Ashke
Bluelighter
There was a post in the chill room about writing stories while rolling or tripping.. When I'm on drugs I don't typically think to sit down and write, because I like interaction with people on these drugs usually, but a great combination I've found is tripping while I roleplay!
I thought I'd share a log with you all so you can see what I mean. My character is Trace, this little 16 year old artist kid who's living in this lady's mansion (Ligeia) while he finishes a painting for her. Since I was tripping, I had Trace tripping in this scene too. This is a World of Darkness MUSH, and there's something spooky about the house and Ligeia herself, but I haven't figgered it out yet. Julien's just... dunno, some friend of Liggy's that was over at the time.
Heh, I WAS kind enough to warn Ligeia's player that I was on some pretty intense mental hallucingens before we started the scene. She said it should prove interesting. Anyway, here's how it turned out...
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Log Title: Dragons and Chairs
Setting: ~~* Master Bedchamber -- Maison Orphee *~~
Log Cast:
Ligeia
Julien
Trace
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The sharp childtone that reaches you is muffled through the door, the fear-shrill cry softened as though the portal itself wished to wrap smooth, warm oakan years around it, comfort this youthful and ethereal sound of fright. And after the silver bolt of sound, a long and stretching silence, and the softest jostle of the door itself. You can probably sense it, if the soft scuffle of bare feet on stone doesn't tell the tale of his movements. A presence pressed against your chamber door, trembling there, a hand held over the knob. Hot fingers brush the cooler spherical surface of the knob, but do not turn it. Torn, Trace stands and wars fear against whatever humiliation might be waiting should he choose to step through and admit that sometimes even big boys get scared of the dark.
Realizing she's bogarting the brandy, if the term 'bogarting' -can- be properly attached to the hording of booze, Ligeia startles by her rudeness and passes the amber nectar over to you. "I envy you a bit there," Ligeia confesses, so quietly as to suggest she'd rather not be admiting that. "I don't think I could-- well, I -know- I couldn't just surrender my body to anyone with a fat purse. But that you =can=, says something about you." Not what others might say either, based on her tone whilst imparting this. Again, there's a reverent nuance when speaking of your profession. "I don't know how to explain it. Everything has an eggregor of energy attached to it and I learn from the alchemy I practice that all things, no matter what, when distilled down to their most recondite of essences, serve some greater purpose, and--" Hark! And what was that? Despite how entrenched in her musings she might be, Ligeia's mother's ear instantly triggers to the timid sound lurking about around the threshold of her boudoir. It's a flashing of eyes, a sharp turn of Classical chin, the piqued awareness of a mother gator who heard her nestlings peep in alarm from the reeds. "Jeremy...?" Well, naturally she'd assume that first. "'Scuse me," is whispered to Julien as she rises and pads to the doors.
Julien simply mumbles, as Ligeia slips up and away, "Its not about the money." Its such a simple statement.. isn't it? He swirls the brandy and takes a decent drink while he quietly waits on the fainting couch where he's sprawled out to see who it is raptaptapping on the chamber door.
But it's not Jeremy, nor even a raven scratching about beyond Ligeia's bedroom door. Your approach ingnites another soft scurry of movement outside, a hush of footpads scrambling beneath the very tiny sound of his whimper. As the door sweeps open, the light falls on Trace's fragile figure crouching, bone-slender arms wrapped tight around his knees, grimy hands digging into blue ropes of hair. Curled and fetal, half leaning against the wall but with a poised look as though he's readying himself to flee blindly past into the dark hallways, away from whatever he might have summoned with his pitiful scritchings at the door. But there's sanity in there somewhere, and it struggles to wade up from the bright animal fear in those hazel eyes as he shakily lifts his head to take in the both of you and try and make sense of what he sees. Who knows how long he's been flinging himself through the cold stone walkways and passages riddling the Maison, and yet even as accustomed as his eyes must be to this velvet-thick darkness, he meets the gold light that pours towards him with a pair of white, wild, widened eyes that eerily do not so much as flinch.
