EVENT #2 IC POST

[abraxasmods]

Event #2

On July 11th, all of the prisoners and honored guests alike will be marched outside of the castle grounds, to a lightly forested area with a bright blue portal shining in the distance and flanked by a group of four Thornean mages.

Ambrose's Speech

"Good afternoon to you all. I suppose this is a little overdue and on that note, I am sorry. There's a lot to get done, and a lot at stake, and I find myself trapped between my duties to the crown and what I owe to you. I thank you all for your patience, save for one individual among you," he says, shooting a glare to Jon Sims, who is heavily guarded to an extent that the other prisoners are not, "But in light of a recent altercation I think it best that you all know what's going on."

"What you're about to see is an ancient artifact known as the Singularity. It has existed, as far as we know, since the dawn of time. Not only is it the source of all magic in this world, it is the life-force which sustains all other universes. If you've ever wondered why our magic seems so terribly powerful compared to yours, or why some of you have no magic at all, it's because the magic in this world sustains the Singularity and the Singularity, in turn, sustains every other universe that has ever existed or will ever exist."

"However, that does not mean that the Singularity in inherently good. It exists, and sustains your universes by random happenstance, not by design. In recent years the Singularity has begun to turn, and weaken, and for the first time in recorded history the amount of observable universes attached to it has decreased in number. If we cannot find a way to harness and re-energize it, we fear it may devour all that is to ensure its own continued existence."

"It is a known fact that we - natives of Abraxas - cannot approach the Singularity ourselves. We would be torn apart in seconds if we tried. People from other worlds have no such limitation. You may get close enough to touch it. So, while you may be upset that we have pulled you from your worlds without permission - an act for which I do apologize, and I truly wish there was a better way - you are here to save not only this world but all worlds. To understand the Singularity, we need you."

"We thank those among you, our honored guests and the prisoners we've chosen to release, who have behaved themselves and even aided us throughout the last few weeks. I caution you against becoming so smitten with our prisoners that it distracts you from what I have just said: for the sake of all universes, we must contain all threats. I've seen a great deal of possibilities, and there are times when even the best of intentions leads to disaster. To those of you who have been welcomed, you are a boon to us and we will accommodate you as much as we can, but you are still guests in this world, unwilling though you might be, and trust needs to be earned. Given your situation we want to treat you all with a certain degree of understanding and offer you some leeway that our own citizens would not receive. That does not, however, mean you have free reign to do whatever you please."

"Case in point, I regret to inform you that an honored guest, Jon Sims, did attack me and use a particularly intrusive form of magic in an attempt to extract confidential information that could have endangered my world and yours. This is considered high treason, and he will be executed by hanging on the twenty-third of August. Good day to you all, and I hope that what you are about to see impresses upon you the gravity of our situation."

The Horizon

Everyone is marched through the portal and when they emerge on the other side, what they'll see is a huge desert with a perfectly circular crater a few miles wide. At he center of the crater is the Singularity, and although it doesn't seem too imposing at this distance a certain power radiates from it. Some of the mages avert their eyes, as if they can't bear to look at it. Some of them seem almost drawn to it and they have to be held back by their fellows to prevent them from crossing the line and being torn apart. Ambrose stares, and though he doesn't approach it there's a certain amount of melancholy in his expression.

The newcomers are allowed to soak in its majesty for only a minute or two before they are yanked forwards and into the crater by something that feels like a rope coming from the inside of their chests. They are at once overwhelmed, and without exception they all black out...

...and awaken in the Horizon, where they will spend the next few weeks without memories of any world but this one, constantly aware of the Singularity and its power.

Comments

[the_archive]

Before crossing the portal:

Jon is beyond unsurprised to hear about his sentence, and simply stands silent, expression still behind his bruises. He rolls his eyes faintly when Ambrose describes his crime - confidential, he says, when he just spilled most of what he'd learned out and a little more besides. He wonders what lie the high mage had planned on telling them instead.

When the guards move him towards the portal, he doesn't hesitate. Whatever happens now, may as well happen. And when he passes Ambrose, he gives the high mage a skeptical, almost amused look.

The Horizon!

The man who comes to himself in the Horizon is at first content to sit quietly, knees drawn up to his chest in his tangle of rags. They used to be the clothes of an academic – a dark red cardigan, a tie that nearly matched it, a gray button-down. But the cardigan is scarcely more than yarn now, and the symbol of the High Priestess stitched in gossamer black ribbon, always winding slowly through the cloth, is showing through it. The scraps of corduroy that drape his legs could have been trousers or a skirt – they're too ragged to tell.

Looking around, his gaze catches on his companions, staring too long and too deeply at anyone in range. And his range is long.

The Panopticon

The tower comes first. Jon doesn't think to build it, but when he sees the buildings of a city, he stops, staring up at them. And then he's simply suddenly climbing the tower's stairs, a square spiral like the center of a web. They're crumbling, but he knows where is safe to step. There's no handrail, only a drop down the center. At the top, the small room and its thin slot windows that look out in all directions. Look out at everything. While nothing can see in.

As Jon settles into the chair there, brushing aside the silhouette that appeared with it, the panopticon builds itself outside, brick by brick rising from the nothing of the Horizon. Old bricks. Old walls, the moment they're erected. A broad empty floor with pools of standing water, reflecting the roof that is already falling in. Its decay is comforting, and he doesn't know why, and doesn't care.

He watches from the center as the hundreds of cells fold into their shapes, as bright as his tower should be dark. Their large windows should expose any occupant to him in stark shadow, but the windows are open, hollow to the outside. And the cells are all empty. Every cell is empty, and every door is open.

When the fog starts to flood them, he all but jumps to his feet. Starts to banish it, but doesn't – no, the fog belongs there too. And its twisting shapes are almost like company.

Before the portal

[not_caroline]

Coraline almost wished she could say she was shocked, but frankly there's a cynical edge to her that's surprised Jon isn't dead already. She wondered if this was mercy or spite, to keep him locked up and dreading his eventual termination.

Her movements through the crowd are subtle, and Jon won't actually see her until she's suddenly directly in front of him and his guards, facing him and walking backwards in pace, arms tucked behind her back. "Well, good news is there's nothing left they can do worse than that."

Jolie Ann Harmony | Odd Thomas | Justice

[mytearsaremine]

I. Before the Horizon

Jolie made an attempt to yell something about "I have not shown and patience, you horrible old bat!" before one of the guards managed to knock her down to shut her up so Ambrose could continue his speech.

Now, one pathetically one-sided scuffle later, she's sitting on the ground with a gag tied around her mouth looking very angry, listening only with great reluctance. She has no reason to believe anything these people say. For all she knows, this is some mass sacrifice. She wouldn't put it past these people.


II. Pulled In

She screams (through the gag that's still in place) at the sudden and inescapable tug into the Singularity. But then she's on her hands and knees in an empty space, no plants or animals or features at all but the big stone thing in the middle. She stays there a moment, coughing, wiping her mouth, though not sure why it feels musty and gross.

She also doesn't know where she is. Or how she got here. Or where she came from. Oh geez. That's... that can't be good, can it?

Jolie picks herself up, brushing non-existent dust from her jeans. They're familiar jeans, comfortable, with a black patch on one knee. There's her favorite shirt, black with the pink skull on it. There's her denim jacket with the studs she stuck in it herself. There's her worn-in sneakers, tied with rainbow laces. She pats her pockets, half-expecting a phone, but no, nothing.

"Okay. Uh. Now what," she says more than asks, looking around, spotting another person-- spotting a bunch of other people, scattered around-- and giving them a confused, wary look.


III. Building Blocks of Home

After an accidental emotional reaction creates an ugly little magma spout at her feet, Jolie calms her butt down again and starts trying to do it on purpose. This is much better than being mad and afraid: doing something is always better than going nothing. Before long, she has a miniature slice of the California coast slowing building up around her.

"There should be... tide pools," she mutters to herself. "Lots of rocks to hop around on." And there are, the gentle wave drawing back to reveal them. "A cliff-- a little one. With. With a cave in it?" She turns, watching sandstone rise up. She'll need somewhere to sleep, after all, right?


IV. In Her Natural Habitat

Once her little slice of comfort has been solidified, Jolie walks up and down the little pebbly beach, sits on a rock for a little while in the sun and finally feels warm, and then strips down to her training bra and underwear and dives into the water.

She can be found eeling around rocks and letting the waves roll her back to shore when she gets tired, but the water never overwhelms her. She can't go too far out before running into someone else's space, and she doesn't want to do that yet. She just wants to swim and feel safe, for once. (For once?)


V. Not Really an Introvert

It takes her a day or so, and a sleep in her little cave above the water-line, before she gets really bored. Then she's prowling around (fully dressed again, thank you very much), looking for the edges of her little space, looking for the people whose spaces border on it. "Who are you?" she demands of each. "What are you doing here?"

IV

[not_caroline]

Jolie's nice pleasant beach time is interrupted by the light sound of feet crunching along her gravel beach. Three pairs, but only two creatures walking along: a Tower teenager, her emblem embroidered on a bandana wrapped around the sleeve of her leather jacket, and something that looks almost like a Tasmanian tiger striding along behind her, uncomfortably muscular and long-tailed like a wolf.

The bark-skinned girl with silvery-grey leaves for hair doesn't seem to notice her in the water just yet, though, instead kicking rocks with the toes of her Docs as she strolls along, showing more interest in the limited trees scattered around Jolie's space.

michael ralston ◎ original ◎ death

[brittlest]

◎ I. MARCH FROM THORNE - PRE-PORTAL

Before they've wound fully free of the castle grounds, Ralston's pace has diminished to the point that he lags toward the year of the column. His uneven stride has grown more so, the borrowed and glumly unornamented cane in his possession being evidently more necessity than fashion statement.

It is half fatigue. And it is half an uneasy fleeting feeling which lives high in his chest over the prospect of being marched anywhere, much less into the woods at the direction of a cadre of martial trained mages. Never mind that the work crews had been sent out of Thorne in some similar fashion during the festival. That had been them and this is him and it inspires a chafing prickle of dread over which he is in no more control of than the vagaries of the weather.

The last time he had been marched into a strange place—

"If they're taking us out here to shoot all of us, I hope we're at least first allowed the opportunity to criticize being made to hike for our deaths," he snips, a most sullen breed of humor.

He would rather not give the last time the credit of consideration.

◎ II. THE UNBOUND MAN - HORIZON

There is a cane in his hand.

There is a cane in his hand and it has a long ivory handle.

There is a cane in his hand and its long ivory handle has been carved to depict the shape of a canine's smiling skull.

For some reason, the shape of it in his fingers is keenly reassuring. It is like being reacquainted with an old friend. Like slipping into a favorite—

Coat. The one he is wearing is dark, and it must be well loved for its been worn so thoroughly that it's begun to fall to pieces. Here is a fraying cuff, and there is a seam coming loose, and were he less attached to these things he might easily find replacements for them. But he is—attached, he doesn't have to decide. He simply knows it.

Like how, having perched himself at the fringe of some minor war of creative impulses currently being unspooled by his companions and beginning to realize that he finds the spectacle of the thing grating, Ralston simply knows the solution.

There is a visceral kind of pleasure in rising to his feet to study the shapes of the world being formed around him and rather than contest them, he cuts. Before him, Horizon thins and tears like a gauzy fabric put to a knife.

◎ III. THE UNLOCKED DOOR - RALSTON'S DOMAIN

The door opens, or a doorway is passed through, or a dividing curtain is drawn aside, or one walks through an arch formed by two tree bent sympathetically toward one another.

And the place which waits on the other side is not the place which should be there.

The freestanding door at the lowest level of the spiraling amphitheater clicks softly shut behind its newest trespasser.

The unexpected place behind the unlocked door is dizzying in its complexity—not large, but dense, the eye refusing to settle comfortable on any single level of the theater which accordions upwards. The air is still; it smells faintly like dust and oiled wood and the lower whiff of something like the loamy earth which waits behind a heavy, overturned stone. Where dead leaves have melted into wet mire. Where black beetles roll over offended by daylight and the ground is both rich and rotten. It is a space between spaces, a domain between domains. It shouldn't be here.

Presumably neither should the man in the black coat who is standing in one of the upper gallery rows, leaning over the rail to regard his guest.

"I've been expecting you," he says.

((ooc: prose or brackets is fine - I'll match whatever you're comfortable with. wildcards and variations on the above prompts also welcome + I'm happy to write custom starters in addition to these, so if there's something in particular you're interested in then feel free to hit me up on disco/plurk/my plotting comment.))

I.

[not_caroline]

"Well, they're making Jon wait nearly a month before they hang him, so."

The cheerful voice comes from a short teenager on his not-cane side, with her arms folded behind her back in the silken honoured outfit and her face tilted towards him, and she was definitely not there a second ago. The bright smile on her pale face is underscored with a grim humour, as she continues, "Maybe they're hoping we'll be too tired to complain by the time they shoot us."

Estinien Wyrmblood | Final Fantasy XIV | The Hermit

[coerthantorment]

I➔ Returned in Chains (Pre-Horizon)

At first, he almost doesn't believe it when his cell door begins to open. After two weeks in solitary and receiving barely enough food and sleep to sustain himself, he's started to wonder if he would be left in here until he dies. The idea that it might be over, or that he might he sent to do anything else, stirrs his heart for a moment - but even that brief flash of hope quickly rots away. This is it, something in his gut tells him. They're are here to kill him, deeming him no longer worth the risk. Whatever Anastasia did, if anything, wasn't enough. How does Thorne execute prisoners, he wonders?

It's this flash of panic that causes him to struggle when the guards arrive to chain him, but two weeks of isolation, starvation, and nightmares have hollowed him out. They manage to shove him around despite his size, and soon enough iron is clasped around his wrists once again. Were they taking Himeka, too? That girl? Would he even get to see his dear friend again before the end? Or was that too much to ask?

