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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

[featherduster]

Oh--!

[ He pulls his finger away from the stem, eyeing the blood beaded there. ]

Do flowers bleed when they're cut?

[ The innocent question of a child who's seen flowers only in holograms. ]

[endsjustified]

[oh buddy. oh no.

the blood falls to the floor below him; the plink as it hits seems unnaturally loud, and the stem's end won't stop dripping, but nothing else wild happens. maybe flowers do bleed when they're cut?

he can take this one with him, if he wants.]

[featherduster]

[ He WILL take it with him, thank you, blood and all. He even rips off a section of his SEEDS-issued uniform to bandage the little stem as he quietly plods toward the picture frame, eyes darting here and there for whatever it is that may be lurking in disapproval. ]

[endsjustified]

[the shadows flicker strangely at the edges of the candlelight, but nothing jumps out at him or tries to scold him for now.

the picture in the frame comes into full view. it's a group portrait done in oils, the background colours heavy and sombre, though the artist did a good job picking life and brightness out of the subjects themselves. it's a human family of four, dressed in old-fashioned clothing that marks them as reasonably but not outlandishly wealthy: a stern father with rust-red hair, a dark-haired mother, a solemn boy of seven or eight, and a tiny fat baby asleep in the mother's arms.

Charon is pretty recognizable even as a youth, honestly. it's easy to see he takes after his father in looks and expression, though the grown man Minuet knows has more of his mother around the bone structure and the shape of his eyes.]

[featherduster]

Oh, shoot!

[ Wincing a little at the loudness of his own voice, then making a shhhhhhh motion to the flower. Like the flower is somehow complicit in causing a ruckus. In a whisper, to said flower: ]

Charon is pretty strict, so I bet his parents are even worse . . . we might get in trouble.

[endsjustified]

Shoot!...shoot!...shoot!...shoot!

[there is a soft flicker of pale light at the far right end of the corridor, back past where he knows his room is. the echo came from over there, too.]

[featherduster]

[ He cowers for just a moment, deciding how to proceed.

But then, tentatively, he and his flower start creeping toward the light. ]

[endsjustified]

I wonder what they're dreaming.

[the air gets colder as he follows the pale light, and there's a strange faint cold smell in his lungs, of ozone and mint and blood. he passes the safe haven of his room and keeps going. it leads him on towards this end of the corridor, flickering, gaining definition against the surrounding shadows.

it's been a long time since he's seen Tesla's ghost for real, hasn't it, looking back over her shoulder at him? her eyes are just as sad as they were back then.]

[featherduster]

[ He's never smelled mint, he doesn't think. Ozone and blood, though . . .

The familiarity of those scents hits him at the same time Tesla's image does, rooting his feet in place with an unpleasant drop of the stomach. ]

T--!

[ He cuts himself off, remembering the need for quiet. He runs, instead, tiny hand outstretched. ]

[endsjustified]

[her image fades and flickers in, fades and flickers in, leading him on in his little pool of candlelight. he reaches the door at the end of the hall, and the air here is like ice.

it looks like the door he was led to, so long ago. wait, no it doesn't. the battered metal is familiar; the tubes lining the hall are familiar. the hallway carpet isn't. the brass plaque upon the door isn't. EIGHTFOLD, is all it says.

(he has the strangest sense that, like back then, his brother is right next to him.)

does he shove the door open and run through? or does it stymie him?]