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deercountry2022-03-02 10:45 pm
hearthebell) wrote in deercountry2022-03-02 10:45 pm
Entry tags:
Someone Kick Me Out of My Mind [L Lawliet, Open]
Who: Lazarus Sauveterre (L Lawliet) and YOU
What: Dreamwalking!
When: Following the events of Fated Leviathan, where most of the people he's on good terms with perished. He's playing the odds and trying to find a way, in dreams, it all could have turned out better, or at least with a lower death count.
Where: His body is technically in Cassandra, but for roughly the first week in March, your dreams are fair game. Either that or choose one of my starters, no harm no foul. I worked hard on them!
Content Warnings: Drug use to induce sleep, intentional evasion from detection while on sleep drugs. Various probable types of dream-violence and disturbing scenarios, including tiger attacks, environmental exposure, and nuclear detonation and fallout. If new prompts bring new content I'll update this.
[It was astonishing. It was visceral, and horrific, and then it was over. The carnage and receding waves were quiet enough, but there was a roaring in the ears of the survivors, or maybe it just sounded that way to the man who was perfect at his job in every way and still failed to keep those he tried to protect from death.
He leaves his things, taking only the clothes on his back and his anxiously bobbing orca whale omen with him when he starts off at a brisk pace toward Trench from the ruined aftermath of the beach's battle. He wants distance from it, and his steps take him to Cassandra, where he takes care to ensure that he's able to sneak into the Pale Sanctuary and conceal himself to swallow a fistful of herbs, and fall, and slumber and brace and dream in the way that he can take hold of the power he couldn't, there on the beach when the fighters were falling.
The tents are in their rows, the waves rear toward the sand. The players are arranged like chess pieces before him, and he can nudge Paul one way, Chara another, playing with Palamedes or Kaworu. They are just pieces, just pawns, but the arrangement could make all the difference, in the end.
The waves crash; the pawns die. L scrabbles in the sands of the dream, forgiving and elastic, rearranging them and bringing everyone back.]
Again!
[And there they are, back, affable and fierce in different measures. Yuri has made cake; Gideon is training by the waves.
More die, this time, including those that L saw alive and well when he left. Among them, a certain orange-haired and cheerful volleyball player is lying motionless and pale on the blood-stained sand.]
Again!
[This time, he moves his position. This time, many of the same die, and he does, as well, a casualty to shrapnel piercing through the tent.]
Again...
[And so it goes, for a hundred, a thousand iterations. L is tireless and determined, but some resource is waning, and his omen tugs at him, concerned for his sanity.]
No, Lycka, I...!
[She knows better, as she tends to in cases like these. Her jaws pull him by his jacket from his own dream into another, and this is where his fixations end, and something else entirely begins.
Who are you? What are your dreams like? If this Paleblooded, lost soul has chanced into your unconscious visions, what might he find, as his body languishes in Cassandra and his omen picks up the pieces of his fragmented mind?]
1. The Wild Jungle
[The air around you is heavy and humid. Unseen in the dense bush, the circle of life is rapid and repellent. Thrums and screeches announce the arrival of swift death, in various measures that one might or might not notice. A jaguar's kill, the soft extinguishment of a beetle, and they all weave themselves into the teeming tapestry that surrounds you in this quintessential rainforest.
You might be standing to fight, or running away. It doesn't matter, because a thin man with shaggy, dark hair who looks wide-eyed and younger than he should is beside you, closer than either of you want. He hands you a blunderbuss, an old weapon with a flared muzzle.]
The infrasound is what does it; the tiger is the voice darker than night.
[And, in fact, a growl chills and freezes you, splitting your chest asunder with a sound so low that your ears don't register it, but the atoms of your body react with cold, foreboding dread.]
2. The Stormy Desert
[A crack of thunder splits the sky above you before you've managed to recognize your dream's locale. You might hope for rain; so do the scorpions and long-tailed mice, the snakes in their dens and the cacti in their proud and stoic stature.
It won't rain. You can wish, and cry, and curse, but only the thunder will growl and thrash. The lightning may strike, so watch your head; stay low to the sand and find shelter if you can.
