Watch your step. It's far to easy to fall down a rabbit hole.

[D20ragon]

There is a bit of wonder in closed doors, wouldn't you agree?
For a moment, almost anything could be behind them. Whole worlds could exist, until the moment where you throw the door wide, the hinges swinging open to reveal the plain certainty of Fact.
But sometimes, that world doesn't want to vanish. Sometimes, that uncertainty would rather be real.
And sometimes, that swirling mass of possibilities becomes something a bit more.
And sometimes, it doesn't think it's quite fair that it has to hide behind a door, or in a box.
Sometimes, it wants to take you.
Children know this. That monsters hide in the darkness. That madness lurks in the closet.
That stories don't always have to stay in books.
And they know that just because the Real World of the grown-ups is stronger now, doesn't mean it always will be.
And now?
Wonderland wants you, and it's not waiting for you to follow the rabbit.
Oz isn't going to stay somewhere over the rainbow.
Never never land isn't so far away anymore.
Dreams aren't waiting for you to close your eyes.
The monsters are tired of hiding in the dark, and your stories are tired of just being read.




http://digital-art-gallery.com/oid/65/640x828_11834_Monster_in_the_Closet_2d_illustratio n_monster_children_closet_room_picture_image_digit al_art.jpg


http://visualnews.columnfivemedia.netdna-cdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/Alexander-Jansson-Digital-Art-8.jpg


http://digital-art-gallery.com/oid/2/600x800_1465_Don_t_scary_2d_fantasy_child_female_c reature_monster_picture_image_digital_art.jpg



http://artofday.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/lubica_lintnerova_painting_european_fantasy.jpg






http://www.lamarelle.net/1325-large_default/carte-postale-le-miroir-nicoletta-ceccoli.jpg

Watch your step. It's far too easy to slip down a rabbit hole.


Once upon a time, there lived a number of children.
They were of all different shapes and sizes, lived in all sorts of different places, and had all different mothers and fathers.
This, when taken on its own, does not seem very unusual. The world is in fact full of children like this.
What made these children worth telling a story about was the fact that one late afternoon in June, after school had just been let out, Wonderland stole these children. Gobbled them up, just like that.
And very soon thereafter, they found themselves in the oddest place in this world, and would have to try very hard to escape, let alone survive.
Sit down, dear reader, and take some tea. Do try to keep it down.
I'm afraid this won't be an entirely pleasant story.

['Neath the Moon]

Lars does not attend school. When his mother died, two years ago (the consumption; they had called a doctor from some big city, but by the time he arrived she was too far gone) he was briefly placed in an orphanage, about twenty miles from his hometown. Two months later, still grieving and bitter, he left, since he knew he wasn't an orphan; his father was out there somewhere, in some far-away kingdom, like his mother always said. So he made his way to a port, and got work on a ship--helping in the kitchens. Eventually he ended up in London, and for the last year and a half he has lived there on the streets. He's picked up English, and he's a pretty good thief. (He's just borrowing. He has a whole list of people he's going to repay, once he takes his place as prince.)

At the moment, Lars is sitting in the bell-tower of an abandoned church, taking a nap in the warm sun.

[gac3]

Maria is sitting on the ground facing her grandmother's grave. She told Grandmum of the children in the town who she enjoyed playing with. She told Grandmum of Mum and Dad who were kind and gentle and loving and fair as parents but were never as close to Maria as Grandmum had been. She speaks to Grandmum as if she were sitting there, rather than her tombstone.

[Bladehunter217]

The safest place is up high, nobody ever looks up so rooftops ae best. Erik has his crevace up on the church between two portions of its roofs. A little nest made of old coats and other clothing too large for him. Thanks to a hole in the roof he is halfway inside the walls, protected from the wost of the weather by the jutting roof and an old wool overcoat he nailed as a door.

[D20ragon]

Lars does not attend school. When his mother died, two years ago (the consumption; they had called a doctor from some big city, but by the time he arrived she was too far gone) he was briefly placed in an orphanage, about twenty miles from his hometown. Two months later, still grieving and bitter, he left, since he knew he wasn't an orphan; his father was out there somewhere, in some far-away kingdom, like his mother always said. So he made his way to a port, and got work on a ship--helping in the kitchens. Eventually he ended up in London, and for the last year and a half he has lived there on the streets. He's picked up English, and he's a pretty good thief. (He's just borrowing. He has a whole list of people he's going to repay, once he takes his place as prince.)
At the moment, Lars is sitting in the bell-tower of an abandoned church, taking a nap in the warm sun.

