V M A Recurring Dream.... [NPC Miniplot]

Mad Maggie

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Random individuals throughout the Crossroads begin to have strange dreams that they can only vaguely recall. A dark, damp, dingy basement, maze of concrete walls and hissing pipes. Chains adorn the ceiling, and trash crunches under feet. Even though the dreamers are alone, they feel a deep sense of unease and foreboding. Exploring the basement reveals nothing except that it seemingly goes on forever, no stairway to salvation to be found in the concrete pits.

Fewer of the dreamers remember what happens after lingering too long. A piercing shriek of noise, metal being dragged across metal as the pipework and boilers flare to life, spitting steam and giving off noxious clouds of coal smoke. Panels buzz and zap those who come too close in their panic, running away from the sound. A dark, ragged chuckle echoes from everywhere and nowhere at once, until they see a shining flash of metal, feeling blades pierce their body no matter how tough or invulnerable they are in reality.

And then they wake up in a sweat, panting, or experiencing minor glitches that soon disappear.


A song begins to spread among those affected, a melody that is heard in the dream.

"One, Two, Freddy's coming for you...."

freddy-krueger-origin-story.jpg
 

Klarion

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“Oh, perfect timing, Teekl,” Klarion snapped as he glared balefully at his surroundings. “Pulling a disappearing act when it’s the first dream I’ve had in decades— and an unusual one, at that…”

Some dream he seemed to be having! Obviously his synapses were misfiring terribly to conjure up such an ugly, boring, rotten place. Someone’s dreary, dusty old basement, really? It certainly wasn’t the sort of dreamscape he would have chosen for himself, anyhow. Now, sitting atop a throne of bodies, a nearby village baking in the fires of his ambition? A scene like that would have been far more preferable. But nooooo, it seemed that he had to spend his nighttime hours in this… this… grubby, gritty maze with far too many shitty, steam-spewing pipes lining its walls. Oh, the horror!

Without much else to do, though, Klarion begrudgingly began to explore his hazy environment, somewhat hoping that he might locate an exit. While he was no stranger to the darkest, most unloved corners of the Crossroads, he just… didn’t like the vibe he was getting from this place. The cold, shadowy basement appeared to stretch on forever and ever, each turned corner bringing with it a sense of artificial helplessness that was almost palpable. More than once, Klarion found himself reaching up to grasp at his throat with one hand, attempting to alleviate some of the thick, cloying pressure that seemed to permeate his gloomy surroundings and fill his lungs with murk, effectively strangling him into a tense, uncomfortable silence.

Cliche as it was, it almost felt as if the concrete walls were closing in around him, the narrow pathways he selected growing steadily narrower and narrower, forcing him to duck under loose sections of broken piping as he explored. Bits of discarded paper and plastic crunched under his shoes, some of it appearing to be the sad remnants of children’s school projects. Poorly drawn faces grinned up at him from shredded notebook pages and dirt-covered maths worksheets, their cheerful little mouths and eyes utterly oblivious to his plight. It was a befuddling indication of life amid so much apparent abandonment, made all the more puzzling by the softly clinking chains dangling from the rafters above.

Chains. Seriously? Perhaps his subconscious had an even bigger flair for the dramatic than his waking self did…

The dark-haired witch boy shuddered despite himself, wrapping his thin arms around his torso in a sort of petulant self-soothing gesture. He couldn’t get over how vulnerable the back of his neck felt without his trusty familiar’s soft, furry body resting there, the fine hairs at the nape of his scalp lifting at the electric pulse of… something in the air. Whatever it was, it set his spine to tingling, which was a rather uncommon occurrence for a creature such as him. It indicated that perhaps something darker was at work… or maybe—and Klarion did not like this idea, not one bit—something stronger than him.

“No, no,” the boy hissed under his breath, banishing that thought almost as soon as it had formed. “Not stronger. Just very, veeery clever! Yes, that’s it… oh, and now I'm talking to myself. That’s just perfect. Where are you, Teekl?”

Seconds stretched into minutes, and minutes gradually bled into what felt like hours. Klarion found his patience wearing dangerously thin, the unchanging state of this nightmare grating against what remained of the frayed tatters of his nerves.

