And the Boats Drift On [Open to All]

[applesaucemod]

The water is calm, and the night sky is filled with stars. The only light is natural: a patchy, bioluminescent glow coming from the water below, and the bright swath of the Milky Way above. It's not much, but it's more than enough to see by.

The dreamers will find themselves sitting in their own little rowboats, each stocked with two oars, a length of rope, some cushions, and a little picnic basket full of snacks. There is no visible shoreline, but it won't take the dreamers long to realize theirs are not the only boats in this shallow sea. Anything stirring in the water, be it fish or paddle, causes phosphorescent plankton to glow a bright blue, so there isn't really anywhere to hide.

Feel free to paddle around and visit the other dreamers, perhaps tying your boats together and sharing your snacks in an impromptu picnic. Or you could go for a swim - the bioluminescence makes it difficult to see the bottom, but it's not too terribly deep, so the risk of drowning is all but nonexistent. This setting, unlike the last one, isn't actively out to kill you. Or you could simply lie back and look at the stars.



[ooc: Same drill as always, folks. All are welcome, regardless of whether or not your character is in the game. Characters may remember or forget dream shenanigans at the player's discretion.]

Comments

[erratic_hematic]

Ugh. Dracula. Spike rolls his eyes and groans. "No. Not like Dracula. The pretentious prick died owing me five quid." Okay, he has to get closer to expand on his hatred a bit more. He rows forward until he can really see this guy.

He's still keeping a close eye on that tail.

"He was a real smug dick. Bloody cape. With his weird hypnosis tricks. Unlike him, I can get girls back to my place without swinging a watch in front of their faces."

[anguiform]

Ok, fair enough, Crowley gets that; there are a fair few of his comrades Down Below whom he would certainly rather not be associated with. A lot of them are fine, no mistake, but the ones who get noticed tend to be thoroughly slimy pieces of work, and usually terrible company.

Still, he snorts at Spike's indignation. 'Yeah, definitely started off as human,' he mutters, amused. That particular combination of Lust and Pride is classic human.

As far as his tail goes, it's doing nothing more than what it's been doing this whole time; languidly swishing back and forth in the water, stirring up the luminescent plankton. Crowley notices Spike's gaze lingering on it, and he gives a sharp little smile. 'You know, you really shouldn't be one to be unnerved by a little extra.'

[erratic_hematic]

Spike's gaze snaps back to the guy's face like he's been caught at something he shouldn't be doing, though the reality is more like embatrassment mixed with offense. This is the second guy tonight that has implied he's a lesser being of some sort, and he doesn't like it. "No offense, but when something looks like you, it's usually trying to kill me."

[anguiform]

'None taken.' Crowley waves away the remark with a louche nonchalance ordinarily restricted to responding to things like, No offence, but you have terrible taste in films, or No offence, but your flat is a tip, rather than accusations of murderous intent. 'I can assure you, I have no intention of killing anybody. Nasty habit; I try to leave that to others. 'Sides, this is a lovely-- if entirely improbable-- dream; I wouldn't want to spoil it.'

He realises that this is perhaps not the most reassuring motive for not wanting to kill people (though truly, he is genuinely repulsed by pointless brutality; not something he likes to go around advertising), but he's amused by how on-edge Spike is. He can't help it if it's fun to poke at his paranoia.

'You got a name, vampire?'

[erratic_hematic]

Spike sighs and settles his oars inside his boat. "Spike." He leans down and reopens the little basket in his boat that contains wine, blood, and fudge. "Want some wine? Otter blood?"

[anguiform]

'Otter blood?' Both Crowley's eyebrows go up this time, but his voice holds nothing more than mild curiosity. One of those vampires, then, who sticks to animals and blood-bags from hospitals, the ones one reads about in overwrought novels about the angst between the centuries-old vampire protagonist and the woman he loves. (That was one of Crowley's; he'd been very proud of that).

'Wine for me, thanks. Never really developed the taste for blood.'