A breeze, skipping and tumbling gleefully by, whisks under Lars's nose, bringing with it a scent of something not entirely remembered, a scent of old books and leather, and cloves and cinnamon, and damp earth in spring, mixed with the smell of the sea, and the tang of lightning.


Maria is sitting on the ground facing her grandmother's grave. She told Grandmum of the children in the town who she enjoyed playing with. She told Grandmum of Mum and Dad who were kind and gentle and loving and fair as parents but were never as close to Maria as Grandmum had been. She speaks to Grandmum as if she were sitting there, rather than her tombstone.
The wind reaches Maria's nose as well, laughing somewhat cruelly at her sorrow, for breezes do not understand such things, and swirls about her head before skipping on Erik's,


The safest place is up high, nobody ever looks up so rooftops ae best. Erik has his crevace up on the church between two portions of its roofs. A little nest made of old coats and other clothing too large for him. Thanks to a hole in the roof he is halfway inside the walls, protected from the wost of the weather by the jutting roof and an old wool overcoat he nailed as a door.

Where it skips through the overcoat and giddily dances about, and then shoots skyward, dashing up and down, and trying to catch its tail, and generally having a good time, such as breezes tend to do.

[Bladehunter217]

Erik stuck his head out from his hole. With a breeze such as this how could he stay? He had to join in the fun, what else could he do when such an energetic breeze invited him to play. He climbed from his hole and quickly made his way from the roof. He climbed from roof to wall to the ancient pine and finally the ground, watching the leaves for which way the wind lead.

[gac3]

The wind reaches Maria's nose as well, laughing somewhat cruelly at her sorrow, for breezes do not understand such things, and swirls about her head before skipping on Erik's,


Maria rubs her nose and stands up. She walks around in circles a little, listening to what Grandmum would be saying to her. She looks around curiously even though she comes here frequently.

['Neath the Moon]

The aromatic zephyr passes over Lars, half-rousing him from his gentle snooze. It brings a dream-glimpse of his mother, alive and well, and a tall man he knows is his father. Suddenly, his dream-self stumbles. He wakes with a start, and a feeling of falling.

I don't think I ever considered that I might possibly, at some point, use the phrase "the aromatic zephyr passes over Lars."

[Obscurejones]

Aristotle digs through another pile of his father's scraps. The pieces keep getting smaller and smaller as his father gets better at his new craft. He doesn't seem to like doll making. But he's good at it. And Aristotle couldn't be prouder. Enough money to keep his whole family fed and this swell trip to London.

No time anymore though. And that is a shame. But it's the price Aristotle pays for his father's successes. So the boy has to make his own fun. So he sits on the steps of the church and works on his own latest doll. A little Neman lion. And who knows? If he uses the right stitch and the right leather it might be just as indestructible as the first one.

[D20ragon]

Erik stuck his head out from his hole. With a breeze such as this how could he stay? He had to join in the fun, what else could he do when such an energetic breeze invited him to play. He climbed from his hole and quickly made his way from the roof. He climbed from roof to wall to the ancient pine and finally the ground, watching the leaves for which way the wind lead.

The wind shot straight up, whistling up to the top of the tree, where it stopped with an expectant air, as if waiting for him.



Maria rubs her nose and stands up. She walks around in circles a little, listening to what Grandmum would be saying to her. She looks around curiously even though she comes here frequently.

Another swooping arm of the wind descends from the sky, looping its way through the tombstones, swirling last years dead leaves up and around. They dance in front of Maria, first a chaotic whirlwind of foliage, changing and shaping until it is her grandmother, her dress composed of the red leaves, her hair of the crumbling brown ones. She stands there, motionless save for the endless swirl of her skirts, rustling on and on.


The aromatic zephyr passes over Lars, half-rousing him from his gentle snooze. It brings a dream-glimpse of his mother, alive and well, and a tall man he knows is his father. Suddenly, his dream-self stumbles. He wakes with a start, and a feeling of falling.

I don't think I ever considered that I might possibly, at some point, use the phrase "the aromatic zephyr passes over Lars."

