Event Log: April, Dream a Little Dream

[faileas]

Event Log: April, Dream a Little Dream (Of Me)

I. The Looking-Glass House These strange shared dreams are part and parcel of being Mirrorbound, nothing too unusual for those who entered this world through similar dreams and then a mirror. No doubt you've all experienced your share by now. Normally those dreams have something to say about the world, something to show Mirrorbound about their new temporary home, but this time... This time, it has something to show the Mirrorbound about each other, perhaps. The Looking-Glass House, from the outside, seems no different from how it looks in the waking world. Each cobblestone still glows as you step upon it, drawing your attention toward the entryway of the two-story cottage that sits at the edge of the Coven's courtyard. You can still wander the Coven grounds if you'd like, but nothing is different from how it will be when you wake, save the lack of bustling Witches and Monsters going about their business. Areas that are normally inaccessible are still inaccessible. Whatever secrets this dream may hold, they all lie within the hall of mirrors. Perhaps you haven't had reason to step into this building in some time, or maybe you're here often, checking for new arrivals. Maybe you only recently arrived here and the sight of these mirror-lined hallways is fresh in your mind. Something has changed, however... Many of the hundreds of mirrors on the walls remain the same: dull, dusty, undecorated, some cracked or broken. As lifeless as a mirror can get. Yours, if you seek it out, looks the same as it did to you on your arrival - the frame covered in reminders of your home, your life, the surface of it clear and shiny-new. But this time, in this dream, yours is not the only one you can see signs of life in. Other mirrors also have the clear, silvery glass within their frames that yours does, indicating a connection to someone currently in Aefenglom. Maybe you can pick out the mirrors of people you know by the few carvings in the frames you can pick out; the closer you are to someone, the more of their mirror's decoration you're able to see, though the frames of strangers' mirrors remain unadorned to your gaze. You might feel yourself compelled to lay your hand on one of these silvery-bright mirrors, and when you do, the glass ripples like movement on a still pond. Like water, it allows you entry to another time, another place, another world - or at least, the memory of such. Who knows what you'll witness there, something beautiful or something terrible, but you only have to slip back through the mirror into the Looking Glass House to end it.

Welcome to April's event log, Dream a Little Dream! This event is a little more 'make your own fun' than others (since we are not currently in a place to be able to run a plot-heavy event this month), so feel free to play with the dream mechanics generally as you will. The main things to keep in mind are: memories are from the character's point of view however you choose to interpret that; memories cannot be altered or show a character something they could not have witnessed; please be considerate when using other people's characters in a memory, and visitors cannot directly interact with people/NPCs within a memory. Interacting with creatures/environment of a memory is fine. Otherwise, have fun! As always, feel free to use this log or make your own, and direct event-related questions here.

Comments

QUESTIONS

[moustre]

[silentsavant]

Do the mirrors of dropped characters remain in the Looking-Glass House as relics of sorts that can't be interacted with? If so, can they be seen by characters who once knew them well enough to differentiate them from plain mirrors?

Connor | Detroit: Become Human | Merrow (OTA)

[plasticasshole]

[Thrown into another dream again, Connor can't say he's surprised at this point. You learn to get used to it, and though he couldn't predict exactly when this would happen he had a feeling something would go down mid-month. He's probably collapsed somewhere in the house again while his mind wanders. He wasn't expecting to find himself at the Looking-Glass House again, though. Wondering what it is he's supposed to find here, he looks for his own mirror.

Connor's mirror is divided into halves. One half is very angular and mechanical-looking, with circuits running over the frame. The other half is softer, smoother, with intricate round carvings on it in place of circuits. The transition between halves is smooth. It's the same mirror Connor remembers as his own, though now there's that blue, shimmering light coming from it- and touching it causes the glass to ripple...]

--


Connor's First Mission;
[Connor saves a little girl from a deviant android threatening to jump off a building with her. Characters who are familiar with Connor's Merrow form may recognise his colours on the fish he saves. Connor here is cold and unemotional, having only just been activated.
CW: There are dead people

Relevant timestamps:
Investigation start
Going to confront the deviant]

Sobering Up Hank;
[Connor finds Hank unconscious in his home and proceeds to sober him up for his own safety.
CW: Suicidal behaviour, alcoholism, vomiting]

Connor Is Traumatised;
[Hank and Connor arrive on the scene of Stratford Tower after Markus and his allies make a speech demanding equal rights for androids. Heading to the roof, they find Simon, and Connor gets a glimpse into his memory before he shoots himself to protect the other deviants. Connor, still connected to him, feels him die.
CW: Suicide]

Becoming Deviant;
[Connor goes to confront Markus at Jericho, but Markus convinces him to join the deviants instead.]

CyberLife Tower;
[Connor, now deviant, heads to CyberLife Tower to convert the thousands of androids there. He runs into another Connor model (Connor-60) who is still loyal to CyberLife, and has taken Hank hostage. The two Connors fight until Hank points his gun at them and asks them a series of questions. The Connor-60 is killed, and Connor converts the androids.
CW: Connor shoots people

Relevant Timestamps:
Connor in the elevator
Connor-60 shows up]

--

[He can't say he's particularly proud of some of these memories- the first one in particular. But apparently, nobody has secrets here.]

(Hit me up at novicecity if you want to hash anything out or plot!)

First Mission

[showsnopiety]

That...is quite poetic.

[The fish that is. She knew the scales, how they looked on his skin. But...she hadn't expected to come across this scene. The elevator, she thought he was just fooling around for the sake of it, but seeing the wreck was...

It looked as if it was a break in. Her ears flickered, and she watched as the rescued fish went swimming around in their broken aquarium.

She took a moment to trail her fingers through the water-and it felt real. One of these dreams then.

With a slow sigh, she shook her hand, and made to follow, curious as to what was going on.]

Saber (Arturia Pendragon) | Fate/Zero | OTA

[arturiarex]

Hall of Mirrors

"This place is different," Saber says, feeling very much as if she is in another dream. Perhaps it is. She's used to this by now, honestly. "The mirrors... were not like this when we arrived, were they? Did they all glow or gleam like this?"

She has an urge to explore; to see what she can find. Maybe she can help someone else.

The Sword in the Stone
Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone, is rightwise king born

The day is bright; a blue sky, with scudding, white clouds overhead. A field of green grass, some outbuildings standing nearby, and sitting in the center of it all, as if the whole world were a vast arena and this its center, is a white stone, a sword with a gold and blue hilt standing straight up out of it. On the stone is an inscription, reading Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone, is rightwise king born.

For the moment, nothing stirs besides the breeze that comes blowing gently, shifting the grass and trees. It is a perfect day. A good day. And Saber watches it all with a mask of dispassionate disinterest. She takes a few steps towards the stone and the sword and stares at it for a long moment before she reaches out to grasp the hilt, fingers flexing. She seems to consider and then removes her hand with a shake of her head.

"This was my destiny once; but it is for my younger self now."

And, unspoken, the one she wishes she could undo.

The Battle of Camlann
Gueith camlann in qua Arthur et Medraut corruerunt.

This memory is not a pleasant one. An sun - seemingly engorged beyond belief - hangs low in the sky, casting everything in a red evening light. The field and hill might be beautiful and green at another time, but now it is strewn with the dead and wounded of a great battle. Men in armor, dead and dying horses, other horses running wild. The shouts and screams of men fighting for their lives and the stench of death and blood rising over it all. The clash of metal against metal and the groans of the dying surround it all.

Saber stands amidst the carnage, face twisted into an expression of despair, watching as it all unfolds around her, unable to intervene. This is not a pleasant memory for her and it has stirred her enough to break her usual mask of stoicism. She takes a few halting steps through the ongoing melee and the crush of men striving for victory. Banners of red and blue float overhead, trying to rally the two opposing sides.

"This should not have happened," she speaks aloud, unheard by the participants, who are locked into their parts as actors on a stage.

[ ooc: If you'd like to visit a different memory of Saber's, let me know! We can work something out. ]

[lucubrates]

A familiar scene comes to pass: A sword in a stone beneath a blue sky, hidden away in nature and left for it's master. Initially, such sights make her, too, want to explore and prod and look in all manner of nooks and crannies; the outdoors are a wonderful place to do that, after all. This isn't the Lost Woods, no, but it could well enough be nearly the same if it, too, is home to a slumbering blade.

She makes to move beyond it's perch, to take to the world and inspect it with a curious fine comb, but Saber approaches the sword and...

Rejects it. Briefly, Zelda wonders what would have happened if Link had done the same. Turned at the hip, she presses a fist to her chest, and avoids the other woman's gaze for a moment, gathering her thoughts.

"Once... it was I who placed such a sword in a stone." She pauses, looking to the recollection of blades of grass, still. They're greener than she's ever seen, but has dreamed in such a vibrant verdant. "Do you reject it, or wish to leave the past where it lies?"

A genuine question, one that she poses as she reaches for the hilt with her free hand. She has a recollection of the Master Sword's hilt: This is nothing like it. Still, she almost feels the ghost of that sword in her hands, nearly hears the voice within it.

Momo | IDOLiSH7 | Witch (also courtesy spoiler warning for i7 second beat)

[yesdoubt]

[a: mirror, mirror (open for plotted memories or anyone who wants a random memory)]

[With so many mirrors to choose from, how to decide which one to step into? Perhaps it's a choice at random, if one doesn't know Momo well enough for any of the mirror's features to identify themselves. However, those who've met him may see some small, but telltale signs in the few carvings that show themselves. The intricate carvings are of largely innocuous things in what's visible - a soccer ball, a pair of microphones, two unusual but identical rings shaped like musical repeat symbols (matching the one Momo is never seen without) linked around each other and bound with a ribbon bow. Those who know him a little better may see some lines of lyrics - "I want my feelings to surpass words and reach you", "Only two hearts in love can begin to change this ambiguous colour", and other disjointed lines isolated from their songs. Tucked away in the top right corner is the last of the small number of carvings anyone will be able to see, a simple bust of a pretty, long-haired man that trails artfully into flowers and snowflakes at the bottom before the wood smooths out.

Regardless of how well one knows Momo or how many carvings can be seen, though, the surface of the mirror ripples in that telling way when touched, and scenery will start to form the moment one steps through. The surroundings are still likely to be vague and in the process of deciding what they are when something else also starts to form - Momo, hazy and perched on an object that's still taking its shape, dressed in the bright orange horror movie hoodie he arrived in Aefenglom wearing. It's enough to inform whose memory it is even if the mirror itself wasn't enough of a signal, and the still-forming figure appears conscious enough to respond to someone else's presence, head turning towards them even as his face hasn't quite come into sharp focus yet, eyes unsettling neon pink dots. But as for what the memory itself is...

...well, that's a roll of the dice, isn't it?]

--

[b: through the looking glass (open memories)]
(i. bloody eve, cw: violence and blood further into the memory)

[Some who walk through the mirror will find themselves in a small live house for concerts, only able to hold about 300 people but packed with that amount already, all with nothing less than the most rapt attention for the two young men on stage. One is a touch shorter than the other, with short silvery hair and clear blue eyes shining with reserved pleasure, perhaps identifiable as a much younger version of the man in the carving on Momo's mirror. The taller is blue haired and blue eyed, earnest and straightforward as he smiles to the cheering crowd, the noise level rising as the final notes of the previous song come to a close.

In the crowd, no more than a few steps away from where someone entered from, is Momo - but not Momo as anyone here knows him. This Momo is in his late teens at the absolute oldest, his hair plain black instead of bearing the white-frosted tips he has now, nails unpainted, lacking his ring. There's something almost shy in his bearing, hands close to his chest, but he's bright-eyed and attentive to the stage, watching the two performers with an intensity only a completely dedicated fan can pull together.

And right behind him, one hand outstretched as if wanting to reassure his younger self even though he can't touch him, is the current Momo, expression lost in thought. It's not until the blue-haired man on the stage speaks that he raises his head, his mouth curling in an almost embarrassed, self-conscious sort of way.

"Thank you! Our next song will be--"

"Hold up!" A much harsher voice interrupts before the blue-haired man can finish, belonging to the leader of a larger, rougher looking band that's now storming up onto the stage, looking ready to start swinging fists already. As he snarls his words at the silver-haired man, the blue-haired one steps in front, as if to protect him. "Julia's gone back to the countryside because you jilted her! We couldn't have our concert without our vocalist! So what're you going to do about it!?"

The current Momo sighs, halfway between embarrassed, amused and nostalgic.] Yuki, you never use your words--

[And that's when he finally notices there's someone in the memory who isn't supposed to be here, and turns towards them like he's about to shoo them to the door in a fluster, turning bright red.] Wait, what are you doing here, you're not supposed to be here!

[The memory doesn't look embarrassing enough to explain the reaction just yet, but it's only a matter of time.]

