2020-08-02 - The Legend of Gray Hollow

Dreams - both the supernatural kind and the mundane kind, are strange things. It's hard to predict them, and logic skews itself off in odd directions.

Equally unpredictable is when one might find oneself in a Dream. Like now, as the Dreamers find themselves moving from wherever they were into a gray, foggy forest. There's a chill in the air, which is quite the opposite of the high summer currently draped over Gray Harbor. The quality of light makes it hard to tell what time of day it is. Everything is a steel, flat gray with no trace of sun. The air smells different, too. No hint of sea on the breeze, or pine forest, or any of the other subtle markers of the West Coast. This is somewhere else - and that elsewhere might not be a real place at all.

Ravn turns around as the paramedics carry Vic out on the stretcher, carefully stepping around the splatter of human brain decorating the church floor, grey eyes a bit wider than usual, very much asking himself a lot of questions about what just went down, why that man decided to shoot up a church in the first place, and why the everloving fuck does the US not introduce some kind of restriction on who can carry firearms and where. He steps out the church door, back into the warm sunlight outside except --

-- except it's not warm at all. It's definitely not the pleasant looking cemetery, either. And there's a distinct and very notable absence of ambulances, screaming little old ladies, paramedics, police, and the other people who ended up trying to tackle the shooter, each other, and the floor.

What the everloving fuck.

And there's more than the environment that changed. Clothing too, has shifted to be equally parts more fitted and more uncomfortable, with heavy wool and coarser fabric. It looks like something out of the mid 19th century. A waistcoat, trousers, a wool jacket past mid-knee, leather boots caked in mud. There is a church behind Ravn, but it's a decaying, abandoned church in the process of being taken over by the forest. There is likewise a path through the woods that looks like it might lead somewhere, but is just as likely to lead off into nothingness.

And off in the distance, there's the sound of hoof falls - thunderous and quick, growing closer like a staccato heartbeat. There is something threatening about the sound.

This is it. I've lost the last marble. The Dane looks around and down at himself. And my last marble seems to have rolled into a LARP.

This must be what Lyric was talking about. And Vic. And the pawn shop lady -- what was her name again, Lily, Lilith, something. He looks down at himself a second time, and only then do the hoof beats register. Roll with it, Lyric said.

He knows this movie. The folklorist knows this story. In a moment the camera is going to cut to ominous looking rider, the narrator is going to say, "What he didn't know was that riders were fast approaching..."

Ravn dives behind a tree, stumbling slightly because these are definitely not the boots he's used to wearing. I'm trapped in an Edwardian nightmare. Welcome to Gray Harbor.

Ahead of the sound of the hoofbeats is the sound of sprinting feet, and a figure crashing through the underbrush. Ravn would be forgiven for not recognizing Dante immediately, given the dirty and torn but clearly upper crust gentleman's clothing he's wearing. His hair is also long and curly, only half held by a ribbon at the nape of his neck. He spots the other man, changes course and reaches out to grab his arm. "Run," he hisses, as he dekes towards the thicker undergrowth.

And on the horizon, the hoofbeats of thunder grow closer.

Ravn hesitates a split second -- long enough to want to ask what the hell is going on, where the hell he is, what the hell -- but he recognises this face, he recognises the look of terror on Dante's face, and he recognises the fact that unless Dante has taken to wearing a wig, this is not the man he met on the beach just a few days earlier. It has to be, it must be one of those Dreams, capital D.

He runs, and while he does, it's not merely the sound of hooves that worries him.

I wonder how long I can keep this up. I wonder if the Dream knows.

Either the Dream dropped Dante in the middle of something worse than Ravn or he's been here longer. He's filthy, with a deep cut on his arm that's caked and ground in to the wool of his jacket.

"All of this is real," he says to Ravn between gulping breaths. "If he kills you, you die. If he hurts you, you stay hurt."

Dante turns then, extends his hand towards the black rider that thunders to the left of the church. He focuses his hand on the creaking steeple and pushes, with visible effort at his Glimmer. The steeple creaks, cracks and falls, and causes the black horse to rear and side-step.

But it only delays a moment. The black rider with his pumpkin head in his hand recovers quickly and thunders towards the thick stand of trees. He's forced to slow as the trunks grow thicker, but he's still gaining.

I know this story. It's one of the more fucked-up American stories. Ravn nods and tries to keep his breathing steady.

The steeple falls. It shouldn't have done that. Dante made it do that.

Think, Ravn. Think. You can't outrun a horse.

