Description

Ettie James | The Mistress of Shadows

Ethnic Group/Race/Species: Traveller; caucasian/asian mix
Gender: Female
Age: Stuck at 21
Date of Birth: 01/30/1995

Appearance: After her time in the Source, Ettie's appearance has changed bit by bit. The first change she noticed was that she'd become taller, at least by a few inches (perhaps standing around 5'6''). After this, her eyes shifted from a natural brown to an obviously unnatural glowing violet; their size additionally became larger, giving her eyes an almost fish-like shape. About a year into her wanderings, she began to grow horns, which sprouted from her head right above her ears.

Personality: Despite growing up as someone docile and obedient, Ettie has become a very self-driven, self-invested character. She of course still values the lives of others, but she understands that her life is the only one she has, so she is very cautious of putting others before herself. To say she has become hardened would explain her cold exterior; Ettie takes her time in learning to trust others and often prefers solitude in the face of companionship. She not afraid to do what's necessary to get her way, understanding that pride means nothing in the face of adversity. Even though she comes of as prickly and unkind, Ettie does tend to mother those who she feels are mistreated or under appreciated.
Quirks: Perhaps less of a quirk and more of a vice, Ettie is uncharacteristically driven to steal random shiny objects.
Likes/Hobbies: Small animals/creatures, shiny objects, anything soft to the touch, humming, exploration
Dislikes/Nopes: The cold, over-dominating individuals, being underestimated

Significant Other: Ettie wishes - kind of hard with two giant horns.
Family: Her parents, happily married, and a younger brother. She also views Coal as a creature needing protection from prosecution and may admit to feeling familial ties to him.
Place of Residence: Due to her wanderlust, Ettie doesn't have a particular place of residence within the Source.
Education: Opting out of traditional college, Ettie went to both art and dance school.
Profession/Skills: While she does professionally dance (mostly contemporary and traditional), Ettie works at an art gallery in her spare time. She was hired to travel the globe to find artists with potential; the profession taught her to be very worldly and independent.

Source Prowess/Imagination: Ettie abilities dwindled significantly after the first year of wandering. She can, however, create shadow creatures to fight for her; those who are not defeated in battle share the space in her shadow with her companion, Coal.
Equipment/Vehicle/Companion: Serving as both her companion and vehicle is a large, birdlike shadow creature named Coal (outlined below).

Goal(s): Find a way to return to life before the Source
Flaws/Fears: Ettie finds it extremely hard to trust others. She is also very self-interested, which can cause problems in a group setting. Ettie is afraid of any sort of bug, even harmless ones.
Backstory: Ettie was born on a military base - her father was a surgeon, her mother a fighter. She traveled with her parents to their assignments until she was eight, when her younger brother was born. From then on, her family settled down in a small house off of the coast of Canada. It was around this time that Ettie discovered her love for the arts. With her parents support, she pursued opportunities around the globe starting in high school; she spent each year in a different city, taking classes while also studying dance and art. At the end of high school, Ettie returned home and began a higher education in arts schools. Perhaps it was during her struggles to make her dreams become a reality that she began to fight depression and anxiety. She spent a lot of time daydreaming, imagining worlds that couldn't possible exist, simply to escape her own. At some point, Ettie discovered the Source; and not knowing what it was, she became sucked in and trapped.

Coal | The Shadow Creature

Ethnic Group/Race/Species: Sourcekind.
Gender: genderless, but often referred to as male
Age: Unknown
Date of Birth: Unknown

Appearance: A creature of shadows, Coal looms over most at around eight feet tall and wears a long black cloak, the hood of which conceals the majority of his face, minus a protruding, giant black beak. He doesn't speak aloud, instead using a sort of telepathy; his voice is deep and scratchy, and when heard it sounds as if he'd right behind the listener's ears. He often travels in Ettie's wake, merging with her shadow so that it appears monstrous, or folding upon her back in the appearance of a feathered cloak; it is when Coal is in this latter form that Ettie can effectively fly, or even become cloaked in shadow and nearly invisible when in darkness.

