I'd go back in time and change it, but I can't

[reddosmod]

DECEMBER 2021 EVENT

Hello! We are trying a new style of event this December with archival-like entries that characters can ICly find in the Archives. This should allow characters to be able to plan against certain events that occur in-game and do research ahead of time, during the event, or after the fact.

The idea is that these prompts will provide you with all the possibilities characters could theoretically face from the prompt. We hope this leaves more open-ended opportunities for people to engage with. Anything mentioned in the excerpts could be an experience characters encounter. You can always ask for clarification on any prompt on the plotting page.

This is a way to keep all event prompts relevant since new characters would be able to "read up" on these events/excerpts by visiting the Archives or other such resources for information about past events and what they can anticipate from the setting.

We hope this new style makes sense and is fun for players to work with! They will rely on players creating more of the atmosphere than the prompts, but we think that the prompts will provide the perfect guidance as to what the atmosphere should feel like. Enjoy!

IMAGE DESCRIPTORS IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE
Prompt One
[Image One: Holiday themed antler decoration.]
[Image Two: White stag with perfect, circular antlers with bits of ice attached.]

Prompt Two
[Image One: Sculpture of white rabbit with neck caught in a snare. Non-graphic.]
[Image Two: Person in red cloak and wolf mask turning around.]

Prompt Three
[Image One: Puppet making bloody snow angel in snow.]
[Image Two: Bloodied hands wrapped in bandages clenching.]

[NAVIGATION]

Prompt 1 • Prompt 2 • Prompt 3 • Plotting • Newsletter

[JUMP TO COMMENTS]

WINTER MOURNING

WHEN: Begins in December and can last until the end of Feb.
WHERE: Everywhere
CONTENT WARNINGS: Spoilers for various canons, survival situations, forced memory share

---

[A passage from Rituals of Trench: Remembering Our Pasts reads the following:]

"A long-standing tradition to celebrate Bone Season is for Deerians to collect antlers and bones salvaged from natural resources and create decorative home accents. These antler-bone decors are known formally as Winter Mournings and can be found in almost every residential home throughout Deer Country. Winter Mournings can be made to look like wreaths, candle holders, or simply an antler with a bow hung up on a wall.

Winter Mournings is seen as a way to honor one's past tribulations and how one has managed to survive and overcome hardships during their life. Winter Mournings serves as a testament to survival and a willingness to keep surviving even when things look bleak and dismal.

Creating Winter Mournings is considered a blessing to the Pthumerians Dorothea, Remina, and Argonaut. You will know if the blessing was accepted once your Winter Mourning begins to glow like the moon. Touch your Winter Mourning and you will be pulled back in time to a memory of a specific time when you or someone else had to survive something physically or mentally challenging. For some, it is merely a memory that cannot hurt, but for others, you may want to proceed with caution as it has been known to pull people physically back to times of war.

One cannot choose which memory they wind up in if it is their own, a friend's, or a complete stranger's. Winter Mournings was designed to create a sense of union and empathy among residents and is meant to open your mind and heart to those who have suffered around you. It is time you explore your past, or someone else's past, with an open mind and see how the other side has lived through hard times. These memories are known to be from adolescence, adulthood, or sometimes even futures that have not yet happened or timelines you have never known. After all, Remina sees all past and all history. That means they see all of your past and history too.

No memory lasts forever though. Once the memory has been concluded, you shall be brought back to the present by the Winter Mourning Stag: a great white beast with a circle of frozen antlers. It will come to you when the time is ready, and you will return to the present like waking from a dazzling dream.

Experiencing Winter Mournings can stabilize one's mood and provide restful sleep after, even if the memories may be difficult to swallow. It truly is a tribute to honor past horrors and traumas. Some memories are painful to remember, but forgetting them will never do anyone any good either. So hang your Winter Mournings and remember what matters.

Survive another day. You are worth it."

FAQ

1. Winter Mournings can produce new memories every time you touch them or the same memory.

2. Characters cannot choose what the memory is.

3. Characters can arrive in each other's memories regardless of if they already know each other. Multiple people can experience the same memory.

4. You can either experience the memory as a memory you can't touch or experience - or you can physically be in the memory and have to survive the situation as well. If you die in memory, your body will die wherever you had been touching the Winter Mourning.