"Dawn," he murmurs. "We have to make it to dawn, right?"

There has to be a stick on the ground somewhere. Because there is no way Ravn can outrun a horse. Particularly not a black ghost horse.

There are plenty of sticks of varying sizes, some decayed, some intact. And the forest itself has become cagelike - with trees big enough for them to squeeze through, but too tight to allow the rider to pass. It also grows darker and foggier, and after a few minutes of pushing through the supernaturally thick grove, they lose sight of the rider.

They find themselves on the edge of a hollow with ancient trees with gnarled, exposed roots and holes all along the hillside. The earth is loose underfoot and sliding is easy.

Dante stops to sit on the edge of a rock, gasping for breath. "This story has..." deep breath, "...so many bloody versions I don't know which one we're in. But I do have this..." he swings a leather bag around and flips back the flap to reveal a cracked and decaying human skull that practically hums with dark energy and a feeling of dread.

Ravn doesn't answer. He finds himself a tree to lean against, coughing hard. For some time.

Only after a while does he look up long enough to see what it is the Brit is waving about. His eyes widen slightly, and then he nods. "Head. Ichabod Crane. Story. Right." He grabs the nearest stick all the same -- a long and swishy one, the kind of switch that a horse would really not appreciate getting whacked with. "Better hope. It's Crane. Not Baltic version."

"Are you all right?" Dante asks, composing himself just enough to register that cough is a bit more than it should be even if the running was heart-pounding. "I found m'self in a graveyard with this thing uncovered in front of me, and then the rider came charging out of the forest. He got me in the bloody arm with a sword before I managed to lose him. But then he found me again." He crouches and looks through the trees. A strange bird makes an ominous sound in the treetop.

He looks back to Revn. "Tell me what you know about this story. I read it ages ago but it's all fuzzy."

"Asthma," Ravn says, gradually regaining his ability to, well, breathe. "American folktale. Some famous novel. Headless horseman rides along the road, something something. Think you need to destroy the head, or bury it with the rest of him, or something along those lines. Doesn't help that there's like, forty movies about this. And a TV-series. Where the protagonist is transported to the 21st century and -- I'm rambling."

The Dane looks around with the sort of expression you'd expect in the eyes of a man who just saw someone get shot in a church, then found himself chased through a forest by a horror movie villain. The kind of look that clearly says Sanity is optional here. "Pretty sure we have to make it to dawn. Somehow."

"It could be dawn right now for all we know. This sky doesn't exactly give away the time of day." Dante looks up at the slate gray through the trees. He reaches out and grips Ravn's arm. "Hey. Look. This is all bloody mad, yes? This is Gray Harbor. But it's important to keep yourself in the here and now because this place can hurt you." He only vaguely knows what he's talking about seeing as he hasn't experienced many Dreams himself. But he can sound convincingly confident, at least.

"I get it," Ravn pants, breath growing steadier. "White haired girl, Lyric. Told me all about it. She was pretty damn convincing." He looks around, still trying to identify some fairytale marker -- the hero is supposed to see something everyone else doesn't, something to save them all, that's how fairytales work. Isn't it? Turns out it's perhaps not quite so easy when you're in one. "Do we keep moving? I'm not sure we can. This looks like... Like some crazy movie director's idea of a place for a show-down with the villain."

"These things do tend to be very cinematic. I was once pulled into one where I was a fantasy rogue and my boyfriend was a barbarian who spoke a strange language." Dante looks out across the grove, breath coming in soft puffs that adds to the mist in the air. "The trees aren't as thick on this side. My guess is he might be looking to corner us. What did the legends say about where this Horseman might be buried? Or how we can destroy this bloody skull?"

"I have no idea," Ravn admits. "Wrong continent. Look, if he's Chernobog, then we have to wait for the sun to rise. If he's the American guy, I have no idea because I can't remember how the story ends. How did you get the skull? There's got to be a reason you have the skull. Chekhov's gun. There's a reason that skull is on the mantelpiece."

It probably makes sense to him.

"I was pulled into the Dream with it uncovered in a graveyard. Apparently whatever forces are at play understand in medias res?" Droll, that. Dante looks again at the creepy skull. "I don't suppose we could just smash it with your trusty stick?" He shifts, then winces as pain shoots up his arm. It starts to bleed again and he cups it. "There's a path up ahead. I suppose the question is, do we follow it?"

