![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I'm attempting to get back into playing, and gearing up for the Silent Hill plot that I'm hoping will start up soon. They've refused my request to add janitor Thorn into the mix as well, for very understandable reasons involving their already being overwhelmed as mods of the plot. No matter, I'll put moving him into the Nexus on the back burner for the moment and focus on the original Thorn instead. I meant to post nightmares to build up to the plot before now, but I haven't been at the keyboard much. I've written a bit and backdated posts, giving him roughly one nightmare a week since his encounter with the fog that's inspired it, although I lack one for this week, as of yet.
Because I haven't posted much writing here, and I keep meaning to, I present the nightmares all in one go. They're meant to create a sort of escalation towards the plot that will be happening, where he will be thrust into the dimension of Silent Hill. I welcome ideas for this week's nightmare, as I'm not sure when the plot is actually beginning.
Eiko’s science class remains the most difficult for Thorn, as he struggles to catch up with concepts that surround children born in the twentieth century or later. Nonetheless he seems to be doing relatively well, and this has leant him some confidence. At least once per class he makes certain to raise his hand and answer some question, pushing himself to do well. He is slightly confused, then, when he raises his hand in response to a prompt and the instructor simply stares at him, a slightly bewildered and amused expression on her face. Her gaze seems mocking, and he glances helplessly to where Courtney and Djehutymes usually sit close by. The latter wears an expression similar to Eiko’s, but Courtney looks faintly horrified, even accusing. As his gaze sweeps his other classmates he finds similar mixes of disapproval and bemusement. His hand falters and he pulls in on himself, disturbed by their gazes all focused on him. It is then that he realizes the hand is not gloved, and the lap it brushes against is bare.
Thorn wakes in a cold sweat.
It’s not uncommon for Thorn to barely look up from his books as he goes about his day, and he manages the steps of the Prince Institute without a break in his reading. When he goes through the large front doors, however, he immediately senses the wrongness that has overtaken the place. The floors have become some sort of metal grillework, slick with rust and dark, unidentified fluids. The walls are similarly stained, and the lights seem to have all gone out. The windows haven’t gone, but they seem smaller, filmed over in a way that greatly dims the light and solid with small panes and leading that renders them useless as an escape route. He cannot recall the door shutting behind him, but it is closed now, and his most strenuous efforts on the handle come to nothing. Vague shapes move in the shadows, giving the sounds of shuffling and the occasional low gurgle without ever revealing themselves, thus leaving his imagination free to design horrors.
He wanders the school, it seems, for long and empty days before he wakes up into morning light, and his own bed.
Despite having settled in well at the Prince Institute, Thorn continues to live in fear of the headmaster. He is certain that his passionate defense of Leela and Tom of so long ago will someday come back to haunt him, and considers it a black mark on his record even though the school was not yet established then. When he is called to the headmaster’s office, he goes with a deep sense of unease but utterly without surprise. To his thinking, it was only a matter of time.
He opens the office door on the murmured command from within, and is dimly aware of the headmaster behind his desk, seated and watching impassively. What has the fore of his attention is the figure that rises from a chair before the desk and advances towards him. The man carries a sword but his hands are empty at his sides. His face is pitted with lesions, rotted away in places, but still recognizable as that of the man he once called father. He says nothing, threatens nothing, merely pins Thorn with his eyes, which are deeply sunken and unblinking. There is no need for words, as the understanding bores into his soul through that focused gaze. You did this. This is your fault. Have you no understanding of the far-reaching consequences of your actions or inactions? Even as terror boils up in the pit of his stomach he notices the figure in the second chair rise to join the other, taller but even more badly disfigured by whatever curse he has somehow wrought upon them. The face is rotted into something with barely recognizable features but the other man can only be his true, biological father. Together they loom before him, swimming up to fill every inch of his vision and pressing the stench of decay and fear in upon him until he is confined in a space defined only by these. Time loses all meaning and when he wakes the smell continues to haunt his senses.