5. Palebloods are capable of altering memories or how they or others experience memories.

6. Characters can be pulled into memories at random - as long as one of the characters in the memory share is touching a Winter Mourning at first.

RUN, RABBIT, RUN

WHEN: Month of December
WHERE: Everywhere/the woods
CONTENT WARNINGS: Themes of hunting, ghosts, curses, attempts at animal violence, hunting people based on blood types.

---

[An excerpt from Legends of Trench: Curses and Causations reads the following:]

"One of the most notorious legends of Trench is without a doubt the tale of The Huntress and the Hare. Most Trenchies have been told this tale since they were children, but for those unfamiliar, settle in.

This story begins with a mischievous god and an ambitious huntress. The Pthumerian Dorothea loved to play tricks on hunters trying to survive the Bone Season, setting animals free from traps and remaking the traps to catch the hunters instead. One day, a darkblood Huntress was fed up with Dorothea preventing her from catching food for her family and decided to settle the score. The Huntress began to hunt for Dorothea specifically, but it is no small feat hunting the god of trickery and survival.

The Huntress started to rely on her darkblood powers to alter reality to make the perfect traps. Innocuous trees turned into glue traps that anyone would stick to until they were freed by a darkblood or death took their pain from them. Walking through bushes would snag legs and necks, effectively trapping whatever creatures were unfortunate enough to wander for food. Magical snares and beartraps lock around victims with unrelenting force, leaving people and animals to try for help until they cry no more. While this took many innocent lives in the woods, animals, and people alike, it never seemed to work on Dorothea.

Dorothea continued to outwit the Huntress until she eventually drove the Huntress insane. The Huntress died without ever catching Dorothea, but they say her vengeful spirit awakens in winter and begins to set her traps yet again. The Huntress sends her traps and her dead animals after vilebloods and warmbloods to spite Dorothea and hope to maybe catch the god's attention. But Dorothea is no passive god. Dorothea spurs vilebloods and warmbloods to defend themselves against darkbloods and coldbloods.

Infamously, this has created enormous tension between the blood types during December some years, and it is said that the blood lust has caused the types to begin hunting one another regardless of old friendships and alliances. Beware the Huntress's curse. Some believe darkbloods and coldbloods can still hear her haunting commands and cries from the Trenchwood.

They say there is no ease for the tension between the bloodtypes until December has passed, but some believe palebloods may provide relief if they are willing."

FAQ

1. Characters will increasingly feel the urge to actively hunt one another using traps/etc.

2. The Huntress's curse includes undead animals/beasts chasing after warmbloods and vilebloods and magical traps. Players can invent unique traps for their characters.

3. There will be an innate urge to chase/hide from one another.

4. The curse can be broken by paleblood intervention, character death, or a gradual wearing off by the end of the month.

LOCKJOINT

WHEN: All of Bone Season
WHERE: On Sleeper bodies
CONTENT WARNINGS: Mild body horror, blood magic curses, physical curses, cures through blood ministration/blood letting, possible skin removal, injuries, possible death via starvation/exposure.

---

[An passage from The Sleeper Condition; Chapter 13: Bodily Aches and More. Found exclusively at the Lumenarium:]

"Generally speaking, Sleeper blood allows Sleepers to navigate this world without the fear of illness and disease. However, no organic body is perfect, and Sleeper blood has its own set of ailments to fret over. Blood Ministers have studied the phenomena of Lockjoint for years now and believe that it is linked to the crystalization found in Sleeper death, though the exact connection remains unknown.

Lockjoint tends to begin and last throughout Bone Season. Some Sleepers may never experience it, but for many, it becomes a reoccurring issue to dread each season. This condition forces blood magic to gather at the joints and effectively lock up. Sleepers find it difficult to move their bodies at the bends, fingers, knees, shoulders, etc without some form of discomfort. Minimal lockjoint can be painful and annoyance, but critical lockjoint can be fatal.

The most severe cases of lockjoint documented have shown Sleepers to have crystalization form over their joints, rendering parts of their bodies completely immobile. Some Sleepers have been found dead in this condition, all their joints crystallized, and it is believed most died from natural causes thereafter.

