what does your future and a gang of crows have in common?

[restingstitchface]

WHO: Crane and YOU.
WHERE: In the land of dreams and sleep.
WHEN: The month of June.
WHAT: Bad dreams and night terrors.
WARNINGS: None currently.

[The dreams are raw and unfinished when he first drops by. Albeit as thirteen black crows that perch on lawns and branches, walls and streetlights; in some minds nesting in trees; in others flocking together.

Each day he learns more about the dreamer's favored archetypes; more about their psyche; more about their attitudes. But there are nights when he takes on forms that elicit strong emotional responses from the mind. Their fears, their homicidal impulses, the antithesis of what they show everyone else. He wants to understand what drives them. To seek power and control his own powerlessness.

So he scatters himself to the corners of their dreams.

Explores as far as he can fly and rides along as a passenger.

And that's why the eerie calling of crows now begets something ominous. It's one thing to have nightmares voluntarily. But it's totally another to have them come without invitation. All in all, the longer the birds remain, the more the dream becomes surreal - and turns much more unpleasant.]

OOC:

Just PM or plurk me with a head's up.
Then feel free to tag in with a custom starter!
& check Crane's permissions if you do.

Comments

6/4

[wizzardly]

[Rincewind rarely rests peacefully. His sleep pattern is erratic and troubled on the best of nights, catching a few hours here, awaking with a start (and often a scream) and then moving about, perhaps having a drink, trying again, and repeating the process nearer to dawn. Before moving into the Ludgate-Graham house he had a certain psychiatrist's sedative to grant a blissfully full six to seven hours, but complications arose and Rincewind relies these days on a prescribed soporific instead - when he hasn't somehow lost the bottle, that is, which is unfortunately often.

The subjects of the wizard's night terrors often seem the result of some nightmarish roulette game, impossible to predict with so very many materials to draw from. Perhaps falling off the edge of the world will have center stage tonight? The empty sockets of Trymon's eyes when the Things found their way inside his head? Bel-Shamharoth's tentacles dragging him inexorably into its waiting pit? The various blades held too close to his body during various captures, the rolling mountain of the ancient, mad troll's foot about to crush his body, the blazing heat of Ankh-Morpork burning around him, closing circles of soldiers and fanatics, Death's sickle slicing the air, plummeting from terrible heights, fleeing through Hell, facing the twisted monstrosities of the Dungeon Dimensions while the portal closed forever behind him...

And those are only the ones from home; more recently, new players have begun to join the nightmare troupe of Rincewind's stressed and shaking psyche.

Tonight, however, begins with the revival of an old classic: Rincewind inside the darkness of the Octavo, trapped among the Eight Great Spells sealed within its pages, where it seems no matter where he runs there is only blackness and the rustle of parchment...

...or are those feathers?]

[restingstitchface]

[Well, Rincewind is at last a veritable chocolate box of terror.

He takes the wide-ranging selection as a good sign. Nothing frightens him so much as the thought of boredom - having nothing to occupy his mind, no work, no books.

Nothing to investigate makes him bored, it seems.

He raises his crow's head to look around the darkness; and finds it impossible to decide whether it would be amusing or despairing to have light burst forth. Then he drops his gaze from the dream. Meets Rincewind's eyes.]

Stuck?

[A talking crow, yes. Look at it not helping you. Isn't it an asshole?]

[wizzardly]

[the wizard skinny hands feel around at the air before him, whimpering, tripping over nothing. Every attempt to run gets him no closer or further to anything. The total absence of existence - bill, that's what Eric called it, he's surrounded by absolute bill.

He startles at the voice, has a brief moment where he questions why a crow would be in the Octavo, and then dream-logic takes hold. Rincewind tugs anxiously on the brim of his hat, waving a hand up at the bird like he can shoo it away.]

Of course I'm stuck! I'm in the spell book of the Creator, there's nowhere to go! It's only me and these bloody Spells, and the book is chained in the deepest parts of the University, there's nowhere to run to! I'll - I'll be here forever if I don't find a way out!

[working himself further into a panic isn't going to help Rincewind escape any quicker, but since when has that ever mattered?]

[restingstitchface]

[The crow clucks its beak at every exclamation, laughing, finding pleasure in Rincewind's suffering. His constant attempts at running are only worsening the problem. Rincewind's arm scatters it away, but then it flies to the tip of his hat and perches there, maddeningly out of reach.]

Ah. [It tilts it's head.] I take it you're not enjoying your stay, then?

[wizzardly]

What was your first clue?

[frustrated, Rincewind spins in place, then tries to give his hat a few shakes, but to no avail.]

If - if you aren't going to be helpful, you bloody feather duster, then just flap off, will you?

