this is Salem, a land filled with magic and maladies. It is a place where witches and their elemental familiars gather, a home to legend and
lore that predates time itself. Yet of all the wicked and wonderful stories the past can tell us of, the most magical are the ones yet to happen.
This is Salem - this is the start of your very own journey. Welcome to starfall
Starfall is an animaga witch roleplay set in mostly modern times. Members play as witches in a world plagued by monsters, where the only safe spots are walled cities. Starfall strives to be a character-driven roleplay with expansive lore and a highly interactive plotline. We want to allow members to
create and look back on a magical journey, and mold the site and its plot as their characters grow.
for the first time in a long time, sleep consumes all as it once did, and takes you by the hand into a gentle darkness. it feels for a minute like you are drowning and the waters are pellucid yet you cannot see anything, and you don't want to.[break][break]
this type of deep and exhaustless slumber comes and latches hold until it's finished-- but not today. [break][break] today, something seems to poke and prod at this bubble of unconsciousness, creating an unsteady and never-before-felt ripple in your dreamless landscape.[break][break]
suddenly the faint sensation of drowning (which is supposed to, you know it's supposed to, lead nowhere at all) leads to a firm surface and you stand up, and suddenly you are not under water but able to breathe just fine, and then you feel unmistakably alive.[break][break]
the darkness melts to black and lighter grays, and you find yourself a comfortable distance away from the edge of a cliff. at the end of the cliff, the only glint of color in this whole dreamscape is a mop os cerulean-blue hair. [break][break] like the singing of angels, a voice calls to you.[break][break]
is there anything left? [break][break] what is a city without a king? a love without warmth? a life without a dream?[break][break]
this world has been betrayed by the gods that made it. there is no hope for the wicked, for the ones that are alive. it is time. you must turn your back to enter paradise. there are much grander things than the everyday.[break][break]
it is time to rise; liberated from duty, from dogma, from hell. [break][break] paradise awaits your embrace.
you find it difficult to tear your eyes open but when you wake up, you are filled with a sudden and desperate longing for something you don't know (or maybe just these words are enough to make you realize what it is you want). the words that you heard are retained as clear as night; and they linger long after this day melts into the next.[break][break]
[attr="class","stafftempsubtext"]
how to participate
write a 350 word (min) word response to this dream; what kind of inclination, if any, does your character have to the idea of a 'paradise' -- besides the hypnotizing charm of the dream, what are your characters own views? or are they having a hard time distinguishing which views are their own and which aren't?
[break][break] you can participate with as many characters as you like; all of whom will receive 80gold. this thread ends on sunday, 6th august gmt+5.45. [break][break] at the end of your post; please give an OOC notification to staff if you would like your character to be dragged into site-wide events for varying purposes. regardless of your initial decision, you will be given options to withdraw from playing a part you don't want to play each time a new update is posted.
[attr="class","intext"]Is it real? The ceiling of the room feels off. The man beside him feels unfamiliar. His own hands don't feel like they're his but he can see how they lead to his arm, to his shoulder, to the rest of him so surely they're his. His head aches and his chest feels empty in a way it hasn't before. He wants to cry, but he can't find the energy or the will or the tears, but gods he wants to cry because it might alleviate the sudden gap in his chest. What was there? He can't remember. Was there anything there? He doesn't know. How does he fix it? He leans over to Maddox and kisses his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his lips. It doesn't help. This is the wrong kind of hole.
It feels like a memory he can't remember. Like he's forgotten the feeling of his mother's hand in his or the way his father laughed or his brother's face. He has all those memories, though. H doesn't think he's forgotten anything. He can't remember remembering something he did yesterday and can't today. Nothing important, at least. Maybe that's the problem. He doesn't want to think that's it because he can't do anything to fix that, though, so he gets out of bed. Maybe a walk will help.
"Betrayed by the gods." His dreams don't usually follow a course like it had this night. It unnerved him, scared him. It brought to him memories of the Nightmare. He could still feel it. His hand exploding as a spell backfired. The feeling of countless teeth tearing him apart, breaking his bones, without so much as an ounce of effort. He shivers, shudders, and clenches his fists until his fingernails dig near bleeding crescents into the palms of his hands. Focus. He'd grown up on foreign gods from his mother's homeland. He was taught that as long as people were faithful and performed their sacred rituals, all would be well. If they gods had forsaken them, then wasn't it their own fault for abandoning them first? His gods spoke of no devil, no boogeyman beyond the void that awaited those who abandoned the gods. He'd been raised on the idea that you were recycled. Your body would feed the plants which fed the animals which fed the people. Your soul? Mother said they were reborn. Father said they became the stars in the sky. Sima liked both ideas. He liked to think that at the end of it, you could choose. He could be reborn as someone else or he could become a light in the sky, something people always looked up to and admired. For those who didn't believe or who shirked their holy duties, they would get no choice, no option, just the end. Full stop. Story's over.
