The World Devoid of Emotion [Dreamcall 11]
Characters: Twenty (shatterpieces) and Cross (crownofsnow)
Date/Time: Wednesday evening - 11/26
Location: Dreamworld - Cross' domain
Rating: G-PG13, not sure - depends on Cross' reaction
Summary: Looking for more birth-dreams to indulge in, Twenty stumbles across one that actually makes him angry for reasons unknown.
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[[OOC: Referencing for Cross' Birth-dream :: here
The music was what had drawn the jaguar to this particular dreamer; Zikhadhara had been able to hear it from a far distance, though the specific melody was difficult to follow. It was only natural, then, to find that the barrier of this particular mind was merely a wind-wall -- but not just that, a very chilly wind flecked with white snow.
Of course Twenty had no idea it was snow; he had never seen snow in all of his wanderings and had only a vague notion of what it was from... wherever his powers came from. That was all he could tell.
Shivering through the wind-wall, Zikhadhara was glad for his fur coat. Now he could hear the music better, but realized that it was still being muddled by the gusting air still swirling around the mind. Like it was forever blowing aside memories, dusting them with a coat of fresh-fallen snow and the sight of such a thing - for it was true that nearly a 5-foot-deep ledge of snow had also been in place and Twenty had not noticed, for he'd walked above that level - made the Dreamwalker think of the blank pages in Drake's mind-book, though he wasn't quite sure why.
A phonograph played some tune he couldn't recall the name of, skipping when it reached a certain point and starting over again.
That sound irritated Twenty, since it marked a cut in the memories that he so desired to witness. Walking around until he could find the odd machine that was producing the music, he bent down and nudged at the thing first, but that only made it skip again. Instead, he tried to reach out and lick the whirring gears until the sounds matched up again and became pleasant to his ears.
He became aware that he was sitting in a high backed chair, his shadow stretching out far behind him. His limbs felt heavy when he tried to move, a long white cloak draped over the torn and tattered clothes he wore under it. A white mask with black lines on one side and gold around the eyes rested on his chest like a brick.
He was so tired, but he had to keep moving.
The white-haired man - boy? yes, he was young in appearance, sure enough, in the face - moved past Zikhadhara, barely noticing the jaguar at all. That actually perturbed him and so he roared out a call, but made sure to make it resonate with the melody coming from the machine.
Of course this also meant - should the boy turn - he would see the shadow chasing him, the reason he was running. It was in fact very detailed in shape, not hazy, but completely devoid of facial features, seemingly a 2-dimensional spirit wearing 3-dimensional clothing.
The steps behind him crumble and he stumbles forward, starting to break into a run. Whatever is below wants his life. It's been there for he doesn't know how long but it's gross and disgusting as it starts to move in the pit. His boots strike the stone steps in rapid succession, voices crying out for him. They cry to be saved and ask him if he's here for them.
That came out of nowhere and Twenty found himself hovering just below the boy to support him, take him around the figure that had been chasing him, but never getting within the thing's reach because the Dreamwalker was far too interested in what it is.
A voice whispers to save he has to destroy, but that doesn't seem right as he throws the doors emblazoned with crosses wide. ...and walks into a stateroom, the pounding of rain on the roof fit to drive him mad.
There were more figures now, but all of them still blurry, because the stateroom was what interested Twenty now. It felt familiar somehow, and it wasn't just the dreamer's mind that made him think so. It evoked memories of his own... as if he had seen this very room before. Perhaps the boy as well.
It was then that a white half-face mask with a cross on it appeared before both of them and Zikhadhara made no attempts to hold back the sudden rage boiling through him. It might have been the boy, but he felt tugs against his scalp and he dug into the carpet of the stateroom - magnifying everything but the man wearing the mask, for the figures had been forgotten - into perfect clarity. He let out a roar that seemed at once both entirely animalistic and furiously mortal as well.
It shattered the windows and the jaguar was rushing at the man, hellbent on tearing him asunder, but then the windy-snow raced against his body and propelled him into the air, out of the dreamer's mind.