[pushtheboundaries]

[he's used to nightmares. it's a weary resignation, but he's used to them by now, and doesn't so much accept as endure them. so when his surroundings are mostly rubble and ash, destroyed projects and exposition halls and buildings, and he has the distant sensation of unreality that is as unimportant as it is far away from coherent thought?

all it means is that he doesn't pay too much attention to the rubble as he moves through it. no, he never got a good look at a few of these in particular. yes, this is mostly imagination spawned from what photos he had seen, and considering that it sort of meshes other areas - there's something from Krei tech, there's something from the woods outside of De Chima where he had constructed Phoenix - is it any wonder he's not dwelling too much on it all?

it is what it is.

the threats of falling off, something rolling over to collapse, something springing out? he's aware of them, and he's on edge, but if anything, he's not afraid so much as tired of being afraid.]

[restingstitchface]

[There are some minds Crane wants to explore as himself. A couple where he wants to make eye contact, and to address people on a professional basis - and to hear his name proper.

He arches his back and flexes his hands. It's almost cute, how much Callaghan tries to pull himself together, how he tries to act better than he is by not rolling over to collapse and die. And that self-control is something he can appreciate. It reflects his own so well, he thinks, as he slides his fingers together.]

Ah, professor. It's good to see you again.

[pushtheboundaries]

[he's kneeling next to - something - when he heards the voice. he recognizes it, of course; it's hard not to. but it's a few long seconds (hours? dream-time is strange) before he responds, without even bothering to look or straighten up.]

Jonathan. Odd place for you.

[restingstitchface]

[Jonathan Crane.

All manner of expressions try to appear on his face at that, as if something inside him is unwilling to bid the thought. But he decides against it and puts all his energy and sanity into appearing normal. His mask falls before his emotions can form.]

Right. And why would that be?

[pushtheboundaries]

[nope. just Jonathan. there's certainly something in Callaghan that recognizes how much of a threat he is, can be, won't ever stop being - but he's not going to give him that. not now.

he finally looks over, briefly pressing his lips together in a frown]

Why are you here?

[112ounces]

[ Heropa stands no more. The trees loom and buildings slowly crumble. That's the life that Carl almost misses, where it is the most familiar to him. Cars rusting away, the signs slowly covered by moss and dust and grime. He sees the ice cream parlor where a car is smashed in, the body of the driver skeletal and rotting, snapping its jaws in Carl's direction. The crows' bellows is no different from home - he has seen crows going through the meat of the dead.

This is Carl's world now.

He's home. ]

[restingstitchface]

[Home is where the heart is.

It's more than a building, really. It's safety and security. Having one's needs met. A family. Without saying a word, Crane changes into the rotting image of Carl's father. He isn't unfamiliar with this savage world - he has spoken enough to Carl to know the sights and sounds. He relishes the thought of looking like this. Finds it satisfying that Carl's mind is unwillingly giving him so much to work with.

And in all honesty? It's his curiosity making him take this form to seek the young lad out.

Or to hunt him down. His definition of it would differ to Carl's.]

[112ounces]

[ Carl takes a knife - where did it come from, is it his own or one he taken from the dead? - to take out the walker driver, when he sees movement. He turns and forgets about the walker.

Dad.

No. No no not Dad, he's alive, he's back at -

Carl looks back at the street, where Xavier's is. Where's Enid and Daryl? He looks back at Dad, the man he failed to protect. Again.

He pulls out a gun - where did it came from, the living or the dead? - he aims it at Dad. It's his father. His father! No one can put him down. It has to be Carl. ]

[restingstitchface]

[Then Carl's father appears to be normal, just like that. Without bloodshot eyes or a shoddy gait, it seems, as he walks a little closer. He looks back at the walker driving the car. Fascinating.]

What are you aiming at, Carl?

[In one moment he's from the living. But he's from the world of the dead in the next. Tricky.]

[112ounces]

[ Wait. What.

Carl lowers his gun confusion. ]

I . . .

[ He looks back down the street, all empty and weeds growing between the cracks. ]

I thought for a second . . .

[ He looks back at Dad. He's alive. He's not dead. They need to keep moving. ]

We need to get back to the others.

06.06

[sleight_of_hand]

[ Adachi had weird, erratic dreams. Most of them had been barren landscapes, where most of the time the detective himself wasn't even present; a complete Emptiness that seemed to engulf his entire World. But that Monday night was different. ]

Adachi-san?

[ This time around, it was a brilliant day, in some stereotypical countryside; birds were chirping, kids were playing in a small park he was passing by, an elderly woman was making her way down a set of stairs so she could stand on the shore of a sparkling river, ect. Adachi seemed to barely pay attention to it, more preoccupied with looking down at the little girl by his side, her small hand wrapped around a couple of his fingers. ]

Yeah, Nanako-chan?

Why do you seem so happy today?

[ Adachi let out a faint chuckle at that, rubbing at the back of his neck. ]

Ah, well... I quit my job today.

[ That was right... he had done that earlier, during the real daytime, hadn't he? Weird that finally cutting that annoyance out of his life helped him sleep a little better, dream of things that weren't horror landscapes and death. Though he did feel a little bad about the shocked gasp that Nanako let out. ]

But won't dad be lonely?