If you do, along the side of a cliff facing the west where the sun set rosy before the clouds rolled in, there is a young man with sunburned cheeks. His eyes are red, as though he's been staring at the sun, or it's been raining somewhere private and inward.]
I've been collecting scorpion venom. What for, I don't remember. But I have so much. What's the point of finding a cure when everyone is already dead?
3.The Grimy City
[The crowds are mostly faceless; when they aren't, they're grotesque, likely to sport the visages of rats or roaches rather than anything remotely humanlike. They actively shove you and trip you, doing their best to jostle you toward the entrance of a subway, and no matter how strong you are the impulse is incredibly difficult to resist.
You walk (or tumble) down the subway stairs. The tollbooth is manned by a young man with unruly dark hair, who seems determined to hear his headphones in spite of your desire to gather the attention of the one human-seeming creature in this dream.]
What? No, I can't hear you. Speak louder, please, I'm losing you!
4.The Nuclear Wasteland
[A brilliant flash lights the daytime sky; you might be blinded, or perhaps you had the good fortune to blink at the time. A roiling cloud rises in the sky, top-heavy and triumphant, blossoming into boiling and dusty vapor that will fall back to earth and condemn everything still living.
Perhaps you're staggering. Perhaps you're already feeling the fallout on your hair and shoulders. Perhaps you are sitting, forlorn and accepting, as the sirens blare and the screams fade. Regardless, someone has seized you bodily by your upper arms, hauling you into a shelter, spinning the vault's circular lock and wrapping you in a desperate embrace.]
I'm so glad. I thought you were lost... I thought I was the only one left.
[And he holds you, and holds you, with those frail and thin arms that clutch with the strength that only a dying or very guilty man might possess.]
V. Wildcard
[What did you dream about? If L is there, let me know and prompt this option to the moon and stars!]
What: Dreamwalking!
When: Following the events of Fated Leviathan, where most of the people he's on good terms with perished. He's playing the odds and trying to find a way, in dreams, it all could have turned out better, or at least with a lower death count.
Where: His body is technically in Cassandra, but for roughly the first week in March, your dreams are fair game. Either that or choose one of my starters, no harm no foul. I worked hard on them!
Content Warnings: Drug use to induce sleep, intentional evasion from detection while on sleep drugs. Various probable types of dream-violence and disturbing scenarios, including tiger attacks, environmental exposure, and nuclear detonation and fallout. If new prompts bring new content I'll update this.
[It was astonishing. It was visceral, and horrific, and then it was over. The carnage and receding waves were quiet enough, but there was a roaring in the ears of the survivors, or maybe it just sounded that way to the man who was perfect at his job in every way and still failed to keep those he tried to protect from death.
He leaves his things, taking only the clothes on his back and his anxiously bobbing orca whale omen with him when he starts off at a brisk pace toward Trench from the ruined aftermath of the beach's battle. He wants distance from it, and his steps take him to Cassandra, where he takes care to ensure that he's able to sneak into the Pale Sanctuary and conceal himself to swallow a fistful of herbs, and fall, and slumber and brace and dream in the way that he can take hold of the power he couldn't, there on the beach when the fighters were falling.
The tents are in their rows, the waves rear toward the sand. The players are arranged like chess pieces before him, and he can nudge Paul one way, Chara another, playing with Palamedes or Kaworu. They are just pieces, just pawns, but the arrangement could make all the difference, in the end.
The waves crash; the pawns die. L scrabbles in the sands of the dream, forgiving and elastic, rearranging them and bringing everyone back.]
Again!
[And there they are, back, affable and fierce in different measures. Yuri has made cake; Gideon is training by the waves.
More die, this time, including those that L saw alive and well when he left. Among them, a certain orange-haired and cheerful volleyball player is lying motionless and pale on the blood-stained sand.]
Again!
[This time, he moves his position. This time, many of the same die, and he does, as well, a casualty to shrapnel piercing through the tent.]
Again...
[And so it goes, for a hundred, a thousand iterations. L is tireless and determined, but some resource is waning, and his omen tugs at him, concerned for his sanity.]
