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| [ On the outset, there's nothing really sinister about the little mountain town. Cast in the dull, grey-green daylight filtering down through a summer-thinned cap of fog, it may seem eerie - especially mountainside, where the winding trails begin and the shadow of that grand, abandoned manor looms (if asked, of course, the locals will tell you it's haunted; about this, the children are quite serious, and the adults only moderately less so). But it is a safe haven away from the badly mutated monsters that roam the countryside freely and before the equally bloodthirsty spires of the nigh impassable range beyond.
There is a cozy inn, a well-stocked general store, and a small population of drably-garbed villagers bustling about. The shouts of the town's few children racing to and fro echo through the crisp, clear air; nearer to the center of the town's miniature main common, the steady flow of water in the towering well adds to the calm, almost sleepy atmosphere that pervades this simple, scenic little wide spot in the road.
On the surface, there's nothing wrong at all. Unless, that is, you happen to spot the lone resident here who seems the least bit out of place.
He looks just like a native: a pale, blue-eyed child with blond hair that stands up adamantly in messily arranged spikes - even at the ends, where it's been pulled back into a short ponytail. His clothes are a little big for him - a boy of no more than seven or nine, give or take a year or two if he's small for his age (and he is) - including the scuffed up, clunky brown boots on his feet. There are grass stains and ground in dirt in dark patches on his shirt and shorts, both a little threadbare. And he is insubstantial to the point of transparency, a shadow in the shadow of the well with his half-corporeal hands clasped around something obscured just enough to be of no shape at all, hidden in his grip where it hovers just before his chest.
He seems anxious, as children attempting to keep obvious secrets out in the open often are, but not bothered by the fact that no one else here appears able to see him. Whenever a villager drifts close, they always abruptly change course, or stop, as if remembering some other forgotten errand, and promptly trace their steps back. Nobody glances in his direction except to look past him to some other point in the distance. (If asked, of course, he'll say it's normal, and with all due sincerity, too.)
With one last furtive glance cast over the house across the dusty little plaza from him, he rolls the object over in his hands and comes to some crucial decision. Setting out determinedly from the safe spot beneath the water tower, Cloud skirts past his own home, giving it a wide berth, and forges determinedly on toward the twisting path that leads out of town - and up into the Nibel mountains. ][ ooc: no theme, just horrible!! childhood dreams. B[ i have no excuse. responses will come from ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png) justskinnedknees unless/until Cloud reverts to his usual self. ] | |
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| [ Well, it's not exactly a novel dream - the perfectly formed scenery fits the desert island cliché to a T, though it's quite a bit more expansive than a rock with two palm trees sticking out of the middle. Above the rolling dunes that sweep down to the surf, a lush green forest rises to cover most of the visible, the tangle of trees thick enough to seem impenetrable (and half of them completely out of place, in a tropical climate). The only thing this leafy, viney (pine tree dotted) brush doesn't ensconce is the narrow mountain range rising from the center of the island. From those towering masses of land, slate grey and tipped with thin spires and a halo of fog (or perhaps smoke), volcanic activity seems the least of all potential dangers.
But all of that's merely an exciting backdrop to the true mundanity of this phantasm. Shored up at the very top of a wave of fine, yellow sand, sits a desk - plain and spare and rusting at the hinges, in no way special at all. And at it, nearly topped over in height by the towering stacks of (random, unsorted, some completely unlabeled) textbooks, sits Cloud.
Hunched intently over something - pages of notes, upon closer inspection - he pays no mind to the intermittent call of seabirds on the breeze, nor the way that lazy warm puff of air tugs at the messy spikes of his hair. He's scribbling furiously. Then considering. Then turning over the pencil in his hand and erasing with equal ferocity. Rinse, repeat, and more than once on the same line, with increasing frustration.
It's only when one of the precariously balanced texts atop his leaning tower spills over and slides down the sandy slope of the dune on the other side of the desk that he stops with a start, dropping his pencil and his notes at once. Skating around the edge of his desk, through the shifting ground, he all but dives after the book, snatching it back up and sinking to a stop in a small avalanche of sand. With an inaudible sigh of relief, Cloud digs his socked feet in (boots tucked safely into the hollow beneath his desk) and starts to haul himself back up the to the crest of the dune, and the loose pile of notes in desperate need of endless correction. ] | |
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| [This certainly is unexpected. While the Lombax's roaming dreams had been quiet for quite some time, the scene begins to play out nonetheless, taking place aboard a dark cell, echoing all around its steel walls with the sound of lapping waves.
The ground itself shifts as well, unsteady and inconsistent, and a look at your cell-mate would show the little alien critter in... an unfamiliar attire.
