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 suggestion to leave sounds like a really fucking excellent one, right up until the point that Johnny grabs him -

"Don't fuckin' touch me," he snarls, snapping out of the other man's grip so viciously he nearly topples over again.

No. No, he is not panicking. He is not. He is not panicking. The place is dark and blurry, that is fine and it has always been, his breathing is a perfectly acceptable rate, his heart is going at exactly the right amount of beats per minute that a heart should be going at given a fair amount of adrenaline, he is not shaking, not even slightly. He is not trying to shrug off the awful, clinging sensation of fingers wrapping around his arm, fuck he is fine, fine, he is fine, he is fine, he is fine.

Nathaira pushes her head beneath Rush's hand, forcing his fingers to stroke at the rough fur there. He almost reflexively lashes out at her too for initiating physical contact, but the feeling is - comforting, weirdly. He won't question that. He needs to get a handle on his breathing. He needs to get a handle on this. He can do that. He is not panicking.

"Go," Nathaira whispers. "We have to go."

Yes, they do. They have to go. They have to - fuck, he is shaking.

He is not panicking.

This time his blow provokes a cry from her, a wrenched-out grunting twisted noise, the vocalization of her fury and pain and frustration from the swordstroke. After the blow hits she retreats and circles, warily, seeking out her next opportunity and ignoring the pitted ache that blazes in the parts of her being with which the sword connected. Its pain is low and visceral; unnatural.

Pancakes' low, whistling wails command her attention, but only briefly. Her pet is in pain, just as she is, despite having only touched the principality for an instant. There is connection here but it is one Illyria is uninterested in investigating at the present time. The battle calls for her. She will not deny its importance.

The principality hesitates, its concentration slipping but for a moment, and Illyria pounces. This time she targets the hand bearing the sword, her greatest threat. Iron in her grip, she seizes its wrist and applies to it a brutal torquing grasp, ferocious and unrelenting, squeezing with all her concentrated might, and slams her other hand around its neck to wrap her shell-fingers around it, vicelike.

"You are tiny," she whispers into its shell's ear, her voice alight with the promise of victory.

Edited 2014-11-02 00:40 (UTC)

Agamede leaves Julian's side to trot along with Aliya, sniffing here and there, sharp eyes peering out through the trees. Julian takes in the information, seems to be processing it thoughtfully. "Communal dreaming, like... as in a shared consciousness? That's actually quite remarkable! I'm not sure how I've managed to become a part of it, since I haven't been displaced in the waking world at all, but... how curious! I wonder how it works!" He seems more excited by the idea than anything else, despite the danger, his fingers tapping against his leg as they quickly move through the woods, as if itching to write down notes. "I have no wish to die, however," he adds, sobering a bit. "I've nearly died a few times before, and I'm not exactly very brave about it. Hence," he says, "the running. Let's try not to unpleasantly die together, shall we?" He offers Daniel a touch on the shoulder as they move, knowing he isn't exactly the most comforting, moving blind through this strange world, but he does have an instinct to at least try and survive.

"A rift..." he knows what the word means, at least in general, though not exactly in the way Daniel is using it. "And you were pulled out of your world, into another?" This concept isn't quite as strange. "Where I come from, a wormhole opened up in space without warning. Some ships were often pulled through without warning or without realizing what happened, ending up in places they hadn't even know existed. Then we learned how to control it, how to properly utilize it, but nobody was ever trapped. Or... is it more like a parallel universe?" He shudders. "I have no desire to see one of those again." He's talking an awful lot to someone he probably shouldn't be talking to, but hell, it's a dream world, right? Can it hurt to talk openly to someone he is meeting in a drrwam, even if they are real, somewhere?

Edited 2014-11-01 23:04 (UTC)

In any other case it would be fascinating, Daniel can't help but agree, except that he always seems to end up running for his life or getting mortally injured or watching his friends get mortally injured in these sorts of dreams, so the novelty wore off fairly quickly. At least he's sort of used to the dying thing, but that happened long before he got here.

