applesaucedream | Can't Stand the Distance, Can't Dream Alone [open to all]

Current Music: Evening August 4/Morning August 5, 2013

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Can't Stand the Distance, Can't Dream Alone [open to all]

The sleeping rifties might have a difficult time realizing they're dreaming this evening, in part because tonight's dreams are atypically vivid, even compared to the rift's usual efforts. Perhaps that is because it's drawing so heavily from the memories of the dreamers, themselves, and using that information to recreate their home worlds in stunning detail. And that is the real reason the dreamers might not be eager to accept the unreality of the situation: the situation is one that many of them have been hoping for for months or even years. In their dreams tonight, the rifties are going home.

Perhaps they arrive in the same moment that they left. Perhaps months have passed at home, or they might even find themselves arriving before their departure point. But those are small details when compared to the overwhelming realization that they're back where they belong.

They're not alone. Many dreamers will find the rift has given them a companion for the return trip. Well, an uncomplicated return home is probably more than anyone could have hoped for, anyway. And for the unwitting visitor, perhaps another universal displacement will be easier to bear with the addition of a local guide.

[ooc: usual dream party rules apply; all are welcome, and dreamers can remember or forget the events of the dream at the players' discretion. Also at the players' discretion: when their character arrives in their 'home universe,' and how many (if any) locals they'd want to run into.]

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Johnny hears himself emit a somewhat undignified squeak when the dinosaur fucking eats her, oh fuck, so much for that. But it's not long before she's busting back out, and then all his excitement and weird, addled attraction evaporates in an instant. Oh. Oh god. Oh sick.

The smell alone is enough that he almost throws up, managing not to by some immense force of will. He stares up at her, blue-haired, blue-eyed, blue-skinned hottie covered in dino-gore, trying to make sense of her words. A burst of fire rockets down from above just nearby, startling him into talking.

"Um," he blurts. "Um. I. Just got here."

He's extremely distracted by the thing soaring overhead that just dropped the ball of fire. It looks like a dragon. Then it looks like a plane. It's both? It has an engine on its ass.

"Can I just ask, like," he says, "what the fuck is-"

He's cut off at that moment by a slime-coated tentacle swooping out of the half-leveled building behind him, curling around his waist and snapping him up off the ground. The noise he makes this time is entirely undignified.

"Oh SHIIIIT," he screams as he's hoisted way, way up into the fucking air and dangled over a legit gaping maw. Fuck this FUCK THIS FUCK HIS LIFE.

The human is largely incoherent, and Illyria quickly realizes ~~to her disappointment~~ that she has wasted her time saving a profoundly unskilled warrior.

In a matter of heartbeats, the small mortal thing has been seized by the latest hungering beast and hauled screaming into the air.

Perhaps the label of 'warrior' is too generous.

She is sorely tempted to let the monster have its meal. It is the human's own fault for becoming so distractible, and only the mightiest of conquerors can be allowed last in this hellscape. And yet. Illyria has made her vow. Standing idly by to watch mortal things be slaughtered is no better than participating in the slaughter herself.

She does not mind the combat, at least. She will engage this new enemy with enthusiasm. It is simply a matter of wrapping her shell's arms around the tentacle dangling its prey overhead and pulling.

With a sickening, tearing squelch Illyria separates the appendage from its owner and casts it aside. She takes frustrating care not to damage its mortal cargo despite its loud and therefore aggravating sounds of discomfort. The detached limb thrashes on the ground, gelatinous discharge from the fresh injury puddling around it. The human will need to get clear of the great tossing, dying thing to avoid being crushed by its convulsions, but she has not the patience to warn it of such things at the present time. The tentacle's former host is giant and shrills its displeasure at this latest development. The pitch of its cry grates at her shell's ears in a frequency that Illyria finds most disagreeable.

"Quiet," orders the God-King angrily. She simply plunges her shell's fists into the beast's wound, burrowing past the ropy strands of flesh until she reaches the soft, quivering organs within.

These objects are caged. She will liberate them.

It is only when the tentacled monster's interior biology is piled in a slippery, steaming heap at its corpse's side that Illyria turns back to the mortal she has reluctantly saved. It seems it possesses no apparent skill other than an absurd amount of luck.