The breeze bites Lars sharply on the nose, bringing tears to his eyes, which are promptly whisked away by the rushing wind as he tumbles head over heels towards the ground.
The breeze buffets him this way and that, juggling him like a balloon, tossing him up and down, letting him almost drop — but not quite.
Finally it hurls him skyward, up, up above the steeple of the church, up in a high, gentle arc, soaring gracefully towards a vague shape in the distance.


Aristotle digs through another pile of his father's scraps. The pieces keep getting smaller and smaller as his father gets better at his new craft. He doesn't seem to like doll making. But he's good at it. And Aristotle couldn't be prouder. Enough money to keep his whole family fed and this swell trip to London.

No time anymore though. And that is a shame. But it's the price Aristotle pays for his father's successes. So the boy has to make his own fun. So he sits on the steps of the church and works on his own latest doll. A little Neman lion. And who knows? If he uses the right stitch and the right leather it might be just as indestructible as the first one.

And now the wind is upon Aristotle, creeping up behind him. It waits for a moment, then pounces, whisking the doll he is working on from his hands. It dangles it in front of his nose for a moment, and then hurls off down the street, the doll bouncing on the rowdy streams of air.

[gac3]

[QUOTE=D20ragon;17210318]Another swooping arm of the wind descends from the sky, looping its way through the tombstones, swirling last years dead leaves up and around. They dance in front of Maria, first a chaotic whirlwind of foliage, changing and shaping until it is her grandmother, her dress composed of the red leaves, her hair of the crumbling brown ones. She stands there, motionless save for the endless swirl of her skirts, rustling on and on.


Maria stops walking around and stairs at her Grandmum. She waits to see what her grandmum does, if she doesn't do anything, Maria will slowly walk up and attempt to hug her.

[Bladehunter217]

Erik grinned, waving at the branches caught in the wind. He climbed the tree, grasping at the air around the top, trying to catch the wind.

[Obscurejones]

With a yelp, Aristotle dashes after his scraps. They may be small, but that's good fabric. Waste is as much a sin as any other, after all.

['Neath the Moon]

The breeze bites Lars sharply on the nose, bringing tears to his eyes, which are promptly whisked away by the rushing wind as he tumbles head over heels towards the ground.
The breeze buffets him this way and that, juggling him like a balloon, tossing him up and down, letting him almost drop — but not quite.
Finally it hurls him skyward, up, up above the steeple of the church, up in a high, gentle arc, soaring gracefully towards a vague shape in the distance.



Lars is suddenly glad he hasn't managed to find much food today. An apple and some stale bread are easier to keep down than heartier fare.

[D20ragon]

[QUOTE=D20ragon;17210318]Another swooping arm of the wind descends from the sky, looping its way through the tombstones, swirling last years dead leaves up and around. They dance in front of Maria, first a chaotic whirlwind of foliage, changing and shaping until it is her grandmother, her dress composed of the red leaves, her hair of the crumbling brown ones. She stands there, motionless save for the endless swirl of her skirts, rustling on and on.


Maria stops walking around and stares at her Grandmum. She waits to see what her grandmum does, if she doesn't do anything, Maria will slowly walk up and attempt to hug her.


The leaves whirl away through Maria's grasping arms, reforming a few steps away. The old woman's arm reaches out, it's twisted and gnarled finger pointing at her gravestone imploringly.


Erik grinned, waving at the branches caught in the wind. He climbed the tree, grasping at the air around the top, trying to catch the wind.

The tree seems taller then he had remembered it. On and on he climbed, and though he drew nearer to the top, he never seemed to reach it.
New leaves rustled and chuckled around him, tussling his hair, and still the top was just out of reach.


With a yelp, Aristotle dashes after his scraps. They may be small, but that's good fabric. Waste is as much a sin as any other, after all.

The odds and ends dance along the road, strutting like a old gentleman one moment, dancing like a young girl the next.




Lars is suddenly glad he hasn't managed to find much food today. An apple and some stale bread are easier to keep down than heartier fare.

The ground is rushing up far to fast. The breeze whirls away, dropping him, and now he falls.

[Stevemantis]

A boy is walking down a road in a small town. He seems to be swaying back and forth, something of weariness and something else. A empty backpack and stomach, and a full head is enough to get anyone a bit on edge. (*nil* steal some bread already you dummy!)(*lux* please, we've seen Le mis, we do not want our lives to become some big music number) the voices are getting annoying, but as always they give him an idea, up the way there is a quaint church. Maybe they can spare some food for a runaway...

