Encounterlogs
Alexanders Odd Encounter Sr Marcus 240208
Alexander's ordinary day takes an unexpected turn when he encounters a distressed homeless man, Mateo, huddled outside his home. Mateo is plagued by an incessant cacophony of games played in his head, driving him to the brink of madness. In an act of compassion, Alexander invites the malnourished man into his home, determined to aid him. Alexander then conducts a ritual using mandrake tea that allows him to enter Mateo's mind—a chaotic dreamscape where Mateo's name is hidden and spirits cackle invisibly. In a challenge where deceit is the rule, Alexander must carefully choose between two envelopes offered by silhouettes—one containing Mateo's name, the other containing his own—with only one chance and a single question to discern the truth. Alexander succeeds in selecting the correct envelope, freeing both men from the dream's grip and restoring Mateo's sanity.
Meanwhile, Meridith, a student involved in combating monsters, finds herself trapped within a nightmarish loop while trying to cleanse blood from her hands in a dormitory bathroom. Falling into a dreamscape filled with deformed versions of herself, each representing past brushes with death or misfortune, she confronts the terrifying visages and their unsettling moans. With a show of bravery, Meridith stabs the dream entity with her sword, speaking words of resolution and sympathy. This act shatters the tormenting hallucination, snapping her back into reality, leaving her in the safety of the bathroom with the ambient sounds of life resuming around her. Holding onto the memory of the nightmare, she reaffirms a vow to make the most out of her life, her experiences serving as a testament to her courage and resolve.
(Alexander's odd encounter(SRMarcus):SRMarcus)
[Wed Feb 7 2024]
In a short corridor corridor flanking the living room
A short hallway branches off from the living room, illuminated by the soft warmth of a burnished brass table lamp set on a small console table. Polished teak hardwood flooring and eggshell white walls are a continuing background of neutrality, constrasting starkly to the black doors flanking each side of the corridor.
It is afternoon, about 8F(-13C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. Waist high mist flows through the area.
(Your target and their allies have been tasked with helping to cure someone's insanity by delving into their mind with dream invading to solve the issues keeping them from sanity.
)
Alexander is recently awoken, texts and setting out about his day. Little business in mind, he was about to head outside and do his rounds, looking for folks he knows, getting a stronger lay of the land.
Outside -- yes! It's a chilly February afternoon, but the brisk air can do a body good. Alexander's partner is still snoozing and snoring away on the couch where she happened to have conked out. Everything seems...normal and mundane. One could be forgiven for mistaking this for an ordinary, if a bit excessively lavish, place to be. And when Alexander does step outside and gets hit by that fresh-ish air, another (regrettably) normal thing greets him -- a homeless person, slouched against the wall of the bank building in the alleyway where the door to Alexander's home is found. He's a young man, scraggly-bearded and grimy, huddled in warm but ragged clothes that look like he probably lives in them day in and day out. He looks up at the sound of the door, his blue eyes distant and dilated. He would be handsome, if he shaved and cleaned up. He's got covetable blond hair and almost androgynous features, though the overgrown beard removes any ambiguity as to his sex.
The homeless man begins to mumble something incoherent, reaching out with fingers tipped in dirt-caked nails in the vague direction of Alexander and his door.
Alexander takes in a deep breath, relaxing as he begins his walk, then hesitates. He frowns towards the man and waves a hand. "Hey buddy, are you alright?" he asks, moving to crouch nearby, studying his face.
It takes a while for the man to respond, his winter-chapped lips working in silence for a while after that initial mumbling peters out. He withdraws his hand tentatively, having reached for Alexander but not actually willing to touch him once he's close enough to reach. The man's eyes glisten with fresh tears as he blinks at Alexander, perhaps not used to such concern for his well-being, or perhaps just overwhelmed with some emotion only he can understand. Eventually, though, words do form, the young man's voice a croak as he stares with pleading eyes at Alexander -- pleading him to comprehend his meaning.
"They're in my head," he mutters. "All the time. All the time." He rocks a little where he sits, shivering not just from cold, but from whatever haunts him. "Playing games. Checkers, chess, cards...and games with no names at all. All the games, all day long. All night long."
Alexander says "...Ah... "
Alexander sits down in front of the man, on his butt, more or less joining him. "You're okay," he tells him with a casual kind of confidence. He knows he isn't, but it's aspirational. "I know what you're dealing with," he insists. And he feels like he actually might. "And I have dealt with the same, but I was luckier I think. I'm sorry." He bows his head a little apologetically. "Can you ask me for something? Tell me how I can help."
Once again a hand slowly reaches out to touch Alexander, gripping his hand if he's willing to take it. It's a cold hand -- the hand of someone who's been outside for a long time. He's got ragged fingerless gloves on, at least, but those are cold, too. He clutches Alexander's hand and from his lips comes a hoarse whisper: "There's only one way." His weak hand trembles with Alexander's. At this proximity, it's clear this individual has not eaten in a long time, or certainly hasn't eaten enough. The beard half-conceals how hollow and gaunt his cheeks are, and the bulky old winter clothes do a good job of concealing his alarmingly spare frame. But with those bony fingers joined with Alexander's, there's no way around it. This man is starving. But he doesn't ask for money, and he doesn't ask for food. He asks for one thing, if he can manage to make Alexander understand amid his scattered thoughts.
"The root...the root. Their roots..." He laughs suddenly, a manic laugh that cuts off as abruptly as it starts. "In my dreams. Our dreams. Their dreams. Dreams on dreams on dreams, the rules of the game."
Alexander takes a slow deep breath. He takes the mans hand gently. He listens to the mans ramblings, he believes them and understands at least on the surface. But he isn't mad, so he doesn't truly understand. "Come with me," he commands him with a kind of tender firmness, and tries to help him stand. "I live here, and there is food, and warmth, and you can tell me more and I can understand better," he offers.
It is with great, stumbling difficulty that the man gathers to his feet, almost tripping as he does so. There is an awful sound of ripping as he is pulled up -- his clothing had actually become frozen to the ground. Thankfully, nothing actually gets torn, but there is a sheet of ice stuck to the back of the young man's pants. He nods, but that's the best he can do. He continues to mumble to Alexander. "You have to go...you go in. Go in to the root," he keeps trying to tell Alexander, even as he willingly follows him to shelter. "Pull them out. One by one by one, that's the rules." He sags against Alexander as he's led where he wants to take him, his feet shuffling on shoes with holes worn in them. It's a wonder he doesn't have frostbite. Though maybe he does.
Alexander leads the man with careful steps and tries to brush some ice off. He pulls the gate open and steps in, closing it behind him. He leads him up the steps. The rules don't apply everywhere. This is my home, the rules here are simpler. Respect hospitality, and make no moves of aggression and I will take care of you for a time," he insists, trying to find the language to speak with this man."
The man shakes his head during Alexander's whole spiel. He also nods periodically. There seems to be no pattern to it, often switching between the two midway through Alexander's sentences. Sometimes he grabs at nothing with his dirty hand, sometimes he presses himself against the wall as if trying to hide from something, and sometimes, like before, he just laughs without warning or apparent reason. But after he's guided inside and the ice is brushed off a bit, he keeps insisting his same brand of nonsense to Alexander. "One way to fix me. Dig out the roots from the dream-soil. That's where they play. This..." he gestures to his own face, and down his body, "...is just...branching branches, leaf and sprig and bloom and fruit. In the roots -- my dreams. Daydreams, night-dreams, all dreams." He suddenly whirls around, trying to take Alexander by the shoulders. It could be interpreted as an act of aggression, but if Alexander lets him do it, it's clear he's just being plaintive and begging him, staring into his eyes. "Dig into my dream-soil. I know you can do it. They see it in you. They know you can do it. They want to see you try. I want to see you try."
