featherduster | ( sheep ) ic inbox

[ Just trying doesn't get Charon some peaceful sleep, he does not bother to say.

He just folds the coat and carefully sets it alongside the scarf, like laying out armor. It is, in a way.

That done, he urges him onto the bed. ]

[takes his metal wrist and draws him down with him, if he'll come...]

[ He does; he settles next to him, letting Charon move that arm wherever he'd like it. He doesn't bother with the blankets; if the nightmares are that bad, they'll likely get thrown off anyway. ]

[he'll settle on the armless side so he can press close in a way Minuet can feel, but reach crossbody to hold Minuet's metal hand '-']

I'm all yours.

[ Ah...

He laces their fingers together as a few feathery tendrils ghost across Charon's skin. His throat, his cheek, his hand. Something gentle touches his mind, like a quiet knock on the door. ]

Just try to relax and drift off, if you can.

I'll try.

[he does settle back easily under the touch of the feathers, closing his eyes. it might not be too hard for him to drift off -- he doesn't ever really feel sleepy, but he's always a bit tired, mentally.

the door unlocks and clicks open a hair under Minuet's knock; open, trusting.]

[ He's as inconspicuous as he can be, in a situation where minds are connected -- like a fog blowing in through that cracked door and filling the space behind it.

He doesn't reach out to pass any sentiment one way or another. Just waits, and watches. ]

[at first it's normal, if watching someone fall into sleep and dreaming is ever normal for Minuet. the incessant tick of Charon's conscious thoughts winds down, smoothing into the steady hum of a mind at rest. anything getting chewed on as he lets himself sleep flickers across Minuet's awareness, like bright trails of bubbles in quicksilver liquid:

(--should we really trust a Weed with this upcoming trip--)

(--is Lethe sleeping through the night or--)

(--worried this won't work I'm worried the demon will--)

(--did i forget to put all the dishes away--)

(--how do you convince someone to live when you can't conceive--)

(--even sleep still works when I want it to, what the hell did that wolf mean--)

and then with no warning, all that just plunges down. insofar as he can visualize it, it's like a great grey rift just opened in the floor of this mindscape and everything collapsed in.]

[ Probably need to rail this man some more. He is simply thinking too many thoughts all the time, even while asleep. Good lord. ]

[ Anyway.

He drifts to the edge of that rift, attempting to peer down into it. Is that something Charon's mind just -- did? On its own??? ]

[maybe not. the rift doesn't...feel like part of the substance of Charon's mind, not exactly; it's more like something grafted on. it doesn't vibe like Knives, but it does vibe like knives and it does vibe a little bit like a Gate.

something very, very far away is watching him through it. but he can only see rolling dunes, all in shades of grey. there's a desert down there?]

[ ABSOLUTELY THE FUCK NOT

JUMPS IN IMMEDIATELY ]

[he lands hard, kicking up sand. he's in the middle of a desert battlefield, completely devoid of people or animals. there are all the trappings of armies having been here, the remnants of some enormous clash. empty armor and harness, supply-wagons and ramparts, banners and standards abandoned and hanging limp, spears and arrows and other weapons stuck upright in the earth or scattered across the ground.

all of it is a disquieting, dead shade of grey, as is the sky. there are no suns or moons. there are no clouds or stars. he doesn't see Charon here...?

he himself is still in colour, but it's very cold here, and the silence presses down on him like physical weight. breathing here feels like sacrilege. thought feels like a violation. living, moving existence feels like an absolute affront.

he can try to search the field itself. he can more or less make out where the two armies met in the middle, before they vanished. a strategist would likely have been in the back of one of them, out of the fight proper.

or he can leave this area and head towards what looks like a distant walled city beyond the dunes.]

[ He has a bad habit when it comes to grim, bloodstained places: he can't leave them well enough alone, and this isn't an exception.

He trudges through the wreckage like he could somehow hope to make sense of which side was which, knowing only the barest outline of Charon's larger plan. ]

[it's possible, just from context clues. the style of armor and trappings differ between armies -- one side is heavy, spiked, dark, more impractical-looking, and the symbol on the banners and shields is of an eight-spoked wheel.

the other side is more streamlined, serviceable iron and steel, and its symbol looks like an elaborate, stylized pair of wings.

it's hard to tell who was winning.]

[ Well. Charon's never really mentioned how his efforts were going.

He follows the winged banners deeper into their side of the carnage, careful not to step on or disturb anything where it lies. ]

[it’s getting colder, colder.

between one step and the next, the dream shifts around him. instead of the battlefield, he’s now indoors, in a wide high-windowed office. through the windows he can see a view of a city so pristine it looks almost alien. spires and towers and crystal arches and fountains. it would be lovely if everything wasn’t still grey and silent here.

the office looks about how you’d expect from somewhere Charon might work. bookshelves full of volumes, a desk stacked with papers, tapestries hanging down the walls displaying — oh, hm. wait.

there’s a few things of note in here.

- the symbols on the tapestries are in motion. they won’t settle into the winged insignia, though he can glimpse it now and then. they flicker and fizz into other shapes, or silent static.

- the office door is ajar, like someone just left the room ahead of him.

- there is something horrible in the corner of the room. as is sometimes the way of dreams, he might have to approach and confront it to get any more knowledge about it than that.]

[ Well he's absolutely going to snoop in the office but we're addressing the horrible eldritch monstrosity in the room with us FIRST.

Should he approach it with trepidation? Like. Maybe. Does he though? No. ]

[his palms are sweaty knees weak arms are heavy

and his heartbeat gets louder in his ears with every step he takes toward it. his breath comes a little shorter.

for a moment the cold is cryogenic. familiar to him.

and then he’s standing in front of…a crystal orb about the size of his torso, hovering gently in place in the corner. the surface is frosted over, opaque at the moment.]

Edited 2024-02-26 17:36 (UTC)

[ Charon. Wtf is this.

What is one meddling dumbass to do? He presses his (extant in this dream) flesh hand to it. ]

[his vision starts flickering back and forth, much like the tapestry images flickered back and forth.

there is a baby in the orb, curled in on itself, its umbilical cord floating off into an invisible nothing.

(Tesla is in the orb)

no. instead there is a milky fluid in the orb, starting to coalesce in a fleshy lump around a glowing Rune.

(his sister is in the orb)

no. instead there is a collection of disparate body parts in the orb, floating loose and disconnected. eyeballs, tiny organs, a single perfectly formed arm...

(he shouldn't have done that)

the colored edges of his hand start to grey out and crumble, just a little.]

Edited 2024-02-26 18:03 (UTC)

[

That's fine because he can still try punching the orb open with his METAL hand ]

[it starts to crack all over but doesn't quite break.

he is shivering.

punch it again?]

[ Depends; what's behind those spiderwebbed cracks now? ]

[the orb is full of blood now. the bright red of it stands out in the otherwise colorless room.]

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