Apparently the man had been important. At least to the boy. It was worth noting, at any rate.
Date/Time: Wednesday evening - 11/26
Location: Dreamworld - Cross' domain
Rating: G-PG13, not sure - depends on Cross' reaction
Summary: Looking for more birth-dreams to indulge in, Twenty stumbles across one that actually makes him angry for reasons unknown.
------
[[OOC: Referencing for Cross' Birth-dream :: here
The music was what had drawn the jaguar to this particular dreamer; Zikhadhara had been able to hear it from a far distance, though the specific melody was difficult to follow. It was only natural, then, to find that the barrier of this particular mind was merely a wind-wall -- but not just that, a very chilly wind flecked with white snow.
Of course Twenty had no idea it was snow; he had never seen snow in all of his wanderings and had only a vague notion of what it was from... wherever his powers came from. That was all he could tell.
Shivering through the wind-wall, Zikhadhara was glad for his fur coat. Now he could hear the music better, but realized that it was still being muddled by the gusting air still swirling around the mind. Like it was forever blowing aside memories, dusting them with a coat of fresh-fallen snow and the sight of such a thing - for it was true that nearly a 5-foot-deep ledge of snow had also been in place and Twenty had not noticed, for he'd walked above that level - made the Dreamwalker think of the blank pages in Drake's mind-book, though he wasn't quite sure why.
A phonograph played some tune he couldn't recall the name of, skipping when it reached a certain point and starting over again.
That sound irritated Twenty, since it marked a cut in the memories that he so desired to witness. Walking around until he could find the odd machine that was producing the music, he bent down and nudged at the thing first, but that only made it skip again. Instead, he tried to reach out and lick the whirring gears until the sounds matched up again and became pleasant to his ears.
He became aware that he was sitting in a high backed chair, his shadow stretching out far behind him. His limbs felt heavy when he tried to move, a long white cloak draped over the torn and tattered clothes he wore under it. A white mask with black lines on one side and gold around the eyes rested on his chest like a brick.
He was so tired, but he had to keep moving.
The white-haired man - boy? yes, he was young in appearance, sure enough, in the face - moved past Zikhadhara, barely noticing the jaguar at all. That actually perturbed him and so he roared out a call, but made sure to make it resonate with the melody coming from the machine.
Of course this also meant - should the boy turn - he would see the shadow chasing him, the reason he was running. It was in fact very detailed in shape, not hazy, but completely devoid of facial features, seemingly a 2-dimensional spirit wearing 3-dimensional clothing.
The steps behind him crumble and he stumbles forward, starting to break into a run. Whatever is below wants his life. It's been there for he doesn't know how long but it's gross and disgusting as it starts to move in the pit. His boots strike the stone steps in rapid succession, voices crying out for him. They cry to be saved and ask him if he's here for them.
That came out of nowhere and Twenty found himself hovering just below the boy to support him, take him around the figure that had been chasing him, but never getting within the thing's reach because the Dreamwalker was far too interested in what it is.
A voice whispers to save he has to destroy, but that doesn't seem right as he throws the doors emblazoned with crosses wide. ...and walks into a stateroom, the pounding of rain on the roof fit to drive him mad.
There were more figures now, but all of them still blurry, because the stateroom was what interested Twenty now. It felt familiar somehow, and it wasn't just the dreamer's mind that made him think so. It evoked memories of his own... as if he had seen this very room before. Perhaps the boy as well.
It was then that a white half-face mask with a cross on it appeared before both of them and Zikhadhara made no attempts to hold back the sudden rage boiling through him. It might have been the boy, but he felt tugs against his scalp and he dug into the carpet of the stateroom - magnifying everything but the man wearing the mask, for the figures had been forgotten - into perfect clarity. He let out a roar that seemed at once both entirely animalistic and furiously mortal as well.
It shattered the windows and the jaguar was rushing at the man, hellbent on tearing him asunder, but then the windy-snow raced against his body and propelled him into the air, out of the dreamer's mind.
Apparently the man had been important. At least to the boy. It was worth noting, at any rate.