It is too easy, in PriME; surrounded by a magic that pervades even the walls and paintings hung upon them, Thorn’s usual hunger brings an unbearable temptation. Tiny snatches of magic drawn from here and there, the theft goes unnoticed, and is not even, always, a conscious act. Many of the students here are also surrounded by varying auras of power, although he does not dare to draw from these. The recent nightmares combined with his intense course of study and work have left Thorn drained and weary, and truly he cannot be blamed when a student of considerable power brushes past him in the hall, and he unthinkingly reaches and pulls a bit of that unchecked magic into himself.
It does not go unnoticed, and the victim turns to give him an accusing glare that falters when their gazes meet. How could he not have noticed it was Courtney? Surely his current state of exhaustion is to blame, but he can find no excuse for stealing power from her so casually. She seems shocked by the situation, especially as she has so often given him power willingly. Being made aware that her gifts have not brought an end to his thieving is an unforgivable act of betrayal on his part. Her eyes search his face and she seems about to say something, but it is then they both become aware that the pull has not ceased, and her power is continuing to feed into him. The pace increases, although he barely feels the magic itself, but the effect on her is obvious. She gasps and staggers, dropping her books and looking down at her own arms as they begin to blister and lesion with sores, writhing their way up through her skin in arcane patterns all too familiar to Thorn. His act of theft has somehow created a link, and an unstoppable effect. She writhes as the diseased flesh consumes her skin, and he finds himself watching chunks of hair and flesh drop from her. She reaches out to him in desperation, but before her hands touch his her eyes sink back into her head, which then begins to cave in as if from some invisible blow to the skull. She collapses bonelessly to the floor, the decay continuing although she has ceased to move, even to breathe.
When Thorn wakes his face is wet, and he is late to his first class of the day, still shaky.
Because I haven't posted much writing here, and I keep meaning to, I present the nightmares all in one go. They're meant to create a sort of escalation towards the plot that will be happening, where he will be thrust into the dimension of Silent Hill. I welcome ideas for this week's nightmare, as I'm not sure when the plot is actually beginning.
Eiko’s science class remains the most difficult for Thorn, as he struggles to catch up with concepts that surround children born in the twentieth century or later. Nonetheless he seems to be doing relatively well, and this has leant him some confidence. At least once per class he makes certain to raise his hand and answer some question, pushing himself to do well. He is slightly confused, then, when he raises his hand in response to a prompt and the instructor simply stares at him, a slightly bewildered and amused expression on her face. Her gaze seems mocking, and he glances helplessly to where Courtney and Djehutymes usually sit close by. The latter wears an expression similar to Eiko’s, but Courtney looks faintly horrified, even accusing. As his gaze sweeps his other classmates he finds similar mixes of disapproval and bemusement. His hand falters and he pulls in on himself, disturbed by their gazes all focused on him. It is then that he realizes the hand is not gloved, and the lap it brushes against is bare.
Thorn wakes in a cold sweat.
It’s not uncommon for Thorn to barely look up from his books as he goes about his day, and he manages the steps of the Prince Institute without a break in his reading. When he goes through the large front doors, however, he immediately senses the wrongness that has overtaken the place. The floors have become some sort of metal grillework, slick with rust and dark, unidentified fluids. The walls are similarly stained, and the lights seem to have all gone out. The windows haven’t gone, but they seem smaller, filmed over in a way that greatly dims the light and solid with small panes and leading that renders them useless as an escape route. He cannot recall the door shutting behind him, but it is closed now, and his most strenuous efforts on the handle come to nothing. Vague shapes move in the shadows, giving the sounds of shuffling and the occasional low gurgle without ever revealing themselves, thus leaving his imagination free to design horrors.
He wanders the school, it seems, for long and empty days before he wakes up into morning light, and his own bed.
Despite having settled in well at the Prince Institute, Thorn continues to live in fear of the headmaster. He is certain that his passionate defense of Leela and Tom of so long ago will someday come back to haunt him, and considers it a black mark on his record even though the school was not yet established then. When he is called to the headmaster’s office, he goes with a deep sense of unease but utterly without surprise. To his thinking, it was only a matter of time.