Dark eyes darted to and fro, the witch boy’s hands clenching into tight, quaking fists as his irritation mounted. If he had to stay in this dream for one more second, he was going to positively scream!

It was then, coincidentally, that something changed.

An ear-splitting screech of metal upon metal rang out, startling Klarion into doing an about-face to try and pinpoint its source. His shoulders hunched, heart beating rabbit-quick against his ribs as the dead machinery around him abruptly unleashed an abominable amount of noise, boilers churning to life and black coal smoke beginning to fill the air in thick, foul-smelling plumes. What little light illuminated the space wavered and flickered, tossing jerky, disjointed silhouettes upon the walls.

Finally, some action! Klarion grinned a sinister little grin, his claw-tipped fingers flexing with murderous intent, just as the sweet, warbling lyrics of a children’s lullaby came echoing down the corridor.

”One, two, Freddy's coming for you...."

The witch boy wrinkled his nose at that, then sneered reflexively as the room was suddenly cast in a bleak, reddish glare. Blinking at the change, he glanced around to see the sinister light glinting in a rather menacing fashion off the decrepit, tarnished skeletons of metal pipes lining the walls, the deepening shadows already beginning to cast eerie reflections in the puddles of damp speckling the concrete floor. Was this… mood lighting?

Hah! It would take more than that to spook him, thank you very much! With a flick of his wrist, Klarion summoned a magical sword to his right hand and a burning red fireball to his left fist, a vicious “have at thee!” poised on the very tip of his tongue.

Except, no gleaming crimson blade or fireball appeared. Brows knitting together in honest confusion, Klarion looked down at his empty fingers, uncomprehending. Whaaaaat…?

Scccrrrrrtchhhh.

That sound again! Glancing up with wide eyes, his back arched up like a disgruntled feline, Klarion imagined that he perceived a shadowy specter approaching from the shroud of toxic smoke, the bladed fingers of one hand dragging slowly, inexorably along the length of a rusted metal pipe.

Ah, well. That would do it. With a muffled squeak that he would deny for the rest of his immortal existence, Klarion turned tail and beat a hasty retreat down the nearest tunneling corridor, his shoes clicking softly against the floor as he fled.

Think, Klarion, think! Whatever could he do without his magic AND a missing familiar?!
 

Mad Maggie

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As the witch boy ran pell mell down the concrete labrynth, the walls and gloom began to fall away. His adorably pointed shoes started to squelch into dirt instead of stone, and larger shapes rose above the seamless blackness that had overtaken him. As his eyes readjusted to the new location, a bright orange glow flared into life in the center of the shapes. It was a village! Yes, the unmistakable sight of a village on fire. Perhaps he'd managed to wrest control of this odd nightmare back from whatever pitiful vestiges of his fear response remained. That had to be it.

Confidence swelled in Klarion's chest as he strode into the center of the circle of huts to see a small gathering of hooded brown figures clustered around a burning pyre. But instead of a stake, there was a comically large spit rotating over the burning embers. A fat juicy chicken was speared upon the length of iron, turning slowly. If food was any sort of a temptation, it looked wonderful.

And then Klarion noticed that the chicken still had a head, the carcass rotating around to reveal...his own face.

A lancet of fear and revulsion gripped his stomach, as the breast of the chicken boy was suddenly split open by four thin blades that cut through the meat like paper. The rent flesh tore apart and a horrendous figure emerged forcefully, spreading both arms wide. A battered brown fedora rested atop a monstrous visage, the skin burned and stretched over a skull of a face. The eyes were red and deep set, glowing with a malicious glee as the man stepped out of the carcass and onto the ground. He was wearing a simple sweater, striped red and green and tattered with burn marks.

"Too dry...must be the seasoning of the witch! Ah ha ha ha hah!"

The man's voice was thick and gravelly, his words not spoken so much as spat past the melted skin of his lips. The hooded figures surged as one, hoods cast back to reveal identical copies of that horrid, grinning face. With no magic to draw upon, Klarion was gripped by dozens of grasping hands, and thrust forward into Freddy's grip. The blades pierced through the boy's chest, and the Dream Demon hissed in his face. "Name's Freddy Krueger. And new master of your sleeptime, kiddo. Spread the word, I'm coming for ya. And the entire Crossroads."