Would the gods really abandon even those who were diligent? Cold hands wrap around his heart, his throat, and squeeze at the thought, ever tighter and tighter. Feels like he's drowning— The dark, the end, what happens then? He doesn't want to stop. He doesn't want to die. He doesn't—
"You're up early, Sima." A voice jarrs him back to reality, "Your teapots whistling. Are you okay? I've never seen you jump like that." Quickly he shushes the pot and assures Aeris he's okay. Just tired. Didn't sleep too great last night. The nightmares. Aeris gives a sympathetic look, but he can't do anything, so he goes on his way.
What's paradise? He's not sure. Peace and happiness, he supposes. Such low standards could also be called death, though. Can't be unhappy if you're dead. Is that what the dream meant? Just die? That doesn't seem right. Maybe it's to live. Release the "shackles" of religion, of faith, and do what you want. "Freedom." He shakes his head and drinks. The tea burns his tongue mercilessly and all the way down, but he doesn't flinch, doesn't stop.
Ground yourself, Sima. It was just a dream. It doesn't mean anything.
He wander back to bed, lays back down next to Maddox. He feels comfortable and safe. Maddox is a pillar, his most crucial support. As long as he's here, what does it matter? If life could just be a little more peaceful. No more nightmares, no more power struggles. Maybe that'll be paradise. Just him and Maddox. Happy. That ought to be enough, right?
Post by maddox rothscus ✨ on Aug 1, 2017 14:13:26 GMT
that was you.
for a time, he avoids sleep like the plague. but it, like everything else, catches up nonetheless. he sleeps ( reluctant, the bed somehow like a luxury he doesn't deserve ), he dreams, he hates it, he wakes up.
it tugs at his ribs with a kind of nervous bravery, like vultures picking at a corpse. there are some days where staying in bed, covers over head, dreaming of paradise, are ideal -- but they have lost their appeal; he thinks of nightmares and watching sima die and burning alive; and then there are words, thoughts, feelings rising in his lungs, flooding, and he feels like drowning.
( the space beside him is quickly losing heat. )
what good is a dream? it breaks your head open, pours in words you can't understand, leaves you breathless and wanting and empty. it's a moment like this where he doesn't know what he wants, ( he always knows what he wants ) and it terrifies him all the more.
( he wrap the sheets around him, tighter; it is still cold. )
consider paradise: his is a templated image, of warm waters and white sands. consider paradise: he is certain that others have dreams beyond his own; his own, which never really his own. his father has a dream. erin and zephyr probably have dreams of their own. leviathan certainly has a dream. they have a map to follow; he only brings a knife to the table and lays out his heart. and maybe, maybe that is enough. something tells him that it isn't.
he wants to go back to sleep. or stand up and go for a walk. but there's a hollowness to every breath that makes him think of death rattles and ebony hearses. in the end, he stays where he is, fingers splayed across white sheets, memorising the fold of fabric beneath his palm and reassuring himself that this is real.
just a dream.
nevermind that people had died from the previous dreams. nevermind that he doesn't understand, doesn't know, and--
sima returns; the sun, golden and warm, finds its way through the cracks in the curtains. maddox remembers to breathe.
[attr="class","paige_lyrics"]all my life is wrapped up in today. No past or future here.[break]BUT THERE'S NO COMING HOME. THERE'S NO COMING HOME WITH A NAME LIKE MINE.
[attr="class","paige_post"]She feels like she's drowning. She can't breathe, can't cough herself free, until suddenly she does but it's a sob and not a cough and— Why is she crying? This ache in her chest, why does it feel as though something was missing? What is it? What's missing? Ah—! And she understands suddenly why she's crying.