One can determine they are experiencing lockjoint when the coloration around the joints begins to darken in color, typically looking like a bruise. Calcification may occur rapidly the more magic a Sleeper uses or the more they expose themselves to outside elements. It is imperative that Sleepers remain properly clothed during Bone Season, even if they are coldbloods, and to invest in enchanted clothes that can lock in heat.

A known cure for lockjoint is the art of bloodletting. Puncturing the joints with small incisions seems to allow a release of the built-up magic and can provide immediate relief to the Sleeper. Catching lockjoint early is imperative. Alternative methods are soaking in hot springs and salted water.

Those who are in a more severe state will have to carefully have the crystals removed. This will likely remove the skin as well. Local anesthesia is highly recommended for the procedure. This process is known to leave scarring. The crystals can be saved and used as bloodstones from whoever they were harvested from. If you find a Sleeper dead from lockjoint, make sure to harvest the crystals as they are incredibly valuable.

This curse is believed to stem from Sleeper blood magic congealing within the body in contrast with the atmospheric magic of Bone Season. There is no known prevention for lockjoint. Lockjoint can impact all Sleepers regardless of bloodtype or the material their bodies are made from."

FAQ

1. This impacts characters regardless of blood type or their body - meaning it can impact characters with metal/plastic/plant/wood/etc bodies.

2. Players can choose how rapid or severe this gets and how quickly they can be healed.

CODING

Comments

Will Byers | Stranger Things

[deadboywalking]

i. winter mourning | cw: demonic possession, involuntary hospitalization, restraints of a child, injections (prompt a), child abduction, creepy toothy monster (prompt b), parental death, more demonic possession, choking/strangulation (prompt c), just a big old bunch of child endangerment/harm

[When the little antler wreath starts to glow, Will thinks it's a good thing. The losses over the past month -- Diarmuid, Peter Parker, Nancy, Eddie -- are an ever-present, tangible weight in his throat, like he's being slowly choked. The dreams don't help, more vivid than ever -- a paleblood thing, probably, that just figures, that's how his luck is going.

So he ties twine around antlers, paints them carefully in shades of cream and silver and flecks of blue and red and gold, like opals. And they glow, like he'd read they would. And Will reaches out to touch them, hoping, praying it'll help...]

memory a.
[The first thing Will is aware of is the overwhelming scent of antiseptic, sterile and cold and clinical. Layered over that is the heavy, cloying scent of blood. He can't remember if he was aware of the blood that night -- that terrible, horrible night where he wasn't himself, where every trace of Will Byers was blotted out by an inhuman, unfeeling monstrosity. Will knows, logically, that it happened. He can recall bits and pieces of it, had even returned once to the hallway outside this hospital room, had run from the demo dogs.

But he'd never been inside. He'd never heard his own voice, pushed to breaking, too high, too angry, too shrill, the monster inside him straining his vocal cords beyond what they could take. He was hoarse for days after. Will can remember that, at least.

The way he shrieks at Mike -- who looks so young, so afraid and determined and devastated all at once -- the way he stares through his mother without comprehending who she is...

When Will speaks, it's faint.] I don't...remember this.

memory b. [Not for the first time, Will finds himself at his house. It looks and feels...so much smaller than he remembers. In his mind, on that night, it was enormous and empty and suddenly unsafe.

Because of course it's that night. That first night, the night everything changed. Will scarcely recognizes himself barreling through the front door. It was only a little over two and a half years ago, but he looks so little. He can't imagine how he was that little and survived what he did.

If he's familiar with the person standing beside him, Will is slightly more embarrassed, watching his tiny, tiny self fumble with the phone. But even if he doesn't, he looks up, lets out a slow breath and says:] You probably...don't want to watch this.

memory c.
[This is the only memory in Deerington. There were others, of course, almost exactly two years of them -- beautiful and terrible and awful and magnificent. The best and worst things Will has ever experienced were in that strange dream town.

But this one -- snow on the ground, air cold and empty, strange plants everywhere, and another version of Will with shorter hair and more scars, sitting on a bench -- is one that he absolutely does not want to remember. He's already backing away, shaking his head.] We...we gotta go, we need to go, He's going to see us--

[Perhaps it's Will's voice that does it. Perhaps not. But either way, the other him suddenly looks over, eyes dark and unblinking and focused -- and smiles.]

ii. run, rabbit, run | cw: potential for fights/attacks -- open to these, but not character death
[Being able to help is kinda nice. As a paleblood, Will isn’t party to the intense, overwhelming emotions raging through most of the other blood types -- he's a calming, soothing presence, his words always soft, always the peacemaker. It's actually very similar to his usual role, in most relationships. He always wants to fix things, calm them down.