(ii. that awkward moment when you admit to having recurring death dreams about your partner's ex)

[Another memory that wanderers might find themselves in is set in a sleek, well-fitted backstage area, spacious and clean but largely clear of people at the moment even though the ambient noise down the hall says that's because they're all busy preparing for the show. Only three people are actually present in the scene, two of whom are Momo and the pretty silver-haired man from the mirror carving, both dressed in complex and decorated stage costumes with an almost militaristic or marching band sort of air. Both have long, heavy coats with shoulder pads and complex fastenings, and a cape with faux fur edges rolling elegantly off one shoulder, though Momo's garments are in hot pink, black and purple while the other man's are in lime green, white and blue, other small details differing between them such as Momo's knee-high boots vs the other man's ankle boots hidden under his pants. The matching hats of the costumes sit waiting on stands in front of the dressing room mirrors, but in front of them is the third party of this memory, a suited blue-haired man with a long, thin ponytail and a look on his face that's trying to be polite but seems vaguely like he just got slapped in the face, his smile tense as he looks at Momo, who looks embarrassed and horrified and is trying to hide behind his partner, who is the only person present who looks like there's nothing wrong with this situation.

Even the current Momo, standing a little way away, is looking very much like he's trying to evaporate into the wall he's presently shoving his face against as the blue-haired man speaks hesitantly.

"You...kept having dreams about me dying?"

The Momo of the memory buries his face in his partner's cape, speaking quickly and quietly to said partner rather than the one who spoke, and looking like he's on the verge of tears. "This isn't how you said it would go, Yuki...!"

"Um...isn't that basically saying you wanted me to die...?" It's the suited man's continuation that makes Momo perk up and squeak in embarrassment, words pouring out in a hasty fluster.

"No! It's nothing like that! It's a misunderstanding, don't be ridiculous!"

Against the wall, current Momo puts his face in his hands with an embarrassed groan.]

I still don't know why I let Yuki convince me telling him was a good idea...

(iii. blackmail, everyone's favourite kind of mail)

[A third potential scene for people to stumble into is another backstage, but this time in particular it's Re:vale's dressing room, neat and roomy and with a few bottles of some kind of pink fizzy drink on the coffee table. However, there's no fancy costumes this time, Momo in a relatively normal outfit of red jeans and a purple-black parka with a paint splatter pattern in varying shades of grey and white, and looking very cornered between that silver-haired man from the mirror carving, who's standing in the doorway like he just walked in on something, and an unpleasantly foxlike yellow-eyed man in a pinstriped suit who looks like the cat that just got the canary.

In this memory, the current Momo observing the proceedings sits fairly casually back on the dressing room's couch as he watches the scene unfold, a guarded, but sour look on his face as he eyes the yellow-eyed fox.

In the meantime, the silver-haired man looks between the memory Momo and Mr. Pinstriped Suit, eyes narrowed. "Momo, what is this about?"

The answer comes quickly, Momo's lie coming smoothly but a little too hasty to be credible. "We're talking about a game! One we've been super into lately!"

The man in the suit interjects, voice delicate but almost dripping with pleasure at being able to out Momo's lie. "He's helping me expose Chiba Salon in order to protect your future position in the industry. To be more specific, I'm having him sell Nikaido Yamato to me piece by piece."

Momo clicks his tongue, rounding on the suited man. "You didn't have to tell Yuki that!"

He's met with an unpleasant smile. "Oh, but I just wanted to see you two fight."

Momo turns away, rushing over to Yuki, expression beseeching as he reaches for his partner's arm, coming much closer than he really needs to. His mouth moves before he starts audibly speaking, something quiet as a breath passing between him and his partner in the moment before Momo seamlessly and shamelessly moves into begging. "Please understand, this is for your sake! There are times where if you can't beat 'em, you've just gotta join 'em, right? I'm begging you, please don't look at me like that!"

The disgusted expression creeping onto Yuki's face lingers for a moment until it screws into anger, and he lifts his free hand. "Don't touch me!"

Slap.

Momo reels back, stunned and murmuring a quiet "Yu...Yuki...", and the observing Momo raises a hand to his cheek with a sympathetic wince.]

Sorry, Yuki. That must have been hard. [The question is why he's apologising to Yuki for slapping him, though.]

(iv. attempted murder hours, cw: ...attempted murder, forced alcoholism, mutilation-related imagery)

[Particularly unlucky mirror-hoppers might find themselves in what, in other circumstances, would be a very nice and swanky high-rise apartment. Its design is sleek and modern, and though it's a bit of a mess, as if the owner is more of the "organised chaos" family of knowing where things are, it's clearly expensive and nicely decorated. Numerous old, but well-kept soccer trophies line a shelf against one wall, and around the TV are some pictures, mostly of Momo with the man carved into his mirror, and a few of just that man on his own.

The apartment would be a whole lot nicer if not for the current occupants, though. The coffee table has been shoved aside into one of the chairs, allowing room for three burly men who look like they're part of some level of organised crime to box someone in. That someone happens to be Momo, knelt on the ground in his faux paint-spattered jumper, wrists cuffed behind his back and a look of disgust on his face as a certain foxlike man in a pinstriped suit cups Momo's chin as if entertaining what to do with a fun bit of his meal.

"Now, whatever shall we do with you...I thought about selling you overseas, but your face is too well-known..." The movement of his hand pauses ponderously before a thumb runs over Momo's cheek, and Momo looks like he's trying very hard not to sink his teeth into it. "Maybe I should slice up your face beyond recognition and turn you into bone meal? Wouldn't that be a fun and dramatic end for an idol?"

The Momo of the memory grimaces before he speaks, even if he does sound, on some level, like he wants to know what brought them here. "Why do you hate idols so much?"

The conversation that follows might be overshadowed slightly by current-time Momo in his bright orange hoodie popping up from behind a chair. Where he got the metal baseball bat he's holding, who knows, but he swings it through the memory figure of the foxlike man without hesitation, looking very much like this is some nice catharsis for him even if it passes through the man as if he were nothing more than an illusion.]

Don't worry, you slippery bastard. I'll be there to cut your strings as soon as I get out of here. [Momo's tone sounds nothing short of savage. Ryou burned through his goodwill a long time ago.]

--

[c: wildcard]

[[Feel free to plot anything else with me via PM, CR meme or reviseleviathan, including if you want Momo to see one of your character's memories! I'm still very open to plotting new stuff for this event because Momo never talks about his problems otherwise, and also he'll be diving into lots of mirrors because a: curiosity and b: having dirt on people is fun. Also these are all somewhat long memories, so they'll unfold more through the threads.

As I mentioned in the toplevel, all memories are innately going to be spoilers for IDOLiSH7 Second Beat and onwards - while this is more of a courtesy warning since Part 2 of the game, Second Beat's source material, has been out for several years, I know there's anime-only fans about and it is quite literally impossible to talk about Momo's past without spoiling Part 2/Season 2, so heads up for that if you want to be completely unspoiled when the anime comes back from hiatus.]]

b-i

[piromare]

( it's not his fault the first mirror he touched happened to be momo's, and pushing himself through the crowd to a point where he could spot the younger and less... decorated? version of momo makes him instantly stop and stare. yes, no tips... lack of nails, but certainly holding some kind of youthful energy as he stared at the two men (and soon to be more). he looks transfixed, hypnotized by what looks like a mixture of love and respect?

lio can't be sure. it's not like he has any experience being at a show.

but when the older (current) momo addresses him: )

I don't think so.

( lio is more or less still 'human', though there have been small changes: pointed ears that fold back against his head being the most obvious. )

Elliot Craig | OTA | Witch

[fiddlestick]

I. The Mirror
[Elliot is wandering the halls of the mirror room, mesmerized by all the different decorations of the mirrors as well as the scenes within. He'll be polite and not touch someone's mirror without their permission, but maybe if you see him there's something you want to show him.

As for Elliot's own mirror, the decorations aren't anything too shocking. The top half has carvings covered in different music related things: violin, piano, musical notes, a radio. Not surprising considering he's a musician. The bottom half might be more notable, as it looks to be carvings of different weapons. Some might be familiar - Fie's gunswords, Crow's guns, and Elliot's staff. But along with those are weapons wielded by no one here: three different swords (a great sword, a tachi, and a long sword), another staff, a bow, a shotgun, a spear, a robot(?), and a bit separated from the others: a tank.

Yes. A tank.]

II. Welcome to Thors
[If you decide to go into the mirror, you'll get one of two memories. The first memory takes place on the campus of Elliot's old school: Thors Military Academy. It's the late afternoon, after classes have ended for the day but students are still on campus. The memory starts in the music room, where you can see a younger Elliot, with shorter hair and a red school uniform, practicing violin happily along with the rest of the members of the Wind Orchestra (including a green hair girl in a green uniform who seems to keep forgetting which end to blow her own flute).

You can either watch their practice, or try to explore the rest of the campus. There's plenty to see that you'd normally find in a school, though the memories themselves might be a little more spotty. But what's clear is the warm and happy feeling this setting brings: this was a home for Elliot, once upon a time.]

III. War
[The other memory that one might happen into is less cheerful. You find yourself out in some farmlands, the crops that shade of brown near the end of fall and before the first snowfall. It's cold out, and the world has an uneasy silence to it. Elliot, still younger but no longer in his school uniform, walks down the old abandoned country road alongside a younger and more human Fie. Elliot appears anxious, while Fie's calmer but clearly on guard- both of them looking out for anyone who might spot them as they walk towards town to pick up supplies. A nerve-wracking trip, considering how many soldiers were stationed in the town.

A train passes by in the tracks down the road behind them, causing Elliot to be startled. The train has no passenger cars, but is instead carrying an ample amount of tanks and giant mechs, heading eastward. The young man watches the train, worry and dread clear on his face. He has a feeling where those weapons might be headed]

IV. Wildcard
[Would you like to see a more specific memory? Hit me up! These are mostly more relaxed memories with not much dialogue to sit through, but I'm more open if you want to see more spoilery scenes]

II

[showsnopiety]

[The Mirror didn't surprise her too much, though she didn't understand parts of it-but that was just because she hadn't met those whose weapons were part of it, much less a tank.

But...this was an academy. And she could hear music.

She could have explored-and there was part of her that wanted to-but seeing Elliot and the others play music...

She found a place to sit down, her hands folding on her lap. There were uniforms, unity...a military academy but even so...]

I like you more with longer hair, Elliot.

[Caren this was a nice moment, don't sass him.]

Juza Hyodo | A3! | Turnskin | OTA

[sneaksweet]

[Another dream, huh? Well, at least this one doesn't have anybody thrown in pits. That's a small plus, it doesn't really seem like much has changed, as far as he can tell. He wanders around quietly for a while before taking notice of his own mirror and stepping through.

To those close enough to know him, his mirror has flowers of each member of his troupe carved into it. Cosmos takes center stage, with spider lilies coming in second, pansies, carnations and chrysanthemums can be seen as well.

For others who step into the mirror, a few scenes may await them.]

I. Sandcastles
[Juza tries and fails to save a sandcastle from the weather.]

II. Formation of a Reputation
[Why does Juza even have a reputation anyway?]

III. Runaway
[That time he ran away from home. Kind of.]

IV. Le Roman Picturesque
[Autumn Troupe's first play]

V. Handcuffed to a rival
[Juza and Banri and their struggles being handcuffed together. Featuring cameos from Summer Troupe.]

[ooc: 1-3 won't be revealed by the English version for a while, but I've got full write ups for each of those prompts in the link. 4 and 5 and direct clips from the main story. lmk if you want anything different or if you have ideas. I'm on discord: Mira#5533.

Juza can either be outside of the mirror or in the memory looking like he wants to be anywhere else.]

Sandcastles

[stopfen]

[It takes Mikasa a good, solid moment to work out whose memory this belongs to. It's not until the castle falls and the other boy mentions the nickname. Then she realities it's the same guy she'd seen all the way back then. The one she'd seen looking for a home, and spotted at Soren's party.

The beach, the sea, those weren't happy places for her. That was the first time Eren had thrown them off. Even if it was before things started.

The thought makes her sigh. Even if watching the kids play got a small, solemn smile, that remains even after their creation is destroyed. ]

How long did you sit there?

derek hale, ota.

[scyldig]

looking-glass house.

[ it doesn't take long for him to figure out what's happening and get very, very uncomfortable with it. he sets up camp just to the side of his own mirror, arms crossed and his best glare on his face, in an attempt to keep people out of it. (it only kind of works.)

and if there's anyone being particularly obvious about their nosiness around his mirror? well, they're likely to get a firm hand on their shoulder and a very tense, ] Haven't you ever heard of privacy?

[ derek's relying on his buffness and ability to look tough and stern to dissuade people since he's, y'know. not actually able to control what people do and not exactly willing to get in fisticuffs over anyone else's mirror. ]

the ghosts in my head.

[ derek's mirror is framed in a dark wood, hints of red coming through in the right light. you might catch the sight of intricately carved wolves running up the sides, or the great big wolf-head at the top with red eyes. maybe you see triskeles carved into it, or the parts of the wood that are burned black and look like they would crumble into ash if you touched them. it's a beautiful frame--broken and burned, but beautiful.

the memories you can see in them are varied, from happy memories from his childhood and early teen years (option a) to the more tragic ones (option b). any happy memories from his life post-fire (option c) are overlaid with a melancholy sort of tone, but there's still happiness there. and tragedy, because even as an adult, derek can't catch a break (option d). if you enter the mirror at the right time, you might catch a glimpse of one involving a familiar face (option e) and those, well. those run the gamut of possible emotions and scenarios too, though there's quite a bit of fighting and life-or-death situations there. ]

[ warning: many of derek's traumatic memories will likely involve mention of sexual assault--specifically rape by deception and the aftermath thereof. if you want a painful memory that doesn't involve this, it can be done! when you reply to this, just tell me what option you're going for and leave an asterisk if you specifically want to avoid any mention of the assaults in his past. ]

for stiles.