"I actually made a living out of traveling through wormholes," Daniel says, keeping his tone light and conversational. The talking helps take his mind off the potential death and mortal injury and whatever else might lurk out here. Besides, what Julian's talking about is hitting all of his 'intellectually stimulating discussion' checkboxes, a rare feat. "Exploring new planets, and whatnot. New universes occasionally. I'll say this one's a first. It's a bit of a, a central hub, as far as I can tell. The Rift intersects with different universes and they all end up in this one. Or, er, the physical one I'm in."

He grins a little. He's definitely starting to like this guy, a sort of scientist-kindred spirit thing. His curiosity combined with the mention of wormholes and ships and space - yes, this is very, very much Daniel's area.

"The dreams are less well-defined." The rate at which he's speaking combined with the uphill trek is causing him to pant a little but this topic is for once right up his alley, so he presses on eagerly. "Sometimes other minds get pulled in, minds that aren't in direct contact. I take it you're, ah, a bit of an explorer too?"

People often doubt the stories Vince tells, but he doesn't much care. He knows they're true, which is the point, so he just shakes his head, chuckling a little as he tromps on through the undergrowth.

'Dunno,' he admits, looking up at Slightly curiously as they dart and buzz about. 'Thought they were just a normal bird at first, seems like most of the hummingbirds I've met, but I dunno.'

'Reckon I probably wouldn't know about his childhood, either, if I were just your normal garden variety bird,' Slightly adds, which is a good point, Vince thinks.

He pivots on one heel, swinging around to walk backwards for a step or two, eyes flicking between Iman and Aqil. 'Also usually other people can't talk to animals. Maybe they're like, like, I dunno, like familiars, yeah? Like shamans have, summat like that.'

It had been months since she'd been in the woods around the lake, and that was even before she came through the rift. She doubts she'd recognize anything unless they hit the lake itself (which would be a mixed blessing, because it's not exactly a safe place to be at night and it's a good twenty miles from town). "I don't think so," she says. Then, for the sake of honesty, "I'm… not even completely sure I felt a bad spot. This whole place feels too close to a bad spot." She pats Bee's arm distractedly (though not so distracted that she doesn't double-check to make sure she's not too close to Simonides).

"I dunno," she mutters. "Anything look familiar to you?"

Both Crowley and Bayan are faintly surprised that Aziraphale seems actually hurt by her snappy comeback. Mocking each other is what they do, it's not like she'd meant it terribly sharply.

Still, she appreciates the flattery, and when Aziraphale holds his arm out like a falconer, she leans forward to fall off the branch, spreading her wings with a clap to glide the short distance down to land on his arm, claws digging into his sleeve. 'Hello,' she says, a little smugly, and nudges his hand with her beak.

Crowley nearly falls over. Bayan croaks in alarm and surprise and takes off in an ungainly storm of flapping. 'Ack!' she squawks, which Crowley follows intelligently by saying, 'That was-- what was that?'

The sensation of her beak touching Aziraphale's skin had been-- not unpleasant, certainly, but intense in a way Crowley doesn't know how to categorise. Like... fire under his skin or a tug way down somewhere deep under his sternum, a sort of pleasure-pain that Crowley would associate with sex, except that it isn't sexual. Bayan is all fluffed up as she comes to rest on the ground, and she peers intensely up at Aziraphale like he's a recalcitrant IKEA cabinet that refuses assembly. 'Well,' she ventures after a moment, 'if Orisa's right, if I'm your, you know, soul...'

She trails off, and Crowley wrinkles his brow. 'Blimey.' It is an entirely insufficient reaction, but it's all he's got just at the moment.

She is quick, quicker than he anticipated, and the blow catches him right in the center of his chest; he is knocked backwards, striking the trunk of a tree with his shoulder and tearing out a chunk of it with a terrible crack. He never hits the ground, however, but beats his wings once and is gone, tugging space around himself.

