#riddlecrypt

[fivetrench]

Riddlersona turned self insert, he has 97 mental illnesses and is banned from most public spaces

[greensungnostic]

You’ve been having rough dreams again. Tossing and turning in bed at night, curled up in a tangled nest of blankets, damp with sweat and whimpering into your pillows. Normally your dreams are weirdly mundane - dreams of your work, of gardening, of the countless other little things that occupy you during your time in the waking world. But the past few nights you’ve been having different dreams again. Dreams of other places, other times. Of discussions with unknown versions of long lost friends, of dark and liminal places unknown to you yet terrifyingly familiar. You dream of other selves, their experiences each different from your own and drifting like slideshows through your dreaming mind. You dream of rending terrible foes to shreds with hands and claws and fangs. You dream of righteous anger, of control undeservedly or unexpectedly taken, of vengeance viciously sworn. You dream of dread vacuum and dark horizons. 

You also dream of your talks with Echidna, the great and terrible denizen who even now slumbers deep in the depths of LOFAF, and the promises you made her, promises whose outcomes still seem so far away. You dream about your versions of your friends, and what they might be doing - you miss them so often, but despite your radio alert constantly pinging out into the void, seeking your friends to finish your session, Jane and John are the only ones you’ve ever gathered. Two down, nine more unfound. Or is it ten? You’re not even sure anymore. You hope Echidna is still somehow proud of all you’ve attempted to do, all the work you’ve done to try and carve out caches of comfort in worlds not your own. She’s technically a twisted mother-figure, and it’s only natural to want someone to express a little motherly pride in you, right? You’re not sure what it says about you that you want the motherly approval of the mother of all monsters. That sort of contemplation has always been Rose’s field, not yours.

Rose. You miss her perhaps most of all. You were close once, even if it was never as close as you wished. Your first crush, not counting your scientific inspiration, Margaret Hamilton, and your longest lasting one. Every now and then you’ve found another version of her - though never your version, despite hopes and suspicions. Still you’ve adored each one that would give you the time of day uniquely, both for their base identity but also their individual traits. Just like the flower, each one is special and different and worth admiring.  But also like their floral namesake, they’ve each faded away, leaving you with keepsakes and memories and anything but closure. Your dreams touch on her in various forms - ones you’ve known, and ones you haven’t. Ones plump and vivacious, ones marked by grimdark terrors and unsettling corruptions, one sickly and frail and on the brink of collapse.  You reach out to one, your hand so close, and yet - 

And yet your fitful dreams move on, never granting you the chance to reach her, even inside your own mind. You continue to dream, of near-forgotten cloudy portents in the Skaian skies, of cryptic riddles in the riddlecrypts of LOFAF that you still haven’t puzzled out, of unkept promises of doors to new realms that aren’t just accidentally-discovered alternate timelines, but ones really meant for you. Ones still so far from your reach. 

You drift backwards through your dreams just as you drifted forward through them - SBURBan promises to glimpses of love to fearful meetings with snake-beasts, back to soul-crumbling, space-rending powers clashing invisibly yet omnipresently in a place you’ve never seen while you yourself are a captive, powerless passenger along for the ride. 

You jolt awake with a yelp, patting yourself frantically to make sure you still can, to make sure you’re still you and only you. You flash a sparkle of Spatial energy around one hand, a crackle of green lightning around the other. Your powers are still here, and you’re still yourself. You hang on to the tiny bottled sliver of the green sun you keep on your person as a reminder and tether to the infinite yet frangible solar body that you equally rely on and fear for a moment, panting frantically in the panicked rush of awakening. Then you sigh, blinking blearily in the dim early-morning light and flop back onto your pillows, staring up at the four-poster bed’s canopy. 

well that was fucked up!!!

... also why do i feel like im supposed to punch my tattoo artist or something...??

You shake your head, clearing it of the remnants of your dreams. After a moment of straightening out your sheets, you let yourself drift back into hopefully less fitful slumber this time.

[fivetrench]

Messy ref of my pet freak

[fivetrench]

Lalalala