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

[antitimelord]

Aaand there it is. He'd wondered when the disregard for personal space was going to set in. Whatever, why even bother being anything but resigned anymore. Being read like a book, in the grossest most literal sense, that he minds a good bit more, but again, he's so put off track by her insistence on familiarity, he tolerates it with little more than a vexed huff. "Yes, quite."

"So you don't dream-dream," he offers the emphatic reduplication, hopefully treat enough that she doesn't take offense at the line of questioning, "But is there some difference between your normal state and what causes you to be here?" He doesn't suppose there has to be. Or does there? It's a little hard to think about. "I don't think I've met anyone here who wasn't dreaming in some fashion. But I haven't been so sociable."

[canofwords]

She does perk up a little at the interesting linguistic treat, not as tasty as rhymes or alliteration, but a lovely construction nonetheless. See, this is what she came here expecting of him in the first place, was that so hard? Despite her appreciation, she still sniffs haughtily at his question though.

"I caused myself to be here, silly thing. This is my normal state, what else would it be? This place has got one of those typical matter structures, people are conversing, how should I know there's another dimension underneath?" But that's enough talk about her blunder, let's not make a whole novel out of it. With the grace of a 5th grader's essay she changes the subject, tilting her head. "What's that on your face? Is that ink?"

[antitimelord]

REALLY? Let's everyone talk about that in great detail forever, apparently. He recognises it for the unsubtle segue it is, but it's still a good question, and somehow her being aware of it is particularly obnoxious. "Indeed. What happens in a dream, stays in dreams. Except when it doesn't, but that's usually because I did it." It's not that he's trying to be aggravating and obtuse. It's just his normal state, what else would it be.

[canofwords]

How precious, his little circumlocution. What's he trying to do, build her a maze? Just adorable. She's immediately reminded why she was always so fond of him and grins, planting her chin into her hands attentively. "Tell me what happened to you, with all the juicy details."

[antitimelord]

That was exactly what he was trying not to do. But he knows how this game goes, if he tries to evade she'll only behave even worse. It's just that being straightforward isn't his style. An understatement, it's almost an impossibility. "I got stung. Reprehensible little creature, I drowned him for it. I'm not sure why the mark's still there."

[canofwords]

She really wants to squeal when he speaks of the drowning, but she doesn't want to interrupt his narration, so she compromises with a delighted little squeak. His tale could stand to be a lot more detailed though, but he's probably just out of practice in pleasing her. His memory was never the best for things that aren't poetic, she can sympathize.

"Because it's ink, sweet Zagreus," she explains like that's the most obvious thing in the world. The alliteration isn't entirely clean, but it's still a friendlier gesture than she'd ever grace any other matter creature with. He'd better find comfort in that, because in the next moment she seizes his jaw, thumbing the scar appreciatively. "Ink preserves, ink spreads, ink carries the meaning when the author has long since been drowned. Ink transcends its own nature through the use it's put to." With a smirk, she raises her gaze from the mark to his eyes. "You should feel a kinship, not aversion."

[antitimelord]

He looks mortally offended by the squeak, and doubly so by her encroachment. "Here's one for you. Have you ever heard the saying, 'Look with your eyes, not with your hands?' It's a popular one with small children, who are generally considered capable of internalising it." He thinks he can hear echoes in what she's saying, about ink spreading and transcending, what nonsense, making him bristle without quite being able to put a finger on why. Is that what she thinks he is? Transcending his use? "Why can't I feel both?"

[canofwords]

His little scolding is met with an unconcerned, almost bored shrug; of course she's familiar with the saying, but she has neither eyes nor hands, strictly speaking, so what's it to her? His objection is a clever one though, and she releases his jaw with a theatrical roll of her eyes. "If you're going to be oxymoronic about it."

Bored of sitting, she throws herself down the length of the board, fiery mop of hair cascading down the gunwale while her bare feet stir the ocean. Not that she can feel much of that, but at least she's also still blissfully oblivious of the uneven rocking her exuberant motions keep causing. "Nasty little things, oxymorons," she muses, "contrary, impossible, give me indigestion." Turning half a glance and a patronizing smile on him, she adds, "I suppose you'd quite fancy yourself one."

[antitimelord]

He knew it, she is a boat liability. Not that it took any kind of genius to predict that one. Not even any grasp of forethought; she is every kind of liability. At least there's the stability of self-congratulation, amidst all the sullen rocking.

"Oh, I'd never. I like to think I exist very straightforwardly. Besides, I think you've got the chronology of it wrong." That he should have to be the one to break it to her is just wrong.

[canofwords]

The irony of him trying to invoke chronology really is amusing and she snorts indelicately. "What chronology? The chicken and the egg are the same to me, I'm an unanchored causal intervention in most universes." With the wry quirk of an eyebrow, "Perhaps the concept is familiar to you."

But she's rather less interested in his etiology than a story she doesn't yet know. Sprawling a little more generously, she looks back up at the shimmering night sky and asks, "So what are you doing in this universe? I can't imagine the boat was your idea. Or did you downgrade your ship-seeking ambitions?"