Exploration Event: Neverwere

[lifeaftr_mods]

EXPLORATION EVENT: NEVERWERE

Who: Everyone!
What: Your wildest dreams come true!
When: May 15th to May 18th
Where: Ziziphus, those still on Ensō...and Mu
Warnings: Mark as needed!

Then Know That My Life Was Just a Killer Dream
You can find most of the information you need in the OOC info post! In the meantime, feel free to use this log as a catch-all for your dream worlds, as well as detailing your efforts to free one another. Whether they're on Ziziphus or Ensō at the time of the dreams' capture, your character is free to access as many dreams as you like, as the interlocking mental landscape allows for that sort of crossing over apropos of nothing. And time, of course, is very fluid in dreams - many days, months, and years can transpire in a matter of mere minutes.

Will you fight your way free from Ziziphus's vines or Mu's thrall, or are you content to die in your sleep?

Remember to let us know if your character dies during this event!

Event Timeline

[ ♆ ] May 15th: The vines make their move, ensnaring characters in ideal fantasy worlds
[ ♆ ] May 17th: The Storyteller will make contact with those they can, as well as issue information and a potential solution
[ ♆ ] May 18th: Those that have not freed themselves from the vines or from Mu will suffer a death

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LOGS ● OOC ● STORIES ● MAIN NAVIGATION

( CODED BY BOOTYCALL )

Comments

tim wright | ota | i'll match your formatting

[postictal]

[Timothy Wright drives to and from work, and on the way back from work, he stops at a garage sale and makes a hell of a discovery. He nearly trips over the doorstep in his haste when he pulls up outside the house and shoulders a brand new fucking banjo, used and discount price, as he jimmies the key in the lock and pushes the door open.]

[He's home.]

["Home" is somewhere indistinct, caught between rural and urban Alabama. "Home" is a house devoid of memories: an attic that Alex Kralie never descended from, a kitchen island that Jay was never half-slumped against, a rug that was never soaked in gasoline. Maybe you live there; maybe he grins when he enters the same room as you. Sometimes the phone rings, and he talks to his mom without any of the resentment one would smooth over an embittered family history. When he takes his meds, he takes them easily, and without fuss.]

[In this universe, Timothy Wright still doesn't and cannot drink, nor does he have any inclination to. But he has friends, and he goes out for drinks in a secluded corner of some dive bar that stinks of cheap faux leather booths and has some droning, horrible country-styled song blaring tinnily in the background. He has friends who don't mind if he drinks Pepsi instead of tequila shots, friends who scope out ideal venues that host open-mic nights that shouldn't exist in this part of the state, but do nonetheless. He has friends who can land paying gigs for a truly unremarkable garage-quality band.]

[In this universe, Timothy Wright smiles at you when he sees you, and he means it.]

t h e b a n d

[catpiper]

[Baseball practice ran late and she had to bust a tail to get to the concert on time. It had been on her calendar for days and days and their hellion of a coach decided, naturally, it must be today they practice until dusk. Any other time she'd be on board, but she's got places to be!! She's a busy gremlin!!

It's not a huge crowd she has to fight through to get to the front, weaving between the patrons on the floor and using her bag as some kind of adult buffer to make the openings larger for her to sneak through. It doesn't take long for her to reach her goal and-

They're already playing-singing the words to her favorite song that she eagerly mouths along, no matter how breathless she is from the run over here.

SUP TIM. YA GOTTA FAN.]

c:!!!!!

[postictal]

[It’s weird to have someone you could pretty much consider a fan, even if they’re not, by Tim’s personal standards, a very good or compelling group of musicians. But they do land gigs and people do listen to them, even if he’s yet to really puzzle out why.]

[Their bassist isn’t too good at his job - he makes a better lyricist than he does an actual performer, though he certainly tries hard enough to make things entertaining. Tim’s definitely not the best guitarist either, but he’s adaptable; he knows how to recover from a mistake and salvage what could be a doomed performance.]

[He catches a glimpse of her in the crowd, because who could miss the way the overhead lights glint off her silver hair? He grins his hello, which nearly throws him off time.]

