applesaucedream | Tender Lumplings Everywhere, Life's No Fun Without A Good Scare [Open to All]

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Tender Lumplings Everywhere, Life's No Fun Without A Good Scare [Open to All]

The woods are dark and deep, but not particularly lovely. If anything, they feel dangerous, as if something terrible might come lurching out from behind any given tree and tear into the nearest warm body. What that terrible thing might be is anyone's guess. A cat with hands? Slenderman? Stegosaurus? Actual cannibal Shia LaBeouf? All of the above in a horrible mob? It's anyone's guess. But every dreamer will be absolutely convinced that there is something unspeakable out there, and that it's after them.

The dreamers have two things on their side. The first is that there is actually nothing dangerous lurking in these woods (with the possible exception of other dreamers). The pervasive terror the dreamers are feeling is just that: a rift-given feeling, nothing more and nothing less. That snapping twig or rustle in the undergrowth is almost certainly just a squirrel or something else equally harmless.

The second is that no dreamer is alone. They all will be reunited with - or introduced to - their dæmons, a source of comfort in this dark, intimidating wilderness. However frightened the dreamers might be, at least they have someone with them who definitely doesn't want them dead.

[OOC: as ever, any and all are welcome! You don't have to be in the game to join the fun. Dreamers can remember or forget the events of the dream at the players' discretion. And the party only stops when you want it to; feel free to backtag forever.]

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Well, the Doctor would be holding out for a stegosaurus, personally. Then all he'd have to do is find another person and he could talk about stegosaurus brains, with an actual stegosaurus to point at. The issue of the scary forest would be purely secondary. Yes, it's unnaturally frightening and yes, that's probably something he should be investigating. At least this time he didn't start out in a nightgown. Wait, another telepathically structured dream!

The Doctor is halfway to carelessly kneeling in the loamy dirt, eager to examine anything he can find up close, when he hears loud and somehow impatient wingbeats nearby. Not something in flight, something resettling, or even trying to get his attention, like a throat clearing. It has to be deliberate, an owl like that can have wingbeats so silent they almost wrap back around into being sound again.

Dirt inspections hastily shelved, he approaches the owl on its low branch, feeling compelled, feeling strangely like he should recognise this owl, which is not a common feeling, usually it's people that make him feel this way. Always with these dreams and shoving bits of something very large and complex into a smaller and outwardly simpler package, why is that? Because that's certainly no proper owl, no matter how disgruntled and feathery it looks. Cautiously the Doctor extends his hand to the bird, though it feels quite safe. What an odd thing to dream, putting part of one's self into a bird. The bird steps onto his hand, like it belongs there, like something he'd only set down moments before, intending to pick it up again. Surprisingly light given its size, but then under all the feathers and ferocity it's just bones, after all, and hollow ones at that. "Hello, I'm the Doctor." Very politely he offers the bird his other hand; rather than shake it, the owl gives it a quick nibble, and he pats its head, very carefully, in the way of someone unused to patting things. But this is an okay thing to pat, he can feel it.

"My name is Sraif," the bird says matter-of-factly. Her voice is melodious, though he can hear the potential for raucousness in it. Very incongruous, coming out of an animal that looks so angrily intent. And indeed, the owl seems done with socialising. "Hadn't we better get started?" Fair enough. He lifts the bird on height with his shoulder, where it settles quite impressively, claws only a little uncomfortable. Oh well, this shirt was in terrible shape anyway.

Blundering through the woods with a hurried, uneasy gait comes Aziraphale. This dream has been almost uniformly unpleasant, excluding one experience he's wishing he hadn't stopped having. At this point he's rather desperate to get out of it - the woods, if getting out of the dream isn't on the menu of possibilities. He worries that if he stops for just a moment someone else he doesn't want to greet will greet him, a fear that contributes to his overall lack of spatial awareness.

It is Orisa, the ball python draped loosely around his shoulders, who finally raises her head and snaps, "Watch it!"

A little too late: Aziraphale collides with the other tall, skinny shape, jostling Orisa who makes her distaste very well known in a series of wordless hisses, and he staggers back, waving his arms.

"Dear me, I - I'm sorry," he stammers. Does he recognize this stranger? No. Not necessarily a good thing. "Are you all right?"

Ahhh, there's the raucousness he'd heard the potential for. Sraif squawks, and continues to chitter scoldingly, flapping for balance as her ungainly perch is barreled into. It's very inconsiderate flapping, considering her perch is right beside the Doctor's head.