He opens the office door on the murmured command from within, and is dimly aware of the headmaster behind his desk, seated and watching impassively. What has the fore of his attention is the figure that rises from a chair before the desk and advances towards him. The man carries a sword but his hands are empty at his sides. His face is pitted with lesions, rotted away in places, but still recognizable as that of the man he once called father. He says nothing, threatens nothing, merely pins Thorn with his eyes, which are deeply sunken and unblinking. There is no need for words, as the understanding bores into his soul through that focused gaze. You did this. This is your fault. Have you no understanding of the far-reaching consequences of your actions or inactions? Even as terror boils up in the pit of his stomach he notices the figure in the second chair rise to join the other, taller but even more badly disfigured by whatever curse he has somehow wrought upon them. The face is rotted into something with barely recognizable features but the other man can only be his true, biological father. Together they loom before him, swimming up to fill every inch of his vision and pressing the stench of decay and fear in upon him until he is confined in a space defined only by these. Time loses all meaning and when he wakes the smell continues to haunt his senses.
It is too easy, in PriME; surrounded by a magic that pervades even the walls and paintings hung upon them, Thorn’s usual hunger brings an unbearable temptation. Tiny snatches of magic drawn from here and there, the theft goes unnoticed, and is not even, always, a conscious act. Many of the students here are also surrounded by varying auras of power, although he does not dare to draw from these. The recent nightmares combined with his intense course of study and work have left Thorn drained and weary, and truly he cannot be blamed when a student of considerable power brushes past him in the hall, and he unthinkingly reaches and pulls a bit of that unchecked magic into himself.
It does not go unnoticed, and the victim turns to give him an accusing glare that falters when their gazes meet. How could he not have noticed it was Courtney? Surely his current state of exhaustion is to blame, but he can find no excuse for stealing power from her so casually. She seems shocked by the situation, especially as she has so often given him power willingly. Being made aware that her gifts have not brought an end to his thieving is an unforgivable act of betrayal on his part. Her eyes search his face and she seems about to say something, but it is then they both become aware that the pull has not ceased, and her power is continuing to feed into him. The pace increases, although he barely feels the magic itself, but the effect on her is obvious. She gasps and staggers, dropping her books and looking down at her own arms as they begin to blister and lesion with sores, writhing their way up through her skin in arcane patterns all too familiar to Thorn. His act of theft has somehow created a link, and an unstoppable effect. She writhes as the diseased flesh consumes her skin, and he finds himself watching chunks of hair and flesh drop from her. She reaches out to him in desperation, but before her hands touch his her eyes sink back into her head, which then begins to cave in as if from some invisible blow to the skull. She collapses bonelessly to the floor, the decay continuing although she has ceased to move, even to breathe.
When Thorn wakes his face is wet, and he is late to his first class of the day, still shaky.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-06-20 03:50 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2007-06-20 04:02 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2007-06-20 04:03 pm (UTC)From:I'm perversely flattered that Courtney plays such a significant role in these. >_>
no subject
Date: 2007-06-20 04:20 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2007-06-20 04:24 pm (UTC)From:We really need to do a scene with them sometime soon, at least a notebook scene.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-20 04:28 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2007-06-20 04:33 pm (UTC)From:And Sam's left, so if any of you guys want to come have lunch and sit in the office, now's your chance.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-20 04:42 pm (UTC)From:Gone for the day or gone to lunch? Because if it's the latter, we're not likely to get there in time. Did you figure out what you wanted? There's always something fast, cheap and dirty like Wendy's or Subway.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-20 04:45 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2007-06-20 05:57 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2007-06-23 03:20 am (UTC)From:And those are very dark nightmares, it was fun reading your work again. Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2007-07-06 11:13 pm (UTC)From:They're those little furry things from the Eighties movie, 'Gremlins'. There was some sort of Eighties pop-culture LOL going around.
Thank you, I need another and I was thinking of something involving Leela and Tom. Also I'm aware of the baby situation, but as the Silent Hill plotline has just begun, Thorn may not hear of it until after. That could be quite... interesting.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-25 06:55 pm (UTC)From: