baedalites (
baedalites) wrote in
multiversallogs2012-03-31 08:21 pm
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Entry tags:
- @ ~ dreamscape,
- alexia swiftdawn,
- ava lockhart,
- charles xavier,
- hellboy,
- irene adler,
- james t. kirk,
- jones,
- nuala ní balor,
- rachel conway,
- steve rogers,
- } alan shore,
- } alter ego,
- } astrid farnsworth,
- } barbara gordon,
- } charity burbage,
- } don draper,
- } hermione granger,
- } mycroft holmes,
- } njoki rainmaker,
- } nuada airgetsléa,
- } philomena flores,
- } rex lewis,
- } sebastian lemat,
- } sherlock holmes,
- } stephanie brown
birds singing in the sycamore tree
As night falls on Baedal, the city is almost quiet. The streets have a few last minute workers returning home, but by now, most citizens have already gone by the temples and picked up their vurt, ready to lay down and dream.
After placing a not-feather in one's mouth, there's a moment where it fizzes against the tongue before sliding coolly down the back of the throat and pulling the user down into sleep. A series of impressions, more sensation than anything concrete, appears before the user and this is how one chooses which Dreamer to enter.
After placing a not-feather in one's mouth, there's a moment where it fizzes against the tongue before sliding coolly down the back of the throat and pulling the user down into sleep. A series of impressions, more sensation than anything concrete, appears before the user and this is how one chooses which Dreamer to enter.
ADETOKUNBO
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...Why hadn't she ever thought to sink?
It's like being embraced by the water, enveloped in its love and its joy and its beauty, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world, being held like this, being able to move through this.
She's in a flowing white dress, shoulders bare, the train half dragging, half floating behind her as she walks, barefoot, along the bottom. The sand squishes between her toes, as soft as the silk draping her body.
She should've thought to try this years ago.
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Something catches his eye in the distance, and he turns to watch it for a moment, before starting to swim in its direction, going deeper and deeper. Some part of him knows that this is a dream, the part of him that knows he's somehow breathing underwater, but his recent journeys on the astral plane have left him out of sorts enough, mentally, that everyone else is able to get a slight gleam into his subconscious for a change.
And despite the serenity of his surroundings, Charles Xavier is not content.
MAURITS
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SANAA
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Despite his propensity towards the monochromatic, Rex is initially drawn to the brightness and the colors of this dream. There's something strangely... familiar about it. He can't put his finger on why, and he doesn't try to. The less he dwells on himself, he assumes, the better. He wouldn't want too much of his own influence bleeding into the dream, if that's indeed how a shared dream works.
Rex looks down at his hands-- or, rather, he watches himself watching his hands. He doesn't question it, because while he's in this dream, it just feels right. What isn't right, however, is how he's dressed, all decked out in his dress uniform like he's back in the army.
Impressive though it is, it's not something he actually wants to advertise, so Rex squeezes his eyes shut and tries to just... imagine a different outfit. That's how it works, right? Or, rather, that's how it should work-- in Rex's case, it seems to have no effect whatsoever.
Apparently, he has no knack for dreaming.
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VIDAR
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She'd been drawn to the unfamiliar landscape of the forest; they're not exactly common in Gotham. The trees and vines offer something interesting to do, and she climbs and swings with the same ease she'd have with buildings and zip lines. Occasionally she finds herself in the clearing to grab something to eat - everything tastes delicious, and it's not like she's going to have to burn the calories off later - then heads back up to the trees to eat and people watch.
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She looks like she always does, just less tired and without any frown lines- and with a red and gold scarf wrapped around her neck.
She hasn't noticed it's there. It just seems natural.
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(for McCoy)
...Except they never graduated and he never got the chance.
He can almost believe he made this all up--for once it's not his ego, but his heart, the hope that maybe he's granting a wish or bestowing a gift. The forest is as strange as it is lovely, but that's dreaming for you. It hardly registers, for the moment, beyond "pretty but weird", because he's so happy to have his feet on pedals and to feel tires skimming and bumping over a dirt path beneath him. And above all, to hear the sound of another bike gaining on him from behind.
"Bones!" he calls out, almost gleeful as he slows his pace just a touch, just enough to let his friend catch up.
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Do you think they're real?
Sherlock Holmes lies in the grass in a quiet corner of the clearing, legs raised enough to prop his crossed ankles on one of the vine swings. He is aware he's dreaming--he inspected the feather-like thing he was granted, analyzing it in every way available to him before placing it into his mouth. He knows he's but consciousness here, experiencing this while his physical body rests elsewhere.