[scyldig]

[ the memory stiles finds himself in takes place in a hallway that looks familiar. it's clearly part of beacon hills high school. though the fliers on the walls make it clear that this is a few years before stiles' time and the guys playing with a basketball in the hallway probably aren't very familiar. except for teenage derek.

who promptly gets heart eyes when a pretty girl comes out of the music room and tries to get the guys to leave. derek, in classic teenager with a desperate need to be popular and also flirt with a pretty girl, starts a game of keep away while his jock friends watch and laugh. it's a dick move, but he seems to be having fun riling this girl up and clearly showing off.

when the girl leaves (and his friends, with a teasing call of c'mon, loverboy!) the smirk drops off his face. he looks after his future girlfriend a little awkwardly and, with the basketball tucked under his arm, follows her back to the music room. ] Sorry about that, [ he says to a clearly unimpressed girl.

what follows is a surprisingly (?) flirty encounter, derek's smartass side clearly showing as he coaxes the girl's name (paige) and a hint of a smile out of her. it's clear she's not buying any of his shit and that derek is absolutely delighted by this fact. he doesn't stop smiling, even as she dismisses him so she can keep practicing. even as he puts the little triangle back and leaves the music room to chill in the hallway, just listening for a few minutes as paige continues to practice.

current derek, adult derek, enters the scene at this point. he stands across from his teenage self, arms crossed, head tilted back against the wall and eyes closed as he listens to paige play. his expression is blank, mostly. there's a slight furrow between his eyebrows. the beginnings of a frown. but his shoulders are also tense, fingers digging in just a little to his own arms. this is a good memory. but it's also painful because of that. ]

Berserker (Cú Chulainn Alter) | mostly OTA

[curruid_coinchenn]

[ 1. Someone’s killing someone, even in your dreams (cw: violence) ]

[ It’s daylight, though the sun is obscured by clouds. The clouds are thick enough to hide the sun, casting an uneasy gloom on the surroundings. An eerie calm falls over the area; there’s no sounds but the noise of grass being blown by a strong gust of wind and the leaves on nearby trees rattling. There are no birds, no signs of life.

Berserker stands on a hill nearby, staring down at the valley below. From there, the sounds of a skirmish can be heard: steel clashing against steel, shouts of pain, a battle cry. The stench of blood and death are also present. The dragon is emotionless as he observes. In the center of the battle is one man wearing a dark cloak with a blood red ruff, spiny armor, wielding a red spear. It becomes quickly evident that the man in the center is the target of the opposing army. Just one man…

Berserker doesn’t turn; he’s aware of the other person’s presence. ]

Don’t look unless you’re prepared for it...Otherwise just wait for it to be over.

[ 2. When you know your heart is light ]

[ This dream begins in a sunlight-dappled forest. It’s alive with the sound of birds in the thick canopy of trees above and animals skittering through the underbrush. The shouting of two young men -- boys, really, not more than teenagers -- can be heard a short distance away. Their thudding footsteps crush the deadfall on the ground. It looks like either their racing each other or running away from something.

A loud snap cuts through the noises in the forest. The first boy shouts as he’s yanked backwards and upwards into the air by a ground snare trap he didn’t see. He struggles to free himself as the second boy catches up. The sound of distant hoofbeats from some wild animals starts to get closer.

Berserker stands some distance away, brow furrowed.]

Are you going to be stupid enough to try to help or would you rather get away before that pack of boars catches up?

[ How did he know they were boars…? ]

[ 3. Please tell me why I belong to you ]

[ An ornate room. Two figures stand in it, one petite and slight woman with long pink hair dressed in white and the other a man, tall, muscular, and tattooed, wearing armor and holding a spear. The man is recognizable as Beserker, but something's different about him.

The real Berserker stands off to the side, his attention on the short woman. His gaze is piercing, hateful even as he stares at her. She touches the remembered version of himself on his chest, smiling fondly. He looks indifferent, like she's nothing more than a nuisance to him.

"Cú, you've changed so much. You've become more regal."

"...I'm still my old self. Everybody has moments when they're not so eager to fight. That's just how I'm feeling at the moment."

Berserker's growing anger and resentment almost makes him miss the fact there's another spectator to this now. Almost. His fierce gaze settles on them, something burning in his red eyes. ]

...You want to know who she is, don't you? Do you want me to tell you or do you want to wait?

[ Because he knows what's coming next. ]

[ 4. It will end here. It will end -- CLOSED to Bonded and close CR (cw: violence, child death) ]

[ A coastal scene. It’s not peaceful nor serene, though: two men stand on the beach as waves lap at their feet. One of the men, the younger one, stands defiantly. The other, red-eyed with long blue hair tied back, stands with a red spear in his hand.

”Who are you? If you don’t tell me who you are, I’ll have to kill you.”

The boy says nothing, standing ready to fight.

Now here...Berserker looks visibly distraught, if only for a moment. His jaw is tight, fists clenched. ]

Leave. Now. [ Stiffly. Angrily. ] You don’t need to see the end of this.

[ 5. Wildcard ]

[ Want a custom prompt? Did we plot something out already? Drop me a starter or PM me here or on discord glitzkrieg#0673 and we can work something out! ]

2

[kuroi_taiyo]

[ Judar was actually circling around for a better look at the teen that had gotten caught in a trap, attentions partially towards the heavy hoofed running, but now more drawn towards the dragon. Instead of an answer right away, there's more focus, as the faun's ears raise and rotate to focus on the incoming boars. ]

Those are the only options? I was ready to see what would happen, too...

[ Honestly, Judar didn't know if there was any danger from boars, or if they could affect mirror visitors. The only thing that was clear was that Judar wasn't about to try and help; either for practical and logical reasons, or because of his own personality. ]

Shu | OTA

[blind_benevolence]

[ 1. Can you see? (cw: eye gore?? blinding, violence) ]

[ A stone-walled dojo. There are numerous spectators seated around the space designated for a fight. A boy, no more than 12, fights fiercely against a series of opponents, all adults much bigger and seemingly stronger than him. He wins each fight and, with no time to rest, his final opponent rises up from his seat. The intense-looking blonde man beside him turns to look at him for a moment with an interested smirk. This man was not supposed to be the boy’s final opponent, but he is allowed to face him regardless.

It’s not a long fight, but the boy is defeated. Guards armed with spears, swords, and other similar weapons rush forward. Shu, despite being blind in life, can see in his dreams. He knows what’s coming next -- the man who defeated the young boy is him. The scars around his eyes aren’t there and he wears a uniform. ]

Have faith. [ His voice is calm and reassuring. ] I can’t say what happens is easy to watch, but trust me…

[ 2. The dirt, scarcity, and the emptiness of our south (cw: violence, death) ]

[ A sunny desert. The area is dotted with fragments of long-destroyed buildings, partially concealed by sand. Pillars of a world that once used to be, not nothing more than a monument of the past. More complete, however, is the large sandstone pyramid directly in front of them; the only thing missing is a capstone.

There’s a commotion: a crowd of onlookers stands at the base of the pyramid, mostly women and children. Men dressed in well-worn, military-esque clothing add to their number. They’re all guarded by fierce, brutal men dressed in sparse leather armor, well-armed and threatening anyone who dares move out of place. All of them look upset, shouting at two men. One kneels before the other, who sits atop a threatening-looking throne.

In a quick motion, the one seated now stands and makes a motion with his hand. The one before him crumples as the tendons in his legs are severed. A huge capstone is placed in his hands and he starts to slowly make the ascent under the weight.

Shu stands in the crowd, trying to smile. ]

It's bad, isn’t it? I won’t force you to watch what happens, but...know that there’s hope even in a desperate situation.

[ 3. Wildcard ]

[ Want a custom prompt? Did we plot something out already? Drop me a starter or PM me here or on discord glitzkrieg#0673 and we can work something out! ]

1, because i'm here to collect all the blindings

[faithlikeaseed]

[Myr had been caught, on stumbling accidentally through the mirror, by the sheer spectacle of a child fighting grown men with twice his reach and weight. He hadn't expected the kid to succeed--matches like that always go one way, only, in his experience, if there's not magic involved--and yet quickly finds himself cheering for each impossible win--

And breathing out a low, agonized noise of sympathy at the eventual, inevitable loss. He's half out of his seat as the armed men close in on the boy, hoping beyond hope this is the sort of dream he can interfere in--an action abruptly aborted into a startled, skittering leap sideways at the voice of someone near him.

Bad form getting wrapped up in the scenery like that, Shivana.] Maker's breath--you startled me.

[Easy to do with a Faun, though. Myr sucks in a breath to calm himself.]

--So he does make it out of this? [he continues, the note of forlorn hope evident in his voice. He can't see how, but his is a trusting heart...]

Prompto Argentum | FF15 | OTA + one closed thread for Noct | Spoilers for Episode Prompto

[clickclickbang]

The Mirror

[Prompto's mirror, if you're even vaguely friends, looks about like what you'd expect. Photos stuck up all over of Noct, Ignis, and Gladio, chocobo feathers, pictures of his gun, ads for cameras and video games and new phones...it's Prompto, what do you expect?]

Who...What am I? (SPOILERS, cw: some mild body horror)

[It opens on a dark, cold lab. Prompto's there, bundled up and so very clearly nervous as he makes his way inside. He stops and stares at faintly glowing containers, each holding a young man--all of them looking like Prompto. He shakes himself, muttering under his breath, and makes his way towards the only real light source in the room.

There an oddly dressed man with red hair stands talking to an old, clearly unhinged man.]

My friend, do you remember the child who was stolen from this facility?

The one those Lucians absconded with?

Precisely. I thought you might like to see the fine young man he's become these twenty-odd years later. So, as thanks for bringing your pets to Insomnia, I've brought the boy to you. The time has come to meet your maker! Any questions for daddy dearest?

[The rest of the scene plays out, Prompto horrified at what this means, denying it, and then...it's worse than he thought.

He's a goddamn clone. Not even a real person.]

Stand By Me

[This memory is much more...typical. It's hot, the car's dead, Prompto feels like he's about to keel over from the exertion...and yeah. Gotta push the car even further.]

--the world's a big old place.

Full of wonders.

Tell that to my legs. And, uh, hey Igs, safe to assume I'm not allowed to drive anymore?

Yes.

Right. Figured.

Battle Theme

[This memory's a bit weirder, as it's just sort of a montage of the various battles Prompto and the guys were in. Some take place in the wilderness, against catoblepas and behemoths and garula and Prompto taking photos mid-battle. Some are in caves, with Prompto complaining about his acrophobia and claustrophobia. Some are in an odd swamp, with Prompto staying behind and minding a now blind Ignis.

It's clear that this is just how Prompto remembers most of the battles: one big long mess of memory with some depression and anxiety mixed in for flavor.]

Closed to Noct

[Prompto stands still in the memory, grimacing as he watches a younger, chubbier version of himself trip and fall, again and again and again.]

Ugh, why this one...

Wildcard

[Want a different memory? HMU!]

Who am I...?

[showsnopiety]

[It was accidental. Her, touching the mirror-she just wanted to see if it was etched into the glass. But instead...

She found herself here. In this cold place, where if she wasn't furred, she would be shivering. In the tubes...they all looked like...]

Prompto...?

[This wasn't right. Her ears flicked, uneasy, as she looked back, and found another Prompto-the real one-walking in warm clothing. Why he was here, what he was up to...she had no idea. But maybe she'd find a way out if she followed him.

So she did, even if her gaze kept flicking every which way.]

Emet-Selch | OTA | ShB Spoilers

[unsundered]

To those that don't know him well, Emet-Selch's mirror is silhouetted by long, spindly-looking shapes wrapping around its edges like vines. To those that do know him, the shapes are clearer: not vines, but stylized spires, graceful and elegant. Colored pale blue and black, with flecks of gold- it's a delicate and intricate design. In the center at the bottom, the spires twist more organically, forming a strange sort of 'nest' around a diamond-shaped crystal, made of the deepest violet.

i. and the sky full of stars
[A city. Looking around in any direction, it's easy to see where the mirror's design came from: spired, glass-fronted buildings make up the skyline, stretching up towards the heavens. The architecture has a modern-yet-nostalgic feel to it, and peacefulness seems to exude from its walls. Occasionally, some of the city's residents drift past, and several things become apparent: first, everyone here is extremely tall. Upwards of fifteen or so yalms. This city is scaled to them; you are the small one here, child-sized by comparison. But apart from height, it's hard to get a sense otherwise for what anyone here looks like. They're all garbed in identical black robes, cowls up, the upper half of their faces obscured by simple white masks.

