long have you been standing there?"

[nightmarist]

Ronan shrugs.

"I'm a figment of imagination, man. You can't expect me to keep track of that shit."

Honestly, Rupert's lucky Ronan didn't just slither right into his brain.

He turns, glancing off across the field, considering their destination. Ronan can't see in the dark, but he knows these fields like the back of his hand. "I guess we should do this in one of the barns," he muses. "Follow me."

for Noah

[nightmarist]

The halls of the farmhouse have an appropriately haunted quality about them. The place is Ronan's home, but it's also a shrine to the departed, a mausoleum characterized by rows of doors now locked because their occupants have gone and will probably never return. The enchantment placed on each lock keeps those tombs sealed indefinitely, preventing invasion by anyone other than the person who belongs there.

So in the middle of leading Noah through a somber tour of the house, Ronan freezes when they encounter a particular door he can't even remember seeing before. And that door is ajar.

His bones were chilled already by Noah's presence, but now his entire spine turns to ice. "This is your room," he utters, not merely naming it as a place of interest like all the other stops on their journey, but realizing it for himself, out loud.

[deadthing]

"My room?" he echoes. There's something meaningful about the way Ronan says it, like it's not merely some spare room he's re-purposing for Noah's use. Noah takes a step toward the cracked-open door, gives it a gentle push. He's not sure what he's expecting to find...

...and no expectation could have prepared him for the reality of that door swinging open on a space that seems to have been made for him. It's the strangest sense of deja vu, like walking into his childhood bedroom after years away—only he's never seen this room or any of its contents before in his life. But it's so clearly his. Looking at it makes him feel more like a ghost than ever.

He tears his eyes away to look at Ronan instead, swallows hard.

[nightmarist]

He's never seen it before, yet he's absolutely certain he's spent countless nights in this room. Ronan can vividly remember the pink sunrise through the window. Losing track of time was possibly a common problem. Soft murmuring in his ear. Hushed laughter. A barely-there weight draped over his chest. Warm blankets and cold skin. Smudges of paint and handfuls of glitter tossed into the air.

Unspent tears burn his eyes, inexplicable as everything else. He looks at Noah. "I'm losing my fucking mind," he says, but he kicks the door open wider and stomps into the forgotten room, regardless.

He loved the person who lived here.

[deadthing]

Noah is used to his memory having gaps—it wasn't the keenest even before he died, and after... only his death remained in absolute clarity, everything else blurred at the edges, faded away. He's used to the sense of forgetting something important. Used to wondering if he's been somewhere - done or said something - before, or if it's just reminding him of something else he can't quite recall. Or simply time being weird.

This is more than that.

He follows after Ronan silently, stepping into the room and breathing in the scent of it. Straining for any recollection, any connection to this place, he traces his fingers over a half-done painting. Picks up some small object, turns it over in his hands, sets it back down. He senses a flicker of recognition in Ronan. Snatches of memory. Nothing rushes back to him, though.

"I don't-" he starts to say and then trails off, tries again. "Was I... here?"

The question is addressed as much to the air, to the room itself, as it is to Ronan.