[catpiper]

[It's silly to think he smiled at her of all people, but for a starstruck teen, that passing glance is enough to make her throw her arms in the air! He can see her, definitely. And she's geared up and ready to tell all her friends about how Tim looked at her.

You bet your ass she's going to stay through the whole set, mouthing along to every single song she knows.

The real mystery is when he's going to pull out the flute, which is a weird thought she shakes off the moment it surfaces. He's not a flutist, after all.]

[postictal]

['Scuse you, Ren, how many groupies do you think this shitty backwater band has? This shitty backwater band that somehow...ends up with paid gigs and performance nights that don't clash with his work shifts. It's a damn miracle, when you think of it like that.]

[You might be able to mistake their setlist for a small novel, with the way Jay does the titles: a bizarre blend of passive aggressive, youthful spite and tongue-in-cheek self-deprecation makes for hits such as Alex Told Me This Title Was Stupid So I Added More Words To It Instead or I Know Bigfoot is Real Because He's the Only One Who Ever Walks the Dog.]

[She seems happy. He does something between songs that he knows, technically, small-town bands don't have much call to do, but has seen happen in plenty of live performances in the past. In this universe, Tim is no less of an introvert, but in this universe, he had a life from day one.]

[He holds up a guitar pick, the finish shining beneath the lights, and hopes it'll be enough to telegraph his intention before he tosses it to her.]

[piercetheheart]

Unremarkable garage-quality band!?

How dare you? Clearly they are the absolute best in the state and his bro is going to totally hook them up because he heard about this gig through a friend of his tattoo artist's. It's going to be awesome and Tim rolls in with his new banjo to find Gladio chilling in the kitchen, pages of music splayed out on the table, a fresh bottle of glacier cola in hand.

Does he live there? No. But y'know when you're bros it's totally cool to show up and drink their soda until they get home, obviously. And Tim wouldn't be surprised because this happens all the time, at least for the months between deployments and besides Gladio's motorcycle is pretty damn conspicuous parked out front and all.

"Tim!" An excited grin and a flyer for a battle of the bands being shoved into his hands greet him as soon as he gets home.

[postictal]

Something about the self-deprecating slant seems to work. It's for the best that someone in this band has a little more self-respect than the average guy. Gladio's got the tattoo-clad badass biker look and plays drums like an animal, which makes it hard, at times, for someone like Tim to understand why someone so objectively cool would bother with a music nerd just south of "freak" and a little west of "hipster."

The motorcycle's a telltale sign that the place isn't empty when Tim nudges the door open, and he actually grins once he actually gets a handle on what it is he's looking at.

"Battle of the bands," he reads, which only has one connotation that can't be right, because that would imply they're actually, uh. Good? "You set your sights high, huh?"

[piercetheheart]

Tim, c'mon dude, you wound him.

"We can definitely rock this." He claps a hand on Tim's shoulder, urging him to come along with him into the kitchen. "I've been going through songs. Trying to decide which ones we should do." Because there's so many options, right?

Why wouldn't they know a ton of songs? Why would Gladio know any songs? Wait-

[postictal]

“You sure? ‘Cause I think this flyer says they only want good bands, and...” He trails off, but there’s no hiding the right-handed smirk that cuts one side of his face as he shakes his head and slouches into the kitchen after. “How’d you hear about this, anyway? Kinda higher profile than a house party or a dive bar.”

Even in a fantasy, Tim can’t help but play the cynic. It’s what he’s best at.

starbucks joke

[thejaw]

[Brian's always just sort of drifted.

He cruised through high-school, with average grades and average parents and a friend group as widely spread as it was distant. He cruised through jobs, too, always a perfectly decent and dependable employee, but never the guy who went up for promotion. Every aspect of his life has been like that; acceptable and average, and he expected it to continue that way.

And then it didn't.

He found a course, one that grabbed him beyond a fleeting interest. Work is still just work, but it feels so much more purposeful now that he knows what he's saving for. Most importantly- he found people that mean something to him. Friends that do more than eat his food and break his shit and pat him on the back. Friends that actually care enough to know him.

A friend he's glad to share space with.