"Avoid the blood," she tells it flatly. "It burns the skin of vermin it touches."

Johnny doesn't really have time to be grateful when she bodily rips the appendage holding him off the rest of the monster. Any care she takes is lost on him as from his position all he really knows is he's being tugged downward and tossed aside, his fall more or less cushioned by the writhing, twisting arm. With no small effort he pushes it off him, shimmying out inelegantly and scrambling aside as it whips around him like a big terrifying meat hurricane. Swearing in an uninterrupted shriek, lost under the creature's deafening protests, he crawls on his hands and knees out from under the thing, narrowly avoiding his own gross, squishy death.

Once out of the immediate killzone he turns and stares at the blue woman as she - she - what is she doing.

His screams of profanity, which had almost become automatic and unconscious, come to an abrupt halt as he stares, jaw dropped, at this woman - whatever she is - casually relieving his would-be killer of its internal organs.

He turns sharply, too late to avoid having that burned into his brain forever, and he throws up. It's almost a surprise, but once it's started happening there's no stopping it. The view, the noises, the smell - he keeps retching even when he has nothing left to offer up to the pavement.

He meets her advice with a dull "Oh." Vermin? Is that him? Probably.

He picks himself up onto shaky legs. "Uh," he says vacantly. "Uh, thanks."

This thing cannot possibly be a warrior if this is its reaction to violence. Even the ordinaries, the unskilled mortal things, have had the chance to become accustomed to the violence and know to avoid it. How in the name of all Old Ones has this one lasted so long? Illyria would settle on the explanation of pure luck, but it seems its luck has just ran out.

It doubtless will not last here much longer, in the thick of combat as the demon lords lay waste to the city and wrestle over claims of land. Thus, the sickening responsibility for this thing has come to rest on the sole being capable of saving it. Illyria watches it right itself with vague, weary disgust. She wishes to return to her violence. That would be preferable. Yet letting this tiny thing die in the heat of battle would be tantamount to killing it herself, and she has made her oath.

"Come," orders the God-King, grabbing the creature around its wrist with one of her shell's unerring hands and pulling it across the malformed landscape. "If you wish to live you must not remain."

"Sure, okay," mumbles Johnny. Like, whatever, right? He clearly has no other option. If this gore-covered lady wants to lead him through Hell and keep him alive for whatever reason, I mean what good is he really, then that is okay by him.

He allows her to basically drag him along, toddling after her like a dog. Or a toddler.

"So, uh," he says after a while. He's gonna go nuts if he doesn't re-assert his humanity somehow. "I'm Johnny."

"I see no reason that this is relevant," Illyria answers coldly. She is missing her violence to rescue this inconsequential creature at the behest of a half-breed ally. This thing should know its place before a God-King. Clearly it does not recognize the all-powerful being in whose presence it basks.

"There is sanctuary at the city's edge," she continues, halting in front of one of the yawning hellish chasms that has cleaved its way through the ground. There is no time to skirt it. "You will not be an asset here. You will join the ranks of your unskilled brethren."

She sweeps her gaze over her newest protectorate, head to one side. It is a fragile thing but it will survive this impact, will it not?

It should.

Without further hesitation Illyria throws the mortal across the gap. She immediately follows, clearing the span of the abyss in a leap. A number of Pit-beasts cluster at the fissure's edge to chorus their discontent in allowing such seemingly easy prey to escape but Illyria does not look back at them. She turns with disdain to her newly acquired mortal to ensure it has survived its journey.

"Oh," he says, slightly cowed by her disinterest, but not really offended, because really, why should she even give a shit? He listens to her explanation of where he's going, sure, okay, why not, and becomes vaguely aware of the gaping pit before them.

"So-" he starts to say, when she hoists him up and hurls him.

"FUCK-!" he screams as he sails right over the mouth full of hungry-looking hellbeasts, and only barely has the sense to curl up and cover his head with his arms, by the grace of whatever gods have forsaken this version of his city landing in position to roll several feet and narrowly avoiding breaking anything.