No, Lycka, I...!
[She knows better, as she tends to in cases like these. Her jaws pull him by his jacket from his own dream into another, and this is where his fixations end, and something else entirely begins.
Who are you? What are your dreams like? If this Paleblooded, lost soul has chanced into your unconscious visions, what might he find, as his body languishes in Cassandra and his omen picks up the pieces of his fragmented mind?]
1. The Wild Jungle
[The air around you is heavy and humid. Unseen in the dense bush, the circle of life is rapid and repellent. Thrums and screeches announce the arrival of swift death, in various measures that one might or might not notice. A jaguar's kill, the soft extinguishment of a beetle, and they all weave themselves into the teeming tapestry that surrounds you in this quintessential rainforest.
You might be standing to fight, or running away. It doesn't matter, because a thin man with shaggy, dark hair who looks wide-eyed and younger than he should is beside you, closer than either of you want. He hands you a blunderbuss, an old weapon with a flared muzzle.]
The infrasound is what does it; the tiger is the voice darker than night.
[And, in fact, a growl chills and freezes you, splitting your chest asunder with a sound so low that your ears don't register it, but the atoms of your body react with cold, foreboding dread.]
2. The Stormy Desert
[A crack of thunder splits the sky above you before you've managed to recognize your dream's locale. You might hope for rain; so do the scorpions and long-tailed mice, the snakes in their dens and the cacti in their proud and stoic stature.
It won't rain. You can wish, and cry, and curse, but only the thunder will growl and thrash. The lightning may strike, so watch your head; stay low to the sand and find shelter if you can.
If you do, along the side of a cliff facing the west where the sun set rosy before the clouds rolled in, there is a young man with sunburned cheeks. His eyes are red, as though he's been staring at the sun, or it's been raining somewhere private and inward.]
I've been collecting scorpion venom. What for, I don't remember. But I have so much. What's the point of finding a cure when everyone is already dead?
3.The Grimy City
[The crowds are mostly faceless; when they aren't, they're grotesque, likely to sport the visages of rats or roaches rather than anything remotely humanlike. They actively shove you and trip you, doing their best to jostle you toward the entrance of a subway, and no matter how strong you are the impulse is incredibly difficult to resist.
You walk (or tumble) down the subway stairs. The tollbooth is manned by a young man with unruly dark hair, who seems determined to hear his headphones in spite of your desire to gather the attention of the one human-seeming creature in this dream.]
What? No, I can't hear you. Speak louder, please, I'm losing you!
4.The Nuclear Wasteland
[A brilliant flash lights the daytime sky; you might be blinded, or perhaps you had the good fortune to blink at the time. A roiling cloud rises in the sky, top-heavy and triumphant, blossoming into boiling and dusty vapor that will fall back to earth and condemn everything still living.
Perhaps you're staggering. Perhaps you're already feeling the fallout on your hair and shoulders. Perhaps you are sitting, forlorn and accepting, as the sirens blare and the screams fade. Regardless, someone has seized you bodily by your upper arms, hauling you into a shelter, spinning the vault's circular lock and wrapping you in a desperate embrace.]
I'm so glad. I thought you were lost... I thought I was the only one left.
[And he holds you, and holds you, with those frail and thin arms that clutch with the strength that only a dying or very guilty man might possess.]
V. Wildcard
[What did you dream about? If L is there, let me know and prompt this option to the moon and stars!]
v.
* But nobody came.
* You find yourself in a garden. Flower beds surround you, elaborate designs etched into them that only one of the Underground would recognize. There's only one plant in this garden, however. Golden flowers spring up from the soil everywhere you look. Buttercups, the dream tells you, not to be confused with cups of butter.
* There's nothing to do here but walk through the flowers. Eventually, the flower beds change. They're houses, roads, footpaths, schools, shops, all of them are covered from every inch in these bright yellow flowers, but it's real. It's all real. As real as anything could be in a world fabricated by man.