It's evening, the air quiet and cool, the sky clear, stars beginning to become visible as light fades from the horizon. But there's more light than that from stars- as since this is Emet-Selch's memory, it's possible to see as he does: the sky is lit by the drifting of souls. An endless passage of lights and color, hovering high in the air, before plunging downward and disappearing. It's beautiful in its way, and without knowing what it is, possibly strange as well.

You're next to a grassy place- a small park, perhaps? Purple-hued trees dot the area, and as with all else, it feels quite serene. Two residents of the city are before you- apparently the focus of this dream history, as their conversation is clear, the details around them sharper than their surroundings. One lays stretched out in the grass, with the other walking towards him, then stopping at his side to peer over him.]

"I heard the tidings. Congratulations, Hades...or should I say the honorable Emet-Selch of the Convocation of Fourteen?"

[...It's completely understandable (of course it is, as this is the dream of someone who understands it), but the language being spoken is extremely alien in sound. Full of echoes and reverberations, it's impossible to make out individual words, yet the meaning is perfectly clear.

As the man reclining on the grass grudgingly stands up, quickly pulling his cowl back in place, it's possible to get a glimpse of white hair, but little else about him. Unlike the other residents of the city, his half-mask is red.]

"There is naught to congratulate─I merely filled a void. One which, I would remind you, only existed because you refused the honor."

"Come now, it went to the candidate best suited to the office. You find practical use for that which you see, while I enjoy the seeing for its own sake."

"And what does that say about your suitability for your own office? Perhaps I shall raise the subject at the Hall of Rhetoric."

[And so it goes. A familiar banter between friends- one friendly, one irritable, the latter apparently being Emet-Selch, though dressed as he is, it'd be hard to tell otherwise. ...Or perhaps not; something of his bearing is the same, if not with nearly as terrible a posture. Though languid, and obviously in possession of less energy than his friend, he doesn't feel anywhere near as exhausted. And though the language is entirely different, his voice is quite recognizable, especially when he snaps at his companion.

...And nearby is the present-day Emet-Selch, looking about as out of place as you, in a city of simply-dressed giants. Though clearly aware of the conversation taking place before him, he's looking beyond it, towards the city itself. He knows how this memory plays out, after all, and seems inclined to just- walk away from it and explore as much of the city as memory will permit.

He doesn't seem to have yet noticed your presence.]


ii. yet it was neither claw nor flame, but our very sins
[There's heat. The smell of sulfur and smoke. Sound: the cracking of flames; a terrible creaking and distant rumbling of something. The hiss of rock streaking down from the heavens, crashing into the street before you- or what's left of it. The sky above burns orange, something like a perpetual meteor shower spitting fire and stone down upon the city before you.

The buildings around you are stained from the fires that seem to be everywhere, spreading uncontrollably. Red-colored glass fronts their exteriors, shadows moving behind- but it's not actually red, is it? Every structure is so filled with flame that naught else can be seen through any window. Pale stone is streaked with black, cracked and turned orange in the light of flame. In the light of the sky itself, the sun feeling far too close- as though it were leaning in to burn all life that remained.

Occasionally, a few of the black-robed inhabitants of the city come stumbling past, fleeing towards- what, exactly? There's no area that remains untouched, no building not red-tinged and on the verge of collapse. There's nowhere to go, but they flee nonetheless. And not all even get that far; you don't have to look very hard to find the bodies of those that didn't make it. And as if the sky itself didn't provide enough danger, on the ground stalk twisted beasts- shadowy abominations born of fear, that chase and fall upon any living thing in their path.

To one side- there's a sudden, horrendous sounding crash- as one of the larger nearby buildings collapses entirely, stone crumbling and glass shattering. Clouds of dust and debris fill the air, rendering the dream hazy, the world itself seeming to tremor around you. It should be hard to breathe- but of course it's fine. Unlike the residents of the city, you're not in any danger.

More rock falls. The street around you splinters.]

This part won't collapse for a few minutes more. But I would suggest moving along.

[A voice comes from somewhere behind you, polite, surprisingly neutral, considering the surroundings. It's Emet-Selch, of course, having seemingly materialized from the smoke and sand.]

ii. i changed my mind, going for hell first

[glitzandglamour]

[Mettaton knew the owner of this mirror instantly, somehow. It's a draw, a feeling. The intricacy and beauty in its unique brand of darkness around that frame is just another clue, somehow, for all it's unrecognizable to him. Unlike with a lot of mirrors he'll blindly leap into, Mettaton actually takes a cursory glance up and down the corridor in search for his Bonded, who feels close by. His search turns up empty, reasonably.

He doesn't take so disrespectful a leap into this rabbit hole, instead choosing to touch the spires first, a rare deliberation. Finally, the Puca's fingers drift over its silvery surface. With so many years weighing upon Emet-Selch's shoulders, what will he find? What will he get to consume?


The impression of angry reds and oranges has Mettaton's tall rabbit ears flattening immediately in displeasure, but he needs to take a few moments to realize that this is the appearance of a city ravaged, not just some inherent quality of it. He does belong to a place of such hues, making the fire and heat something normal to the robotic star. He blinks, drinking in the sight of crumbling buildings and collapsing structure.

"The sky loomed closer, drowning us in fire..." There's this. There's the bodies that litter the ground, cloaked in black but clearly people, for as tall as they are. Mettaton hardly appreciates any distinct quality about them for now, for all that's going on, the shadowy creatures born of fear and dissolving control.

Recalling these details of the disaster that befell Amaurot that Emet-Selch gave him upon his request, Mettaton immediately tries to recoil from the tragedy, but his futile step back won't spare him of it. And he recoils further when the street breaks, almost bumping directly into Emet-Selch, who he whips around to face upon hearing his voice.

(How much more tragedy will he take in? This night feels like lifetimes already. (He has nobody to blame but his own curiosity. His curious brand of care.))

His eye catches the fires, light dancing in its reflection to express concern.]

Hades! [Here it is, a memory he wanted to see... apparently. He surveys the area again, this way and that, looking for some safety where there's absolutely none.] I... Ha... I hardly see anywhere to "move along" to! Everyone's...

[There's another fixation on the bodies. How terrible. How sad. They're not real deaths, all of it he's seen tonight, but they were real once. They're as good as real, in the end. They happened, even if it's hard for him to digest. It's easier to do when he's actually looking at it, anyway. Mettaton's transfixed by the sight of it, still not used to... any of this. He doesn't move along, at any rate. He hasn't been very good at not freezing in place lately.]

Diarmuid Ua Duibhne | ota

[ua_duibhne]

i. from tech duinn

[The rain feels as though it's never going to end. Though the trees overhead are laden with emerald green leaves, they provide little shelter from the downpour, turning the roads through the forest crossroads into muddy channels in between scarce stepping stones. An earthy scent fills the air.

But the sound of rain is quickly broken by that of hooves. Breaking through the gloom comes a moon-white mare, its coat shiny and glowing with an ethereal sheen in the darkness. Her rider, by contrast, is dressed almost entirely in black; with his wide-brimmed hat and heavy cloak, the only look anyone might get of the man himself is a flash of pale skin and dark hair as he glances back. He isn't alone, it seems. Behind him, another horse- smaller, grey, less impressive- comes into view. This one, though, carries two people: a woman and a much smaller figure. The three dismount in silence, the woman, evidently a maid of some kind, pausing to help her ward down and brush the rain from his hair.

Maybe their unseen guest might recognise him. Maybe not. He's young, around five or six, with amber coloured eyes and a telltale mole sitting just beneath his left eye, which scrunches upwards as he frowns and clutches at the maid. She sighs.

"Hush now, boy."



[The man doesn't acknowledge either of them.

Diarmuid- the real one- does, though. Eyes wide, he stares at the cloaked rider and, almost imperceptibly, his throat convulses as he swallows. As much as he wants to step forward or do something to shatter what he knows must be a dream, he seems frozen in place by the scene playing out before him. He doesn't even immediately notice that there are five, not four, of them here.]

ii. the ford (cw: gore)

[The body lying across the bridge is still twitching, steam rising from the blunt stump where his blonde head once sat. Diarmuid had always marveled at Fionn's sons, at their brilliant golden hair and how closely they resembled their handsome father, how eagerly and skillfully they threaded themselves into his legacy. All of them were glorious warriors, Fiancha included. It wasn't enough.

Tears prick at his eyes as, bereft of words, he prowls across the ford to where his comrade's killer lies waiting for him. The man, Midac, is all but pinned to the tree by a spear- the same colour as the blood pouring out around it- and with every wheeze, red froth gathers on his lips. Diarmuid stands before him, Gáe Buidhe clasped so tightly in his hand that it turns his knuckles white, armour flecked with viscera.]

Tech Duinn will open its doors to you soon. [He talks in a soft voice, but one that's laced with such fury and danger that Midac recoils from him.] He will treat you with more dignity than you did my brother in arms.

[Calmly, he closes the gap between them. There's something supernatural about him, as though the anger in his heart has burned away the bindings of a carefully concealed darkness: right now, he looks more like his biological father than he ever has.]


[ooc: feel free to hmu at crescendoll/with a pp if you have any other ideas! I'll toss a few closed starters here too for pre-planned stuff!]

i

[blind_benevolence]

[ It feels voyeuristic to look into someone else's dreams without their knowledge. The rider on the pale horse is what drew him in, something so supernatural about his appearance. It strikes awe into Shu, not fear. He continues after the riders to finish watching what he walked in on.

And then he sees Diarmuid, not as the boy remembered, but the man in front of him. Cautiously, he places a hand on his shoulder, gentle and reassuring. ]

That's you, isn't it? Whatever happens...It's in the past. It helped shape who you are.

[ He doesn't even know -- can't know -- what happens or why this dream has him so on edge and yet he sounds confident and reassuring to this man he's never met before. ]

emil västerström ☆ stand still. stay silent ☆ witch

[incinerating]

☆ Let Them Eat Cake

[Emil's mirror is the same as it was when he arrived - the frame bright gold and shaped to make it look like an oversized hand mirror, decorated with intricate flame motifs and knives. As open and quick to get attached as he is, people who approach might find it surprising how easy it is to see the decorations. In fact, if you've spoken to him once or twice in person, it's pretty visible.

When a hand is laid on the mirror, it ripples, and the visitor will find themselves in a warm and cozy dining room with a large, beautifully carved table topped with pretty runners next to a long comfortable couch with blankets draped over the back. The table is set with a lavish meal, a rack of perfectly-cooked meat, stew, roasted potatoes, bread, gravy.

And at the table sits Emil, a few years younger and quite chunky, dressed in a warm sweater, preparing to dig in. An older woman standing nearby gently explains that his father won't be joining him for dinner, because he has important work to do, and tries to reassure him that it doesn't mean his father doesn't think he's important.

Emil, obviously used to this situation, brushes it off and instead imperiously demands cake. The older lady provides him a couple of options - a fluffy strawberry cake with a piece cut out which he rejects immediately because he's already had it, and then a rich chocolate cake, untouched, which he accepts.

The Emil who's watching this memory winces slightly. Bad enough that Lalli saw this part of his history, this version of himself. People in Aefenglom aren't going to cut him as much slack for being so rude and spoiled.]

Uh. Just ignore me, okay? I mean, feel free to dig in to the food though, if you need a break. Everything's been pretty miserable here.

☆ Etc.

An open log with some other more dramatic memories can be found here, or hit me up with other ideas at caffemisto, by PM, or on Discord at coffee #6251.

This prompt is open to literally anyone, even people with zero CR. I mostly posted this one as a top-level for anyone who wanted a quick break from the traumatic memories to make fun of spoiled baby Emil, eat something nice, and dig in to some cake. Or take a nap on the couch. Reference pages can be found here: SSSS page 805 and 806.

TIME FOR CAKE

[faithlikeaseed]

[No more mirrors, Myr had decided. No more stumbling into other memories that he hadn't been invited to. Really, he'd be best off finding his own mirror and posting a watch over it to keep its contents from the eyes of the unwary (and keeping--those memories, the ones he can't think of without his stomach knotting up, away from anyone who might ask about them), and he is on his way to do that when he brushes too close to what, to him, appears an entirely blank frame.

Joke's on him, though: It's just the mirror of someone he hasn't met yet. He's yanked abruptly sideways with barely time to groan exasperation at himself, and--

Ends up right in the midst of a cozy domestic scene that's as weird in its own way as anything else he's encountered. The Faun blinks once, twice, an alienage kid's old and dusty instincts racking up what he's seeing and coming up with wealth. Wealth even beyond what Hasmal Circle had boasted, though they'd kept themselves nicely enough on the Formari's work.

And all of this--apparently--for one precious, chubby, spoiled shem who gets his choice of entire cakes, like that's a normal thing for people to have. It's ridiculous, and amusing, and a little infuriating by turns, and Myr watches all of it while speculating on whether he really could just--]

You've tried eating it? [He glances over, noting the thinner, grown-up (and Maker, did he grow up well) version of the shem speaking to him. The fact the fellow seems suitably abashed of his younger self's behavior is an instant plus and gets a warm smile out of Myr.] I hadn't gotten that far in any of the others, but if you're offering...

