Day 021

[allthekeys]

|| DAY 21 GENERAL For those still caught in the dreams they come to an end, leaving them sitting alone in white prisons -- the doors around them solidly locked. Just for a moment, a voice winds through -- a whisper of language that is too playful to be entirely serious. Dearest darling dreamers, dread darkness, deny deceit. Doubt diminishes defenses, disbelief discolors dreams. Dedication, devotion, and daring drag disoriented dreamers definitively dawnward. Lurking listlessness limits life, lingering losses leave longing. What we wish we will wrest when we wager willing and wise. Wonder will win what wickedness would wreck. You are little but the sum of your own expectations, my dreamers. As one, sleep claims them, the dreams that rise up this time soothing the ravaged parts of their souls, easing away the pain of the nightmares they have faced tonight. Their fondest dream pulls them down with the same reality that their nightmares did, leaving them for what seems like a small eternity clasped in the arms of perfect peace. That dream will be the one that stays with them, as though something has wrapped it around their soul to protect them from everything but a sense of satisfaction in overcoming the nightmare. Those that did not overcome their nightmares will find themselves still dreaming the same gentle dream, but will feel as though something much larger than themselves is gently disappointed with their failure. As their minds start to return to consciousness, the other house-guests join them in sleep, the dreams winding around around them. The Shadow Man walks into the Opium Den, seeming rather casual in the face of what had formerly been a safe room. The Silenced Woman rises, perhaps to block him, but sits down again. No sound is exchanged between them as the shadow creature strides across the room, clear purpose in every step. He bends over the cradle, seeming to admire the baby resting within. "Lily. Another flower to wind through the cracks." His hand reaches forward, brushing against her cheek in some strange parody of parental affection. "Welcome to the house, Lily." The baby whines, wiggling under his touch, but can do little as she is scooped from her resting place, carried as he moves among the other children and pets, admiring each with the careful sort of laconic nature that seems to require him to touch each sleeping bundle. "And only you remain awake, I wonder why that is, little Lily. Do you resist the dreams or do the dreams reject you?" The dreamers are helpless to do ought but watch him as he moves from the sleeping children to the sleeping adults, admiring and studying each. At Heather he pauses, hand caressing the rise of her belly with care. "Interesting. Burdened as you are, I wonder if you are as stubborn as you were. And what will you birth?" He chuckles, cradling her face. "Your daughter hates all she cannot understand. I wonder what you think of all of this? I think we might have liked each other, little mother." He rises, moving on between the slumbering guests, pausing from time to time to give some a better look. At Sam Winchester he kneels again, hand hovering just above his face. He chuckles quietly, seeming amused by something, though he doesn't offer an explanation to those stuck watching his movements. He moves on, adjusting his hold on the infant, rocking her with strange care as she fusses. "Hush now, we're only looking at the sleepers. I shan't suck your soul from your body just yet." At Soubi he pauses again, fingers tracing the shape of his face, something almost possessive in the touch. He steps over them, letting few pass without a quiet caress or a longer look, learning them, refusing to let any pass without some sort of notice. He knelt next to Buffy, chuckling again, hand closing for just a moment around her neck. "Beautiful." As he finishes his circuit, something seems to change in the room, an alteration in the light that causes the Silenced Woman to rise once more, reaching her arms for the infant. The Shadow Man hands over the child without complaint, offering her a shallow bow. "I see he has returned. Well, no matter. I have accomplished all that I wished." The dream fades as he moves to the door. The last dream is nearly indistinct, colored by the dim light of morning. An adult lifting a sleeping child and moving them to a better place for them to rest. Nothing can be perceived, but the protective intentions saturating the dream are as impossible to miss as the satisfaction of the dream preceding it. "Dream sweetly, little one." The warmth of a blanket tucking around them, secure and heavy, familiar even if they have never experienced it before. A gentle brush of lips against their forehead, cutting through the muddled half asleep state of the child. And then sleep, deep, dreamless sleep where nothing can harm them. As the house-guests begin to stir, the sound of music begins to fill the house. Soft though insistent, it seems to spread far