A) FOR HIMEKA
As he's dragged down the prison hallway, he has to be wrestled and beaten a few more times to keep him on track. It's only once he's on the way to the forest and sees the others prisoners and guests being led along as well that his immediate fear of death begins to abate - though, his compulsion to fight rises again as soon as he sees Himeka.

"Himeka!" he cries out, trying to pull in her direction. The guards that were escorting him, apparently not prepared for another sudden burst of aggression at this juncture, lose their grip on his shoulder. He stumbles towards her, ignoring everyone else in a moment of pure tunnel vision. His eyes are dark with exhaustion and lack of nourishment, and the guards do shout after him, but he'll make his way to her regardless. For now, she is his only priority.

B) BEFORE THE SPEECH
Once that is resolved, he'll calm enough to start taking in the crowd. Both prisoner and guest, heavily guarded and taken outside of the castle grounds. Something in him keeps screaming that he needs to make a run for it, that this may be his last chance, but even a moment of reflection makes it clear it would be a fruitless endeavor. There are more guards than ever, and it looks like some of them can wield magic. Whatever this is, it's serious.

While lingering and waiting for everyone to assemble, Estinien will look for familiar faces among the crowd. If you're someone he is familiar with he may call out your name, imploring you for a moment of your time with exhaustion and desperation in his eyes. Or, if you a guest of Thorne, he may growl instead, his bitterness unchecked:

"It seems as if they may be finally putting you to work."

II➔ The Mountain Valley

He doesn't remember struggling.

Instead, Estinien awakens to this new world with one thing on his mind: the desire to be free. The early emptiness of the Horizon feels natural and inviting, like it has allowed him release in a way that was previously denied. This is where he's meant to be, and none of these other strangers will be allowed to interfere. Estinien takes to the furthest boundaries of the Horizon as soon as he finds his wings. For some reason, he's certain that no one else can be trusted.

The emptiness, as it turns out, isn't really empty. It's latent potential, shapeable by the fingertips. He's latent potential too, he thinks - he can be what he needs to be. There's an anger that burns inside him, devoid of context, and a longing in his heart. He needs to make this place somewhere that will be safe for him. To make something that is his, and that will quell this desperate need. Mountains seem familiar, they feel right - and stone can shield you. On the edge of the Horizon, he first begins by raising a ring of rocky protection and pushing it out far enough to keep the others at bay. Then, he only needs to find what he's lost.

While there are aspects to what he creates that will certainly appeal to travelers, their maker will not tolerate trespassing forever.

[The Tour Guide to Estinien's domain can be found here! Anything described in that post can be used as a prompt for this, but some highlights are below:]

A) CRYSTAL CAVERNS
The mountainous wall around the dragon's domain stretches high and burrows low - most of it is sheer cliff and jagged outcrops, but if you look, it's not too hard to find a tunnel willing to lead you inward. The wall is filled with ruins of forgotten civilizations, some adorned with draconic iconography and others more gothic in nature. While the tunnels spread far beneath the valley itself, they are lit with a variety of glowing crystals, emanating elemental magic.

B) FLOCKS AND HERDS
Once you've made it through the defensive exterior, a lush and life-filled valley spreads before you. It's a peaceful and idyllic place, with wandering herds of pastoral animals calmly feeding on grass and hay. In particular, there are a large amount of strange-looking sheep, made completely round by their thick wool. They are the most friendly of the residents, and also the most numerous. Be careful, though - as cute and harmless as they seem, they have a less friendly guardian.

C) HOT SPRINGS
On the mountainside overlooking the river and lake, there is also a selection of hot springs, glowing with subtle orange light. If you get close, it seems that the water is being heated by a bed of crystals that have the magical signature of fire. It's quite pleasant to bask in, if you dare do such a thing in someone else's territory.

D) THE EMPTY HOUSE
In the middle of the valley, at the crossroads of paths that lead nowhere, there is an empty house. It looks like an old fashioned farmer's cottage, slightly worn by time but well cared for - except, there's nothing in it. It stands there ignored and lifeless... perhaps some things are better left forgotten.

III➔ The Dragon and the Shepard

As the days pass, patterns can emerge. The mountain valley, it seems, has a territorial defender. The beast within will defend his land fiercely, some cross between a dragon and a knight, the back of his armor marked with the sign of the Hermit. Any encroaches of unwanted additions or alterations will be met with aggression. But, while you may see him roaming the skies, patrolling for threats, he mostly seems to leave people alone that haven't meddled in his affairs. If you have, though... he may become relentless.

A) THE DRAGON
He finds his wings shortly after arriving. It feels right, he thinks - to feel the wind on his face, to rise into the air so trivially. The wings feel like extensions of himself, and by the same virtue, so do the claws, the scales, the winding tail. They feel like something that's been missing, that he's been reaching for - they represent the power he's regained, and his ability to defend himself - to protect. He doesn't know why, but he often thinks about how he will never let himself be imprisoned or stolen from again.

As such, any attempt at encroaching on what is his or restricting him will be met with desperate resistance. Any visitor into his land will soon see his form looming above, circling and circling, only to land near them with a force that causes the ground to shudder.

"Who are you?" he demands.

B) THE SHEPARD
He's protecting something, as it turns out. The defensive wall is meant to defend a valley filled with grazing beasts - and though he created them, Estinien seems oddly shy to interact with them himself. He'll watch from a distance, taking care to create additional hay for them, and to keep the grass lush and the lake pure, but he won't come close. They seem almost too fragile to touch, somehow. Like his claws would only hurt them.

There's melancholy in his eyes are he watches, in between bouts of patrolling, perched on a stony outcrop. His wings fold at his sides, occasionally fluttering in agitation. Building this place has made him feel better, but something still gnaws at his gut. Something that he feels he couldn't protect.

IV➔ The Dragon's Cry

Somewhere in the Horizon, you will hear the piercing screech of a dragon's roar. It's sound echoes far and long, and may draw attention towards the conflict that brews, even if you are otherwise engaged. It's a pained and furious sound, and part of it seems to transcend even that - it's a cry that rings in your mind as must as it rings in your ears. If you are too close, it may even hurt.

A) VOLCANIC ERUPTION
Some may have already seen the effects of Kylo Ren's domain - a volcano, its lava ever flowing, its perimeter ever expanding. Estinien's domain has the misfortune of being on its border. Every since it appeared, it's been threatening to leak into Estinien's territory, and now it seems to have broken through completely. Down the inside of the valley lava is streaming, setting the trees alight and turning the grass to ash. Frightened farm animals scurry away from its approach. Estinien cries out in fury as he tries to unwrite its effects with his own will, to freeze it in place with bolts of ice. Yet, something about it encroach scares him, worming its way into his thoughts and infecting the landscape despite his efforts.

B) BORDER WALL
The Darkling's domain has taken the form of a wall that stretches across the entire circumference of the Horizon - and that cuts through many other domains along the way. One of them happens to be Estinien's, and he is not taking it well. Even after destroying what was built in his territory, his thirst for retribution is not fully sated - after his draconic screams of outrage have radiated through you, you will see his wings darken the sky above. He spirals downward, heat pouring off of him as rings of light guide his descent, crashing into another section of the Darkling's wall. As stone begins to crumble, Estinien emerges from the debris, scouring the nearby area for his next target.

C) LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER (CW: VIOLENCE AGAINST ANIMALS)
The last conflict is a smaller one. Though Estinien has tried to be a watchful keeper, at some point he will come across several of his herd slain, their wool soaked with red and strewn across the grass. His reaction, he has no explanation for. He could make more, a rational part of himself says. He has the power to do so. Yet, the sight of their broken little bodies takes something out of him, and his draconic form briefly crumples against the grass, his wings flattening on the ground around him. The emptiness it leaves, however, just as quickly fills him with sorrow and anger. He roars, claws digging into the earth, his eyes wet with the feeling of heartwrenching helplessness.

V➔ Wildcard!

Anything else that would make sense! Feel free to ping me on the server, at quixocalypse, or by PM.

it is i, the border wall;

[sankt]

It is due to this and other damage that the Darkling's domain is ever expanding. Formed of shadow made stone, great glassy black slabs of it and ornaments more carefully hewn, its presence is meant to be a shelter even as it dominates. It is as much a wall as it is a monument. Look on this, it says, and know you are lesser than the one who made it. And maybe it's a sentiment meant only for the enemy, and maybe it isn't.

And now some dragon-man has decided to pitch an extended fit about it.

Having observed the shattering of another section of his domain, the Darkling lifts his hand to signal the two restless arrangements of material that flank him, their vaguely humanoid shapes writhing like watery smoke. Hold, says the gesture, and they do. He raises his voice, then, to carry:

"Leave it—you've already claimed more land than anyone." The Horizon is just a few miles wide; there's hardly room enough for all as it is. "I will not warn you again."

This may be the middle part of an ongoing conversation.

amos burton | the expanse | lovers arcana

[baltimores]

> before

[ This is the first Amos is hearing about any of this.

He can spare a glance at the one singled out. Doesn't have a whole lot else left to offer, mind still turning over what's actually been disclosed. It's not exact, but the portal reminds him an awful lot of a ring gate. Interconnected universes makes sense, then. He'd be skeptical, but he's seen his fair share of weird shit lately; this doesn't really contradict any of it.

Another look around as Ambrose cautions against prisoners. His ilk. So he's a threat to all universes, somehow, apparently. Eyebrows slightly raised, Amos mumbles under his breath, ] Giving out a lot of credit there, huh.

[ Going through the portal just feels like a chore at this point. Something he's plenty familiar with. Hell, looking at the Singularity doesn't do much, either. It's different, but maybe it's just another version of a ring gate. Maybe it'll be like going home.

It kinda is. ]


> horizon

[ It's dark.

It's not an endless dark, so it isn't right. It should be a void, a limitless black, not swallowing everything it touches but one uncontainable, boundless, something to stretch beyond what any mind can conceive. Maybe that's why there are borders. An end point. Because he shouldn't be able to comprehend infinity, and so, neither can his space.

Except there's another barrier, to his back, to his side, direction meaningless but there all the same, an encasement, and with it restrictions. It bothers him, that he can't recreate this proper. Amos deals with it, because there's nothing he can do but accept borders. Some battles can't be fought.

It's okay. The absence of light still stretches beyond what he can see, though that's probably a built-in feature if anything. There are still pinpricks of it in the distance, smatterings of — not stars, if they were stars they'd be too far away, the light would still reach him but be old light, aged through distance travelled, and there isn't enough distance here for that — but approximations thereof, dusted across the black. His eyes catch sight of one, a random dot among. Shit. Who knows how many. Brighter than the rest, and the more he thinks about it the brighter it gets. Closes his fist, snuffs it out.

Huh. Probably shouldn't be able to do that. It's all supposed to be bigger than him, leave him as insignificant as any one of the dots. Maybe less so. Himself a speck. No one, nothing of importance. Just there. Not by choice, just an existence he was granted, didn't ask for, hasn't accepted, hasn't declined.

He opens his fist. It doesn't come back. There's a thin trail of what could be a gas cloud stretching across one expanse of. Not sky. Not a void. Whatever his borders are. It's a fading purple, tinged blue, the stars in front of, around it that much brighter for its presence. Amos tilts his head, turns to look at another part of whatever constitutes this edge for him. Just black and pinpricks of light.

He doesn't want to fuck with them, though his trepidation of killing that one too-bright star eases, dissipates. He did it. It's done. Doesn't have to think about it anymore, so he won't.

Looks down — whatever constitutes as down — past his feet. He feels light. He can withstand one g easily, he knows that; has opted for a comfortable third here. In case someone else comes along. Doesn't know who. Could swim upward through the not-atmosphere before easily descending. Could turn it off entirely, disable gravity, float properly, if he wanted. Maybe later. There are the metal panels he's standing on, welded together. Gets the distinct feeling that he's outside. Shouldn't be. There's no air here. There's radiation. Only there is air, there's no radiation, and the endless black has a limit. Nothing about this is right, so might as well be outside.

Easier to focus on the metal itself. See more before him; he wanted more to work with, it's here, atoms coming together, chemical reactions taking place, solidifying as he guides them. Easier than he thought it'd be, constructing matter, getting the specific materials he wanted. Shape it, cylindrical, layered over one another, one end left open, a small engine where it should be massive, but there are spacial limitations. Doesn't like them, but it's okay. He's been over that. He can still make sure every panel, every wire is in place, spare no detail, consider fuel, a small plume. Lets the plume die a natural death; no need for it here, he's not going anywhere. Can still build up from it, though. Form a ship. A Corvette-class light frigate. Small, a replica, about his size, not big enough to house him, let alone three other people. But. His.

Where it's cold and temperature-neutral here — as it should be, it's a void, it's nothing, he's nothing, it's home — the replica feels. Not warmer. Just.

It's nice to have, is all.

There's other shit he could make. Probably will — air recyclers, in case he does need them after all, studiously cleaned; the beginnings of a fusion drive, in case he has somewhere to put it, somewhere to go, distance to actually travel; something in the form of a ring, many times his size but still comfortably fitting within the black, maybe partially constructed, solid but still fitting the panels together; maybe completed, filling it with a blue glow that leads to nowhere.

And should he feel another presence. An inescapable feeling of something else sentient being there, watching, hovering, whatever it may be. Amos will go still. Turn to look, the rest of him frozen in place, tensed, coiled, ready. Level a gaze, expression mostly blank but for the undertones of the fuck are you doing here. ]


> wildcard

[ feel free to jump in with whatever imagery strikes your fancy above. otherwise, plotting post. arii#6412 or cadiai to figure out any specifics/if you want a closed starter. ]

[jealousbitch]

[ Honestly, it's the black void of nothing cutting across the area that gets his attention. There are several emotions he feels all at once- fear, awe, curiosity, foreboding..the need to investigate. His feet take him closer and closer to what seems to just be a great maw in the backdrop of unknown cityscapes, like it could envelop everything yet still maintained like an inky black liquid caught in glass. The closer he gets, the more the fine details come out and take his breath away.

Color swirls through that darkness, blue as an ocean and surrounded by blinking blue stars. Lights. Either way, Lloyd feels compelled to figure out what it is and who made it.