[What the Void, he might as well.]

Henry | Fire Emblem Awakening | Witch (OTA)

[morbide]

[Few are close enough to Henry to know any amount of his demons. The most adorned his mirror will appear is slashed with frenetic runes, like magic, like scars upon skin in its flinty frame.

It's a bit disturbing to behold, how torn a frame of metal can look. But Henry never hovers about it, leaving its owner a mystery. His ugly world is your oyster.]

I. awakening in darkness [cw: blood, gore, animal abuse]

“Well, when I was young, my best friend in the entire world was a giant wolf. My parents ignored me most of the time, so that wolf became my whole family. Then one day she came to visit me, and some hunters in the village... They shot her full of arrows. Killed her on the spot.

But they paid... Oh, how they paid...”

"Damn beast! Thought I was done for!"

"What manner of madness is this?! A wolf that big, prowling around... In broad daylight? Serves the bastard right!" [They don't know she's a girl. A mother.] "Does Grima Himself wish to curse us? Unless this is a chance at proving our steadfast faith..."

[Villagers surround the body of a lovely wolf, stuck full of arrows. Her carcass oozes dark blood onto the cobblestone streets of this wasted village, where everyone wears muted, ratty clothing suggestive of their lot in life. The villagers stand over their kill in a mix of pride and disturbance — some haven't seen such carnage in their own city before, while others are simply bothered at the wolf's presence and what it must forebode.

A small, frail boy in tatters worse for wear, silver-haired and battered, pants for breath he can't catch before he loses it completely when he locks his eyes upon the fallen beast. He rushes forward in complete silence and collapses upon his knees, burying his fists into fur matted with blood. He embraces death when he seeks life and finds none.]

"Boy, if you're looking for cute 'n cuddly, a beast like this isn't it. Go home."

[Henry doesn't hear this man at all. He withdraws from the wolf's body with a profound sadness, his nails scraping against stone as he scrapes knuckles against it in balling his fists. His head hangs, his body trembles, and thick tears drip against cobblestone. Splat, splat, one after the other, though he's completely silent.

And then, there are no tears. And then, he stops trembling. And then, the boy remains rigid. The wind stills. The air presses down upon the village. Residents look toward the sky in their confusion. Another divine sign...?

A miasma of darkness surrounds this small boy, totally without a magical focus in hand. It spirals out of his control, ravaging everything in its path in its cloudy, dark tendrils — the wolf, the houses, the people. It's a good thing this is naught but an apparition, for it swallows even the memory interloper in its wake, a terrible tearing of sound across ears as it devastates all in its wake. People can hardly scream as they're ripped to shreds by its oppressive energy that goes on and on and on, for many minutes. Nothing can be seen through this purplish haze.

And then, it subsides. The boy lays in a pool of blood where his dear friend once laid, his cheek smothered in it. Nearly a hundred bodies worth of limbs and guts are strewn across the village, but nobody wanders it as they once did. It's a ghost town, the only apparent survivor the silver-haired boy unconscious in a pool of blood.]

[And by your character's side, Henry erupts into laughter. It's weaker, more hollow than even his usually empty laugh.]

Oh, awesome! That was a good one. I'm a right terror, aren't I? But they deserved it!

[Henry's looking at the ground, even as he speaks, even as he smiles. He didn't watch the memory.]

II. like death's embrace [cw: child abuse, torture]

“The spikes here remind me of the ones back in wizard school. Whenever I did something naughty, they'd put me in a room like this. ...I almost died! It was neat. Still, nonstop pain is no fun for anyone, so I'll try to make this quick!”

[A heavy door slams as a smaller version of Henry's tossed into a room, but as soon as he makes contact with the floor, he takes in a sharp breath. For it's obvious: this isn't just an isolation chamber, but a cell tailored for torture.

The boy lets out a shuddering sob as sharp spikes plunge into his tender flesh, unyielding and impossible to escape from. Should he move, it'll only sink in deeper. Should he try to free himself, he'll find that only more thorns await his broken and battered body. The smaller Henry glances around frantically for something, anything that could save him, that could spare him of this pain... and finds nothing. The entire room is like this, almost as if made entirely for this purpose.

If not entirely to kill, than to determine his tenacity to live.

And so the boy succumbs with a smile. He doesn't relax, tense as he is, tense as he keeps his muscles around the spikes that dig deep into flesh, as blood escapes from his wounds and pools onto the floor. He smiles, and his smile...]

[...is a replica of the one on the sorcerer standing at your side. Plastic. Unchanging. Sometimes mistaken for a grimace, really.]

Oh, man. This is a blast from the past.

[That's all Henry has to say on the matter, as he watches his child self "get comfortable" upon the floor made of tall, unyielding spikes.]

0. other

[I have a list with summaries of other memories I can write up if these two don't strike your fancy! The ones on this list are probably a lot more tame than these two, but I wanted to explore some of the pre-canon incidents in Henry's life. They're pretty traumatic... If you'd like one of these memories, feel free to reply with 0-# or write me a message in the body, and I'll write up the memory for you. Alternatively, you can get in touch with me via PM or smaaaaash.]

FE: AWAKENING THE DARKNESS WITHIN

[seemstressed]

<sub>[While a mirror in such a sorry state would have Tataru overlook it, there's an inescapable tether that draws her toward the looking glass belonging to her Bonded. Moments later she finds herself within a desolate memory, one that she can only witness with abject horror and despair. Even without seeing Henry in his current glory, it's quite obvious who the boy (now passed out in a puddle of blood) is. A younger version of the dark mage, sure, but it's unmistakably him.

This isn't the first time Tataru's bared witness to scattered limbs and bloodied stone but it's never a pleasant sight. What's harder to wrap her head around is just how alone Henry seemed to be. For him to care for a creature who, quite frankly, would make a meal out of Tataru, there had to have been a bond there. From the state of his clothes, nothing more than tattered rags hanging off bones, and it's clear neglect was at play. This monster was perhaps the only comfort he had, judging by the way he'd gripped at the dead creature's fur and mourned it.

She knew Henry was a lonely soul...but this was far beyond what she could've imagined.

She doesn't even realize she's approached the small, bloody version of him, hands over her mouth as she does her best to ignore the visceral carnage around her. It's only when she hears Henry's laughter and voice break through the silence that she's snapping her head back toward her Bonded, eyes wide. Away she goes from the center of the slaughter, hurrying over to his side, unsure of what to say or do. It would be a lie to say the magic that had come from him hadn't been terrifying - it reminded her of the stories she'd read as a child about the magi of Mhach. Such raw, destructive power...but clearly he hadn't control of it.

She hasn't found her voice yet but it's clear Henry still hasn't raised his head, won't acknowledge the scene playing out before him. What she is compelled to do is reach out to him and take his hand in hers, stepping in front of him to put herself between him and the memory he doesn't want to face.

And frankly? He shouldn't have to.]</sub>

...You're not a terror. If you were, I'd be frightened of you, wouldn't I?

Vanitas | Kingdom Hearts | ota

[darkcharge]

( The Mirror )

[ Vanitas, of course, doesn't particularly like visiting this place. Upon arrival he had attempted to shatter his own mirror. However with the strange occurrences happening, he can't help but be curious.

His mirror, to no one's surprise, looks like it is bound in chains. It's reminiscent of Void Gear, his Keyblade. The Unversed's emblem is etched into each corner of the mirror itself. At the top of the mirror is the Gazing Eye, also similar to Vanitas' weapon of choice. The coloration of the mirror is black, save for the red veins that seem to wind their way around the frame. They glow softly, almost ominous. ]


( BBS: Vanitas' Making )

[ One boy's fall and and the "master's" solution not to waste anything. TW: stabbings ]

( BBS: Rejoining )

[ Ventus never stood a chance. They will become one. Memory ends at 4:46. ]

( KH3: Monstropolis )

[ A first true meeting, of sorts, and an attempt to force a missing piece back into place. Memory ends at 5:40. ]

( KH3: Confrontation )

[ Ventus and Aqua finally catch up to their "friend." Ventus and Vanitas have words to share. Memory ends at 1:19, unless you want to see the four of them fight it out. ]

( KH3: Fade )

[ I am the shadow that you cast. How much closer could I be? ]

( Custom Pre-BBS )

[ Select this option and receive a memory based off of novel content. TW: violence and vomiting. More like a wildcard option. ]

(( ooc note: As always, I am free and open to plotting. Hit me up at jardaan or verthunder#9612. Or if you'd like Vanitas to hit up your character's memories that works too! ))

Fade

[lostinshadows]

[Ah.

He was always warned that his curiosity would get him into trouble one day. Stumbling upon a mirror that made him think of a certain dark-haired boy hadn’t exactly been part of his plans when he decided to stumble into the Looking Glass House once more. Maybe it would be better to say that he shouldn’t have been touching mirrors that don’t belong to him.

But he finds himself in that wasteland, the air so arid that it made his newly developed lop ears twitch a bit.

He doesn’t recognize the others that stand there aside from Sora. A simple look at them, his eye lingering on Sora for a second longer before he slowly turns to look at Vanitas just as his mask begins to break. There’s something about this memory that pulls at him.

Sympathy?

No, that wasn’t it.

But Lavi doesn’t bother trying to interfere. This isn’t like one of Road’s dreams where if he finds the source, he can get out. At the same time, being in someone else’s memory and witnessing it all is another matter completely. Lavi can’t help the way he takes a step forward, closer to Vanitas as the memory continues to play out.]

Qrow Branwen | RWBY | OTA

[bolstafir]

[Qrow's mirror is not elegant. It's a jagged thing, a study in contrasts--embedded with gears and feathers, scattered with rose petals and broken bottles along the base, and scorched across the edges. Most notable, though, are the emblems which dominate the space. Along the top are the emblems of the four members of Team STRQ: his, Summer's, Taiyang's ..... and Raven's. And there's more at the bottom. Ozpin. Glynda. Ironwood. Ruby's on one side panel; Yang's on another.

Some of the mirrors are too visible, all of a sudden, and out of anxiety, Qrow tries to stay away from his own, ingrained habit telling him that nobody can associate the things in that mirror with him if he's not there to make it obvious, but he can't quite resist coming back, like a moth drawn to a flame. (Or a crow to something shiny)]

i. harbinger

[The mirror ripples, and you find yourself in the midst of a makeshift camp, filled with grizzled, dangerous-looking people, from children to adults.

In a dream, though, things aren't always linear; what follows is a tangled jumble that centers around one boy in particular, with familiar jet black hair and crimson eyes. He's young, though it's hard to say how old. A small child in some, certainly, but an older teen in others.

Most notably, he's almost always apart from the rest.]

It's the eyes that are always the worst. You don't quite remember when you started noticing, when you started feeling the chill in the air as they looked at you, but you can never forget their eyes.

The disgust, the disdain. The accusation there every time a bullet missed its mark or something broke or fell. The anger. The hatred.

(Did you know crows are a sign of bad luck? Old superstition, but it's how I got my name.)

You learn to stop meeting those eyes fast, learn to look everywhere else instead. You learn how to spot the plank that's about to snap on the footbridge, the loose stones on the mountain cliff, the unstable tiles on a roof. You learn how to watch for signs that someone or something might fall, where it would fall, what else would be unbalanced by the landing. Your eyes become sharp from paranoia as you teach them to think two, ten, twenty steps ahead into the future--what could go wrong? When? How?

Maybe a harbinger of misfortune didn't need to be useless, if only it could be an alarm, too.

Still, their eyes don't change, and you avoid them as much as you can because if you don't, you'll go mad from the hunger for it. You teach yourself to get better and better at looking, at listening, at reacting, because only the strong survive and you know you make survival harder for them every day you're still breathing, but sometimes you can even the scales. Sometimes even tip them a little.

(I bring misfortune. ... Comes in real handy when fighting an enemy, but it makes it a little hard on friends ... and family.)

Those times, when you complete a successful raid, kill people who get in the tribe's way, destroy Grimm ... those are the only times they look at you, and you've been starving for so long it doesn't even matter that their backs will turn again afterward. For just that one moment, you can forget your cursed existence.

ii. Team STRQ

[This time, when the mirror ripples, the scene within lands in the hallways of a school. This time, the boy isn't alone. There's three others alongside him--a girl with the same dark hair and crimson eyes, a young blonde boy with blue eyes and a laugh that's infectious despite his terrible puns. Another girl with dark hair, but hers has reddish streaks to it, and her eyes are a haunting silver. The latter two are the most outgoing, the type to drag their more reticent friends into conversations and adventures. Right now, there appears to be some kind of arm wrestling match going on between the boys, the silver eyed girl cheering on both competitors as the crimson eyed girl teases her brother not to embarrass her.