And was that the sound of... pirates, just outside the door? Though they sound more mechanical somehow, chortling and clanging and peering in with glowing golden eyes from time to time to inspect their prisoners with smug faces and loud, roudy laughter. Ratchet himself seems unfazed by this, sitting upon a makeshift bed and eyeing the drunken disruptors with a sly expression.]Just keep your head down and follow my lead. [Slipping off the bed, he reaches for his wrench.]Everything's going exactly as planned. | |
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| [This dream starts in what appears to be a cave, though a very small one, much taller than it is long or wide. It doesn't seem all that cramped or scary, though - light filters in from the outside, thanks to a hole in the stone at the top, and the walls are easy to see.
Actually, for a tiny cave, this place is fairly inviting. Moss grows on some of the rocks, and the area feels safe rather than closed-in, like a little hiding spot that you can go in and out of at any point. In fact, that's exactly what it is. Should you go to the opening, which is a very short walk, you'll find that it opens to the outside; a small, peaceful tropical island.
But good luck getting outside before a certain someone notices that you're there. A little boy, who some may recognize as Sora, is sitting comfortably near one of the walls of the cave. He picks up a piece of chalk and starts drawing what...looks like an attempt that drawing some kind of animal. In fact, the walls are covered in these drawings; childish scribbles of animals and adventures and stars.
There's also something else strange about this cave; a door, built right into the very back. No, not built - it looks like it belongs there, or has always been there. But what could it be for?
Well, whatever it is, it's not opening anytime soon. Besides, Sora has put down his chalk, already standing up and looking right at your before you have much of a chance to investigate anything.
Talk to the small, slightly confused looking child?] | |
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| You find yourself standing beneath a dark, clouded sky, with a great tower rising before you. A forbidding sight, so at first it's easy to overlook one aspect of the scene that seems somehow out of place. Yet if one is observant, one may notice that there's a long, unbound skein of silver hanging down one side of the building, from an open window that's quite high up (the 67th Floor, to be precise). In that high chamber, Sephiroth sits waiting, thoughtful and even a little wistful. He isn't supposed to let his hair down without being ordered to do so, but he tires of his seclusion here, and of following orders. The doors and lower windows of the tower cannot be entered, sealed by some force, and guarded. There appears to be no viable way to enter, other than that strange, pale, silver fall of hair. So, do you climb it? [[OOC: The tale of Sephpunzel. Relevant image. If you'd like to be already in the story or play some character other than the rope-climber, be my guest!
You can also request child Sephiroth (pinnaculum) instead of adult Sephiroth, but I'll default to adult if not specified otherwise.]] | |
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| [ They were five-and-twenty artificial soldiers. One through twenty-four a perfect set, prized by their creator and the ruler they served, and he the last, the one built of spare and scrap left over from the rest.
Many a time, he had considered this an utterly unconscionable cruelty - that he should have been made, at all, of inferior metal and unfinished, as he was. With one whole leg missing, he would never be able to match his brethren in prowess or efficiency as a weapon, but somehow not even such a glaring deficiency had spared him this fate of inadequacy. So much as his inferiority had isolated and internally embittered him, though, over the years, it had also made him determined.
As all living things, even machines, were given to the will to survive, he had developed a fearsome dedication to proving himself useful to spite his innate failings. While the other soldiers marched off to fight, to pursue the grandest quests at the behest of their leader, he would stay behind - standing guard vigilantly at the gate of the great tower wherein their ruler resided, until the inevitable return of those (fewer and fewer than) twenty-four. It was from here that he would watch over what that he could, ever diligent, still close enough that should he be needed for any menial task, it would be no trouble at all to call on him, but neatly tucked out of the way, in the meantime, leaning on the long rifle at his side as a crutch only in the instances when his precarious balance failed him.
Ordinarily, that was. He would stand still and stalwart as a statue through rain and wind and drifting snow, unflinching (lest one look closely enough to discern the slightest shift), but on this perfectly pleasant Spring day, his post stood curiously vacant.
They wouldn't miss him, he'd thought, for one evening of absence. He would hurry back just as quick as he could, once he'd had done with his business in the city. (And on this point, he was very gravely serious with himself, for he'd heard the infrequent gossip among the passersby who oft visited his grand benefactor, always talk of putting him to better use by melting him down for spare parts. A fate anyone should wish to avoid.) But the draw of this particular sight had been impossible to resist.
Not three days had passed since the parade procession had marched past his well-worn divot in the stone of the tower courtyard, the traveling band of circus performers still every bit as bright and vividly colorful in his memory, now. On the whole, such a distraction would not usually have been enough drawn him away from his sworn duty - but among the rabble he had glimpsed one most elegant performer. A dancer, of some sort, he'd imagined, not so worldly as to know the proper term. A dancer who swept and spun so gracefully on tiptoe, one foot on the ground, it was almost like floating.