With a cackling guffaw, he heaved Klarion over his shoulder and directly into the former bonfire, the space opening up into a burning pit reminiscent of a volcano.

"
AND THEN YOU WAKE UP, GASPING, FAINT SCRATCHES UPON YOUR CHEST.
 

Shallan Davar

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Shallan knew this hallway.
It was empty and dreary as she remembered it, even though she had been gone for months, almost a full year now. Cold, dark colors muted the attempts at displaying wealth. Ceilings arching further and further away. Windows sequestered behind heavy drapes at all hours. Father didn’t like the glare of the morning sun anymore.
How was she here? She had left here!
Shallan cast her head about with growing worry. Her travel havah was gone, instead she was wearing one of the expensive ones that Father had bought her after one of his tirades. She realized then that she couldn’t feel Pattern anymore. She couldn’t sense him anywhere nearby, couldn’t hear his humming voice in her head. For that matter, she didn’t hear Veil or Radiant either. She was totally alone here.
No, not alone. It was looking at her, as always. She could feel the heat of the burning visage even though her back was turned to it. Why had she come up here? IT was up here. Mentally screaming at herself not to look, slowly Shallan turned towards the searing orb of garish flame. She could see it from here in the hallway, through the walls. Not even the safe that father had locked it inside years ago. She could always see it.

Mother’s soul.

Shallan’s breathing was rapid and shallow. How was she here? She wasn’t this helpless little girl any longer. She could fend for herself. She had learned…
She had learned the truth about Father. And about what she had done. Shallan’s blood pounded in her head.
So how was she still here!
“Shallan?” Came a concerned voice like a whisper in her ear. She whipped around to see an equally on edge Balat. If her elder brother looked that worried than it could only mean…
“What are you doing up here?” Balat hissed at her, his eyes darting towards the closed doors of the hallway. Why was she up here? It didn’t make any sense…
“Wikim is downstairs, he needs your help to keep the new maid from leaving. He… threw a chair at her.” Balat was watching the doors again now, breath ragged, “He’s up here somewhere right now, in one of these rooms. He still had half a bottle left when he went up. We need to get away from here before…”
There was a crash and a roar of anger from one of the rooms. Shallan and Balat froze like deer, then they scurried towards the stairs in a silent panic.
“Something’s wrong, Balat.” Shallan frowned as they crept down the ancient stairwell, avoiding the loudest of the floorboards with practiced steps.
“It always is now, Shallan.” Balat spoke bitterly.
“No, I mean wrong worse than our family. I shouldn’t be here.” Balat stopped at her words, turning around at the bottom of the staircase, while Shallan lingered a few steps behind.
“Do you think he’d let you leave, Shallan? Let any of us leave? Only Helaran made it out, and he’s abandoned the rest of us!”
“No, you’re wrong!” Shallan spoke up, cutting through the oppressive quietness this house was forcing down upon her.
“I did leave! We needed a Soulcaster after Father’s d-”
“So, you abandoned us too, Shallan?” Balat spoke over her.
Despite that she was several stairs higher up, Balat seemed to tower over Shallan as he stared at her judgmentally.
“No! I didn’t abandon any of you!”
“Didn’t you, Shallan?” Came a new voice from the top of the stairs. Shallan glanced up to see Jushu staring at her with the same betrayed expression. Her brother’s clothes were crumpled and in disarray, his eyes sunken and dull as he walked slowly down the stairs towards her. He’d gotten a hold of more firemoss somehow…
“You were the only one of us he didn’t break, Shallan. So, you left us.”
Oh Jushu… I AM broken…
“I left to help all of us!” Shallan’s defiance was ebbing towards pleading, and she started to back away from her brothers, towards the wall of the stairs.
“Please, I didn’t forget about any of you.”
“You forgot about me, little sister.” Another familiar voice from behind her ear. When Shallan whirled about, the wall was gone, instead a dark room of carven stone. There was no sign of the speaker, but when Shallan turned back a third brother had joined the pair already advancing towards her. Helaran, deathly pale, his clothes splattered with his own blood.
“The bridgeboy killed me, Shallan. He killed your eldest brother.”
Shallan continued to back away slowly, shaking her head.
“It was a battlefield, Heralan. What else could Kaladin have done?”
“You’re defending him?” Her brother’s eyes flashed red, and his voice thundered in outrage, “The slayer of your blood brother? Of course you would, you can’t keep your eyes off him!”
“Stop it!” Shallan begged, “All of you, please! I just wanted to help!”
“Help?” Jushu’s head tilted to the side at an unnatural angle, his face perplexed. Balat laughed, though there was no hint of mirth to his countenance.
“How could you help, Shallan? You were the one who ruined our home.” There was no accusation in his words, just the simple statement of a fact.
Shallan broke and she turned tail, fleeing as fast as she could into the dark maze of tunnels and metal. She outpaced her brothers quickly, but their words still sounded in her ears like they were right beside her.
“Father was the way he was because of you, Shallan.”
“All of us were broken because of what you did”
“You didn’t remember. But now you know, now you know.”
“And we will never let you forget again.”
 