If you're a darkblood or vileblood or whatever, it doesn't matter to the soft-voiced, gentle-eyed boy, who approaches with his hands held out in supplication, speaking like he would to a nervous wild animal. If you're in the midst of a hunter's frenzy, he's there, voice gentle, reassuring:] Hey, it's okay. You're okay.

[The presence of Will's omen, an enormous, horrifying black horse with soulless eyes and a weirdly damp coat is...less reassuring.]


iii. lockjoint | cw: very mild symptoms of lockjoint, bruising, stiffness, pain, wrist/elbow trauma
[Will is usually so good about bundling up. He doesn't like the cold, ever since -- well. Hest means he's fully himself, normal and human and secure in that knowledge. Nothing else in his head. Nobody else.

Still, he's a kid, and kids forget their coats and gloves sometimes, especially when they're in a big hurry to go and try to figure out how to turn smudgy pencils and charcoal into a drawing of the ice floes out on the sea, or the icicles hanging from the tall buildings in Willful Machine, or whatever else catches Will's artist eye. It's hard to draw with gloves on, too, so he tends to yank them off when he's raptly involved, ignoring the way his hands cramp up.

He also ignores how his joints -- fingers and wrists, especially -- are bruised almost black. It's hard to see under all the charcoal dust anyways. It's probably fine.

(It is NOT fine.)

Will won't stop unless someone bosses him into it, so any concerned passers-by, have at it.]

I. A

[the_obedient_servant]

...You're possessed. Or you were, anyway. That'll happen.

[They cross their arms and keep watching. They're used to this by now, as alarming as they've been.

This memory seems particularly unpleasant.]

...Do you want to remember?

[deadboywalking]

[Will makes a quietly alarmed sound, unable to keep watching, looking off at the wall instead as his past self snarls and screams.]

...no. Yes? I don't know. It's not going to...keep it from ever happening again so what's...what's the point?

[the_obedient_servant]

Oh, is that a regular occurance for you?

[Damn.]

Your life certainly sounds like it sucks.

[deadboywalking]

[Will has to laugh a little, albeit incredulously, at the commentary.] Only a couple times. When I first came to -- Deerington, it was the town before this, part of it...came with me.

[The younger version of himself is fighting the injection now, screaming and struggling with strength that even Will now doesn't possess.]

[the_obedient_servant]

I've been informed of Deerington. Supposedly, a version of me was there.

[They hum, seemingly unbothered by this extremely disturbing image.]

Do you believe you've built up an immunity by now?

memory b.

[droptheious]

[Here they are again, in Deerington's fun memory dance. Varian watches as the youngster runs from the...thing chasing him. He looks terrified, and Varian can't blame him. As much as he's used to the horrors they've endured this is...different. There's something heavy and dark about this. Something no one can outrun.

He's not looking particularly human himself right now, with his rocky skin and sharp, rocky teeth - but when he looks at Will, it's with genuine concern. ]

...That's not usually how these things work. What...what is that thing?

[deadboywalking]

[Will -- the older Will, the real one -- vaguely knows he's seen Varian around. They've both been in the town a long time. Still, they've never really had much opportunity to speak to each other.

It's sort of funny (in a weird, horrible way) that they finally talk in person during a vivid reliving of the worst day of Will's life.]

We call it the Demogorgon. [He says it quietly, watching his smaller self frantically dial the phone, remembering his instinctive following of what adults had always told him -- call 911, get an adult involved, you can't handle this yourself, you can't do anything.] I don't know if it has a real name.

[droptheious]

...Well, that sounds ominous. I mean, it looks pretty ominous too.

[Calling the authorities is never something Varian has experienced. You sure didn't contact the guard by telephone back home (if they helped with anything at all) and Sleepers...well, they handled things themselves. He only just about understands what the phone is at all.]

Were you calling for...help?

[deadboywalking]

Yeah. It -- there was a door opened? An, um. A gate between two worlds and it got into ours and I...I guess I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

[Will watches his smaller self drop the phone, bolt into the backyard, into the shed. He remembers the single-minded panic, the urge to defend himself, the hammered-in lessons from an impatient, uncaring father guiding his hands to load the rifle.]