When he does get closer, it's less an inky black and more along the lines of a dark desert night. Dark and so, so cold. As he steps foot into the darkness, eager to see what caught his eye up close, it's as if all the warmth leaves his body, causing him to shiver and wrap his arms around himself.

That is.. before his feet leave the ground and he finds himself floating in the air with a startled yelp. Flailing his limbs doesn't help, only seems to get him further off the ground.

This is not ideal. 1/10 he hates it.

Looking wildly around, he spots someone else and waves, his expression frantic. ]

H-hey! A little help over here?

stephen strange . mcu . the high priestess

[rehandle]

a. walking the horizon, general horizon.

The man who paces the Horizon in search of a place to make his own paints an incongruous picture. He's groomed to perfection, hair neat and facial hair precise, somebody who takes pride and pains in his appearance. But the clothes that hang off him like black robes are— not robes. Too many collars, a jacket over a jacket over an untucked tunic over a shirt, ankles wrapped tight with straps that might have been better put to use elsewhere, a haphazard selection of items that from a distance make a statement of him and from up close... From up close don't make an awful lot of sense. The relief of a High Priestess card is embroidered in intricate detail into the sash that sits around his shoulders, the blackgrey thread laced with a dull, mottled amber against the backdrop of dark layers.

He walks in silence, with purpose, expression set and stern and eyes sharp on his surroundings, taking everything in. If he passes another person he'll pay them just enough mind to determine whether they want anything of him - then, if not, glaze over them and continue on.

But he's ready. Alert. At a sound he turns his head to listen and wait for it to come again, assessing the repeat... when it's nothing, he returns to his solemn patrol, passing indiscriminately through whatever sprouts up around him as he goes until the next interesting sight or sound catches his attention. When it's something, or it's somebody who isn't content to let him walk on?

Well. What happens then remains to be seen.

b. the man in his tower, domain.

Out of a quieter corner of a cityscape characterized by towering buildings, animal motifs, and billboards that make no identifiable sense, rises a building that on strolling past might not seem too remarkable amongst the rest. It's built of strong stone, wide and grand, the sort of thing that could be taken for a bank or an embassy of some kind. Grandeur aside, it stands out from the others around it most notably in the way it tears up above them, twenty storeys to their seven or eight, the height not out of place in the city as a whole but certainly making a mark against the skyline in this little block.

Closer inspection, a better vantage point or a crane of the neck make apparent parts of other details: the floor one from the top forgoes the stone aesthetic entirely, giving way to walls of glass that surrender nothing but reflections of the outside; on the rooftop, a tranquil walled courtyard houses a wizened tree; and on the top floor the domed feature window displays a simplified symbol of the high priestess, carved out with metal pieces that support the glass.

It's only a couple of steps up from the sidewalk past a pair of spindly, leafless trees to reach the front door of the building that dominates the street, and although no signs on the door decry unsolicited visits and no beady cameras stare down at visitors from above the frame, there's something distinctly unwelcoming about the large dark wood doors that wait there. Some doors are intended as an entryway. Others, these seemingly included, are designed to keep the outside out.

But the doorbell remains uncovered, waiting to be pressed. And the door, if tested, will sometimes be found unlocked. For all that the doors would invite you to go away, there's something about the building. Electricity through a filament with the bulb painted black: visible or not, the inside is still alive.

( potential for choose your own adventure on this one! depending on what you're interested in I can give your character a trippy inception-style physics-defying quest through his weird magic house, or we can play with some territory battle stuff as a character tries to bulldoze a path through his domain, or a character might be granted a peaceful uninceptioned walk through a couple of floors of his house before finding him, or stephen can meet them at the door, or the door can open either into his apartment floor or the rooftop terrace, etc etc etc. if you have a preference let me know! otherwise choose a ring of the doorbell or a push of the door, I'll get a read on first impressions from your tag and/or plotting comment and make a choice based on that and away we go. )


(If you'd like to plot out anything else for the event, please feel free to hit me up at miscreates or sculpts#6553! Original plotting comment is also available here, I'm very open to anything. Also happy to match brackets or prose!)

b. A visitor

[the_archive]

Jon watched that tower take shape from the highest reaches of his prison-turned-keep, ragged clothes whipping in the wind that whined across the decaying roof around him. For a time, he left it alone while his own walls became more secure around himself, the fog filling the cells more dense.

But the- but Jon is not here to only watch over his own self and the space made for him.

Once he ventures out, the small slice of city is the first place that draws him, and he pulls his rags close around himself, walking into its streets, looking up at the buildings. At the tower. He stands on the sidewalk for a long while, looking up at the window, with its symbol that echoes the one stitched in spider-silk on his own shirt. He stands for so long that a camera unfolds itself from the wall beside him, blinking a sleepy eye.

He trades a glance with it, and then steps up to try the door.

Alucard | Castlevania

[cryptsleeper]

I. Ambrose's speech
[Alucard's face sours.

Not because of why they been brought here. Not because of the need for secrecy. Not even the concept of the singularity (oh, his father would thrill to have something like that to work on for years on end). It is the statement that those in the prison are a threat to all universes.

If they're threats, why take them out of here? Why show them this thing?

Ambrose finishes speaking, and the dhampir knows one thing.]

What a better way to make a threat than to imprison people and label them as such.

[Spite is the great motivator.]

II. Slow climb but quick to descend
[He understands something of himself, adrift in space, having made a pointed attempt to get away from others. He needs space, and he wants to be alone for a time with only what is needed.

The dhampir closes his eyes. And then, after a moment, he has was he needs. A a hut with a kitchen and small bedroom. Cool blue electric lights glow softly through the windows, and there. Faint wood smoke comes out of the chimney, filling the air with the scent of something aged and gently burning.

The hut floats in a perfectly blank space, and Alucard considers it a moment. Breathes out.]

A forest, I think.

[There is no pausing, no consideration, only the moment of thought and instant creation. It is autumn in Wallachia. Dark trees have scant blood red and burning orange leaves that cling to them in a perpetual drizzle and fog, obscuring the hut as best they can. Dampness and earth fill the air, the only hint of something warmer that same wood smoke coming from the hut.]

III. Awoo
[The world around the hut shifts. Grows. Other spaces encroach, and for that, the dhampir finds himself annoyed. This is not what he wanted, and so there must be attempts to keep things away.

Alucard trots out of his hut not as a man but a great white wolf, a scar visible on it's chest. The easiest way to see whose space is too close to his own and decide what to do from there. Golden eyes pierce the gloom, until the gloom is behind him and he enters another place all together.]

IV. Wild card
Please hit me up here for plotting or specific starters if you'd like.

Awoo

[petcromancer]

[Not even shitty Wallachian weather can turn Hector aside from his exploration. He wants to know what forest holds, rain and fog be damned. And look, the answer is an absolutely gorgeous white wolf, which is positive reinforcement of his trespassing.]

Oh, that's quite a scar. What happened to you, I wonder?

[He doesn't expect the wolf to talk back, but he's somehow incredibly comfortable with filling silences by talking to animals that don't answer him back.]

Coraline Finch | Changeling the Lost | Tower

[not_caroline]

Pre-Horizon

[Coraline makes a point of not standing out in the crowd. Granted, there is only around fifty of them, if that, so it's a bit trickier than usual, but it's largely instinct over any particular hope that it would actually work; she's just quietly scouting the area, eyeing off the guards and trying to be calculating. She won't lose her powers again, she won't, which. Means she has to be low-key for a while. Ugh.

She doesn't make any sort of sound or clapback at Ambrose's commentary, save for the faintest hitch of her breath when Jon's sentence gets announced. She just glares dourly, looking small and tense and annoyed, and makes no attempt to flee. Not yet.]

Horizon

I. Waking Up

[The teenage girl wakes up curled tightly into a ball beneath a thickly curled fern, curtained fronds embracing her in a not-unkind way, hiding her, and she brushes a hand against its trunk in an appreciative little gesture as she stands up.

Her outfit is... comfortable. Familiar, but she can't place why - a cropped leather jacket, real leather, covered jn patches and buttons and zips and it feels incredibly comfortable and safe; except for the Tower symbol, embroidered cerulean on a white bandana sewn onto her left sleeve. Faded jeans, cut or ripped off above the knee to reveal torn fishnet stockings that do nothing to hide the rough texture of her skin (a dark ruddy brown, fuzzy and scaled like the trunk of the fern she'd just been hiding under, though it will soon pass) and tuck into her dark socks and maroon Docs. She plucks curiously at the torn collar of her faded t-shirt - it's a men's, several sizes too large and so tucked into her jeans, irreparably stained with paint and poorly-cleaned sweat marks, the collar has a gash missing and it's got more than a few holes from wear and age, but she nearly cries when she lifts it and pulls it over her mouth and nose for a moment, smelling baking soda and sawdust.

(She misses her dad.)

She looks up, at the forest surrounding her: She narrows her eyes, then squeezes them so tightly shut that her nose wrinkles - and when she looks again, the forest is no less dark but a fraction warmer, as daylight brings the trees back to wakefulness. So. She's either Back There, or dreaming. Neither of these options appeal to her, and she scowls as a fierce tightness clutches her chest like iron, and the trees seem to bend even lower - only they're her trees, so it almost feels safer. Like they want to reassure her the only way they know how.

Safer than the piles of fur surrounding her. She only notices them now because one twitches, and unfolds, to reveal-- a Hunting Dog. One with skin and flesh rotted away, so half a bare skull and two glowing amber eyes stare at her in the gloom, its one remaining ear perked forward as another - less a dog and more a crocodile, a giant saltwater beast with too-long legs and a long, whip-like tongue tangling between hyena jaws - shifts awkwardly to its feet, as do others; more than she can count, shambling not-yet-dogs lifting themselves up along the worn forest trail. And when Coraline move to walk away (always walk, never run around the Dogs, she knows that, she can't run) a couple of them move to walk with her. The others... she doesn't see where they go.]

II. The Hedge

[The forest doesn't spread far - perhaps half a mile at its widest point, but the shape is in constant flux, like the ripples of a pond too small for its shores, a pothole that keeps getting splashed through and spreads in wild directions, that always coil back into itself in the end. Smaller than it seems, in the end, but that's not the trick to it.

Once a person wanders inside, the forest closes up behind them in an instant. It's not that it's possible to see it happening, mind you; the path just... doesn't exist anymore, like a bad magic eye picture. And no matter how good you are at directions, how clever you think you are at navigating forests or knowing your direction, it's not possible here. Not for you. The trees loom overhead, too tall, too crowded, like they're leaning down to watch you squirm between their trunks, and their tips are hidden in a dense fog of darkness. It's almost claustrophobic, a feeling not helped by the wild array of ferns, thorns and other scrub that litters the ground level; heady bottlebrush flowers fill the air with pollen, occasionally a grey branch snaps with a crack like bone, and the stench of eucalyptus wafts in the air; and strange fruit, some like beating hearts, others arrow-sharp beets, others so overwhelmingly nauseating that going near them is enough to make the strongest stomach churn and even more utterly weird plants besides hang from bushes and vines like ornaments. Anyone who's familiar with mundane plants might recognise some of them as uniquely Australian - but the weird ones are something else entirely.

And sometimes, when you're inside it, there's the sound of a hunting horn's call. By all objective measures it ought to sound ridiculous, but there's no sight of who called it, and something about it seems wrong - it doesn't sound like metal, more like... a deep, howling whistle of wind through bone. And it strikes a supernatural terror into your heart, that triggers the flight response where there's no other option but to run for your life - and when you do, that's when the hounds start baying in shrill, sniggering, bloodthirsty howls. And you know with utter certainty that they're after you.

III. The Outside World.

[The forest as a whole doesn't follow Coraline, as she takes to wandering the rest of the Horizon. Two of the Hunting Dogs do - though one's technically more of a warthog, with a feathered tail and lion's paws with stone claws, the other a human man wearing a wolf's pelt, held in place on its head with the dead skin's own jawbone, both lumbering on all fours and scenting the air with a predatory hunger - but Coraline's learned already that they listen to her (and that's a heady sort of mercy, terrifying and powerful in a demented sort of way). Some of her trees follow her, silver-leafed eucalyptus and fat bottle trees and elegant willows shoot up, metres tall - or perhaps they were always there, and Coraline's approach merely revealed them, and whenever she touches one her skin ripples, mirroring the bark as her hair rustles and shifts to match its leaves.

But she wants to know more about this place, and its strange dreamlike ethereality and not-quite-Arcadian structure, about why she feels so strangely divided in so many little ways - she wants solidity, she wants confirmation, but since those are never going to happen in this fucking hellscape the least she can do is start invading other people's Bastions and see what the fuck they're doing.

No weather bothers her, the heat and cold can't touch her - something about them seems to maintain a respectful distance, but her dogs just don't seem to realise it's there at all. Don't mind this teen punk and her Weird Dogs stomping about your land like they own the place. It's fine.]

IV. Wildcard

[If you'd like anything else to do with Coraline besides the monologues above, please let me know! Ping me on the game's discord or at maniette! I'm happy to match styles and make personal prompts for people!]

IV

[cryptsleeper]

[Alucard does not quite know he can look at two forests and know only this one is mine. However, that is the precise thought that goes through his head as he stands at the edge of his gloomy little space, fog hanging heavy in the forest canopy. His trees are dark, twisting, a few previous dark red and burnt orange leaves clinging to them as rain drizzles. And--

--yes, that's how he knows, isn't it? The rain has not shifted to the next row of trees. The fog thins at the very edge, and the scent of the forest is not damp and dark with the faintest hint of woodsmoke and iron behind it.

This is not his forest, and that means that whoever it is needs to leave.

He trespasses, stepping over the line and shifting into the form of a wolf. A faint, thin collar with the mark of the Hierophant is hidden by fluff. He sniffs the air, seeking a scent that is more human shaped than forest shaped.

Mm. There's something not far away. He turns, following that smell.]

