blah blah strider feels blah

[brojob]

[These days, when Dirk sleeps, he no longer finds himself confined to a waking world of amethyst walls and black-shelled people. His every movement doesn't have to stay masked, his existence dictated by skating under the radar of what seem to be equally ruthless and asinine political machinations. Instead, he spends his resting hours floating freely in and out of memories, sometimes of familiar places, sometimes not. It's not often that the latter happens, but when it does, it often means company, for better or for worse.

So, when his consciousness resurfaces to find himself standing on a hillside, staring straight up at a jagged row of glitched, white letters spelling out the name "HOPYWOODOO," Dirk's brain kicks into gear and his insides do some pretty impressive acrobatics.

It couldn't be.]

Comments

[upstartcrow]

[And there, sitting on the flat top of the P, is a lone figure in profile. He's got one knee pulled up and the other leg hanging casually down the side of the P's vertical bar like he owns the joint, like he might as well be sprawled comfortably on his living room couch. If Dirk's too close to the base of the letter, maybe all he can see is that dangling foot, but there's also a shitty skateboard trying to rise through the air on its own power, and a lukewarm bottle in the man's hand.

He hasn't seen Dirk yet, or if he has, he's pretending he hasn't. The deadness of the air, though, carries down the meaningless sound of quiet speech, as if someone is talking to himself under his breath.

So yeah, Dave Strider probably hasn't yet seen the living fruit of his labors standing there below.]