"We can try. And then follow the path when we try? If this thing plays by the rule of three, we have to fail twice before we can succeed..." Ravn raises the stick, quite ready to make the attempt at smashing the skull -- and not at all expecting it to work. Then he glances up at the other man's intake of breath and notes the injury. "And we need to do something about that. Got a handkerchief, something?"

"Each or altogether? Because I think this means I've already failed," says Dante as he grips his arm. He digs around with his other hand until he does indeed find a handkerchief. "Here, can you help?" He shifts, trying to tie off the wound. It's shallow but long, and is still bleeding but not heavily. He also loops the bag off his shoulder so that Revn can try smashing the supernatural skull if he wants to give that a go.

"I can sure as hell try." Ravn starts with the important bit, trying to wrap that handkerchief around the injury as tight as he is able. The Dane is by no means an EMT -- probably hasn't even got a valid first aid certificate -- but it's still better than nothing. "I don't know if it counts. I guess that's up to whoever wrote the story. If this thing is still with you when we get out of here, you need someone to look at it because I think you may need stitches."

Only when Ravn is fairly certain he's done everything he can with the handkerchief -- and heaven knows that's not a lot -- does he turn his attention to the skull. He looks at it, then at the wooden switch in his hand. Yeah, that's not going to do a lot. He raises one foot instead and, thanking the powers that be behind this nightmare, for equipping him with a good, solid pair of boots. Down the foot goes, aimed straight at the skull. Take that -- cueball.

...and poor Revn's foot glances off the skull like he's trying to break open a particularly smooth rock. He's lucky for the glancing and not something ankle-shattering. It's as if the skull is covered by something that makes it unbreakable. The attempt is met with a flash of energy, then an ominous whinny that it's impossible to hear which direction it's coming from.

"Bloody hell," murmurs Dante. "Path it is, yes?" He pushes to his feet, then scoops the skull back up into the bag and starts to pick his way down the perilous grove's edge.

"Yeah, I guess. Fail number one. So maybe we need to put that damn thing somewhere. Look out for anything that looks like somebody's grave." Ravn gets moving, following the Brit down the path, switch still in one hand. "Bloody hell. I don't know how you people stay sane. How do you stay sane? This is not sane."

"Let's hope that was fail number two, and my arm was number one." Considering this scenario has every possibility of being deadly. Dante's travel down the edge of the hollow is precarious, given one arm is tucked against his side and the earth is very loose. He slips a few times, soil and rocks tumbling the thirty feet or so to the forest floor. It's a fall that might not be deadly, but it would hurt a great deal.

"We have a lot of sex. Make connections where we can. Try to learn the secrets of the supernatural, so we can control it and make sense of it."

There is only one way out of the grove and that is a narrow footpath. There's a sense that there is civilization up ahead, but it's hard to say why they have that feeling. It's impossible to see anything through the thick fog and narrow stands of trees.

"Let's hope I'm right," Ravn murmurs. "Because I'm pretty sure that Ichabod Crane disappears, and I don't really feel like disappearing -- and I'm pretty sure you don't, either. Watch your step -- I'm willing to bet the skull you're carrying that we're supposed to be running and fall and break our legs here, or something."

He picks his way along, trying to make out shapes in the fog and failing. "Think I might pass on the sex part. But the rest sounds good."

A grin, surprisingly. "I'm terrified. But also kind of excited. I mean, this is real."

"That's the rub, isn't it? Yes, it's terrifying as shit, but it's also bloody fascinating. Which I understand as a writer of horror. There's something appealing about the darkness." Dante slips, corrects himself, takes a deep breath and finally makes it to the forest floor. "Not to mention the superpowers. I think that's what holds people here despite the very real mortal danger."

It doesn't take too long up the path to feel like they're coming out of the woods. Footpath turns to horse path. Horse path turns to road. Up ahead through the fog grows the lights of a town. There's also the sound of running water.

"I wonder if he can cross running water..." Ravn looks at the other man. "I wonder if we're in Gray Harbor in the past, too. If we are, do you think you can find the cemetery? That'd be a pretty obvious place to look for someone's headless body."

He pauses, and -- in spite of the severity of the situation, the absolute nightmare that the two men are trapped in, the horrific timing -- says, "You're right, though. This is interesting. I feel alive."

Lost the last marble, Ravn Abildgaard. Definitely. This one doesn't go on the blog, maybe.

"Isn't this the wrong coast for Sleepy Hollow?" And the trees are wrong as well. And yet, as they approach the bridge over the river, there is a wooden sign that is eaten by damp but mostly intact. It does indeed say Gray Harbor. Or rather, it says Gray Hollow. "Well then."