What d'you think will happen if they see us? Will they hide?
It feels so real. Every color impossibly vivid, every detail unbelievably sharp. He's the dreamer, brought here, and he's adjusted the dream to suit him in a number of small ways already. The grass was too cold and damp, the moths glowing the wrong shade of yellow, the swing too low. A large apple--he'll have a bite in a moment--rests squarely in the center of his chest, above and to one side of his heart. He even shifted the temperature in his hands, warming them where they lie across his belly.
No, I'm bored. You can sit and keep watch if you want, I want to lie here on the grass and watch the sun. Shout if you spot a fairy.
But much of the dream remains teasingly out of his control. He is on his coat, not in it, the lined wool spread on the grass like a blanket rather than closed around his body like armor. The apple he summoned is an alarming shade of purple. His nose is cold and he wants his scarf but it's nowhere to be found.
No, I'm bored. You can sit and keep watch if you want, I want to lie here on the carpet. I'll be useless for anything else until I come down anyway. Shout all you want.
The most frustrating thing is the way he can't seem to direct his thoughts, keep the ones he wants and banish the stray ones. His mind will neither rest nor heed him, the control he wants seemingly just beyond his grasp.
Like the moths above.
Like the fairies that never consented to photography.
Like so much else.
Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?
He closes his eyes, and he wills it to rain, lifting his chin a little to meet the soft fall of precipitation on his face.
WHETU
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Just stars, distant and bright and beautiful and self-contained, hidden from other dreamers that she might better simply observe, a cool opacity absorbing the heat and reverberation of the molten intensity of her own psyche - she is but a part of the landscape, here, and to sink into it that way gives her some strange sensation of like home, which is not the least but the most that she could ask of this experience.
She dreams.
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Now she's floating in the middle of space, just staring at the beauty around her. She always loved looking at the stars - she had a telescope when she was young, and gave some not-too-serious thought to going into astronomy at school. But she never saw anything that could match this.
"This is very improbable," she murmurs to herself. "The vivid colors are generally extremely enhanced photographs."
That doesn't mean she's not loving it, though. And she's smiling widely as she stares.
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She's glad of her decision to come here. She nearly went to Maurits' dream, to the sharp angles and elegant, twisting shapes. It had seemed very her.
And then she had realised she'd fallen for her own lies and nearly laughed out loud. She could go to parties whenever, she could buy a tiger skin rug, she could drink from crystal glasses and hire an architect who knew their way around mirrors and magic to do bizarre and astonishing things with space- in the real world. (If Baedal is the real world). And she'd do it because it's the sort of thing Irene Adler, the woman she's created and- don't be fooled- the woman she loves being, would do.
But if she's going to dream, she'll dream of stars.
And she won't hesitate on the glass floor, either. She takes a drink, something purple-black in a tall, twisting glass, and stares out at the vast millions of stars, and then joins them, leaving the platform with such sudden violence that she almost flings herself into the glittering void.
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But she can control that, right? She can control anything, if she puts her mind to it.
And Steph was so excited to go. She can't leave her wandering around alone in a dreamscape with god knows what in it.
Instinctively, she reaches for the stars.
In the next moment, she's floating amongst them, and she can't quite repress her grin.
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Still, every now and then she gets choosy with what's in her bowl, looks around, and picks a far-away jewel from the surroundings before giving it an appreciative look and carrying on.
There's a leisurely smile on her face and she gives the appearance of someone idly making daisy chains than any sort of industriousness. Presumably, people are free to come and say hello.
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BASSAROS
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Barbara sits with a scroll in her hands. She's clothed in pale blue robes, and a horned diadem crowns her head.
Her expression is one of perplexed amusement. "So this was my first thought, huh? I'm kind of full of myself, aren't I."
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(for Ki)
Except for the part where it's painted on.
And that's all he's got.
"...Ki? Uh. What's going on? Where are my pants and stuff?"
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She looks out of place, though, here, with her earthy-colored clothes intended for working with one's hands. And maybe a little lost in both the literal sense as well as the metaphorical.
HERMAN
It's a space at once vast and intimate.
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His hair's a shade lighter, a touch of the sun in it, and the traces of wear suffered in Baedal (pounds shed, lines etched faint and fine into his face--all the minute and innumerable marks of months spent holding oneself in check) have vanished, but he's immediately recognizable as himself. He's clad in a suit, of course, one that grass can't seem to stain or cling to.
Behind him, in the place of any grand or imposing outfield wall, runs a rusting chain-link fence.
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JACINTO
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