➥ Reality Check CW: gore, dismemberment, torture, possible dream-death, body horror/monsters, corpses
Evil Playground
Jaeger's dreamscape towers to the sky, stacks of mangled cars forming claustrophobic walls of broken glass and twisted steel. Black, jagged holes and spatters of dark liquid mark some of the wrecks, shadows draped over the ruin and forming a thousand secret corners.
It brings the heavy, ominous feeling that no one survived these wrecks. The grit underfoot is heavily stained with oil and what-might-not-be-oil, crunching and grinding with each step in a flat, echoless cadence. Sickly, sourceless light casts an unreal air on the scene, enough to see by without really illuminating anything.
And amid the stillness and silence, there's the occasional motion, quick-there-and-gone flashes of something peering through shattered windshields, reaching from twisted metal nests and hollows. Stalking, with a soft subliminal chitter, the gleam of black eyes and misshapen limbs. Whatever is here is hungry, interested, and patient enough to follow at its leisure, making itself only known in the barest of glimpses.
As the maze goes, it gets closer. Tighter. The piles loom higher and heavier, swaying where they're balanced so very carefully, the air grows heavier with a rancid, coppery scent.
The Place We Call Home
Disaster and neglect has visited what was once a magnificent manor house, reducing the corridors and grand rooms to a shadowed, hollow shell. Only the bare glow of candles lights the dark-stained walls and carpets, the furniture recognizable but heavy with mildew and rot. The house has been left to quiet disintegration, untouched except by the slow creep of decay. Here and there, there are signs of its previous glory, but all of it is caked in filth and dust and silt that conceals what was once luxuriously appointed.
Somewhere, there's the sound of dripping water, a slow and steady beat marking the passage of time like a heartbeat. With it comes the occasional soft whimper, floating like a phantom in the silence before trailing off again.
The decay gets deeper as one progresses through the house's corridors, and the scene gets stranger, more ominous. Paintings on the walls convey degradation and torment, scenes all the more sinister for the water damage that stains them dark. Hallways and doors warp and shift amid the rattling of chains, the sly and subtle clink of metal on metal and of sharp things gathered together. Groans of pain rise to agonized shrieks that could be three floors away, or right in the next room, whispered mantras carry through the emptiness.
Bloody handprints float dark and delicate like butterflies on the ornate wallpaper. The carpet grows thick and sodden, the reek of mold overwhelming. Tables with silt-filled drawers, concealing the quick sharp gleam of a scalpel, a bundle of ribbon-wrapped hair, a bag of silver coins. Through the windows is nebulous darkness, a constantly shifting sky that never quite breaks its mantle of gray and black.
And at the heart of it is a single stairway down. Into the dark...into the seething heart of the horror and madness that's possessed this place.
➥ Never Sleep Again CW: blood, gore, torture, child death
The Junkyard
Somewhere in the maze lurks shadows with teeth and claws, bloody-minded hunters and a thousand glittering, hungry eyes peering through broken holes and twisted shapes.
But maybe the chittering resolves itself into a child's joyous laughter, instead. Maybe the shapes that flicker in and out of the pathways take the form of a little girl. Or maybe there's something even darker and more vicious amid the turns and twists...
The Manor
What was previously subtle, becomes a true nightmare to navigate as the house takes on a life of its own. Doors open onto nothing, hallways stretch forever at strange and impossible angles. Stairways wind and coil like snakes devouring themselves, leading to rooms far too big for the shape of the house to hold.
It's a merry little chase through corridors that never seem to end, chasing quick dark shadows that are always just out of reach.
Until, finally, the maze resolves itself into something real, a path through that might defy logic, but somehow manages to be, anyway. The stairway down leads someplace different this time. Giggles bubble up from the darkness, chiming bright and delighted and shifting between the voice of a young girl and the older, throatier tone of an adult. Cloying shadows give way to flickering, ruddy light, a flash of searing, suffocating heat and choking ash.
Maybe it's a ruined, bloodstained basement. Or maybe it's a grand hall befitting the final confrontation. Maybe the flood has taken its toll here, too, or maybe the ruin came in the form of scouring fire. Whatever lies in the space-that's-not-really-a-space, it's there, waiting.
Wildcard
((Feel free to message me or brimstonemuse for plotting/custom starters!))