Crashed into and owl buffeted, the Doctor stumbles back, looking comically, frightfully surprised. Well, at least the young man has the decency to be almost adequately contrite. The Doctor straightens his jacket, takes in the bookish young man and his snake. "Apology accepted. Try to be a bit more careful, there's roots," now it's the Doctor's turn to flap, vaguely indicating the forest at large. "Maybe even other things," he makes this pronouncement as ominous as he can, which is probably very, all things considered. And what is he forgetting, somewhere back on the TARDIS is a scrawled checklist with bullets, and on it--"Have you got a name?"

"I - I have," blurts Aziraphale, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. A Scotsman! And - not human, either. His senses are a little muddled, but this being feels staggeringly old. "It's Aziraphale." He brushes himself down a bit, helping Orisa adjust herself. "And this is Orisa. Sorry, I'm not normally in the habit of - it's just this dream, you know, messing me about."

He regards the man curiously. Orsia lifts her head and says, "Jusssst what are you, anyway?" Aziraphale barely represses a sigh. Abysmal. Having one's internal dialogue on the outside is a neverending recipe for social disaster.

"They do that," the Doctor doesn't quite commiserate, scrutinising Aziraphale from under his brows. Seems nice enough, bit too much crammed into a small space, and a snake, well, that could be good or bad. But then, these representations don't seem to be voluntarily chosen, and in the Doctor's experience, choosing a snake always says more about a person than just winding up with one. Mostly that they have a very entry level grasp on symbolism, possibly that they like to eat mice.

And now the snake is questioning him. He quirks an eyebrow at it, doesn't bother to stop his mouth forming a slightly judgy twist, produces a sonic screwdriver and noisily scans the pair of them. "I'm the Doctor. This is my owl, Sraif," he pronounces extravagantly with the teensiest beaky whistle, as is right and proper. The owl hasn't blinked once. He frowns at the results, gives the device a shake like an old mercury thermometer, puts it away. "I could ask you the same thing," says Sraif, while her counterpart is distracted. He waves his hand impatiently in front of the owl's face, ready to move on. "What were you almost-running from?"

Aziraphale blinks down at the strange twinkly noisy thing that is now being waved over him, glowing green and resembling no device he's familiar with. It doesn't seem to be any kind of weapon, so he allows the odd invasion with a bewildered moment of stammering.

"Well, um," he starts to say in answer to the question, when Orisa helpfully cuts in: "We're an angel."

We, is it? Aziraphale supposes he shouldn't be surprised at that. She is part of him, albeit a part normally kept internal - her externalization doesn't necessary make her not him.

"Er, yes," he says weakly. "And - nothing, as far as I know, apart from the possibility that there might be something. More a desire to keep moving until we wake up."

Orisa says nothing, but she nudges against him gently, and he realizes for the first time that waking up will mean her disappearance. Obvious, and of course she'll still be there, in essence, but it's still a little sad somehow. He runs his fingers briefly over her head.

The Doctor squints a little harder, then gives up; this milquetoast is an angel? Maybe so, but there's more of the glittery greeting card than the flaming sword about him, in terms of angel rankings. "Right. An angel. Carry on. So you were almost-running, in order to avoid the potential for circumstances in which you might need to run," the Doctor sounds equal parts skeptical and relieved. "Pre-emptive fleeing. Actually, I can't find fault with that."

That having been said, the Doctor spins in place, coattails flaring with unintended majesty, and takes several poorly executed steps in a direction seemingly chosen at random. He seems to have no doubt that Aziraphale will follow in his wake, or possibly he just doesn't care. The owl seems gyroscopically able to compensate for the sudden change in direction; indeed, she is now staring at them across her own back. "Keep up!" pipes Sraif with a kind of foreboding glee, the sort one carries into a haunted house ride.

"Oh," blurts Aziraphale, pleasantly baffled. Well that's nice, that his running has been validated by this - what is he again? a Doctor? The Doctor, which carries weight, and it's familiar besides. Why so familiar? Something from another dream, some time ago now - there had been a woman who was not a woman, just as this man is not a man - she was a ship, and she had a pilot, who she sometimes called the Doctor. Is this that man? That man was an alien, and this man feels distantly non-human but he's Scottish, or do other planets have Scotlands? All of this leaves Aziraphale feeling vaguely adrift.

The owl's summons catches and unsticks him from his ruminations, and he hurries along after them. It seems the thing to do.