Geralt of Rivia | The Witcher | The Hanged Man

[gynvael]

I. FIRST FROST

[ The chill that hangs in the air is sharp, but not unpleasant: a nip that cools the lungs when you breathe in. The snowfall is gentle; the path leading to his space is less so. The closer you walk, the more you'll find slippery rocks, roots gnarled hidden in the ground, winding cliffs. Watch your footing if you aren't used to hiking wild terrain. A short river guides your way, though it doesn't seem to come from anywhere. It simply appears, in the area that it's been afforded. If you keep to it, your persistence will be rewarded with a hell of a view. Kind of. A second look will reveal the area doesn't actually expand that far and wide. In fact, there's something almost flat to the white peaks that loom in the distance, a little blurry, as if it's a painted backdrop more than anything. As if the space has been made to feel more vast than it truly is.

What is real are the growth, the trees and grass, in the immediate surrounding area. The evergreen leaves are dusted with snow, but no matter how long or hard the snow may fall, the amount of snow on the ground and upon the trees doesn't change. Glimpses of deer or rabbits, maybe even a fox or a bear, can be caught. They will not attack, though, preferring to dart away if they aren't left alone. What's found in the midst of all this wildlife depends on how early on in the Horizon you've stumbled upon Geralt. No matter what, he's dressed as if the cold doesn't bother him, either in a light black shirt or at most with a thin cloak thrown on top. ]

001.
[ In the first week or so, there's little of a typical home contained here. A small campfire crackles if it's nighttime; in the daytime, it smolders with the ashes from the night before. An uneasy restlessness pushes him to explore the boundaries of both his forest and neighboring structures. Slowly, he finds himself returning to what he's started to think of as home. Building is new. The idea of making a shelter doesn't yet occur to him. The snowfall feels familiar, there's no incoming storm, and so instead the scenery continues to grow. A small lake forms along the edges of his realm, attached to the river. It might unintentionally push too close up along someone else's bubble, icy water spilling over the shore, especially if what's beside him is lacking in nature. Small spaces -- not his thing. Gooseberry bushes populate the area near the campfire. Despite the winter chill, they grow as if it were springtime, along with some lilacs and buttercups. Unlike the trees, these bushes and flowers are free of any snow.

A chestnut mare named Roach is always present, unsaddled as though Geralt means to stay at the camp for some time. His swords are tucked into a long leather bag, laid to the side; the pommels are visible and easily recognized, but the blades themselves are out of sight. Within reach, but not at the ready. Feels safe enough here, so he's far more relaxed. Occasionally, a wolf or two wanders by: grey, red, or brown. Like all wolves, they're difficult to spot and quick to run. Each time they disappear, it leaves behind a strange emptiness he can't shake, one that he fills with more forest growth. ]

002.
[ Eventually, an actual structure takes shape. Nothing extravagant, just a simple wood cabin. Despite knowing he can create it from the ground up, Geralt prefers forming the supplies to build it instead. Log piles are stacked along the ground for a few days while he puts it together, building more rapidly and with more ease than he would outside the Horizon, but still building it piece by piece. When the cabin itself has taken shape, he approaches its furnishings in the same way. It's not uncommon to find him outside on the ground, putting together a chair, a small table, a bed that's more like a low cot. Although alone, he feels compelled to build two of these beds -- and the second is a bit smaller, clearly not meant for a grown man of his stature. Catch him in the middle of his construction, and he can be convinced to accept any offers of a helping hand.

There are two things on his land that seem nicer, more carefully detailed, than the rest: the stable where his horse has now taken shelter and the smaller bed, which is laid with especially soft quilts unlike the old blanket tossed over his own. Everything else is roughly hewn, unpainted and unpolished, but serviceable. That's all he needs. ]

003.
[ Only when his home is complete does something amiss emerge. It starts with the figure of a girl, no more than twelve or thirteen, long pale blonde hair, her face without features. She wears a blue dress and a fur cloak. Her clothes, her hair, they make her out of place against such a wild, simple backdrop. Seems a lot more like she should be in a noble's home. Royalty, even. The fuck did she come from? He doesn't know, but it feels right that she's here. Feels more than right; there's almost a sense of relief, a weight off his shoulders. His mind skips over her strangeness: her facelessness, that she doesn't speak nor interact much with anyone. He finds himself keeping her nearby, making sure she's there. Every time she's out of sight, an inexplicable fear rises that he can't swallow. ]

II. WANDERING

[ Wherever he goes, the same formless girl comes with him, silent and lifeless though she is, riding with him on his horse. Sometimes when his back is turned, she flickers and vanishes, as though he himself isn't sure if she's meant to exist or not. The further he strays from his domain, the more shadowlike she becomes until she's little more than a girl-shaped void. Geralt doesn't seem to notice. In truth, he's no idea where they're going. But something pushes him to move, whether that's a desire to to travel or the feeling that he should be showing the girl something, taking her somewhere. Some place that isn't just a lonely cabin in the mountains.

He steers away from areas that look too dangerous, too foreboding. They make his horse nervous. And he has something to protect, anyway. Instead, he stops by quiet spaces, ones that leak an aura of welcome or home. He'll knock on the door if there is one or call out if there isn't. Occasionally, he's brought something to barter, usually bread or harvested berries or jug of ale -- or, if he's grown familiar and fond of the owner, it's simply brought as a gift. Even if he won't describe it as such. You won't find him armed when he shows up: if he's decided to approach of his own will, it means he trusts the place enough to leave his weapons on his horse. ]

III. WILDCARD

(( feel free to request a more personalized starter, drop your own, or chat to plot out any handwaved prior meetings/interactions. you can find me discontinued any time or on discord @ Noa#1979.

note that geralt's shadow child will not explicitly interact with your character because i'd rather not puppet an NPC fully in a thread. she's just kind of there as a haunting spirit figure, even if geralt is not completely aware of this. however, if your character is the sort that'll interact with her briefly and you want to do so (by giving her something or saying hi) you're welcome to make up any reaction you feel is reasonable for a generally well-behaved little shadow girl. just don't attack or harm her unless you want to start a very extreme fight with geralt. i'm possibly open to this, but it'll need to be discussed as geralt will kill her attacker or die trying, 100%, and he will not forget this after horizon. ))

Wildcard

[cryptsleeper]

[The wolf showed up one day out of the north. It did nothing to make its presence known, save for flopping into a pile of hay meant for the horse. Only annoyed horse noises announced the thing's arrival, and all it did in response to the noise was lay there, looking slightly insulted that the horse was complaining.

If there is aggression in the thing, the wolf doesn't show it. Since it was told to not use the stable as a place to stay, it has flopped inside of the cabin instead, curled up in a tight ball of white fur. Sometimes, when it is awake and moving, there's the hint of a collar. Gold stitching on it, marking Hierophant but precious little else. Mostly, the wolf sleeps.

Sometimes, it stirs. When spoken to or else when there is an unfamiliar noise outside. And, once in a very rare while indeed, it stands to stretch. Front paws flat on the ground and butt in the air first, then vice versa. When it does that, a scar on its chest shows.

The wolf stirs. Stretches, taking time with each pose. Gold eyes move about, trying to determine where the owner of the place is.]

Hector | Castlevania

[petcromancer]

Pre-Horizon

[Hector is less easily swayed than he was when he first left his hermit's cottage... but as Ambrose speaks, he does find himself slowly nodding.]

That... doesn't seem unreasonable. If there's an untapped magical power, we should study it before making any decisions about how to proceed.

[Oh Hector, this is how they get you....]

Exploring the Horizon

[Waking up within the Singularity, Hector stands up and brushes dust off his tunic and pants. It's a humble scholar's outfit, but the Magician emblem stands out, finely embroidered in silver.

Nothing seems odd to him about the situation, and he looks around and smiles as he catches sight of a fox in the distance. Before he builds anything in his little corner of the crater, Hector spends some time just looking around, exploring. Various creatures, some natural and some other, appear as he walks, though no sign of any humans until another Guest or Prisoner come across him.]

A Library Full of Dogs

[When Hector finally settles in to create, it's an odd building that comes of it. From the outside, the place looks like a old medieval-era cabin. More animals circle the perimeter, still no people.

Within, a library that looks like it would be more suited inside of a fine castle, with anachronistic electric lights. The shelves house books on magic, biology, philosophy, and bestiaries of monsters. There's a comfortable chair positioned in front of a window for curling up and reading, and several tables strewn with sketches and notes about what he's seen during his walks around the crater.

Across the hallway is a workshop, a long stone stab of a table strewn with surgical and blacksmith tools. It's not clear what he makes here, but the room comprises a large portion of his space.

And that's basically it. Books, a lab, and various pillows here and there where shadowy dogs nap. Hector will welcome guests inside, then belated realize he doesn't have more than one chair suited for a human in either room.]

Library of Dogs

[nadine_he_loves]

[She's wandered out of her own domain. Nadine doesn't think it was intentional, but her comforting white cityscape faded into...something else. Something old, something that sparks her curiosity. It's like something from a fairy tale, one of the half-forgotten dark ones from ages ago.

Maybe there were wolves within.

With little hesitation she enters the house from some time past, eerily pale in her flowing white gown embroidered with the symbol of the World, her dress and hooded veil seeming at place among the wooden shelves of arcane books.]

Hello?

[This place doesn't seem empty.]

[nadine_he_loves]

Before the Horizon

Outside, Nadine's eyes go to Flagg, curious and apprehensive of whatever's going on but glad to see him out of the dungeon at least. She listens to the high mage speak, lips tightening some - I caution you against becoming so smitten with our prisoners... - and hands twisting in the fabric of her tunic. Part of her simply internally protests that her world is already beyond saving, the rest of her just feels tired at it all. Her supposed role here, Jon's execution, this whole excursion. This isn't the great destiny she's dreamed of - maybe it's selfish and lazy, but she'd always imagined her place of importance would involve very little work or high stakes. As she'd said to Lloyd, she's no Catherine the Great or Boudica.

But there's little time for her to contemplate it as they're marched through to the famed Singularity.


The Horizon/The White City

It begins with a single building, towering and sharp angled and bleach white. Impressions of windows line it, square indents along the sleek sides. It's pleasing, this boney finger of a skyscraper reaching up to the pale gray overhead. A white street runs in front of it, a white sidewalk with no hydrants or street signs. It's clean and simple and uncluttered. These are good things, comforting things.

The woman walking along the eerie, colorless street seems to almost blend into the surroundings. White hair, pale skin, white dress and veil. The symbol of The World is woven into the bodice of her gown in silver thread. Only her lips display any color, bright red against the endless unfurling white and gray.

She walks what soon becomes a city block, all sharp spires and squat boxes with keen corners, everything precise and gleaming skeletal white. There are skyscrapers, what might be storefronts, a park with a shock of black grass and white trees and playground equipment...that looks to be made of bone, on closer inspection. The thin long legbones of some unidentified animal makes the frame of a swing set, the slide a length of joined vertebrae, the benches a latticework of ribs and flat bones that don't match much of anything. The little carousel boasts skeletal horses with black saddles.

She likes the little park. She sits on a bench with her hands folded in her lap and watches with a faint smile. Small shadows dart among the bones and bleached flora, fuzzy and hard to look at. The laughter of children can be heard, faint and as though carried on radio waves.

There are other things here, hidden things, behind the doorless and windowless walls. But maybe there are ways inside anyhow. Maybe the lady of this place knows the way.

the white city.

[gynvael]

Were Geralt more aware, with more of himself intact, he might've been far more wary about the empty streets and blank, lifeless structures that stretch into the sky. He isn't, though, and what registers when he comes across the space isn't its eeriness or the long shadows, but a melancholy that settles over him like a shroud. And the sound of children. He's walked the Horizon in full and that's something that's been largely absent: children. It draws him forward -- enough that he leaves his horse tethered nearby and hops off to take a closer look.

The child that follows behind him has a bit more form: her hair is blonde, neatly braided, and a hint of blue shines through her otherwise shadowy dress. Beyond that, though, she hovers and flickers just the same. His gaze settles on the woman as the girl leaves his side, hopping onto the strange circle of horses. He recognizes it as a child's toy, though he doesn't possess the word for it, and seems unconcerned she's decided to play. In fact, there's an uncharacteristically soft expression to him when he watches her. (Even if it...isn't right, the things shaped of bone and white; the ashen trees. But some part of him refuses to look too hard, as if it might reveal something else completely fucked that he's been ignoring this entire time, something deeply troubling about the princess who's shown up at his cabin.)

He leans back against one of the skeletal trees, near where the woman's seated. His stance is casual. With his white hair and black clothes, he fits right in with her little world. A round silver medallion hangs against his chest, emblazoned with The Hanged Man. The only spot of vibrancy, aside from the woman's red lips, is the shine of his yellow eyes.

His comment is wry, a little amused. "And here I was, about to ask your favourite colour."

sam wilson | mcu | justice.