A glance is shot back at Julien, Ligeia's brow tugging tightly a moment after his simple statement, marking her frustration. That wasn't what she meant to imply. Still, no time to defend it, as that meek fumbling rap at her door rearranged the woman's priorites in an abracadabra instant. Fresh air pours into the chamber, sending the incense smoke into great curling spirals that form faces and chimerical protean images as swiftly as clouds might filmed flowing across the sky in timelapsed photography. Both slim slivers of brow hitch up as she takes in Trace's cowering countenance, surprised to see the boy there. Rapid deduction insues, the gentle examination of his startled and slightly feral demeanor, the too-bright eyes, and at the end of it her lips curl into a tender smile. "Well, well. Lucky Morgan, me. To have both first my Lancelot and now my Parcival visit my sanctum in the same evening." Soothing tone. "C'mon in, Trace. We're just talking. You're welcome." No questions yet as to why he seems so pensive. Maybe she's hoping her words might've distracted.
Julien's eyes light upon Trace there in the doorway and his posture rights at once; still comfortable but farless sprawled than before as if the movement indicates some sort of displacement of emotion. "Hi," he interjects just incase the young man doesn't notice him right off there on the couch as a person instead of an ornament which is pleasing to the eye. He takes another drink of the liquid nirvana in his brandy snifter as feet uncross and recross at the ankles. Trace is given the once-over about four times; empathy boy seems in high gear tonight.
At first the frightened boy in the hallway only stares at Ligeia with those wide, haunted eyes. This new flood of confusion that spreads across his features is blankly innocent and lost, as though she may as well have delievered her smooth words in Portuguese for all the comprehension and recognition it inspired. And slowly, with a painstaking effort he seems to draw out of his huddle, as the words seem to trickle a quite belated understanding. His name is Parcival? This thought triggers a thousand on its tail, all delivered in the space of a heartbeat, thoroughly explored and rejected. If he truly is this Parcival, what's become of his memory, and what kind of name is that,and didn't he read it the legend once in his fathers old books, and what if he's trapped in a book and Lancelot and Ligeia here are... Ligeia? He grasps at the flash of recogintion, a word that goes with a face that goes with woman standing in front of him who is entirely not the Morgan of some fairy book tale. He uses the recogintion as a rope to pull himself free of this shattered conciousness he's drowning in. All this turmoil in the span of a few seconds; any wonder that his sense of time is so distorted, with that many thoughts cramming for space in so short a time? Just a second's pause, a wild flash in those eyes, and then he darts past and into the bedroom, scrambling over to the fireplace and pausing there, his slender chest heaving wearily. He looks to the both of you, slowly steeling himself, working so hard to find words and pour them into molds of logic. He almost says something, but it's caught up into an indrawn breath, eyes darting as though he caught movement at the corner of his eye. His gaze falls on the snarling head of the bear rug, and his drawn breath is let out in a half-gasped shriek.
Whoa! A blue streak coursing through her room. Wow! For many seconds, Ligeia can only blinkety-blink after the sparrow-boned boy as he jetisons into her widdle domain and turns himself into a fleshly amorini to flank one side of her fireplace. Heavens. A quizzical glance is sent to Julien, her aforementioned Lancelot. See what happens when one talks too much about make-believe? An obviously fucked-up young man arrives on the doorstep who, by all appearances, is definately frolicking in his own realm of fancy right now. She lets the doors drift closed again and wanders in Trace's direction, bending down in a crouch to scritch at the head of her bearskin rug. "This is Arthur, Trace." Well. The bear's name -is- Arthur. "He won't hurt you. He's really a very friendly beast. And if it makes you feel better about seeing him so..." Erm. "...flat, well, he took my father's right leg from the knee down before he got this way." She pats her bear's head again as if it could hear her with its own manitou. Nice bear. Good bear.
Julien's perceptions on the matter at hand of Trace's oddities toward the innert object which once was a bear are kept to himself save for a quiet smile. "I should be going, Ligeia.." he whispers, soft. "I have classes first thing in the morning." He stands and walks toward the bedroom door with the telegraphed pace of a master choreography- no fast movements, no sudden directional changes- Trace can keep him in his sights at every turn. "Thank you for a wonderful and enlightening evening.." he murmurs, adding, "..as always."