Yeah. It -- the monster -- made the phone not work. There wasn't anyone else at home, so it was just...just me.

[droptheious]

[Oh. Oh no oh that's just horribly familiar and Varian's expression immediately drops. ]

Oh...that- yeah, I've seen something like that in my world. Ours found someone too.

[And while it wasn't a full-on possession, it was bad enough. Enough that he knew this was really bad. ]

So it got you while you were alone and without help. Oh...man.

[He watches younger Will run, trying to get himself safe, somehow.]

You...you're a lot braver here than a lot of people would be.

iii

[wwrench]

Wrench has never minded the cold very much, provided, of course, the chill isn't magical in its origin. He's lucky enough that his coats were among the meager set of items that made it through to Trench with him, and he's bundled into both of them as he stalks through the streets of Willful Machine. His hands are deep in his pockets and the leather fringe of his coat swishes and sways with every purposeful step, but in truth he doesn't have a destination in mind. Just out, just away. Somewhere he doesn't feel quite so suffocated by the charity people seem so willing to bestow upon him now that he's alone again.

He almost doesn't spot Will. The young man is a tiny figure, crouched around his sketchbook and looking lost in thought. But Wrench slows a few paces out and scowls. He remembers the last time he saw the boy sitting alone on a bench in the frigid air, and his refusal to accept any efforts to warm him. This Will looks far more animated, lighter-eyed and active, but Wrench still approaches with caution. When he's near, he bats his hand in the air to get the boy's attention.

Where's your coat?

[deadboywalking]

Will almost doesn't notice Wes approach him, so focused on copying the shapes and angles of the building in front of him. Buildings are boring, nowhere near as fun to draw as people or animals or even trees. But Will's trying to improve his art in as many areas as possible, even when it means drawing boring things.

But the movement of Wes's hand catches his hand, prompting him to look up. It takes him a moment to realize what's being referred to -- his fairly light, long-sleeved sweatshirt instead of a coat. So he responds, Home.

Then, more insistently, with charcoal-covered hands, But I'm okay.

[wwrench]

Are you sure? The tall man looks Will over with a furrowed expression. The boy's eyes seem lighter and his hands, while stilted, don't move like they're under the volition of some other force. It's hard to imagine that the thing that possessed the boy could be compelled to draw in those easy, sketchy lines anyway. But Wrench moves slowly nevertheless, doing his best to gauge whether the stubbornness is just indicative of a teenage boy, or something more sinister.

He shrugs out of his leather jacket and offers it around Will's shoulders anyway. It smells like wet earth and campfire ash, all sure signs of where the man's been keeping himself lately. Can I watch?

[deadboywalking]

I'm sure. It's hard to articulate any signs more complex than that, not with how Will's joints are refusing to cooperate. He must be colder than he thought. He sets down the pencil, shaking out his hands with an annoyed, scrunched-nose expression.

But he scoots over on the bench, scrawny shoulders dropping a little from the weight of the jacket. He recognizes the scent, and frowns over at Wes, all childish disapproval. "You're camping?" It's spoken aloud, though Will's not sure if the Omni's function like the Fluids did.

[wwrench]

It seems like a good sign that Will doesn't refuse the jacket, but Wes's expression remains guarded as he slips into a seat alongside the boy. His attention immediately turns to Will's fingers when he flexes them. There's no mistaking the discoloration around his joints. The inky black settling into his skin at the knuckle may be stained with charcoal, but even in the low light it looks more like bruising. Wes reaches for Will's hand, scowling as he examines how stiffly it moves.

His concern makes disengagement from the boy's question that much easier. The note about camping seems like an easy yarn to let spin, so he gives a vague nod. I like the outdoors. Enough, it would seem, that he's shunned the kindness of more than one person who's offered him an alternative. Wiggle your fingers for me? Wrench demonstrates by flexing his hand, then wagging each appendage separately.

winter mourning — memory a.

[possessum]

( Being forced into the past isn't a new concept, not for them. Deerington often did this to them, whether as a cruelty (to disarm, wear them away piece by piece) or a mercy (a glimpse into the past, a chance to see what hurt the most and heal from it)....... At times it was hard to tell what the motive was behind it all.