wider than it has any right to. Music boxes have been hidden throughout the house, though their purpose is unknown. They continue playing as though someone constantly rewinds as the morning passes, and will not stop until after noon has ticked by. Though the music boxes vary in type and size, the melody they play is eerily the same. They can be uncovered from the rooms they have been hidden in, though no matter what is done to them they will not stop playing until the rest do. They can be gathered and moved without much issue. The Barkeeper has returned to his bar, jovial smile welcoming those staggering from their sleep. He has a ready supply of breakfast pastries and coffee for any who wish for them. He seems relaxed, though the occasional glance to the damage done to the exterior door to the bar seems to put a crack in the illusion of calm. He's willing to chat, if anyone wishes to question him, though is quick to try to feed them if they linger too long. Victoria sleeps on the couch in the Dawn Room, a blanket tucked around her to keep her from getting chilled. Her breathing is deep and even, and she shows no sign of distress. She will not wake, no matter what is done in an attempt to wrest her from her dreams. A butterfly sits perched on the couch above her, wings glowing faintly in the light of the morning. It seems strangely insubstantial, wings fluttering at regular intervals to give the illusion of life. Those who dare to touch it will find that it is strangely warm to the touch, and that they cannot crush it. It will not be moved from its place, though the attempt to touch it will leave a strange, almost luminescent residue on the hands of those that handle it. Anyone who wishes to touch should respond to the update with the name of the character and how in depth their exploration of it was. In the Crack In The Wall the music box movement has been dragged across the floor as though someone intended to remove it, and the soft chatter of rats is somehow very present in the small space. [ Content warning: spiders. ] The tea party in the Day Room has wound down to an end, and although the occupants are still here they are passive once more -- not moving to attack any curious house-guests. Stray Mannequins have returned to the Sewing Room, although their slightly worse for wear appearance remains. There has been one significant change since the change in light levels, however. All dolls save the Doll Queen, both at the tea party and in All Bedrooms, smell distinctly of something foul. Of rot and death and, come the daytime, the rot comes to conclusion. The dolls crack. Thin lines form in their porcelain features and something squirms, struggles. Maggots. The rank smell of rotting meat is still pervasive, but although it may turn some stomachs it appears it has been food for others. The Maggots squirm and writhe, and as the cracks continue to form something else begins to emerge. A stream of spiders floods forth. Small they might be, but there are plenty of them -- and one bite will be all it takes to make a guest unwell. They swarm over the sheets and around the bedrooms, looking for places to hide or ways out. [ End spiders. ] In the Princess Bedroom the shelf that held them is empty, and many of the trophies have vanished from the walls, as though someone has been cleaning and packing them away. A carved wooden top sits almost innocently in the middle of the floor, hand made and brightly painted. Those that step in the room will find themselves overcome with the desire to spin it. The more often it is spun, the emptier the room becomes. Brightly colored hangings giving way to more practical accoutrements, the feather bed replaced by a firmer mattress, the furniture replaced by more practical pieces. Anyone who opens the door to the closet will find that the room itself has shrunk, the party clothes replaced with simple school uniforms and utilitarian girls clothes. A small, locked door occupies the corner of the closet. It has no knob, only a tiny keyhole. If spun often enough, the room will be left stripped bare of its finery. The only shelf that remains is the one that held the music boxes, though it too seems to have suffered a reintroduction to utility. A small box with a holding a carefully folded piece of silk appears upon it after a spin of the top. Beneath the silk are three copper tokens, a pewter horse, and a small penny whistle. A small glass frog appears on the desk with the last turn of the top, offering a splash of color and seeming oddly out of place in a room so plain. The top vanishes once the frog appears. Lock greets the morning kneeling next to Coraline, just inside the Blue Kitchen. He seems rather relaxed, though eager to be on his way as soon as the girl wakes. There is something smug about his manner this morning, playfully accomplished, that any who encounter him will be sure to notice. Whatever troubles the night's trials may have visited on the house-guests, Lock seems somehow