{You don't remember when it happened. Which moment it was, if it was during your continuously escalating prank war with Tai or the time Summer made you a cape because you mentioned you liked hers or the training mission where you killed a pack of Grimm together. But at some point you realized -- these people were your family. More than the Branwens ever were. You want them to be in your life, forever. You want to be like them, for real, rather than just pretending. You want to be a Huntsman, not just some murderous bandit. Raven feels the same, doesn't she? She has to. You've seen the way she looks at Tai. She...has to.}

A teacher appears in that same hall, a blond woman with her hair in a bun and a sharp sternness behind her glasses. Scolds them all that they're late to class and they scurry off with various degrees of sheepishness, leaving you alone in the empty hall.]

iii. red like roses

[The mirror leads to a house. A cozy little log cabin with sunflowers growing in the front yard. The sun shines high in the sky with soft fluffy clouds in the air. Everything seems idyllic and peaceful .... and it's in sharp contrast to the two men standing before it. One with black hair and the beginnings of stubble shakes his head as he reaches the door, expression drawn with grief and resignation. It's enough to snuff out the sole glimmer of hope in the blond man's expression, and he stares down at the ground instead.

"Tai, I....I don't think we're going to find her."

"What are we going to do?"

"I don't know."

"When should we tell them?"

"...I can look for her again. One more time. And then--"

Inside, two little girls remain soundly asleep. It's early in the morning, still. And you're deciding how and when to turn their worlds upside down. Even knowing it can't be your fault, it feels like the largest misfortune you've brought yet. It's just not fair.]

iv. the fall of beacon

[It's chaos. Alarms blare, screams pierce through the air in tandem with the howls of too many Grimm to count as people scatter in terror. Mechanical soldiers, meant to lower the risks associated with fighting Grimm in person, turn their guns upon you, software hacked by an unseen enemy.

Vale has never seen a crisis like this before, an attack on this great a scale. There's nothing anyone can do but run or fight. So you fight. And fight. And fight. But it's a losing battle. Beacon will fall.]

v. family

[It's an inn, this time. Rain batters the windows as you sit indoors, staring into the lantern-light lost in thought. A waitress interrupts you with a drink you didn't pay for, and you're confused for just a moment until she says it's from a woman upstairs with red eyes.

Your sister always did know how to make an entrance. Even if you know her better for her exits. You look up, giving the second floor a baleful glance. You haven't seen eye-to-eye with Raven in twenty years, and whatever she wants, you know it's going to be a fraught conversation. A reminder of days long gone.

Once the waitress has left, you sigh, picking up the glass as you stand. Might as well get it over with.]

wildcard

[If you'd like something different, feel free to hit me up on plurk at goodluckmodes!]

i. harbinger

[lostinshadows]

[Did you know crows are a sign of bad luck?

Everyone knew what crows symbolized: bad luck. Just as ravens often stood as a symbol for death.

Lavi is a quiet spectator. He can see flickers of something going on around him. He can see the small telltale signs of how the plank board is about to snap or when something begins to teeter dangerously. Paranoia seems to flow through him at these little signs and he makes sure to avoid it.

But not everything can be avoided.

The eyes bother him more than he wants to admit.

Eyes that only seems to look at him—no, not him—as a monster.

Lavi recognizes the holder of these memories. A face he’s seen in passing before, but he’s never been one to forget faces. He’d be a terrible Bookman if he did.

He takes one step forward and then another.

Then he stops beside Qrow.]

Harbinger of misfortune, huh?

Alucard | Castlevania | Semi-open

[cryptsleeper]

[Closed to Hector]
[Not that many would know it, but much of Alucard's mirror resembles that of the viewing mirror down in the Hold. The one that brought Dracula's castle to heel. The one that has Alucard's claw marks written up and down it to make the magic work again. The one whose origins are so very unclear, and make the connection between Belmont and Tepes so much more curious.

But the flourishes mark it as Alucard's. In elaborate silverwork is Dracula's castle itself, spires rising ever higher and higher up the mirror's frame until they morph into the script that is written above. It seemingly wraps around to the back as well, but if there is more detail work there, well. Who is to say, exactly? It is gone. The top features something more abstract, a pattern that might be found on the garments of villagers in Lupu. Obscure.

Within, well. It's a story Alucard would never voice. The moments after a stake was driven into Dracula's heart. The horrible shambling thing that tried to embrace Alucard, only to be burnt away. A clatter of a ring on the ground. Sypha's kind words, and the shakiness of the dhampir as they walked away from their task. The even kinder gesture of her leading them all into the sunlight.

The thing that happened because Hector betrayed his lord.]

[Open]
[Alucard has walked through one or two of the mirrors by now. Once was out of a curiosity to understand what it was that was happening, for there must be some logical explanation that dreams would lead one back to this of all places. The second time was to confirm a hypothesis - that this was tresspassing into memories. There was no third time, because Alucard understood the entire thing to be a truly mortifying violation of privacy. His memories - the recent ones, anyway - were awful things. Older ones were precious in a different way, and there was only one thing left to do.

He stands in front of his own mirror now, keen gold eyes alert. Watching for any who might wander this way, and prepared to scare off any who might see him and think him an ambassador rather than a guard.

Sometimes, those that walk by are greeted with only silence and a judging stare. Others, a simple question when they draw close:]

You understand that you're intruding into another's life, correct?

[[Plotting post is here if you'd like.]]

[petcromancer]

[Hector finds himself in front of a mirror. It's not his, but there is so much familiar about it. Dracula's castle was his home for a year. When he sees signs of it, he steps forward and touches. How could he do anything else?

The room he finds himself in is one he never visited in his time in the castle. Portions were barred from all but the Lord of the Castle himself, and Hector had never questioned it. So long as he had had access to his quarters and his lab, what did it matter?

But he's there now, with the shadowy, dying thing dressed in the tatters of Dracula's finery, and the the son who'd murdered him. With...what, a stake torn from a bedpost? Fuck.

The vampire stumbles, reaching, but Belmont and Sypha stream in, and Dracula's head is shorn from his body. Nothing then but blood, and ash, and the band around his finger that Dracula had refused to discard.

Hector's lord's last moments, undignified and unmourned. Hector's knees, already weaker in this faun form, tremble, and the breath catches in his throat. He lowers to the floor, dirtied with blood and ashes. The great Lord Dracula, fighting his son alone in this forgotten bedchamber. Hector had been responsible for taking a majority of his forces away, but...

...but he hadn't expected it to be like this, Dracula abandoned and alone. Isaac, at least, should have been here. No matter what he'd become, a man shouldn't have to die alone.]

Myr Shivana | Dragon Age (OC) | OTA!

[faithlikeaseed]

(CW: traumatic eye injury, potential child abuse & suicidal ideation in some threads)

i. it is something to have watched while all men slept (the looking-glass house)
To those who know him well, Myr's mirror is framed in a riot of foliage: Plum blossoms and roses and desert blooms, attended by delicately carved bees. The Chantry's sunburst surmounts the silvery glass; faces--elven and human, demon and spirit--are worked in among the flowers and insects.

The bees are the constant, for those less familiar; if you've met him even once, there's bound to be at least one fuzzy honeybee gracing the dark wood of the mirror's frame.

He's not so quick to find his own mirror as some are--the imagery is familiar, but frankly he knows it by touch and not the vision dreams grant him--but once he has he takes up a post beside it. You might be greeted, on stepping from one of his memories, by a Faun (antlerless, for the season) strung between intent curiosity and anxiety: "What did you see?"

Or, if you approach with intent while he's there, he'll be quick to interpose himself with an apologetic smile. "Not this one, please--though you're welcome to ask me about any of it." That at least gives him discretion on what to share.

But should you find the mirror while he's not there--or talk him into letting you past...

ii. and seen the stars which never see the sun
It is dark and close and warm in this room of memory, but the lack of light's no real hindrance to a clear view of the scene: Wooden bunks line the walls, occupied by human and elven boys stacked two high. Most are deeply asleep; a few lie staring up at the ceiling, while others thrash or mumble in the throes of dreams.

The peace lasts for a scant handful of seconds before the door's thrown open, casting candlelight from an upraised lantern into the room. Many of its occupants are awake on the instant, shielding their eyes (some of those eyes reflecting back the light like animals' eyes, nickel-bright in the gloom) and squinting at the armored form silhouetted there.

"Apprentice Shivana. It's time."

He doesn't have to be called twice, the blond elven boy who slithers down from a top bunk to land bare-footed on the stony floor before all-but-running for the door. "Yes, ser!"

A little of his obvious eagerness dissolves when he sees it's an entire armed escort waiting for him there.

Their walk through the halls and up interminable winding staircases seems to stretch on forever and take only an instant, in the way of things remembered. One moment sticks out: A black-haired elven man with improbably green eyes stands in a doorway as the party passes, watching them with evident worry but saying nothing to draw attention to himself.

Then he is gone, and the hallways are gone, and the apprentice is ushered into a high-ceilinged room pierced by stained-glass windows depicting scenes of piety and martyrdom. His eyes go to them first, his lips parted on the words of a prayer; then he looks round him at his armored escort, and two women in robes--one with the starched propriety of a priestess--who await him at the room's center, flanking a basin of shimmering silver fluid.

"Apprentice Myrobalan Shivana," the mage of the pair says. "You stand now on the threshold of your Harrowing. In moments, you will cross the Veil to confront the demon that awaits you, as demons await all unwary mages, and there you will conquer it or you will die. Have you anything to say before the trial? Be warned: None of your words will leave this room, if you do not yourself."

He looks, again, to the priestess. "Your blessing, Sister?" he asks, clearly trying for nonchalant bravery and not achieving it. She frowns, discomfited.

"May Andraste's mercy and example give you strength to resist the curse in your blood, mage."

One of the armored men impels him toward the basin. He takes a breath before bracing his hands on its edge and pressing his face to the lyrium--and the world around him blossoms:

Gone are the stone walls, the guards, the frowning Sister and the officiating mage. The scenes of piety and holy courage remain, transmuted into an armed camp of men and women of all races in the same colors as the Sister's vestment, all arrayed across a meadow of wildflowers broad as a world. Above them, the sky hovers between summer brightness and midnight, studded with chunks of stone and a distant island decorated in soaring towers and ebony walls.

The older version of the boy--granted a deer's ears and hooves and hide by Talam's caprice--is also there, gazing at the far-off Black City with a homesick melancholy in his eyes. "Didn't think I'd miss that as much as I do," he remarks, to whoever's listening. His younger self isn't among them: The kid's already struck off through the meadow, wearing armor instead of nightclothes now, with a very real sword at his hip.

iii. to have known the things that from the weak are furled
Orange light slanting down over the crenelated walls hints at late afternoon; scents of sun-baked sand in the parched air suggest there's a desert beyond those walls. The courtyard they encircle once held a garden and benches for taking in the air; now it is littered with makeshift barricades and toppled statues where a grim band of defenders has built their fortifications. Distant sounds of combat--shouts, screams, the clash of metal on metal, the actinic crackle of spellwork--drift down from within the great tower at one end of the courtyard, announcing a running battle growing steadily nearer.

Soldiers in skirted armor embellished with a flaming sword form a cordon before the great doors leading--presumably--to the outside world. Lighter-armored archers and robed men and women with staves stand to the back or line the open galleries to either flank. Thus the usual array of battle: Heavy combatants to the front, their ranged support behind. Curiously, there's a handful of mages among the front lines, dressed for mobility in padded cloth armor, many of them with hands on empty hilts as they wait at attention among their plate-wearing peers.

One of them, wearing crimson and with his blond hair braided back tight from his pointed ears, might even look familiar. His eyes--like all the eyes in the courtyard--are trained on the doors at the tower's base.

a. The memory's owner is not here. The iron-banded doors bend and burst of a sudden, punched outward as if struck by a great intangible fist. Flying debris flatten the nearest of the defenders, winning space for a clot of robed mages to tumble out into the courtyard and begin laying about them with spells. All is instantly plunged into chaos, but one thing is clear to the trained observer: Many of those on both sides are not fighting to kill, and falling quickly to those who are.

Given their numbers and armor, the defenders appear to have the clear advantage--to say nothing of how those men and women wearing the fiery sword seem capable of silencing all magic about them in a blinding white flash--until a black-robed, green-eyed elven mage steps out from the tower, lifting hands and staff and voice in a spell that ripples across the courtyard and plunges the tight-packed defenders into a sudden irresistible sleep.

The very air smears; the keep walls become indistinct, rippling in and out of focus as they take on the muted colors of night. "Run!" someone shouts; there is a sense of bodies passing by, crowded close enough to trample the unwary without ever being seen. The sky grows clouded and crowded with islands of upthrust rock and a lowering Black City sits on the horizon. Objects and the bodies of the fallen sleepers distort into dreamlike proportions--

Distort further as something black and oleaginous and reeking of oil and lightning tears through the scenery, swallowing stones and statues and sleepers. In their place come monsters, a wall of eyes and flesh and teeth and viscera, a crush of warped anatomy pressing in, in, in to suffocate and consume.

The light is going. The air is going. Do something. Or hope the red-robed mage trapped in here with you can.

b. There is a second Myr in the memory, but he is so still he might be mistaken for part of the scenery: A statue among the other heroic figures lining the walls of Hasmal's forecourt. The expression of slack and helpless terror on his face--eyes dilated, ears dropped--sets him apart from the glowering stone visages of First Enchanters past; where they are posed with their hands upheld in instruction or spell-casting, his clutch white-knuckled at the stones of the alcove behind him as if by his willing it they'd swallow him.