Most of the time, it was something that hurt. Peter knows that very well. Forced into some aching time from memory, forced to face one of the monsters that tormented him before this place ever did.

This whole time, Peter's known Will has torments like that too, but he's never seen any of them for himself. And now here he stands in the same room as the younger boy, staring at the scene before them: Will in a hospital gown, pressed against the white bed behind him as he's crowded by accusations and fears. Trapped.

The older boy watches the scene taking place without saying a word, eyes held wide open... body frozen in a way that's almost unnatural. Like every single nerve ending is locked into place. When the Will beside him speaks, says he doesn't remember this, Peter's body gives a sharp flinch in response. The Will in the hospital bed is screaming now, and he doesn't like it. He doesn't like it on a level that doesn't quite belong to Peter — or what barely remains of Peter this month. Even in a memory realm, he's too filled up with the demon, and when he speaks, there's a growl around the edges of his words, curling inwards up over them. )

Make it stop.

[deadboywalking]

[The voice is so unexpected that Will -- the real Will, the current one, older and taller, making the version screaming in the hospital bed seem tiny by comparison -- flinches a little, looking over at Peter in surprise. But -- no, that's not Peter. It's not just Peter, at any rate.]

I-I can't-- [He begins to stammer it, apologetically, but the past version of himself is shuddering, going slack and limp from the injection, human body containing the monster for now. The memory skips then -- blessedly, past the part with Bob's death, though Will can remember that with horrific clarity, albeit from the point of view of the Demodogs -- and suddenly they're in the shed.

This part is also...less clear for Will. The human part of him was barely there, shoved roughly into a corner, trapped in his own mind. It's evident by how indignantly the monster reacts to being tied up, voice warping and growling very akin to how Peter (Paimon) had just spoken, the lights flickering wildly above them.

Will knows where this is going, knows that this memory will likely continue, on and on until it reaches the exorcism -- another thing he knows just bits and pieces of, just the aches and bruises and the way his voice was hoarse and raspy from screaming. He knows it was bad though, brutal and violent and horrific.

And, ultimately, successful. Will doesn't even want to consider how a demon would react to witnessing an exorcism. So he turns to the not!Peter, pleading with (him, it, them) --] I-I don't know how to stop it. I don't know how.

[possessum]

( The answer is met with an odd feeling of sharp displeasure — one that Peter certainly would never feel towards Will, and one that Paimon in his usual state wouldn't, either. There's always been a certain respect, a trust towards the boy with the wide brown eyes. The one who at times is like an adult presence, calming and soothing, and other times reminds the demon of its previous host: the way Will creates art, his withdrawn nature.

And then of course, there's how the boy's been touched by his own Other, by something vast and cold and alien. The demon king often has conflicting responses to Will Byers, but they're all steeped in familiarity of different kinds.

But in this state, already tipped towards an aggression.... being told I can't by Will in response to his request... angers the demon. That feeling only worsens as the scene shifts and worsens too — and the energy of it all makes Not-Peter's very spirit feel raw and wrong. He's shuddering now: spasms rippling down his frame, giving strange wheezes and guttural grunts as the boy-thing growls against its restraints, as the lights flicker, like some kind of mirror of himself.

Though he doesn't know exactly what's coming next (an exorcism), Paimon can sense that the memory is rising towards something bad, that it's an energy every piece of his spirit would recoil violently from.

And as Will pleads with him, the demon suddenly lashes out with an inhuman quickness, long limbs grabbing the boy. Paimon's snaking his arms around and then inwards, painfully tight, hooking himself into the spaces of the smaller body almost like he's trying to disappear inside Will, hide there. And as he does, he screams, repeating it over and over — )

MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP

[deadboywalking]

[As Paimon already knows -- from years and years of experience -- there are few people easier to overpower in this exact way than a traumatized child. Will recoils instinctively, arms going up to protect himself, but there's no way to stop this. Paimon is reacting out of fear and anger and inhuman force, and there's no stopping the sudden invasion of unseen limbs and claws, digging into the very core of Will.

The memory surrounding them suddenly warps and shifts, steering away from the image of the exorcism, from the screaming and burning and violence of it, though that emotion permeates and persists. What shows instead is that stormy, dark, Upside-Down version of the field behind the house, and Will tiny and teary and screaming at the enormous monster to go away, to leave him alone.