* It's hard to know what came first, really, were the buildings built to help the flowers grow? Or did the flowers create the buildings? What is this place? You think you pass familiar faces - the few that either of them would recognize, and when they look at you, they see a stranger. Paul, Lysithea, Illarion, Beatrice, Kaworu, Asriel, familiar empty eyes that watch you like a hawke or perhaps glimmer with a hint of red or blue.
* They all go about their day, living lives that can't be touched anymore, by anyone. Not you, not the human. And the fallen human can be found in the middle of this town of flowers, sitting upon a throne of flowers, the vines binding them to the extravagant chair of a king, digging into their skin, tying around their throat.
* They watch you as you approach, in the same way a weary god would watch an asteroid come crashing down on their creation. Apathy.
Chara speaks up when L is finally close enough to hear them, their voice both impossibly old and unmistakably young.]
Did you know corpses make excellent fertilizer?
no subject
He recognizes, at least, what a buttercup looks like. Common enough, distinctive enough even for a man who has spent his whole life ignoring wreaths and bouquets.
Maybe he's allergic. Fortunately, in the dream, it doesn't seem to matter, and the clusters of yellow around his shins are a simple and pleasant enough journey. So much so that lacking an obvious direction is not an immediately troubling problem, until something does change unexpectedly. Buildings, and people, some he's known and others he just has a concept of, but it's tangible enough. Maybe even conscious, if that's what they should be, but no one who should recognize him seems to.
He struggles to parse whether he finds that troubling or an immense relief. He walks hand-in-hand with misfortune, after all; back in his own world, for someone to meet him at all meant that they were in danger... or that they were the danger, of course.
Approaching the child king, bound and restricted upon their throne, L's brow furrows.]
Yes; I do know that.
[Every possible way that a body could decompose would be known to him, of course. Necessary, really.]
Are you a corpse?
[Because Chara's flowers are growing nicely, however stifling they might be.]
no subject
For a garden this grand, I think we all have to be corpses. You and me, and all the people who could have been our friends if we were capable of such an asinine concept.
[There's an empty smile etched on their face. Like a doll. A toy that's been discarded and left to gather dust.
The flowers seem to grow, blooming at Lazarus' feet. It's an invitation. Be a part of the garden. It's something peaceful, to be condemned to non-existence, a new kind of innocence where flowers can grow and no thought can corrupt you.
A new garden of Eden, forged on the ruins of the fruits of the original. Here lies humanity. They simply couldn't be trusted.]
no subject
[It feels like something nonsensical to say, perhaps more to fill the void of silence than to contribute to any kind of intellectual discourse with new revelations and an expansion of the mind.
He looks out at the flowers when the garden is mentioned, prying his eyes away from the child ruler.]
Why do you find the concept asinine?
[It's an honest question, asked without judgment, or any kind of answering smirk. There's no trap laid here, no determination to "get" Chara.]
If we're all corpses why shouldn't we fraternize? The maggots definitely do, as well as the worms.
no subject
[They have a grin on their face now, that would almost seem sinister if it there weren't an undercurrent of pain to it.]
Because friendships... they're always shallow. Always extensions of ego. All relationships are just a battle of ego in the end, a tug-of-war where each party knows best with no real understanding of the other side. What is the point of trusting anyone? They'll break, betray you, leave you buried in a garden like a bad memory as they flourish into a beautiful bouquet.
It's the easiest way to get hurt. It's the only way to get hurt. It's easier if the corpses are all strangers. They won't question where the flowers come from that way.
no subject
[Through most of the chain of dreams he's wandered through, that sound, deep and low enough to feel if not to hear, has followed him. Infrasound, known to cause a sense of dread or unease, sometimes even hallucinations. Quite literally the sound of fear.
It doesn't seem to be present here. Just the idyllic village lacking both of them, the throne, the man who walked through daffodils to get here.
He shrugs a thin shoulder at Chara's grinning analysis. He knows that he isn't, but in a way it feels like being peripherally seen. His first "friend," after all, hurt him deeply. His first "friend" murdered him, and went on to continue his spree killing for years, presumably.]
How strange that some people still think it's worth it, in the end.