Mad Maggie

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The memories fell away as Shallan felt an oppressive tightness encroaching on her personal space. The urge to walk away overtook her, and her footsteps echoed through the concrete tunnels as she fled the sensation. Dust puffed into the air from each step she took, the walls closing in on her until she was forced to shimmy sideways through inches wide gaps. The claustrophobic terror building was hard to ignore, and as Shallan scrabbled through the gap, she fell forward and heard a loud sound echoing behind her. The tunnel hallway had actually slammed shut on her and she'd narrowly avoided becoming a Shallanwich.

SCREEEEEEEEEECH

Metallic echoing came towards her in waves, her new location resembling a uniformly constructed dungeon. Familiar and not at the same time, as if something had attempted to create a setting from her mind but couldn't quite get all of it. As the redhaired heroine got to her feet and steeled herself to meet whatever was coming her way, she could see an imposing figure striding down the hallway towards her. Clad in striped red and green armor with a spiky helm upon its head, it raised an armored gauntlet bedecked with pointed steel talons at her. A voice croaked incoherently at her and the figure began to run towards her with malicious intent.

There was nowhere to run, seeing as the hallway she'd come through had closed behind her. The armored apparition drew closer and tugged at it's helm. The armor came off and revealed something even more horrifying beneath it, a burned and melted face stretched into a mocking rictus grin. "Jeez lady, you've got more nightmares in here than I can conjure. You do a great job torturing yourself, ya know? Ah ah ha ha ha ha haaaa!"

And then they were all there again, her dead family, her dead enemies, everyone she'd killed or been party to killing clambering at her with filthy broken nails as the burned man laughed again and again, flames spreading around them as the dreamscape became a ragged battlefield. The sounds of such overwhelmed her, even through the moaning press of bodies and memories...
 

Lilith

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Sound sleep was a rare privilege for Lilith. The lecherous woman often suffered through unsettling terrors in her unconscious, the dregs of her sins in the waking world manifesting in her slumber, seeking righteous retribution. Staving off this relentless plague had become second nature to her. Many assumed she felt no remorse, that she was incapable of producing a single ounce of empathy. And in the heat of the moment, it was true; the sadist reveled in the torment she inflicted.

Once, however, she was not so resolute. A much younger, reserved, mostly innocent Lilith abhorred falling asleep, preferring the onslaught of insomnia to the damnation of her own devising. She went to extremes to stay awake, wedging her nails between her eyelids as they slammed shut in protest of her self-destructive efforts. When physical implements failed, she turned to more heretical means, ingesting and injecting all manner of stimulating substances, and invoking rituals beyond her inchoate insight. No cost was too great to abate her regrettable need for rest.

Alas, she was only human, as much as the knowledge pained her. No mortal impetus could pry the steel curtains that locked out all escape from her self-imposed affliction. Every second she spent closing her eyes was a second she spent in agony, beguiled by rampant nightmares taking the surreal visage of those she had wronged. Their cold, wilting bodies shamed and mocked her, dozens of spiteful voices berating her all at once.

“I had a husband and children, and you took all that away from me! You wretched demon!”

“I thought we were friends, Lilith. Did I not mean anything to you?”