Now he has cupboards full of mugs that don't belong to him and there's a half empty packet of cigarettes on his (their) dining room table, a rickety thing they picked up off the side of the road, standing in a house that actually, really feels like home.

He grins back as Tim steps inside, shoving his schoolwork to the side. It can wait. (He can't remember what it was about. Which is weird, but he probably just needs sleep.) He has all the time in the world.]

Woah. We have a new roommate?

[They'll call him Banjo Kazooie]

Oh My God They Were Roommates

[postictal]

[There’s this uncanny sense of relief when he steps over the threshold and Brian grins from the couch. Which is weird, because he’s lived with Brian for a while now (how long?) and he’s usually home by the time Tim gets back from work or class. Or, in this case, a minor detour.]

[His latest acquisition isn’t polished, isn’t pretty, is actually fairly worn and battered at the edges. But the parts all work, and the tone he could coax out from the banjo in question was beautiful.]

Hey, shut up, [says Tim, mock offended.] There was a garage sale on the way home and it was a steal, okay?

[thejaw]

No, for real, I'm totally cool with it. But they're not taking my room, right?

[He continues to tease, pushing the joke further than he'd have the confidence to do with near anyone else. He doesn't have to be careful of his footing with Tim. He trusts him.

He trusts him. Of course he does. Why does that taste so sour in his mouth?

Brian frowns a little and looks down at his hands.]

Hey, uh- you staying in tonight? Wanna hang out?

[Chances are Tim is almost definitely staying in, but Brian doesn't wanna be that asshole that assumes.]

[postictal]

[Is he? He can’t imagine why he wouldn’t be. He doesn’t have class, he doesn’t have work - it’s jinda amazing that no schedule conflicts exist currently, huh? For the moment, Tim deposits his newest acquisition on top of an amp that’s just kind of parked near the door, as though planning to go some place.]

[He rolls his shoulders in a shrug and straightens.]

Sure. What’d you have in mind?

let's say in a bar!

[onegreeneye]

[The fact that Ginko moves around so much is all the more reason to make sure to stop by places like this on the occasions that he's in town; even if nobody he knows is there this time around, it's worth checking.

This time around, he's lucky. He heads right for Tim when he catches sight of him, lifting a hand to wave before he even reaches him.] Hey, Tim.

[postictal]

[It's easy to remember someone with hair like that in Alabama - but he doesn't stand out in any undue fashion, regardless. Tim waves his greeting with a glass of coke from his table in the corner. He does best like this: sticking to the sidelines, with an unfiltered access to the lives of others without needing to concern himself with his own.]

[Unless you count the odd friend he's made.]

What're you doing here this time of day, buddy?

[onegreeneye]

[Sticking to the sidelines sounds good to Ginko - but he's pretty sure Tim's better at it, honestly.]

Just looking for some company while I'm around. Mind if I sit?

[postictal]

[Tim opens a hand at the seat opposite himself in a universal "be my guest" kind of gesture, sliding his chair slightly back to allow for a clear path.]

Hey, go for it. Just killing time, myself.

what, me? late? psh

[achievementhunter]

[In this dream, Timothy Wright does not live alone. It was chance (or perhaps just friends who can land paying gigs for truly unremarkable garage bands) that had Tim straying a little further from home, for once; a gig opening for some relatively niche band that would play relatively anywhere.

A last-minute decision to hike up the local mountain (haunted, the locals said- and how could Jay resist sticking his nose into something like that?) ensured that their meeting was... eventful, to say the least.

Four years and one hell of an adoption process later, Chara was doing- better. Gone was the knife under their pillow, even if they still had one stashed away in their bedside table. Hoarding was infrequent and strictly non-perishable in nature. They'd even caught up to their preferred year level in school... though whether that matched their actual age or not was anyone's guess. If they were doing it all online anyway, Chara had reasoned, it hardly mattered.

Also the garden is fantastic now sorry Tim I don't make the rules.

They're chilling on the couch when he comes in, almost gangly form covered by black tights and yet another of Tim's checkered shirts. They may very well be close to several growth spurts, but for the moment, this kid (his kid) is barely a few inches taller than when he found them on the mountain, stretching out and letting their head drape over the edge of the couch cushion to return his grin with an upsidedown one of their own.]