( She starts drinking at eight in the morning. She doesn't stop three in the afternoon. )
╼╾
She wakes up with a throbbing headache and dreams she can't chase away. Thoughts of it grow like mold, spreading ever and ever outward. An infestation she can't cure because she keeps coming back to it, the dream still crystal clear in her memory. Why doesn't it fade? Why doesn't it run farther and farther away the more she reaches it? Instead it seems to grow clearer with each moment spent on it. It scares her a little bit. Reminds her of the Nightmare. It's all too real.
She starts the morning with a drink and she's off to a great start.
╼╾
"Amelia, are you listening?"
( She's not. )
"I'm sorry, what?"
( Is that her voice? )
"You okay? You've been staring off."
( Had she? )
"Yeah, I'm okay. Just tired."
( She can't help but lie. )
╼╾
Ghosts weigh heavy around tired shoulders. She closes her eyes and she can see them laughing and the alcohol makes them seem more real. She can feel the rocking of the ship, the creaking of the wood and sound of dozens of people shuffling around the decks above. She can hear gulls crying. When she opens her eyes, they'll all be there and it'll be just like before. Hwei will laugh at her when she threatens to push him overboard. Isam rolls his eyes, but he'll smile when he thinks she isn't looking. And she'll finally ask Silvia—
( She cries again and takes another drink. )
╼╾
Paradise is gone. Never properly held, it slipped through her hands like water. She'd stood on its cusp. She was so close and she regrets never taking that crucial step forward, never letting herself fall into its comforts. Her hesitation ruined it all. Her hesitation ruined everything. They all died because of her and she feels herself crumbling under the weight of their deaths.
She can't wash the blood from her hands. She can still taste it in her mouth. In the quiet, she hears them cry through the canon fire and spell fire and she doesn't sleep anymore. Not like she used to. It's better that way. Can't dream if you don't sleep, right?
Maybe that's why she can't forget this one.
╼╾
Amelia Penrose doesn't believe in the gods. They might exist, but she certainly puts no faith in they who let her world crumble around her. She prays to no one, worships no one, kneels to no one. She is her own god, flawed as she is, and if some higher power had a problem with it well—
Post by saoirse ó floinn on Aug 2, 2017 7:57:27 GMT
[googlefont=Roboto:300,400,900]
[nospaces]
[attr="class","jartox"]
[attr="class","jartoxpic"]
[attr="class","jartoxlyr"]
be yourself; everyone else is already taken
[attr="class","jartoxpost"] she lies there on the bed, hair splayed upon pillows, half-lidded eyes cast upon the intricate carvings of her ceiling. the only movement in the room is the gentle rise and fall of her chest and the gradual tightening of fingers around fabric. for once, she is actively awake at this time of the morning, awoken by the vision that she had experienced. It was highly peculiar; never before had someone ever spoken to her in a dream. her mind lingers upon its words, glossing over them with analytical precision. ‘paradise, huh?’ [break][break]
she pulls herself up to lean against the backboard of her bed, feeling the sunlight shine upon her cheek, warm and comforting. Her fingers play with her blanket absentmindedly, feeling the layers beneath, rubbing and gripping the cotton. She ponders again about the words whispered to her, not quite sure what to make of them; were they a premonition or just a conjuration of her own mind? as she recalls the entirety vision, it does not make sense why she would even have such a dream. after all, she hasn't experienced anything recently to prompt something as otherworldly.[break][break]
a laugh escapes her, her body jolting forward and she smiles, an neutral expression; one that forms naturally as she contemplates things. the voice had whispered to her, "this world has been betrayed by the gods that made it." it sounds almost unreal, like something from one of her own stories. what gods? another breathy laugh puffs out of her, light and mildly incredulous. the notion is absurd and yet, she can’t stop the cold sweat that builds up in her palms.[break][break]
"paradise awaits…" for once, she struggles to form an idea, a notion of such a word. she feels confident to say that she is happy now where she is, where her life is at. Marchosias materialises beneath her hands, her fingers threading into his silky fur and he nuzzles her affectionately without saying a word. she murmurs to him nonchalantly, hands stroking him, scratching him underneath his chin, “what is paradise to you, Marchosias? If you were offered it, would you accept it and in turn give up what you have now?”] he does not respond to her and instead gazes up at her with shining black eyes. in all, it is a question directed at herself and she has no immediate answer. [break][break]
she continues to stroke his fur, allowing her imagination to take charge for a while. she paints pretty pictures of simplicity, contentment and peace and as she compares them to what she already has, she hardly sees a difference. it brings up doubts; perhaps she hasn’t seen enough of the world, perhaps she is too within her own comfort zone. she is quick to counter herself, to ease that uncertainty. One would define paradise as ‘an ideal or idyllic place or state’; her present is her paradise, is it not?
to lose one's identity; be changed beyond recognition.