Which is not to say it doesn't hurt like hell. The pain, so sudden and un-fucking-deserved, helps knock him back into some semblance of his usual aggressive shitweasel self.

"What the SHIT, lady?!" he shrieks, lifting himself up onto his hands. "What is wrong with you?!" Ow, fuck. One of his arms buckles beneath his weight, and he slumps onto the ground again. He's covered in scrapes, some of them actively bleeding, and while he's in one piece he's not sure he can walk very quickly now.

"Fucking... look, can you just tell me what's going on?" he says, sounding impatient and also reasonably put together for a guy who just got thrown across a chasm.

Illyria shoots the loud thing a look of clear, bewildered derision. It is making a great deal of aggrieved noises for something that has just had its life saved many times over. How can it not be aware of its plight? Perhaps it has not, as Spike would say, 'gotten its memos.'

"The city is in Hell," she says shortly. "As it has been for some time. How could one such as you have lasted so long without knowing?"

The thing landed awkwardly, she can see by its injuries. But each wound is superficial and thus they must continue on. She seizes it again by the arm and pulls it to its feet and resumes dragging it behind her.

"What-?!" he starts to protest, but she's already back to hauling him around. "Ow, fuck - OW! Stop it!" He tries to wrench his arm free, but, oh, he can't. She's a lot stronger than she looks. Fucking obviously, Johnny.

"Look, when I say I just got here I mean I really just got here. Like I just woke up here. Last I checked I was in Manhattan."

Wait, how DID he get here? Is this a Rift thing? He can't quite get himself to end up at the obvious explanation, so he moves past it.

"Let me go, I can walk by myself," he says irritably.

Its struggles are inconsequential but they impede their progress, so Illyria releases it accordingly with a brusque flick of her shell's hand.

Its explanation warrants a suspicious look. Dimensional instability is common here in the deepest parts of the Pit. She should have anticipated this. Not only is this no great warrior in the slightest, but it is not even native to this plane. It is a dimensional castoff, one of the many scraps of ephemera ejected into this universe.

How utterly disappointing.

"Become accustomed to this." The God-King indicates the war-torn chaos that the Los Angeles has become. "Hell is angry."

"No shit," he mutters, somewhat mollified to have his arm back. He follows her closely, trying not to look around too much.

"Who are you?" he asks in the absence of anything else to distract him from the mindnumbing terror surrounding them.

It does not know her. How can it not? Has time passed enough in its universe that her ancient glory can be so easily forgotten? Perhaps it is this shell, this shape. She is not so easily recognized in this small, fragile shell.

"Illyria the Merciless," she says, drawing her shell's chin up imperiously. "God-King of the Primordium."

Those words should mean something to it. Those words should strike terror in the miserable hearts of all vermin, every tiny scuttling creature that dares challenge her.

"Okay," he says, because sure, why not, that sounds just about as plausible as anything else. "Nice to meet you. Thanks for helping me not get eaten."

That part he sort of genuinely means, but it's hard to sound genuine when he's still annoyed from having been tossed, and also still figuratively shitting himself.

"So is there any shot at maybe getting OUT of Hell?" he says, not really expecting anything helpful in return.

She detects no horrified recognition coiling off from it. Truly a creature of a different universe.

"Many have tried," she replies dismissively. "Their efforts end in death and failure. If they are lucky."

The rumbling of the ground beneath their feet cuts short their conversing. Illyria thrusts the fragile mortal thing clear from the epicenter of activity a heartbeat before the very ground comes away beneath her shell's feet. A groaning crevice tears itself open, leaving the God-King with little time to react defensively. Her shell tumbles into the great rupture, one shell-hand clawing for a purchase against the newly hewn cliff edges.

Johnny swears his typical blue streak as he staggers back from her shove, which packed a lot more force that he anticipated. He ends up on his ass again, slightly winded, looking up just in time to see her disappear into the brand new crevice.

"Oh FUCK," he says with the same fervor generally reserved for realizing you've just missed the last bus. He crawls to the lip of the abyss and, thinking this is it, I'm about to die, he leans uneasily over it.

There's beasts and fuckin lava and shit, all that stuff. There's also Illyria, clinging to the wall.

