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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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.

What. Where to start. Momentarily the Doctor wishes there were a crate, a low wall maybe, perhaps just a large rock, on which to set this alien child in order to stare at her in bafflement from a better vantage point. That probably won't make anything she just said make any more sense, but it would probably be cathartic in some way. He settles for slowing his breakneck shamble through the forest, unconsciously letting her catch her breath as well as indicating a shift in interest, from lecturing to actively paying attention. Albeit not without some more talking first; underneath all the interesting but indecipherable nonsense are more objectionable points to dispute, before things get out of hand.

"Ah, well, that's as may be," and it is, in fact; he feels a little embarrassed at being shown up by a small green child when it comes to optimism regarding human potential. This pretend-British alien is seriously encroaching on his territory, humans are his species to prop up or call rude names, as circumstances and regenerations require. "But I'm not human. Though I am intimately familiar with the human ability to do great things, puddingheadedness notwithstanding. I've had many many human friends, some of whom were borderline capable. I have non-human friends, too, but never any scholars on Paradox Space. What makes you think you would endanger people in shared dreams?" he asks, very suddenly and somewhat skeptically. That's as good a place to start as any.

The somewhat more reasonable pace is certainly a blessing for Calliope, because those sure are a lot of surprising things he just said. Chiefly that he is a different species than what he appears to be, and that he has human and alien friends too. She doesn't quite get the chance to work out if he just implied that they are friends now before he regrettably changes the topic again.

"It is because of my horrendous brother, he is pursuing me," she sighs. "He is completely obsessed with the need to destroy me, and has been blowing dream bubbles to smithereens and wiping out the residing souls in his efforts to find me. The 'rift' you are investigating is almost certainly one of the cracks in reality his eternal rampage is causing. I have created a hideout for myself, but he is highly sensitive to my presence." Having to think about this, despair overtakes her for good and her voice becomes very small and sad.

And to make matters worse, who would want to stay in her company after hearing any of that? She almost wishes she hadn't said anything, but she wouldn't have had it in her to lie either. And she couldn't bear it if something happened to her new friend because of her own selfishness. "So... I would not blame you if you preferred to part ways. Though... I really would rather you didn't," she adds hurriedly against her better judgement, tightening her claws around his hand almost imperceptibly.

"I'm not scared of your brother, and I'm not going anywhere." The feeling that he has stepped into the middle of something larger and more all-encompassing than himself is surprisingly unfamiliar to the Doctor. The feeling of being almost, but not quite, imperceptibly clung to is not. He stops completely, and the look on his face is no longer animatedly aghast but grave and indecipherable, a face that has forgotten to ape humanity. Notably he does not let go of this mysterious creature's little clawed hand, grabbed for the sake of convenience and excitement, now grasped for actual reassurance. Once again, a lot of what she has just said makes little or no sense, but some things he definitely understood. "So you spend all your time running and hiding in dreams that aren't yours. What about when you're awake? Do you hide there, too?"

When he comes to a halt, Calliope's breath catches, for a dreadful moment completely expecting him to let go of her and tell her to stay away. But once again he defies her expectations. And as inconceivable (and probably unwise) as it is, looking up into his now so still and serious face, she can actually believe that he isn't scared. If anything, she thinks perhaps others ought to be scared of him, though not her, because he's holding her hand more tightly now.

Still, it feels a little bit like disappointing him to admit, "I am not asleep. He was already successful once, and killed me. I'm only a ghost now, that is why I have these spooky blank eyes. But he will never feel that he has won until all traces of me are truly gone." When she'd explained this to Roxy, it was to help her friend understand the gravity of their situation, to instruct her to prepare for further battles, and perhaps a little to justify her own foolishness. Now, it doesn't feel like there is any such burden of responsibility on her. A somewhat new feeling, given how she's always been the one with access to all the information, having to figure out how to responsibly dole out hints to her friends without risking the stability of causality, nudging them in the right direction through all their troubles. It's new, and oddly comforting.

A ghost. He closes his eyes, and it feels like mourning. And guilt, to realise how absolutely too late the possibility of help has arrived, though this has nothing to do with him and it's only by the rarest coincidence that he's aware of it at all. But she's a very lively ghost, all things considered, and quite resilient too, by the sound of things. Clever, and good at hiding. Good for her. Run and hide in dreams forever, little green ghost. The owl, having been still and silent as a wooden carving all this time, makes her presence known once more, with a quiet, "I'm sorry."