satisfied. The flowers in the Rose Garden are in full bloom, filling the air with their intoxicating perfume. This garden is in full sun for most of the day, and though it seems like a nice place to stay, any who linger in the light too long will find their skin starting burn, no matter their tolerance for the sun. The Courtyard outside the Rough Kitchen has been tended during the night, and the vegetable patch is full of plants just starting to flower. The small party in the Greenhouse has vanished as quickly as it appeared. Only the carefully tended fire and fragrant food left behind show any trace of their presence at all. Where the Dragon lounged, there is a still warm indention in the greenery. Apparently completely unperturbed by the dolls, there is a new guest in the Doll Bathroom, as the Wax Daughter sits on the floor, leaning against the counter just below the black void that was once the mirror. The bubbling shadow does not seem to bother her any more than the alarming dolls do, as the darkness threatens to spill over the edges of the frame like hot tar. She sits with her head bowed, legs crossed, playing with something shiny in her lap that she quickly clasps together in her hands whenever anyone approaches. Strangely, she is relatively calm today, more so than normal, and she does not shy away from those who approach her. The Wax Son has apparently followed in her footsteps. He has returned to his former refuge of the Public Restroom, though the ease that has reached his sister does not seem to infect him today. He is more anxious than ever; he fidgets where he sits, and is in constant motion. He plays with a single marble, rolling it across the floor-- it never gets far, and he rises into a panic when it rolls too far from him to reach it without sitting up. Their Father holds a similar unsettled disposition, though his nervous energy seems far more frustrated than anxious. He remains in his place in the Dining Room-- and, like his children, seems more animate than usual today. He seethes, his expression cleaved in two by an ugly and fierce snarl, and his shoulders shake with rage. His fingers dig into the plain white table cloth, disrupting the whole place setting so that it sits jarringly on an angle. On a bench in the Chapel the Wax Mother remains curled into a small ball. Her body shivers and shudders, but she makes no sound. Her shoulders and arms are covered in raw, blistered skin, and her hands have been pulled up to cover her face. The wax on her face and hands has been badly melted, as though someone has held a blowtorch at just enough distance to start to melt her. In the Herbal Bedroom, a visitor has seen to the little boy Tyler once again. His bandages are freshly changed, though his clothes remain untouched this time. He has fresh pockmarks from the needles, and his sores have begun to scab over with a pale yellow substance, rising in sharp edges from his skin; pus-like but crystalline. The child seems highly disgruntled, and lets out a wheezing whine as he lies in his bed. An Unnatural Servant reluctantly cleans the mess in the Blind Bedroom. Dutifully sweeping the gory mess of blood and feathers on the floor, it ignores any who enter so that it may complete its task quickly and efficiently. In the Art Gallery there is a momentary stillness, as the colours of the room seem to settle in a way that is not quite right. As time beats on it seems as though someone has painted over the entirety of the air in the room in vibrant oil paints. As though added by brush strokes, the Art Enthusiast appears, standing near the stairs with his arms outstretched. An instant later the illusion is shattered and the room returns to normal and Don is righted, twirling back and forth and spinning in an elegant waltz to the time of the lullaby from the music boxes, though he has no partner. He looks exhausted and unkempt, but he dances on in spite of this. There is a shriek that sounds from the Ballroom after a time, as if the very walls of the house are screaming in pain as something large and invisible gouges deformities into the wallpaper. The scars appear quickly and ruthlessly, tearing aside floral patterns to eventually spell words across one wall, letters tall above the organ. You think you're so funny, don't you? With the emergence of the flowers comes the lightening of the storm. As the sun rises the downpour fades to only the barest showering of rain, making it once more safe to venture out into the pseudo-wilderness of the Greenhouse and the Orchards. Barely a drizzle, the rain does little more than to keep the air damp and slightly chilly, sprinkling a quiet pattern onto the window sills. It's an almost comforting lull now -- at least, it would be for those who can hear it over the echoing of the music boxes. With the return of clearer skies comes the power, too. The last of what electricity exists in the house flickers back to life as the daylight begins anew, granting the use of appliances once more.