"Do you have any idea where we're going?" he asks curiously.

Does he have any idea where he's going? The man who jumped moon-shoes first into a lunar crevice full of mysteriously amniotic fluid? "No," says the Doctor, more fool Aziraphale for asking. "I know this is a telepathically shared dream, propped up by an ill-mannered spatio-temporal rift," the Doctor ticks off, and now he's the one spun around to make sure the angel is paying attention, taking long, nerve-wracking backwards steps that nonetheless let Aziraphale catch up. If the owl weren't paying attention for him, this would probably end disastrously. "I know you are probably trapped in New York." That's another finger ticked now, the third; his first statement was a twofer. Now that his role as alpha nerd feels safely established and Aziraphale is following properly, the Doctor tears through the woods more directly again. "I don't know," he switches ticking hands, "where I'm going. And I don't know," he stops like the edge of a cliff is under his feet, "whether dreams can be dangerous."

How nice to have found such a well-informed stranger. Saves him a lot of trouble having to explain the usual stuff, doesn't it?

"Well, that's all right," he says. "I didn't expect you to, really, it's just that you seemed very sure of yourself." Which is also pleasant. Aziraphale's spent most of this dream feeling uncertain and unsettled. Being able to follow blindly is a momentary respite.

"It depends on the kind of dangerous you mean," he says. "Physical damage doesn't transfer to our waking bodies. If we die, we simply wake up. But they can still be very unpleasant. More than your average nightmare." Aziraphale hopes, at least, that this creature's 'average nightmare' is somewhere on the same scale as the ones he's imagining. Dreaming is still a very new experience for him.

"Are you not trapped in New York, then?" Orisa pipes up, having caught the particular phrasing while Aziraphale passed over it.

Well, there was that one time...Anyway. "Well that's good news." The Doctor resumes his brisk striding, confidence restored, not that it had really done more than fluctuate a bit, like the lights during a storm, a momentary startling flicker and then bright once more. The woods might be to blame; concern for what he might be walking into is not usually part of his repertoire.

"And no, I'm not trapped in New York, not at the moment," he answers the snake. Good eye, snake. Or ear...tube, or whatever. That was a good catch, how about that. "I am, however, investigating the rift and its...circumstances. Or hoping to, anyway. You see, I have a theory that these dreams will increase in frequency with proximity to the rift itself, for those on the other side of it, like myself. Of course, this is only the second of these dreams I've had, so I haven't got any numbers to work with. Sort of a, an interstellar game of hot-and-cold." That's a vast oversimplification of his strategy and his theorising about the rift, but he's feeling merciful.

Aziraphale brightens a little, impressed by all this scientific knowledge and wherewithal. Someone on the outside, investigating? Perhaps that means there's hope, coming from beyond. Perhaps they could get messages out. Wouldn't that be something?

"How fascinating," he says without irony. "You know, I also had one of these dreams before I was brought through - er, I think it was before. It was a little confusing. I don't usually dream, you see. I don't usually sleep." Distressing, that he's slept so much since he got here, and never on purpose. He can only assume it's the Rift making it happen, but why? Are these voluntary for all its victims, or is it just him that is forced into it?

"So you've had one before, then, eh?" he says. "Meet anyone helpful?"

The owl seems to share Aziraphale's feelings on the matter of sleep; she flaps noisily and chimes in with, "Sleep is for turtles," momentarily more parrot than owl, before being hurriedly shushed by her counterpart. Certainly she doesn't look as if she's ever voluntarily slept, or the Doctor either, for that matter.

"The helpfulest, actually. Though at the time I was more in the position to offer help, and I did. I met the TARDIS, my space and time ship, wearing the face of someone I knew a very long time ago and warning me to stay clear of the rift. Naturally I went in search of it immediately." He sounds quite proud of himself, absolutely rock solid in his surety that that was the right move. "And I'll probably find it quite soon. Then I'll spring the whole thing open, no more interstellar zoo. Back to whatever it is that angels do when they're not in New York." To hear him tell it, it's as good as done. Roll for Sense Motive to see how confident he actually is.

"Your-" Aziraphale blinks rapidly, realizing. "Oh, of course! I've met the TARDIS. She's told me about you. Rather made it sound as though you were already through the Rift, as I recall."

But enough about that. "Do you think you can spring it open?" He tries not to sound too hopeful. "That'd be - well. It'd be good for most everyone, I think. But you must know it's quite powerful."