Trace keeps wide eyes on the grizzled maw for several more long moments, and it may seem as though again he was unable to grasp any comprehension from her voice, but slowly he licks his lips and shifts his eyes to her. His voice, when he speaks, is wholly uncertain and sounding unfamiliar in the hollow of his own ear. To you gathered round it is still the youthful drawl that has always claimed the boy, but shuddering and lanced through with the thick mason-dixon Missisippi drawl he typically tries so hard to school from his voice. "H-he... he gobbles legs then he cain't be too fren'ly...." He flinches, looking away from the beast, and chirps out in defiance, "All raht, all raht, ah see. S'jesta rug. S'jesta..." But he's still not looking at it, and perhaps the chant is infact his little attempt at an incantation that might make this particular rug behave and stop doing snarling, grasping, snapping, un-rug-like things. He casts his gaze elsewhere, up at Julien, an image that streaks his mind with contradicting images of leather and literature, but he's retreating, slipping away as quickly as Trace had burst in. Why? He searches his mind as he watches the student duck out into the hallway, and can only conceive of one possibility. Indeed, the blue-haired boy finds himself even taking vague, dazed comfort in the fact that he's not the only one scared of the rug.
Julien departs the bedchamber, wisps of incense smoke stealing out into the gallery.
Oh, great! The only one in the room who can actually boast to have experience in psychology by way of a degree in the making, is leaving. Some Lancelot Julien is. Hrmph! Ligeia straightens up, a grumble on her brow, albeit only a faint one, to bid Julien adieu. "I enjoyed it, Julien. Come back and see me again before I get the chance to miss you." A wiggle of fingers capstones her words as he drifts out the doors, once again sending swirls of smoke from the brazier to undulate crazily. Then, back to you, lip sucked to her teeth as she ponders. "So what great adventure finds you tonight, my dear?" Best way to inquire, 'What in the hoolies are you -on-?'. She pads light of foot to the back of the slain and gutless ursine sprawled out on the floor and settles down cross-legged atop it's soft-furred back, watching you gently with her glittering blue eyes.
Trace is being inattentive at first, and staring a bit rudely, trying to reconcile himself with the impossible image of serene Ligeia settled atop this writhing beast of a so-called-rug, watching the sea of warm brown fur ripple and lick restlessly against the black contours of her leotard-clad legs. He shakes himself as though to brush off the hypnosis of it, but still looks somewhat uneasy and tries politely not to notice her squirmy bear friend as he speaks. "Ah was... ah was gunna 'splore some. Ah was gonna be quiet, weren't pokin nowhere ah shouldn' been. Ah din' mean to-to bust in on you..." You see, he's fine. Kids do that, alright? They wander around and explore their new surroundings. What bear? His eyes flash, so skitterish, bouncing from your face, to the bear, to the smoky drapings over your bed, billowing and sulferous. It's still burning, that glint that behind the confusion and the jumble of thoughts, someone IS still home in there. And it is with this flash of remaining wits that he now searches your gaze tentatively for any hint of reprimand.
No reprimand is forthcoming from the house marm. Ligeia simply observes you for a time in silence with concern that slightly fades a bit in the pale jewels of her eyes as you show signs of cognizance. "That's fine, Trace," she assures you, propping her elbows up on her knees, creating a net of fingers between them for her chin to rest in. "The castle is large and begs for exploration sometimes, and you didn't disturb me." Her boots were shed in the name of comfort hours ago, and naked toes tipped with a triangular pedicure that gives her toenails the look of petite little claws painted in a gunmetal-hued polish to match the nacre of her hair, curl into the downy hide of the bear she's roosted on. "Did something scare you?" Inquired because of the timid scratchings at her door earlier, which hinted in many ways of a child's prickling fear of the boogeyman. Goodness knows this large place makes wretched sounds of complaint as it settles into the bog at night. Jason must be otherwise occupied, else surely you would have gone to him had you been startled or tripping badly. As it stands though, Ligeia can't help but smile a bit over you having come to her as second choice.
That's.... fine? Of course he expected reprimand. The tragic startlement that is dashed across Trace's young face when he realizes that it's not coming gives proof enough of that. Were he fully in command of himself, surely the next few steps of normal thought process would remind him of your previous kindness to him, would point out no prior show of violence from you, ect, ect, simple tasks to undo the unfortunate basic programming he's been dealt: that a protector has every right to strike hard for crimes like disobedience, disrespect, and apparantly even minor tresspass. And yet you look at him now, stripped down to near instinct, and he blinks and regards you as though his own puzzlement were now truly holding more of his attention than the seething Arthur. Finally he meets your gaze, brave and bold as the timid little boy can manage, He regards you, and then very slowly creeps closer and huddles up into a ball of knees and knobby elbows when he can't make himself clamber onto that shifting, chestnut expanse of fur. Silent for a long time, but when he does speak he's dropped the tone he'd used before. He's not going to toss out any more excuses as to why he was prowling around and jumping at shadows. Rather than dodge trouble, he now leans forward and explains with the wide eyes of a child telling his neighbors an urban legend that is Entirely All True, though nothing jovial in his serious moss-and-earth eyes as he whispers, "Your house... just has... a darkness. Sometimes I think it's neat, and I want to look closer, but tonight it frightened me. I felt..." His eyes drop, considering, and then he looks up and decides almost meekly, "chased. So I ran." And did he escape it? His eyes trace a nervous glance around the perimeter of the room, as though suddenly uncertain that he had eluded it afterall.