[gac3]

[QUOTE=D20ragon;17222391]
The leaves whirl away through Maria's grasping arms, reforming a few steps away. The old woman's arm reaches out, it's twisted and gnarled finger pointing at her gravestone imploringly.


Maria gets closer to the tombstone and tries to see what her Grandmum is pointing at.

[Bladehunter217]

Notsure if he should be annoyed or excited, Erik climbs higher than he can ever remember. One arm over the other, he races to the top, seeming to race the tree itself. He feels the wind on his back calling him forward which only renews his elation. He knows not what is happening, but this might be the strangest and best day ever.

[Obscurejones]

Aristotle stumbles a little as he tries to put on a burst of speed. He feels the aggravation of his circumstances start to wear away at his good sense.

[D20ragon]

A boy is walking down a road in a small town. He seems to be swaying back and forth, something of weariness and something else. A empty backpack and stomach, and a full head is enough to get anyone a bit on edge. (*nil* steal some bread already you dummy!)(*lux* please, we've seen Le mis, we do not want our lives to become some big music number) the voices are getting annoying, but as always they give him an idea, up the way there is a quaint church. Maybe they can spare some food for a runaway...

Something reaches the lads ears.
A gentle snoring.
A old tramp lies in the sun nearby, fast asleep. A basket almost as tall as the boy stands near him, it's wicker glowing gently in the sun.



[QUOTE=D20ragon;17222391]
The leaves whirl away through Maria's grasping arms, reforming a few steps away. The old woman's arm reaches out, it's twisted and gnarled finger pointing at her gravestone imploringly.



Maria gets closer to the tombstone and tries to see what her Grandmum is pointing at.


The writing on the gravestone shifts and blurs, the carved rose closing up into a doorhandle, and the dates and name curling into a flowery script which reads simply: Welcome.



Notsure if he should be annoyed or excited, Erik climbs higher than he can ever remember. One arm over the other, he races to the top, seeming to race the tree itself. He feels the wind on his back calling him forward which only renews his elation. He knows not what is happening, but this might be the strangest and best day ever.

Onward and upward the tree goes, seemingly forever.
Is it growing as you climb?
The air around you grows cooler the further you climb, until you are shivering from the cold, barely able to keep moving.




Aristotle stumbles a little as he tries to put on a burst of speed. He feels the aggravation of his circumstances start to wear away at his good sense.
Try as you might, the scraps evade you. Your footsteps begin to flag, falling slower and slower.
They seem to be

Aristotle stumbles a little as he tries to put on a burst of speed. He feels the aggravation of his circumstances start to wear away at his good sense.
Try as you might, your footsteps begin to flag, falling slower and slower.
And is it just you, or is it strangely quiet? Your footfalls are muted, as if on a rug. Everything around seems softer, with less edges and corners.

[gac3]

The writing on the gravestone shifts and blurs, the carved rose closing up into a doorhandle, and the dates and name curling into a flowery script which reads simply: Welcome.



Maria looks to her grandmum and turns the doorhandle. She shakes with uncertainty but feels this is something she must do.

[Bladehunter217]

"This is impossible, where are you taking me wind? How high must I climb?" Erik looks up the tree, holding to rhe hope he can find a few branches close enough together tto rest in.

['Neath the Moon]

The ground is rushing up far too fast. The breeze whirls away, dropping him, and now he falls.
There's not much Lars can do about this. His heart races, and he closes his eyes in fear, as well as anticipation of the impact.

[Stevemantis]

Something reaches the lads ears.
A gentle snoring.
A old tramp lies in the sun nearby, fast asleep. A basket almost as tall as the boy stands near him, it's wicker glowing gently in the sun.


(*nil*Hey! Maybe he has something good to eat!) (*lux*We're not stealing from a poor old man) the boy stays silent, a third voice was stirring inside him. He felt it growing stronger and stronger, fear begins to grasp the boy. It's power overwhelming the others. Until- GRUMBLE GRUMBLE GRUMBLE.....
(*lux*that was.... anticlimactic....) but gave the boy new sight... The tramp wouldn't mind losing a small bite. The boy takes a look at the tramp, to see if he is asleep. Then standing on his toes took a peak into the basket...

[Obscurejones]

Aristotle slowly slows his run, his footfalls falling away until he stands still and silent. He looks around himself carefully, a little fear dancing at the edge of his vision.