For once in his life, Xuan is afraid of the cold. His eyes are wide open but some part of him still lingers in the euphoric world in his dreams and he swears that, for a second, the dream is his reality.
A blink and the vision is gone, and reality settles with rays of morning light and a hollow sense of loss. Xuan mourns it, as if all the warmth had been sucked out from deep within him.
He had seen his family in the last line of the song, even the ones who had passed, in the safe haven they shared during childhood, the house hidden beneath blooming peach trees. His own 世外桃源 (shìwàitáoyuán - peach spring utopia). He recalls the feeling of carefree and wildness as he raced against his brothers to the top of a hill. What happened to that child? Xuan pushes himself off the bed, bare feet touches the wooden floorboards, chilled by the morning air. His steps were slow at first but quickens when he spots a glance of his reflection in the mirror.
A stumble, a fall. His knees give way, and Xuan crashes to the ground like a helpless newborn fawn. A look up and he finds a foreign face staring back through the mirror. Who is this? "晋嫙 (Jin Xuan). 晋嫙. 晋嫙." He repeats, calling for himself, a fine jade, wishes from people long gone for him to be pure and elegant. He begins shivering violently, cold, freezing, glacial until its burning. His vision tunnels and he feels sweat trickling down and things winding, twisting, crawling beneath the surface of his skin. "Xuan!" A brush of soft fur against his shoulders and strong arms encircle him. Xuan feels warm again. He buries himself in that warmth and closes his eyes.
A minute, an eternity passes and he reopens them. There's people who need him, Wei, his brother and Bai Lin, his familiar. He remembers, there's no need to search. The child isn't gone but changed, the shining hope and naivety in his eyes is replace a frozen stretch of silent water. There's nothing left to search for. "I'm okay, gege. Xuan's okay." His voice is soft while he assures Wei, knowing this is the rare instances where his brother is conscious of reality and not tormented by nightmares.
Paradise, everyone yearns for it, to forget reality and let only the 'good' things in, but that's a lie within itself. Xuan sighs and pulls his family closer. What the person sang echoes within him but it's smaller now, he takes note of it but is otherwise undisturbed. He doesn't need paradise, he just needs the present. Xuan glances at the mirror and sees himself again. There's not enough time in the world to dwell on foolish ideals like paradise.
[attr="class","t1lyrics1"]i am flesh and i am bone
[attr="class","t1lyrics3"]i've got fire in my soul
[attr="class","t1cover"]
[attr="class","t1line"]
[attr="class","t1lyrics2"]rise up, ting ting, like glitter and gold
[attr="class","t1hov"]
[attr="class","t1content"]
[attr="class","t1contentscroll"]taylan karga would insist that he does not dream. dreams: wordless, familiar places; an opportunity for things he'd rather forget to come back; faces swirling out of heavy mist, and sometimes, he wants to know what they say, but he's never been able to hear.[break][break]
he doesn't like dreams, because he is always back at that too-small grave, and as little as its subject, is the wreath that is given -- for big words that cannot fit, for giant boxes round bodies that take up improperly little room. he doesn't like dreams, because ignacio is always there too, blood and tears and asking him why he hadn't done more.[break][break]
the excuses that he hears out of his own mouth are not whispers, but neither were they in any voice worthy of being considered one. they are crippled animals running on broken legs. the more he talks, the more he can hear them; bone fragments grating against each other. his throat hurts, even in the dream.[break][break]
actually, ignacio isn't the worst.[break][break]
it gets worse when he hears thea's voice. much worse.[break][break]
this time, however, the dream is different. it doesn't mean that it is an improvement, in any case, but perhaps for a night he is not plagued by ghosts, and for that he is grateful. [break][break]
( iris' voice breaks through the stupor. 'paradise--' )[break][break]
"--has come and gone." a locked jaw; gritted teeth. the words leave scars against his teeth. he surprises himself with the brittleness of his voice. iris quiets. the gods will play their games, of moon, cards, crystal balls, betting with comets and meteors and frivolous love between criminals who knew no better; he is dust beneath their feet. [break][break]
he wraps his own paradise around him -- isn't that why he came to sundial? mourning fresh starts and broken red strings, where there is so much withering, and so much bloom -- in endless swims faraway from shore, where white sands are yet quiet and the waters dark. come a few hours and there will be children shouting and family picnics with checkered mats, and rumors of abandoned memories. [break][break]