And before they can muse further, the blood-curdling whinny and the thundering hooves starts again. "Time to find out!" he says, re: crossing water. He bolts towards the bridge just as the horseman comes screaming out of the woods, looking to cut them off before they reach the bridge.

Ravn hesitates, letting the other man get a head start. He remembers riding classes. He was never good at it. Never got along with the horses -- big, smelly animals that did whatever the hell they wanted to do, no matter what a spindly boy in their back thought about it, and if you think saddles are comfortable for men, think again. But there's a few things he recalls. One of those things being, no horse wants to get beaten.

He swishes the switch through the air, like a lunging whip, glaring at the horse. I'm going to beat you bloody, his body language says. The rest of of his body hopes the horse buys it.

Only when the horse gets too close for comfort does he try to run -- sideways. Because there is no way an asthmatic can outrun a horse over a flat distance, but horses that turn too quickly may just be inconvenienced enough by their riders that he might make it out of sword range.

Dante tries to deke around the charging Horseman, but his boot skids on his muck and he drops hard. The only saving grace of that is that the swing of the Horseman's sword skips over his back and digs into his coat, only giving a surface wound to the skin beneath. But now he's prone and on the ground, ankle wrenched.

The rider circles, charging back towards Ravn now. The swish of the switch is enough frantic motion and the sound enough like a whip that it does make the supernatural steed hesitate, launching sideways enough to throw off the aim of the horseman's sword. Ravn will hear the blade whistle through the air too close for comfort, but it doesn't make contact. He makes it past the horseman with only steps to the bridge.

In the meantime, Dante has gotten himself to his feet and is moving a bit too slowly towards the river's edge.

Goddamnit. While grateful that he did indeed not just get a close shave, the Dane isn't going to just push his luck and bail. He's got the only advantage they have at all in this nightmarish dreamscape -- the improvised lunging whip. God, I should have stayed at Herlufsholm long enough to take fencing classes.

But he didn't. Denmark's answer to Eton no doubt would have rendered him able to ride and fence like a gentleman both, but that was not to be. He'll just have to improvise. The switch comes down hard across the horse's chest because that's a lot easier to hit than its head, simply because there's so much more of it. And hopefully, just hopefully, this allows him to stay in front of the horse, outside of the rider's weapon's reach.

"Get moving, man!" he cries out. "Boo! Go away! Bad horse!"

The horse rears up at the switch to chest, pinwheeling deadly hooves in the air. At this distance, the gory stump of a head and the glowing pumpkin is both sinister and terrifying. Only some lucky weaving gets Revn out of the path of those hooves.

Dante makes it on to the bridge, moving slowly but making progress. He limps, limps, makes it to the far bank.

And it seems Ravn's theory about running water is correct. Because despite the bridge being easily wide enough for two carriages to pass, the horse won't step on it. It rears and kicks and whinnies in frustration as it moves along the bank, looking for a break in the water to cross.

Ravn definitely dashes in that direction too once it becomes clear that the world's oldest obstacle to malicious, supernatural entities still works. "I think we just bought ourselves a few minutes," he pants. "Can you find the damn cemetery?"

Dante lets his heartbeat slow a little when he realizes the Horseman isn't just going to gallop over the bridge and slice them down. He straightens, favouring his ankle and hissing a little when he tries to put weight on it. "The layout isn't quite like Gray Harbor. Everything is much smaller and older. But..." He points in a general direction, and there does seem to be a mausoleum up that way. "There." He unhooks the bag from him and hands it to Ravn. "You go ahead and find the grave. I'm too slow and who knows when he'll find a way past that river?"

The Dane takes it but hesitates. "Splitting up -- you sure that's wise? Also, are you a believer? Do you believe in God? Because if that thing does..."

No, don't stand and talk. Act. What are you, an academic? Yes, actually. Ravn quickly bends down to find a couple of twigs. He lays them carefully on the bridge in the shape of a cross. "I'm not a believer," he murmurs. "But I really hope that that guy is."

And then he's at Dante's side. "Let's not split up. You said it, Lyric said it. Make connections. Make friends. Don't go it alone."

"What if beliefs come from supernatural rules? If there's one thing I've learned from my research and my books is that supernatural creatures do tend to be bound by certain rules. Maybe those sticks are just a big 'no passage' sign rather than holy interference?" Dante chuckles humourlessly. "Perhaps we should save the academic discussion for later, ay?"