“I never should’ve trusted you, you goddamned harlot! I hope you rot in Hell!”

“Your existence is a stain.”

“Lilith, everything is so warm. It’s hard to breathe. Why won’t you save us?”

“Raising you was a mistake.”

“Was eating me alive not enough for you?”

“I thought you were a miracle child. I never got to see how wrong I was.”



Why… Why can’t anyone understand? I didn’t want to be this way. The first time was an accident, I just couldn’t…

I just couldn’t stop myself. When I tasted their blood, it was so awful, but the hunger was overwhelming.

I hated what I’d done, hated what I was capable of, hated myself. But most of all, I hated my enjoyment.

And I needed more.




Lilith was choking, sobbing, all hope of forgiveness expunged. She curled up in a tomb of lament, sealed in the furthest depths of a bottomless ocean, too feeble to struggle against the monumental pressure crushing her will from the inside out. No amount of repenting could ever atone for the insurmountable guilt she had accrued. Death was unattainable, as her many attempts proved time and time again. Jumping off buildings, asphyxiation, hacking her body to pieces, starvation; all failed to give her a permanent release. There was no escape from the anguish that was living.

When her own death failed to subdue her impulses, she abandoned civilization to isolate herself. The sight of humans fomented her urge to hunt. If she confined herself to the wilderness, she could bring no harm upon the innocent. This plot would end in futility, however.

The rueful exile tossed herself into a cavernous abyss, enclosing herself in the frigid trench of starvation. Lilith resisted the craving to consume flesh, in spite of the madness gnawing and tearing at her soul from the inside out. She drifted in and out of consciousness, suffering the curse that forced her to endure this miserable existence. The hallucinations bled into reality, sapping what little reason she clung to.

Was I ever really alive?

Her sanity exhausted, she regressed into her primal instincts, overtaken by her degenerate desires. She began feeding on herself, but that could not suppress her insatiable appetite. Like an emaciated ghoul, she clawed her way out of the stony prison, breathing the open air for the first time in… weeks? Months?

Lilith resembled a baser creature more than anything human. Only one thought ruled her mind.

Plenty of fresh prey ripe for the picking.

She could no longer ignore the call to hunt, gorging on the glut of animals. The ravenous predator faced no difficulty in her feral feast, aching for a greater challenge. Savage beasts could not appease the hunger; consuming a thinking, feeling human provided satisfaction beyond compare. Evoking their intense, sincere emotions almost made her feel alive. Almost.



Lilith struggled to come to terms with her fate. She continued preying on the small settlement she once called home, where she had childhood friends and compassionate nuns she called family. But now, smoldering ruin stood in their place, a constant reminder of her contemptible sins. Every Sunday, she partook in a routine of self-punishment, her penance for the lives she took, and the lives she'd eventually end. The masochist stocked up on whips and flails and rudimentary torture devices, weaving interlocking gashes into her depraved skin.

She knew not why she attempted to serve this contrition. Her wounds could never repay the blood on her hands. She was born to kill, and yet it felt wrong to let herself go unpunished. This was her silent confession, as she couldn't impart the magnitude of the burden she carried to another.

Even as her night terrors worsened, Lilith savored the pain, deriving a perverted pleasure from punishment. Soon she started enjoying the hunt as well, relinquishing remorse and getting creative with her slaughters. She wanted to expose the monster she was.



To this day, Lilith avoids sleeping as much as she can, and if it is necessary, she'd rather be alone. The deviant had developed a tolerance, a numbness, but she was not immune. Cold-bloodedness was but one facet of her volatile maelstrom of emotions. The villainess had very little restraint over her feelings, letting her raw expressions run wild. Her instability allowed her to become unbound by moral inhibition, yet it remained her greatest flaw, always one step from a total meltdown.

This time, however, her past did not emerge to haunt her. Her dream was oddly peaceful, gently lulling her into a deep, soothing sleep.

She couldn’t recall when or where she slept, but she’d rather not let such knowledge burden her.