The fact that this abomination can touch him is both abhorrent and exhilarating. Abhorrent because it is a disgusting, vile creature the likes of which his Father would have found hateful in His sight. But it has been a long, long time since he has had a challenge in a fight, and longer still since that challenge has been someone other than a beloved brother. Fighting Michael or Gabriel had always been tainted by the fact that they are family and he loves them, loves them fierce and sick, but this?

This is practically righteous smiting.

The next instant, he unbends space around himself and is before her again, using the momentum of flight as he lashes out with his fist towards her midsection.

Peeta freezes when he sees the wolves. He can feel Nilakshi move toward him defensively, but neither of them have time to even panic before the wolves are on them. He blinks at the pair's reactions before realizing who they are.

"Daine!" he says, raising his hands to her shoulders. Beside them, Nilakshi gently runs her trunk across Coromotto's back.

He can sense Daine's concern. He thinks of how the woods feel dangerous, but not quite in a way that seems familiar, and wonders. "Are these your woods?" he asks her.

Aziraphale stiffens as soon as the Adversary steps into view. His eyes dart up to take in the beast on his shoulders (of course it's a dragon), and then flick back down to meet Lucifer's stare. He draws back fearfully, Orisa coiling closer around him. He hates how palpable his terror is, how heightened. He maintains eye contact through great personal effort while Orisa curls her head behind him as though trying to hide, rather giving him away.

"Quite," he says weakly. He nods to the dragon staring down at them. "I see you've one of these as well."

"What?" Aziraphale asks in concern as both Bayan and Crowley react as though he's burned them. "What happened?" He looks at the bird in bewilderment as she speculates, then back up at Crowley.

"Then it-" His eyes widen slightly. "I had no idea it would - are you all right?"

Orisa raises her head. "What did it feel like?" she asks, eyeing Crowley. Aziraphale can feel her considering, but he refrains from scolding her. He's dreadfully curious to know.

The thing can bend and meld space-time indiscriminately; Illyria's enthusiasm for the fight dims in part as she fully conceptualizes this. In her age the streams of time and space were hers to command and displace. No other being was to hold that right, and yet this Pit-creatures wields its hold over its own translocation with ease. The injustice of it grates at her.

She has no further time to contemplate injustice, nor do anything but to brace herself for the blow whose thrust propels her shell in a stunted parabolic arc through the woods, skidding over leaves and scum and dirt until she can plant feet on the ground and reestablish her inertia. The whole of her shell aches, distantly. She will pay that no further attention than is necessary.

The Lucifer has this advantage. Spacial matter is its plaything here, and she will have to compensate.

She is still fast. Illyria closes the distance between her and her enemy, unfurling to strike at it. She will target her foe's shell, as it has shown that it can bleed like any other. Physicality. Substance. A violent fist that punches at its abdomen with enough force that would tear through an ordinary body, but meets thick and crackling resistance here.

He pivots back at Orisa's shout, trying to catch Illyria first, but once again she's too quick. He manages not to let go his sword even as she all but crushes his wrist, letting out a strangled grunt of pain. The hand around his throat is similarly unyielding, and for a moment he's pinned in her grip, his movement limited to awkward, frustrated struggling.

Orisa releases a most un-snake-like growl and slithers down from her perch, cutting a line in the dirt not for Illyria, but for Pancakes. By now she's pieced together, that pain is shared between body and soul-manifestation, and that attacking Illyria would throw Aziraphale off just as it had Illyria and Pancakes earlier. The beast is her only logical target.

She wraps around it quickly, baring her fangs and biting down hard.

"No," she says softly. "I don't know where we are."

"I don't like it," whispers Simonides. "Not safe."

Bee's instinct is to shush him soothingly, but she can't do that, when this is the most he's said at a time so far. She scritches him gently. "We'll be okay" she says with only partly forced determination. "At least we're not alone! We've got Sunshine, and Modomnoc." She glances over at them, hoping they have some confidence to offer as well, at the same time wishing she were better at soothing her own friend, whatever he is.