It was a mistake to come here.

((OOC: Please limit iiib to one thread! This will happen after any other threads with Myr in them for this event.))

iv. it is something to have been (choose your own adventure)
Not all of Myr's memories are of the Circle or the Fade: There are pleasant glimpses of his childhood in Hasmal's alienage to be had (option a), and less-pleasant ones of when his mother learned of his magic and threw him from his home (option b). There are dark and indistinct things, shot through with grief and bitterness, from after he blinded himself (option c); and there are moments of pure and unadulterated joy in the Chant and magic both, those two defining forces of his life (option d).

((OOC: If none of these appeal or you'd like to hash something out in more detail, hit me up at Plagueheart#0051 on Discord!))

ii

[plasticasshole]

The Harrowing?

[Connor watches the boy head off, then looks to the present-day Myr.]

A trial of some kind?

[He doesn't quite understand what they meant by conquering the curse in his blood.]

Mettaton | Undertale | Puca (OTA)

[metalcrusher]

I. OH??? A MIRROR???

[There is only one prompt option for Mettaton's brilliant and increasingly gaudy mirror. An acquaintance who knows little of his history will find it starry, glitter coating its frame in brilliant gold that appears to catch magenta in certain casts of silvery light. Anything else would make it too obvious... But a scant few who know him intimately will find it's even engraved with his very own name, MTT swirled about its frame to lay claim to its sparkling atrocity. Bright blue crystals pepper its surface at this point as well — a curious added dimension, but scarcely visible to most. It's a sight at any rate, a sight that beckons an audience.

Well, it could beckon an audience and even an entrance... If a big metal box weren't stuck in the way, admiring his own reflection in its silvery surface!! Mettaton faces the mirror and frames his screen with a thumb and forefinger, posing before it, his ears upright and alert in his admiration of himself.]

OOH, THIS SILVERY LIGHT IS FLATTERING!! WOULD THAT I COULD HARNESS ITS ESSENCE... IN A PHOTO OP, OUTSIDE OF THESE CIRCUMSTANCES! OH YES!! IMAGINE THE LUXURIOUS ANGLES IT COULD CAPTURE OF MY CHISELED FEATURES. YOU ARE DEVILISHLY HANDSOME, METTATON! AND GENIUS, TO BOOT.

[Mettaton deliberately ignores any approaching dreamers, continuing to pose before his mirror with immeasurable vanity and poise. It's impossible to access his mirror, and he's retracted his wheel so he can't be moved. He's a good 300+ lbs of metal and magic...

(don't mind that some of ya'll have some fucked memories and he's going a little nuts from having seen stuff he never before imagined, it's fine.)

What will you do? Attempt to move the robot by force? Ask politely? There is a switch on his back... Maybe that'll do something.]

0. other

[Yes! There are options for MTT-Brand Memories, but your character will have to work for them. If you have a specific memory in the OPEN category that you'd like your character to see, feel free to let me know and I'll write it out once your character's able to bypass Mettaton. Otherwise, I'll give a random memory if they manage to get past him.

...If you don't think they could bypass the sexy box, we can do a prompt where Mettaton is not guarding his mirror. Just take this option and pick your memory by number and I'll write it out/link it as it happens in Mettaton's timeline.

If you want a memory in the CLOSED category, please get in touch by PM or by smaaaaaash. A lot of the closed ones are largely headcanon and rely on a piece of canon for basis, but are also quite personal for Mettaton and will expose a secret he doesn't want others to know.]

1, cross-hallway mirror buddies

[faithlikeaseed]

[Their mirrors are catty-corner to each other and they've both decided to guard them, which means Myr's had ample opportunity to watch the...Puca, the ears make it a Puca, don't they? --across from him carrying on.

He'd expected to find it annoying but it's actually kind of funny, larded through as it is with terms he's got no frame for; and it's also clever, which endears him to the other Monster immediately.

When there's the least little quiet moment in MTT's patter, he'll call across the hallway,] Wish I'd your size, serah; makes guard duty a damn sight easier.

[Really, this is not ever what he wants to be doing in one of the dreams, but needs must with everyone poking around as they are.]

Soren | Fire Emblem: Radiant Dawn | Dragon (OTA)

[silentsavant]

[ Open log over here! Prompts are in the comments. ]

L Lawliet | Death Note | Witch

[hearthebell]

[Depending on how well you know the man who goes by "Linden Tailor" in Aefenglom, his mirror's frame is varying degrees of both very neat and streamlined, and exceedingly asymmetrical and jagged. The human figures, whether eroded by time or rendered with tremendous detail and clarity, all seem vaguely menacing; the dominant architectural structure represented is a ornate church-like building with a bell tower.

Of course, it's just the trappings, the hints at the players reflected in the glass once the observer steps up to the silvery, rippling mirror, close enough to touch it.]

I. Ryuzaki

[The scene is a strange one. A petite young woman, Japanese with bleached-blonde hair, is slumped in a luxurious hotel room's couch, looking bored and contemptuous.

"Man, this has got to be the lamest date I've ever been on."

The two young men sitting on the couch across from her, handcuffed together, could not be more of a study in contrasts. One is, like her, Japanese, slender, well-dressed and sleek. The other, incidentally the owner of this memory, is slightly older, scrawny and shabbily dressed with round dark eyes under a mop of unkempt hair.

"No no no, please, just pretend I'm not even here, OK?" he mumbles past the fork in his mouth. "By the way... are you going to eat that piece of cake?" he points toward one of several plates on the coffee table between them.

The girl's answer back is snappish, derisive. "Cake makes you fat. I'm not gonna eat any."

"Actually," the pale man counters, scratching at his head. "I find that you don't gain any weight as long as you burn calories by using your brain."

"Hm! So now you're calling me stupid? Fine, then! I'll give you the piece of cake, as long as you agree to leave me and Light alone!"

Unfazed, the pale man answers. "Even if I leave you two alone, we're still going to be watching on surveillance cameras, so it wouldn't make any difference."

"You pervert! Would you stop it with your creepy hobby?"

He rises from his seat, a bare foot using the edge of the coffee table for balance as he reaches for the cake. "You can call me whatever you'd like. Last chance for cake."

"Okay, then, I'll just close the curtains and turn off the lights!" the girl shoots back, defiant and impish.

"We have infrared cameras in here, as well."

Finally, the sleek Japanese man speaks, addressing his companion in handcuffs as the girl groans loudly. "What's wrong with you? I thought that moving here was supposed to help us catch Kira, but since we've been here you don't seem all that motivated to me."

"Not motivated?" the pale man asks through another mouthful of cake. Then his face falls noticeably, hollow eyes appearing even more sunken. "You're right. Actually, I'm depressed."

L, or Linden, as you likely know him, is PRESENT for this memory. The witch's present-day incarnation stands at the window, facing away from the scene playing out behind him, until he notices you.]

Oh.

[As though it's a surprise, but a lackluster one, that someone's at his mirror.]

I suppose it was bound to happen eventually. It's not as though I've not been taking advantage of this situation, as well, with other mirrors...

II. Coil

[The room is spacious and dark, unfurnished, and there is a computer, keyboard, mouse and microphone on the floor in what seems to be the center of the windowless expanse. Notably, the walls and floors are slightly soft, absorbing sound and also providing no small amount of padding for the solitary person in the room.

His age is difficult to discern, but he might be in his early to mid teens. His clothes are baggy on his rangy frame, dark hair unkempt, and a picked-over platter of tea and biscuits sits near a body that is going from sleeping to stirring. The cause for his waking is the soft sound of a keycode, familiar to a pavlovian degree, followed by the steady, electronic sound of a door opening.

"Ah, good. You're awake... I was beginning to worry." An elderly man with a mustache crouches next to the boy as he straightens out, stretches to a symphony of snapping cartilage. "It's nearly ten in the morning, and it behooved me to inform you."

"Ten o'clock in Moscow?" the boy asks; his voice is still high-pitched, hinting that his age might be on the lower end of what he looks.

"Ten o'clock in Winchester. Considering the stability of recent developments in Moscow... I'd thought that it might be a good day to go outside for a bit, if you're amenable. Take some exercise and fresh air. It's been quite some time."

"Fifty-one days," comes the reply, sounding utterly dull and disinterested in the prospect. He holds out a hand for the thermos of coffee that the old man brought him, as well as an assortment of pills he doesn't even glance at before tipping back. "I'm not suffering for it, and my presence is really required, if it's five o'clock in Moscow. I have to be here."

"I see. I apologize." The old man stands, inclining his head respectfully. "Coil... is there anything at all you need, over the next twenty-four hours? Or would you prefer not to be disturbed?"

The boy reaches up, catches the man's withered hand in his own, staring hard at it before pressing it against the side of his collarbone, his neck, his cheek. Then, seemingly satisfied, he lets it go.

"There shouldn't be anything else, Watari... I'll notify you if that changes."

"Understood."

L, or Linden as you likely know him, is PRESENT for this memory, though you might not see him immediately. He's skulking around the corners of the room, taking it in, drawing comfort from the extremely familiar surroundings.]

There's really nothing more to see here. Perhaps I could escort you out...

III. L (CW- Attempted Suicide, Child Abuse)

[If you've made it back this far, this dark and buried, you might feel a bit disoriented. It's a bit off the road map, after all, the sort of thing that no one was ever meant to know about, much less witness.

The perspective is a claustrophobic and panicked one. This is a very small child's memory, worn away by years, and bony heels drive into a dirty plaster wall as he throws his back against the side of a large chest of drawers, again. This time seems to be the charm, and he drops as the chest tips onto its side, not wasting a moment to shove it closer to a pair of feet that dangle above the wood floor. He doesn't look up at the hanging woman's strangely blank and featureless face as he seizes a flimsy, overturned chair, stacking it on top of the fallen chest, passing a sleeve in front of his overflowing eyes as he scrambles to climb high enough to reach above the top of her dark-haired head. The sewing scissors in his thin hands aren't meant to cut through rope; they're dull, threaten to break under the strain, and he's trembling too much to hold them steady, but nothing else is readily available in this cluttered hovel. Fibers shred agonizingly slowly, but he continues to cut, through the ache in his hands and in his clenched teeth, the way his feet strain to raise on his toes and give him just a few more inches in height.

Finally, the last few frayed strands give, and the woman, the chair, and the child all crash to the floor. The chair breaks, a yelp and a wet snap indicate that a bone has, as well, and the boy winces as he works to loosen the noose around her neck, pawing at the skin under it, listening for breath before a powerful shove dislodges him, followed by a volley of slaps and blows and rasping, hoarse words in a language that is half-remembered, but with a meaning vicious and powerful enough to transcend all such barriers.

Miserable! Horrible! Selfish! Only a monster like you would trap me here this way!

L is NOT PRESENT for this memory, though you might meet him as an obviously grown-up version of the child on your way out. He regards you with some wariness, some disgust, perhaps a touch of fear.]

What are you doing here? What did you see?

IV. WILDCARD

[Maybe you want to see more than one memory and encounter L a different way. Maybe you don't want to encounter him at all; maybe you're interested in a totally different scenario! If we've discussed it feel free to offer it up with the wildcard option in the header (and something to specify the memory, as it's likely something that happened in-game!) If you're interested in something, please hit me up via PM or on discord at ladylazarus#2235, I'm always down to plot!]

iii, screw it let's do it live & figure out the Niles one on the fly

[faithlikeaseed]

[He had not known.

He had not known what he was getting into when he touched that mirror with its painstaking representation of some foreign Chantry; he had not known whose it was beyond in the vaguest ache it had invested in his chest. At least: He tells himself he did not know, he hadn't meant to invade and view what the mirror's owner held close and private, that it was not at all his virulent curiosity that made him touch where he could have merely inspected with his eyes.

It is a lie, he now believes; it is a lie and the Maker despises liars, and Myr deserves every ounce of disgust his Bonded regards him with as he breaks the surface of the mirror like a man coming up from drowning.]

Linden-- [Is the desperate horror of the child he'd seen--the child grown to a man, and not, now before him--graven in his blown pupils, for L to view in memory? It should be, if there's justice in this or any world; a scene like that could not be lightly forgotten, nor should it be. Nor can Myr, not when it digs hooks into primal things he thought he'd outgrown himself--

("How could you do this to me? You spoilt wretch, you little bastard!")] Amatus, I,

[owe you a full recounting, but the recollection of it lodges in Myr's throat and chokes him in a way he's not accustomed to. It's tangled up with something else and he isn't sure whose story he'd be telling, and that frightens him.

His voice drops to a thread of sound,] Your mother, I think. I'm sorry. I'm so--

[Sorry. The depth of his contrition weighs on his shoulders, drops his gaze and his head.]

Omi Fushimi | OTA (with spoilers for backstory not yet in EN A3)

[pastregrets]

The Mirror

[Omi's mirror is hewn from tough wood, hardened by the ages. Carved into the wood are various motifs: his own flower motif, the carnation; a camera, a motorcycle, a printed and bound script. There are names engraved, those of his father, his brothers, the members of his troupe each with a smaller name--their role in Stranger--beside them; then, slightly larger than the rest at the center of the frame's bottom is "Nachi", then below that, "Fox" and "Wolf".]

