#emilesmuseassembly

favorite color: red! any shade of red, really. just love it.

last song: Locking Up the Sun by POTF. but the current earworm is Sick of Giving You Up by OCT. it's what I've been humming to myself constantly alongside Endgame & Someone Else's Story from Chess.

currently reading: The Thin Man by Dashiell Hammett.

currently watching: DS9 rewatch with a friend, a playthrough of Deadly Premonition, and I tried to start Deadwax but Plex told me to go fuck myself so.

currently playing: one of these days I'm gonna finish Requiem. I'm replaying QB and going back for the different paths and now that I put my old hard drive back in my PC and got that save data back I'm gonna go back to my S-Rank run of MMZ3.

currently craving: this headache to fuck off.

Tagged by: @emilesmuseassembly (ty!!)

@emilesmuseassembly continued from here!

the moon | vivid dreams and fears | in many ways the moon card encompasses the idea of the wild unknown. it is the shadow realm, the place where dreams, fears, and mysteries are born. much darkness can linger here, and if you aren't careful, this can lead to periods of anxiety and self-doubt... almost as though you've lost your way in a house of mirrors. many great artists have roamed this inner landscape. it's where imagination and creativity drift freely upon the midnight air.

Something is off.

The tide shifted, the wrong person caught in a rip current. Alex Casey isn’t meant to be here, at the bottom of the ocean, his own little whale fall of misery. It’s supposed to be Saga, who can see through the darkness and get to where Alice needs her. Saga, who hasn’t needed direct intervention save a nudge from the payphone.

Alice tries not to get involved directly if she can help it — her actions have a way of kicking things up like silt on the seafloor, and the last thing she needs is to draw attention to herself. But she doesn’t revel in watching the other agent flounder, and if this is already a failed loop — it must be, because without the players in their proper positions it becomes a dead end — then she doesn’t think she can do any further harm. Resetting it will be a different matter, but Alan usually manages to find his way back to the beginning. And if he doesn't...

That isn't a concern for the present moment. Right now Alice is focused on following rippling shadows to their epicenter where she suspects Casey is likely to be holed up. She has no idea what the Dark Place looks like for him, if he's seeing what Alan projects or is cocooned in some private hell like Saga has been upon her violent arrival. So far the streets look the same -- as much as the ever-shifting landscape can ever really look the same. This gritty, grimy, noir-tinted version of New York is familiar to her by now, almost eclipsing her memories of what the real city is like. But she holds fast to those, not wanting the idea of home to be washed away completely.

"Det-- Agent Casey?" she corrects herself quickly, not wanting to summon of the specter of the man's fictional counterpart. If they're both lucky, he'll be able to hear her and respond. If he can't, if he's sunk deeper already, then reaching him will be harder. Not impossible, just more of a challenge.

Alice hopes that just this once, something in this place will be simple.

Freedom awaits, yet the threat of death, crawls even closer. While she had tried to find help, others may have already made their escape. Both soothing and terrifying idea. To be happy others made it, but also... to know to be left behind.

Laurie leans against the wall, feeling it tremble in more and more frequent waves as time runs. She proceeds an unknown path, holding her wounds, focusing on each step with a painful foot. Determined to make it. Behind the veil of steam stands a figure - another survivor she hadn't seen since the beginning of the trial. There he is. almost a stranger. One who stayed and waited for her. She knows him by the name.

"Alan! Where's the way out...?" || @emilesmuseassembly

Miles didn't think he'd ever be grateful to be back in the goddamn asylum, but as it turns out, the inside beats the outside. He takes a moment to catch his breath, but hisses a pained noise through his teeth with he tries detangling his hair with his fingers. Right, still down two -- open wounds at that, and he doesn't really want to think about the tetanus shots and rounds of antibiotics that await him after tonight.

Somehow he's supposed to keep following Father Martin in spite of how turned around he is, but it's not like a better option has presented itself. At least this part of the ward is well-lit, unlike the rest of the area. Miles clicks off the camera's nightvision and starts rummaging through a desk in search of batteries. He'd drained the last of his supply stumbling around in the outside darkness, and he's not about to face down whatever the inside darkness has in store without a way to see it coming.

He finds a file folder instead, and he's so focused on scanning through the document inside that he doesn't notice someone else approaching until it's too late to hide. Miles looks up, startled, but doesn't drop the folder.

Not everyone here is an aggressor -- he's learned that. But just because this patient isn't running at him with an ax doesn't make them friendly, either. "I'm not-- not here to hurt you." There's only one door into this office, and the patient is blocking it. Miles could kick himself for getting trapped so easily, but it's not like he can change that now. Best he can hope for is buying himself a couple seconds, talking up a distraction before he tries to bolt. "Father Martin, the priest, you know him? He told me to come this way, to follow him. That's all I'm trying to do."

STARTER / @emilesmuseassembly

The Entity's world—if world it be—had a knack for all manner of surprises: sentient Fog swirling hungrily at one's boots, a supernatural horse, even creatures that, by all rights, shouldn't even exist. Yet the most surprising to the Grave Walker was espying a survivor traversing the haunted space far from the safety of the campfire. It was free territory, certainly. There was no rule that stated they could not travel openly across the realm; it was just stupidly dangerous. A gamble that was so often lost. Ended crudely by the malevolent hand of a less forgiving, even territorial killer. Yet of all the survivors to glimpse creeping through this wooded nothingness, Feng Min was one of the least shocking.

"Wouldn't go that way if I were you." His voice rang out from an alcove of shadow in a copse of trees. There where the Reaper lounged, leaning against the creaking trunk of an old elm. In his hand was a book, its title long worn off. It was all about as unthreatening as any masked man sitting in shadow could possibly be.

He continued, "A very grumpy Myers is in that direction."

For anyone walking in perhaps nothing might have seemed out of place; Chris sitting on the floor, legs crossed, focused on working on something in his lap, his bulky frame easily keeping said thing out of sight, perhaps cleaning his gun, what most would assume. Except it was one of those rare instance in which Chris had his back turned towards the door, the first telling it might not be what it seemed, at least for the ones paying attention. And the quiet erupts of giggles breaking the silence around him, the second and far more important tell of what was happening.

The Poet strolled down the street, tapping his fingers against the pocket of his acid wash black jeans to the rhythm of the song playing through his headphones.

He'd been travelling around for a while, stopping in sleepy towns and big cities in search of Imagining Friends to pass the time. There was always someone in need of him. Someone searching for something better, something more than what they already had. A new dream to immerse themselves in...and the Poet was always willing to oblige their desires. It was a fun game.

Perching on a low wall to pause and admire his surroundings, he took a deep breath of pine scented air and smiled to himself. He always liked small towns. There was so much mystery and wonder to be found in the mundane routine of everyday life; something wondrous in its simplicity.

Just as he was about to move, he stopped himself from crashing into a forlorn looking young girl.