Personality: Despite being an enormous being, Coal has very little personality. He is mostly unaffected by emotions, though does express happiness, anger, and grief in his own ways. He is extremely overprotective when it comes to Ettie, but otherwise doesn't seem affected by the death or pain of others. He is a very good listener, tending to stay quiet rather than speak out.
Quirks: Coal coos softly when he is happy.
Likes/Hobbies: darkness, Ettie, those who aren't frightened of him
Dislikes/Nopes: anyone who doesn't like Ettie, anything that scares Ettie, being left alone, women (other than Ettie)

Family: none, though he considers Ettie his mistress
Place of Residence: wherever Ettie goes, he follows

Abilities: Flight (detailed above), Revert/Appear (able to hide in shadows/take form), Screech (causes paralysis)
Goal(s): To find his creator
Flaws/Fears: Coal only ever listens to what Ettie says, unless she tells him to listen to someone else, which makes it hard to work with him. He is also absolutely terrified of small animals.
Backstory: From the moment of his creation, Coal had only ever been alone. He was feared, thought of as evil, due to his alarming size and appearance. He has very little understanding of the passage of time, but seems to understand that he has been alive for quite some time. Coal discovered Ettie as her appearance began to change. Instead of rejecting him, she invited him to travel with her, all the while teaching him how to be 'human.' After some time, he pledged his services to her and imprinted on her.

So begins...

Ettie James's Story

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The Source of Mind

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#2017-08-17 04:56:08, as written by CaptainGrue

CHAPTER ONE
~A Spatula in Space~

As implied, a spatula floats through space. A curious sight for someone in reality, perhaps, but this was not physical space. This was the space of thought, the Source of Mind that feeds and is fed by consciousness.

So a spatula floats by, rotating on a strange axis in a ballet of its own seclusion. This spatula holds within it the power to manipulate the Source to an incredible degree. While few know of its existence, it wouldn't be a stretch to say that whoever found this spatula could potentially warp any aspect of reality to their liking.

In the Sunsmoke Clouds of the Daydream Beast, forces are already at work to locate it. A gaping jaw of harsh sunlight grinds its teeth, grinning at the possibility that it could very soon be free from this lucid dreamscape. It sends word to all residents of the Source to meet with it in the deepest reaches of the Clouds.

How did such a spatula come to float in space, you might ask? It was misplaced. Why was it misplaced? A lapse in judgement, perhaps. But who would misplace such a crucial item at such a crucial point in time?

Well, let's get right to that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Floating by a nebulous mass of glowing eyes was a 17th century pirate ship, sailing through the Speculating Skies. The vessel would appear to be flying aimlessly at a glance, but on closer inspection would reveal it appeared to be searching for something as it turned to face every angle before moving on to new spaces in the Source. It hoisted large white sails decorated with a crudely drawn smiley face.

On board manning the helm was an extravagently dressed crocodile man, presenting a long purple coat that swept across the floorboards and a pirate's hat bearing the same insignia as the sails. Beside him was a more casually dressed boy, leaning very closely towards adulthood.

The boy leaned over the side of the ship, peering into the deep thought that makes up the Source. Eventually he turned to the pilot, visually annoyed out of boredom. His voice was Australian, and carried with it a resourcefulness to make up for the stereotype.

"You've not told me what it is we're lookin' for, Kap. What am I meant to do?" He asked, not surprised in the slightest. Kaptain Erratik had a habit of being vague. And while it usually had a point, Norm had always wished he would just be a little more straightforward.

"Oh, Norm, I pity you!" The Kaptain boomed. The louder his voice, the more his yellow eyes seemed to beam out of his head. "Grow some eyes and an extra brain and you'll find yourself knowing what you seek but not being able to retrieve it." He had always thought of himself as a wise man, but Norm merely rolled his eyes and sighed at the pseudo-philosophy. Norm was one step ahead, and knew this was in reference to the girl he had always had a crush on that remained unrequited. The Source to him was just a bunch of actualised metaphors, and he saw through them all.

"Low blow, Kap. I'll keep an eye out, for whatever it is you're doing."

Norm moved back to the edge of the ship, looking for anything to peak his interest. Wherever it may be, he knew it shouldn't be long.

The setting changes from The Source of Mind to Reality

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Reality

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#2017-08-17 22:02:00, as written by tallyrabbit

It had begun to rain rather unexpectedly in The Sunken City. Ettie watched from her perch as globules of water detached from the flooded streets and soared up into the air, disappearing into the blackness above. She frowned, crossing her legs and leaning her elbow atop her knee so that her hand could more comfortably cradle her chin. Her other hand, fingers longer than expected for a palm so small, reached out to catch some of the drops, which she lifted to her lips. Salty.

"Someone in reality must be crying," she murmured and flicked the remaining water from her fingertips. It only ever rained in the Sunken City when the streets became flooded.