Alexander guides the man inside, his gestures are no bother, his odd behaviour rises no concern from his visage. He is calm, he gives the man patience. He leads him inside. When grabbed he gazes into the mans eyes and studies closely. Searching. Searching for something in his eyes, a sign of the threat. "I don't work for you, nor them. Will this help you? Can I save you? I won't invite myself into a trap without reason. I have things more important to me than you..." he replies but his will wavers a moment, curiosity and compassion.
Light blue eyes stare into mirrored shades. His eyes are dilated with whatever madness afflicts him, whether it be substance-induced or otherwise. There is no outward sign of power in his eyes. Nor do Alexander's Sensitive faculties detect anything off about him other than...well, what anyone would notice. He clings to Alexander for a moment, before letting him go.
He turns his bearded face away. "I will sleep," mutters the blond man, and then he starts to curl up on the very hardwood floor. There's a sense that this is luxurious enough for him, much warmer and more inviting than any bed he's had in a while. He shivers as he curls up in the fetal position, holding his knees to his chest. "I will sleep and you will dig. Please. My dreams. Their playground." His eyes flutter shut and unless he's stopped from doing so, he conks out with an unusual ease, as if his ordinary state were unconsciousness, and the waking world was a more difficult place for him to exist.
Alexander takes a deep breath. He purchased mandrake tea from another world for exactly this purpose. The mirrors in his home would block him from traversing as himself, only his dream self. But this would aid him in travelling to this man within his own home. To step within his dream. A ritual spoken and performed to draw him in. He begins to make preparations, determined now, reticence all but melted away.
Normally, this might be a difficult matter. Rituals take time, after all, and energy. But as soon as the chants begin, and the materials are produced, and the arcane energy begins to flow, it's as if the sleeping man does the rest. Small, chirping voices, speaking in a cacophany of languages -- or perhaps just one unknown tongue -- start to sound in Alexander's skull, somewhere between reality and imagination. They coax, they pull, they entice in their tiny sing-song voices, getting louder and louder, interrupting each other. The world doesn't quiet before Alexander's body begins to grow lethargic. In fact, the sound swells to fever pitch, until...
Alexander's body collapses where it is. Hopefully he felt it coming and sat down, but either way, he's no longer a denizen of waking life.
Alexander's eyes -- not his flesh-eyes, but his inner eyes, open to find himself in a room. It's not a familiar one. It's actually a pretty nice room, or it would be if the furniture and the decor weren't just strewn everywhere, knocked about, flung against walls and tossed onto the floor.
In the center of this room stands the blond man, but he is clean-shaven and...well, just clean. He's wearing ordinary street clothes. He looks good. Healthy. Handsome. But just as tormented.
"They're here," he says to Alexander, apparently spotting him. He doesn't ramble, his voice clear as a bell. "You can't see them yet. I couldn't either, at first. But they're here." A disembodied, girlish giggle echoes and reverberates around the room, and the young man's gaze chases it nervously.
"My name is hidden somewhere here," he says, gesturing around the room with a sweep. "If you find it, they'll set me free. I know it, but I can't speak it to you. It's the rules." His lips curve into a sad smile. The pattering footsteps of some invisible entity swiftly traverse the room from one corner to another.
Alexander feels, for a moment terror as he is swept along with this sound, the chorus in his ears. He chides himself, he knew this was likely, perhaps inevitible and all he needed to do was steel himself. Still, there's something more than misery and fear here, delight, and curiosity teased. Something hangs at the edge of his mind, tantalizing. A blinking red warning light. It fades. He is lain on the floor beside the mand unconscious.
Alexander form within this place should he be aware is much himself but without the weariness of life of recent. He looks perhaps slightly taller, confident, has his form clothes his mind produces they are strength, a cloak like one might imagine a fancy fantasy wizard but underneath average street clothes.
Alexander gazes upon the world around him, the chaos, then towards the man. "I understand, it's okay. I shall find your name, but I shall not speak my own. I won't allow them to have it," he explains. "If you wish to follow stay close, otherwise remain, and I shall find it." He peers about warily, moving with slow and steady steps to explore this place. A name, a name must be found.
Clutter is everywhere, overwhelming. A bookshelf has fallen, leaving books of all kinds, hardback, paperback, mostly fiction, for all age ranges. Their authors have names: names like Vidal, Proust, Ende, Wilde, Wynne Jones, Tolkien. Their pages contain yet more names. More common than the books, though, are the games. Checkers, chess, backgammon, Othello. Ones with brand names -- Monopoly, the Game of Life, Candyland, Mouse Trap -- even Ouija. A lively round of fifty-two pickup has been played with some Bicycle brand cards. There are tables, of course, and lamps, and couches. One of those is vertical in a corner. Toppled lamps, with broken bulbs posing a hazard for the dream-feet. Wherever Alexander goes, the nameless man follows, though he gives no clue as to whether he's getting warmer or colder.
Which area would Alexander like to investigate first?
Alexander chuckles. "If your name was Othello, that would certainly aid me. They played games, so perhaps that is where they have hidden it. In the rules, perhaps a Milton, or a Bradley," he exhales. He begins to investigate the games for oddities, trying to suss out the logic of this space.
Apparently the man's name is not Othello, because he just smiles a sad, knowing smile at Alexander and shakes his head.
The games are all over the place, their pieces ajumble. There's probably some passage in Leviticus forbidding the mixing of one's Community Chest cards with one's Cards Against Humanity cards. And yes, there is Cards Against Humanity. A little bit of everything, old and new.
The chess board stands out. Though it's on the floor, it is encircled by a perfect circle of red ribbon, and the pieces are all carefully in place, as if waiting for an ongoing game. If Alexander is familiar with the rules, he'd note that Black is about to conquer the White king in the next move, the end inescapable no matter whether it's White or Black's turn.
Another thing that stands out is the Scrabble board. Though it seems to be a bit more jostled than the chessboard, there are still some words that can be made out, however skewed:
TOMATO
...T..
...O..
...M..
Alexander studies the chessboard for a moment. "Tom, Thomas, Tomathy," the last one is made up but who really knows in a space like this right?" He keeps his gaze returning to the chess board. He knows the game, rusty as he may be from his schoolyard days and...looks for a stray piece to set to help turn the tide. Not to give white a victory, but to keep the game in play at least a little longer. "
Alexander says "Matt... "
Alexander tries to gaze at a few of the letters perhaps in players boards. Names that might form from combinations ready to be entered.
Whatever it may mean, Alexander has no problem meddling with the game. It's easy enough to place a captured Queen back on White's side, at least temporarily shielding the King from immediate checkmate. Ghostly, mocking laughter answers him when he interferes with the results of the chess match, but nothing stops his hand. The man whose name is not known peers intently over at what Alexander is doing, but his face gives no clue as to whether he's on the right or wrong track. There's a sense that he is incapable of giving such guidance, forbidden by some magic or another. Still, he sticks close to the other man, hanging in his shadow.
