Chatterbox: Pudding's Place

Ski Lodge;

You are dreaming. You don’t quite know how you know that you are, but somehow you do.

The scene comes into focus slowly, like an adjusting camera lens. The first thing that you see is the rain. It dominates the space, great gray sheets of it slashing down, smashing into the ground you hover above- which you realize is also water. You are floating above the ocean and it’s pouring. All right, not the strangest dream you’ve ever had. If anything, it’s quite boring.

And then the island comes into view. At first it’s just a smoky outline in the distance, a fuzzy mass of land on the horizon, blinking strangely. But without a warning, you are suddenly much, much closer, now hovering just above the rocky shore. You see the terrain all laid out ahead of you, much of it obscured by the still falling rain. It’s stone and rock, mostly. Some vegetation here and there.

But what really catches your eye is the lighthouse. You know it’s a lighthouse because of the white and red candy-cane stripes and the shape of it; it looks ripped straight out of an old photograph. The give-away, though, is the single piercing beam of light cutting through the dark and mist and rain, sweeping in a wide circular motion over and over and over.

You blink, and when your eyes open, the scene around you has once again changed. While you can still hear the lashing rain and winds, they are more distant now, and you realize that you are standing inside the lighthouse, both feet planted firmly on the ground for once. It’s a neat and tidy space, and in the center of the circular room is the light, spinning around and around and around.

There is a young woman sitting there, next to the light. Her dark gray hair is pulled into a tight braid and her eye color is almost black. A splash of freckles across her nose. She would be wholly unremarkable if not for the fact that she is staring right at you.

She leans forwards and beckons you with one hand, and you drift forward, not really able to stop yourself.

You reach her seat, and the girl looks up at you and smiles a small haunted smile. A single strand of hair slips from its tie and falls across her face. She says, “Oh, hello there. Are you looking for a little adventure?”

You wake up.

There is a form for you, sitting innocently on your bedside table, and it looks like this:

Name:

Pronouns:

Age:

Appearance:

Personality:

Useful abilities (magic not allowed):

Biggest fear:

Luggage:

Are you scared of ghosts?:

Is the ocean forgiving?:

Other:

At the bottom, written in little loopy curves, are the words ‘Please come, dear friend, and join me at Wayfarer Island. Adventure awaits you and nine other lucky people. -Storm.’

You are holding a pen before you even finish reading it all. Something deep in your mind is telling you not to fill out the form, but you disregard it.

After all, how much damage could a little adventure do?