Andrew Jaeger | Original Character | OTA
➥ Reality Check CW: gore, dismemberment, torture, possible dream-death, body horror/monsters, corpses
Evil Playground
Jaeger's dreamscape towers to the sky, stacks of mangled cars forming claustrophobic walls of broken glass and twisted steel. Black, jagged holes and spatters of dark liquid mark some of the wrecks, shadows draped over the ruin and forming a thousand secret corners.
It brings the heavy, ominous feeling that no one survived these wrecks. The grit underfoot is heavily stained with oil and what-might-not-be-oil, crunching and grinding with each step in a flat, echoless cadence. Sickly, sourceless light casts an unreal air on the scene, enough to see by without really illuminating anything.
And amid the stillness and silence, there's the occasional motion, quick-there-and-gone flashes of something peering through shattered windshields, reaching from twisted metal nests and hollows. Stalking, with a soft subliminal chitter, the gleam of black eyes and misshapen limbs. Whatever is here is hungry, interested, and patient enough to follow at its leisure, making itself only known in the barest of glimpses.
As the maze goes, it gets closer. Tighter. The piles loom higher and heavier, swaying where they're balanced so very carefully, the air grows heavier with a rancid, coppery scent.
The Place We Call Home
Disaster and neglect has visited what was once a magnificent manor house, reducing the corridors and grand rooms to a shadowed, hollow shell. Only the bare glow of candles lights the dark-stained walls and carpets, the furniture recognizable but heavy with mildew and rot. The house has been left to quiet disintegration, untouched except by the slow creep of decay. Here and there, there are signs of its previous glory, but all of it is caked in filth and dust and silt that conceals what was once luxuriously appointed.
Somewhere, there's the sound of dripping water, a slow and steady beat marking the passage of time like a heartbeat. With it comes the occasional soft whimper, floating like a phantom in the silence before trailing off again.
The decay gets deeper as one progresses through the house's corridors, and the scene gets stranger, more ominous. Paintings on the walls convey degradation and torment, scenes all the more sinister for the water damage that stains them dark. Hallways and doors warp and shift amid the rattling of chains, the sly and subtle clink of metal on metal and of sharp things gathered together. Groans of pain rise to agonized shrieks that could be three floors away, or right in the next room, whispered mantras carry through the emptiness.
Bloody handprints float dark and delicate like butterflies on the ornate wallpaper. The carpet grows thick and sodden, the reek of mold overwhelming. Tables with silt-filled drawers, concealing the quick sharp gleam of a scalpel, a bundle of ribbon-wrapped hair, a bag of silver coins. Through the windows is nebulous darkness, a constantly shifting sky that never quite breaks its mantle of gray and black.
And at the heart of it is a single stairway down. Into the dark...into the seething heart of the horror and madness that's possessed this place.
➥ Never Sleep Again CW: blood, gore, torture, child death
The Junkyard
Somewhere in the maze lurks shadows with teeth and claws, bloody-minded hunters and a thousand glittering, hungry eyes peering through broken holes and twisted shapes.
But maybe the chittering resolves itself into a child's joyous laughter, instead. Maybe the shapes that flicker in and out of the pathways take the form of a little girl. Or maybe there's something even darker and more vicious amid the turns and twists...
The Manor
What was previously subtle, becomes a true nightmare to navigate as the house takes on a life of its own. Doors open onto nothing, hallways stretch forever at strange and impossible angles. Stairways wind and coil like snakes devouring themselves, leading to rooms far too big for the shape of the house to hold.
It's a merry little chase through corridors that never seem to end, chasing quick dark shadows that are always just out of reach.
Until, finally, the maze resolves itself into something real, a path through that might defy logic, but somehow manages to be, anyway. The stairway down leads someplace different this time. Giggles bubble up from the darkness, chiming bright and delighted and shifting between the voice of a young girl and the older, throatier tone of an adult. Cloying shadows give way to flickering, ruddy light, a flash of searing, suffocating heat and choking ash.
Maybe it's a ruined, bloodstained basement. Or maybe it's a grand hall befitting the final confrontation. Maybe the flood has taken its toll here, too, or maybe the ruin came in the form of scouring fire. Whatever lies in the space-that's-not-really-a-space, it's there, waiting.
Wildcard
((Feel free to message me or