The Ouija Board draws the eye, too. Full of letters. It might be a way to spell something, or commune with the tittering spirits that can be heard resonating through the room?
Alexander rises up and walks over to it. "A parlor game, a perfect example of clap if you believe," he explains. Maybe to himself, or to the things around him or his friend. "I don't like this game," he announces. "If you wish to leave me sour, keep jerking me about. Otherwise, release this man and let's talk plainly," he insists. He moves to sit before it, following along at least enough to be polite. He places his hands on the piece, placing the piece on the Ouija board. "Spirits, what is this mans name, allow me to free him from this enchantment and bring him peace."
As Alexander places his hands on the planchette, it's cold and still. Without saying anything, the nameless man sits down on the other side of the board, and lays his hand atop Alexander's upon that implement. It's a two-person game, after all. At first, the pull of it is slow, and one can't tell if it's Alexander or the nameless blond man moving it, or something else, but it begins to drag itself from letter to letter.
Y...O...U...W...A...
...and then it speeds up, coming to life, dancing from point to point on the board, scraping lightly...
NTSHORTCUT, it continues, before the planchette drifts off the letters and pauses. Then it's back to business again.
PROVIDEREASONORPAYMENT
Alexander takes a deep breath, and gazes up at the man. "No," he says whether to him or the room around. "I am not here to play games, I am here to help a man. I want you to deal with me fairly," he insists firmly. His gaze flits away from the man, his hand remains upon the device. "I won't trade myself for that. I'll pick much ruder options first."
The planchette wobbles beneath Alexander's hand. The nameless man's face is a blank slate of concentration. Light, airy giggles waft on the stale air of the room, which is lit with a single bare lightbulb hanging above. That lightbulb buzzes with energy and activity.
WEAREFAIRRULESARERULES the planchette spells out. But it's not done.
ONECHANCEFORYOU
And then the planchette goes completely still and dead. The blond man removes his hand from it and stands, turning towards one of the walls -- who knows which direction, in a place like this?
From that wall emerges two figures, one yellow, one green. They are simple silhouettes, really, and they stand motionless like cardboard cutouts in reality. Each one of them cradles an envelope in its shadowy hands.
"One of them has my name," says the man in a monotone, as if he's being fed this information in real time. "The other one has your name. One of them always lies, one of them always tells the truth. You are allowed only one question, addressed to only one of them. It will answer according to its nature, in truth or falsehood."
Alexander's jaw works with tension, he gazes an it's clear the emotion most prominent in him isn't delight, or wonder, or curiosity. It is anger. He reads the words and twists his shoulders a bit. He nods. I am here, but what have I promised them? Unspoken rules, a game I've never heard of. Does it matter if I know? He wonders but for a moment knowing it won't. Rules are rules. The abuse of such a a simple premise is obvious. There is no interest in what is fair or just. He shifts slowly to his feet. "So I may only ask one question to one of them..." He hesitates. "Wait, no, if I successfully take your name, that will save you, what happens to mine" He asks.
For a moment, the nameless man just stares straight ahead in the face of the question. Then his eyes refocus, and he shakes his head. "If you choose my name, we're both free. I don't know what happens if you choose your own name," he says quietly. "They're not telling me." Then, for the first time since coming here, he truly addresses Alexander directly, man to man, not to give instructions, but to give a plea. "Don't do it, if you're not sure," he entreats his dream visitor. "Just leave here, and I won't bother you anymore, I swear. I'll find someone else who can solve it, or maybe I won't. But it's not worth it to choose, if you don't know for sure."
Alexander nods softly, and eases some. Perhaps he trusts the man, or...perhaps he simply is confident. He gazes between the two sillouhettes. And steps forward, closing in on them. He looks between yellow, and then green. To green, he asks, "If I asked which envelope contained his name, which envelope would the other sillouhette answer?" His voice is all nerves, tension and bravado.
Shimmering in the air, the green silhouette steps forward. From somewhere within its incorporeal core sounds a voice. A male voice.
She would answer that it is in her own envelope, it resonates, booming through the room and rattling the chess pieces.
Alexander takes a deep breath. "Perhaps also I heard the playful giggle of feminity, the sillouhette of the trickster..." He exhales and gazes up at the green silhouette. "You have his name. Please give it to me."
The green figure presents its envelope with almost mechanical motions. The moment the parchment, sealed with some strange green sigil stamped in wax, touches Alexander's hand, both figures dissipate into nothingness, leaving only Alexander and the man whose name may or may not be in the envelope. Now all there is left to do is open it, as the blue-eyed man watches with some tension evident in his frame.
Alexander holds the envelope and tucks it into his pocket a moment. "So, did I do it correctly?" he asks the man. He studies him closely, looking for something.
"You will have to open it and see," the man cryptically answers, but it's not really a matter of being cryptic. The slow shake of his head suggests he doesn't know, as does what he says next: "I never was any good at their games."
Alexander nods and opens the envelope, turning his gaze down. He holds it up to read.
In green script, in all capital letters, a name has been calligraphed upon the parchment as Alexander holds it up to the light. M A T E O
"Read it aloud," instructs the man, though he doesn't dare read it himself, or can't, his eyes turning quickly away. "It's time."
Alexander smiles at the former hint. "Mateo, I hope this puts an end to your torment, my friend," he says softly. "Check mate...Tomato..." He snorts, evidently, finding the humor in it suddenly.
When that phrase leaves Alexander's dream-lips, the whole room turns as if on a pivot, knocking everything freshly askew. Tittering and giggling can be heard from every corner of the space, and then...it collapses in on itself, into a singularity that can no longer hold the spirits of Alexander and Mateo. And so they find themselves yanked instantaneously back to the waking world, where Mateo is starting to pick himself off the ground, in a daze, looking like he's been hit over the head, but his eyes are losing that strange dilation, and he examines himself anew, as if he'd never seen himself before, his skinny limbs, his scraggly frame.
"Thank you," murmurs Mateo, and if Alexander rises to his feet, too, he suddenly flings his arms around Alexander to hug him tightly. He smells pretty awful.
Alexander hugs him back and grimaces, but says nothing. "Hey, I'm just glad I could help, don't sweat it."
Alexander says "Uh...I've got a shower here you can use...?"
Mateo embraces Alexander for several more moments, before withdrawing and shaking his head. "Oh, God, I'm so dirty. I...I know where to find one, where I won't be any trouble to you," he says to Alexander, his voice no longer tainted with that wobbling, nonsensical lilt. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you!" He doesn't look like he wants to waste Alexander's time any longer, and he starts to rush towards the door, ready to greet the world with newfound clarity.
Alexander says "Swing by if you need anything! Mateo!"
Alexander beams cheerily, letting him go.
(Your target has been singled out by a dream stalker who's invading their dreams. They cannot be woken, but their allies may be able to go into their dreams after them to help them fight off the invader and survive the nightmare.
)
Meridith is busy trying to wash blood out of wool. Freshly taught and feel like she's adapted to something she enjoys, she spent the evening trawling the woods fearlessly. Beside her, hidden partially in a tote bag is a bow and rapier. Her weapons of choice. She's try to get the blood out, knowing the looks she got when she returned. She is in a bathroom in the dorms, but she could leave to travel wherever once her work is done.
