applesaucedream | 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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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."

Illyria watches the worm's outrage with vague unconcern. She is uninterested with the self-righteous anger of those beneath her. The principality no longer wishes to do battle, it seems. This is a disappointment. She was beginning to enjoy their violence.

"You forswore reason when you sought to challenge me," she answers. Her pet has risen to rub her head against her God-King's leg, an assurance of her health. "And you rejected mercy when your worm damaged Pancakes."

"She's a python," Aziraphale volunteers delicately, before both he and Orisa freeze in mutual bewilderment over what they just heard.

"P-Pancakes," says Orisa. "Did you just say Pancakes?"

"Is that that's name?" says Aziraphale incredulously, and it might be the pain, the terror, and the general hysteria, but he can't quite keep from snorting.

Orisa joins him all too easily, laughing full-heartedly, her heavy coils shaking with mirth. Something so terrifying, named Pancakes. This nightmare is achieving new heights of absurdity.

"W-why?" Aziraphale demands.

Edited 2014-11-02 02:29 (UTC)

The principality makes some bizarre choking noise, it and its worm shuddering with something Illyria cannot perceive. Is this some sort of fit? A strange pre-funerary ritual of their species, perhaps.

They are laughing, mistress, Pancakes informs her sagely. They find my name amusing.

"I do not understand." She addresses both her pet and the principality, unable to hide her confusion for these circumstances. Her head tilts onto a skewed axis. "It is the name of my Yastigilian hound, as she chose. You would do well to respect it, or I will make collars of your spines."

"It's just - well, it's not very fitting, is it?" ventures Aziraphale, sobering up as much as he can. "Sorry, sorry. I, er. Just wasn't expecting anything like that."

Orisa slithers up around his shoulders, resting her weight on him tiredly. Aziraphale stands up, still feeling a bit shaky.

"We're going to, er, go, then," he says weakly.

"It is her name. She chose it. Therefore it fits her." Illyria's logic is infallible. Pancakes winds one tentacle affectionately around her mistress' arm in appreciation of the defense of her title. She was very proud to come up with it, undignified as her mistress may find it.

The principality wishes to leave. She cannot suppress her confusion at that either, for there is nowhere it may hide from the Shaper of All Things, truly.

"We have not finished engaging in glorious battle," she murmurs, puzzled despite herself (confusion, emotional output, a remnant of the shell she is in, and nothing more). And she is - disappointed. The principality was a challenge of the metaphysical, fragment of the world she once ruled without question. She would have liked to exercise her authority over it and triumph in conflict once more.

Aziraphale stares at her, not entirely certain what's happening here. She wants to continue fighting, but she seems almost - sad? That is not what he expected. For a moment he wavers, feeling irrationally guilty.

"It wasn't that glorious," he ventures.

"I enjoyed hurting you." She inclines her head minutely in recognition. He was a rare worthy opponent, and she feels that if he must leave he should know it. Even if the worm intervened to end their regrettably brief conflict. "You are the first of your kind I have faced."

"Er." Aziraphale narrows his eyes at her. Is that meant to be a compliment? Well at least she enjoyed herself. He can't say he hopes to face her again. He thinks he would have noticed if she'd arrived in Manhattan, so... perhaps she's just a one-off oddity of this particular dream. One can hope.

"Well," he says as he slinks back into the woods. "All right then."

As soon as he feels he's put enough distance between them, he turns on his heel and hurries away, cradling Orisa in his arms.

She watches him go and cannot stifle the odd feeling of mourning as he flees into the woods, apparently not looking upon their battle as fondly as she. Illyria would prefer to do more violence but without enemies she has no means.

With the principality gone and no further reason to remain, Illyria wanders on with Pancakes at her side in search of more violence.

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

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