[falcony]

H O M E A G A I N

[ it is spring, in that kind of way that remembers the bite of winter and the unforgiving heat ahead. the time of day doesn't matter, and will most likely shift depending on the feeling of the place. ahead of you is a home, a two-story, well loved house trimmed in white and painted blue. there is a porch that wraps around and plenty of rooms - one of which, depending on your character - is yours. surrounding the structure is warm, surrounding by tall, impressive trees and backed up a dock with a large, familiar boat parked out back. there are sounds of wildlife - crickets and bees, rustling of wildlife and splashing of fish. outside, there are plenty of things to do - chores to be done, games to be played. sam will most likely be working out, but he will absolutely join in with whatever your character decides they want to do - whether it's frisbee, tag, hide and seek, or simply sitting on the porch with a glass of homemade sweet tea.

inside, it is comfortable, and if you let yourself lean into the feeling, it will be familiar. you know where the dining room, the kitchen, the bedrooms, and the bathrooms all are. alone the walls are photos and on every available surface are more photos and family trinkets. things that include you, and memories you have. photos that include you, and people you know. you are safe here, and the feeling that hovers in the air is that of being home. sam will know you, of course, and will welcome you inside. it could be time for dinner or you could grab something upstairs, whatever it is you want to do. this is your house, your family you are coming home to, and they're so happy to see you.

possible events, and depending on when it happens, you can find:
>> family dinner
>> game night
>> cookout
>> porch time
>> chores around the house
>> possible tense conversations (the kind only a family can have)

sam, no matter where you find him, is going to be open and relaxed, laughing, friendly, approachable, loving, and fun to be around - like the cool uncle who stopped by after some time away. he's giving off that comfortable sort of leadership of a man in his element, someone who belongs here, just as much as you do. this is his home, but it is also yours, or you are welcome to be included in it. you are a member of this family, now, and in being a part of it includes the love, respect, attention, and care that a happy family should bring.

the domain itself will be limited to the house and its immediate porch and surrounding yard. the trees and the water, including the boat, move and shift and feel real - but the closer you get, the thinner and blurry it will become. ]

C A P T A I N J U S T I C E

[ the city is like any other modern impression of a city you have been in, any other, and every other, rooftops and skylines shifting and changing depending on what you find most comfortable or where you might be. it's one neighborhood, but takes the shape or look of any neighborhood you could be in. around you is a feeling of danger, of something being off and someone being after you. you need to run, you need to get to safety, and right when you feel like you're going to get caught by whatever it is (up to you!) that's chasing you, there will be a shadow of something flying overhead.

it may be at the onset of a fight, it may be right beforehand, but sam in his captain gear will land not far from you, checking to make sure you're alright. at every place there is the shield logo it will be the justice symbol instead, and he gives off the feeling of leadership, of safety. he is here to help and he will help, whatever it is you need.

if you are helping stop whatever it is that is plaguing this neighborhood, sam will join your fight, stepping in at your back to help fight, or diving in when you need an exit. ]

W I L D C A R D

[ feel free to reach out for any more specific plotting at my original plotting comment here. i am extremely flexible, will match style, and am super excited to roll with whatever feels most exciting or interesting! i'm also extremely available to talk about any kind of handwaved interactions, prior meetings, etc. i went with a lot more feeling for these spots than anything else, so take whatever you want and roll with what feels good to you. c: or if you have any questions, i'm also at disarmingly

sam is going to end up spending a lot of his time shifting between these two locations, and he and bucky are sharing the city domain space. that also means that there is gonna be some interesting/cool merging of the two vibes in any kind of borerlands scenario if you really wanna get mindfucky. c: ]

Home

[the_archive]

Jon sits on the porch bench, one knee drawn up to his chest with his arm around it, watching the play of light on the water through the trees. He's thinking about going inside, but the evening is gold and pure in a way he feels like he's never seen before, and he'll stay out here a while longer. His dangling leg swings, not quite long enough to reach the porch's boards.

He nods when he sees Sam come out, with a mild smile showing that his last adult tooth is still working on growing in. Only his clothes don't seem to belong here, so destroyed they're little more than rags and yarn, but they keep him warm enough on an evening like this.

alina starkov | the hanged man

[solmate]

i. the domain

[ Chrystaline spikes pierce the sandy ground. Some look closer to trees or plants or even animals, some are twisting and form elaborate and chaotic sculptures that have no rythym or rhyme. The girl with the bound hands and feet guides them, holding out her hands to call the pieces to her, arranging them to stretch up and across the landscape, but ultimately it feels more like a suggestion than a true mastery. The freedom of her creation, the illusion of an endless expanse is at odds with heavy bone shackles she wears, but they don't seem to bother her. the strange terrain, just sand and crystals, seems inhospitable and empty like the surface of an alien planet. in her mind, she knows no one could survive here unless they are like her.

(And there is no one like her).

She doesn't think of her orchestration as control or creation, more like giving shape to a chaos that just is, shining back. Hypnotic but too bright to look at for too long.

They are also very, very hot. She warns, almost casually, without greeting her visitor. ]

I wouldn't touch that if I were you.

ii. visiting

[ The girl is lonely.

She wouldn't admit it out loud, a line between pride in her resilience and shame that she still feels like she needs it. Her kingdom is comfortable and to her liking. She made it, and it is only her own. It exists for no other reason than it pleases her, and no one will ever know it like she knows it.

But it is still lonely.

So she searches, walking through the Horizon to the sound of the scrape of her bone chains rattling and the tinkle of crystals arranging themselves underneath her feet. The air is just scented with the scent of singed grass, a burnt path left behind her. Called to something familiar. ]

What have you built here?

iii. wildcard

[ feel free to throw me a different starter or hit me up via dm or private plurk and I will write you a custom start! ]

[inthemeadow]

[ Mal's domain keeps changing. One day it's a patch of woods filled with wildlife, the next it's a waterfall flowing into a lake...

Today, it's a meadow. But each landscape he creates, he feels like he's missing something. No matter how peaceful and perfect it might look, it just feels... off.

Lying on his back, he stretches out his hand beside him and feels a sense of emptiness as his fingers curl around grass and not flesh...

And then he hears it - a high-pitched noise in his head - then a voice behind him. Startled, he sits up, glancing over his shoulder, but everything about Alina's appearance demands more of his attention.

He pushes himself to his feet and stares. Mostly at the bones. He hasn't even noticed yet that she's already started to damage his meadow, though the burning smell will get that message across soon enough.

Pretty though, he thinks to himself, even if she does look a bit like a walking skeleton. ]

It's just a meadow. [ He clears his throat, suddenly aware of how much he's been staring, lowering his gaze to the ground instead. ] It makes me feel safe.

Phoenix Wright | Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney | The Lovers

[iobject]

Entering the Horizon

Phoenix has never been so certain that he will die as he is standing on that border of the Singularity. He holds Kay's hand tight, smiling at her and keeping a brave face on, and it's disturbingly simple to stay calm in that moment as he holds the thought of 'we're both about to die, and no one back home will know how it happened'.

And then he's somewhere else. He doesn't remember what he was doing, but he's left with the deep sense that he's lost something important. He's dressed in a simple hoodie and a blue beanie. The beanie has no writing on it, but it has a charm shaped in the stylized heart of the Lovers.

He pulls at the locket at his throat, clicking it open and frowning down at it. There's supposed to be a face in it, isn't there? That's what lockets are for. But the place where a picture should be is just fogged over glass.

"Do you... does anyone know who's supposed to be in here?" He realizes midway through the sentence that he doesn't even know if there's someone else around. He looks around, a little desperate, his heart thudding in his throat. Is he alone? His sign is that of the Lovers. He's supposed to have people, isn't he?


The Twilight Zone

He's supposed to make his own place in this ether. He can't help but reel at the thought. How should he make a place for himself when all he knows is his name? What is home for a man with no identity? And what is home for Phoenix when there's no one to share it with?

His domain reflects his uncertainty. There's the implication of a domestic sphere, a couch, fields of sunflowers, a coffee table with a teacup ornately hand-painted next to a plain white mug with coffee stains. But where he goes wrong is trying to fill it with people.

"No, no, this isn't right," he murmurs to himself as he looks with no small amount of horror at his new creations. They're faceless mannequins, sitting on his couch, plucking petals from his sunflowers, sipping nothing from his teacup without a mouth. They're all different colors with the barest traces of individuality--a pastel blue, slim feminine mannequin with a blue top hat, drumming its fingers on the table; a red mannequin with slim, somewhat masculine features worrying the ornate gold bracelet at its wrist; a magenta masculine mannequin with broad shoulders sipping from the teacup; a tall yellow feminine mannequin with a smiling necklace at its throat and a single earring with a moon and star hanging from its ear; a purple feminine mannequin with a large beaded necklace around its throat; more and more...

He knows them, he knows he does, but this is all wrong. Where are their faces? What are their names?

"This... really isn't right." Phoenix doesn't have the heart to destroy them, but he tries to wave them off. "Go... I don't know. Into a corner somewhere. You're all freaking me out."

But they just turn their featureless faces towards him expectantly.


A Rebuilt Space

It's towards the end of the week (not that time has any meaning anymore) that Phoenix finally binds together a cohesive place. With the bonds he's already creating in the Horizon, it's easier to hold a coherent identity. It's a sweet little building in a field of flowers, sunflowers and chrysanthemums and multicolored wildflowers dotting the greenery (though not a dahlia in sight, for anyone who would notice). Walking into the house is walking into a lived in space. A half-finished board game on the coffee table, a blanket thrown haphazardly on the couch, the smell of dinner cooking wafting in from a room that doesn't exist. Piles of shoes are at the front door, and coats are placed on the coat rack, coats of varying styles and bright colors and put away with varying levels of care.

The ephemera that once demarcated different mannequins now sit in nooks and crannies, like their owners put them down and will be back any moment. The teacup sits on a saucer on the coffee table next to neatly lined up board game pieces. The golden bracelet sits on the couch's arm. The smiling necklace and moon/star earring sit on the other arm of the couch. Two large beaded necklaces hang from the coat rack, a pink pair of rounded glasses sit on the table, the top hat lies on the floor like it fell off its owner's head and wasn't noticed.

It's a warm and happy place. And right now, Phoenix is whistling a tune he doesn't quite remember, forming a creek running by the house. The space exudes warmth and love, even if he doesn't quite remember who all that love and warmth is meant for.


Adventuring into other Domains

Throughout the week, Phoenix probably spends more time outside of his domain than in. He's of the Lovers, after all. He needs people, and his domain can't provide him that.

So he stumbles into different people's spaces, bringing an inherent sense of loneliness mingled with warmth and love with him that brightens dark places. He hums as he walks, sculpting new matter in his hands, forming snowflakes that glimmer in the light, colorful flowers that glow, or handfuls of fireflies he can gently blow off his hands to flash and dance.

"Is anyone around here?" he asks the air with the careless ease of someone who has made peace with having no memory, and who has chosen to make new memories instead.

A Rebuilt Place

[sanc]

Phoenix's domain is one of the more sunny and welcoming ones. A place of respite... she can't help but wonder what kind of person must live here to have such a warm and inviting domain. After a week of exploring, for better or worse, she doesn't mind the idea of a small and cozy place to spend some time if she's welcomed.

She wanders in, emblems of Death reflected in the buttons of her coat and on a broach holding her jabot. Her black outfit contrasts the summery colors here, but she still feels oddly 'at home' as she approaches.

She hears Phoenix's whistling and follows it, stepping with care through flowers short and tall before seeing him. She lifts up her arm into the air and waves at him, trying to get his attention before she dare attempt to strike forward to speak with him. She's learned along her way this week that, perhaps, she should be a bit less bold in her attempts to gain a little more information about the people she's sharing this space with right now.

Randall Flagg | The Stand | The Tower

[hardcase]

1 / domain

[ Flagg's domain looks like a slice of an abandoned small American town: shabby old buildings with broken windows, rotting wood, and graffiti galore. Utility poles leaning at dangerous angles, their dangling wires spitting sparks. Clusters of trees that don't look to deep on the outside, but seem crushingly dark if anyone dares to wander through.

Various animals populate the landscape: deer, rabbits, wolves, rodents. There seems to be an abundance of rats and weasels. All of them are just a little bit uncanny in some way. Some have an extra eye, or three legs in front instead of two. Exposed skulls and other bones abound, and quite a few of them have too many teeth that are a little too sharp. Deep in the woods, a group of deer with blood-covered antlers feast on smaller animals and look at the newcomers with hungry eyes. And the people...well, they at least look like people, to some extent. All skin and bone and muscle, they cling to scraps of food with their lives, and all of them wear a gas mask. Come to think of it, the air feels awfully sick somehow. Diseased, or irradiated, or just a little too heavy. Luckily it can't actually affect any of his fellow newcomers, but it's still noticeable.

Attempting to speak to any of the people will simply result in them gesturing towards the largest building in the 'town': an old, desecrated church where their Revered Father usually resides.

Inside the church is a rotating group of worshipers. If Flagg isn't there, they'll wait for him. If he is there, they hang onto his every world: he reads from a huge book filled mostly with bad jokes and song lyrics and forbidden spells in some ancient, forgotten tongue.

Flagg himself is wearing heavy, black robes that always hide his face in shadow, save for his bright red eyes and a grinning mouth full of pearly white teeth. If you look very closely, he seems to have an actual face, but you can never tell for sure. He can also be found wandering around his domain, greeting any intruding newcomers with a polite 'hey, how're ya?' or a 'howdy'. He doesn't stop anyone from building what they like here...but if they step away for more than a minute or so, they'll find that what they built looks just as old and decayed as the rest of Flagg's domain. ]

2 / wandering

[ Flagg is a curious being, and he wants to check out what everyone else is doing. He's not immediately disrespectful in anyone else's domain (perhaps he even brings a 'gift' of twisted bones and dying flowers), but his presence isn't the most pleasant thing in the world unless the person he's visiting is inclined towards the darkness, or at least darkness-curious.

He'll pause a bit if he encounters the domain's inhabitant, regarding them carefully for a moment before speaking. ]

Just passin' through, my friend. [ Flagg is still Flagg even without his memories, and the more frustrated and annoyed anyone acts with his presence, the more annoying he'll be in return. If they're polite to him, on the other hand, they can perhaps have a real conversation. ]

3 / wildcard

[ Anything goes! Feel free to hit up my plotting comment or ping me at dandymott or vellocet#7191. Seriously though, ANYTHING goes, so go wild! ]

2 / wandering

[the_archive]

Jon's not immediately obvious anywhere within his panopticon, the rotting hulk of a prison he built around himself. The tower stands empty, its door open on one fragile hinge. Every cell stands open too, their hundreds of bars all eaten away by rust, fog spilling in slow motion down over the parapets.

But there's no mistaking this place for empty. It observes any who enter, the decaying ceiling above looking like the iris of an immense, unblinking eye.

Misty Day | The Lovers

[shadowsran]

I. Speech

[ The march is undertaken without reluctance or complaint, if also without cheer. The neutral expression worn the whole way through isn't schooled, would surely come apart under scrutiny. But if nothing else, she's certain nobody's bothering to scrutinize her when there's so much else to take in.

