castle_perrault | [mingle] what's the dream and what's the reality?

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mother 3

[mingle] what's the dream and what's the reality?

Lately the castle's nights have been very clear and almost warm, even up so high among the clouds as they are. But regardless of the weather, they are generally peaceful nights, and few things seem to stir during them...apart from the castle's inhabitants, be it with late-night roving or with sleep. The dreams, by extension, are at least undisturbed...if maybe not always pleasant. That sort of thing tends to vary by the person, of course.

But now--and for several nights, consecutively--the castle residents may find their dreams starting to take on stranger shapes: memories they've never had, friends that don't usually arrive, strangers they've never seen. These odd impressions might cling and continue to confuse even upon waking, vivid as they were; was it really just a dream, or maybe something more...? Does that newcomer in your dream remember you there too, in the daytime?

Either way, there seems to be an strange energy in the air during these nights. And it's bringing dreams together.

((ooc: And here's the catch-all post for the dream-sharing event! Feel free to top-level with your character's dreams here, or thread around in others! The event should only last about a week, but backtagging is eternal c: The ooc planning post can be found here!))

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A: Meal Time

The dining room looks like something you'd see in a furniture catalog, all neat and tidy with tasteful, yet somehow indistinct decor hung up on the walls and scattered on nearby shelves. And the food on the table's so shiny and nice looking it seems like it has to be made out of wax or something, or even if not, like it'd be a crime to despoil it by eating it. Only, it's strange- even though everything will look alright if you examine it, everything in the room that you touch feels somehow wet and furry, like it's covered in invisible mold. It smells like it too, a pungent, sour odor that makes it hard to breathe.

Chara's here too, sitting stiffly at one end of the table, and they're the only thing in the room that doesn't look nice, their hair a mess and their sweater coated with dried blood and dust. They don't say anything to you when you appear, they just stare blankly at the empty space on the place mat in front of them.

B: Law of the Jungle

The elementary school is like a maze. Doors are everywhere, leading through classrooms, closets, cafeterias, corridors, lockers, gymnasiums, auditoriums, everything and anything that you can think of, except for outside. Litter is scattered wherever you go, and bright murals are painted on the hallway walls, depicting cheerful scenes of stick figure children and animals romping about, playing in emerald green grass, wide smiles painted on each and every face.

And of course, what is a school without real children? They're scattered here and there too- although maybe "real" isn't the right description for them. No matter how tall you are normally, they're all around the same height as you, and while they all move and sound like ordinary human children there's something about their faces and clothes that remind you of baby dolls. Much like the murals they're all smiling, though they're also ignoring you.

And then you see Chara just up ahead. They walk calmly through the room, clutching a bright blue backpack in their arms. They're smiling too, but there's something very grim about how their jaw is set...

C: Ashes to Ashes

The Underground is... wrong.

You seem to be in Snowdin, mostly. Paths that would normally lead to Ice Wolf or Waterfall now head to other parts of the Underground entirely; you can see New Home just to the North, for instance, and echo flowers flicker in and out of existence all around you, even though they wouldn't normally grow out here in the snow. The messages they whisper don't make any sense, things like "Z" or "LEFT" or "C" or "ATTACK."

Dust lightly coats everything, and the temperature is neither cold nor hot. Everything feels distant and slightly static-y.

You're not entirely alone here, but that's probably not a good thing. There are monsters wandering about, some of them flickering in and out like the echo flowers, but they aren't like the friendly sort you might be expecting. They're all grey and dissolving, and a few of them make angry sounding sobs.

Chara is wandering around too, and whenever they get close to one of the monsters, strange flat boxes and glowing images appear in the air around them, disappearing whenever Chara stabs the monsters with their knife.

D: Your New Home

This time, the place you find yourself in is... nice. You're in the living room of a cute, tidy house. A fire is crackling happily away in the fire place, and a large white monster in a purple dress sits in a comfy chair by the fire, reading a book out loud to a little white monster, and an even bigger monster with a blonde mane. Both of them are listening to her with rapt attention.

They aren't the only ones. There's a table at the other end of the room, and seated in one of the chairs, watching the monsters, is Chara. They look nicer than you're probably ever seen them, and it isn't due to what they're wearing or how their hair looks, but due to the small, happy smile on their face.

The cupcake Frisk picks up at the seat beside them squishes in their fingers. They've eaten actual garbage that was better than this.

"...ew."

The food is hastily shoved back into its place on the serving platter. But when they set their hands on the arms of the chair, they sink into the wood in the exact same way. In fact, their entire body is sinking into the chair, and they scoot forward until they're barely sitting on the very edge.

Frisk glances towards Chara. "Bad cooking," they say, tone conversational.

Chara seems unsurprised by Frisk's disgusted gesture- in fact they don't really react until Frisk addresses them directly. Only then does Chara slowly lift their head to look the other child in the eye.