"Every place has a darkness, Trace," Ligeia replies mildly, her tone tinged with the pleasant chime a mom's might when she begins a 'Once Upon a Time' story next to the bed of a child settling down to slumber. "There can be no light without a shadow. But there's nothing here for you to be afraid of. Perhaps, you know, you might have been only startled by your -own- shadow, Trace?" In every way playing on the old 'scared of your own shadow' allegory. She scooches closer, reaching the hem of the bearskin and settling fluidly into the same posture she was in before, save for a reach into the turquoise fronds of your blue hair with one set of fingers for a soothingly maternal stroke of locks. She watches as your eyes skitter about her bedroom, following your gaze as it ping-pongs off of various decorative embellishments. "There's nothing here that can harm you, nor anything that would want to. If you take a moment to stare into the darkness when it spooks you, images will come clear and reveal themselves for what they truly are. In this way ogres become teddybears and dragons become chairs." Crystalline blue peers down into calico hazel, her smile ever softly somnulent.
"Dragons... become chairs?" Trace had been listening, nodding a little at patient adult logic, even as he set his mouth into the necessary 'I'm getting lectured' vague sulk. But those last words of yours throw a wrench into all, as he works this new concept over. Eyes cloud entirely with thought, and one might think him slow to comprehend the words, but it's really the meticulous study of this concept, and the creation and rejection of countless responses, and fears, and concerns, all of them flickering flashes of glitter and shadow in his still dancing, skittish eyes. When he finally speaks, it's faultering and slow with too much care, afraid to fumble and betray all the thousands of thoughts he somehow strung into coherancy just for you. "Why... would you ever do that?" His nose wrinkles, but the second time he asserts himself he's no longer tossing it about in his spin cycle of a mind, and the words are a touch more sure of himself. "Why? I would rather have dragons in my life than chairs." He tips his head a little to the side, and adds shyly, "Scared or not." A glance is cast over his shoulder, watching warily for signs that whatever was persuing him won't try and slime their way in here. "Ah nevva said ah wanted..." He stops, checking himself, and continues a bit more stiffly, peeking up, "I never wanted the darkness gone. I just wanted to look closer." He eyes you warily. You're not gonna flip on that light, right? No, get that nightlight the fuck outta here, mom. It's against the rules to tell Trace that the magic in his world is smoke and mirror tricks, and that he was only frightened tonight because he decided he was brave enough to dose himself generously with hallucinigens and skulk around a spooky castle until its boggy creaks and groans, grey shadows and cobwebs, had properly scared the piss out of him.
Flip on the light? Cha, right. Never mind there aren't any electrical lights in Ligeia's room save for the mandatory fixtures in the bathroom that allow for better scrutiny of her face peering into it and keep her from nicking her legs when she shaves them. "Then why'd you run away?" Ligeia counters. Yeah, Mr. Big Shot Face-The-Creepies. One mother-of-pearl wisp of brow spocks high on her forehead. "How can you look closer at the darkness if you're fleeing from it? You have eyes in the back of your head or something that I don't know about?" Her arms cross in a stance of playful challenge, eyes hooding in expectation of your answer, even as she watches your shoulders tense with the fret that some miasma of Gigerish eeriness is going to stealth it's way into her boudoir. "I was only trying to reassure you. If any monsters try to come after you whilst you're in here, I'll gobble them up for my breakfast. Mmm-mmm." She brandishes a toothy grin then. Yummy. Monster frichassee. "I won't eat your dragons though. I promise. I rather fancy dragons. This house is built on the back of one, in fact. How else do you suppose that a castle keeps from sinking in the swamp? Perhaps what you've been hearing groaning and growling all night has been the dragon beneath us rolling about in her sleep. I hope you didn't wake her up." She flutters a wink at you.
