now that I'm grown, I'm scared of ghosts

[dohaeris]

Who: sansa, various
What: june catchall
When: june, or whenever remina wants
Where: trench, time travel trips, dreams maybe

Content Warnings: in the comment headers, character warnings in app.

[starters in the comments! hit me up on plurk at bitterends if you want one!!]

Comments

Dreaming

[hearthebell]

[Since April, L's been in something of an automatic daze. He's gone through the motions of life, of course, reacting and responding as he should, but there's distance in places it shouldn't be, clandestine closeness in places it sheerly doesn't exist anymore.

He's more subdued and quiet as he drifts from place to place, solves the cases that come into the agency. Resolutely, he keeps his and Light's name on the shingle. He always has an excuse for where his business partner is, and at night he always finds his way to the beach, just to watch, and hope, and wait, and leave disappointed the next morning smelling of salt and seaweed.

It's rare anymore that he finds his way back to the rookery, but it's happened in a roundabout way tonight. Guarded by Lycka, his body is on the sand beneath the stars, but his mind is returning out of habit to the place that is kept for him, whether or not he deserves it through his fixations and follies.

In his dream, the door is locked and he's lost his key. Lost, lost, sings a white raven before flying away.

He swallows. Maybe he can find an unlocked window, but every time his feet leave the ground, he feels lightheaded, weak, and sick.

Probably best, typically, to not sleep on several days of an empty stomach. But his tolerance to the sleeping potions are such that an empty stomach might be the only way they work at all. He looks for a branch to pry at one of the shutters, and fortunately one has a very sturdy, promising shape to it.]

[dohaeris]

[another white raven calls, in a familiar voice, somewhere from the direction of the house.

"You might try knocking first," says winter.

the door opens, letting out a blast of brisk air, not too cold; the scent of sentinel pines, woodsmoke, and baking bread; pale sub-arctic summer sunlight; and sansa dressed in grey linen heavily embroidered with pale purple weirwood leaves, the chatelaine attached to her wide leather belt a jumble of mystical jewels and charms. her hair is braided back simply and caught in a leather tie at the back of her head. she looks a little bemused. behind her the environs of winterfell can be seen, a transparent spectral version of lady playing with some smaller wolves.]

Lazarus?

[she looks out onto the street. the empty version of trench reminding her uncomfortably of riteoir's city.]

Why did you come this way?

[she glances up at the rookery lintel. some part of her is charmed that lazarus would seek out the rookery in dreams, though she's more concerned that he can't seem to make his way in. something must be wrong if he can't get past a simple door with the tools of dreaming, but it does seem to be an entrance to her dreamscape, and that is nothing if not well-guarded.]

You'd better get inside.

[she might be able to imagine him better, or at least a kind of dream medicine, within the bounds of her dreamscape.]