Chara looks... tired, more than anything else, though their mouth tightens into a thin line and they give Frisk a warning shake of the head. Then, after a quick glance at the door- it's a very solid looking wooden one, and firmly shut- they tap one finger against their lips in a very clear "Shh" gesture.

Frisk quiets, turning their head around enough that their hair whips. The door? There's something important behind that door, they're sure, but what?

They put a hand up to their own face, a curled finger resting on their chin in perfectly puzzled gesture. They take no notice of the fact their hand is encased in the Tough Glove, now.

Chara flinches at the sudden movement, even if it's just of Frisk's head. When nothing happens they exhale, very quietly, and then reach over to touch Frisk's arm. Once they have the other child's attention they lean over and whisper some advice:

"Pretend you're a doll."

Chara then lowers their arm and leans back in their chair, mumbling, "It goes easier if you do."

A clacking noise, like shoes stepping over a hard surface, can suddenly be heard from behind the door, as if someone's puttering about.

"A doll?" Frisk's voice is soft. It has to be, their neck's encased in stitches all the way around. In contrast, their expression is anything but.

They're not a doll. They don't want to be a doll. Or a puppet, hisses Chara's voice in the back of their mind. A different Chara, a less-dusty Chara, a still-angry Chara.

The chair oozes beneath them, and they shudder. * Feels like an Amalgamate.

They keep their eyes on the door.

And maybe it's because it's them, even if it's a different them, but Chara hears themselves hissing too. Or maybe they're not as detached from Frisk as the thought. Either way, they press their lips together tightly, hoping that they didn't say anything out loud.

They wish they could ask what an "Amalgamate" is.

The clacking noise continues, moving back and forth in the space behind the door, before slowly coming to a stop.

"So," a new voice says, "You brought a guest."

There's stitches around their throat. There's stitches around their wrists. There's stitches around their elbows, around their knees, around their ankles. They itch. Frisk picks at them.

* I've got better to do.

This is...definitely true, but there's nowhere to go right now. They drum their feet on the floor as well as they can.

"Yes," they tell the voice through the door. "I'm F҉r҉i҉s҉k҉█҉█҉█҉█҉█҉."

* Be quiet. Chara thinks to themselves, somewhat desperately. * We can't move our body.

Frisk's voice sounds wrong, they notice. They don't know why, and they can't ask before the voice on the other side of the door airily responds: "Oh, what a unique name." And something about the honeyed emphasis on unique makes it feel as though something slimy is crawling down Chara's neck and spine.

And then- one moment, nothing's there, and then the next, Chara's mother has clipped through the door like a video game glitch, no opening or closing necessary, and she's standing at the head of the table.

She's impossibly tall and smooth looking, with the tidiest hair and clothes, and she has a pair of luminous brown eyes that are big and round like an owl's, too big for her face. In her hands, she carries an empty wooden bowl. Frisk might notice the way that Chara shrinks back in their chair when they see it.

Chara's mother doesn't look at Chara, however. The first thing looks at Frisk, and specifically, Frisk's hands.

"Take that off," she says. "Chara, what have I told you about gloves at the table? It's not that hard to remember."

Frisk and their Chara don't hear, it seems, but they're quiet anyway, staring at the woman. The outside-Chara's reaction is noted, but they're a little more focused on those eyes. They look...fake.

They ignore her tone, focus on the words, and give her a polite--if strained--smile. "Yeah. It is. I m͜͠a̧̡͠d̸̡̨̧́ę̀͜ it." Spelled it, shaped it, wrote over the kid that Frisk used to be. They'd met more than one kid with the name their mom and dad gave them, but they'd never met another Frisk.

Everything about this woman looks fake. Maybe she's made of plastic--maybe that's why Chara wants them to act like a doll, so this doll thinks they're the same. Like a lot of monsters mistook them for a monster too.

They tear their eyes from the fake woman's and glance around, deciding this entire house is a doll's house--no, a puppet theater.

And it sounds like they've been given a role to play. So they're Chara now, huh. Okay.

* Smells like dead flowers.

Frisk-and-Chara look down, smile twitching into something a little more genuine. "Can't. It's important to the orange one," they tell her matter-of-factly. Plus it's been sewn into their skin, too, so they couldn't even if it wasn't important.

The eyes of Chara's mother roll up so hard the pupils are almost hidden, accompanied by a long-suffering sigh.

"Don't be difficult. It's just a glove."

She reaches across the table and sets the wooden bowl in front of the real Chara, ignoring the way the real Chara presses back in their seat, then reaches over to snatch up Frisk's wrist. Her nails are long and sharp and with an impatient noise Chara's mother sets to prying and clawing at the stitches.

* You should do something. Chara thinks. * Need to move... need to...

"It's important," they repeat, sounding just a little strained.