It didn't work then. It doesn't work now.

There are old scars all over Will's mind, his soul, footholds for anyone or anything to cling onto, places where the Mind Flayer had gouged out a place for itself, where it's claws had dug in deep and brutal and careless. If Paimon can find them -- and whose to say he can't? -- it's more than enough for him to cling on and hold on and stay.

Even when the memory stops. Even when Will -- the real Will, the one after the monsters and after Deerington, the Will who should be stronger than this, but who gives in almost immediately to the horrifically familiar sensation of his very being invaded by an alien force -- goes silent and still.]

cw: tbh a bunch of possession horror fuckery

[possessum]

( In the moment, in his current, horrible state, something clicks right into place. This feels right, feels like where he's supposed to be. Latched on to what's weak and pliable (vulnerable), what was meant for him to take. Forcing himself in. Something in the demon can feel how Will's been here before, can feel how it had gotten into him back then: through his eyes, ears, mouth, nose; that impossibly cold shadow.

And the horror and rage and upset that the Mind Flayer felt as it was being forced out of the boy's body becomes Paimon's, as the exorcism plays out. He screams louder, enraged; he hooks in tighter, long limbs curling over the small body that's pressed so tightly against his own that there's nothing between them, no ending and no beginning. He doesn't want to go, the people can't make him go; this is his body, his host, HE WON'T GO.

Then it's changing again, to that stormy field where it had actually happened. And he can feel it, those places: marred and singed in Will's body and mind and soul. He knows, immediately, that the boy would be a viable vessel for him, that it would work, that inside of Will is safe. Usually it takes years of prep and ritual and very specific spells, but not with Will. Will's already been made a home by something beyond the limits that existed in Peter's world, beyond the rules. Will's body could accept him.

He's still reeling from this knowledge as the memory ends and he's left hanging onto the real Will who's gone so quiet and motionless. Paimon's buried into him as much as a corporeal body possibly can, and when his fingers finally uncurl from the boy, they're tipped in blood from where they'd been clawing in so deeply.

But he's not finished. No, he can't be finished. )

You ripped us out— ( He snarls, still halfway scrambled up in the Mind Flayer's identity from the memories he'd just witnessed, taking that identity on the way he absorbs and imitates so many others. )

You let them rip us out! ( The people who'd exorcised him. They'd made him too hot, suffocated him, forced him out of the comfortable cold home he'd made for himself. Paimon's suddenly in front of the motionless child, a hand finding his throat, clasping onto it. )

WE WANT BACK IN!

( Enraged, he sends the stunned boy flying backwards with a sweep of supernatural energy. )

memory b

[notimeforfailure]

...If you must watch it, then I shall watch with you.

[Lysithea places a hand on his shoulder in what she hopes is a reassuring manner. She is no stranger to embarrassing - or traumatic - or unbearable memories at this point, having experienced a few herself. She can at least provide the same support she had sought from fellow Sleepers in those moments.]

Where is this? ...What is happening?

[deadboywalking]

[Will winces a little, but the hand on his shoulder feels...a little nice. Reassuring. Even if this is unequivocally the worst moment of his life on display.]

My home. Um, back in my world. That's me. [The version of Will currently darting through the house, calling for his mother or brother is a good six inches shorter than the current one, all big scared eyes and hand-me-down clothes.] I'm...there's a monster following me.

[He doesn't leave her in suspense for long:] It catches me. In the end.

[notimeforfailure]

Is it -- the same one you brought to Deerington?

[The memory of Will is rushing for the phone now as the dog barks at the door. She can feel it - the amplified, distorted recollection of his home, usually a safe haven, now too cavernous, too empty, offering no relief.

Something is at the door. She can hear... something.]

Why was no one here?

[deadboywalking]

Sort of. They're all...connected like a, um...like roots of a tree. [Will makes a vague hand gesture, meant to convey something twining and twisting and stretching out, far beyond it's host.] The one I brought was the...the leader. This one was just one of the roots that got lost.

[He can hear it too, and even though it's been years, it still sends a shiver up his spine, seeing his smaller self stare at the turning doorknob, then bolt for the backyard.] They were at work. My mom and my brother. It was just me.