that's why he swims so far out, willing prisoner inside the sea’s immense green magnifying glass. a heavy fog hangs over the water still.[break][break]
wc: 376[break] heck yeah throw tay into those events
Last Edit: Aug 4, 2017 15:35:27 GMT by taylan karga
Arms tangled in silken sheets; lips kissing across the downy in pillow light; sun filtering life into a grand bedroom that still retains its youth. Avori does not tear her eyes open for a while, though she can feel the press of her chest against the mattress, the breeze dancing along her hair from the crack in the window she’d let open for the world to sing. Finally, regretfully, she parts her lids and peers to the outside— to the morning sun and the birdsong flirting in the air. Tucking her bed sheets under her reddened cheek, she took a breath, watched it crater the loose fabric for a moment before the ripple passed, and then her mind cleared. [break] Paradise. [break] Would there ever be one? Would it ever remain a haven of purity? Surrounded by luxury and its accompanying corruption is bound to taint a mind— color it into a black and white of the good and the bad before greying out the corners, smudging the edges into confusion. [break] Was her family throwing her into an Elysian field of specialty, rolling under the stars and taking title for granted; was that her heaven? Was that her fate? [break] “Is there anything left?” [break] What could be left aside from strife and struggle? What could be left between the divide of the rich and the poor? What could be left of the way the mana of the world controls their souls so delicately— what could be left when it leaves? [break] “How can we be sure of the world,” she whispers into her palm, pressing her hand upon her mouth. “How can we know the truth of our want…” [break] Where is all of this coming from? [break] She didn’t feel herself; she felt disembodied, revered, above the sky and to the stars. “How can I be sure I changed for myself or for the image of my family? How can I be sure of any power thrust upon me without it being hard earned? Is that the paradise that has been crafted for me?” [break] “Can I ever mold my own?” [break] Avori, came a voice— Anemoi? — echoing in her mind, though he sounded distant, apart from her. Avori, the voice called again, and drew her back down, to a room she recognized, to a place she knew to be home. [break] Are you alright? [break] Rolling over to her back, sinking into her bed, she looked to the ceiling, searching for an answer that was too far to find. [break] I don’t know.
Post by lynnelia arnett on Aug 5, 2017 0:50:44 GMT
❧
She didn’t wish to wake with tear struck eyes and a heave of grief; she didn’t wish to dream of a question she knew the answer to but refused to believe. Lynnelia never wished for any of it— and yet it happened, as everything happens for her; happens without a wish. [break] Her hair was strewn across her face, gliding over her skin; she could not see, though her eyes were open, distraught, sobbing for an emptiness behind the gaze that could no longer be weaved back to a yesterday that Lynnelia chased for five years. [break] Back to a before that would never reach her palms, no matter how she begged for it like a thirsty man to a fountain of water, to let it pool into her hands and leak through her fingers; to let her feel as though it wasn’t all lost. [break] She rose from her bed,pushing limb against mattress to let the breaths empty easily, to let the silent screams and the winding tears color her sheets with upset; her soul knew no mercy, drowning her in a wave of undone hope, tide ebbing away the needle and thread the moment she reached for them. [break] She could almost laugh— paradise. [break] Paradise was the ocean shore her mother cradled her art with, touching paint onto canvas, crafting love through passion and touch. [break] Paradise was her father holding her against his chest, strong hand splayed against her head and tangled in her hair, beating chest singing in her ears as the storm raged from outside the home; a thunder she feared would take her life away. Her father wouldn’t allow it. [break] Paradise was her sister teaching her to touch a piano with the proper poise, fill the home with music, cover the floorboards in joy and dance until their feet begged for release only to dance again until the house felt more like a family. [break] Paradise was something she’d never know again. [break] Paradise was ripped from her chest with the cruelty of a warrior’s anger. [break] Paradise was a twisted dream of a taunting possibility. [break] Paradise was something she’d already waved the white flag to. [break] She didn’t even realize she was dry-heaving; crying; pressing her forehead against her hands for self-comfort. [break] Even Medea could not coax her away from her damnation that day.