Perhaps this wasn't exactly what Meridith had had in mind when it came to higher education, battling monsters in the woods with archaic and outmoded weaponry - but she sseemed to find some measure of joy in it. A lack of fear too. It may just be easier to stare down monsters and nightmares with steel in hand, after all. It may not be readily apparent, but eventually she would become aware of the fact that she's now alone in the bathroom - the quiet din of chatter that so often serves as background noise in the student accomodation has faded away into nothingness, and there's a near uncomfortable weight to the silence.
Meridith humms naturally, filling the sudden silence with a faint melody, but she draws that to a close before long. Her gaze is drawn, out of the hallway, her ears listen and pick up the peculiarity. She picks the melody back up, and hefts her suspicious crime filled bag behind her body. She moves to open the door and peer out.
There's a weight to her movements that hadn't been there earlier, like she were wading through molasses. The young woman plucks up her bag, and moves to open the door - and the room spins about her. It's like a strange case of deja vu. Like a dream of an endless staircase. For when she moves to peer out into the corridor, she suddenly finds herself back at the sink, washing her hands once more.
Meridith groans and blinks her eyes. Too dazed for fear, but clutching at something anything, trying to hold on. Then, she hesitates, washing her hands. "Right...the blood," she murmurs softly, gazing at her hands. She was cleaning? She blinks a few times trying to clear out the confusion in her head.
Of course. The blood. Her hands were covered in water, and she needed to wash it away with some fresh blood. The crimson flows freely from the tap, soaking over those soft, delicate hands of hers. She'll blink, blink, blink - as if trying to clear her head, and on the third - because it's always the third - the lights grow a little dimmer in the room. As if the graphics department for reality had just suffered a mild budget cut. Either way, the blood continues to flow from the faucet, fresh and warm, and ready to wash her hands clean of the terrible feeling of water.
Meridith yanks her hands back and lets out a hiss. Her heart skips a beat, the icy grip of terror along her neck. "No," she exhales softly. She is new to this world but not so new she doesn't have inklings, doesn't tease understanding. This is -something-. She does not know what, but she knows it is something. "Enough!" she demands in a loud yet clearly fearful voice.
It is something, she's correct. Like a fly in a spider's net, she's become aware of her entrapmnent. With that awareness there's another tug upon her senses. She tugs her hands back, and reality spins about her once more. It's that same off-putting sense of deja vu as she finds herself washing her hands once more. The water has been replaced with bile, and ooze, and the walls of the dorm bathroom are long gone. In their place are the woods she had been hunting only recently, and they're piled with bodies of the dead and dying.
Meridith lets out a sharp shuddering breath, a moan of terror as she tries to pull away from her sink. The miserable sense of her body being controlled by another, dreamlike weakness compels her but she fights and she gazes around the woods. "Ah...! Ah! What! What happened...!?" she exclaims, unaware of the potential illusion, fear remains gripped tight. She looks upon the dead
Dreamlike is apt. That's what this is. Though a nightmare may be even more appropriate yet. Those moans of terror are echoed by the bodies, like she were surrounded by a chorus of wailing mimics. Which is, again, accurate, for as she draws her attention away from the faucet, and the water, it becomes all the more readily apparent that these bodies surrounding her in the woods of her nightmare are her own. They writhe, and twist on the ground. Each of them with a different wound, or ailment, or affliction. Each of them familiar in some manner. The image of herself choking on a meal that had gotten caught in her throat one time, but she'd managed to clear it. Her body broken and bent by the poor reflexes of a drunk driver who had almost clipped her in the past. Her form twisted and pulled apart by inky, oozing tentacles that pour forth from the stomach of a patient. It becomes more and more apparent that each of these bodies, or echoes, or whatever they are, are close calls or near misses - only in these cases, there was no miss.
Meridith lets out a terrified sob. She staggers back away from the bodies, these creatures, writhing and twisting. She reaches for her blade, her sword. As if some weapon can fend against the dark. She stares at these faces, these images, broken and harmed and knows they are her. The realization does not dawn so much as soaks into her mind. "No! No! None of that happened!" she insists.
The weight of the steel in her hand, dreamed or not, seems to afford Meridith some measure of comfort. As if the simple act of arming herself, as vain as it may seem, has some profound effect in this space of thought and intent. "..This happened." The many maimed mimics of Meridith moan out morosely, their voices just slightly off, and apart enough to avoid being entirely synced. "..This happened." The body nearest her own gurgles, dragging itself toward her feet as it looks up at her. It's windpipe is crushed, and the marks indicate that hands as large as dustbins had performed the deed. But the closer that Meridith stares at this apparent doppleganger the more a nagging thought strums in the back of her mind. Like a discordant note that stands out amidst this chorus of terrible fates. 'This isn't you.' It seems to say, 'This isn't your doom. This is a trick.'
The weapon in her grip seems to harmonize with this thought, serving as a conductors baton of sorts.
Meridith takes a deep breathing and raises the blade up. Her breath slows, her eyes focus, the terror recedes. The beating of her heart remains, a deep and crushing tension. She stares at the maimed mimics, her feet step lightly, keeping distance between it. "I would not hurt myself," she murmurs. "I do not lash at shadows...my blade is not meant to cut but to declare that I am not your play thing!" she echoes. The fear remains in her voice joined by courage as she steps in, lancing her blade toward the heart of this thing. "If you are possibilities, what might of been then let me make clear that I am what remains!"
This possibility. This might-have-been. This doom that wasn't her own is pierced by the blade, and it's terrible maw twists into something vile, and inhuman, and full of hate. It shrieks up at Meridith, in anger more than anything else. She can see as the features that it had borrowed from her grow pale, and wan, with deep gouges beneath it's eyes where it had clawed at itself in misery, and fury - great clumps of hair had been pulled from the crown of it's head, and it's nails had grown sharp and cruel. The worst, of course, were it's eyes, great lumps of coal where there had once been a soul. The terrible monster recoils back through this dreamscape, and with each inch of cold steel supplanted into it's breast, reality seems to shake and quiver, and collapse about Meridith. The forest gives way to the cold tiles of the bathroom. The bodies shift into little more than furniture, and stalls. The lights start to flash through the gaps.
Meridith shudders as the blade pierces into the creature and she whispers, face not contorted by rage but fear and sadness. "I had but better luck than you...and I am sorry, but I promise I will make the most of it...for all of you..." She shudders watching it decompose before her, she pulls the blade back and closes her eyes. As the world reasserts itself she clutches at her face, letting out quiet shuddering sounds. "A...ah..."
There's a shift in Meridith's stomach, like when you reach the drop of a rollercoaster. The rush of roaring water fills her ears, and the light burns and blinds- only for her to snap back into consciousness. Back into reality. There she stands, washing her hands free of blood in the bathroom. A bag of legally questionably things hanging from her shoulder, and the image of her own face reflected in the mirror. At first there was little to suggest any sense of misadventure, bar a slow drip of a single blood drop from her nose. Yet, as she watches it dance about the basin, she may very well notice a clump of hair amidst it. A voice echoes softly, as though spoken, "You promise. You promise." It grows softer, more desperate, "..You promise."
Meridith heaves a breath, fighting nausea as she washes her hand. She turns off the water immediately, pulling her hands out and touches at her nose. It has dropped, she studies the slow rotation. "I...I do promise," she insists and whatever remains of the memory she holds on to that quiet vow, shaken.