[He slips his hands into his pockets, watching them go about their business.]
Do you think this happened because of friendship?
[This, implicitly, can only mean the sorely-bought massacre of a victory.]
cw for body horror, suicidal ideation
With a hole still in their chest to match the one that the Leviathan gave them, the soul, a small pixelated heart, is locked in the claw as it draws forward to show L.]
Can you disprove this? Can you disprove me?
Yes. Nothing else could have caused this but friendship. It's the downfall of all things. It weakens you. It weakened me. It would have been better if the Leviathan had swallowed the whole world up. At least then we would be free.
My own world is a graveyard, because one person made the mistake of trusting their best friend in all the world to keep his promises. You've seen some of them. Walked on more of them.
cw for body horror, suicidal ideation
It's a dream, Chara. I've seen stranger things, as the mind tries to make sense of what has happened in conjunction and what can be imagined in a sort of fever reconciliation.
[It's his way of saying that while he knows Chara has died a terrible death, dreams are hardly the place to prove or disprove unbelievable things.]
What I take from that is that it's better to forfeit a game because then, at least you won't lose. I reject that premise; I can't help it. It's who I am.
cw for unreality
I know this world is as real as any other. Not here, perhaps, but it's real. I have tended to my garden and now it has become a new beginning to reach the same ends. [Chara shakes their head, suddenly tired. The vines begin to wrap around L's feet.
They laugh, breathless, like L just accidentally made a joke only they could understand.]
When you say it like that, it sounds aspirational. What about the other pieces of the game? Do you give half a damn what fate you inflict upon them with your stubborn desire to keep trying?
I didn't. [That's a lie.] I would have been a fool to. Why would anyone get attached to something that exists solely to die?
cw for unreality
[He startles, feeling the tendrils snaking around his ankles. It's a conscious effort to keep his breathing steady, let alone his voice, but this is conditioned in him. He doesn't panic; that, also, is who he is.]
If the piece is on the board to begin with, it's already lost, and shouldn't be thought of as anything else. Your friends don't belong there; that's the reason for loss, not friendship in and of itself.
[He's not Chara's friend. He also suspects that they share a black and reckless brand of hopelessness, and in his wandering dreams he is not immune to its lightless, crushing pull.]
cw for paranoia about lack of autonomy
Chara's expression is darkly, bitterly amused at Lazarus's words. The vines grow, tangling around Lazarus's feet.]
You misunderstand... [The vines parade around Chara, moving Chara's soul away from their body, and letting the body go limp, just for a moment. The voice comes from the heart, caged by the talons of the vines.] We are not the ones choosing our roles.
Because the game isn't ours to play. [The soul hums with energy.] Do you see the strings binding you to your fate?
cw for paranoia about lack of autonomy
Who is King, then? If it's not us, and the board doesn't belong to our wills.
[He asks with the tone of one humoring, one patient, however existentially distressing the answer might be.]
cw for unreality
How could I even say? In the last game, the board was Sodder's dream, the king was Sodder, the players could be Mother Superior and Ramona. [Chara is still nothing but a heart on a vine, their corpse has become one with the vines. A garden grew from their remains once, why shouldn't it happen again?
The soul speaks in a hollow tone.] Or they could be something out of reach, we could have never woken up. I've lived a lie before, Lazarus. I've been a lie before. And as we speak, lies are blooming from my rotten soul.
Are you a lie, Lazarus?
cw for unreality
[It ends, after all, at precisely the point the King would be slain. Having played chess and other, really death games from a young age, L has probably contemplated this more than most.
Strange things are happening before him. It's a dream and he knows it, so this is not horrifyingly outside of the realm of possibility.
It's still somewhat disturbing, to see that soul, that pulse, that child speaking so sullenly with broken laughter.]
Isn't everyone a lie? We aspire and claim, and who can tell us we're right or wrong?
[L Lawliet, Liar Extraordinaire, is almost blasé about claiming this particular title. It's sad, for one who covets and seeks the truth so much, but bleakly appropriate.]