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[This message has been edited by Ashke (edited 13 February 2000).]
I thought I'd share a log with you all so you can see what I mean. My character is Trace, this little 16 year old artist kid who's living in this lady's mansion (Ligeia) while he finishes a painting for her. Since I was tripping, I had Trace tripping in this scene too. This is a World of Darkness MUSH, and there's something spooky about the house and Ligeia herself, but I haven't figgered it out yet. Julien's just... dunno, some friend of Liggy's that was over at the time.
Heh, I WAS kind enough to warn Ligeia's player that I was on some pretty intense mental hallucingens before we started the scene. She said it should prove interesting. Anyway, here's how it turned out...
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Log Title: Dragons and Chairs
Setting: ~~* Master Bedchamber -- Maison Orphee *~~
Log Cast:
Ligeia
Julien
Trace
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The sharp childtone that reaches you is muffled through the door, the fear-shrill cry softened as though the portal itself wished to wrap smooth, warm oakan years around it, comfort this youthful and ethereal sound of fright. And after the silver bolt of sound, a long and stretching silence, and the softest jostle of the door itself. You can probably sense it, if the soft scuffle of bare feet on stone doesn't tell the tale of his movements. A presence pressed against your chamber door, trembling there, a hand held over the knob. Hot fingers brush the cooler spherical surface of the knob, but do not turn it. Torn, Trace stands and wars fear against whatever humiliation might be waiting should he choose to step through and admit that sometimes even big boys get scared of the dark.
Realizing she's bogarting the brandy, if the term 'bogarting' -can- be properly attached to the hording of booze, Ligeia startles by her rudeness and passes the amber nectar over to you. "I envy you a bit there," Ligeia confesses, so quietly as to suggest she'd rather not be admiting that. "I don't think I could-- well, I -know- I couldn't just surrender my body to anyone with a fat purse. But that you =can=, says something about you." Not what others might say either, based on her tone whilst imparting this. Again, there's a reverent nuance when speaking of your profession. "I don't know how to explain it. Everything has an eggregor of energy attached to it and I learn from the alchemy I practice that all things, no matter what, when distilled down to their most recondite of essences, serve some greater purpose, and--" Hark! And what was that? Despite how entrenched in her musings she might be, Ligeia's mother's ear instantly triggers to the timid sound lurking about around the threshold of her boudoir. It's a flashing of eyes, a sharp turn of Classical chin, the piqued awareness of a mother gator who heard her nestlings peep in alarm from the reeds. "Jeremy...?" Well, naturally she'd assume that first. "'Scuse me," is whispered to Julien as she rises and pads to the doors.
Julien simply mumbles, as Ligeia slips up and away, "Its not about the money." Its such a simple statement.. isn't it? He swirls the brandy and takes a decent drink while he quietly waits on the fainting couch where he's sprawled out to see who it is raptaptapping on the chamber door.
But it's not Jeremy, nor even a raven scratching about beyond Ligeia's bedroom door. Your approach ingnites another soft scurry of movement outside, a hush of footpads scrambling beneath the very tiny sound of his whimper. As the door sweeps open, the light falls on Trace's fragile figure crouching, bone-slender arms wrapped tight around his knees, grimy hands digging into blue ropes of hair. Curled and fetal, half leaning against the wall but with a poised look as though he's readying himself to flee blindly past into the dark hallways, away from whatever he might have summoned with his pitiful scritchings at the door. But there's sanity in there somewhere, and it struggles to wade up from the bright animal fear in those hazel eyes as he shakily lifts his head to take in the both of you and try and make sense of what he sees. Who knows how long he's been flinging himself through the cold stone walkways and passages riddling the Maison, and yet even as accustomed as his eyes must be to this velvet-thick darkness, he meets the gold light that pours towards him with a pair of white, wild, widened eyes that eerily do not so much as flinch.
A glance is shot back at Julien, Ligeia's brow tugging tightly a moment after his simple statement, marking her frustration. That wasn't what she meant to imply. Still, no time to defend it, as that meek fumbling rap at her door rearranged the woman's priorites in an abracadabra instant. Fresh air pours into the chamber, sending the incense smoke into great curling spirals that form faces and chimerical protean images as swiftly as clouds might filmed flowing across the sky in timelapsed photography. Both slim slivers of brow hitch up as she takes in Trace's cowering countenance, surprised to see the boy there. Rapid deduction insues, the gentle examination of his startled and slightly feral demeanor, the too-bright eyes, and at the end of it her lips curl into a tender smile. "Well, well. Lucky Morgan, me. To have both first my Lancelot and now my Parcival visit my sanctum in the same evening." Soothing tone. "C'mon in, Trace. We're just talking. You're welcome." No questions yet as to why he seems so pensive. Maybe she's hoping her words might've distracted.