There's a quiet pulse behind Meridith's eyes, and then a weight she may not have been fully cognizent of lifts from her mind. The quiet sounds of conversation, and general atmosphere of the place slowly bleed back into being as reality is set right, and a promise is made. And thankfully, her hands are free of the blood.
Meridith says "...Back to it..."
Meridith shifts her weight uncomfortable, something pressing, a tension in her muscles and weight similarily relieved, she heads out.
Meanwhile, Meridith, a student involved in combating monsters, finds herself trapped within a nightmarish loop while trying to cleanse blood from her hands in a dormitory bathroom. Falling into a dreamscape filled with deformed versions of herself, each representing past brushes with death or misfortune, she confronts the terrifying visages and their unsettling moans. With a show of bravery, Meridith stabs the dream entity with her sword, speaking words of resolution and sympathy. This act shatters the tormenting hallucination, snapping her back into reality, leaving her in the safety of the bathroom with the ambient sounds of life resuming around her. Holding onto the memory of the nightmare, she reaffirms a vow to make the most out of her life, her experiences serving as a testament to her courage and resolve.
(Alexander's odd encounter(SRMarcus):SRMarcus)
[Wed Feb 7 2024]
In a short corridor corridor flanking the living room
A short hallway branches off from the living room, illuminated by the soft warmth of a burnished brass table lamp set on a small console table. Polished teak hardwood flooring and eggshell white walls are a continuing background of neutrality, constrasting starkly to the black doors flanking each side of the corridor.
It is afternoon, about 8F(-13C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. Waist high mist flows through the area.
(Your target and their allies have been tasked with helping to cure someone's insanity by delving into their mind with dream invading to solve the issues keeping them from sanity.
)
Alexander is recently awoken, texts and setting out about his day. Little business in mind, he was about to head outside and do his rounds, looking for folks he knows, getting a stronger lay of the land.
Outside -- yes! It's a chilly February afternoon, but the brisk air can do a body good. Alexander's partner is still snoozing and snoring away on the couch where she happened to have conked out. Everything seems...normal and mundane. One could be forgiven for mistaking this for an ordinary, if a bit excessively lavish, place to be. And when Alexander does step outside and gets hit by that fresh-ish air, another (regrettably) normal thing greets him -- a homeless person, slouched against the wall of the bank building in the alleyway where the door to Alexander's home is found. He's a young man, scraggly-bearded and grimy, huddled in warm but ragged clothes that look like he probably lives in them day in and day out. He looks up at the sound of the door, his blue eyes distant and dilated. He would be handsome, if he shaved and cleaned up. He's got covetable blond hair and almost androgynous features, though the overgrown beard removes any ambiguity as to his sex.
The homeless man begins to mumble something incoherent, reaching out with fingers tipped in dirt-caked nails in the vague direction of Alexander and his door.
Alexander takes in a deep breath, relaxing as he begins his walk, then hesitates. He frowns towards the man and waves a hand. "Hey buddy, are you alright?" he asks, moving to crouch nearby, studying his face.
It takes a while for the man to respond, his winter-chapped lips working in silence for a while after that initial mumbling peters out. He withdraws his hand tentatively, having reached for Alexander but not actually willing to touch him once he's close enough to reach. The man's eyes glisten with fresh tears as he blinks at Alexander, perhaps not used to such concern for his well-being, or perhaps just overwhelmed with some emotion only he can understand. Eventually, though, words do form, the young man's voice a croak as he stares with pleading eyes at Alexander -- pleading him to comprehend his meaning.
"They're in my head," he mutters. "All the time. All the time." He rocks a little where he sits, shivering not just from cold, but from whatever haunts him. "Playing games. Checkers, chess, cards...and games with no names at all. All the games, all day long. All night long."
Alexander says "...Ah... "
Alexander sits down in front of the man, on his butt, more or less joining him. "You're okay," he tells him with a casual kind of confidence. He knows he isn't, but it's aspirational. "I know what you're dealing with," he insists. And he feels like he actually might. "And I have dealt with the same, but I was luckier I think. I'm sorry." He bows his head a little apologetically. "Can you ask me for something? Tell me how I can help."
Once again a hand slowly reaches out to touch Alexander, gripping his hand if he's willing to take it. It's a cold hand -- the hand of someone who's been outside for a long time. He's got ragged fingerless gloves on, at least, but those are cold, too. He clutches Alexander's hand and from his lips comes a hoarse whisper: "There's only one way." His weak hand trembles with Alexander's. At this proximity, it's clear this individual has not eaten in a long time, or certainly hasn't eaten enough. The beard half-conceals how hollow and gaunt his cheeks are, and the bulky old winter clothes do a good job of concealing his alarmingly spare frame. But with those bony fingers joined with Alexander's, there's no way around it. This man is starving. But he doesn't ask for money, and he doesn't ask for food. He asks for one thing, if he can manage to make Alexander understand amid his scattered thoughts.
"The root...the root. Their roots..." He laughs suddenly, a manic laugh that cuts off as abruptly as it starts. "In my dreams. Our dreams. Their dreams. Dreams on dreams on dreams, the rules of the game."
Alexander takes a slow deep breath. He takes the mans hand gently. He listens to the mans ramblings, he believes them and understands at least on the surface. But he isn't mad, so he doesn't truly understand. "Come with me," he commands him with a kind of tender firmness, and tries to help him stand. "I live here, and there is food, and warmth, and you can tell me more and I can understand better," he offers.
It is with great, stumbling difficulty that the man gathers to his feet, almost tripping as he does so. There is an awful sound of ripping as he is pulled up -- his clothing had actually become frozen to the ground. Thankfully, nothing actually gets torn, but there is a sheet of ice stuck to the back of the young man's pants. He nods, but that's the best he can do. He continues to mumble to Alexander. "You have to go...you go in. Go in to the root," he keeps trying to tell Alexander, even as he willingly follows him to shelter. "Pull them out. One by one by one, that's the rules." He sags against Alexander as he's led where he wants to take him, his feet shuffling on shoes with holes worn in them. It's a wonder he doesn't have frostbite. Though maybe he does.
Alexander leads the man with careful steps and tries to brush some ice off. He pulls the gate open and steps in, closing it behind him. He leads him up the steps. The rules don't apply everywhere. This is my home, the rules here are simpler. Respect hospitality, and make no moves of aggression and I will take care of you for a time," he insists, trying to find the language to speak with this man."
The man shakes his head during Alexander's whole spiel. He also nods periodically. There seems to be no pattern to it, often switching between the two midway through Alexander's sentences. Sometimes he grabs at nothing with his dirty hand, sometimes he presses himself against the wall as if trying to hide from something, and sometimes, like before, he just laughs without warning or apparent reason. But after he's guided inside and the ice is brushed off a bit, he keeps insisting his same brand of nonsense to Alexander. "One way to fix me. Dig out the roots from the dream-soil. That's where they play. This..." he gestures to his own face, and down his body, "...is just...branching branches, leaf and sprig and bloom and fruit. In the roots -- my dreams. Daydreams, night-dreams, all dreams." He suddenly whirls around, trying to take Alexander by the shoulders. It could be interpreted as an act of aggression, but if Alexander lets him do it, it's clear he's just being plaintive and begging him, staring into his eyes. "Dig into my dream-soil. I know you can do it. They see it in you. They know you can do it. They want to see you try. I want to see you try."