The Doctor has about as much time for grief as he does for voluntary sleep, however. "So. Your brother is powerful enough to put cracks in the universe itself. What does that make you, Ms. Scholar?"

"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."

For a moment, she is stumped on interpreting his reaction to her words, wondering if he really is disappointed that she wasn't strong enough to stand up to her brother. But then she sees the sadness in his expression, and the owl confirms it. It's strange to think someone is grieving for her, especially since she hasn't even heard from her friends for so long, and it is quite touching, but she doesn't like it. He shouldn't be sad; it isn't his fault that she failed, and she has started suspecting that it wasn't a great loss.

The snake, who had silently paid witness to the whole conversation curled around her shoulders, now raises his head towards the owl to pronounce solemnly, "We aren't gone yet." Calliope finds that surprisingly uplifting, and her new friend's sweet little epithet for her even brings a smile round her fangs, albeit a very small and wistful one. "I once believed I was meant to become an exceptionally gifted Muse of Space, with powers formidable enough to rival those my brother is now exhibiting... Obviously I was only fooling myself, though. I'm not much use for anything now, except to go looking for a more successful iteration of myself. Legend has it that she was strong-willed enough to utterly defeat my brother, as he did with me, so if she really exists, she must be the key to destroying him."

"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.

The feeling of being on the borders of something very vast and complex remains, and grows stronger with everything she says. The Doctor is no stranger to cosmic battles and rewriting the events of history, so it's a familiar strangeness. He could salute it in passing, if he were the type. As it is he merely makes note of it.

"It seems like you're the strong-willed one, hanging on and finding a way around death to fight your brother. That kind of tenacity is impressive, moreso than formidable powers, anybody can have those and it's unlikely to be much of an advantage. I don't think a lack of will is your problem, and I bet the snake agrees with me. Fooling yourself is a boring road to go down, don't you think you're a little too scholarly for that?"

For a moment, she is quite speechless in the face of so much kindness. Even though she can't agree with what he says, the fact that he's saying such nice and encouraging things at all is so unexpected and generous. It really is a shame that he's wrong.

"You are so lovely for believing that of me," she says earnestly, if a little regretfully. "But you do not know my brother, or our unique situation. He's the one with all the cursed tenacity and bollocksing stubbornness, while I was silly enough to believe I could wrangle him into cooperation, right up until he had me murdered. I really should have seen his final move coming." Familiar frustration and anger at her brother is bubbling up inside her and she frowns ponderously, though underneath that she still feels like crying for how useless and hopeless she is now, and it threatens to break her voice. "Hanging on after death is rather inevitable, and I am still not doing anyone much good, because I'm too bloody scared to leave my hideout and actually go search for my other self!" Now the frustration has turned on her and she has to squeeze her empty eyes shut against the feeling of tears.

"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.

Amusingly and intensely fakey-fake Englishisms aside, he can relate to an eerie degree. Who knows better than he does what it feels like, to not have seen a final move coming? Because of willful, ill-advised optimism, because of trying to see things that aren't there and handing out second chances that aren't drawn on his account, and half the time being elsewhere when the consequences come home to roost. Only this little skull child is not only blaming herself soundly for it, but was the one to actually pay for it, disastrously. Scared, but not a coward.

She is also, maybe, crying? Trying not to cry? Ghost-crying? Something panic-inducing, anyway. He wheels and crouches to her level, ignoring the owl's protest at the sudden drop in altitude. Now, in contrast, his look is too human, too much expressive distress crammed into one face. He has enough borrowed common sense still stored up not to rudely shake a maybe-ghost-crying child, but he still puts his hands on her shoulders urgently, in case mild jostling becomes necessary. "Hey. Listen. You could do a lot worse than scared. Scared is just fine, scared is a-okay. It isn't giving up, it's a tactic. Listen to your snake, if you won't listen to me. He's very smart. You're not gone yet."

Calliope's breath catches when his hands touch her shoulders and her eyes snap open to stare into a face that looks just as distressed as she feels. She's quite unsure about the meaning of this, the way he is holding her and looking at her as though she was a very fragile thing, as though he's afraid she might fall or run away. It's enough to startle her out of nearly crying, though she stiffens noticeably for lack of any sort of instinctual understanding of what is happening or how to react to it.

