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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!]
no subject
So, two turtles!
[ he remembers which is which more from the animal the bill has printed, and not the actual number. with the bicycle at a tilted stop, shōyō goes for his regular old backpack—
and freezes when he remembers that his wallet was stolen.
maybe he should just keep sifting through his zippers and show so much of his shocking realization . . . . ]
I— just gotta find some change . . .
[ awkwardly, he bows his head and rummages faster. please let him find some change, the first time he’s about to pay for anything in which looks kind of like a date—! ]
no subject
He's probably piloted a helicopter more times in his life than he's handled cash.]
Oh... don't worry about it. It's really OK...
[He sounds disappointed, but he's already taking action as the Paleblood in the situation. There's a kind of very simple and lovely logic to the knowledge that boardwalks are traveled by lots of people, and people drop things, and sure enough, caught in the corner of the walk and one of its posts is a 20-turtle note. He plucks it up, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.]
Look, we can both buy five now.
no subject
I owe you again, don’t I . . . [ it was his time, his moment . . . and it’s in the dirt. either way, they couldn’t let their ice cream wait too much, so— ] Which ones do you want?
[ peeking in, there should be coconut, passion fruit, corn, lemon, mango and strawberry flavors. ]
no subject
The sweet ones.
[Always the sweet ones. Reliably, he will never, ever pick differently.]
Two passionfruit, one mango, and two strawberry, for me.
[That's his five. He looks expectantly at Shōyō to see how he'll use his half of the note.]
no subject
No Açaí, huh . . . [ the miracle fruit for all health freaks, but since that’s not on the menu— he settles with a choice that took him what seemed like two important ages to decide: ] —Five passion fruit.
[ those vitamins are his! he holds five fingers up and gives the order: cinco maracujá pra mim, dois pra ele, dois de morango também, e uma de manga. one by one and then in couples, shōyō holds their wrapped popsicles to him. ]
no subject
[He jokes, as they pay and accept the popsicles. Five each might have been a little excessive, but what else are they going to do with dream money?]
There are some advantages to being Paleblooded. As dangerous as dreamwalking can be... there are things it's possible to control that I never could in the waking world.
[He unwraps his first passionfruit, knowing there's a 100% chance that they'll be experiencing the same flavor. He's having a little bit of difficulty, though, on account of his mouth and lips being excessively, concerningly dry.
He holds it out to let it melt a little more in the Sun, a slight knit in his brow.]
no subject
shoyo listens, but due to his dreaming state— he hears it, understands it, but doesn't compute with it. what kind of stuff wouldn't he be able to do? what dangers? what's more concerning is lazarus waiting on his popsicle to drip into juice. shoyo makes sure to keep his foot planted so his bike doesn't fall and take them both to the ground, but . . . maybe it's uncomfortable. he leans over then, just over lazarus' shoulder. ]
. . . Do your teeth hurt?
no subject
[He shrugs. He probably needs beaucoup dental work. He tries not to think about it.]
It's just dry... sort of tacky on my tongue. He's kept them cold, which is a good thing, but... it hurts to put it in dry. Everyone knows that.
no subject
Oh, oh, uh-huh— [ quick!! say something natural! ] You can always, like . . . bite the tip? Then it all melts in your mouth.
[ —he can’t unsee, now that he sees. ]
no subject
[A pause.]
Sensitive teeth, like I said.
[He sucks softly on the end of the popsicle, impatient for it to melt faster.]
no subject
shōyō, of course, has to break it. ]
What if you do it with your lips instead?
no subject
Like this?
[His pulls his lips back over his teeth, creating a comical and frozen expression that is difficult and unnatural to maintain. Speaking with it in place is even more so.]
Old men must eat popsicles this way, sans dentures.
no subject
it probably looks ridiculous. shōyō even loses part of a piece that breaks and falls on his shorts, the rest of the juice dribbling down his chin. despite his attempt to evade and spread his legs away from the piece, throw his head forward, it still finds its way there.
well, he just laughs at that, too. ]
It was a bad idea!
no subject
[It didn't start as a bad idea! It just became one!]