Julien's eyes light upon Trace there in the doorway and his posture rights at once; still comfortable but farless sprawled than before as if the movement indicates some sort of displacement of emotion. "Hi," he interjects just incase the young man doesn't notice him right off there on the couch as a person instead of an ornament which is pleasing to the eye. He takes another drink of the liquid nirvana in his brandy snifter as feet uncross and recross at the ankles. Trace is given the once-over about four times; empathy boy seems in high gear tonight.
At first the frightened boy in the hallway only stares at Ligeia with those wide, haunted eyes. This new flood of confusion that spreads across his features is blankly innocent and lost, as though she may as well have delievered her smooth words in Portuguese for all the comprehension and recognition it inspired. And slowly, with a painstaking effort he seems to draw out of his huddle, as the words seem to trickle a quite belated understanding. His name is Parcival? This thought triggers a thousand on its tail, all delivered in the space of a heartbeat, thoroughly explored and rejected. If he truly is this Parcival, what's become of his memory, and what kind of name is that,and didn't he read it the legend once in his fathers old books, and what if he's trapped in a book and Lancelot and Ligeia here are... Ligeia? He grasps at the flash of recogintion, a word that goes with a face that goes with woman standing in front of him who is entirely not the Morgan of some fairy book tale. He uses the recogintion as a rope to pull himself free of this shattered conciousness he's drowning in. All this turmoil in the span of a few seconds; any wonder that his sense of time is so distorted, with that many thoughts cramming for space in so short a time? Just a second's pause, a wild flash in those eyes, and then he darts past and into the bedroom, scrambling over to the fireplace and pausing there, his slender chest heaving wearily. He looks to the both of you, slowly steeling himself, working so hard to find words and pour them into molds of logic. He almost says something, but it's caught up into an indrawn breath, eyes darting as though he caught movement at the corner of his eye. His gaze falls on the snarling head of the bear rug, and his drawn breath is let out in a half-gasped shriek.
Whoa! A blue streak coursing through her room. Wow! For many seconds, Ligeia can only blinkety-blink after the sparrow-boned boy as he jetisons into her widdle domain and turns himself into a fleshly amorini to flank one side of her fireplace. Heavens. A quizzical glance is sent to Julien, her aforementioned Lancelot. See what happens when one talks too much about make-believe? An obviously fucked-up young man arrives on the doorstep who, by all appearances, is definately frolicking in his own realm of fancy right now. She lets the doors drift closed again and wanders in Trace's direction, bending down in a crouch to scritch at the head of her bearskin rug. "This is Arthur, Trace." Well. The bear's name -is- Arthur. "He won't hurt you. He's really a very friendly beast. And if it makes you feel better about seeing him so..." Erm. "...flat, well, he took my father's right leg from the knee down before he got this way." She pats her bear's head again as if it could hear her with its own manitou. Nice bear. Good bear.
Julien's perceptions on the matter at hand of Trace's oddities toward the innert object which once was a bear are kept to himself save for a quiet smile. "I should be going, Ligeia.." he whispers, soft. "I have classes first thing in the morning." He stands and walks toward the bedroom door with the telegraphed pace of a master choreography- no fast movements, no sudden directional changes- Trace can keep him in his sights at every turn. "Thank you for a wonderful and enlightening evening.." he murmurs, adding, "..as always."