The dark enveloped Lilith, dragging her into its bottomless abyss. Swallowed by the pitch corruption, dissolution took hold, casting off her worldly anchor to this earth. Lilith wondered if this was what it felt like to die. To eternally disassociate from the squalid curse that infested—no, personified—her tainted soul. That would be a fitting afterlife for her, returning to the malice whence she came. Yet she knew such an end was unattainable. Nor Heaven, nor Hell, nor Purgatory welcomed this apotheosis of impurity.

An ear-splitting hiss stabbed into her profound trance. Lilith awoke to a shower of fetid, blistering steam, crawling, staggering, and choking in the confounding cloud. She groped for a railing to regain her footing, only for the searing metal to burn into her palms.

“Gah! Alright, which corpse is it this time?!” she demanded, swiveling around in the tangle of pipework, searching for an aberration that wasn’t there.

Rattle, rrrrink. A voice reverberated through the roof of rickety chains.

”Huhhuhhaww…”

Not the sound of someone she’d killed. Not the usual nightmare scenery either. Although, now that she soaked in the atmosphere, this place wasn’t so bad. Hostile and uninviting, yet so familiar…

“You know, I really vibe with this abandoned power plant look. I had this spot back in my world that I used to hang out at, waiting around for victims to- Wait, who the fuck am I talking to?”

Lilith shook her head, wandering through the disorienting boiler room. It seemed the dimension churned and convulsed endlessly.

A deafening screech pierced her skull, sending the dream-bound woman reeling. She glanced up in time to see the source—a spiked, ribbed tail—slinking away around a corner. Like a moth to a flame, she followed the trail of scraping noise.

“Ridley…? Are you here too?” Flashing lights at the end of the corridor cast an unmistakable outline of her dearest master.

“Oh, my precious Lilith! You’ve been such a good girl lately. Come on down, you deserve a promotion.”

“Lord Ridley, that’s- that’s so kind of you!” Too kind. Too upbeat for the dragon she knew.
 

Mad Maggie

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This one was different. Incredibly different. Freddy smiled, just out of view of the traipsing abomination as she skipped down the hall towards the indistinct shadow of her object of devotion. The dream demon flitted through mental space in an instant, wearing the identity of Ridley ripped from the goo-woman's memories. "You've been such a good minion, you deserve a treat!" He booms in a screechy voice, wings flapping, tail twitching. It was like a children's play, but in the dream world, things were never as they seemed. He had to exaggerate mannerisms, lean into the surreallness of a nightmare. He was the ringmaster, and the ringmaster played many parts.

Lillith's mind was telling her that she was face to face with her beloved, and Freddy was interested in such an intelligence coming into his realm. He reached out a claw towards the woman, tenderly, almost lovingly.....and then pulled a lever that was right next to her, unrevealed until he needed the point made. In a second, his own face and body had replaced the space pirate, and he sneered at the being that thought itself his equal. "Time for a SPA DAY, honey!" A torrential waterfall of burning hot, soapy water poured from nowhere all over Lilith. She couldn't control her body's makeup, and the spraying flood started to erode her frame, washing the thick sludgy foam down a drain at her feet. Freddy allowed himself a small chuckle before blinking and shifting into the next scene of the nightmare.

Lillith meanwhile was finding herself pumped and forced through tight pipes, the pressure too great to do anything except ride the wave, her acidic body doing nothing to free her from this hell of sensation. The darkness brought more screaming memories, Freddy tormenting the seemingly regretless monster with more of her greatest hits. And then he materialized inside a fully stocked restaurant kitchen, intent on humiliating what the rest of the Crossroads feared as a near myth. He was wearing a large white chef's hat, his jagged blades morphing into shiny chef's knife at the end of his fingers. Humming, he grabs several vegetables and begins dicing them up on a cutting board as off key pizzeria music plays eerily in the background.

Lillith is finally released from the pipes, poured into a massive silver bowl. Before she can angrily reform and disembowel the smirking burn victim, she's fit with a load of bread flour being dumped into her very essence. Gnarled, burned fingers dig into the goopy mixture and begin to knead in a manner of fact matter, Freddy soon whirling the Lillith-dough above his head and letting it slam down onto the steel table, dusted with flour. In a whirl of activity, she's soon coated in tomatoes, toppings, and thrown across the room into a burning oven. The sensation of being cooked and humiliated in such a manner would torment Lillith as she jerked back into the land of the conscious.

