lonelysmiles (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lonelysmiles) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dreamcrystals2024-05-10 03:00 pm
lonelysmiles) wrote in dreamcrystals2024-05-10 03:00 pm
Passive Dream Recording: This Place Reeks of Death
Sender: Alastor
To: Everyone
Which: Passive dream recording
Warnings: Implied character deaths
Alastor clutches at his bleeding chest with one hand, his broken microphone cane in the other. All around him is The Wasteland as far as the eye can see.
"It's just farther than I remember. I was distracted by the chase. If I just keep going this way, I'll hit it sooner or later." A pause. "Hopefully later."
The ground beneath his feet is freshly-blackened. It crunches ominously beneath his feet. He should have seen some evidence of the quaint not-so-little town by now or at least the forest surrounding it, and he knows it.
Clank! His foot steps on something metal instead of earthen.
Alastor freezes before looking down, using the toe of his shoe to sweep some of the dirt away from the metal protruding from the ground.
He drops to his knees and begins digging out the metal, the twisted, melted remains vaguely resembling the radio antenna that Alastor had insisted be designed to match the town's aesthetics rather than be the ugly scaffolding of his world.
This is all that's left of the radio station that had been on the edge of Reverein, but all around him for miles and miles is more nightmare energy-riddled Wasteland.
The noctaere circle closer as the Radio Demon screams.
To: Everyone
Which: Passive dream recording
Warnings: Implied character deaths
Alastor clutches at his bleeding chest with one hand, his broken microphone cane in the other. All around him is The Wasteland as far as the eye can see.
"It's just farther than I remember. I was distracted by the chase. If I just keep going this way, I'll hit it sooner or later." A pause. "Hopefully later."
The ground beneath his feet is freshly-blackened. It crunches ominously beneath his feet. He should have seen some evidence of the quaint not-so-little town by now or at least the forest surrounding it, and he knows it.
Clank! His foot steps on something metal instead of earthen.
Alastor freezes before looking down, using the toe of his shoe to sweep some of the dirt away from the metal protruding from the ground.
He drops to his knees and begins digging out the metal, the twisted, melted remains vaguely resembling the radio antenna that Alastor had insisted be designed to match the town's aesthetics rather than be the ugly scaffolding of his world.
This is all that's left of the radio station that had been on the edge of Reverein, but all around him for miles and miles is more nightmare energy-riddled Wasteland.
The noctaere circle closer as the Radio Demon screams.
no subject
Might be so. Or perhaps they anticipated us to have more pleasant dreams than we do?
no subject
If that's the case, then whatever pulled us here had an odd idea of who might accomplish that.
[Even without him and Maedhros, the number of child soldiers Alastor has met here is disturbing.]
no subject
You do have a point with that. There seems to be a lot of people arriving here from less than ideal circumstances...
[Maedhros himself has met two of them, which in his humble opinion is two too many. Children should not be fighting wars, they should be protected from them.]
no subject
Quite the understatement, my good fellow.
no subject
Yes... it certainly does seem like it might be. It does make one wonder about what it is about us that draws us here, yes? That is, of course, assuming it is not just random chance.