"Fuck," he says, casting around for something useful. His makeshift weapon was lost back at the t-rex corpse, and everything around him is either too heavy or too on fire. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

He gets down on his stomach and crawls forward, reaching an arm down into the chasm. It's fucking HOT, and LOUD, and he hates this.

"Give me your goddamn hand!" he yells into the face of scorching wind and monstrous shrieks.

The mortal thing is attempting to rescue her.

Her or - her shell. There is such a vast differential in these times, and Illyria doubts it cares so much for the god-beast within. Few things do. All the same, she attempts to swing her shell upward to grasp at its hand.

The attempt is not successful. She aborts after the first try, knowing full well that a success could just as easily result in both their demises in addition to simply her own. And this would not necessarily be Illyria's demise. In fact -

She can see the infinitesimal cracks forming the shell's hands, the thick carapace-like armor.

It seems her shell has reached its pathetic limit.

"You will be safe," she promises the vermin still clinging to the edge, even as she states it dully and without inflection. It is a simple fact. She has vowed its safety, and her oath she shall keep.

Illyria lets her shell drop.

As she sinks lower and lower into the great yawning crevasse, the God-King lets the Hell-air tear away at her shell, shred at the hardened exterior and release the clawing, squirming thing that resides bundled all inside. It unravels itself eagerly, free to exist in whatever form it chooses in a Hellscape that no longer is bound by the laws of the purely mortal plane. So it bursts forth in all its glorious, hulking true form, single eye glaring, armored tentacles lashing. The God-King of the Primordium is free, at last, from the confinement of a human shell.

The great carapaced thing, the true form of Illyria, spills out of the crack in the ground that now seems tiny in comparison. The little mortal-thing is even smaller now; it truly resembles the ant that it is. The great blue-green eye rolls down to glower at it. They could crush it if they wanted.

It is lucky they do not choose to.

Johnny grits his teeth when she fails to catch his hand - he's pretty sure he can't get any closer to her without tipping his weight over the brink, but he tries anyway, stretching his stupid little arm toward her, even as blinding blue light starts to seep through her cracks in her skin. What the hell?

When she tells him he'll be safe, he has only a moment to register what she's probably about to do, a moment to scream, "Wait, wh - no, no, don't!" before she drops herself down into the seething chasm.

"Goddamn - fuck!" He reels back, scrambling up to his knees, his palms scraping on the pavement. He looks around for a moment, panic bubbling up in his chest. What's he supposed to do now? Is she coming back? Is she dead? Was the you'll-be-safe thing supposed to be a promise or a thin reassurance?

He gets up on trembling legs, trying to prepare himself to run, when - what is-

Something is rising up out of the pit. Something huge. Bigger than the t-rex or the thing that tried to eat him. Oh, christ. Oh fuck.

"I'm gonna die," he says, only half aware of himself, babbling, his thoughts nearly incoherent. "Holy fuck. Oh my god. I'm literally going to die."

The beast stares seems to be staring down at him. Maybe he's too small for it. Maybe it won't care.

There's something familiar about it, though. Some kind of deep pit-of-the-stomach sense. Nameless and almost impossible to pinpoint.

He stares up at it, doubting it can hear him, or that it cares what he has to say.

"...Illyria?" he says, only half-hopeful. Even if it is her, he's pretty sure this is not a good thing.

It is the work of a few moments to torque their thoughts into something comprehensible by the simple human mind that has no room for languages other than its own.

Transportation will be difficult, Illyria intones to their charge before turning their attention to the parting sea of monsters that have apparently recognized the true form of the ancient god splayed before them. They are tempted to give chase but this would not be conducive to assisting the mortal, and even in this shape they must maintain their oaths.

It is simply a matter of asserting their dominance by strategically smiting a choice few with their great clawed tentacles. Before long many of the winged, draconian monsters have conceded to their God-King's superior might. They order one to the small scuttling mortal thing's side.

Guide it yourself, they tell it brusquely in the ringing, clanging tones that should be synchronous with the human mind. It will listen. And do not stray far from my side. The beasts are fickle and will sell themselves to what master will fight best.