[D20ragon]

Maria looks to her grandmum and turns the doorhandle. She shakes with uncertainty but feels this is something she must do.

The doorhandle is strangely warm, as though the brisk spring air had not touched it. The tombstone swings easily open, almost as if it has been used before.
The wind picks up behind the girl, the dry leaves rustling and chattering manically.
As she peers though the door, the wind seizes her, and hurls her headlong into the open doorway.
You land heavily, tumbling over to come to rest on a soft surface, curiously.


"This is impossible, where are you taking me wind? How high must I climb?" Erik looks up the tree, holding to the hope he can find a few branches close enough together to rest in.

A pair of overlapped branches make a perfectly good seat.
The boy sits, hugging the truck of the tree with on arm, and looking out over the landscape below.
It seems to have vanished!
Only fog rolls on under the boys feet, swirling and eddying like the sea.



There's not much Lars can do about this. His heart races, and he closes his eyes in fear, as well as anticipation of the impact.

The wind pulls at his face, forcing his eyes back open.
Below him, he sees a glint of light, and a vague shape...



Aristotle slowly slows his run, his footfalls falling away until he stands still and silent. He looks around himself carefully, a little fear dancing at the edge of his vision.

The street billows out around you, sinking slightly beneath your feet.
The road is made of cotton, dyed red and blue, huge seams running down the center.
The buildings sway in the slight breeze, their calico walls and silk rooftops billowing out like a sheet hung to dry.
All is silent. No one stirs except the fabric all about you.

[gac3]

The doorhandle is strangely warm, as though the brisk spring air had not touched it. The tombstone swings easily open, almost as if it has been used before.
The wind picks up behind the girl, the dry leaves rustling and chattering manically.
As she peers though the door, the wind seizes her, and hurls her headlong into the open doorway.
You land heavily, tumbling over to come to rest on a soft surface, curiously.




Maria is unsure how to interpret what is happening so she spreads her arms and attempts to ride the wind as far as it will take her. When she lands she lays there for a moment before opening her eyes and turning around to see where she is.

[Obscurejones]

Aristotle puzzles at this strange place for a moment. Taking his needle he picks at the seam in the road, aiming to see what's beneath these colorful fabric cobblestones.

[D20ragon]

Maria is unsure how to interpret what is happening so she spreads her arms and attempts to ride the wind as far as it will take her. When she lands she lays there for a moment before opening her eyes and turning around to see where she is.

A scratchy carpet covers the floor of the corridor you lie in, it's cheap dull red and grey-green pattern fitting snugly against the wainscoting.
Dim light fills the hall, reflecting off of the many doors that line it.
The hall ends in a T, another identical passage intersecting with the one you're in.

http://screenshots.en.sftcdn.net/blog/en/2012/08/corry.png



Aristotle puzzles at this strange place for a moment. Taking his needle he picks at the seam in the road, aiming to see what's beneath these colorful fabric cobblestones.

The needle pushes and prods against the sturdy stitching in the road, working deeper and deeper.
You can't quite seem to reach the end of it, no matter how hard you try.
But you are sure there must be something beneath you: how else would the road be held up?

[Obscurejones]

It would appear it's cushiony cobbles all the way down. I'm sure the turtles are disappointed. Aristotle allows himself a moment's frustration before trying to work up just enough of the fabric to have a swatch for his own. He looks around for any sort of buttons or baubles to accent the creation that starts to dance about at the edge of his mind's eye.

[Bladehunter217]

Erik climbed into the nook and curled him himself into a small ball. With arms wrapped around for warmth, he decided to wait for a few minutes to catch his breath.

[D20ragon]

It would appear it's cushiony cobbles all the way down. I'm sure the turtles are disappointed. Aristotle allows himself a moment's frustration before trying to work up just enough of the fabric to have a swatch for his own. He looks around for any sort of buttons or baubles to accent the creation that starts to dance about at the edge of his mind's eye.

A line of buttons defines the curb, their many colors shining as bright as if they had just been polished.
They range from big to small, from the size of a fist to the size of a pea.


Erik climbed into the nook and curled him himself into a small ball. With arms wrapped around for warmth, he decided to wait for a few minutes to catch his breath.