Trace keeps wide eyes on the grizzled maw for several more long moments, and it may seem as though again he was unable to grasp any comprehension from her voice, but slowly he licks his lips and shifts his eyes to her. His voice, when he speaks, is wholly uncertain and sounding unfamiliar in the hollow of his own ear. To you gathered round it is still the youthful drawl that has always claimed the boy, but shuddering and lanced through with the thick mason-dixon Missisippi drawl he typically tries so hard to school from his voice. "H-he... he gobbles legs then he cain't be too fren'ly...." He flinches, looking away from the beast, and chirps out in defiance, "All raht, all raht, ah see. S'jesta rug. S'jesta..." But he's still not looking at it, and perhaps the chant is infact his little attempt at an incantation that might make this particular rug behave and stop doing snarling, grasping, snapping, un-rug-like things. He casts his gaze elsewhere, up at Julien, an image that streaks his mind with contradicting images of leather and literature, but he's retreating, slipping away as quickly as Trace had burst in. Why? He searches his mind as he watches the student duck out into the hallway, and can only conceive of one possibility. Indeed, the blue-haired boy finds himself even taking vague, dazed comfort in the fact that he's not the only one scared of the rug.
Julien departs the bedchamber, wisps of incense smoke stealing out into the gallery.
Oh, great! The only one in the room who can actually boast to have experience in psychology by way of a degree in the making, is leaving. Some Lancelot Julien is. Hrmph! Ligeia straightens up, a grumble on her brow, albeit only a faint one, to bid Julien adieu. "I enjoyed it, Julien. Come back and see me again before I get the chance to miss you." A wiggle of fingers capstones her words as he drifts out the doors, once again sending swirls of smoke from the brazier to undulate crazily. Then, back to you, lip sucked to her teeth as she ponders. "So what great adventure finds you tonight, my dear?" Best way to inquire, 'What in the hoolies are you -on-?'. She pads light of foot to the back of the slain and gutless ursine sprawled out on the floor and settles down cross-legged atop it's soft-furred back, watching you gently with her glittering blue eyes.
Trace is being inattentive at first, and staring a bit rudely, trying to reconcile himself with the impossible image of serene Ligeia settled atop this writhing beast of a so-called-rug, watching the sea of warm brown fur ripple and lick restlessly against the black contours of her leotard-clad legs. He shakes himself as though to brush off the hypnosis of it, but still looks somewhat uneasy and tries politely not to notice her squirmy bear friend as he speaks. "Ah was... ah was gunna 'splore some. Ah was gonna be quiet, weren't pokin nowhere ah shouldn' been. Ah din' mean to-to bust in on you..." You see, he's fine. Kids do that, alright? They wander around and explore their new surroundings. What bear? His eyes flash, so skitterish, bouncing from your face, to the bear, to the smoky drapings over your bed, billowing and sulferous. It's still burning, that glint that behind the confusion and the jumble of thoughts, someone IS still home in there. And it is with this flash of remaining wits that he now searches your gaze tentatively for any hint of reprimand.
No reprimand is forthcoming from the house marm. Ligeia simply observes you for a time in silence with concern that slightly fades a bit in the pale jewels of her eyes as you show signs of cognizance. "That's fine, Trace," she assures you, propping her elbows up on her knees, creating a net of fingers between them for her chin to rest in. "The castle is large and begs for exploration sometimes, and you didn't disturb me." Her boots were shed in the name of comfort hours ago, and naked toes tipped with a triangular pedicure that gives her toenails the look of petite little claws painted in a gunmetal-hued polish to match the nacre of her hair, curl into the downy hide of the bear she's roosted on. "Did something scare you?" Inquired because of the timid scratchings at her door earlier, which hinted in many ways of a child's prickling fear of the boogeyman. Goodness knows this large place makes wretched sounds of complaint as it settles into the bog at night. Jason must be otherwise occupied, else surely you would have gone to him had you been startled or tripping badly. As it stands though, Ligeia can't help but smile a bit over you having come to her as second choice.
That's.... fine? Of course he expected reprimand. The tragic startlement that is dashed across Trace's young face when he realizes that it's not coming gives proof enough of that. Were he fully in command of himself, surely the next few steps of normal thought process would remind him of your previous kindness to him, would point out no prior show of violence from you, ect, ect, simple tasks to undo the unfortunate basic programming he's been dealt: that a protector has every right to strike hard for crimes like disobedience, disrespect, and apparantly even minor tresspass. And yet you look at him now, stripped down to near instinct, and he blinks and regards you as though his own puzzlement were now truly holding more of his attention than the seething Arthur. Finally he meets your gaze, brave and bold as the timid little boy can manage, He regards you, and then very slowly creeps closer and huddles up into a ball of knees and knobby elbows when he can't make himself clamber onto that shifting, chestnut expanse of fur. Silent for a long time, but when he does speak he's dropped the tone he'd used before. He's not going to toss out any more excuses as to why he was prowling around and jumping at shadows. Rather than dodge trouble, he now leans forward and explains with the wide eyes of a child telling his neighbors an urban legend that is Entirely All True, though nothing jovial in his serious moss-and-earth eyes as he whispers, "Your house... just has... a darkness. Sometimes I think it's neat, and I want to look closer, but tonight it frightened me. I felt..." His eyes drop, considering, and then he looks up and decides almost meekly, "chased. So I ran." And did he escape it? His eyes trace a nervous glance around the perimeter of the room, as though suddenly uncertain that he had eluded it afterall.