This actually almost tastes real. Objectively, getting these was 100% a good idea.
no subject
[ dream shōyō has certainly forgotten he’s dreaming to begin with! he could taste the acid tang on his tongue and down his throat. the sun’s heat quickly melting their many, many popsicles. ]
Almost.
[ something clicks in shōyō, wolfing down the last piece of only one of the five as he brings himself to spring to his feet. ]
—I gotta go.
no subject
[L sounds crestfallen, but he nods.]
Yeah, you... should wake up before you get hurt. Make sure that you get home OK.
[He's sorry that, apparently, he'll be asleep for a lot longer and won't be able to help.]
no subject
I'm not going home— I need to find you. [ but how does he....... do that. it's not exactly happening the second he wants! still on his feet and mulling it over . . . ] I just. Need to wake up.
[ does slapping himself work? shoyo tries. it doesn't. ]
no subject
I can help you find the way out so you can wake up. After that...
[He pauses. This whole time he still hasn't really worked himself up to the challenge and sheepishness of telling Shōyō just what he's done.]
I'm in the Pale Sanctuary. If you go in and take a left, instead of going down the main hall, there are some rooms that aren't used much. The fourth one down, in that room, there is a red chaise longue.
[He's realizes that Shōyō might not know what that is.]
...That's like a long couch. Anyway, I'm under it, close to the wall.
[He doesn't say that he probably needs medical attention. That'll be clear enough once he's found, if it isn't already. The herbs he swallowed have slowed his bodily processes down, but his brain is using just as much energy as ever, possibly more. He can't remain there indefinitely.]
no subject
his attention is acute and focused. he had to write down directions, but he can't here. he repeats it to himself, and pours every bit of brainpower into remembering it: pale sanctuary, left, past main hall, fourth room, red couch, under. pale sanctuary, left, past main hall, fourth room, red couch. left, fourth room down, couch— ]
But why are you—
[ in nothing short of a blink, where shoyo once stood, brushing his fingers over his thumb, he's now gone and the spot empty. what stands there is his bike, and melting popsicles in the sunny heat of rio de janeiro. in real time— he's jolted awake with oikawa shaking his shoulders to take him home.
he no longer feels like dancing, like he has an annoying amount of indisputable energy. his corruption has lowered to a safe level, with only one goal in mind as he left for pale sanctuary: find lazarus. he's not feeling positive about this anymore, and his joints were beginning to ache again. the herbal mixes of anti-inflammatory vials are beginning to lose their effect, but he couldn't stop now.
he was an athlete; he could take this sort of ache before it rids him to bed and wears him to sleep. pale sanctuary. left. past the main hall. fourth door. couch. ]
no subject
He glances away, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth and understanding what must be happening outside of all of this. Another debt, on top of a few at least, for him to pay forward, considering all the trouble.
When Shōyō arrives at the Pale Sanctuary, he'll find exactly what he was promised. The unconscious body of a scrawny, dark-haired man is there, curled discreetly beneath the chaise longue in room 4. He's been overlooked this whole time, and perhaps wished it to be that way. His lips are excruciatingly dry and his half-closed eyes are rolled back; when examined they move back and forth, as though in a dream, but he cannot be woken. Only sustained, until he emerges in his own time.
think this one is at a good spot! 👌
and find him, he did, but under such worrying circumstances that shōyō didn’t linger there or keep his friend to continue in his solitary and confined to his own penance. even if it hurt is fingers to shake him, even more so his arms, biceps and abdomen to lift him into his arms and fast walk to the closest infirmary wing available to them, he’d ignore it.
if lazarus is to return at his own time, then at least he would do so safely. hydrated, watched over, monitored— by the time shōyō had his arms empty he quite nearly lost his footing by the scrambling at lazarus’ brand new hospital bed. he needed a bed, himself.
as long as the other was safe, he’d allow himself that very same and necessary rest. he just didn’t need a bed for it, actually. just a chair would do. a chair and some blankets. he’d stay right at his bedside, until then. it ached every joint in his hand the hold lazarus’ and give it an occasional squeeze, if it’d help wake him up.
he never left, not even after those eyes opened at last. ]