The gravity of it all isn't lost on her, but one particular detail turns her stomach. She addresses whoever is nearest her in a whisper, eyes still trained on Ambrose. ]

You met any old people from other worlds? Hear of them?

[ Have many - any - survived whatever purpose they're brought in to fulfill? ]

II. Domain

[ It is black. Absence, stretched far and wide. Lacking the associations that would make it uncomfortable, she spends minutes - or hours, they would feel much the same - admiring it before growing bored. It would benefit, she thinks, from company. Cupping her hands around a portion of nothing and bringing them to her lips, she exhales. It's purposeful in a way she cannot find familiar, but can tell feels correct. Something flutters against her fingers, then, and she opens them. Company takes the form of a bird, present and perhaps irritated and then gone, quick to ascend once freed.

There's nothing for it up there, she thinks. It hardly seems in any hurry to come down. And so the canopy overhead takes shape, trees taking form beneath to keep it held steady. Then a second bird. A third. Different sizes and colors each, she knows despite being unable to see them properly. A shame. So she braces, standing tall on the yet-featureless ground, and wills fire into the sky. No physical sun, no dimensions she would care to make out were she even inclined to, but light enough to call day. All but preening against the light and warmth, she turns to better look over the work so far. A promising start.

The rest then comes quickly. Dirt beneath her feet, water meeting that and stretching to fill as much space as it can before being met with the border of surrounding domains. Trees jutting out and up into the sky, greenery lush throughout. Further birds flit about, chickadees and herons. Frogs, turtles, snakes, rabbits, and otters are few in number, but actively going about their own business. Alligators occupy the water in healthy numbers, their eyes above the surface a more calming sight than they ought to be. Better, Misty thinks, but imperfect. Lacking. Then come the chairs; all shapes and sizes, finely finished wood, upholstery new and ancient, weatherbeaten wicker and new steel, loveseats and stools and armchairs. They grow out of the water like the trees themselves in places, and a sizeable number litter the main plot of land she herself occupies.

She doesn't know who they're for, but it feels proper that they be there. That she be prepared in case. Puzzling over their appearance is all that initially indicates there may be others. Her time after this realization splits: she can be reliably found either on tense, hopeful patrols of her border, or waiting at the center of her domain.

Any expectations are half formed. The sight of her may be eerie, certainly not helped by the veil obscuring her face as it advertises her placement in the Abraxan arcana, but most guests will find her attention benign, if intense. Intrigued. Perhaps yearning. Do say hello. ]

III. Guest

[ Less often, she wanders. It's worrisome to be far from home, but the variety of structures and landscapes is too interesting to pass up entirely. She aims to be inobtrusive and quick, but succeeds far more with the latter. At times she unintentionally brings the water with her, a river at one-tenth scale trailing after her like mud tracked into a house.

The details draw her in. Not necessarily ones designed to. Debris, passing animals, flourishing organic presences and decaying structures. Even especially pleasing colors or interesting textures will capture her fancy long enough to be stared at, prodded, turned over. ]

Is this yours? [ She'll ask of anyone that meets her, meaning the entirety of the place as much as whatever small fixture has her attention. They could just as likely be wandering themselves. ]

IV. Wildcard

(Throw anything at me, or feel free to ask anything/plot something a little more specific to your character over on her plotting post. Regarding that last prompt, feel free to fill in what she's zeroing in on and what she's doing with it, nine times out of ten it won't be so small or weird as to throw me off. She won't break anything or physically handle anything that looks especially fragile, but beyond that it's fair game.)

I.

[brittlest]

[The man who has happened to be jostled in alongside her isn't looking at Ambrose. Leaning heavily on a borrowed cane, his attention is instead trained on the portal in the way a person might be compelled to study something hanging in a museum, or to watch helplessly from some shore while some storm wracked ship far from it was swallowed up.

Or, like how a man clinging to the rail of said ship as it slides under might look to the shore—]

No, [is said in some matching low tone. Evidently he is listening.] I have not.

[nightwash]

before.

Ronan's head is spinning before they even enter the portal. Not only is it the source of all magic in this world, it is the life-force which sustains all other universes. The Singularity. The thing that he's been searching for, the answer to every question, the beating heart of every ley line. They all tried so hard to stop him, and in the end, they led him straight to it, cut him free from his ties to one world so that he could be summoned to this one.

His gaze sweeps over the gathered crowd, gauging the reactions of the others. He's already figured out, over the course of the past month, that most of them aren't like him. This isn't their calling. Half of them were summoned by mistake and at least another quarter are preoccupied with going home. If any of them share Ronan's specific cause — restoring magic to everything that was starved for it — he hasn't caught word yet. Ambrose might as well be talking to Ronan and only Ronan, which is fine by him, because he's entirely prepared to take up the mission alone.

He's so distracted that he nearly misses the second half of the speech, his attention snagging on the words, "...a particularly intrusive form of magic in an attempt to extract confidential information…" Ronan's eyes snap to the prisoner in question, Jon Sims, and he memorizes the man's face despite the promise of that upcoming execution. Others in the crowd are grumbling, but all Ronan thinks is, Good. Let him die for that. Ronan is fresh out of mercy for the enemies of the cause.

His expression remains stony right until he steps through the portal. The moment he emerges on the other side, his breath catches.

This close to the Singularity, Ronan feels electric. If he'd thought the ley line was powerful when it was awakened, this is a thousand times more. His hands fly to his heart like he's been shot, but his expression isn't a fearful one. He looks ecstatic, his features melting into an intoxicated rapture, looking like a junkie seconds after a hit of heroin.

As he sways back and bumps into someone's chest, he realizes distantly that he might be the only one who's experiencing the Singularity's power like this, surging through his veins and feeding something in him that had been dying of hunger.

Feverishly, he asks his neighbor, "Do you feel it?"

wandering.

The creature formerly recognized as Ronan Lynch doesn't settle immediately. When he becomes aware of himself, he's already mid-flight, a raven circling over an expanse that's shifting and reforming before his eyes. That doesn't strike him as odd. No, indeed, he feels very much at home in this transient and fluctuating space, this ever-changing work of art. He takes some time to enjoy it from the bird's-eye view, appreciating the details from far above, before diving to a particular spot.

The Greywaren doesn't land, exactly. As the raven nears the ground, it becomes something less cohesive — a column of smoke or a swirl of leaves — before he takes on a humanoid shape. The creature is tall when it walks on two legs, but not impossibly tall for a man. He only gives the impression of monstrous height because of his mask (or is it a crown?), spiky and bird-beaked, carved out of stone or bone or petrified wood.

He has an odd shuffling gait, like he's not used to this body or any body, but it could just as easily be a consequence of his attire. He's cloaked in a coat of silky black feathers, which may or may not actually be part of him. At times, it looks like he's dragging nine-foot-long wings at his sides, but then it looks more like an avant-garde fashion piece.

He does have arms under there. It becomes apparent when he eventually reaches up to lift the mask off his face, revealing features that would be more familiar if anyone here could remember Ronan Lynch. He looks both feral and regal, a raven king from a fairy realm, his eyes the uncanny blue of a frozen corpse framed by long dark lashes. The sigil of the Moon is tattooed at his nape amid sharp talons of ink.

All of these parts should add up to something hideous and dreadful, but they don't. The aura that emanates from him is enchanting in the most ancient and literal sense, the promise of love and power and glory waiting to be snatched up. Potential ripples through the air around him. Here it is! his presence shouts. Exactly what you were looking for!

Because the Greywaren isn't a bird or a boy or a monster or a king. He is everything. He is anything. And now he's within reach.

domain.

This is a memory, although it's not necessarily Ronan Lynch's memory. This is the memory of a thing that existed before Ronan Lynch was born, and the memory of a thing that was born from Ronan Lynch, and the memory of a future that is also the past which Ronan Lynch has yet to experience. It has a name. It had a different name before. It had a different name before that. The trees will whisper it to anyone who asks, but most people don't tend to ask a forest to introduce itself, so the name will probably remain secret forever.

Time is largely irrelevant here, but in the approximate beginning, it's midwinter. The sun hangs low on the horizon, its light diffused by cloud cover and further obscured by dense fog. A perpetual almost-night, dawn or dusk. This should make it difficult to travel, but the path between the trees is illuminated by tiny twinkling lights floating lazily like snowflakes or fireflies. They stick to anything they touch, a warm ambrosial pollen to offset the chill of the air, until they fade to nothing.

The trees are birch, oak, ash, dogwood. Because it's the dead of winter, most of their branches are bare, though a scattered few have decided to flower early, sparse sprays of color on an otherwise monochrome canvas. The flowers are astonishingly blue, so vivid that shadows don't touch them, glowing from within. Their scent is music, a lullaby hum, an invitation to rest. Even though the ground is blanketed with snow, it isn't cold to the touch. The snow is soft sand, downy feathers, fluffy cotton. Soothing. Narcotic.

At first, it seems like there are no animals in these woods. It takes close inspection to find them, because they aren't running or flying or chittering or howling. Every one — every single one — is fast asleep. In a nest or the base of a tree or the mouth of a cave or right in the middle of the path, fallen mid-journey. This somnolence is hardly a surprise, considering the overwhelming peacefulness of the forest. Anyone could sleep here. Everything is safe, watched over by the trees and the Greywaren, its vigilant protector.

He is always there. It may not be obvious at first, because he is the trees and the flowers and the light and the air, right until he isn't. Then he's a shadow or a whisper or a touch on the shoulder. Then he's the raven king, with his boy's face and his beaked crown and his cloak of iridescent black feathers, regarding his visitor with a wary gaze.

He asks every traveler the same thing: "What do you want?"

It's not an accusatory "What do you want?" It's not "What the fuck are you doing here?" or "Can I fucking help you?" — which is what Ronan Lynch would probably say if these were ordinary Ronan Lynch circumstances.

"What do you want?" the Greywaren asks, because he wants to know. Because he can make it happen, if you give him a reason. He's not fumbling through the Horizon, manifesting his desires for the very first time. This is his life's purpose. This is what he's been doing for as long as he's been breathing. He's the compass. He's the North Star.

What do you want?

wildcard.

Come at me! Plot info is here and further details are here.

before;

[hardcase]

"'Course I do. And it's not my first time, either," he says, almost casual about it although he feels what it is just as much as Ronan does, "In my world, they call it the Tower."

They don't look the same, but he's certain that they're the same object (and, on that note, certain that the people here are mistaken about their version of it being the one at the center). Regardless, he's seen that tower junkie look in a few pairs of eyes before, and he can tell where it's going.

"To see it is to want it. Anyone who says they don't is a liar or just just hopelessly dead inside."

He wants it, too, although he may be more patient about it at most. If this world is to be a world full of tower climbers, then he'll simply have to pick them all off one by one. He understands now more than ever why he was imprisoned: it was the right thing to do, for the sake of all things. He can almost respect it, really, unlike those idiots in Gilead that let him get as close to the throne as he could without being King.

Shame their caution won't save them. They should have killed him.

Eponine Thenardier - Les Miserables

[gardienne]

Before crossing the portal

Eponine's lost track of exactly how long she's been locked in the cell for. With the ever-bright lights, the lack of stimulation, the lack of hygiene, the lack of people to talk to, she feels like she's going mad. When the cell doors clang open, she's sat right at the back of the cell, knees drawn to her chest and her face hidden in her lap, trying desperately to sleep. She hasn't really moved in days.
But it isn't to be. They haul her out, half dragging her on sleepy legs and march her quickly to join the other prisoners. She walks dully, her eyes vacant, not really even registering what's happening and certainly not aware of where they're going.
When they're stopped, she stumbles into the prisoner in front, and mutters her apology as Ambrose starts to speak. Eponine scowls at him, not really taking in what he's saying, beyond her being some sort of threat. Stupid man. She registers that Jon's been sentenced to death, but doesn't react to it. So what? Everyone must die, right?

When she guards approach to move her to the portal, she shakes her head. "Let me just sleep, please?" she asks. "He said I were a threat, so leave me be to sleep. I've had enough, please."
But a starved teenager isn't any match for the men and Eponine's dragged over to the portal and pushed towards it anyway.

The Horizon

The door to Eponine's mansion is always open. She doesn't mind visitors: she'd love to welcome them, in fact, for this Eponine is a bright, happy creature, unencumbered by the reality of her life. Her laughter can be heard echoing through the house, though finding her in the many rooms might take more time. Her bare feet have left a trail through the thick dust that coats the surfaces - a clue perhaps to her whereabouts. More observant guests to her mansion might note it's odd emptiness: there's an odd, mismatched chair occasionally, though on closer inspection, the furniture's old and tattered.

Eponine's most likely to be found in the playroom. There's a mirror there, and a wardrobe full of gowns - all as tattered as one another - though many are pooled on the floor from where Eponine has tried them and discarded them. Lace, yellowed with age, hangs at the windows. Perhaps the most striking feature of the room though, are the dolls. China dolls gaze down on their little mistress as Eponine slowly, gently, shakes each one free of dust, and sets about prettying her. Eponine combs each doll's hair, dresses and re-dresses and swaps their clothes. She's quite lost in her own world, murmuring to the dolls as she sets them up around a toy table for a tea party.
"Will you have tea, Miss Euphraise?" she asks. "And you, Miss Jeanne? Will you have a cake?"
She doesn't turn even when somebody approaches her.

Visiting

Curiosity eventually gets the better of Eponine, and with a china doll grasped firmly in one hand, she sets off to wander the Horizon. Each landscape is different, and it makes her laugh to see the changes. She wanders, apparently unbothered that she's trespassing into someone else's land.
"Hello?" She calls out. "Who is here? There is a visitor for you, if you please?"

[sanc]

Relena has felt more drawn to traveling about the Horizon than staying in her realm. Without the saddle of her responsibilities and concerns about her brother and her closest confidant, her reckless and curious nature has become unbridled. She's a want to wander and has opted to learn more about the other residents of the Horizon than concerning herself with the place she's made for herself.