And now Illyria has attracted attention. They are no longer compacted into a tiny, easily concealable shape. Demon lords, those who have achieved power, will soon come in search of the new foe.

The hellish bestiary is scrambling away now, scattering under the looming monster Illyria has become. Johnny doesn't blame them. Fuck, he hopes she's still on his side. He's still gaping up at her, unable to move, when she starts to talk to him. Sort of.

Voice in his head, this time a real one. All right. It doesn't sound like her - well, it doesn't sound like anything, it's just thoughts that aren't his. It's weird, knowing they aren't his. Like if his body moved without his permission.

He's still adjusting to the sensation when another monster swoops down near him, and he ducks and covers his head in a frozen prey response before he realizes it's just - sitting there, waiting. It's a dragon creature, the ones with the ass engines. Hovering and not even bothering to look at him. Illyria's talking to him again, and he's struggling to keep up with the actual words in the midst of all his panic. What is she saying? Guide what himself, what will listen? What is she...

...Oh.

She's telling him to drive the fucking dragon.

"Ha, hahaha," he hears himself say, manic, shrill sort of laughter. Well why the fuck not?! Given the way this day is going.

He hoists himself onto the thing.

"Okay," he says, settling in front of its wings, grasping weakly at its scaly neck. "Is there an ignition key or something? How do I make it go?"

He's not even bothering to direct these questions at Illyria, but it doesn't matter; the beast seems to understand him, and lifts up, causing him to jerk and grab on a lot tighter.

"Hohhhfuck. Okay. All right." He breathes in and out rapidly, trying to keep from totally losing his shit. "All right, uh, nice dragon. Let's... follow the giant bug lady, all right?"

The dragon huffs out a vaguely acquiescent growl and flaps once, heavy and loud, to fall alongside Illyria, its engines flaring up worrisomely. Johnny allows himself to become completely preoccupied with staying on the thing, working hard at not thinking about anything else. He recognizes that he's pretty close to falling apart, but it's also hard to fall apart when you're riding a fucking dragon.

The mortal understands their command; good. This will make its removal from the central battlefield much easier. Unfortunately, an approaching cacophony heralds a new, powerful challenger, interrupting their trajectory to the city's edge.

Illyria recognizes this one.

Baticus, they growl, for the benefit of their new brethren as much as for the mortal they have now been sworn to protect. They doubt it will recognize the opponent as Illyria has.

The spined worm crashes into their armored hide, stirring the newly accumulated horde of winged beasts into the air with a multitude of shrieks. Baticus' own flock of draconian creatures swarms out from behind the crumbling builds of mortal make to greet them.

The God-King can devote no further time to watching over an amoeba of a human thing, not when they are assaulted on all sides. Whiplike tentacles drive themselves at the assailant, thrusting it away, and they have only enough time to dispense upon their protectorate two simple words of advice:

Defend yourself.

Johnny gapes at the gigantic monster worm launching itself at Illyria, then clings in a panic as the dragon swoops out of the thrashing-tentacle radius.

Illyria's advice 'enters' his head and he lets out a loud, derisive whoop, pointless and immediately swallowed by the cacophony of the monster fight. "YEAH I'LL GET RIGHT ON THAT," he snaps back, though he can hardly hear himself.

Defend himself from what? With what?

Oh, there's... oh, the worm thing has dragons too. Oh, several of them are coming toward him now. Okay. Good.

"Jesus Christ, get us the fuck out of here, god damn!" he yells at his dubious steed, which turns in a sharp arc and neatly dodges a swath of firebursts.

"Shit!" Johnny yelps, feeling singed, paranoid that part of him might actually be on fire. "Wait, can you do that??"

His dragon huffs again and angles itself back toward the enemies ranks, cocks its head back (causing Johnny to slide back and catch himself awkwardly on its wings) and heaves a decent fireball back. The enemy dragons scatter, but his dragon jerks slightly as it compensates for Johnny's weight against its wings, and the blast curves oddly and ends up catching one of them dead center and evaporating it.

"SUCK IT!" Johnny screams in completely unhinged surprise, and flips the rest of the dragons the bird. "Yeah!!"

