Lisa posts: "Harry opens the door."
I reply with: "Harry sees a room filled with vials. Some glow green in the dim light. One in particular seems to beckon to him."
One possible reply for Lisa: "Harry picks up the vial and drinks it."
Granted, what we'll be doing won't quite be that simplistic, but I'm just trying to give a little snippet of how the format goes. Please, please, please. I am expecting people to be complete in their responses. Read the post, gauge your reaction, and post a developed response. Remember, I work off what you give me, and vice versa. The quickest way to stomp the flame of RP out is to reply with something like "Harry blinks."
Also keep in mind that I've never done this in a Livejournal setting before. It might get hairy, and a trifle confusing. If you're lost, say so. I may pull in a random character here and there to NPC if the situation calls for it, but as that's only going to make more work for me, I hope it won't call for it. ;) Lastly, I will be responding to your posts as I get the time between work and school. Again, this is the first time I've done this in a LJ setting and with this many...eclectic characters, so if it gets too overwhelming for me I'll just stop SMing and throw everyone in one room and let a battle fisticuffs sort it out. ;)
The premise of this SM is bad memories and skeletons. I'm going to try my hardest to include anyone who wants to be included, but I might not know what to do with everyone, so I'll attempt to tweak it as we go along. Lastly, to make things more interesting, I'm going to be putting an asterisk by sentences or cues where your encouraged to show us what your character might see. This is to prompt introspection and insight into the head of your character. He/She had a nightmare. What was it? What might Severus Snape dream about? What might be Sirius' worst fear?
Hogwarts is old. Much older than most people wandering the stone halls realize. Old enough for mortar to crumble (though it never did) and foundations to crack (though they were all quite sound). Old enough even for parts of the twisting passages and vaulted rooms to become dusty, disused and forgotten. Even those who live there longest never quite know where everything is. There are parts of itself the castle just doesn't wish to share. Though every so often, when they aren't really trying, someone or another will stumble across those places anyway.
Most often these sorts of things happen on rainy days, when students are driven inside because of the weather. Or perhaps to an errant professor walking deep in thought over some troubling reflection. Everyone has their demons, and it is these demons that often drive our steps when our memories rule us. It could be any day. Any time. These people let their feet guide them only to look up and discover they've gone astray. In their own home, their own domain, they are lost.
The corridor is long. Many people who have found their way there over the centuries have turned and left immediately, filled with a vague sense of foreboding brought on by the hanging shadows. Others have stood and listened to the strange whisperings caught on the verge of hearing. Words one can almost understand, stirring memories hard to trace. These people have stopped, and listened with an odd disquiet, and moved forward.
At the end of the hall is a painting; the gilded frame is tarnished, the canvas dark with age. The vibrant movement other paintings display elsewhere is not found here. Even still, the picture seems familiar. The harder they stare at it, the more certain they become. They've seen it before.... a person, or a place.... if only the picture was a little clearer, they might recognize it.
Involuntarily, they reach out to brush the canvas. In one startling instant, the surface clears. The memory is caught, and the vision shocks them to their core.*
The Great Hall seems suffused in shades of dull gray extending out to cover the students who wander as ghosts over the smooth marble floors. Their uniforms seem dated and old to you, or perhaps new and innovative, you can’t decide. Though you do not feel any different physically, you look down to discover you are dressed as they are, in the student robes of your own house. Teacher or pupil, you seem to be the only spot of color in a monochromatic world.
No one seems to notice you when you call, though you catch several familiar faces in the crowd. People you know from school. Friends you’ve long forgotten. Your memory stirs and the ghosts part as you wander down the hall, looking for something, or someone. Hoping to understand just what it is you’ve gotten yourself in to.