Alexander guides the man inside, his gestures are no bother, his odd behaviour rises no concern from his visage. He is calm, he gives the man patience. He leads him inside. When grabbed he gazes into the mans eyes and studies closely. Searching. Searching for something in his eyes, a sign of the threat. "I don't work for you, nor them. Will this help you? Can I save you? I won't invite myself into a trap without reason. I have things more important to me than you..." he replies but his will wavers a moment, curiosity and compassion.
Light blue eyes stare into mirrored shades. His eyes are dilated with whatever madness afflicts him, whether it be substance-induced or otherwise. There is no outward sign of power in his eyes. Nor do Alexander's Sensitive faculties detect anything off about him other than...well, what anyone would notice. He clings to Alexander for a moment, before letting him go.
He turns his bearded face away. "I will sleep," mutters the blond man, and then he starts to curl up on the very hardwood floor. There's a sense that this is luxurious enough for him, much warmer and more inviting than any bed he's had in a while. He shivers as he curls up in the fetal position, holding his knees to his chest. "I will sleep and you will dig. Please. My dreams. Their playground." His eyes flutter shut and unless he's stopped from doing so, he conks out with an unusual ease, as if his ordinary state were unconsciousness, and the waking world was a more difficult place for him to exist.
Alexander takes a deep breath. He purchased mandrake tea from another world for exactly this purpose. The mirrors in his home would block him from traversing as himself, only his dream self. But this would aid him in travelling to this man within his own home. To step within his dream. A ritual spoken and performed to draw him in. He begins to make preparations, determined now, reticence all but melted away.
Normally, this might be a difficult matter. Rituals take time, after all, and energy. But as soon as the chants begin, and the materials are produced, and the arcane energy begins to flow, it's as if the sleeping man does the rest. Small, chirping voices, speaking in a cacophany of languages -- or perhaps just one unknown tongue -- start to sound in Alexander's skull, somewhere between reality and imagination. They coax, they pull, they entice in their tiny sing-song voices, getting louder and louder, interrupting each other. The world doesn't quiet before Alexander's body begins to grow lethargic. In fact, the sound swells to fever pitch, until...
Alexander's body collapses where it is. Hopefully he felt it coming and sat down, but either way, he's no longer a denizen of waking life.
Alexander's eyes -- not his flesh-eyes, but his inner eyes, open to find himself in a room. It's not a familiar one. It's actually a pretty nice room, or it would be if the furniture and the decor weren't just strewn everywhere, knocked about, flung against walls and tossed onto the floor.
In the center of this room stands the blond man, but he is clean-shaven and...well, just clean. He's wearing ordinary street clothes. He looks good. Healthy. Handsome. But just as tormented.
"They're here," he says to Alexander, apparently spotting him. He doesn't ramble, his voice clear as a bell. "You can't see them yet. I couldn't either, at first. But they're here." A disembodied, girlish giggle echoes and reverberates around the room, and the young man's gaze chases it nervously.
"My name is hidden somewhere here," he says, gesturing around the room with a sweep. "If you find it, they'll set me free. I know it, but I can't speak it to you. It's the rules." His lips curve into a sad smile. The pattering footsteps of some invisible entity swiftly traverse the room from one corner to another.
Alexander feels, for a moment terror as he is swept along with this sound, the chorus in his ears. He chides himself, he knew this was likely, perhaps inevitible and all he needed to do was steel himself. Still, there's something more than misery and fear here, delight, and curiosity teased. Something hangs at the edge of his mind, tantalizing. A blinking red warning light. It fades. He is lain on the floor beside the mand unconscious.
Alexander form within this place should he be aware is much himself but without the weariness of life of recent. He looks perhaps slightly taller, confident, has his form clothes his mind produces they are strength, a cloak like one might imagine a fancy fantasy wizard but underneath average street clothes.
Alexander gazes upon the world around him, the chaos, then towards the man. "I understand, it's okay. I shall find your name, but I shall not speak my own. I won't allow them to have it," he explains. "If you wish to follow stay close, otherwise remain, and I shall find it." He peers about warily, moving with slow and steady steps to explore this place. A name, a name must be found.
Clutter is everywhere, overwhelming. A bookshelf has fallen, leaving books of all kinds, hardback, paperback, mostly fiction, for all age ranges. Their authors have names: names like Vidal, Proust, Ende, Wilde, Wynne Jones, Tolkien. Their pages contain yet more names. More common than the books, though, are the games. Checkers, chess, backgammon, Othello. Ones with brand names -- Monopoly, the Game of Life, Candyland, Mouse Trap -- even Ouija. A lively round of fifty-two pickup has been played with some Bicycle brand cards. There are tables, of course, and lamps, and couches. One of those is vertical in a corner. Toppled lamps, with broken bulbs posing a hazard for the dream-feet. Wherever Alexander goes, the nameless man follows, though he gives no clue as to whether he's getting warmer or colder.
Which area would Alexander like to investigate first?
Alexander chuckles. "If your name was Othello, that would certainly aid me. They played games, so perhaps that is where they have hidden it. In the rules, perhaps a Milton, or a Bradley," he exhales. He begins to investigate the games for oddities, trying to suss out the logic of this space.
Apparently the man's name is not Othello, because he just smiles a sad, knowing smile at Alexander and shakes his head.
The games are all over the place, their pieces ajumble. There's probably some passage in Leviticus forbidding the mixing of one's Community Chest cards with one's Cards Against Humanity cards. And yes, there is Cards Against Humanity. A little bit of everything, old and new.
The chess board stands out. Though it's on the floor, it is encircled by a perfect circle of red ribbon, and the pieces are all carefully in place, as if waiting for an ongoing game. If Alexander is familiar with the rules, he'd note that Black is about to conquer the White king in the next move, the end inescapable no matter whether it's White or Black's turn.
Another thing that stands out is the Scrabble board. Though it seems to be a bit more jostled than the chessboard, there are still some words that can be made out, however skewed:
TOMATO
...T..
...O..
...M..
Alexander studies the chessboard for a moment. "Tom, Thomas, Tomathy," the last one is made up but who really knows in a space like this right?" He keeps his gaze returning to the chess board. He knows the game, rusty as he may be from his schoolyard days and...looks for a stray piece to set to help turn the tide. Not to give white a victory, but to keep the game in play at least a little longer. "
Alexander says "Matt... "
Alexander tries to gaze at a few of the letters perhaps in players boards. Names that might form from combinations ready to be entered.
Whatever it may mean, Alexander has no problem meddling with the game. It's easy enough to place a captured Queen back on White's side, at least temporarily shielding the King from immediate checkmate. Ghostly, mocking laughter answers him when he interferes with the results of the chess match, but nothing stops his hand. The man whose name is not known peers intently over at what Alexander is doing, but his face gives no clue as to whether he's on the right or wrong track. There's a sense that he is incapable of giving such guidance, forbidden by some magic or another. Still, he sticks close to the other man, hanging in his shadow.
The Ouija Board draws the eye, too. Full of letters. It might be a way to spell something, or commune with the tittering spirits that can be heard resonating through the room?
Alexander rises up and walks over to it. "A parlor game, a perfect example of clap if you believe," he explains. Maybe to himself, or to the things around him or his friend. "I don't like this game," he announces. "If you wish to leave me sour, keep jerking me about. Otherwise, release this man and let's talk plainly," he insists. He moves to sit before it, following along at least enough to be polite. He places his hands on the piece, placing the piece on the Ouija board. "Spirits, what is this mans name, allow me to free him from this enchantment and bring him peace."
As Alexander places his hands on the planchette, it's cold and still. Without saying anything, the nameless man sits down on the other side of the board, and lays his hand atop Alexander's upon that implement. It's a two-person game, after all. At first, the pull of it is slow, and one can't tell if it's Alexander or the nameless blond man moving it, or something else, but it begins to drag itself from letter to letter.
Y...O...U...W...A...
...and then it speeds up, coming to life, dancing from point to point on the board, scraping lightly...
NTSHORTCUT, it continues, before the planchette drifts off the letters and pauses. Then it's back to business again.
PROVIDEREASONORPAYMENT
Alexander takes a deep breath, and gazes up at the man. "No," he says whether to him or the room around. "I am not here to play games, I am here to help a man. I want you to deal with me fairly," he insists firmly. His gaze flits away from the man, his hand remains upon the device. "I won't trade myself for that. I'll pick much ruder options first."
The planchette wobbles beneath Alexander's hand. The nameless man's face is a blank slate of concentration. Light, airy giggles waft on the stale air of the room, which is lit with a single bare lightbulb hanging above. That lightbulb buzzes with energy and activity.
WEAREFAIRRULESARERULES the planchette spells out. But it's not done.
ONECHANCEFORYOU
And then the planchette goes completely still and dead. The blond man removes his hand from it and stands, turning towards one of the walls -- who knows which direction, in a place like this?
From that wall emerges two figures, one yellow, one green. They are simple silhouettes, really, and they stand motionless like cardboard cutouts in reality. Each one of them cradles an envelope in its shadowy hands.
"One of them has my name," says the man in a monotone, as if he's being fed this information in real time. "The other one has your name. One of them always lies, one of them always tells the truth. You are allowed only one question, addressed to only one of them. It will answer according to its nature, in truth or falsehood."
Alexander's jaw works with tension, he gazes an it's clear the emotion most prominent in him isn't delight, or wonder, or curiosity. It is anger. He reads the words and twists his shoulders a bit. He nods. I am here, but what have I promised them? Unspoken rules, a game I've never heard of. Does it matter if I know? He wonders but for a moment knowing it won't. Rules are rules. The abuse of such a a simple premise is obvious. There is no interest in what is fair or just. He shifts slowly to his feet. "So I may only ask one question to one of them..." He hesitates. "Wait, no, if I successfully take your name, that will save you, what happens to mine" He asks.
For a moment, the nameless man just stares straight ahead in the face of the question. Then his eyes refocus, and he shakes his head. "If you choose my name, we're both free. I don't know what happens if you choose your own name," he says quietly. "They're not telling me." Then, for the first time since coming here, he truly addresses Alexander directly, man to man, not to give instructions, but to give a plea. "Don't do it, if you're not sure," he entreats his dream visitor. "Just leave here, and I won't bother you anymore, I swear. I'll find someone else who can solve it, or maybe I won't. But it's not worth it to choose, if you don't know for sure."
Alexander nods softly, and eases some. Perhaps he trusts the man, or...perhaps he simply is confident. He gazes between the two sillouhettes. And steps forward, closing in on them. He looks between yellow, and then green. To green, he asks, "If I asked which envelope contained his name, which envelope would the other sillouhette answer?" His voice is all nerves, tension and bravado.
Shimmering in the air, the green silhouette steps forward. From somewhere within its incorporeal core sounds a voice. A male voice.
She would answer that it is in her own envelope, it resonates, booming through the room and rattling the chess pieces.
Alexander takes a deep breath. "Perhaps also I heard the playful giggle of feminity, the sillouhette of the trickster..." He exhales and gazes up at the green silhouette. "You have his name. Please give it to me."
The green figure presents its envelope with almost mechanical motions. The moment the parchment, sealed with some strange green sigil stamped in wax, touches Alexander's hand, both figures dissipate into nothingness, leaving only Alexander and the man whose name may or may not be in the envelope. Now all there is left to do is open it, as the blue-eyed man watches with some tension evident in his frame.
Alexander holds the envelope and tucks it into his pocket a moment. "So, did I do it correctly?" he asks the man. He studies him closely, looking for something.
"You will have to open it and see," the man cryptically answers, but it's not really a matter of being cryptic. The slow shake of his head suggests he doesn't know, as does what he says next: "I never was any good at their games."
Alexander nods and opens the envelope, turning his gaze down. He holds it up to read.
In green script, in all capital letters, a name has been calligraphed upon the parchment as Alexander holds it up to the light. M A T E O
"Read it aloud," instructs the man, though he doesn't dare read it himself, or can't, his eyes turning quickly away. "It's time."
Alexander smiles at the former hint. "Mateo, I hope this puts an end to your torment, my friend," he says softly. "Check mate...Tomato..." He snorts, evidently, finding the humor in it suddenly.
When that phrase leaves Alexander's dream-lips, the whole room turns as if on a pivot, knocking everything freshly askew. Tittering and giggling can be heard from every corner of the space, and then...it collapses in on itself, into a singularity that can no longer hold the spirits of Alexander and Mateo. And so they find themselves yanked instantaneously back to the waking world, where Mateo is starting to pick himself off the ground, in a daze, looking like he's been hit over the head, but his eyes are losing that strange dilation, and he examines himself anew, as if he'd never seen himself before, his skinny limbs, his scraggly frame.
"Thank you," murmurs Mateo, and if Alexander rises to his feet, too, he suddenly flings his arms around Alexander to hug him tightly. He smells pretty awful.
Alexander hugs him back and grimaces, but says nothing. "Hey, I'm just glad I could help, don't sweat it."
Alexander says "Uh...I've got a shower here you can use...?"
Mateo embraces Alexander for several more moments, before withdrawing and shaking his head. "Oh, God, I'm so dirty. I...I know where to find one, where I won't be any trouble to you," he says to Alexander, his voice no longer tainted with that wobbling, nonsensical lilt. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you!" He doesn't look like he wants to waste Alexander's time any longer, and he starts to rush towards the door, ready to greet the world with newfound clarity.
Alexander says "Swing by if you need anything! Mateo!"
Alexander beams cheerily, letting him go.
(Your target has been singled out by a dream stalker who's invading their dreams. They cannot be woken, but their allies may be able to go into their dreams after them to help them fight off the invader and survive the nightmare.
)
Meridith is busy trying to wash blood out of wool. Freshly taught and feel like she's adapted to something she enjoys, she spent the evening trawling the woods fearlessly. Beside her, hidden partially in a tote bag is a bow and rapier. Her weapons of choice. She's try to get the blood out, knowing the looks she got when she returned. She is in a bathroom in the dorms, but she could leave to travel wherever once her work is done.
Perhaps this wasn't exactly what Meridith had had in mind when it came to higher education, battling monsters in the woods with archaic and outmoded weaponry - but she sseemed to find some measure of joy in it. A lack of fear too. It may just be easier to stare down monsters and nightmares with steel in hand, after all. It may not be readily apparent, but eventually she would become aware of the fact that she's now alone in the bathroom - the quiet din of chatter that so often serves as background noise in the student accomodation has faded away into nothingness, and there's a near uncomfortable weight to the silence.