Edited 2014-11-02 01:20 (UTC)

Pancakes let out a high-pitched vrrschh of agony as the worm-thing coils around her, sinking powerful jaws into her gray flesh. The Yastigilian hound jerks her head, rolls to the ground, kicking tentacled feet in an effort to shake the thing that has a grip on her like steel.

Illyria releases a similarly strangled cry, tears away from her victim and curls one hand around her midsection. Agony, biting and abrupt, licks up her, and for a dreadful moment she cannot see for the blinding pain roaring through her. Then her vision returns, and she sees the cause for her hurt.

Cold rage infuses the whole of her self. The principality would unleash its worm upon her pet. None lay fingers, coils, or fangs on her pet. None.

The God-King charges at the pair struggling on the ground, falls to her knees halfway from a renewed burst of ache that accompanies Pancakes' fresh squeal. With an agonized roar, she redoubles her efforts, reaches and rips the worm from her pet and flings it, desperate and furious, at the nearest tree. Her shell shudders and she nearly collapses entirely from the effort. She must brace herself on all fours to control the rippling pain permeating her every movement.

"Whoa!" Johnny lifts his hand away at once, stepping back. "Jesus! Fuck, sorry, I was just trying to help!"

Nova pushes her nose against his cheek, chiding him silently - look, he's afraid. Be gentle. You know how to be gentle, don't you?

Johnny feels a pang of irritation - what the hell business does he have having a rabbit soul, when he's such a prickly fucking asshole? He brushes it all aside in a hurry when another, louder snap resounds just to his left.

"Look, I'm sorry," he says again, through his teeth. "Let's just - let's go. All right? You okay?"

He starts inching forward, resisting the urge to reach out and make another grab to hurry Rush along.

Aziraphale falls to his knees when she releases him, gasping and bracing on his sword. He struggles forward, reaching out in a desperate attempt to pull Illyria back, or perhaps to recover Orisa himself - stupid, involving herself, he had this in hand! - whatever it is, an attempt far too late. A shock of strange, foreign pain rips through him when she seizes Orisa and wrenches her away from the beast; he lets out a startled yell, overcome by this unfamiliar, terrible sensation. Is this what she'd felt when her beast had touched him? This rank sort of violation?

He breathes out in a ragged, relieved burst when she flings Orisa aside, though he feels her violent impact against the tree reverberating painfully through his body. He turns his back on the enemy, now concerned only with the snake's wellbeing.

"Orisa!" he cries, his sword vanishing as he gathers her up. "Are - are you?"

"I'm all right, stupid," she says, sounding hassled and alarmed. "Are you?"

"You shouldn't have - I was fine!" He holds her close in spite of himself, only distantly surprised at how much this creature means to him, having only known her a short while - and yet, what feels like the whole of his existence.

"I've always been with you," she says, soft and impatient. "Always. Don't you understand?"

He does, after a moment, though it's difficult to comprehend. He glances back to Illyria and her creature, curious to know how they fare, knowing what he now knows.

"I am perfectly fucking fine."

He is perfectly fucking fine. He is not breathing too hard. His heartrate is acceptable. Everything is acceptable.

He is not panicking.

The sound of twigs crackling somewhere very close by serves as an adequate impetus. Nathaira nudges him, none too gently, and the brusque action is familiar enough to spur him onward. His breathing is normal for someone about to embark on a late night run for his life through unrecognizable woods, pursued by a creature of unknown origin. His heartrate is acceptable. He is not panicking.

He doesn't check to ensure Johnny is keeping pace as he tears off, unidirectional but with marked navigational ineptitude as he also does not check to see where he is going, only that he is moving.

Rush is small but the panic - the lack thereof, he is not panicking, he is not panicking - the adrenaline is increasing his rate of movement considerably. He will exert horizontal force x and vertical force y in the forward motion of running, he will exercise his knowledge of gravitational pull, he will propel himself forward parabolically, he will breathe and he will be fine, because he is not panicking.

