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| It's the middle of night, and it's dark. There's a chill in the air. Stars, moonlight, articifial lighting, all of it seems to be conspicuously absent.
So where is that patch of even deeper darkness coming from, like a shadow of a shadow? It slips through the air, sensed more by its motion than by sight, creeping closer...
(ooc: for pun theme, a member of shadow galactica as a literal shadow! also, trying out potential for a waking dream; feel free for characters to think they've woken up to find the shadow in their room/wherever they're sleeping - set any scene desired.) | |
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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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| She's already late for school. Homura runs at top speed - and of course she has a test today, which she never realized until this moment. She hasn't studied.
(It's still better than the dreams where she runs into battle, just a moment too late, just in time to see her best and only friend falling-
How many times has that happened? How many times has she relived it in nightmares?)
By the time she rushes into the school, breathless to the alarm of her classmates who are used to her calm punctuality, she wants nothing more than to sink into her seat. But then their confusion turns to laughter. Homura very, very slowly reaches up to her head...
... and runs her fingers along the headband with cat ears Madoka talked her into wearing as a costume when she spent the night. She pulls and tugs and yanks at it, but it won't come off no matter what she does. She frowns uncomfortably. Madoka, a pink-haired girl with pigtails sitting just nearby, gives her a sympathetic smile and will probably use the lunch period to tell her it's alright.
So much for the cool Homura. | |
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| The setting is rather a peaceful one, a gentle summer afternoon. It's neither too hot, nor windy, there's a cloud or two in the sky, but all in all it seems like a perfect day to be outdoors. Excellent picnic weather actually and that was part of the reason the young man was currently sitting on the bank of a wide river.
Roy was dressed simply in a white t-shirt and a pair of brown pants, his shoes currently rested beside him with his socks stuffed into them. He seemed to be waiting on someone to join him as he silently watched the water flow by.
{ooc: Since I decided to start with something light-hearted for once. The man's pre-Ishval here in the dream (which makes him around 18-20) and the setting is of a possible picnic with his best friend, but feel free to replace the expected friend and either brackets or prose are welcome, I'll match either} | |
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| [[Warning: for bloody dream imagery.]]There are moments in dreams where you are not yourself, looking out from the eyes of another. You might be a stranger, or you might be someone you know. In one of these moments, Sephiroth stands watching himself: he can't be mistaken for anyone else in his world, his silver hair and garb distinctive, unique. For a few seconds, his own mind is present and aware within another's body, but the seconds pass. Suddenly, he isn't Sephiroth. He's only watching him. The trees surrounding them are green, in full summer leaf, the foliage lush. Rain is falling from the sky, but only a fine drizzle, the rainfall mixed with sunlight, and the raindrops on the leaves winking where the sun falls. It's Wutai, and they're on assignment here, but somehow, between the rush of urgency and the heat of battle, they find themselves within a quiet moment. No way of telling how long it will last. War is many things, but it is not predictable. There are only a few infantrymen accompanying them. With two First Class SOLDIERs on this mission, there's no need for any more. Standing on the far side of camp, as far from both Sephiroth and the men as he can be without leaving outright, Genesis watches his friend. Sephiroth's hair stands out against the trees, starkly pale yet brightly silver, an attribute that would be a disadvantage for anyone else, but Sephiroth is untouchable. Bullets fly past him, afraid to touch him. His enemies feel dread at the sight of him, and his allies admire him, and so that hair is yet another symbol of his greatness. He's the Hero of this age. Genesis should feel the same admiration that everyone else does, but he doesn't. Instead, he feels a tight knot of emotions, all too closely wound together for him to name. What is it? Why is he suddenly so angry? In his mind, he sees--feathers. They flutter across his vision, as dark as shadows at dusk. The dream flickers. He feels a sharp ache, and he puts a hand to his chest. His glove comes away covered in blood. He holds it up to see it better, blood as vivid as a jewel. He's standing in the middle of an empty, white room, bleeding. There are lights somewhere, far above, like the lights in a hospital, or a laboratory. They hurt his eyes when he glances up. He's never been injured before, not like this. The blood flows and flows and never stops, pouring out of him and into the wider world. Eventually, there's an entire stream of it, coursing over stones and sand like running water, and he's standing on the bank of this sanguine stream, watching that blood that flows like water, so deep. Too deep for him to cross. Sephiroth is in view again, standing on the other side of the stream, the green trees of Wutai behind him. Genesis should be glad to see his friend, shouldn't he? But he isn't. He's angry again, angrier than before, and there's a bitter taste in his mouth, more bitter than blood. [OOC: Sephiroth is seeing himself through the eyes of Genesis, a former friend, subconsciously trying to understand Genesis' thoughts and actions, so this is not necessarily an accurate version of that character, since it's filtered through Sephiroth's own perception, feelings, and memories. Responses will come from literarycriticism, unless Sephiroth breaks back through.] | |
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| She thought she left this all behind.