The mist rolls about, churning and roiling, like a witches cauldron on the boil.
The wind picks up, whistling about you with a cold, lonely noise, then drops. Down below you, the fog lies as though mirror for a moment, and then, slowly, almost reluctantly, parts.
The sound of birdsong and crickets fills your ears.
A meadow of spring green grass lies at the base of the tree, only some 15 feet down! A forest stands at it's borders, as dark and gloomy as the clearing is light and cheerful.
The church is nowhere to be seen.




(*nil*Hey! Maybe he has something good to eat!) (*lux*We're not stealing from a poor old man) the boy stays silent, a third voice was stirring inside him. He felt it growing stronger and stronger, fear begins to grasp the boy. It's power overwhelming the others. Until- GRUMBLE GRUMBLE GRUMBLE.....
(*lux*that was.... anticlimactic....) but gave the boy new sight... The tramp wouldn't mind losing a small bite. The boy takes a look at the tramp, to see if he is asleep. Then standing on his toes took a peak into the basket...

The basket seems far deeper then it appears. You can barely make out what lies on its bottom, but something glints down there... Like a glass bottle, or... gold.

[Stevemantis]

(nil* take it), a voice lined the lips of the boy, somehow it was different than his own, almost a whisper in another tone.... lux* dont, this is going too far...) the boy was too hungry too see the reason of the other voice, he was just so hungry... he starts to reach down deeper, clinging onto the edge of the basket... just a bit closer...

[Obscurejones]

Crimping up a bit of the road into a cushion Aristotle picks at the curb with his needle, prying loose two buttons, one large and red, the other tiny blue. Staying on his seat he begins to stitch, putting together a little bird, all red down one side and blue down the other.

[Bladehunter217]

Erik scratches his head for a moment before looking up to see how far to the top of the tree. Maybe he could climb it to get a look around. If he was having some strange dream why not go along with it.

['Neath the Moon]

The wind pulls at his face, forcing his eyes back open.
Below him, he sees a glint of light, and a vague shape...


Eli does his best to head towards the light.

[gac3]

A scratchy carpet covers the floor of the corridor you lie in, it's cheap dull red and grey-green pattern fitting snugly against the wainscoting.
Dim light fills the hall, reflecting off of the many doors that line it.
The hall ends in a T, another identical passage intersecting with the one you're in.


Maria begins walking down the hallway thinking "When in doubt and lost in the night, unsure of where to go, just turn right." Grandmum had always said that to her when they would go for walks and not pay attention to where they are going. At the intersection, she turns right and continues down the hall.

[D20ragon]

(nil* take it), a voice lined the lips of the boy, somehow it was different than his own, almost a whisper in another tone.... lux* dont, this is going too far...) the boy was too hungry too see the reason of the other voice, he was just so hungry... he starts to reach down deeper, clinging onto the edge of the basket... just a bit closer...

Your fingers graze the edge of the object. It is cold, solid.
As you scrabble to bring it just a bit closer, it rolls away, tantalizing inches from your grasping hands.


Erik scratches his head for a moment before looking up to see how far to the top of the tree. Maybe he could climb it to get a look around. If he was having some strange dream why not go along with it.


The top of the tree sways loftily above, some 10 feet overhead.



Eli does his best to head towards the light.

As he tumbles closer, the sound of a whirring engine fills his ears.
The light is almost blinding now, but as he forces his eyes open against it, he can make out a small biplane, the sun glaring off of its chasis.





Maria begins walking down the hallway thinking "When in doubt and lost in the night, unsure of where to go, just turn right." Grandmum had always said that to her when they would go for walks and not pay attention to where they are going. At the intersection, she turns right and continues down the hall.

Rows upon rows upon rows of doors.
The dim light begins to strain your eyes, and still you can see no end to the carpeted floors, the dull beige wainscoting, and the endless grey and brown doors.
After a time, something begins to creep into your ears, aside from your footsteps.
Tiny scrabbling noises, as if hundreds of tiny fingers were scratching at the walls.

['Neath the Moon]

(Aye, called him "Eli." I meant Lars. Stupid me, messing up those short Nordic names.)

Lars heads toward the plane, as best he can.

[Stevemantis]

(*nil* damnit! Come on butter fingers, get it!) The boy stranes himself to get as close as he can to no avail,(*lux* oh blast it all, fine, if you want it so bad flip the bloody basket over!) If it was possible to look at yourself out of stupidity, this would have been the finest example of how to do it. The boy crawled out of the basket and flipped it over, shaking it as it was in his grasp (*lux* once again, logic wins )

[D20ragon]

(Aye, called him "Eli." I meant Lars. Stupid me, messing up those short Nordic names.)