Something about Eponine's mansion - from the outside, at least - has a familiar comfort she can't identify. It's enough to draw her forward as she peeks through the door, noticing the dust and wear inside. It's abandoned? Or it feels abandoned with its innards all tattered and sun-faded.

"Hello?"

She waits for a beat, listening for a voice to call back before stepping her way inside, looking around with caution. She can't help but poke through rooms, finding only emptiness until a bubble of laughter bounces down the halls: evidence of another person. A woman's voice, cheery and clearly enjoying herself.

She opts to follow the sound, wandering down a corridor until she happens upon the playroom. Through the door, Relena peers in and sees Eponine, playing at a table with two well-loved dolls. She contemplates whether or not to disrupt her, but she opts to commit to it since she's come this far. She's been rather lonely lately, after all.

"Excuse me... hello?"

harrowhark nonagesimus ☠ the magician

[necrosaint]

before.
The announcement of Jon's sentencing leaves Harrow raising an eyebrow; it's just one, but she's allowing actual emotion to cross her face as she stands next to and a half-step in front of Gideon to receive this information.

Not that the rest of it didn't bring a subtle shift of expression, because it was all a lot to take in, but this one ... she cannot help but say in a low voice, low but audible to those who are near enough to her or might be walking by, "That is an absurd amount of warning if they did not want us to attempt some sort of intervention." Who waits weeks for an execution?

domain: the locked tomb.
A vast, frozen cave that was reached somehow—even were this not the Horizon where that makes it impossible anyway, it would be impossible to recall—marks the beginnings of Harrowhark Nonagesimus' domain in the Horizon. Ice and stalagmites and stalactites, bioluminescent fungi, and bones, bones everywhere.

A few teams of skeletons, made all of their bones and ligaments for motion, mill about doing various types of work: rock cleaning, fungus minding, one is making a pot of bland tea.

Oh, yes, and the center's a pond of icy but not frozen water, and beyond it, there's an isle with a frozen coffin, and inside that coffin, a girl. The girl has a sword in her hands; she is wrapped in chains. Harrowhark stands above her, a hand splayed out on the ice.

It all looks like this.

The skeletons are very welcoming. They can't speak, but they will nod to anyone who enters and allow them to enter and approach their Lady, or simply have a walk around.

horizon wanderings.
Black-clothed and bone-clad in every type of jewelry one can imagine, wearing a piecemeal exoskeleton that seamlessly moves with her, Harrowhark meanders through the Horizon, stopping here and there, leaving a sort of magical calling card—she has brought a shard of bone to each domain she touches.

Some may see her leaving them.

[petcromancer]

[Well, this all seems completely normal. Hector is completely unperturbed about the skeletons, the lack of sunlight, the sheer amount of bones. What a nice little frozen cave, very cozy.

Hector wears the same Magician emblem as she does, though he's not decked out in nearly such necromancer-chic as the cave's owner. He came all this way, and they share a sign, so he can't just peak in without saying hello.

The skeletons don't hinder Hector's approach, so he comes up to the edge of the water and calls out.]

Nice cave you've got here. Do you happen to have a boat under all these bones?

[Because on the one hand, he's trying to be neighborly, but on the other, he's not getting his boots wet to do it.]

Susan Delgado | Dark Tower | The Lovers

[girl_at_the_window]

[ I | Speech ]
Susan goes easily enough. All she has are questions; if they're offering answers, then she's not about to turn her nose up at them. As Ambrose speaks, though...

Susan is not a philosopher by any means, and her curiosity about the greater mysteries of the world has always been limited - she prefers to worry about what's in front of her - but she knows what he's talking about. Every child of All-Worlds knows what he's talking about, even if it's nothing but a fairy story, some fragment of scripture long-lost and meaningless. She knows enough to make it familiar, the geography of a cosmos she's never given much thought to.

The Singularity. At the centre of things, the lynchpin of that endless cycling infinity that is the world and all worlds, that they are to see and know?

She lets out a low, quiet whistle. "The Tower," she murmurs, to the person nearest her, her eyes still fixed on Ambrose although she's not really listening any more. "Does he truly mean to tell us we're to visit the Dark Tower?"


[ II | Space | pre-Horizon ]
The journey through the portal is easier now that she knows what to expect, and she finds she's grateful for having the Frostwurm excursion to ready her. There's enough to worry about, without fearing the journey.

She looks for her friends as the crowd passes through, particularly those who are prisoners. She has that modicum of freedom, after all, and if this is dangerous (if this is all that he says it is, how could it not be dangerous?) she means to use that freedom to protect those who she cares about.

But as they arrive, her eyes drift from the crowd to the crater, and the strange monolith in it. It's smaller than she expected (the Tower, she's always heard, reaches impossibly high, past what the eye can see - but then, stories are always prone to exaggeration) and it puts her oddly in mind of the relics of the Old Ones, of the derricks in the Citgo oilfield, dark and strange and oddly sad.

"It's strange," she says, quietly, in the moment before that aching tension in her chest pulls her in. What she means, and can't quite say, is It's not the Tower. It's a thinny. It's the thinny to end all thinnies.


[ III | Self | the Horizon ]
The world is flat and featureless as an endless salt pan. In the middle of that infinite plane is a girl, in jeans and a plaid shirt stitched with the pink-thread sign of the Lovers.

Susan. The girl is Susan. She doesn't know anything but that, but she knows that. She stands slowly, and looks around, but all she sees is nothingness, and the strange shape of... something. And...

Someone else. There's someone else. The girl Susan stands, slowly, dusting herself off, and looks around for a moment before starting towards the nearest figure.

"Here we are, I guess," she calls, as she approaches. "Now, where are we?"


[ IV | Soul | the Horizon ]
It isn't long before she begins to grasp what she can do. Has to do. It's easy enough, once she starts - the world moulds to thoughts she doesn't fully anticipate, to be something that's right.

The grass here is long, and the wind whispers through it. The sky, she decides, should be blue - not the vibrant blue of summer, but something cooler, lighter. Something the colour of faded jeans, or of ice. There should be clouds, so she makes there be clouds - just a few, enough to rain when rain is needed. Summer sun can only last so long, after all.

And then: horses. She doesn't know where the memory of them came from, and until she draws them out of the ether, barely knows what they are - but here they are, a herd of them grazing peacefully on the open hillside. They whicker and flick their ears nervously, but when she reaches out a hand to touch them, they calm at once.

Birds. There should be birds. There should be open spaces, small shrubland trees, the arching fall of mountains in the distance. There should be coffee in a tin mug, and a fire in the hearth of a small ranch house, and a smell on the air like earth after rain.

Susan sits on the stoop of the house, cupping her coffee mug in both hands, and smiles as she looks out at the world she's made. She's humming to herself, snatches of a half-remembered song. Love, oh love, oh careless love...

And she sees that it is good.


[ V | Seeking | the Horizon, other domains ]
Good, but not complete. The symbol on the breast of her shirt, and stitched onto the back, tells her why. Whoever she is, however she came to be here, she isn't meant to be here alone.

She pulls the half-memory of a saddle from her mind, saddles one of the horses - a big bay that looks more like a carthorse than anything meant for riding - and swings into the saddle with an ease that almost surprises her.

She doesn't have to ride far before the things she created start to give way to others. Her domain extends maybe half a mile, no more, and it's beginning to shrink as the creations of those around her eat into her own world. She reaches out a hand, not thinking, and extends the grassland a few more yards, covering what doesn't seem right.

But she'll also still leave that space of grass and ice-blue sky, riding out in search of a friendly face. When she sees someone, she whistles, low and piercing, to draw their eye.

"What're ye making?"

V

[jealousbitch]

She catches him in a rare moment of contemplation, one arm supporting his elbow, fingers tapping an unknown rhythm against his chin. Lloyd stands at the edge of his own territory, considering the hulking, colorful signs of warped metal and broken neon that make up his humble territory. He hasn't really carved out more room for himself because he can't figure out what's missing.

He doesn't even know why this place gives him such a sense of melancholy, but also makes him feel so complete. Happy, at least. Try as he might, he can't think very hard about it. Lloyd looks up, surprised to hear another voice, then turns his attention back to his domain.

"Not makin' anything yet. Somethin' just doesn't feel right, y'know? Think it needs more color? Ooh, oh! Or maybe a water fountain."

Jaskier | The Witcher | The Sun

[cointosser]

I. Pre-Singularity

[The thing about the Continent is that executions surely happen every day. Thankfully, because Jaskier hangs out with (mostly) exquisite company and not war criminals, it's never anyone he knows --

Jon Sims.

Oh. Great.

Jaskier far more recognizes the man being bustled about by guards than he does the name, but certainly he'd caught it in their brief meeting -- ah, gods, what? Weeks ago? How did he go from lamenting a boyfriend to being executed? Some men really did get around.

The bard is far more concerned, unfortunately, with the way the guards around them begin shuffling them forward than he is a fellow honored guest being slated for executions. (When one is from the Continent, one is far too accustomed to public executions for far, far less. Peeking into someone's head is far more dire than the theft of bread or a horse.)]

Ah, this is all quite delightful, thank you, but surely we don't all need to go in there. I am very comfortable simply standing by and watching. I -- wait, what was that? I'm sorry? Torn apart?

[Jaskier is far from the strongest man to fight off guards who have a mission for him, but he makes sure the yells he bellows are explicitly clear: he does not agree with this treatment. And, by the time he's pulled forward by the Singularity, one of his eyes is blackened from an elbow, his lip split.]

II. The Bard's Tale

[Jaskier does not have to think hard about this.

There is space, and he doesn't know it. Put two and two together: it must be explored. But how? Horses. There's almost always been a horse nearby, whether -- well, wherever he was. The horse that appears has soft brown eyes and a white strip down her nose; a chestnut mare, with a gentle nicker as she chews his hair affectionately. All right. A brown horse is fine and functional, but this place certainly needs color. And he? Cannot be found alone with a horse. What is he, some sort of beggar?

So he begins the crafting. It all comes so easily when he thinks of it, of what he wants: there's people, richly dressed (and perhaps a few with simple black clothing, a woman in a dark red gown). There's music, a hum that begins in his throat until they all start finding their instruments. There is, of course, the transportation. Some of the wagons are a bit more humble, to store instruments and barrels of wine. Others carry items which are colorful and varied; it's difficult to tell whether these are meant to be offerings or simply trinkets Jaskier enjoys bringing about with him. The wagon at the front is far more richly decorated, always with warm candles glowing in the windows, and the smell of buttercups and honey permeating the air around it. Soft, not overwhelming.

He isn't sure where or when the White Wolf shows itself, yawning with great large teeth, horrible breath, and scars over its flank. It hangs halfway out of his wagon, seemingly with no regard for anyone moving around it. Jaskier's performers -- for though he is more than talented enough to perform on his own, it's always so much more interesting with company -- don't try to move the wolf, working around him to set up the caravan for traveling.

Because they will, and they must. Jaskier cannot sit here and build a hut and live like some sort of bored peasant. There's so much out there! So much he can't even see, and as mountains rise in the distance, or the rush of water echoes through a valley, his heart tugs him onward. And there, in the furthest distance, a bright orange flare like fire spurting into the air.

It all holds so much promise, and whether or not Jaskier recalls the songs he'd once sung, songs still come to him.]

All right, boys. It's time we head out! Where shall we go first? Surely those mountains have a few shimmering castles? Oh! Or trolls! [A few performers look at him with hesitation.] Oh, don't worry. We'll be safe.

[Hard to say why. They simply will be. The wolf's gold eyes glow from underneath the cover of a wagon as the horses paw the ground. A song flows around the caravan as it rolls off, undeterred by rough terrain or long stretches of land. Why should it be slow? They have food and drink to last for ages.] Onwards, faster! The world won't wait for us!

III. Toss A Coin

[The caravan can be heard far before it crests a hill, or somehow curves around a tiny mountain path (perhaps it was not there before?) or fords a river without a single tapestry, wagon wheel, or horse hoof suffering to wetness or rot. Music pours from every body riding on the wagons, or hanging from them, or laying on top with a drum or a pair of castanets.

When Jaskier spots a figure in the distance, whether intimidating or not, he points the lead wagon of the caravan straight for them. The horses snort, hooves pounding the terrain. They work hard but never tire; occasionally a great beast of a white wolf can be seen trotting beside them, his tail swishing back and forth.

His eyes are wide with curiousity either way, and certainly even more so if they look particularly dangerous.

Jaskier hops off his wagon with a flourish, his elaborate, yet traditional bardic garb as richly decorated as the whole caravan. Suns embroidered with gold thread shine on his cloak and his doublet, and a warm honey-colored lute, bejeweled along the neck with a precisely painted gold design around its belly, hangs from his back.]

My friend, what are you doing out here? Thirsty? Hungry? We have absolutely anything you could need. All I ask for in return is a good story. If it's long enough, you're more than welcome to come along for the ride!

[The wolf doesn't look too pleased with Jaskier's offerings, glowering from the background. But it doesn't interfere.

It may, though, if anyone gets a bit too handsy with the bard.]

IV. Wildcard

[If you have other ideas, feel free to throw them at me! Jaskier will be traveling across and through people's domains; he won't interfere with anything, but is particularly looking for beautiful sights or dangerous things, like monsters or (slight) mayhem. As he travels through domains, your character is free to recognize something from their domain among his trinkets: as he travels, he picks up souvenirs. Perhaps one of his performers is now a moogle? Or is there an elaborate crystal sculpture of an iconic mountain behind him?

If you have ideas or questions, toss them at my OOC plot comment if you'd like, or catch me at scathefire!]

IIIish

[cryptsleeper]

[When Alucard made his horrid little depression hut, there were two badly constructed dolls that he didn't quite understand, but decided not to question. Looking at them invites some sort of longing, but he can't bring himself to move them into a hidden space either. They're important, somehow.

