(( title comes from this song; relevant pages if you wanna see those: 12 ))
You can't be sure how long of a period the memory that flashes into your mind spans. It could be hours as easily as minutes. Days. Months. Time may as well collapse and unfold around you for all you can gauge it - and, in the moment, you don't really bother trying. There's always more to plan, to account for, to patch and repair and defend and request.
That the goat always by your side is able to grant those requests so easily should be a boon - but it feels like little assurance as those wishes pile up in your mind, flowing into place faster than you can ask for their fulfillment. You have to think, to decide what needs to be next. You can't think. So the goat makes suggestions, and you follow them.
You think there used to be more people here. You convinced some of your friends to stay, didn't you? Of course you did. None of you ever wanted to be Canaries, to suffer and die over and over in overgrown dungeons; of course they'd be better off here, with you, in this world that you can make perfect.
There are always more intruders. More and more and more, these days-- is that what happened to some of your friends? You almost remember, but the thought is gone as soon as it starts to form.
Where is Mikepas? Sita was upset about something, last you saw her. You didn't have time to get into it. You never seem to, recently.
The needs of the dungeon throb in your skull. At least the goat is here. It guides your reinforcements and defenses-- you start to wonder if the dungeon is growing too large. Didn't this used to be easier? Maybe you should try to condense things again. The goat nudges reassuringly against your cheek, and that thought fades.
You need more monsters, and so they're there. You hear Coyote mutter something about a prison, which is stupid. Prison is where he would be if he weren't sent to the Canaries. You've saved him from both.
The twisting corridors are no harder to navigate than the simple halls they used to be. They're yours, after all - yours, just like your beloved, waiting for you whenever you can get a moment's rest. They don't needle you about your choices, or accuse you of trapping them. The others had some doubts about their form, but you did what you had to - they're enough like the person their upper half was modeled after, and a serpentine lower body was just more practical as thieves and invaders became a greater risk. Most days, you can't even tell the difference anymore.
They're probably close enough.
This maze of towers and tunnels is probably close enough to where you're from.
Your friends have disappeared completely, now. But you're not alone.
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branchandroot
PASSERINE; [SPOILERS]; CW: psychological horror, manipulation, unreality, implied death
Date: 2023-10-19 10:52 pm (UTC)You can't be sure how long of a period the memory that flashes into your mind spans. It could be hours as easily as minutes. Days. Months. Time may as well collapse and unfold around you for all you can gauge it - and, in the moment, you don't really bother trying. There's always more to plan, to account for, to patch and repair and defend and request.
That the goat always by your side is able to grant those requests so easily should be a boon - but it feels like little assurance as those wishes pile up in your mind, flowing into place faster than you can ask for their fulfillment. You have to think, to decide what needs to be next. You can't think. So the goat makes suggestions, and you follow them.
You think there used to be more people here. You convinced some of your friends to stay, didn't you? Of course you did. None of you ever wanted to be Canaries, to suffer and die over and over in overgrown dungeons; of course they'd be better off here, with you, in this world that you can make perfect.
There are always more intruders. More and more and more, these days-- is that what happened to some of your friends? You almost remember, but the thought is gone as soon as it starts to form.
Where is Mikepas? Sita was upset about something, last you saw her. You didn't have time to get into it. You never seem to, recently.
The needs of the dungeon throb in your skull. At least the goat is here. It guides your reinforcements and defenses-- you start to wonder if the dungeon is growing too large. Didn't this used to be easier? Maybe you should try to condense things again. The goat nudges reassuringly against your cheek, and that thought fades.
You need more monsters, and so they're there. You hear Coyote mutter something about a prison, which is stupid. Prison is where he would be if he weren't sent to the Canaries. You've saved him from both.
The twisting corridors are no harder to navigate than the simple halls they used to be. They're yours, after all - yours, just like your beloved, waiting for you whenever you can get a moment's rest. They don't needle you about your choices, or accuse you of trapping them. The others had some doubts about their form, but you did what you had to - they're enough like the person their upper half was modeled after, and a serpentine lower body was just more practical as thieves and invaders became a greater risk. Most days, you can't even tell the difference anymore.
They're probably close enough.
This maze of towers and tunnels is probably close enough to where you're from.
Your friends have disappeared completely, now. But you're not alone.
After all, the goat is still here.