Meridith humms naturally, filling the sudden silence with a faint melody, but she draws that to a close before long. Her gaze is drawn, out of the hallway, her ears listen and pick up the peculiarity. She picks the melody back up, and hefts her suspicious crime filled bag behind her body. She moves to open the door and peer out.
There's a weight to her movements that hadn't been there earlier, like she were wading through molasses. The young woman plucks up her bag, and moves to open the door - and the room spins about her. It's like a strange case of deja vu. Like a dream of an endless staircase. For when she moves to peer out into the corridor, she suddenly finds herself back at the sink, washing her hands once more.
Meridith groans and blinks her eyes. Too dazed for fear, but clutching at something anything, trying to hold on. Then, she hesitates, washing her hands. "Right...the blood," she murmurs softly, gazing at her hands. She was cleaning? She blinks a few times trying to clear out the confusion in her head.
Of course. The blood. Her hands were covered in water, and she needed to wash it away with some fresh blood. The crimson flows freely from the tap, soaking over those soft, delicate hands of hers. She'll blink, blink, blink - as if trying to clear her head, and on the third - because it's always the third - the lights grow a little dimmer in the room. As if the graphics department for reality had just suffered a mild budget cut. Either way, the blood continues to flow from the faucet, fresh and warm, and ready to wash her hands clean of the terrible feeling of water.
Meridith yanks her hands back and lets out a hiss. Her heart skips a beat, the icy grip of terror along her neck. "No," she exhales softly. She is new to this world but not so new she doesn't have inklings, doesn't tease understanding. This is -something-. She does not know what, but she knows it is something. "Enough!" she demands in a loud yet clearly fearful voice.
It is something, she's correct. Like a fly in a spider's net, she's become aware of her entrapmnent. With that awareness there's another tug upon her senses. She tugs her hands back, and reality spins about her once more. It's that same off-putting sense of deja vu as she finds herself washing her hands once more. The water has been replaced with bile, and ooze, and the walls of the dorm bathroom are long gone. In their place are the woods she had been hunting only recently, and they're piled with bodies of the dead and dying.
Meridith lets out a sharp shuddering breath, a moan of terror as she tries to pull away from her sink. The miserable sense of her body being controlled by another, dreamlike weakness compels her but she fights and she gazes around the woods. "Ah...! Ah! What! What happened...!?" she exclaims, unaware of the potential illusion, fear remains gripped tight. She looks upon the dead
Dreamlike is apt. That's what this is. Though a nightmare may be even more appropriate yet. Those moans of terror are echoed by the bodies, like she were surrounded by a chorus of wailing mimics. Which is, again, accurate, for as she draws her attention away from the faucet, and the water, it becomes all the more readily apparent that these bodies surrounding her in the woods of her nightmare are her own. They writhe, and twist on the ground. Each of them with a different wound, or ailment, or affliction. Each of them familiar in some manner. The image of herself choking on a meal that had gotten caught in her throat one time, but she'd managed to clear it. Her body broken and bent by the poor reflexes of a drunk driver who had almost clipped her in the past. Her form twisted and pulled apart by inky, oozing tentacles that pour forth from the stomach of a patient. It becomes more and more apparent that each of these bodies, or echoes, or whatever they are, are close calls or near misses - only in these cases, there was no miss.
Meridith lets out a terrified sob. She staggers back away from the bodies, these creatures, writhing and twisting. She reaches for her blade, her sword. As if some weapon can fend against the dark. She stares at these faces, these images, broken and harmed and knows they are her. The realization does not dawn so much as soaks into her mind. "No! No! None of that happened!" she insists.
The weight of the steel in her hand, dreamed or not, seems to afford Meridith some measure of comfort. As if the simple act of arming herself, as vain as it may seem, has some profound effect in this space of thought and intent. "..This happened." The many maimed mimics of Meridith moan out morosely, their voices just slightly off, and apart enough to avoid being entirely synced. "..This happened." The body nearest her own gurgles, dragging itself toward her feet as it looks up at her. It's windpipe is crushed, and the marks indicate that hands as large as dustbins had performed the deed. But the closer that Meridith stares at this apparent doppleganger the more a nagging thought strums in the back of her mind. Like a discordant note that stands out amidst this chorus of terrible fates. 'This isn't you.' It seems to say, 'This isn't your doom. This is a trick.'
The weapon in her grip seems to harmonize with this thought, serving as a conductors baton of sorts.
Meridith takes a deep breathing and raises the blade up. Her breath slows, her eyes focus, the terror recedes. The beating of her heart remains, a deep and crushing tension. She stares at the maimed mimics, her feet step lightly, keeping distance between it. "I would not hurt myself," she murmurs. "I do not lash at shadows...my blade is not meant to cut but to declare that I am not your play thing!" she echoes. The fear remains in her voice joined by courage as she steps in, lancing her blade toward the heart of this thing. "If you are possibilities, what might of been then let me make clear that I am what remains!"
This possibility. This might-have-been. This doom that wasn't her own is pierced by the blade, and it's terrible maw twists into something vile, and inhuman, and full of hate. It shrieks up at Meridith, in anger more than anything else. She can see as the features that it had borrowed from her grow pale, and wan, with deep gouges beneath it's eyes where it had clawed at itself in misery, and fury - great clumps of hair had been pulled from the crown of it's head, and it's nails had grown sharp and cruel. The worst, of course, were it's eyes, great lumps of coal where there had once been a soul. The terrible monster recoils back through this dreamscape, and with each inch of cold steel supplanted into it's breast, reality seems to shake and quiver, and collapse about Meridith. The forest gives way to the cold tiles of the bathroom. The bodies shift into little more than furniture, and stalls. The lights start to flash through the gaps.
Meridith shudders as the blade pierces into the creature and she whispers, face not contorted by rage but fear and sadness. "I had but better luck than you...and I am sorry, but I promise I will make the most of it...for all of you..." She shudders watching it decompose before her, she pulls the blade back and closes her eyes. As the world reasserts itself she clutches at her face, letting out quiet shuddering sounds. "A...ah..."
There's a shift in Meridith's stomach, like when you reach the drop of a rollercoaster. The rush of roaring water fills her ears, and the light burns and blinds- only for her to snap back into consciousness. Back into reality. There she stands, washing her hands free of blood in the bathroom. A bag of legally questionably things hanging from her shoulder, and the image of her own face reflected in the mirror. At first there was little to suggest any sense of misadventure, bar a slow drip of a single blood drop from her nose. Yet, as she watches it dance about the basin, she may very well notice a clump of hair amidst it. A voice echoes softly, as though spoken, "You promise. You promise." It grows softer, more desperate, "..You promise."
Meridith heaves a breath, fighting nausea as she washes her hand. She turns off the water immediately, pulling her hands out and touches at her nose. It has dropped, she studies the slow rotation. "I...I do promise," she insists and whatever remains of the memory she holds on to that quiet vow, shaken.
There's a quiet pulse behind Meridith's eyes, and then a weight she may not have been fully cognizent of lifts from her mind. The quiet sounds of conversation, and general atmosphere of the place slowly bleed back into being as reality is set right, and a promise is made. And thankfully, her hands are free of the blood.
Meridith says "...Back to it..."
Meridith shifts her weight uncomfortable, something pressing, a tension in her muscles and weight similarily relieved, she heads out.