The snake is the one to break the surprised silence, weaving around her shoulders until his head is level with her ear canal, while staring at her friend consideringly. "He is right," the snake decides. "The game is not over until our purpose is clear and creation is safe. There are a few moves left." She glances at the reptile before looking back at her friend, wringing her claws and trying to take both their words to heart. Absently she notices that she isn't carrying her gun anymore, at some point having forgotten to keep imagining it. Not that she needs a weapon when she has such kind and protective company.

"I suppose so..." she begins, though she can't quite hold his painfully concerned gaze, not when she feels like his encouragement and confidence would be better placed elsewhere. "But I find it hard to believe that you know very much about being scared. You are not afraid of this forest, or my brother. You aren't even afraid of my hideous appearance," a very small sound like a sob escapes her at that, shamefully aware that he has been looking directly at her.

"It does not feel like a strategically calculated move. It just feels like blasted cowardice, and letting down my friends." She seems to be shrinking in on herself as she goes on, so perhaps that's what he is holding her shoulders for. Though she wishes he was still holding her hand instead.

For all of that, Johnny seems to have taken his advice to heart; he certainly let the rabbit go, a bit more forcefully than Zagreus' admonition really warranted, if he's being honest, but what can you do, some people just can't do anything right. It was a smart move on Johnny's part, really, for all it's suspect origins. The chimaera surges eagerly in the direction of Johnny's throw, it really couldn't do otherwise, not standing over Johnny and waiting as it had been, grotesquely playful and keyed for pursuit. Throw the ball, Johnny. Zagreus makes no effort to keep it in check. Whether because he approves of the creature's game or because he doesn't want to find out whether or not it would listen, who could say. Immediately the chimaera is mostly lost to the darkness, but it can still be heard, hunting through the leaves and general forest litter for the little rabbit.

Not that Johnny looks to be in any position to judge Zagreus on being in control of himself, in whatever iteration that self currently happens to be. It's somewhat mollifying, for Johnny to be in a useless heap; Zagreus was starting to feel a bit shown up by his own monster. Is that symbolising anything, or just annoying? Whatever. Something is digging into the back of his mind like a thorn, and he responds in kind, digging the toe of his shoe sharply into the hollow of Johnny's collarbone. Like the chimaera's pawing, peremptory but broadly repulsed. And...not a little hopeful. There has to be a spine in here somewhere. "Where's your earthquake now?"

"Don't-" Johnny rasps out, too soft to be heard, really, buried in the dirt and the leaves along with him. The chimaera stalks through the woods, circling, and he can feel Nova hiding, frozen, scared. He wants her to run, get as far away as she can - he knows it will hurt like hell, maybe until their invisible tether snaps, but maybe it's possible, maybe she could get away.

He can feel her, practically vibrating with indignation. I'm not leaving you, idiot.

His focus moves quickly from his soul-rabbit to himself when Zagreus nudges him hard with his fucking foot. Johnny flinches and makes an involuntary grunt, sounding soft and pitiful and preylike. Hearing himself like that sends a sudden resurgence of his usual, stupid anger ripping through him, and he digs his fingers into the dirt, staring up at Zagreus with open, teeth-bared hatred.

"Won't work out here," he says coldly, because there's no point in refusing to answer. "It only works on houses."

He wants to fight back, against the obvious taunt, the indignity of being toed at, but he can't, quite. His arms won't work, or his legs, or all of him. He's pinioned by the point of Zagreus' shoe, paralyzed beneath it.

He hadn't meant it to be a startling gesture, hadn't been thinking at all really, but as long as it ~~stopped her from crying~~ helped in some way. He does note her seeming unfamiliarity with familiarity, immediately now that he's seen it in action more than once. He recalls an alien race that had, on a superficial level, seemed completely at ease with the concept of hugging, but promptly fell into distress if the gesture were returned--turns out that, within their own species, it was for the purpose of seeking comfort from a sort of telepathic tree-elder, the next stage in their life cycle. And trees aren't supposed to hug back. Which is to say, for all that this looks like a palette swapped child with some minor modifications, not everything is as universal as it seems, sometimes. Who made this strange creature responsible for creation anyway, he has no idea.

Since she doesn't seem to be standing up to scrutiny especially well, and because he's increasingly at a loss, he recaptures her claw-hand and sets out once more, albeit at a slightly slower and more attentive pace. "Wrong. I know plenty about being scared, and about cowardice too. You don't get to be thousands of years old without that." What a general and non-specific statement. "And just because it didn't start out as a strategy doesn't mean it can't be one now. Time and intention are very flexible, that way. Moreso if you're a time traveler, but don't let that limit you. Why are you convinced your appearance is frightening, anyway. Is it the spooky-eyes?" he asks with seemingly mild curiosity. Time for another rapid subject change.