He's left his domain for the time being out of a need to simply move around. Even he can only manage the rotation of sleeping, loafing, cooking, and indulging in loneliness for so long. He knows some of those near by - the Tower with the Hedge whose presence is permitted to extend into his; the Hanged Man and his cabin who mostly is unhappy with the amount of shedding fur from Alucard's wolf form - but the rest are unknown.

The caravan is new. The caravan is very loud when Alucard catches a glimpse of it from behind, having stumbled upon the mountain path it travels by the same logic that controls the rest of this place. Where logic truly fails is why the sight makes him think of one of the dolls back in the cabin and the sudden, cautious hope that goes with them.

He's careful as he draws closer to the caravan itself, the noise a little too much for someone used to silence now, and--

--ah, spotted. The man that approaches puts Alucard in mind of a brightly colored bird, the kind that would not be at home in his own domain. The friendliness likewise feels overwhelming. Everyone else has been cool, or happy to co-exist in a space without asking questions.]

--I thought this might be another's caravan. Apologies.

[He was wrong. But there are exit routes available.]

Homelander | The Boys (tv)

[moremilkplz]

Before - Ambrose speech

Just listening to the speech, and Homelander can imagine the poor pencil pusher who had to write it. It hits all the right notes, hammering home what Thorne wants from them without spelling it out in vivid, blood-soaked details. Those will come later.

He hopes.

This isn't a lot of built a case on, and there still hasn't been any efforts made to enlist him in any army or cajole him in to anything other than - to save them. Which he will.

But Jon, the strange dude who's only superpower was to summon tape recorders from the 80's, had betrayed them? Had attacked the mages? Homelander's eyes flare red for a brief second.

Horizon - home like it never was

The pull on him becomes strong enough that even the Homelander can't stand against it. Like a gravity-well, but dropped right inside of him and it pulls him- like a hook pulls the fish - towards the crater and the Singularity. The darkness is overwhelming, pulling him under and-

When he wakes up, John looks up. The sky is endlessly perfect and perfectly blue. A few white fluffy clouds dot the horizon but it's a perfect day. For what? He doesn't know, and he gets up off the ground, brushing off his deep blue outfit. It's very tight, with his sigil stitched above his left breast for all to see - Judgement. Pride and longing surges briefly, when he looks at it.

But why would he do that, when home is just a few steps away. John can smell the cookies from even out here. The scent of backed vanilla is heavy in the air, as he follows it in to the kitchen where a platter of freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies have been left out for him. With a tall glass of milk on the side.

The modest two story house is well furnished, the place is clean and there are pictures on the walls. Of him. It has to be him, a smiling person with blue clothes and his parents. That the faces are blurred does nothing to discourage him from finding his room. With his wooden-framed bed and his posters on the wall, the baseball mitten tossed carelessly on the table next to the large window.

Horizon - Let's play ball!

And that's exactly what's on John's mind. Baseball. His feet moving almost on autopilot as he enters the pitch, steps up to the plate and let's his bat do that talking. He gets it dead-center, the ball going high, the stands go wild with cheers - his parents are in the front row, heads up and hands waving the flag (what flag? The important one) up and down - as he strikes it out of the park. He feels warm, content and pride burns brightly in the pit of his stomach.

Homerun.

Is this your ball

[photophobic]

Some rules seem to survive the journey between multiverses and persist beyond memory. If you build it they will come. What comes up must come down. And if you hit a ball right out of your cute little baseball fantasy themed domain, it might just come down and smack a particularly disagreeable neighbour right in the face.

Kylo is unimpressed. To put it mildly.

A rumble goes through the crowd as the dark-clad creature stalks its way onto the field, grass withering and burning to ash at his feet. He drags with him a roiling cloud, dark, torn through with flashes of lightning. His eyes seek out-- Ah. There.

"I think this belongs to you," he hisses, brandishing a glossy black misshapen lump of vitrified baseball.

Lloyd Henreid || The Stand || The Lovers

[jealousbitch]

Domain

[ Sitting beneath the scorching sun and surrounded by cracked pavement being overtaken by grass is a small cityscape, no more than a large city block, that looks as if it has gone untouched for decades. Rusted signs of iron and neon boast of endless fortune and the ghost of Lady Luck. Though most entrances into various storefronts and motels are locked, despite the effort put into it, there are some with doors wide open.

Inside one venue called The Infernal Lounge' are rows of dust-covered slot machines. A worn, red carpet leads the way to an area with spotlights. A large, empty pool is bathed in blue light, some coming from the walls of the pool itself.

Eerily, there are no people or even a facsimile. Instead, there are countless spectral rabbits darting in and between the machines and through the city outside. They appear to be made of black smoke save for their eyes, which shine in an unnatural pink glow. If they're approached, they will dart away with a shriek. Lloyd can be found milling about his domain, keeping a wary eye on his furry invaders. To anyone that approaches, he'll greet with a friendly smile and gravitate toward visitors with The Lovers arcana or anyone he deems approachable. ]

Wildcard

[ If you have ideas for something else or want an individual prompt or starter, hit me up! Even if you want to do something pre-Horizon or if you're itching for a visit. We can even plot something out. ]

enters your domain late w/ horizon starbucks.

[gynvael]

[ The longer Geralt searches, the less he recalls what he's even searching for. By the time he draws up to a infinite expanse of grey and brass and steel, it takes some effort for him to remember that he's actively searching at all. What remains is a sense of something missing, a space where the shadow of a young girl used to follow. He's not sure anymore how long he's been riding or the last time he even returned to his cabin in the mountains. What he does know is that the thought of going back settles on his heart like a stone.

So he's here instead, stopping by places to wander through like he might find what's missing at long last.

The clop of hooves on stone echo through the eerie silence. Most of what he peers into is empty. The only place that looks lit, that sounds as if there might be someone inside, is a looming building with a carpet that looks as though it's seen better days. (Shit, haven't they all.) He rides right over it, stopping only just outside the entrance to hop off. A scurry of small footsteps catches his attention. He studies the darting shadows as he walks by, but they don't seem interested in doing much more than stare with their shining eyes.

That's different.

Some steps further in, he can catch a heartbeat and a scent. He follows it around a corner, finding the occupant at last. Geralt's footfalls are nearly silent and he leans against the doorway without announcing his arrival. ] You have a few friends out there.

Belle | Once Upon A Time | Strength

[dreamtofheroics]

DOMAIN

[ it only makes sense that her domain would be a version of the place where she feels the most at home. thanks to her mother's love of books, Belle practically grew up in the palace library. this one is her own take on it, bright and beautiful, and with more books than she'll ever be able to read.

it's probably no surprise that Belle is up to the challenge of all of this. it's in her nature to question everything, and the first place she'd search for answers is a library. it's why anyone who joins her will find Belle either with a book in hand, or her on a ladder trying to get a text off of one the higher shelves. being here is a comfort, it feels safe and somehow precious to her, filled with so many interesting stories.

and if she loses track of time in her reading, well, that's nothing unusual. she does have a habit of getting lost in her books.]

-

EXPLORING

[ eventually, Belle finds another treasure in this new space; the promise of adventure. she leaves her domain with the hope of seeing what else is out there, still wearing a familiar dress that she moves in with surprising ease. she can't remember what it looked like before to recognize change of a symbol now worked into the design, but she seems content, especially as she comes across a new domain (and another person, which helps her to feel less alone here).

she was a bit conflicted about leaving the safety of her library, but there's a spark of excitement in her eyes as she approaches. she doesn't mean to intrude, but there's so much to see here. she'd hate to miss any of it.]

What are you up to?

Domain

[iobject]

[Since Phoenix's early days in this place are spent wandering, he finds the library relatively soon. He wanders in, looking out of place in the grand halls with his socks and flip flops, his gray sweatshirt, and blue beanie covering his hair. But everything feels strange and out of place here, like he's in a dream, so he meanders deeper into the library anyway.

He casually pulls a book from the shelves, opening it up in his arms. It's a legal textbook. He understands the dense writing like another language. Huh.

He's musing over this when he nearly trips over a woman who's buried in a book of her own. He winces back before he kicks her, closing his book with a snap.]

Sorry, I didn't see you there. Is this your library?

Majima Goro | Yakuza / Ryu Ga Gotoku | The Hanged Man

[sunshinehan]

I. The Speech

Majima was not surprised by any of Ambrose's speech. Not even the death sentence allocated to Jon Sims. He had already heard the tale of that altercation and he wasn't surprised that the high mage would sentence someone to death over it. It was the same kind of punishment a family patriarch of the yakuza would inflict on someone for much less a crime than the one Jon committed. And hadn't Kiryu equated the government here as screaming of the yakuza with its whimsical nature? Yeah, this only reinforced that image. He knew Jon wasn't given a trial or a chance to defend himself against such an act. This was exactly what it would be like if the world were run by a criminal organization that didn't give a flip about its people.

Instead of reacting to any of the speech, Majima kept his eye on the crowd. He'd heard most of this information from other sources, mostly Jon himself. It was less interesting than the reaction of others to hearing it. How did everyone feel about being dragged here to this foreign place to serve others even as supposed honored guests? Yeah, there was nothing pretty to be found here. He hoped everyone else would begin to see that with this little telling act.

II. Wandering

He awoke tethered to the spot but as he pushed up to a sitting position the chains anchored to the ground slithered away like snakes into the grass. The faint rattle of more chains accompanied his every move. He didn't need to look at them to know the ones between his wrists and at his ankles were still in place. Majima knew he was a prisoner of the worst kind and the golden chains were appropriate reminders. As used to them as he was, they didn't impede his movements and he got up easily, ready to perform whatever was needed of him. Instinctively, Majima knew there was a place he needed to be, a job for him to execute, a lofty goal that he would never reach but must strive towards at all times anyway no matter what.

The lanky one-eyed man stood and looked around. He had to find this place that was on his mind. To that end he began to wander the space he found himself in. It was blank at first, empty and lonesome, matching the plain grey prisoner garb he wore. His leash trailed along behind him, hanging limply from the collar fit tightly around his neck, a broken dog looking for his master. As he traveled though he began to see changes in the landscape. Small at first but gradually growing larger. However, he didn't recognize anything so he kept walking.

Eventually Majima realized he was walking through other people's areas. He would either wander by without being disturbed, simply observing as a silent passerby that appreciated or judged whatever strange place he came by and then continuing his steady way. Or he would be met by someone who interacted with him and he greeted them politely, offering his services were they to be needed. This came instinctively to him. He felt the desire to serve others. (And yet, somewhere deeper, he loathed it. He wondered why that was.) On more rare occasions Majima was drawn to the person by their aura, their strength, and engaged them of his own accord, eager to watch, learn, or provoke them for his own amusement.

III. Domain

Eventually Majima's wandering across the Horizon came to a halt. The area around him shifted into a cityscape from Osaka, Japan. A red light district that Majima was all too familiar with. His memories were gone but instinct and faint emotion came back to him as he saw the familiar sights and smells of Sotenbori. He knew that this was his place. He knew that he was bound here. He couldn't leave.

It was his prison.

His clothes changed along with the landscape but one thing remained the same: the golden collar with trailing leash and the golden chains around his wrists and ankles. He was still a prisoner and thus he must look like one. However, his cage was gilded and he was allowed to look more presentable. Formal wear in the form of a black tuxedo with white under shirt appeared on him, fancy and stiff looking.

Majima walked the streets of Sotenbori for a little while until he finally came upon the Grand Cabaret. This became the center of his domain after he found it. The rest of the city streets would only form if Majima stepped outside to roam it restlessly, but always returning to this building and stepping back into his job. The inside was bright and illustrious, gaudy perhaps by some standards, meant to wow and awe anyone who stepped inside with its gilded beauty. It was inhabited by phantoms that took the roles of patrons and servers and beautiful hostesses that entertained the guests. There was even a big band that played a variety of music for the perpetual night of entertainment.

When someone walked inside Majima would appear to greet them with a formal bow and polite words. "How may I serve you today, honored guest?"

This was his domain. That of a gracious host. The one they called the Lord of the Night back in the real Sotenbori. Welcome to his gilded cage.

IV. The Phantom Kyoudai

There was an unusual phantom that sometimes could be spotted within Majima's domain once it was set. The sight was rare but whenever Majima caught it wandering the city streets or walking through the Grand Cabaret, the one-eyed man always got distracted by its presence. There was a pull towards that particular person in the crowd that Majima couldn't quite comprehend and yet at the same time whenever he thought of approaching the person a deep dread filled him. Like he wanted desperately to meet this man but was afraid of what the man might do to him.

The tall, broad-shouldered man was more detailed than the other phantom people inhabiting the brightly lit city, as if more care were spent on creating this image. The large man wore a black suit with white shirt, nice but completely casual and uncaring, and he had long, dark hair that touched his shoulders. At a glance he looked unkind but that wasn't necessarily the truth despite Majima's wariness of the man. Interacting with the phantom was possible but like the rest of the creations of the Horizon it was no more sentient than the other fake-people. It had a set amount of subjects to talk about and a set amount of actions it would take amongst it's surroundings.

The most common performance to see the man at was baseball. It frequented the batting cage that was set between Majima and Kiryu's domains where they met and shared that space. They both seemed to have a love of baseball, and apparently so did this phantom man in the image of Majima's kyoudai. Majima tried to avoid the large man, but he kept heading back to the batting center frequently despite this fact, always keeping an eye out as if this would be the time he approached the man. Perhaps he needed a push from an external source.

V. Wildcard

[[Other ideas and prompts welcome! If you would like to discuss an idea ahead of time, PM me or find me at AisuYoukai but it's not necessary. Hit me with whatever ya got!]]

[the_archive]

He's out of place the moment he steps inside, and feels it. The clothes Jon's wearing are barely that, his sweater little more than a snarl of yarn around him, his trouser legs so torn they hang in flaps around his legs. Pulling the 'sweater' off helps a little, but the elbows are torn out of his shirt, and the black glossy plastic ribbon stitched through the back of it in the shape of the High Priestess pulls and puckers it in odd ways.

All the same, he follows the flow of the other patrons, fake though they may be, looking around at the lights and opulence.