'It is not your concern,' Coal cooed, from her shadow. 'Do not worry.'

"You forget I have a family out there," she replied with a frown. "Perhaps it is one of them."

'I am here. You need not miss them.'

Ettie clicked her tongue and cast the beast into silence. The frown disappearing, she stood from where she sat atop the archway of a dark building. From the edge she peered down into the flooded street at her reflection; her violet eyes, glowing lightly as they did, refracted sharply and consumed the rest of her features. "Let us return," she sighed. "I wish to see more."

Her heels lifted, her arms spread, and without a hint of reluctance Ettie leaned herself off of the edge of the archway. As she fell raindrops dusted her cheeks and rustled her hair. Her slender form hit the water without a sound, her upper body sinking faster than her lower. Then suddenly she was standing in an alley, her bare feet dipped into a deep puddle of water. She was entirely dry, other than a few droplets that lingered at the tips of her dark hair.

This was not a city that Ettie recognized. The wonder of the Sunken City was that your point of entrance was never your point of exit: you were always bound to end up somewhere else. While Coal made it simple enough to travel shorter distances, it was easier to access different areas of the Source just by choosing at random. Brushing her fingers through her hair, Ettie trotted from the alleyway and into the streets, searching for something new and exciting - and preferably, shiny.

The setting changes from Reality to The Struggle Streets

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The Struggle Streets

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#2017-08-22 22:00:50, as written by tallyrabbit

The city was incredible dull, lacking in both color and excitement. Ettie walked for some time through the grid-like streets, weaving between houses of all shapes and sizes. Silence was so thick around her that the sound of her breathing was somehow disheartening. A frown curved her lips and a sigh escaped her.

Somehow, she knew there wouldn't be any shiny things here.

As she passed through yet another side alley her attention was drawn to a flicker of movement in the window of a building one street over. Ettie backpedaled, an eyebrow raised, and realized she had somehow wandered upon a lone human. She paused where she stood, unsure whether to approach, when Coal suddenly emerged from her shadow and pulled her into the darkness of the alley.

'I smell a rat,' he growled and the skin upon the back of her neck prickled. Moments later another figure was in the room. A sourcekind? Or perhaps a very changed traveler?

Ettie leaned back into Coal's cool form, his icy feathers brushing her hot skin. His beak tapped the top of her head twice, perhaps in warning, but he spoke no more; he tended not to speak much, anyway. Approach was dangerous, considering both Coal's ominous words and the unknown identity of the second being in the room. But Ettie had been in that human's shoes before. Alone. Terrified. Confused. And while she only held a shred of hope for a return to reality, that shred forced her to investigate.

"I won't get involved," she said quietly. "But I want to get closer."

Coal was understandable reluctant to give into her wishes, but he always gave in when it came to her. His form shifted slightly and suddenly she was draped in darkness, her form disappearing into the shadows of the surrounding buildings. She crept to the building and positioned herself within the shadows just to the side of the window. The being of unknown origin was speaking in a rather unpleasant way, with threats and acrid laughter. Ettie remained there, back pressed to the siding of the house, unable to see but listening closely.

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The Struggle Streets

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#2017-08-23 03:16:51, as written by Vercerigo

Frederick watched the gloomy skies drift sullenly over the collection of dead houses, trying to wonder why he felt so terribly at home here, when he heard a loud, obnoxious voice ask if he was a virgin. He jumped and whirled around, hands clenched and eyes wide, and they widened further as he took in the strange man that was lying seductively on the bed before him.
“The fuck.” He sputtered. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”
He instinctively attempted to back away from the figure, but he felt the window press up behind him, the cold glass freezing his back. The figure was wearing a trench coat, and had a top hat with…teeth? ringing the inner brim. He tried to focus on the man’s words, and listened all the way up to when he flicked out a knife. Frederick’s eyes narrowed.
This guy’s crazy…he’s crazy, just like me. His lips lifted into a bitter smile at the thought.
Even if I answer incorrectly and he ‘guts’ me…it’s still what I want, right? There is no correct way out of this, at least not that I can see.
He relaxed a little, and leaned his back against the window, letting the cold glass chill his shoulder blades.
“I think that there are only two explanations for this place.” He answered the strange man, trying to keep his voice as calm as he could.
“I am either dreaming, and dreamt that I was cutting myself too, and this is a part of it…”
His smile twisted into a grimace.
“Or I’m already dead, and this is the afterlife.”
He looked around, brooding. "I suppose I deserve this. What's your name?" He asked sullenly.
If he was going to be in hell, he might as well get to know his roommates. Folding his arms, he did his best to keep eye contact with the masked man.