"Does he look like he wants your advice?" asks Orisa in his ear, apparently just to be contrary. Aziraphale does not know how he feels about having a soul manifestation that treats him more or less like Crowley would.¹

"Well I'm an angel, I have to express concern," he says, preemptively defensive.

¹ Neither does the mun, but that's neither here nor there.

The Doctor makes a rather throatily disgusted sound. "Egh. No, that's not--Different regeneration, not me at all. Useless as a chocolate teapot. Never get anything done. Me, I'll have this thing open in no time, you watch. And you're right to be concerned, the TARDIS said the rift was," he clears his throat again, now for quoting emphasis rather than supreme distaste, "'Sudden and powerful.'" He grins, the jump-into-a-dark-scary-hole grin again, because the snake is right, warnings are wasted on some people. "Poor thing won't know what hit it."

"Oh," says Aziraphale, pleasantly accepting all of this with a politely baffled smile. Gosh, but it is nice to have a dreaming partner so on top of things. "Well, that would be jolly marvelous, if you could manage it. We're all glad to have you on board, I'm sure."

He can't avoid thinking privately - and he knows Orisa is only barely managing not to say it aloud - that he should have been doing more this whole time, shouldn't he? He's the angel, after all, helping people is his bag. Got complacent, hadn't he?

"Not exactly a new problem, is it?" Orisa hisses softly.

"You hush," he murmurs.

"As well you should be. Of course, not everyone will be, probably. Particularly if the rift belongs to anyone. I said an interstellar zoo, who's the zookeeper? What if it's not a zoo, but a buffet? Or maybe, sometimes a rift is just a rift. Who knows?" The Doctor appears just as happy to natter on and ignore any dissension in the angel/reptile ranks, but Sraif watches the pair with her large piercing eyes, though she says nothing.

"So what's an angel good for when it's at home? Maybe you could help, with the springing."

"As far as I know it's just the Rift," says Aziraphale thoughtfully, and then perks up when the question is asked (albeit rudely).

"I'm good for a great many things," he says with conviction, certainly not boastful. "Seeing and thwarting wiles... divine ecstasy... the occasional miracle. It's, well, it's always been more about, you know, the ineffable plan than any cosmic escape attempts, but I'm keen to try my hand at that too. Seeing as it would be a very good deed, and all."

Orisa twists calmly around him, flicking her tongue lazily, and he knows exactly what she's thinking: kiss up. Just why he's trying to impress this being is beyond him. It's not as though the Authorities are watching, waiting somewhere behind the scenes to pat him on the back. Or wait, what if they are? There's a thought.

But no, they can't be. They wouldn't have let everything with Lucifer happen. They wouldn't.

"What are you good for, apart from the springing?" Orisa asks brazenly. "Any good at dealing with devils?"

"No, no, no," says Aziraphale somewhat frantically. "No, it's - hah, no, we don't... That isn't something we ask for help with. That's our business."

Obviously. You'd think his own soul would know better.

"Devils?" asks the Doctor, in surprise and Scottishness, ignoring Aziraphale's backpedaling completely. "Yeah, come to think of it, that would be your business, wouldn't it. I'll take it," he answers brightly, even as the owl volunteers a very decisive sounding, "No. We aren't." The Doctor makes a face as though imitating the owl sarcastically, except the owl hadn't done anything remotely like that. Still, it gets the point across.

"Lots of devils in New York, then?" It's a deceptively naive, touristy sounding question. "More than the occasional miracle can handle?" And whatever thwarting wiles refers to. Divine ecstasy, at least, is probably pretty useful if you're resourceful enough.

"Just the one Devil, actually," mutters Aziraphale.

"The Devil," says Orisa. "More powerful than usss. Caused a lot of bloody damage already."

"We - I held him off," says Aziraphale defensively. "And he's weakened now, it - it's been dealt with. It's fine."

"You're not a very good liar," she chides them. "You know that."

"I'm not lying." He very much dislikes arguing with his soul, he decides, but especially in front of another manifested soul. The owl is watching them much too closely. "I'm allaying concern. Because this is not anyone else's business." He says this firmly, warningly, but Orisa dismisses him with a mild hiss.

Despite the decidedly eerie atmosphere of the forest she's found herself in, Charley is delighted to see Horatio again. He'd shown up in the very first dream that she'd had after coming to New York, and seeing him again gives her a feeling almost like homecoming. It's queer, but frankly she'll take what she can get, against the oppressive chill of the woods and the unnervingly shifting shadows.