Post by kasumi akamatsu on Aug 5, 2017 1:40:00 GMT
❧
Kasumi had been laying in bed for a while then; arms embraced around her chest; her, uncaring of the bloodied hair strung across her face and cutting through her skin; her, looking upward, at a chandelier still bathed in darkness. [break] Her, thinking, lost and found at the same time. [break] Silence— merely a breath to be heard, in, and out, as she ran the words over and over in her mind, picking each part into pieces trying to understand. [break] “Paradise,” she murmured, eyes almost vacant, like she was searching for the answers in a place unreachable by the human soul. Vasilios was blocked off— restricted, to leave her alone for the time being. [break] “Paradise,” she repeated, lips parting as she was lost in thought. Her hair was wild and strewn across her luxurious pillows, framing her pale face, brightening her eyes to look less empty than they were— painting her into a woman of curiosity herself; fitting. [break] All she could think of was her training— [break] “Use your leg to push his knee down,” yelled her father, face hard, unforgiving. She was nine years old, hair tied back, sweat running down her reddened, battle tired skin. She had failed for the fourth time in a row then, thrown with no mercy, smashing against the cushioned padding below until her entire body was throbbing. [break] “Don’t disappoint me again, Kasumi. Use. Your. Foot; you know the move. Do it right,” he continued, almost in a snarl. She could feel her head spinning, body weak, struggling to maintain her stance though she pushed through the pain. [break] She had to. [break] Her opponent — her uncle — lunged forward to throw her, and it was as if time slowed down; this was when she shifted. [break] Throwing her upper body forward and down from his oncoming grip, she rammed into his waist, taking her left leg and pushing his knee out. [break] She threw him, and backed off immediately, twisting away by pushing off of the floor and flying backward and away from him. [break] Defensive. [break] Looking to her father, she was desperate. [break] He was silent for a moment, staring at her. “Good,” he grunted. “Now do it again, until you can’t get it wrong.” [break] Kasumi returned to herself then, and realized she could never know a paradise. [break] From all of her training, her lessons, her life— she was never shown affection. Never knew love or empathy; only ruthlessness, anger, battle. [break] “My paradise is a life of my own,” she decided, calmly, softly, as a stray tear washed down into her hair.
Post by astartia zamóre on Aug 5, 2017 2:20:05 GMT
❧
Astartia woke up to screaming. [break] Her skin was burning white as she gripped the bed sheets like a lifeline, broken out in a cold sweat, throat stuffed and chest heavy even when she didn’t make a sound. Everything was hazy— she couldn’t discern the walls from the windows, ceiling from the sky; it was like everything she knew had been grasped and twisted into a new world she couldn’t balance. [break] Screaming. [break] Screaming. [break] It was all she knew— all she heard— in her head: a scream, a cry, like an animal close to death, panicked and willing to do anything to spare its life because it has nothing to lose anymore. [break] Anything to spare my life because I have nothing to lose anymore. [break] Astartia didn’t realize she was crying until she whimpered and took a harrowing breath; she clenched her jaw, suppressing the heaves, the jolts, the overwhelming need to grieve for a death she never knew. [break] The death of a child she couldn’t recognize; a child who was deprived of a mother or a father, a child who never knew care from an elder, a child who clung to her sister as the last thing she had left in the world. [break] The child was a woman now— but not any less broken. A woman of grief, of a funeral march with every step she took. A woman who hid her truth with a mask of the carcasses she’d gathered from bits and pieces of other people. A woman who tried to convince herself that she’d changed with her life; but a woman who knew she hadn’t. [break] She couldn’t say a paradise was the present. [break] She couldn’t say a paradise was having food on the table, clean clothes, the home she lived in, the place of security she’d never known for years until the town. [break] Perhaps the present was a sort of paradise, as she thought of it, mulled over it, studied it like an aged wine ready for judgment. [break] Simply not the one for her. [break] No, she thought, voice hard, unforgiving. Paradise is impossible in a cruel man’s world. And this world is nothing short of torturous.