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The Struggle Streets

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#2017-08-27 14:08:22, as written by CaptainGrue

Five guttural laughs pushed through Dreadhead's cloth mask, thick with his accent and spreading his foul breath across the room. Reacting to Frederick's apparent fear, his excited eyes made themselves presentable. Tiny, yellowish maggots could be seen dancing around them, although on a closer glance they would appear to be swimming inside of them. His hat took breaths, silently wheezing. He then took the time to listen to Frederick's words. The smile. The false sense of confidence giving way to gloom. Why, he could feel the walls of this house getting stronger.

Dread was disappointed by the young man's answers, bringing his free hand up to console his face.

"Who are you? Dickens' Scrooge or sumthin'? Name's Dreadhead, son. You ought to know it, I came from you lot."

As if he had never threatened him, Dread withdraw the knife back into his coat and resigned to casual speech. He was a whole lot calmer than he let on. Like a true psychopath, meticulous and charismatic in his methods. As the moment stood, Dread just wanted to help the poor chap get a grip so he could get on with it.

"This ain't no afterlife or purgatory, tho' I'm sure you folk who take short trips would like to call it that. And it ain't no dream either. How 'bout we take a walk? Tell me 'bout what you were doin' before you woke up and such. Pretty rare that someone gets out of bed here, most just stay asleep until they're done."

Dreadhead intended to lead Frederick outside, and walk beside him down the street. A particularly inquisitive rat sniffed outside the window, around where someone may or may not been hiding.

"You mentioned you cut yourself? That sounds pretty fuckin' dim. My mate Jack- Wait, hold up, son." Something caught Dread's attention, something behind him outside the house's window. The rat from the window ran over to crawl up inside his pants. It was scared, something Dreadhead never was. One hand moved into his coat to grip his knife. "Come out, sneaker! And be dandy!" His shouts were rich with playfulness, as he swung his head around to scan the area. "It ain't kind to peeve!"

It's quite possible that the one hiding (or her companion) might already know Dreadhead as well as his many aliases. She might even have another one for him. Whatever the case, Dread remained alert for whatever may happen.

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The Struggle Streets

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#2017-09-18 09:50:52, as written by Vercerigo

Frederick waited in sullen silence (he did not very much appreciate being called Dickens Scrooge) as Dreadhead called out to an unseen person who had apparently been eavesdropping on their conversation. There was a moment of silence, but no one revealed him or herself.
“I didn’t hear anything.” He muttered, crossing his arms and shivering ever so slightly. The old house was drafty, and he could feel the cold from the fog outside slowly wrapping its fingers around him, working its way through his thin tattered black clothes and chilling him.
He didn’t feel like going on a walk, he didn’t really feel like doing anything, but Dreadhead seemed too unpredictable for Frederick to be comfortable with denying his request.
“I’m ready to get out of this house if you are, Dreadhead.” He said resignedly. He paused, then smiled conspiratorially. “Unless you want to look for whatever’s spying on us?”
He didn’t actually believe that anyone was there, of course, but he believed that it was best (for now) to play along with the masked man until he figured out for himself what was going on.
He leaned back against the chilled window, letting his back slowly grow numb from the freezing cracked glass.
“It’s up to you.”

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The Struggle Streets

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#2018-07-02 11:12:20, as written by CaptainGrue

Dreadhead's mustard, screwball eyes darted around the window. They did not blink. He definitely saw something. He knows these streets like the back of his hand, and knows all the entities that pass through it. Whatever was out there, it wasn't taking an action anytime soon.

"No..." He said, then whirled around to Fred with a twisted smile and jovial approach. "No, mate! Nuthin's up to me, that ain't how it works. Never has been, never will been." He withdrew the knife, and headed outside.

"It's your door, ya sadsock geezer. And in my experience, no one gets out by stayin' in."

Dread looked out towards the street and up into the grey fog that made up the sky. Strange shapes fly overhead above the cloud, casting large blots of shadow. He chuckled, and looked back to Fred.

"Whachya wanna know, mate?"