What is true, to you?
no subject
But I suppose the question is, even if a piece only exists to serve as an avatar to the one sitting at the board, is that piece still as much of a person as the other pieces? [The body in the chair changes in appearance. In fact, it's rapid, but for a moment as the soul speaks, it seems like they're rapidly flickering between different avatars. Different vessels of the SOUL.] Or should they shut up and do their job?
[The soul seems to consider that take on matters, before seeming to accept it.] True enough. But if there's an objective truth, would finding it still matter? Or is it better to leave some things a mystery? Would there be any truth in this life or afterlife of yours that you would willfully choose to not upturn, Lazarus?
Because I know. I know. And I'm a broken toy as a result. Not even my MASTER has any use for me now. [And then, the soul lets out a harsh laugh that dies down, settling into something quieter.] ...Am I mad? I've died more times than I've lived. Did it break me? Or make me strong?
no subject
[L is probably talking about himself. He wears no crown, of course, but others regarded him as though he did. He commanded armies; he fought a self-proclaimed god, and was killed by a real one.
His stakes have always been high. His chess games have rarely just stayed on a board.]
We're talking about the games that really matter. The pieces are never just pieces in those games, even if they have to be considered expendable for it to continue.
[He considers Chara's questions, giving them fair and measured thought.]
Can a toy be broken and stronger at the same time, whatever your master might think?
cw for existentialism, cosmic horror
You are thinking in a self aggrandizing scale. Do you think the pieces are aware that the war is a game? Do you think they ever wonder if their sacrifices mean anything? Of course not. Because they're objects. Tools. Toys. They're not real. Did our game matter? Or was it just numbers?
[The soul hums, the powerful resolve that has kept it alive flickering, even in the dream.]
All I do is break things. That is the purpose of my reincarnation. I am not the destroyer of worlds, but rather the tool used to destroy them. I suppose it's only right that I'm broken.
I wanted to matter. In death, if not in life.
no subject
All of my games matter... and all of the people, as well, even if I have a funny way of showing it.
[To the point where he's been accused, seriously, of sociopathy.]
I think it's sort of freeing, to not matter. You can be as selfish as you want, whether that means dying or living. You don't have to just be a piece on the board anymore, if you don't matter, because even pawns have value. Not mattering means having no value.
[He glances over at the village, which is oblivious to both of their existences.]
This could be heaven... we get to see them happy, and we get to not matter.
Unless you're saying that you want to matter, to someone. In which case, this could be hell.
cw for internal fourth wall breakage
Maybe it matters to the dog, and to their master, in a way Chara will never understand. Chara looks out at the world, and at the people passing by. Paul and Kaworu are talking happily, on their way to some generic school. The flowers shift around them, so they can look as if they're walking when in reality the roots are just moving them. Lysithea is opening a bakery. Sayo is reading a book in the square. Other faces, faces from their own past are here too. Undyne is dressed up as a police officer, directing traffic. Monster Kid is running to the same school as the others. None of it is real. None of it matters. But they're happy anyway.
It hurts anyway.]
Heaven is where they should go.
Hell is what I deserve.
Still, I don't think... them or us, anyone, can be satisfied with something that is solely paradise, or something that is solely damnation. It's... empty, isn't it?
I don't think I like this dream.
no subject
He sighs and closes his eyes for a second, shoulders slumping gently forward like a man resigned to a world without him in it.]
Being human is a little bit of both of those things.
It's alright, you know. You can wake up, and matter again. Just let me leave first, so I'm not lost and wandering longer.
[He could die in the waking world if that goes on too long; he doesn't want to make it sound too important. He doesn't know what this volatile youth would do with that information.]
no subject
[And everything inside of it. The soul returns to the body as the vines surrounding it begin to wilt.]
You should leave, before the Knight is finished it's work. [Even now, there are holes in the world that are just growing deeper. Chara can feel them through the dying roots of the flowers, as everything starts to break down...
Chara will wait for L to go before bringing this dream to an abrupt end.]
/end
He'll ask about the Knight another day. For now, moving on is important; it means he's a step closer to waking, himself, and he might survive this whole ordeal yet if that's something he can manage.
Until next time.]