The Memories
a. Collage
[There's a profound sense of sadness and numbness in this memory that he'll someday retell to someone he hasn't met yet. But for now, it's the image of a young boy, laden with groceries for his family's dinner, walking in a direction that seems... wrong.

A much younger Omi stops by a river, and curls in under the weight of spiraling thoughts until everything goes dark.

He's awakened by a prodding and shaking, by a spirited kid who introduces himself as Nachi. A name he carves into his heart. Nachi's run away from home, too; Nachi's a pro at it.

They talk and banter, and finally Omi musters up the courage to go home. But he carries this Nachi's words with him. Resolute, he holds his family closer and becomes the kind of person they need him to be.

The memory ends, filled with warmth and kindness and a sorrowful but abiding love for people he can't and won't look away from.

And an older Omi is there, watching over the whole thing, a smile on his face bright enough to outshine the sun.]

Everyone...

b. Suits
[There's a feeling of buoyancy in this memory, a lightness that doesn't have an end. It's a remembrance of something bygone and missed, delinquents being anything but, with their leader in a terrible suit and his co-leader (a younger Omi) messing with a camera like he's afraid he'll chop somebody's head off in the outcome.

They bicker and jostle, good-natured, all confused by their leader's actions. But at his insistence, they all line up. Most of the delinquents look confused, stone-faced or worse, but Omi shakes his head at the whole thing and captures a photo as best he can of the group as it was.

But it ends with a big grin, and the faint realization that things may change from that moment on... and there's a warmth in Omi's heart that the memory has been captured. The older Omi, the Omi of now, holds the developed and printed photo in his hand, though it fizzles out of existence when he realizes someone else is in the memory, too.]

Ah... You saw that? That's...

c. The End [cw: violence, implied death]
[This memory starts suddenly, with fear and anger and the sensation of moving fast. The young delinquents in black ride side-by-side on their motorcycles, the wind whipping at them as they're... pursued.

Without warning, another bike comes up on the side, jostling the second delinquent just enough that his bike spins out and flips, with the first one following suit soon after. One of the boys is moving. The other, purple haired and severe-looking, isn't. There's blood. A lot of it. The other motorcycles race off, leaving the two young men in their broken, battered states...

It ends as suddenly as it begins, the whole place going black.

And all you hear from the memory's owner, stuck in his worst nightmare once again, is an anguished echo.]

d. The Beginning
[Omi, now no longer merely an observer, stands in front of a dressing room mirror, clad in what can only be described as post-apocalyptic gear. The room behind him is busy. There's a guy(?) in a dress(?) with long red hair; two men in white, and a "doctor" of sorts. They file out of the dressing room at someone's unheard call, and form a circle behind the curtains. This is it. He's going to step out onto that stage and seize this dream for his own.

Omi leads them in a cheer, and that alone can be heard.]

Banri! Juza! Taichi! Sakyo! It's full throttle from here on out!

[ooc; Please feel free to hit me up on discord (Nini#5820) or plurk (hotpants for plotting and such!]

b

[sneaksweet]

[Juza watches quietly, staying off to the side, awkward and uncomfortable accidentally walking in on something so dear to his friend. Was this the biker gang Omi used to lead?

They haven't spoke about this, have they?]

... Sorry.

[What else can he say?]

flat escardos | fate/strange fake | witch

[escardos]

1. in the shadow of fear (cw. child abuse/murder attempt)

[ the dream begins in an ornate, rather fancy house. it is something that is befitting nobility, like a house that has stood tall and proud for centuries. it's most definitely belongs to a family that can boast of a long generation, and many riches.

and yet...

there's a small child, with bright blond hair and blue eyes are wide with fear as he tries to make himself as small as possible in the corner of the house. but from what? ]

Give it up, dear. [ it's the sound of a man, on a phone that looks nothing short of antique. ] That child is too much for us. He won't advance our family's magecraft; he'll destroy us all!

[ and, from a distance, a young male is visible--flat--is visible. his expression is...unnaturally serious. ]

2. a cheerful beginning

[ in one of the grand halls of what was one of the most prestigious universities for magecraft, the clock tower, there are two males. flat--or at least the dream version of him--and a man with excessively long hair and an excessively deep scowl. just what could make him so angry...? ]

Fuck...you know what you are? In a word, you're an imbecile.

[ and yet the flat in the dream replied... ]

Oh, come on! At least describe me with three words!

You're a cretin and you're an imbecile. There are no other words to describe you.

[ but where's the owner of the dream? well, he's off to the side, leaning against a pillar, smiling warmly at the scene in front of him. ]

3. a conversation between strangers

[ the dream now takes place in a plaza. under the covers of the trees, the figure of flat escardos is mostly hidden in the darkness, only lit up by the sparks of light that shower the sky. they are not meteor showers, however. the clashing of metal can also be heard, signaling a fierce fight. ]

Wow... That gold guy's attacks are cheating, but that guy who's dodging them is almost as bad! It's like he's doing an action game dodge infinitely and canceling every move he makes!

[ and, while there's no one else that appears to be around, the sound of a groaning voice is clear and distinct ]

Your similies...are always so crass. [ there's a pause, almost as if the being that's trying to speak is trying to keep itself together. as if they are heavily injured. ] Now, will we move to action?

[ the flat in the dream looks at the wristwatch, concerned. ]

But will you really be alright, Ja--Berserker?

[ the real flat can be seen off to the side again as well. the darkness does a good job of covering them, but there's a nostalgic smile on his face. melancholic, even. ]

( ooc: if you'd like to plan any other memories out, please hit me up on discord at tori#3410 or plurk at odasaku! )

1

[sealeted]

...it seems like magical families were terrible even before wizards became a thing.

[Hakuno is crouched by the child, half shifted in front of him.

Her wings are open, as if to shield him, but he looks right through.]]

gwen wynne-york | closed starters below

[trouvaille]

( gwen's mirror is intricately molded; the highest point of it swooping down, stylized to evoke without explicitly representing backstage curtains, dripping musical notes and letters in jumbled chaos down the sides. within it— )


( hmu keanuleaves if u would like a starter, my ass is terrible at writing open anything but i am happy to craft something in particular. )

@ sokie

[trouvaille]

It's possible that Sokie doesn't, at first, recognize the girl in the cocktail dress.

Her hair is lighter; rich mahogany and not blue-black. It is pin-straight and glossy, too, none of the slightly wild curl that she has increasingly given up on effectively taming without the aid of an entire team of stylists and heated tools. Her skin is warmer, less glossy-smooth, human—her eyes golden-brown, her features softer. Softer without the edges of exaggerated fae beauty, but softer because she's young, too, in the coltish dusk of adolescence. Twenty, maybe, if that, in red lipstick and a little highlight and slip-dress that barely qualifies for the term and does not cover the ribbon tattoo wound around her thigh.

She looks lovely and uncomfortable on the arm of a stockily muscled man in a three piece suit that doesn't hide all of his presumably extensive tattoos, his dark hair already shot through with silver and his ease with the cameras apparent even as he plays to his audience. Even as he keeps himself between her and the press pool, one hand on the small of her back and one hand free to make whatever friendly sign he wants to (“Your peace sign's round the wrong way, Lode!” “Is it fuck, mate,” affably), ushering her through the throng and into a different one, better-dressed.

No one notices Sokie, but it seems like the sort of evening where no one would have, anyway, if she wasn't with the right person.

Fall-From-Grace | Planescape: Torment

[seductless]

i. an unusual establishment

[ The space that opens into view is warm and elegant, the air carrying the scent of lavender and something more sweetly exotic. It might be a wide sitting room, all pale wood and padded sofas arranged in a neat-half circle. Standing by one of them is Grace herself, looking the same as she ever done and yet somehow there's something lighter about her. Less weighted down. And she turns, smiling curiously at the motley group that come in through the large arched doors.

A man, tall and strong but grey-tinged and more scars than skin. A woman with fiery red hair and a long, whiplike tail. A humanoid figure, features too long and angular to be human. A floating skull. Grace takes them all in with an easy greeting, unphased by their obvious confusion.

"This is the Brothel of Slaking Intellectual Lusts," she says, and smiles when that only earns more questions. "I established this brothel to give those lustful fevers that strike the mind more avenues of expression rather than the simply carnal. Much pleasure can be had in conversation and engaging in the verbal arts with others." The skull in particular seems unimpressed, and Grace addresses it in return without hesitation, inviting them to tour the brothel for themselves.

"So this is a brothel... where there's no intercourse?" The scarred man asks.

"Only of a psychological nature. Rest assured, it is still quite stimulating."

As the conversation continues there's movement back towards the door, the Grace of Aefenglom standing unnoticed in a corner with one hand pressed against the wall with the sort of nostalgic proprietary air of someone returning to an old home. She's carefully watching the conversation unfolding deeper in the room, eyes darting amongst the figures but always returning to that tall, scarred figure at the front. Her attention is so fixed on him that she doesn't notice anyone else is there until they're right at her side, and she starts before turning to look at them. ]

Welcome. [ It's almost the same greeting the memory-her had given, though this one is tinged with something a touch wryer. ]

ii. an impossible city

[ At first glance, it might be any city street, a bit rough, but neat enough within the Market Ward. It's only looking around further that reveals Sigil's true nature, the streets and buildings bending impossibly upwards rather than continuing straight ahead. There is no sky overhead, only the bright daylight coming from no visible source and the sense of standing at the bottom of a ravine. The geography is treated as entirely normal by people darted everywhere along the crowded streets, of every race, humans and elves and dwarves intermingling with planar entities and stranger creatures without a second look.

Indeed, the group traveling along the far end of the street hardly earns a blink by the merchant stalls they pass. The tall, scarred figure leads, with the rest trailing in a loose pack behind them. And there is Grace amongst them, walking comfortably and smiling as she is approached by what looks like a metal cube walking on long, spindly legs.

"Attention: Fall-From-Grace. I wish to address your body."

"Pardon me?"

"Your body. Your form. Your reason for selecting it. Why?"

"Why... I suppose I find it comforting. Besides, I rather like the wings."

"It would be more practical for you to assume the form of a modron. It is 13.27% more efficient. Give or take +5.2%."

From across the street, from where she has been slowly tracking the group's movements, the unnoticed Grace barely manages to suppress a smile. It finally breaks free as her memory-self laughs.

"Why Nordom, are you trying to court me?"

"It was not my intention to initiate legal action against you." ]

iii. a beginning (cw: slavery, abuse)

[ This could not be mistaken for any other city. The sky is ash-green, the endless streets are comprised of burning-hot iron. The air is filled with the scent of rust and rot, screams and moans and misery. This is Dis, this one of the Nine Hells. The streets here are filled with devils and damned souls, twisted lesser devils openly abused by those with more power. Here and there are the occasional visitor, merchants or mercenaries brave enough to chance working with the baatezu devils.

A group of pit fiends move past, laughing, and one of them holds a chain pulled taught, attached to the collar around the throat of a winged, female figure. There is something almost familiar about her, though it might be hard to tell. The red-black hair and glowing eyes, red wings and black, clawed fingers might throw off the resemblance, if one couldn't see the figure standing a little ways away and watching with unreadable eyes, Grace in her current blonde and more humanoid form.

If the chained figure has a name it goes unused, the pit fiends laugh and call her tanar'ri, or slave. They laugh at her downturned head, at the half-mad way she allows herself to be pulled along without complaint. They think her broken, by now. They don't see what burns in her glowing eyes, the way she carefully lets them see what they want.

(They don't truly understand what a creature of chaos, of desire she is, how she knows how to play to what they want, any more than the mother who'd sold her here understood that the tanar'ri's ancient enemies would find more joy in tormenting her than in killing her outright. That lack of understanding from either side is planting the seed of an epiphany that won't come for some time yet. But the creature who is not yet Fall-From-Grace is watching.)

"She said she wants to play a game," the devil holding the chain says, and the group of them laugh. The Baatezu know how to play rules to get exactly what they want. "I say we let her." It pulls at the chain, yanking her forward to stumble onto her knees, to bite back a sound as she's forced down against the iron streets they know a tanar'ri cannot touch.

"I heard one of the merchants play," she says once she's allowed upright again, a smirk very carefully hidden. "They called it improvisation."

Off to the side, the blonde woman stands tall and unseen, though she turns as she registers someone else there. ]

You shouldn't be here.

[ It's not reproach or shame. It almost sounds like concern. No one should spend any more time in the Hells than necessary. ]

iv. wildcard

[ Want a different memory? Feel free to come poke me at talkincodes or Grace's plotting post to plan something. ]

i.

[faithlikeaseed]

Quite the establishment you've got here, serah, [the interloper replies to Grace's welcome, grinning from ear to deer-like ear. Fauns are known throughout Geardagas for being creatures of the flesh, easily seduced by the offer of sensual pleasures, but this particular Faun looks like he could not be more excited at the prospect of a brothel that holds none of those.]

Have you considered bringing the like to Aefenglom?

[Oh, there are many other things he wants to ask about this place, but that's the most important one. Of course the City's got the Coven, but that isn't exactly the same, now is it?]