Freddy removes his hat and laughs heartily. "Now that's-a spicy meatball! Sauce, please!"
 

Klarion

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“Dang it! Here again?!” Klarion hissed in wide-eyed disbelief, looking around at the dreary, musty old basement he’d once again found himself in. Slowly, the incredulous look on his face morphed into a glare that could rival the venomous quality of most vipers, and maybe even Teekl on a bad fur day. “Ugh, of course. It’s aaaaaaaallll coming back to me now…”

He was lying on the floor this time, dumped smack dab in the middle of a gritty, icky puddle of… something. Whatever it was, it smelled absolutely rank. Gross! Loud complaining and whining set aside for the moment in favor of preserving his appearance, the witch kid swiftly clambered to his feet from the damp concrete, dusting off any traces of grime from his clothes.

The perfunctory movement was interrupted only a little by the anxious trembling of his fingers, but who cared? He was allowed to be apprehensive, wasn’t he?

Sucking in a steadying breath, Klarion cast a cursory glance over his corroding, factory-like surroundings. Black eyes narrowed, taking in the sight of exposed, rust-encrusted pipes and discarded pallets lying scattered about in seemingly random piles. He couldn’t place the exact source of the dull, burning glare that transformed the entire corridor into something out of Dante’s Inferno, but his dark clothing and unusually-styled hair still blended in fairly well with the dimly lit corridor, only the slightest tinges of red flickering across the fabric of his suit jacket.

The witch boy wasn’t fooled, however. All was relatively silent and still, the distant sounds of churning machinery echoing to meet his ears, but that didn’t mean much. He most certainly wasn’t completely undetectable. In fact, Klarion was fairly confident that the entity who occupied this hellish dreamscape was in all likelihood already aware of his presence— not a comforting thought.

Fighting against the bizarre urge to freeze up and wait for his impending doom, Klarion began to creep about the maze-like halls of the basement, shifting onto the tips of his toes to lighten his footsteps. A rat scuttled across the floor in front of him, worm-like tail dragging through the dirt— a true rodent of unusual size if he’d ever seen one. Teekl would love it here, Klarion imagined; too bad he’d forbidden her from visiting his dreams until he’d… exterminated an infestation of his own, so to speak.

Grinning evilly as he rubbed his hands together, Klarion decided that it was time to enact The Plan.

It was… actually kind of difficult to remember things from the waking world when dream-walking. Vague impressions streamed in shapeless form through his brain, twisting like all thoughts do when caught within a dream. They passed like grains of sand through the sieve of his mind, ineffable and hard to seize hold of. Yet, with a little persistence, these grains began to take shape, gradually coalescing into a larger, more comprehensive picture. Not just an echo of recognition, but something else, something far more substantial— a memory.

It came to him in flashes. Klarion recalled how he and Teekl had discussed his situation long into the night. Or maybe into the next day, too— it was so hard to tell night from day in the Uncanny Valley, only the slightest lightening of the territory’s shadows marking the difference between the two. Anyway, Klarion had it all mapped out. Now that his previous visit to this awful place was coming back to him, he felt more confident than ever. He didn’t have to visit some dusty old library to learn about dream magic. Why would he, when he could take a crash course right here, right now?

Step One was too easy: lure his object of study in.

“Oh nooo, I am so helpless and weak,” Klarion said faux sweetly, hands folded behind his back as he attempted his best Bambi impression. There were plenty of adorable cartoon creatures on Nos’talgia to use as his muse; surely he could imitate them well enough by now. “I sure hope no one comes over here and stabs me! That would be soooo scary.”

All the while, the witch kid’s hands were making all sorts of crazy gestures and gang signs or whatever behind his back. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he tried, only the faintest pulse of red chaos magic deigned to flicker about his fingertips, and even that pathetic amount quickly spluttered and died. The whole process wasn’t unlike trying to get a broken lighter to kick up a little ember of flame, just about ten times more mystically involved.

After many such failed attempts, Klarion let out a frustrated huff, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Why. Isn’t. This. Working?! Stupid, fun-ruining dream rules…!”

It felt like… like his magic was being held just out of reach, like a carrot dangling on the end of a stick before a starving nag. If he could only reach out and grasp it… but he couldn’t! He couldn’t!

