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entrancelogs2016-01-07 12:07 pm
nascensibility) wrote in entrancelogs2016-01-07 12:07 pm
[OPEN] and you may ask yourself
Who: Evelyn O'Connell & YOU!
Where: The library, halls, kitchen, parlors, outside grounds - any public space.
When: Night/Early morning of January 7
Rating: PG, PG-13 at most
Summary: Evelyn has always had the occasional nightmares, mild hallucinations, and sleepwalking problems ever since she came to the conclusion she was a reincarnated princess, but there's something to be said for locking your door when prone to somnambulism.
The Story:
She never used to dream as much as she does now, vivid and sharp. On more than one occasion before Rick's arrival Evelyn has found herself on her balcony, in the foyer of her rooms, with no memory of how she got there.
Before her death they had been wildly distracting, a reprieve from the night terrors of old but no less concerning: another person in another time, memories seeping into her mind like dark, insidious floodwaters, emotions that did not belong to her. The wrenching pain, happiness, fear of someone else.
They had rationalized it as a past life, as if the explanation itself were a rational one.
With the smoke of torches in her eyes, lotus and honey thick on her tongue, in her hair, she slips from a bed of linen and carved wood - Hathor's image, wide and loving and lush. Lamps burning oil perfumed with blossoms from the Nile's bank, hold steady light in a chamber of swirling heat. In the far distance the sem'ayt play drums and cymbals, ney-pipes accompanying a carnal beat.
Bare feet brushing carpet and chilled wood, dressed in precious little else but a nightgown and absent the source of warmth still under the sheets, Evelyn sways in place for a moment in the bedroom, seeing and not seeing in the wake of so much loss. A new year and new hurt to compartmentalise, to measure, and she feels the pull of the music that isn't there. Her fingertips trail over a sideboard; she leaves the room.
A decoration of scented fat seeps slowly through her wig, melting into the fibers and dripping down her back, following the curve of her spine. She has become less circumspect of late, alone in the wide expanse of halls. A power in her own right as designated by the gods, by Pharaoh-and-Egypt, her father dotes but knows the will of his sloe-eyed daughter, his favored child.
The pipes are louder now, as she moves to the great hall and nods to the attendants to reach for the handles of the entrance, intricate cobras to mimic the form of Wadjet.
With her chin held high, visualising nothing but alabaster and flame, Evelyn turns the knob and pushes the door
Open.
[NOTE: Feel free to literally encounter her anywhere she might get to that isn't locked, and this is including outside, although it'll be cold as a witch's tit because it's still January. She can be startled to wakefulness but will also be incredibly confused!
Please specify preferred location of interaction in tag headers.]
Where: The library, halls, kitchen, parlors, outside grounds - any public space.
When: Night/Early morning of January 7
Rating: PG, PG-13 at most
Summary: Evelyn has always had the occasional nightmares, mild hallucinations, and sleepwalking problems ever since she came to the conclusion she was a reincarnated princess, but there's something to be said for locking your door when prone to somnambulism.
The Story:
She never used to dream as much as she does now, vivid and sharp. On more than one occasion before Rick's arrival Evelyn has found herself on her balcony, in the foyer of her rooms, with no memory of how she got there.
Before her death they had been wildly distracting, a reprieve from the night terrors of old but no less concerning: another person in another time, memories seeping into her mind like dark, insidious floodwaters, emotions that did not belong to her. The wrenching pain, happiness, fear of someone else.
They had rationalized it as a past life, as if the explanation itself were a rational one.
Bare feet brushing carpet and chilled wood, dressed in precious little else but a nightgown and absent the source of warmth still under the sheets, Evelyn sways in place for a moment in the bedroom, seeing and not seeing in the wake of so much loss. A new year and new hurt to compartmentalise, to measure, and she feels the pull of the music that isn't there. Her fingertips trail over a sideboard; she leaves the room.
The pipes are louder now, as she moves to the great hall and nods to the attendants to reach for the handles of the entrance, intricate cobras to mimic the form of Wadjet.
With her chin held high, visualising nothing but alabaster and flame, Evelyn turns the knob and pushes the door
[NOTE: Feel free to literally encounter her anywhere she might get to that isn't locked, and this is including outside, although it'll be cold as a witch's tit because it's still January. She can be startled to wakefulness but will also be incredibly confused!
Please specify preferred location of interaction in tag headers.]
no subject
The tea parlour is warm and so is the localised bubble around her, which dissipates slowly as a swathe of fabric takes its place. When he begins his work, it feels like a vague tugging at the back of her mind, too distant to touch on her own in a state hovering between lucidity and forgetfulness. With a Night Mare the size of the great Sphinx sitting on her chest it feels a bit like gasping for air without anything to breathe: trying to inhale underwater, or through fabric.
Evelyn's fingers, resting on the ottoman upon which she sits, twitch anxiously while her eyes dart beneath closed lids. He pries gently and a hand takes Nefertiri's, Shepsenut again and they leave this great room, away from the scent of perfumed oils and melting fat, honey and meat, the cymbals still ringing in her ears as-
She gasps sharply and sits ramrod straight, looking about in wide-eyed shock with all the surprise one might anticipate from a woman who expected to awake in her own bed. Warily, and with no small amount of concern her gaze trails to the man not far from her, whose garb reminds her of medieval tapestries.
"...who are you?"
no subject
For that reason, the mage scoots back a ways when he feels his light brush of magic start to wake her, sitting back on his heels. When she snaps out of it, the first thing she sees won't be a long-limbed mage looming over her. Although he'd like to think his face isn't the worst a woman could wake up to, it's probably not the one a married woman wants to see.
Anders, still in his crouched position once her gaze settles on him, offers a humored smile. "I think the better question is, who are you? I'm Anders. You strolled past me on your way into the gardens for a walk. A sleepwalk."
And frostbitten limbs are a pain in the neck to heal properly, he can attest.