Nathaira is beside him, streamlined and efficient, and he is running and breathing and not panicking. Rush prefers not panicking. A round of metaphorical applause for a reasonably balanced mental state.

"Well," Sunshine starts, but she pauses as she feels a a little hum of wingbeats from her bee. "Hey," Modomnoc interrupts, and she can frigging feel the way his focus shifts to the pocket where she keeps her little knife. Gods, that's weird. He has a point, though, presuming they're both on the same mental page (is it even possible for them to not be on the same mental page?), and she only hesitates for a second before digging into her pocket.

"This might not be the best idea," she admits before pulling out the little knife. To her eyes - to a vampire's eyes - the sudden glow is almost overpoweringly bright. But it's a sunlight sort of glow, warm and friendly and reassuring, and she rubs her thumb over the little knife before passing it to Bee. "Take it. It'll help you see, and it's… sort of a ward? I don't know if the blade would do you much good, but if anything, um… creature-of-the-night-ish comes after you, it might… help."

What a sales pitch. Well done, Sunshine.

I am bleeding, mistress.

Pancakes is bleeding. It is small but it is deep, thick and dark blue blood drooling from the puncture marks. Illyria would heal her if she had the power, but all of that energy has been locked away from her shell and she has no access to it. She touches a finger to her pet, fluttering and mournful. She cannot ignore the sabotaging ache running through her own being. They are tied together by some indescribable, intrinsic bond. When she threw the principality's worm she must have injured it similarly.

It appears to be in distress over the state of its worm. Good. It should regret ordering it upon her pet. She stands with significantly less coordination than is her equilibrium and glowers at the thing.

"You injured my pet," she says, her voice icy and vengeful. "What have you done to me? Why do her injuries affect me so?"

"Oh!" Bee's eyes (almost literally) light up when she sees the knife, and she takes it shyly. "Oh, that's - thank you!" She feels a little surge of warmth for Sunshine - the knife is clearly something very special, and here she is giving it up for them.

"Thank you!" she says, sounding almost awed.

Simonides, feeling a little more courageous and wanting to express his gratitude as well, crawls over gently to reach out and brush his soft snout against Sunshine's cheek.

Daine shakes her head. These woods feel far too unfriendly to be anyplace from her realm. There are some People here, but fewer than what she'd consider normal. She hasn't yet felt any definitive itch of a threatening immortal in her mind, either (though she fears she might; she doesn't have her bow).

"No immortals," Coromotto says, leaning against Nilakshi's leg. "Not very many of the People, either. We're glad we found you."

"She's not your pet!" says Orisa angrily; she rests her head on Aziraphale's shoulder, too weak to raise it herself. "She's part of you. Your internal self. That's why you share thought and being, why you can feel each other's agony. He didn't do anything to her, it was my decision, because you were hurting him."

"Orisa, please," says Aziraphale in mild embarrassment, stroking her back in an effort to calm her down.

"I'm not poisonous," Orisa goes on stubbornly. "She'll be fine."

This thing's opinion of Illyria weighs less than the air it breathes. It is small and weak and wriggling and can do nothing to harm a God-King. If it has one grace, it is that it has left her pet in no danger.

She snaps her gaze to the one holding it.

"Control your worm," she orders coldly, "before I crush it."

"Worm?!" Orisa echoes in outrage, just as Aziraphale pulls her closer and cries, "No!"

"How dare you," Orisa continues, aflame with the same pride that Aziraphale feels all too often. "That's royal bloody python to you. And he does not control me. We are equals. Or are you too thick to realize that, even after what your beast has been through?"

"This is not helping!" Aziraphale snaps sharply under his breath, holding her tightly. To Illyria, he says, "There's no need for any more violence. Let's just - let's be reasonable, for goodness' sake."

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Page 7 of 30

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

tw: minor panic-related things

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tw: strangulation, also daemon-on-daemon fighting about to commence

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