Lars heads toward the plane, as best he can.

You tumble helplessly, tossed this way and that at the mercy of the winds until... Wait! Is that metal beneath your fingers?
You latch on desperately, still too disoriented to see what you're grabbing onto.



(*nil* damnit! Come on butter fingers, get it!) The boy stranes himself to get as close as he can to no avail,(*lux* oh blast it all, fine, if you want it so bad flip the bloody basket over!) If it was possible to look at yourself out of stupidity, this would have been the finest example of how to do it. The boy crawled out of the basket and flipped it over, shaking it as it was in his grasp (*lux* once again, logic wins )


The bottle is heavy and golden, glinting in the sunlight like king Solomon's treasure.
A heavy lead stopper caps the thing.

[Bladehunter217]

Erik sighs and climbs down, while a good look around could help, what was the point in ten more feet? He reaches the ground and wraps his arms in an attempt to ward off the cold. With nowhere to be, Erik looks to the wind, hoping his new playmate would take him someplace new.

[Stevemantis]

The boys arm a most moved on its own... and yet the voices were silent... he picked up the gleaming bottle of gold. Something inside of him couldn't resist the urge to... Open... with his thumb the boy pops the lead cork out

[Obscurejones]

As he sews the final button in place Aristotle takes a moment to admire his work. He's not as good as father, not yet. But he's pretty darn good. Now all it needs is a name. He racks his brain for a moment to pull some thing properly mythic from one of his mother's stories.
"You'll be Ganymede. Although I didn't have to kidnap you. Now what do you think we'll see out here, Gany?"

[D20ragon]

Erik sighs and climbs down, while a good look around could help, what was the point in ten more feet? He reaches the ground and wraps his arms in an attempt to ward off the cold. With nowhere to be, Erik looks to the wind, hoping his new playmate would take him someplace new.

The wind snickers quietly to itself as it dances off into the clouds, joining its kin.
Within moments, it has forgotten all about the poor boy it left in the clearing. But then again, it is a breeze.

The clearing is silent. The grass beneath your feet is practically thrumming with the sound of it.
A few crickets chirp, adding to the quiet.


The boys arm a most moved on its own... and yet the voices were silent... he picked up the gleaming bottle of gold. Something inside of him couldn't resist the urge to... Open... with his thumb the boy pops the lead cork out

The stopper thuds to the earth, the noise lost amid the churning, bubbling noise which rushes from the golden bottle.
Thick smoke almost so solid you could grasp it flows about you, pouring down your throat and into your eyes, wrapping around your body like a anaconda.


As he sews the final button in place Aristotle takes a moment to admire his work. He's not as good as father, not yet. But he's pretty darn good. Now all it needs is a name. He racks his brain for a moment to pull some thing properly mythic from one of his mother's stories.
"You'll be Ganymede. Although I didn't have to kidnap you. Now what do you think we'll see out here, Gany?"
The small beast stares mutely up at you. All about, the silken buildings nod and sway in agreement, their stitches straining, walls billowing about like washing on a line.

['Neath the Moon]

You tumble helplessly, tossed this way and that at the mercy of the winds until... Wait! Is that metal beneath your fingers?
You latch on desperately, still too disoriented to see what you're grabbing onto.


Lars reaches about for more handholds, and tries to pull himself up.

[Bladehunter217]

Erik frowned, sad that the game was over so soon. With nothing left to do, he looked around for a stick and started spinning it around. He picked a direction based on where the stick ended when he stopped spinning it and started walking that direction.

[D20ragon]

Erik frowned, sad that the game was over so soon. With nothing left to do, he looked around for a stick and started spinning it around. He picked a direction based on where the stick ended when he stopped spinning it and started walking that direction.



The forest looms ahead, dark boughs rustling with no breeze to stir them. It's shadows dart out to meet yours, their wild fingers grasping it and pulling it into the green-black wood.

[Obscurejones]

Laughing Aristotle ruffles the top of the little eagle's feathers. Perching the doll on his shoulder he starts down the path between the swaying houses.

[Bladehunter217]

Not certain as to where on earth he landed himself, Erik slowly follows after the shadows. He wonders why they want his shade, maybe some sort of game?