[attr="class","elihnotes"]358 / heck yeah sign him up
[attr="class","elihcontent"]HE IS SCARED, though that in itself is scarcely a new development. but he is terrified, because even the coyote is speechless in the waking world, a pale grey spectre that curls up at the foot of the bed wordlessly, golden eyes vacant. they shine in the darkness; the sun has yet to rise. he draws the sheets up above his head, presses his face against the pillow, and lays there unmoving. some time later perhaps he will venture out to help himself to some breakfast, but for now, the thin sheets are a flimsy barrier between him and the world, and they will have to suffice for now. shadows dance across ivory fabric.[break][break]
maybe he will lie here for a week; no one will find his body until the neighbours report a strange smell, suspicious of their quiet neighbour, and perhaps the shadows have gnawed away till they leave nothing more than bleached bones. maybe there will be a spark of inspiration, and maybe he will orchestrate a grand escape, and maybe he'll be just another missing person. maybe the family won't care. they probably stopped caring when he couldn't make the cut for the helios knights. [break][break]
he is not actually too sure why he wants to run, to disappear, to leave; to chase after an impossible, intangible paradise. he doesn't even know what it is. what good do dreams do when he doesn't know-- doesn't'understand--[break][break]
some time later the coyote drags the sheets back, drags him to his feet and urges him forward. the tiles of the kitchen floor are cold beneath bare feet; he moves mechanically, slowly, thinking but not quite thinking. he considers the sublime. stands in the dawn-break dark of the unlit kitchen and begins to sing a song he can't quite remember and nothing really makes sense. he sings louder for a while, assured only in the fact that the walls are thick and sound does not travel, then awkwardly sits down. his elbow bumps the edge of the bowl; the spoon almost drops; the clink of metal against ceramic brings him back. pondering the sublime will take more than a day.[break][break]
It's easy for Claire to fall asleep. She could sleep soundly, for hours straight without waking up. Her body, tired and drained from all the work of the day, needs it. It needs to regain energy for Claire to be able to function the next day. It's always like this, every single day. Wake up, work, rest, wake up, work, rest, repeat. Every hour in Claire's clock is filled with tasks, either missions, or tasks, or training. Claire's days speed up so fast she does not have time for herself.
But when she lays on the bed, barely cleaned up, and her eyes flutter into slumber, her mind has time to think. Thoughts of her family she has not seen for so long. Longing of spending time with the people she had met--Evanora, Lucena, everyone. Flashbacks of her time at the hovel. Nightmares of all the bloody fights she had up to now. Dreams of days she won't have to wake up and check her window for the pigeon. Wishes of attaining justice for her sister.
Everything blurs, and Claire sleeps.
Claire had always have vivid dreams. And so she opens her eyes and finds herself in a place she does not have any recollection of. A distant memory tugs at the back of her mind. It's like this, it reminds her of that, only she cannot pinpoint what is 'that.' The memory tries to send signals to her brain, signals that doesn't arrive. All Claire could see is a cliff and the person at the distance. All Claire could hear is a pleasant voice singing to her. All Claire could feel is peace.
The scene changes, and then she could see more. She could see her family, well and out in the sun, with smiles on their faces. She could see the friends she had met, and her heart longed for everyone. In her fast-paced world, where time passes in a blur, she cherishes every minute she could spend with them. Claire begins to walk, then jog, then run, closer and closer to them.
"This is paradise."
Claire wakes up in a jolt. Her eyes shot open, wide and awake, and they stare in the ceiling of her apartment. They stray next to the wall clock, and Claire could see the time. Seven in the morning. She had to be at the Hall at nine. The memories of the dream fades in her memory as her mind focuses in the tasks in front of her. She stands up, fixes her bed, opens the window, reads the letter attached to the pigeon. She is back to her routine. Today she does not see her family. Today she does not see Evanora or even Lucena.
Today, she sees hope. That at the end of all of these, is her paradise.
Post by percival grayreme on Aug 5, 2017 11:23:13 GMT
[attr="class","ig"]
[attr="class","ninety"]
[attr="class","joker"]
[attr="class","game"]
ya go ahead! corrupt him pls
[attr="class","kikan"]
“
Percy always dreams. It's not only when he sleeps, even when awake, he likes to imagine events in which he is on top of the world. He dreams big, and this time, it's not an exaggeration. Percy sees himself holding so much power, bearing such fame the world knows not only his name but his life. He dreams being studied in magic schools, name being engraved into scrolls and books, deeds being passed generation among generation. He sees himself as a high priest, the highest possible rank, the most powerful of the witches.
The very thought of power excites Percy. With the renewed vision it takes him another hour to make himself fall asleep. He tosses and turns on his bed until his body succumbs to sleep.