The stitches are tight, but her nails are up to the task. Frisk's lips pull back, teeth glittering in a grimace. The glove starts to loosen around the wrists, exposing something red.

Do something? "Like what," Frisk asks the air.

They rip their hand back. Literally. There's a tearing noise, and a bit more of the glove comes off, and that weird red is poking out like a flap of loose skin.

"You're just being ridiculous!" Chara's mother scolds them. "They're long gone, there's no reason to care!" Still digging, still clawing.

Chara grips onto the edge of the table. * You don't know! they think, * But you've got to! Or else-

They let out a yelp as Frisk's wrist rips open, and hasten to cover their mouth with their hand. Chara's mother twists towards them and frowns, her fingers still flexing. "Now look what you've done!" she says, "Why do you a͔̟̦͍ͅl͈͕̣̱̮̯w̹̗a̘y̪͓̬̟͉̝͚s̲̖͖ ̖̠͇̦̗̣͚h̲̖a͉̬͉͙̰̣v͓͇̞̥̳e̠ ̘̺t̹̪̭̻͎͍o ̯̩͓̣̞͖̖m̫̙͇a̞̖͔͍̹̤̫k̯͓̤e̱ ̬̘̮͚͖̣ͅs͓̠̱̳̹͈̳uc̻̦̦͚̯h̘̬ ̪̥̤̰͕̹a͈̹̪̝̱̓ͧ̆͛͊͗ ̮ͭ̿ͩͭb͈i̲͊̓̊ͬͬ̃g͇̺̥̺̱̪̈ͫ͌ͨ̂̚̚ ̒̊f̰͈̯̞̰u̹͚̣̮ͅs̼͎͓̃͐̇̃̃s̜̐́͋ ͕̬̜̭ͦͨ̌ͨ̏͑̓o̮̦̜͍̺̪ͅv͕ͤe͔̙̜̞̙ͅr͕̯͇̥͌ͭ̓ ̞̝ͣ͂͛͛̓E̝ͣ̐̓ͪ̓V̺̱̼͕̿̓ͦE̝͉̠͙ͦR̺̔ͭͩ̋̆͌͗Y͉͈̩̠̳͗T͕̮̟͔̼͇̪ͥ̚H̠͋͆ͧͬI̺̬̞͊̅ͯ͌ͯ͗N̗̙̜̩̺̔̓ͤĞ̳?͍̥̱͕͋͐͌͂ͪ͌ͅ"͇̗͚̟͈̰͋̓̍̄ͯͫ

With a sigh, Chara's mother gracefully drops into a chair at the head of the table. "Just be quiet and eat your dinner," she says.

The real Chara stares at their bowl. Small green plants are starting to sprout through it.

"Yes it is. It always is."

It occurs to them that they can struggle too late, glove and hand tearing and flaking, badly-sewn cloth and old peeling paint together at once.

What a nasty woman.

"I'm not hungry," Frisk says flatly, shaking what's left of their hand over the table until it finally drops off with the sound of torn tissue paper, and red spills out.

Not blood. Leaves. Everywhere. And they're left flexing the needles that made up the bones of it. Rude, making it all exposed like that.

Chara flinches at the sound, but manages to catch one of the leaves drifting past them before it falls onto the floor. They slip it into their pocket for safekeeping, and shoot a wary glance at the needles that are all that remains of Frisk's hand.

(Rude, perhaps. But it's only natural; your leaves always fall out eventually.)

Their mother, in the mean time, looks stern. "You can't leave until you finish your plate," she says, then suddenly looks at Chara- the real Chara. "Both of you."

Chara manages not to jump in their seat, and gives her a jerky nod. When they look back at their dish, the small green plants are starting to bloom with yellow blossoms.

* Not this again...

They risk a peek at Frisk; what did they get?

* You leave with the plate.

Frisk leaves with the plate.

Or starts to, standing up. Their plate looks like chipped china, but it feels the same as the rest of the room, oozing. Their fingertips sink into one side, their needles puncture the other, adding the scent of burnt meat to the already-filthy odor of the room, and they drop it.

All the bits of twisted metal on it rattle and spill out onto the table, grey gleaming dully in the room's light over their leaves. Mostly. Some of the pieces seem to have a label stuck to them. Looks like a soup can shoved into a grinder.

"I said you're not leaving."

Chara's mother stands up at about the same time that Frisk does. Chara, on the other hand, still isn't getting up, but they watch the plate puncture and spill its contents with wide red eyes and a wrinkled nose. (* You can feel your heart pounding in your throat.) Just what does Frisk think they're doing?

Whatever it is, Frisk had best do it fast, as Chara's mother is reaching for them once again, this time to grab at their hair.

It's weird, how this lady thinks she can control them--

Ow, ow, ow her nails scrape against their scalp. It's not the worst pain they've endured, but it's still unpleasant, especially with the sound it makes. Like dragging scissors through sackcloth.

