Frisk (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dustless) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
castle_perrault2018-10-01 12:12 am
dustless) wrote in castle_perrault2018-10-01 12:12 am
Entry tags:
come on, come on, come on, breathe in [halloween event: begin]
For 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.
he Tries
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.
♪
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
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.