'Hallo!' she whispers, wary of lifting her voice much higher, and snuggles his tiny, feathery self into her chest. Soul is what Gabriel had called him before. He's a warm little presence in her arms, and he gives her arm a little nip.

'You are rather smothering me a bit,' he points out, feathers ruffling and one bright black eye looking up at her.

'Oh! Sorry.' She loosens her arms, and Horatio promptly flies up to perch in the low-hanging branches of a nearby tree, peering about them. She knows that birds have prey have impressive vision, though she's not sure whether that's true at night as well, but apparently it's still better than hers; a moment later, he swoops down to perch comfortably on her shoulder.

'There's someone over there; a man and a bird; shall we go say hello? I'd rather have company, amongst all this.'

'Well, I have got you,' Charley points out. Horatio leans in to gently nibble her ear, and Charley grins, comforted, and ploughs forward through the crunch of dead branches and bracken. If occasionally they startle at a shadow, they both pretend they hadn't.

It doesn't take long to reach the man, a gangling stick-insect of a person with grey hair, and pale eyes and fierce brows that perfectly match the owl perching on his shoulder. She pauses a moment, unsure of the best way to announce her presence, but just as she recalls from last time, Horatio shows no such compunctions. He takes to the air, swooping forward and forcing her to stumble after as he finds another branch to sit in.

'Er, hello.' She's faintly pink-cheeked, but she manages a friendly smile for the man. 'Are you lost as well?'

Edited 2014-11-12 01:42 (UTC)

Suddenly, a bird. Seemingly attached, via the same type of intense connection as the owl on his shoulder, to a determinedly cheerful girl, of a particular age, stature, and build that are triggering his poorly toned familiarity reflexes. The voice, though, is what really floors him-- tinged with nostalgia and always guilt, a memory yanked from across a gulf of trauma. He knew her immediately, of course, but when you see someone where you least expect them it's just such a shock. Who has ever managed 'determinedly cheerful' quite so well? He stares at her with a look of concentration bordering on alarm, as all the possible explanations for her presence clamour to be heard at once. "Yes," he answers, but not to her, pointing wildly and with little stabbing motions. The owl looks away from this display in embarassment.

"Charlotte Pollard. Charley," he grins, every trace of catastrophe immediately wiped off his face, and seeming very proud of himself. "Braving a dark foggy forest, being cheerful at strangers, even in your sleep. Hello."

Edited 2014-11-12 04:16 (UTC)

His blunt 'yes' startles a little laugh out of Charley, which twists into faint confusion as his face contorts into what seems like recognition, hands a blur of excitable pointing.

And then-- oh, it must be, mustn't it? The tone is nearly the same as the one the first Doctor she'd met in New York, the other other Doctor, had used when he'd met her, torn somewhere between pride and grief and nostalgia and plain surprise. 'Well, when one finds oneself in a mysterious dream-forest, there are only so many options; may as well start as one means to go on.' She pauses, eyeing him for a moment before venturing, 'Doctor?'

And quite suddenly she finds herself laughing from the sheer absurdity of it, because of course, she shouldn't even be surprised anymore, should she? She presses a fist to her mouth, teeth digging into one knuckle in an attempt to stifle her laughter, but it feels rather like the unnerving atmosphere of the dream lends itself to hysteria and she can't quite manage it. Horatio, bless him, takes the initiative and flutters down to land on the ground, peering up at this new Doctor and his owl.

'Does this always happen to your friends? Meet one version of you and suddenly there's dozens of past and future selves flocking to come join the party?'

"Hey! You found me," he says indignantly, but honestly what she's describing sounds like it's probably about right. "Can't say I think much of this party, anyway," he frowns at the bleak surroundings, having judged them and found them wanting as dreamscapes go. Really it is just exceedingly bland, underneath the unpleasant atmosphere. Maybe it's just hard for forests to impress him, after the last one. The talking animals are a nice touch, at least.

"Nice bird, though, very sharp," he says, turning his attention to the fierce-eyed little creature, nodding in approval. The bird on his own shoulder flies down to land nearby, easily twice the little falcon's size, looking proudly tufty. "Why have we got birds? Does this happen often?"

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Tender Lumplings Everywhere, Life's No Fun Without A Good Scare [Open to All]

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casually retconning Aziraphale not noticing things, what is continuity

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SO I AM SUPER PSYCHED ABOUT TWELVE BEING A THING LEMME TELL YOU

LOUD HOOTING

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