Zagreus nods like he'd expected as much, still watching Johnny with detached disgust--look what a gross thing was under this rock, truly, nature is amazing and mysterious. In reality of course he hadn't expected as much, but there had to be some limitation to Johnny's power, and narrative demands it be a significant one. The only real surprise here is Johnny saying something straightforward and informative instead of telling him to go away. Perhaps the snarling is new as well, but Zagreus isn't exactly keeping track.

The chimaera is still trotting its irregular zigzags through the roots and litter, increasingly frustrated, unable to find its prey. Greek monsters are surprisingly unsuitable for real world pursuits like hunting, or maybe that isn't surprising in the slightest. Why else would they have given a female monster a mane, besides a lack of understanding of reality? Natural disasters are ferocious, not skilled. Metaphors ought to be heard and not seen. They had thought meat spontaneously generated flies, too. Zagreus unpins Johnny only to crouch nearby, arm rested on drawn up knee pleasantly, sympathetically. "That sounds a lot more useful than I would have given you credit for. Just in dreams, or in the waking world? Don't lie, I'll check."

Johnny keeps his eyes on Zagreus, though he's still very aware of the chimaera. It seems to be having trouble finding Nova, who blends well into the brush. Small favors.

"Both," he murmurs. He feels a twist in his gut; he's giving everything away open-handed this time, with none of the usual interrogation and torture song and dance. He's not even being held in place anymore, apart from the precarious distance of his rabbit. "Most of the time anyway. Dreams are a toss-up."

The words sound normal, organized like a conventional conversation, but there's a dogged, forced nonchalance to them, trepidation in his eyes and contempt in his lips. He's coiled like a spring or a prey animal, ready to run, though there's no point to that, really, and he probably won't try it. It's just for show. Habit. Old habits cling to life but they're getting easier to cage.

And they're off again, he really keeps one on one's toes. That's a good thing, she thinks, it's a relief that he is taking the lead and her hand fits reassuringly into his. Mainly though, he keeps startling her out of her negativity. She noticed that he didn't have any kind words to say about her letting down her friends, but before she can feel even more miserable about that, he's pulling her along and admitting to being thousands of years old. For a moment she's in awe thinking he must be a highblood, but she quickly reminds herself that he isn't any sort of troll. Still, perhaps he's right... he must have been afraid of something at some point in all that time, as difficult to imagine as that is. What might it have been?

She doesn't get a chance to think on what scares him any more than she gets to process the truth in what he's saying about time and intention, before he takes a hairpin turn right back into her disgrace. Though his tone isn't mean-spirited or repulsed, and that helps a little. "No, all ghosts have those. Although they are usually white, not such a gloomy black." Just another way in which she is cursed to look different and more ghastly than everyone else. She sighs. "I have always admired humans, and trolls even more so, for their beauty and grace. Among other things, of course! Their appearance is not the only laudable thing about them, their cultures and social dynamics are so fascinating and complex too." She doesn't feel like she is explaining well at all, but she presses on anyway. "But I think they look so... gentle, peaceful. Nary any claws or fangs or bald skulls in sight." This time when she sighs, it's much closer to a shaky, self-loathing sort of sound. "They have stories about things that look like me. Those are never good stories."

For a moment it looks like Zagreus means to follow through on his fact-checking, reaching for Johnny like he means to comb through his thoughts yet again. But for all he'd threatened it, he only brushes Johnny's hair away from his temple, still feigning sympathy, like he's feverish instead of venomously petrified. Johnny isn't lying, but that doesn't mean Zagreus doesn't want to see him flinch. His cooperation is of course appreciated, but it wouldn't even necessarily guarantee forbearance, if the forest weren't just enough of a distrusted unknown to keep all mental limbs safely inside the vehicle. Nothing in the rules says cooperation has to guarantee anything, not in this circumstance and not for Johnny.

"Good. You'll need that. Any houses?" Because Zagreus knows specifics are important. The devil's in the details. Johnny isn't clever or mythically fickle enough to need such attention to detail, but the Rift, and its power-granting logic, is a different story altogether.

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Page 29 of 30

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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