Since then, he'd become fixated on the brief memory, certain that if only he could learn to be so capable, as he was, then surely he'd be allowed to prove himself on the battlefield just like the others. And it was with this in mind that he set out on the city streets, moving as inconspicuously as a one-legged, mechanical soldier could. ][ ooc: All aboard the tl;dr express for a very special rendition of The Steadfast Tin Soldier (summary in case you're already tired of those deer), starring Mini Cloud as the eponymous soldier and... everybody else, as either the ballerina or the goblin or one of the other soldiers or literally anything else you can possibly imagine.
Of course, it's up to individual discretion whether or not this version ends up as horribly as the original. :3c ] | |
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| [Cosmos is seated on her throne in Order's Sanctuary, though her thoughts are far from the Conflict. Within her arms is a young monster-child with six arms and spikes coming from his head. Anyone from the cycle or wars would note that this "child" looks like a young, miniature version of Chaos and that Cosmos is nearly playing a maternal role for him. If anyone approaches her, the child will vanish into thin air and her attention will once more turn to keeping the world whole.
The Sanctuary itself is at peace, a bastion of of calm, with clear waters underfoot and soft clouds filling the air, from which sunlight streams through in beams. Streaks of green light arc across the area, shimmering with divine power.]((ooc: Permissions post is here if you want to drop in on it first.)) | |
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| A little girl lost her father when she was still young. Realizing she also had no godfather, she decided to seek one out for herself. However, who should it be? The Light, she felt, was too careless of the people it should care for; but the Darkness often deceived its followers, too. In the end, she chose Death as her godfather, for Death put no person above another. Once this was arranged, Death took his goddaughter to a well-known research laboratory. There, he showed her certain compounds and medicines that could cure any illness, no matter how grave. Moreover, whenever she made her rounds at the hospital, Death himself would appear at the beside. If he stood near the head, then she was free to give the patient the medicine and see them recover. But if Death stood by the feet, then the patient was already claimed by him and nothing would suffice. It was their time to go with him. As Death knew she would, the girl worked diligently and became a very famous doctor, said to be the youngest in the world and praised for being able to tell when a patient would live or die, and for her miraculous cures. One by one, her patients lived, and they showered her with fame and money. For as long as she obeyed her godfather's advice, everything went well for her - for as long as she obeyed her godfather's advice. And so, the physician walked confidently into the room with her next patient. (ooc: Taken from Godfather Death. Open to any type of encounter, including cheating Death for close friends/CR.)- Tags:!theme: 2012-04, ami mizuno [v2], cloud strife [v1.1], kuja [v1], usagi tsukino [v1], ᘚ ange ushiromiya [v1], ᘚ cloud strife [v1], ᘚ kadaj [v1], ᘚ kieri artfiel phelan [v1.1], ᘚ nephrite [v1], ᘚ reno [v1], ᘚ rufus shinra [v1]
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| The scenery within this new (perhaps not quite) foreign subconscious is a confused jumble, as if its unsuspecting creator cannot quite decide just where to be — a snowy mountainside has burst up from beneath the streets of a staircase city set into the rise of sheer, seaside cliff. The pieces are whole, details sharp and clear on narrow, towering buildings all crammed close together and rocky outcroppings with their blankets of heavy snow (still falling, as it is, in weird pockets only over corresponding ground).
But these little scenes are shattered among each other, shifting constantly, uncertain as the blank, white sky above, which reflects a dull grey in the ocean below. Where these two endless, colorless stretches of space reach to meet on the horizon, they blend seamlessly, as if meeting the edge of this conflicting reality might be as easy as setting sail for the fragile inner boundary of the eggshell shape it almost appears to be locked within.
Bright and cold, the silence falls as heavy as the inclement weather, in each vacuum of space that covers the mountainside, doing its best to muffle the staccato beat of his boots on uneven pavement broken over icy faces of stone and the competing race of his heart, now trying its hardest to burst clear out of his chest. (And in a dream, who's to say it mightn't?) With his rifle hugged tight against his back by its strap, where it beats a solid rap against his shoulder blades, a sharp reprimand for every stumble, a lone soldier in drab blue is fighting a very literal uphill battle.
The uniform he wears obscures all of him but the lower half of the pale, strained expression writ across his face, solemn as he barrels up the insurmountable slope in leaps and bounds, shadows chasing behind as he rounds a street corner onto another craggy patch of open ground. Snow kicks up in misty clouds around his ankles as he stumbles, but doesn't stop, always only one step ahead of his pursuers.
They're monsters, or maybe only the distant memory of a child's imagining of such, solid enough as they crumble up out of the earth in his wake. But they fade to dust as phantoms while he manages still to evade the catch of claws and snapping jaws at the heels of his badly scuffed black boots, the shirttail tucked under his belts. Shameful as it is not to stand and fight, outpacing them is this dream's objective, instead, and he can't seem to stop his feet from moving on, hands scrabbling at each new hold to pull himself higher.
At least not on his own. | |
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