Your mother called. [They say, in lieu of a greeting.] She said to call her back about July 4th.

Jesus fucking Christ slaughter me why don’t you

[postictal]

[In this universe, Timothy Wright, you get your shit together. Not purely because you have a reserve of energy that doesn’t exist in reality, but because you were lucky enough to catch someone a split second before they made the fatal decision to take two steps forward and go plummeting off the edge.]

[In this universe, a child ends up being your responsibility instead of the mere appearance of one.]

Did she? [He sets a worn looking banjo atop an amp parked near the door and leans against the wall, his expression simultaneously dry and undeniably fond in a way that has far too often undermined what should be straightforwardly deadpan delivery.] And was there anything in the voicemail greeting that may have given her a small heart attack?

you're welcome! <3

[achievementhunter]

[Their expression immediately shifts into wide-eyed innocence. The sort of look he may recognize from some of its more classic uses, such as that time Chara attempted to hide a slice of mud cake beneath their bed, promptly forgetting about it for three months. Or the time they poisoned the neighbor's front lawn for mowing it at a beyond stupid hour of the morning, Tim. They were practically begging for this.]

Of course not. [At first. Their calm greeting and advice that they and Tim cannot answer the phone right now being interrupted by a, if you ask them, historically accurate pterodactyl screech was hardly anything to lose sleep over.] That said, when I wrote down her message I may have accidentally erased the voicemail, my apologies.

[No, really. They're truly sorry.


They didn't know she could swear like that and they pressed it accidentally when laughing.]

[postictal]

[Given the fact that he's certain the neighbors already have a bitterly low opinion of him as it is - he's at least ninety percent sure that all of them independently came to the conclusion that he was an escaped mental patient of some kind or another and are simply waiting for the opportunity to prove it - he can hardly fault Chara for taking the matter into their own hands. And given that he's certain that his neighbors' opinion of him can't sink any lower, he was hardly about to do anything about it. Besides laugh, maybe, coupled with the calm (if slightly smug) pronouncement that you can't exactly prove it, now, can you?]

[You know, he thinks he's better off not knowing the specifics. But he's willing to take a small guess.]

Well, the neighbors already think I'm crazy, so I don't think hearing that helped any.

[And doesn't he just sound so torn up about it?]

roomies!!

[proficienciesouttheass]

[ What's Alabama? Why does this house look kind of weird? Where's--

Magnus is totally not trying to shove his new food monstrosity - a hot pocket sandwich, compromised of two hot pockets with a layer of peanut butter in-between - in his mouth before Tim comes home. That thing is definitely not still in his hand.

What are hot pockets

He spots the banjo pretty quick.]

Oh, sick. Is it jamboree time?

[postictal]

It can be.

[The rest of the day is open and free for him to do exactly that, as far as he can tell. Work shifts slid by in a blur, and now he's got however long he wants to actually try out the new addition to his collection. The collection that is already far larger than is practical, contains far more instruments than he'll ever have time for, but fuck it - it's his choice.]

[He wrinkles his nose slightly at the smell - bread and meat and peanut butter - one corner of his mouth pinching in mild but amused horror.]

Man, what were you eating in here?

[proficienciesouttheass]

[ Here's the thing. The Hot Pockets thing was a mistake. In reality, they were meant to be Poptarts, but the voice of god got that wrong, and they turned out to be Hot Pockets. But the food abomination is still very much at Magnus level, so Hot Pockets it is.

Magnus glances down at the thing and casually, just, just attempts to move it out of sight.]

Nothing. Normal stuff. [ Don't look at him.]

Where'd you get that?

[postictal]

[Yeah, he kinda doubts that it's normal stuff, but he's also more devoted to keeping the contents of his stomach than he is in solving that little mystery, so he willingly and with great relief lets it slide. He holds up his newest acquisition proudly instead, a slightly battered but nonetheless functional banjo.]

Garage sale. Someone was just selling it for fifty bucks, and it worked, so...c'mon, I had to.

[He has absolutely no reason to continue to hoard instruments, and yet, he continues to do so.]