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The Struggle Streets

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#2018-07-05 12:28:19, as written by Vercerigo

Frederick gave the eerily jovial masked man an appraising look, then gave a barely audible sigh of relief when he folded away the knife.
“Well…ok. Where are we? This isn’t my house, and…”
He turned to look over his shoulder out of the window he was leaning against. Cold white clouds drifted aimlessly through the muted grey street, blurring and obscuring the odd randomized houses lining it.
“...I’m not in California anymore, am I?”
He felt a little angry at his helpless confusion, and, straightening, clenched his fists, letting them fall to his sides. “Can we get out of this damn house? I need to clear my head.”

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The Struggle Streets

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#2018-07-06 07:48:28, as written by CaptainGrue

Outside, Dread smiled as Fred began to lose himself. It was a nervous smile. The windows on Fred's house were cracked. A small amount of debris let loose from the ceiling as the house rumbled. However his will to leave would let him, and allow some of the fog to be lifted. A combination of jealousy, joy and that all encompassing dread flowed through him as he watched. In the end it was merely depressing to watch someone with such power squander it in ignorance.

"No, yer not in California. But you still might be, in a way. And yes, this is most certainly your house. Whatever travesties yee be experiencing will be thrown against the foundation of your own being." He gestured towards the house. "And so... Broken windows." Whirling around and avoiding eye contact with Fred, Dreadhead observed the other houses. "I ain't callin' you out though, son. Been a while since someone's so much as left their bloody dwelling."

On closer inspection, it would appear that the majority of other doors on the block would not have door handles or keyholes.

"It might be easiest for you to believe this is a dream, I suppose. Reach your own conclusions, uh... Say, what's yer name?"

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The Struggle Streets

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#2018-07-08 07:59:26, as written by Vercerigo

Frederick coughed and swore as a small cloud of dust rained down on him. The house had started creaking, and it was starting to unsettle him.
“My name is Frederick. Frederick Dredsen. ” He muttered, moving towards the door. He pulled it open, wincing at the complaining shriek it made, and began to walk down the rotting wooden steps to the first floor. The man was right, it was his house, but it looked…different. Everything was darker and older. The curtains had moth-eaten holes in them, the carpet was dirty and matted, and there seemed to be more trash than usual accumulating in the corners of every room. And the windows were cracked.
He ran shaking fingers through his wild hair and stepped into the unlit living room, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He knew where the door was, the door to the outside, but he was scared. He had no idea what was on the other side, what might happen if he went outside. He didn’t trust the man, he didn’t trust this…place, and he didn’t trust himself to react maturely or healthily to anything that might happen. Frederick gritted his teeth, hating his thoughts. He sat down on the dusty arm of the ripped couch and waited for Dreadhead to enter the room.

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The Struggle Streets

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#2018-07-08 21:28:58, as written by CaptainGrue

"A fellow Dready boy! The boys in the mop'll get a kick outta this.." Dread's excitement was shortlived. It appeared to him what had appeared time and time again. The house was having its way with its host. In a way, the house itself was its own Sourcekind. It disappointed him greatly to see Fred doom himself to the couch.

But it had been so long; too long, for another new arrival to stay inside. The door on Fred's house still had a handle, and as long as that was the case there was still hope. Besides, it's not as if Dreadhead had anywhere better to be.

He walked in and sat down on the floor across from Fred, head pointed down. For a while he fidgeted and stayed silent. His hat breathed slowly, in and out. Kindnesses and niceties bothered Dread. They unnerved him like any old murder couldn't. And yet, an overbearing pain compelled Dreadhead to speak, dropping much of the playful ruse.

"Look, mate, for better or worse this is where you are. You've entered the Source. And these are the Struggle Streets. A cesspool manipulated by your own nasty thoughts. Here, look at my knife."

Dread pulled it out and showed it in front of Fred. It would appear rusted, stained with dried blood. Although every second the knife became cleaner. The serrated edge would smooth out, and the steel might gleam. It's possible the knife might even form features familiar to Fred. "It is the most vague representation of a knife possible. Its image is given by the folks who imagine what a knife looks like. It's the thought of danger that gives it the power to cut. So close yer bloody eyes, and think fuckin' hard about what would make this horrible dream a little more delightful. Then open those peachy peepers, ahyeheh. Make your own reality."

