by a route obscure and lonely, haunted by ill angels only...
[Open to threadhopping, but no Roderick tags, please!]
The Kashtta is deteriorating. The signs are everywhere, and have been-in the way the walls seem to be cracking more each day, the paint fading and flaking; in the floors that creak and moan; in the air itself, so dank and foul, just hanging in every open space.
These gradual changes have been easy enough to adapt to-nothing's really changing after all, right?-but difficult to ignore.
Roderick, to his credit, has been trying desperately to keep all thoughts of Madeline out of his head. He doesn't want her to hurt the people here. They've been kind to him. He's succeeded in his efforts thus far, but there's something about the thunder rumbling outside tonight that brings him straight back to their old bayou home, and all at once he feels his sister's cold, dead weight upon him.
The storm that rolls through the city brings a plague of nightmares with it. Those who sleep tonight will not sleep well-even those who don't usually remember their dreams will remember these with frightening clarity.
You may dream of ravens and despair, or pits and pendulums, or black cats. You may dream of deadly masquerade balls, or the ghosts of pretty women long-dead, or revenge in its myriad forms.
You may be buried alive.
You may see blood and it may be yours, dripping from your mouth, or your nose, or everywhere. You may hear laughter, low and mocking. You may be ill, or murdered, and it may hurt.
Your mind may spin any dream-web in which to capture you, but know this: Tonight, you will writhe and scream and sweat as you sleep. You will wring your sheets and claw at your pillows, and you will try very, very hard to not lose your mind-or your life.
And when day breaks and you take that breath you didn't think you could catch, or when you open your eyes to find the light that you weren't sure you'd ever see again, you will probably re-think the theory that it's impossible to die in your dreams.
The Kashtta is deteriorating. The signs are everywhere, and have been-in the way the walls seem to be cracking more each day, the paint fading and flaking; in the floors that creak and moan; in the air itself, so dank and foul, just hanging in every open space.
These gradual changes have been easy enough to adapt to-nothing's really changing after all, right?-but difficult to ignore.
Roderick, to his credit, has been trying desperately to keep all thoughts of Madeline out of his head. He doesn't want her to hurt the people here. They've been kind to him. He's succeeded in his efforts thus far, but there's something about the thunder rumbling outside tonight that brings him straight back to their old bayou home, and all at once he feels his sister's cold, dead weight upon him.
The storm that rolls through the city brings a plague of nightmares with it. Those who sleep tonight will not sleep well-even those who don't usually remember their dreams will remember these with frightening clarity.
You may dream of ravens and despair, or pits and pendulums, or black cats. You may dream of deadly masquerade balls, or the ghosts of pretty women long-dead, or revenge in its myriad forms.
You may be buried alive.
You may see blood and it may be yours, dripping from your mouth, or your nose, or everywhere. You may hear laughter, low and mocking. You may be ill, or murdered, and it may hurt.
Your mind may spin any dream-web in which to capture you, but know this: Tonight, you will writhe and scream and sweat as you sleep. You will wring your sheets and claw at your pillows, and you will try very, very hard to not lose your mind-or your life.
And when day breaks and you take that breath you didn't think you could catch, or when you open your eyes to find the light that you weren't sure you'd ever see again, you will probably re-think the theory that it's impossible to die in your dreams.