He doesn't argue about the splitting up. Instead, he tries to choke back the aches. "I don't think it's broken, just sprained." He starts up the hill, and the fog parts enough to reveal more mausoleums. "How do we know which grave is...oh, never mind."

There's a grave at the back of the cemetary that looks far older than the rest with a black, gnarled tree growing up from it, with dead branches and a giant dark knot.

"Preeeeetty sure which one it is," Ravn agrees. "Also pretty sure the groundskeeper needs to be fired. We'll have that talk over a drink at your place later. But not the sex, I'm not into guys." Someone's a little light-headed after running.

He tries to shoulder in under the other man, supporting his weight so they can get ahead in spite of injured ankles. It may not be the fastest way to move, but it moves both of them, at least. And as any D&D nerd would tell you, you never, ever split the party.

Dante chuckles again, "I wasn't propositioning you. Just explaining how we cope in broad terms." It's slow going up the damp and rocky hill. The town glows invitingly off to the left, but they both know that's not the way out of the Dream. That would only delay the Horseman's attack and trap them in the Dreamscape longer.

They move through the graveyard, past well-kept and newer ones, stately mausoleums, and even the odd wooden cross to reach the ominous grave. "So, what do you think? Do we just toss the skull into that gaping hole or find some shovels?"

"If there are shovels nearby we're probably meant to use them..." Ravn glances back over his shoulder, keeping an eye on the horseman still searching for a way to cross, and then tries to survey the place for tool sheds, stray shovels, or for that matter, any other obvious hints originating from whatever fevered mind came up with this festival of insanity. "I get the feeling this is all following a script. Please tell me we're not in someone's fan fic."

There are no shovels around, but there is a whistling wind coming from the hole in the black and gnarled tree. There is a blood-curdling whinny from off in the distance that sounds like it's getting closer. Dante digs the skull out of his bag and passes it to Ravn. "Do you want to do the honours and chuck it back to hell?" The skull is positively vibrating and it's uncomfortable to hold. But it does seem to be drawn to that tree and the gnarled grave beneath.

"Consider me the team bowling champion," the Dane murmurs in a tone that seems to imply that he is most assuredly not the team champion of anything athletic. He reaches out for the skull nonetheless and -- well, takes aim, careful to keep his fingers out of its teeth. "Wish me luck?"

It's a hole the size of a grave. He should be able to hit it with a ball-shaped object at point blank range.

Especially since the hole seems to be calling to the missing bones, reaching out to take them and rejoin the rest of the remains. The hoofbeats thunder closer. A black shape appears on the horizon, sword held aloft, black horse rearing up. The blade arcs down towards Ravn just as he releases the skull and it drops into the inky pit of the tree knot.

After that, there's a concussive wave, a gust of cold wind that suddenly turns hot.

And they both drop back, under the blinding summer sun, the heat hitting like a brick to the face. The seagulls caw. Hot sand cushions their fall. They're back in Gray Harbor, on the beach, on a bright summer's day. They're in their own clothes, but they're caked with dirt and gore from another place.

Yike yike yike yike---

Ravn face plants in the sand. For a moment he just lies there. Tempted to kiss every grain of it. There's not a sword stuck in his face.

Then, slowly, he sits up. "Is it... God. That really was real."

Someone's in need of a shower and a stiff drink. Preferably simultaneously.

Dante pushes himself up by his uninjured arm. His fine linen suit is bloody, dirty and torn. "Mhmm, very real," he grunts as he looks to his arm. Rather than some antique kerchief, it's a pocket square bandaging his arm. They haven't brought anything back with them from the other side other than dirt and injuries. "You all right?"

"Well, I'm not the one who cut his arm..." Ravn pats his blazer down and looks decidedly relieved when its pocket does in fact contain an inhaler the kind an asthmatic might use when the air becomes void of oxygen for some reason typically involving exertion. "We should get you to see somebody. A doctor, ER, something."

"There are people who can heal. That might be the better option." Dante grunts. "Besides, I think it might be a flesh wound. Not that I know a great deal about injuries." The cut to his back seems to be mostly superficial, though it did cut right through his jacket and shirt. He looks around and takes a moment to orient himself. "Mhmm, we're not that far from my flat. I'll be all right." He does limp a bit when he makes his way up the beach to the boardwalk.

Ravn lies on his back in the sand a moment, just feeling grounded. "I'll look you up for that stiff drink later," he says, loud enough for the other man to hear. "And that talk about... academics."