More are coming, obviously. He feels like he's getting the hang of this (he is not, he is only manifesting his panic efficiently). He re-settles himself on the dragon's neck, slightly better prepped for the next shot. "Take out that fucker right there!" he suggests helpfully, pointing at another oncomer.

The dragon ignores him, firing consecutively at two other targets, then diving to dodge Johnny's chosen target.

"Okay FINE," says Johnny. "YOU pick. I'll just SIT HERE."

The dragon huffs, seeming to find this agreeable.

The small mortal's triumph goes unnoticed by the God-King; they are currently preoccupied with their old enemy. Baticus is proving as slippery and vermicular an opponent as always, weaving their way past Illyria's striking attacks to aim at their ocular vulnerable point. They manage to stave off the creature's assault each time, but Illyria is quickly growing weary of this onslaught.

It seems Illyria's pathetic, disappointingly puny army is applying itself to distracting Baticus' accumulated forces. This is an unexpected asset.

Illyria has grown tired of this battle. With a high, screaming roar, they smash into Baticus directly and flip them into the nearest Hell-fissure with a well-placed application of torquing appendages and forward momentum. From there it is a matter of crushing one of the nearest skyscraper constructs, tipping its tumbled debris into the crevice after the streamlined ophidian monster, burying it. Burying it in Hell. Where it belongs.

This will not hold it long. This has deterred it, not defeated it, but Baticus is dealt with for the time being. Therefore its forces will either fight their opponent or flee, leaving Illyria's charge a rare window.

Get to the city's edge, Illyria orders, momentarily redirecting their attention to the mortal that is, by some untold miracle, still alive and howling. Do not abandon your mount until you get there or you will perish.

By now, Johnny's pretty ready to just do whatever the heck Illyria tells him. "What she said," he ~~commands~~ appeals to his dragon, which is already heading off, firing up its biologically improbable engines and zooming through a gap in the enemy forces. Johnny ducks down avoid being blown off by the wind, and glances once over his shoulder to see Illyria still thrashing around. He feels his mood drop quickly, crashing and burning really, all that manic adrenaline-fueled energy of ~~battle~~ barely surviving gone, replaced with hollow emptiness. His city is totally fucking destroyed. He has no idea how he got here. No idea where Gabriel is, or anyone, or if there's any way out. He's literally in Hell, all alone.

God, wouldn't it be fucking great if he ran into Satan right now? That would just be the fucking cherry on top of this avalanched shit sundae.

Considering that Johnny is in the air, it would be difficult for him to literally run into Satan; he does, however, seem to be heading in a trajectory that takes him over what appears to be just a varitable cornucopia of corpses. And, steadily pushing towards the inner city, gore-soaked and moving with mechanical efficiency, is Satan.

It turns out that the chest-punching thing works fairly well on whatever creatures actually have hearts. The ones that don't have essentially the same thing occur, just at head-height instead.

Lucifer doesn't appear to notice one measly human on an ass-engine dragon, because he has more important things to do, like kill things. And, really, that's probably for the best.

Baticus does not last much longer beneath the might of Illyria's true form. They do not succeed in killing it, as Old Ones cannot so easily be killed, but they have subdued it and its rabble of an army is in shambles. Illyria can make their slow, juggernaut path to the city's edge, never mind that they may terrify the few thousand mayflies that have managed to last as long as they have. Their charge's mount is faster than this shape, and it will in all likelihood reach its destination first.

They soon become distracted, however, by the thing that drives itself to the center of the battle with unholy speed for something of such a diminutive size. Illyria calls that they themselves were human-shaped not terribly long ago, and therefore size is not a fair indication of strength. This thing seems to have a great deal of it.

Intriguing.

There is a cataclysm, they inform their charge. It seems necessary to warn it, seeing as it is the closest thing they have to a Qwa'ha Xahn at this present time. I will seek it out. There may be repercussions.

There will likely be repercussions.

damn girl did it hurt when you fell from OH WOW THAT'S GROSS HOLY SHIT NEVERMIND

let's just put a general thread warning for gore

tw: vomiting in the last big paragraph

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this thread is fucking ridiculous and it's kind of wonderful

HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON, OR: PANICKED YELLING AND HOPING IT STICKS

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