* You return the favor.

Frisk reaches up and grabs her wrist with both of their hands, normal one encircling it, needle fingers puncturing her skin as easily as the plate's.

"I said I'm not hungry."

Warm white foam spills out of the puncture wounds in Chara's mother's wrist, (* Smells like mothballs.) and she shrieks at Frisk:

"Stop it! You're hurting me!"

...But she doesn't let go of Frisk either, continuing to wrestle with them and trying to force their head closer to their plate. And at the other end of the table Chara raises their arms in front of them, though they keep staring at Frisk and their mother with a tense face. They'd bolt if they could, but...

(The buttercups, at least, are momentarily forgotten thanks to the fight unfolding in front of them.)

Their nose wrinkles. Gross.

You're hurting me, and stupid, stupid, that makes them falter, just for a second, fingers and needles slipping loose.

Their head slams into the table. The metal rips through half their face, each individual edge making prolonged blade-through-cloth noises as it pierces their cheek and tongue.

* Tastes like copper and dirt. Chara sounds unsettlingly calm, now.

Frisk shoves their hands towards the woman's oversized eyes.

The ripping noises cut through the air, making the real Chara flinch. The metal tastes disgusting ( * Copper and dirt. ) and it feels even worse, ripping up Frisk's face the way it does. Chara reaches up to touch their own cheek, and there's a jolt of surprise at the smooth texture.

It's not quite as big as the shock that hits them when Frisk's hands fly up towards their mother's face.

There's a split second where their mother's eyes widen and then- a horrible scraping sound, and deep white scratch marks are gouged into their mother's eyes that Chara gasps at the sight of.

Their mother rears back, clutching her face, shrieking all the while, "YOU- you FREAK! Demon! Bitch!"

Cut through the air. Ha. Ha. Haha.

They leap and twist further from her grip, reeling at the noise of her eyes, and they barely notice when most of the metal stays embedded in their sackcloth flesh.

* She's a fake. Less real than even you.

"Dummy--" Frisk counters "--dummy, DUMMY. You're gross, gross, GROSS! SHITTY, SHITTY, SHITTY! FAKE, FAKE, FAKE--FAKE FACE FAKE FACE FAKE FACE!"

They whirl and start running, even with the floor squishing beneath their shoes and their legs wobbling far more than they should. "Go!" they shriek to the Chara outside of their head.

Edited 2016-08-11 01:21 (UTC)

Chara's mother continues yelling, but starts to make sobbing noises as Well. Clutching at her face, she lurches back further and begins to unsteadily circle around the able.

From the moment Frisk started screaming Chara's had their head ducked head, hands pressed against their ears. It takes a moment before Frisk's word really registers, but then Chara's head jerks back up.

"I-" they try to speak, before a sob from their mother cuts them off. (* God damn it!) How do they make Frisk understand...?

"Frisk-" Chara swallows hard. "Frisk, I can't-!"

Chara yanks their leg up, as far as it can go, banging their knee against the table in the process and shoving it back. The table slides across the floor with a wet noise, revealing what's keeping Chara in their chair: An iron shackle is wrapped around their ankle, and the chain attached is bolted to the floor beside their chair.

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She knew that moving here would be a bad idea. The school is too big and no one wants to be friends and her flowers are dying, why won't they stop dying?

Pink petals scatter like dust behind her, to be kicked and trampled by the overly neat and tidy shoes of the other kids. The flowers themselves are wrapped in plastic, clutched tightly against her chest, but visibly (eternally) wilting. Maybe it's because of the air. The air here tastes sickly sweet, somehow. She misses the smoke and the steam, and doesn't remember why.

The girl is taller than most of the children here, but she's still buffeted about like trash on a river. Staring around frantically, wondering where to go, Chara's backpack somehow seems like the only real thing in the world. And so she fights against the current to try and get to it, calling out: "Excuse me...excuse me!" Finally, reaching out almost to the limit, she manages to close a hand around the strap.

Chara notices the girl's ponytail first, the top of it swaying above the heads of the other children; then, the flowers scattering pink petals over the floor. She's different from the other children, Chara notices immediately, but they still avert their gaze. They have to keep their head down, they can't let anyone realize what they're up to.

So there's a lurch of sheer horror when they hear the girl calling out to them, so strong it feels as if the floor itself has shifted.

Chara turns and tries to walk quickly in the other direction, but the current of smiling faces is pressing up against them too, preventing them from moving fast enough to just evade the hand that wraps around the strap.

"What?!" they snap, yanking the backpack away from the girl.

Not a smart move, as it causes the thing inside the backpack to wriggle and make an audible whimpering noise. Chara hastily holds a hand in front of the backpack, as if that'll somehow hide the movements. Not just from the girl, but also the other children, who are starting to look towards them.

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[mingle] what's the dream and what's the reality?

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