baedalites (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
baedalites) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
multiversallogs2012-03-31 08:21 pm
baedalites) wrote in multiversallogs2012-03-31 08:21 pm
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.
no subject
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.