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[crittersheep]

WHO: all
WHERE: all
WHEN: Day 9, evening into night

[the sun goes down; the two moons rise.

it all looks...quite different. the laundromat lengthens and transforms the silhouette of Woolietown in the distance. the lighthouse beacon comes to life for the first time, throwing strong, brilliant light and stark shadows across the meadow and into the barns. the lazy river encircles the pasture in a glittering band, the bobbing shapes of the pool toys a little bit eerie until they drift into full view.

perhaps some of you are winding down. perhaps some of you are just gearing up for a wild adventure in the shadows. perhaps some of you, regardless of if you sleep or stay up, find your dreams and nightmares crawling out beyond the bounds of your own head tonight, drawing others in...

the night is full of possibilities.]

Comments

[endsjustified]

[the petals are stained now. he did it. he did it. nothing perfect stays.

what smears off his hand and onto the paper forms a gaping stylized maw: Blossom's rune in miniature, from the ritual that killed Rose. the satisfaction is gone, replaced by something sicker.]

[finalbows]

<sub>[ it's just

it's all just frustrating to look at, now. he knows he's supposed to turn all of the flowers red, until every trace of white is gone. part of him wants to reach out and just push over the whole vase, and trample the stupid things. let no one have them, white or red. the stem of the carnation bends in his hand.

but that rune.

it reminds him there's something still out there.

he can't make any more racket. he holds back from even crumpling the paper, catching a corner of it aflame with the candle to burn its ugly lines all away. ]</sub>

[endsjustified]

[burning the rune is...interesting. the paper yields to the flame as easily as it might, but the blood-wet portions spark and sputter, creating a new shape that hangs golden in the air as they flare up. it's hard to make full sense of, and will continue to be so, to the point that any rendering of it in the waking world will always seem incorrect.

it's an eight-spoked wheel--but what are the spokes? swords, or narrowed eyes? he can't tell. what's meant to come through the emptiness at their centre, where the tips of all those blades or gazes are pointed? what's it meant to cut? he can't tell. is something looking through at him, right now? is it really a wheel at all?]

[finalbows]

<sub>[ he stares, entranced, increasingly nervous of it.



irrationally, he blows on it just in case it'll go away like a curl of smoke. ]</sub>

[endsjustified]

[it goes out, leaving only the ordinary candlelight. the afterimages linger, burn behind his lids when he blinks, and oh, they definitely look like watching eyes, then, slit-pupiled and red.

he hears a pair of low men's voices at the distant end of the hall, the end where he knows the safety of his room to be.

one is unmistakeably Charon's: "What is it, Yuber?"

the other: "I smell a maggot down this way."

the second, unfamiliar voice is amused but not warm, something sharp tucked behind every syllable. it hurts just a little, even to listen to.

what does he do?]