Perhaps it is part of being an illusionist. Perhaps it is what you can call a perk being a witch that works with makeshift realities. Dreams do not scare or unsettle Percy anymore, he instantly recognizes it. He looks around, eyes scanning the surroundings, and he confirms it--it's a dream.
Dreams hold meaning, that's what Percy knows. He can control his dreams, and most of the time he does. He can will a different scenario in a wink, though not every time, especially when someone or something foreign is interfering. This particular dream holds no other event, after a while of waiting Percy grows impatient. But for some reason, this time he decides to wait. He gathers patience and waits to see where this dream would take him.
He sees cerulean in the distance, then he hears a voice.
Paradise, huh? Percy ponders. Each and everyone has their own version of paradise. Percy has his own, and it's well constructed in his mind. After all, he had been building it bit by bit ever since he was a child. He walks towards the edge of the cliff and there he sees it.
The crowd cheers below, chanting his name. "Grayreme! Grayreme! Percival Grayreme! Mighty and powerful, Lord Grayreme!" As Percy looks more and more the scene develops into a bustling city with banners and floats and parades. Everywhere Percy's name is written. The apprentice--hold it, the high priest, this time only--finds himself dressed in flowing robes, adorned in glittering jewels.
Percy raises his hand, and if cheers can get any louder than it is, it does. Percy grins widely and laughs. He channels mana into the sky and coats reality with illusion--fireworks, so beautiful and vibrant, so loud and festive, it lights up the now-night sky.
"That's right! More!" he yells, triumphant, proud, loud.
Percy knows it's a dream. He savors the makeshift scene, and promises to himself. He wakes up then, refreshed and energetic.
Post by julius kingston on Aug 5, 2017 13:37:10 GMT
[nospaces]
[attr="class","paigepost"]
[attr="class","paige_cont"]
[attr="class","paige_head"]
[attr="class","paige_lyrics"]
if my woman were a fire, oh she'd burn out before i wake[break]
AND BE REPLACED BY PINTS OF WHISKEY, CIGARETTES, AND OUTER SPACE---
[attr="class","paige_post"]
julius did not like sleep, and this idiosyncrasy did not stem from the recent nightmare involving a large forest decorated with nooses instead of snow; it was a long-since truth that only got worst the past few days. he could survive on as little sleep as needed whenever he needed; but the one night he did decide to crash early, he found himself pulled further than that just mere dreams.[break][break]
it was like he was painfully conscious of drowning and being brought back to life, but instead of water filling his lungs, there was the sickening pain of memories-- a much worse toxic than his cigarette addiction and or his years worth of bottled anger.[break][break]
paradise, his breath seems to whisper as it leaves his lungs as he lets go of all the memories and all the pain, as his eyes close and slowly flitter awake to start at the ceiling above. quiet, peaceful. he does not know where hermione is.[break][break]
he does not know for a brief second where he is, because the only thing he can know is the sound of the voice still ringing inside his ears. the mellifluent echoes of an era long past that spell the word as simple as it can be- p a r a d i s e. [break][break] unbidden tears bubble to the surface- his vision grows hazy with ideas of a paradise (any paradise), of sweet surrender, of a new birth and uncertain beginning of another chance. [break][break] just outside of his room (though it feels like a million miles away), julius hears the faint hoot-hoot of an eagle owl. [break][break] and then he jerks awake with such force that the bed wheezes under his vigor; and suddenly adrenaline is rushing through his veins and he feels like he has just escaped the claws of an inviting purgatory. he is drenched in sweat, his eyes wide with terror and one leg slipping from underneath the tangle of sheets and blankets. he wheezes; breath shaky at best. [break][break] he has seen a million nightmares before this dream. and yet. and yet. [break][break] this is worst of all. bullshit, he thinks, so loudly that he's certain the whole world ought to have heard it. bullshit, he screams internally, raging and kicking and fighting to be woken up. to live again. paradise? he thinks, the idea fading as the hooting from outside grew louder. [break][break] give in to a paradise, forsake the world for a new one? [break][break] unfortunately for this sorry ass world, it had committed too many sins to be forgiven so easily. unfortunately, for this world, julius kingston was not a believer: nor in gods or in paradise. [break][break] "shut your trap, hermione, i'm getting up."
[attr="class","paige_etcs"]
[attr="class","paige_words"]
453
[attr="class","paige_notes"]
ya juls is getting wrecked anyway y not do it in style
