Walking the Path of Twilight [Complete]
Characters: Naoki Kashima, Minako Aino, any other residents of the Mansfield Hotel
Content: From dark dreams, Naoki awakes to a world of comparative comfort.
Location: Mansfield Hotel penthouse
Time of day: The night after Naoki's intro post.
Warnings: Some hostility.
Special OOC Comment: Anyone new coming in to see Naoki should post a new comment instead of a reply.
Note: Text in {curly braces} is in Japanese.
Naoki Kashima dreamed.
Yawning expanses of bone-white sand expanded outward as far as he could see, flat wax-faced empty. Neither tree nor rock nor corpse showed against the blinding white, and looking behind him, no footprints ever showed, even as he - picking a direction at random - began to walk, the sand sucking at his shoes with every step, trying to drag him down. It was a void with a floor, a vastness of nothing. No one he could call upon, no help, no succor.
Alone. He was, in this unending place, alone, with not even the sound of his steps to keep him company.
Was it days? Weeks? No way to be sure. Every step took a second. Every second took an eternity.
Then the voices began.
First they were whispers.
Then words.
Then shouts.
Cracks of accusatory thunder.
Peals of lamenting lightning.
None that he could understand fully, and yet the truth in each struck him like a blow to the face.
All called for him. His help. His power. He could change things. He could escape.
In the distance, he saw a skull peeking out of the sand. He passed it, looking back as he went, but only momentarily. Forward was where he had to go. He didn't know why; it was almost as if a hand was guiding him along the unseen path.
A second eon passed in his mind and he kept walking. The voices had left him, but now the unseen hand was his comfort. The voices were no longer necessary.
Another skull.
On and on he went, beginning to feel a narrowing sense, the vastness closing in. More skulls passed beneath his feet, and his steps grew quicker with each one. First a trot, then a jog, then a run. By the tenth, he was sprinting, no longer on a plain but on a trail. Forward was all that mattered; beyond that didn't even enter his mind. The hand soothed him with whispers, seemingly pulled him along, though he felt that he wouldn't have stopped running for the end of the world.
He blinked and he held a packed sphere of sand in his hand, standing in a great expanse now black and beyond comprehension. All it would take was a closing of the fingers, a clenching of the fist, and-
{"Don't!"} was his cry as he awoke, his head jerking left, then right to see where he was.
A bed.
A...fancy room, seemed like.
He looked at his hand, closed it slowly, and tried not to feel the chill of its meaning.
Content: From dark dreams, Naoki awakes to a world of comparative comfort.
Location: Mansfield Hotel penthouse
Time of day: The night after Naoki's intro post.
Warnings: Some hostility.
Special OOC Comment: Anyone new coming in to see Naoki should post a new comment instead of a reply.
Note: Text in {curly braces} is in Japanese.
Naoki Kashima dreamed.
Yawning expanses of bone-white sand expanded outward as far as he could see, flat wax-faced empty. Neither tree nor rock nor corpse showed against the blinding white, and looking behind him, no footprints ever showed, even as he - picking a direction at random - began to walk, the sand sucking at his shoes with every step, trying to drag him down. It was a void with a floor, a vastness of nothing. No one he could call upon, no help, no succor.
Alone. He was, in this unending place, alone, with not even the sound of his steps to keep him company.
Was it days? Weeks? No way to be sure. Every step took a second. Every second took an eternity.
Then the voices began.
First they were whispers.
Then words.
Then shouts.
Cracks of accusatory thunder.
Peals of lamenting lightning.
None that he could understand fully, and yet the truth in each struck him like a blow to the face.
All called for him. His help. His power. He could change things. He could escape.
In the distance, he saw a skull peeking out of the sand. He passed it, looking back as he went, but only momentarily. Forward was where he had to go. He didn't know why; it was almost as if a hand was guiding him along the unseen path.
A second eon passed in his mind and he kept walking. The voices had left him, but now the unseen hand was his comfort. The voices were no longer necessary.
Another skull.
On and on he went, beginning to feel a narrowing sense, the vastness closing in. More skulls passed beneath his feet, and his steps grew quicker with each one. First a trot, then a jog, then a run. By the tenth, he was sprinting, no longer on a plain but on a trail. Forward was all that mattered; beyond that didn't even enter his mind. The hand soothed him with whispers, seemingly pulled him along, though he felt that he wouldn't have stopped running for the end of the world.
He blinked and he held a packed sphere of sand in his hand, standing in a great expanse now black and beyond comprehension. All it would take was a closing of the fingers, a clenching of the fist, and-
{"Don't!"} was his cry as he awoke, his head jerking left, then right to see where he was.
A bed.
A...fancy room, seemed like.
He looked at his hand, closed it slowly, and tried not to feel the chill of its meaning.