It's the type of sunny day just made for a sports meet. There are races, hurdles, jumps, throwing events, everything imaginable and everyone is qualified. The crowds cheering them on are equalled by the crowd participating. The track is smooth and the fields are perfectly trimmed, with the smell of fresh grass.
Homura should be completely in her element here, but instead she looks horribly out of place. Her glasses are broken (she'd fallen earlier), there are cuts and scrapes along her knee, and the prim braids she's suddenly wearing her hair in have started to unravel. Worse, she barely runs a few steps without obvious pain.
She tries anyway, a valiant effort competing in one of the later races. When she falls to her knees, exhausted already, a few classmates give less than sympathetic looks, and make comments about her weak body and medicine she takes all the time. Homura just concentrates on breathing. | |
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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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| He knows, when he's awake, that it's impossible. He'll never have children. For a variety of reasons. He's devoted to his work. He has no time. Physiologically, due to his altered genes and the radiation treatments, he is unable to father children. Even if he could, with medical assistance, would he want to? Wouldn't any children he fathered belong to ShinRa as well?
What would become of such children? Would they grow wings and fly away? The idea isn't as far-fetched as it should be, considering what had happened to his friends. Why would he want children in a world like this?
But he's dreaming now. In dreams, he can have another life. He's dressed in plain clothes, black pants and a white dress shirt, standing in a a room, in a house. An ordinary house. It's not in Midgar, but somewhere else, far away. He can look through the window and see trees. The curtains are wide open, and sunlight pours in through them, and he knows, somehow, that this is "home". His home. With the certainty of a dreamer, who can believe impossible things, he knows that his family lives here. His children. There are pictures of them on the wall. Their possessions can be seen here and there, and some of the books on the shelves are theirs--not his own dry volumes about science and military history. He stands there for a while, not doing anything in particular, quiet and distantly content as he takes in this place, this existence, becomes accustomed to it.
He doesn't stir until hears a sound behind him. There someone here with him. He turns and smiles at them, a casual, fond smile for someone he sees almost every day of his life. "Hello." He asks a simple question. "How was your day?"
[[OOC: Anyone is welcome to be one of Sephiroth's "kids". (Relatives or spouses of any gender to talk about family are also welcome, if you prefer.) Feel free to age characters down, if you like, but grown up kids are also fine. Prose or action spam both welcome; I'll match you.]] | |
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| [As the dream begins, there is a simple stretch of land shown. It looks like a stretch of land one might find in the western part of her world. There's no city or town within sight of it, though there are some mountains off in the distance, their peaks cloaked in the white of snow and ice.
At first, all one sees is the healthy grasses and wildflowers gently swaying in the small breezes which blow through this apparent valley. There's no person within immediate sight, but if one observes some of those flowers and grasses, they would note that some of the petals of the flowers have an unnatural reddish hue and the the same can be said for some of the blades of grass, their green turned into a wet rusty color as if someone bleeding and injured had passed through them.
If one were to follow that grim trail, they'd eventually the woman responsible for it seated in a area where the grasses have been cut down close to the grown. Unlike within her previous dream, she's only within part of her usual attire, the coat being the most obvious thing missing. The next most obvious thing is the blood which graces the front of her chest from the shoulder down. Beneath the mess is the wound responsible for it and even though it has already healed in waking... it has had such impact and importance to her, she's kept it from vanishing so simply here.
It doesn't seem to bother her much however, and thus her mind is currently elsewhere forming plans for the time to come ahead.] | |
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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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