[ He couldn't help but chuckle at that, glancing up as he heard the sound of crows. It didn't bother him so much; crows were pretty normal to see around in Inaba, though they usually kept near the shrine, not so much near the Samegawa River. ]

Well, I think he'd understand.

[restingstitchface]

[He is surprised to find himself in a dream that's starting so pleasantly. Adachi looks almost normal as he interacts with Nanako. Not out of consideration or concern, but perhaps because she stops him feeling lonely. It's a complicated relationship.

That's why he slips inside her image and borrows it for a second.]

Um, if you say so...

[There's nothing more heartbreaking than a child doubting their own father. Not that his has ever been around to get that treatment.]

[sleight_of_hand]

[ A carefree smile came to Adachi's face at that, and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. ]

Ehhh...? Nanako-chan, are you doubting your dad?

[ He chuckled softly. ]

I won't ever stop being a detective. I just... can't do it the same way he does. So, I'm pretty sure he'd understand that.

[restingstitchface]

[There's a plainative sigh.

Crane plays on Nanako's anxiety, and makes it so she says nothing for a while - and rocks on her feet without squeezing Adachi's hand in return.]

I guess so... but I don't think he's coming home again anytime soon...

[sleight_of_hand]

Hunh?

[ Was it possible to feel cold chills while you were dreaming? Because Adachi definitely felt one just then. Was his dream starting to pull on his unease about Dojima suddenly appearing and then disappearing? Not cool, dream. Not cool. ]

Why would you say that?

[hisheartsdesire]

[Despite being a creature of the night, Toby tends to wake at the sound of things going bump. Not ordinary things, of course, but rather the sorts of things that put people on edge. However, at any other time—and especially when the going is real good—he sleeps like the dead.

Tonight is one of those nights days when things are more or less right in Toby's world, and so he's in quite the deep slumber. His dream isn't much different from usual, a mishmash of different times and places coming together as if they're all meant to exist as one.

Going by his surroundings, Toby appears to be in or around Cape Canaveral, but dream logic seems to dictate he's in Whitby. Passersby with hoverboards skate on by, and yet people are done up like they aren't sure which era they belong in. Some from as early on as the Georgian Era, when Ivor had first turned Toby into this... creature, this monster he has become.]

[restingstitchface]

[There he is.

There he is. Acting like he's still in his own world, in a calm, cool and collected stupor. Behaving like there's nothing to fear from these passersby: all of them wearing anachronistic clothing that identifies them as a group, he notes. All of them representing one thing Toby needs to fear.

Being hunted. Given what he is, there's plenty of things he has to fear from humanity. He could appear as Ivor - whoever that is - or slip into something more comfortable. Dorian would certainly give a reaction to analyse. Though there's something primal about being hunted down.

And that's exactly what's going to happen. Salt. Garlic. Holy water. Religion. Traditional tools for a traditional monster. Fortunately, he can take any form he likes. So when it rains, the heavens pour open in a literal sense... holy water, Crane might call it. His little joke.]

[hisheartsdesire]

[As if on cue, Toby pauses to glance skyward at the silence of heaven letting loose before hearing the distinct sound of rainfall. Then, it's like his hackles go up because he could feel the difference between it and normal rain before the droplets even hit him.

So he makes a fast break, seeking out cover as holy water begins to shower him. Each drop that hits seems ordinary at first, but soon produces a stinging and singeing sensation. Misting over him, it might be more tolerable, but Toby feels himself slowing with every step, and it won't be long before he's completely incapacitated.

He manages to take cover beneath the eaves of a building before he finally slumps, leaning against the glass of a storefront and squinting in confusion at the burning rain. Still, people continue to skate or walk on by, as though nothing is wrong with the world. It seems as if Toby is the only one feeling troubled.

Then he hears a familiar voice, one he hasn't heard in a long while.]

Tobias. How careless, getting lost in the rain like this.

[Almost immediately, Toby turns to the sound and sees Abduxel standing beside him, hidden beneath the same set of eaves. His eyes widen in surprise.]

Abdu—Matthew. [Toby straightens up, tries to collect himself. Though he tries to relax, there's a tension in his body language because he can't ever let his guard down in the demon's presence.] It's been a while...

Did you miss me?

Can't say that I have. [It's a lie. Toby's feelings about Abduxel have always been conflicted, and even now he can't help the simultaneous relief and dread that he feels toward the other man.]

[restingstitchface]

Pity.

[Almost immediately, Crane slips into Abduxel's image, and he wears it well, having spent hours in his undelightful company before now. He straightens himself and works the cricks out of his neck.]

You don't write. You don't call. It doesn't take effort to pick up the phone, yeah? [Unless you're phobic or something.] Are you avoiding me?

[hisheartsdesire]

I thought you disappeared. Again. [A pause.] Sorry.

Did you visit Dorian already?

[Because that sounds like something the demon would do just to get under his skin. Visit Dorian, talk about how pleasant their reunion was in more ways than one. Ugh.]