A blind rage like fire swept over Klarion, his expression darkening. Oh, how it rankled to have his incredible mystical might restricted! He’d never be able to enact Step Two of his plan like this! Admittedly, it wasn’t a very creative plan… possibly not even a very intelligent one, considering the state of his powers in the Dream World. But if Klarion ignored every harebrained scheme that popped into his head in favor of more intelligent options, he wouldn’t be a very good Lord of Chaos, now would he?

Not that Lords of Chaos needed to follow any rules. He could behave however he liked, thank you very much! Now, if only this dumb Dream World could get the message.

Focus, Witch Boy,
a very insistent Brain Ghost Teekl meowed in his head. Don’t get distracted!

Klarion heaved a sharp sigh. Okay, okay, so he’d apparently forgotten that chaos magic didn’t play nice with dream magic. Funny how he’d failed to remember that little detail from last time, what a suspiciously convenient tidbit to slip his mind. And admittedly, maybe he was, in fact, just as helpless and weak as he’d been pretending to be. It was unfair and moronic and made him into a total loser, but he would have to deal with it.

Right after I get done trashing the place, Klarion thought with relish, reaching out to tear one of the rusted metal pipes away from the wall with his bare hands. The burning metal seared into his palms and spewed hot steam into his face, leaving deep burns, but Klarion simply grit his teeth and persisted.

It was only a dream, he’d live. And even if he didn’t… well, no, he was pretty sure he’d still live.

Grinning in sharp-toothed satisfaction, Klarion gave his new weapon a test swing, his expression revealing every bit of the devilish streak he usually kept hidden under a facade of humanity.

“There's always next time.” Time to make some noise.
 

Mad Maggie

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The cement rigidness of the basement hallways started to deform and give way to craggy rock formation, turning the dingy maze into a cave system. Torches begin to line the walls as Klarion proceeded forward, his sharp little schoolboy outfit flickering into something entirely new. The black jacket and fancy shoes turns into pointy cloth boots, a starry robe girding his shoulders now. The little devil horns on his head were covered up by an enormous floopy hat that read, in sparkling glitter, "WIZZARD". It was the height of humiliation for any serious magic user, and as if a wish had been granted, two squat figures ambled forward from the darkness.

"Grrr. We're here to eat helpless children." The first one spoke, in a disinterest monotone. They were both short and pot bellied, recognizable as some sort of goblin. Large pointed ears making them look pugnacious and scrappy, each one holding a craggy club. His partner elbowed him in the side, looking incesed as he hissed. "Look! Say the line like you mean it!" The first goblin punches his partner in the jaw and sneers. "He's not giving the effort! Why should we? The dumbest ogre wouldn't fall for that bullshit!" They then turned to look at Klarion, as if remembering he was a witness. "Rarr. Raaar. Yum, yum children."

They shuffled forward as one, circling around to split the magical miscreant's attention. Klarion raised the heavy pipe in both hands, ready to tee off on their heads, only to find it had become a sparkly wand with a star on the end of it. "You have got to be kidding me." He groaned through gritted teeth, waving the implement and shocked to see as a sparkly star shoots out of it. The glowing light splitting and targeting each goblin. Their eyes widened in shock adn awe, one of them reaching out towards the glowing orb as it descended upon both of them....and then their flesh flared into burning whiteness, the goblins shrieking in pain as their very beings were burned clean atom by atom. "OH GODS! AAHHHH! WHYYY??!" Their shrieks pealed around the cave, piles of burning dust settling into the floor of the cave and the stench of burned flesh rising into Klarion's nostrils.

"Hey, kid! That was pretty funny! You trying to steal my job or something?" Freddy's voice sounds from behind Klarion, the terror teen whirling around to see a large metal door with Freddy's face in the center grinning hungrily at him. "Come on, crawl on in here and I'll take your body. We'll have tons of fun..." He croons, claws emerging from the door as the metal bulges. His weapon coming into reality and reaching for the boy. "Just give in!"

Feel free to continue posting in the Dream World. Klarion purposefully entered to explore and battle Freddy, so now he can attempt to drive him off and keep exploring for answers.
 
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