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castle_perraultFor the Castle, the change is not slow.
Midnight strikes with a roar of wind tearing across the grounds, howling through the halls, piercing even the deepest recesses of the castle and gardens with their fog. Most of the trees wave and shrivel their leaves, which are torn to blow around across the grass and through the open doors and windows.
In the next instant, most of the sky is blocked out, leaving only the orange moon looming above through a crack in the clouds.
And the clouds above, the clouds surrounding, billow and tumble and smother anyone they find in their way, awake or asleep, waiting or fleeing. It matters not. Any that it touches are struck through with the chill that covers the castle, and once more, the denizens are forced into forms they should not have.
Frisk is awake this time, lying on the floor of the music room. They see it coming, but they don't run. Even if they could--their whole body aches, lungs stabbing, everything weighted down--there's not much of a reason to, is there?
The fog sinks through their skin, muscle, bones
and then
Frisk
has none of those things at all.
Frisk is gone.
Frisk is not gone.
They don't have eyes to see, but they're still seeing. They don't have ears to hear, but they're still hearing. There's still wind, there's still the music room, and when they 'look' at a nearby piano, panicked but from far away, detached, a handful of the keys slam down.
They 'look' across the room. Frisk is across the room. They didn't move, but they're still rattling against-inside a set of chimes far, far away from that piano they'd been lying by.
No body.
No voice.
No pain, either. That's nice.
A set of chimes twirls around itself, tangling in Frisk's concern.
...This is going to be a weird month.
Midnight strikes with a roar of wind tearing across the grounds, howling through the halls, piercing even the deepest recesses of the castle and gardens with their fog. Most of the trees wave and shrivel their leaves, which are torn to blow around across the grass and through the open doors and windows.
In the next instant, most of the sky is blocked out, leaving only the orange moon looming above through a crack in the clouds.
And the clouds above, the clouds surrounding, billow and tumble and smother anyone they find in their way, awake or asleep, waiting or fleeing. It matters not. Any that it touches are struck through with the chill that covers the castle, and once more, the denizens are forced into forms they should not have.
Frisk is awake this time, lying on the floor of the music room. They see it coming, but they don't run. Even if they could--their whole body aches, lungs stabbing, everything weighted down--there's not much of a reason to, is there?
The fog sinks through their skin, muscle, bones
and then
Frisk
has none of those things at all.
Frisk is gone.
Frisk is not gone.
They don't have eyes to see, but they're still seeing. They don't have ears to hear, but they're still hearing. There's still wind, there's still the music room, and when they 'look' at a nearby piano, panicked but from far away, detached, a handful of the keys slam down.
They 'look' across the room. Frisk is across the room. They didn't move, but they're still rattling against-inside a set of chimes far, far away from that piano they'd been lying by.
No body.
No voice.
No pain, either. That's nice.
A set of chimes twirls around itself, tangling in Frisk's concern.
...This is going to be a weird month.
someone will die :: of FUN!!
Date: 2018-10-01 07:10 am (UTC)Wykkyd is well-accustomed to not being alone, not ever truly alone, because magic has a life of its own, but this is not the sort of magic he's used to. It clings and hugs, tearing into little bits of himself like fishhooks and keeping him stuck when he'd love nothing more than to rip himself away and get back into his body, the right body.
There's another presence that he senses more than notices, and he's in a bad mood and angry, so he sits right down against the wall of the room and plasters his wings out, fairly demanding that he be noticed.
wooo communication trouble
Date: 2018-10-01 10:43 am (UTC)They know someone is here, but the person isn't clear like all the things are. A blur in the air, one they can't focus on without a spike of pain like a headache through their whole being.
The drum rocks in place in their discontent. They don't realize this.
he Tries
Date: 2018-10-01 07:24 pm (UTC)He would call it a haunting, but generally hauntings aren't so polite. Nothing leaps out at him; nothing tries to seize him and crawl inside of him; nothing breaks, and nothing is destroyed. The drum vibrates, a deep thrum, the sense of something much bigger straining against its container.
Wykkyd has experience communicating without sound. He walks over to the thing that made noise last, the drum, and taps it. Lays his hand flat against it, traces nonsense with his pointer finger. His wings ruffle and shake, top pair opening and closing unconsciously as he plays with the drum.
♪
Date: 2018-10-10 09:15 pm (UTC)The bright-blur-thing comes closer, and Frisk slips backward with another thrum, rattling a trio of oboes haphazardly piled on each other on the floor a few feet to the left.
They can't tell who this is. Or what. Is it someone transformed into fire? It'd be easier if they could see a SOUL, or something.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-10-13 08:53 pm (UTC)Wykkyd paces to the oboes and crouches down, wings flaring out behind him as a counterbalance. He reaches into them, picks one up. Twists it in his grip, tapping at the keys idly.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-10-02 01:34 am (UTC)Some days later, if Frisk has gone back to the room, the noise will have attracted a somewhat-musician, and a very dead one at that.
Rose stumbles in looking far beyond worse-for-wear. She looks like a corpse. She is a corpse. She doesn't huff or wheeze despite the seemingly considerable effort it took to get here. Her bones are clearly visible, her hair is a mess that falls over her face, and she turns her sunken and glassy eyes to the clattering chimes.
It's strange that they're moving despite the lack of indoor wind. She thought there'd be someone here. She doesn't think much of it, though, just watches them dingle. It's a song. She's always loved songs.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-10-10 09:38 pm (UTC)So the music room's their favorite. So much stuff to hide in, and Frisk can sorta call attention to themselves, and they can slam the instruments around when they start to forget they were ever a real person in the first place.
...Though the instruments can slam around when they don't intend it, either. Of course. Like when they see a shambling zombie appear in the room.
The chimes' tubes fly away from each other, a grand piano slams all its keys and its case down at once, a ukulele crashes from leaning against the wall to nearly splinter on the floor.
It's ironic, definitely, that they hate dead things moving.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-10-12 05:03 am (UTC)She straightens slowly. Did those things just… fall? No, things falling don’t mean piano keys slamming. What does it mean?
She’s still wary. Rose makes her hesitant, staggering way around the perimeter of the room, seeing if she can find something. Anything.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-10-09 06:48 pm (UTC)In any case, there's a black cat slinking through the hallways now, with one pinkish-red, heart-shaped marking on his side. He pauses when he hears that interesting tinkling sound and peers around the door of the room. So many things in there to play with! And no one around to see him being maybe a tad bit undignified while he does, even better. He wants to bat at the chimes too...
...but he can't go into that room, even like this. It's been so long, but still, he can't without remembering the horror, and pain, and fear. Something Bad was in that room, once.
His ears flatten against his head, and he lets out a distressed yowl.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-10-16 02:03 am (UTC)It warrants investigation. And they need to figure out how they're supposed to work now.
The chimes stop spinning, each pipe of it trembling in place. Silence.
Frisk 'looks' towards the doorway and tries to go towards it--but there's nothing actually in the doorway but the shadow of a cat. Maybe a real shadow, maybe the cat itself--they can't 'look' at it for long, and the effort leaves a pulse of irritation. In Frisk, and so the the chimes and a nearby violin bounce up and down. The violin hits the ground with a noise nearly as loud as the cat's cry, and suddenly they're staring up at the ceiling inside of it, strings humming and tightening. This is already annoying.