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The Struggle Streets

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#2018-07-10 11:45:22, as written by Vercerigo

Frederick listened to Dreadhead’s words warily.
The Struggle Streets? What the hell was he talking about?
A cesspool manipulated by my own thoughts? He let a small smirk twist his lips. It would certainly explain the oppressive, black, rotting mismatched town, as well as its absence of any real color. His thoughts were interrupted when the man pulled out his knife again, turning it over in his hands and letting the waning light glint on the dull silvery sheen of the blade. It looked very familiar to him, but he couldn’t place it.
He stared at the knife, doing his best to pay attention to what Dreadhead was saying. What would make this place more delightful? He shut his eyes, listening to the masked man’s raspy, biting voice as he spoke.…Make my own reality? He clenched his fists. What the fuck was this man talking about? He didn’t understand, he couldn’t explain it, but the man’s words made him feel…odd. Like there was something that Frederick was missing.
Inhaling deeply, he tried to clear his head of the shadows that clung to his mind. It was hard, there were so many. Doubt, fear, and anger clouded his mind, and he tried to force it down, but he couldn’t. There was too much of…everything for him to get rid of it.
Then he had an idea. Instead of trying to dissolve the frustrated anger he felt for his situation, could he use it? Would that help him, or just make it worse? Could he control the outcome? The corners of his mouth curled downwards in a small grimace, and the cracks in the windows silently spread a fraction.
What could he do? What could possibly make this better? Frederick was in hell. His skin broke under his clenched fingers, red lining the underside of his fingernails.
“Dreadhead.” He spoke quietly and with an unsettling tone that suggested approaching insanity. “I have nothing. There is nothing I…” He stopped, struck by a sudden realization. He was quiet for a minute.
“I know what I want.” He whispered, eyes opening, focusing on the knife. He recognized it now. He stood up, licking the blood from his palms, and strode past Dreadhead over to the door, that goddam motherfucking door that was always closed, always blocking his way, always preventing him from… He didn’t bother with the handle. He slammed into it full force, and felt exhilarated to feel sparks of pain in his shoulder and head. And splintering. He felt the door splinter a little. He laughed, an excited, harsh sound that escaped his mouth, and slammed into it again. The door was suddenly webbed with black cracks, and a few chips of wood dislodged and fell on the rotting floorboards. He began punching it, slamming it with his bloody hands, and the door began to fall apart.
"Get...the FUCK...out of...my...way!" He rasped at the fracturing door. Piece by piece it fell, white wood stained with dark red, until nothing but jagged white wooden fangs lined the top and bottom of the doorframe.
Frederick stopped, stooped over from the effort, breathing unsteadily. Still staring at the cracked pieces of the object of his struggle lying scattered on the street, he straightened slowly. Feeling a ferocious grin pull at his face, he turned and gave Dreadhead a bloody and bruised thumbs up.
“This works. I am fucking delighted, Dreadhead.”

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The Struggle Streets

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#2018-07-10 18:13:01, as written by CaptainGrue

"... Hah? Wahahahah! We're lucid dreamin' now, son!" Dreadhead was ecsatic, and headed out into the street in somewhat of a frenzied dance with his knife as his partner. An encore of rats clapped their hands around the road. The sky was still very much miserable, but moved faster through the sky. Flashes of red and yellow lit up some distance above the fog, giving the street a glow.

At once Dread stopped to address Fred. "But you know you coulda just gone through it all normal-like, right?" He moved back into his dance. "Bah! Whatever gets ya goin' and yer crimson blood flowin'! Oh the Kaptain's gonna love this-" Dread stopped once more, almost as if frozen mid-movement, "That's if the yella fella doesn't get to you first, I suppose..."

Dreadhead calmed himself back down and approached Fred whilst blowing his nose into his own cloth mask. It was all kinds of grotty.

"You'll want to keep hold o' that furious mojo, son. You're new here. Makes ya valuable. Just as well you wake up here, I ain't give one single toss who'd do you in. Say, I know a couple folks who might be able to help ya. They could get yer marbles all sorted in order. Well, one of'em would. The other's a tried and true citizen of the Source. What you brainstormin', boy?"

High in sky by a nearby thought, unbeknownst to Fred or Dreadhead, a bombardment of yellow clouds billowed towards the Struggle Streets. It would not arrive for a while, but every occasionally a yellow bolt of lightning would pass through the fog above the two of them.

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Ettie James

0 · 668 views · located in The Struggle Streets

a character in “The Manic Mind of Man”, as played by tallyrabbit

Description

So begins...

Ettie James's Story

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The setting changes from The Source of Mind to Reality

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The setting changes from Reality to The Struggle Streets

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