"Every place has a darkness, Trace," Ligeia replies mildly, her tone tinged with the pleasant chime a mom's might when she begins a 'Once Upon a Time' story next to the bed of a child settling down to slumber. "There can be no light without a shadow. But there's nothing here for you to be afraid of. Perhaps, you know, you might have been only startled by your -own- shadow, Trace?" In every way playing on the old 'scared of your own shadow' allegory. She scooches closer, reaching the hem of the bearskin and settling fluidly into the same posture she was in before, save for a reach into the turquoise fronds of your blue hair with one set of fingers for a soothingly maternal stroke of locks. She watches as your eyes skitter about her bedroom, following your gaze as it ping-pongs off of various decorative embellishments. "There's nothing here that can harm you, nor anything that would want to. If you take a moment to stare into the darkness when it spooks you, images will come clear and reveal themselves for what they truly are. In this way ogres become teddybears and dragons become chairs." Crystalline blue peers down into calico hazel, her smile ever softly somnulent.
"Dragons... become chairs?" Trace had been listening, nodding a little at patient adult logic, even as he set his mouth into the necessary 'I'm getting lectured' vague sulk. But those last words of yours throw a wrench into all, as he works this new concept over. Eyes cloud entirely with thought, and one might think him slow to comprehend the words, but it's really the meticulous study of this concept, and the creation and rejection of countless responses, and fears, and concerns, all of them flickering flashes of glitter and shadow in his still dancing, skittish eyes. When he finally speaks, it's faultering and slow with too much care, afraid to fumble and betray all the thousands of thoughts he somehow strung into coherancy just for you. "Why... would you ever do that?" His nose wrinkles, but the second time he asserts himself he's no longer tossing it about in his spin cycle of a mind, and the words are a touch more sure of himself. "Why? I would rather have dragons in my life than chairs." He tips his head a little to the side, and adds shyly, "Scared or not." A glance is cast over his shoulder, watching warily for signs that whatever was persuing him won't try and slime their way in here. "Ah nevva said ah wanted..." He stops, checking himself, and continues a bit more stiffly, peeking up, "I never wanted the darkness gone. I just wanted to look closer." He eyes you warily. You're not gonna flip on that light, right? No, get that nightlight the fuck outta here, mom. It's against the rules to tell Trace that the magic in his world is smoke and mirror tricks, and that he was only frightened tonight because he decided he was brave enough to dose himself generously with hallucinigens and skulk around a spooky castle until its boggy creaks and groans, grey shadows and cobwebs, had properly scared the piss out of him.
Flip on the light? Cha, right. Never mind there aren't any electrical lights in Ligeia's room save for the mandatory fixtures in the bathroom that allow for better scrutiny of her face peering into it and keep her from nicking her legs when she shaves them. "Then why'd you run away?" Ligeia counters. Yeah, Mr. Big Shot Face-The-Creepies. One mother-of-pearl wisp of brow spocks high on her forehead. "How can you look closer at the darkness if you're fleeing from it? You have eyes in the back of your head or something that I don't know about?" Her arms cross in a stance of playful challenge, eyes hooding in expectation of your answer, even as she watches your shoulders tense with the fret that some miasma of Gigerish eeriness is going to stealth it's way into her boudoir. "I was only trying to reassure you. If any monsters try to come after you whilst you're in here, I'll gobble them up for my breakfast. Mmm-mmm." She brandishes a toothy grin then. Yummy. Monster frichassee. "I won't eat your dragons though. I promise. I rather fancy dragons. This house is built on the back of one, in fact. How else do you suppose that a castle keeps from sinking in the swamp? Perhaps what you've been hearing groaning and growling all night has been the dragon beneath us rolling about in her sleep. I hope you didn't wake her up." She flutters a wink at you.
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[This message has been edited by Ashke (edited 13 February 2000).]
