applesaucedream | Better to Receive than to Give [open to all]

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Better to Receive than to Give [open to all]

Somewhere in the cosmos, there is something bright, and young, and playful. Somewhere, this being watches over their little flock and does their best to make those people safe and happy. Somewhere, that godling and their flock celebrate the winter holidays in the happiest of dreams.

And somewhere closer at hand, a sleeping giant stirs.

The bright tapestry of dream threads gathered by Zephyr is suddenly yanked hard enough to pull it from its temporary mooring. Something entirely unlike the little godling reels in the dreamers so neatly gathered and packaged up for it, bringing its own toys back to their proper place and taking all the others it can with them. Unsatisfied, it reaches out again and again, dragging in dreamers from all across the multiverse. It will snare them, all of them, and then it will possess them completely.

Perhaps it's fitting that when the stolen dreamers arrive in this new shared mindscape, they'll find they've been designated the Rift's Christmas gifts to itself. Each might awaken inside a dark box, or cocooned in…is that tissue paper? When they claw their way out they'll be greeted by the sight of an enormous evergreen tree laden with twinkling lights and kitschy knickknacks looming overhead. Beyond the shadow of the tree the rest of the world -- that is, the living room -- is just as large. Or is it that the dreamers have just become very small? Giant packages wrapped in bright paper form an obstacle course, but the wooden floor of the room is wide open between the tree and the hearth where an enormous plate of cookies and glass of milk await a cataclysmic Santa Claus.

All in all, things are fairly normal as far as the rift's dream gatherings go…at least on the surface. The more telepathically sensitive among the dreamers may notice an undercurrent of something darker, more urgent, and more possessive than normal. The rift isn't just sampling the wares of other worlds tonight; this time it means to play for keeps.

[OOC: This is the second part of our crossover with

wethelost! Part one can be found here. Usual dream party rules apply: all players and characters are welcome regardless of whether they are currently in the game, and characters may remember or forget the events of the dream party at the discretion of their players.

For reference, characters of average human height are roughly four inches tall according to the scale of their current surroundings. There is an entire giant house beyond the living room; characters will find a kitchen and dining room on the same floor, a staircase outside the door of the living room that leads up to a second floor with two bedrooms and a bathroom, and another staircase off the kitchen that goes to an unfinished basement. Feel free to add details as needed!

This event takes place on evening of August 8th/morning of August 9th in Applesauce time, and December 31 in WtL time.]

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As the handles dip toward her, Greta jumps and makes a wild grab at the ribbons. One hand successfully seizes onto a curl the texture of wax paper, and she drops back to the ground with a triumphant little cry before the rebound of the bag almost yanks her back into the air. "Oh!" She grabs onto the ribbon with her other hand and scrabbles for purchase with her feet for a few moments before bracing herself against the pull of the bag. Then she hauls away, the side of the bag buckling and caving in as the handle bows toward the floor.

Well, this is progress. Greta wraps the ribbon around her forearms as she tugs. The buckling point creeps down the wall of the bag until it's as low as her chin, though she can't begin to see who might be inside. There's too much tissue paper in the way.

Well, that sounded good -- but Andrew can't help but notice that he's tipping back the other way. He is, at least, until the bag comes to an awkward halt in its returning tilt and starts bending in its effort to get its bottom flat on the floor again. Andrew can feel himself returning to the overturned turtle position of before despite the opening of the bag coming down toward the floor, and he thrashes in place to try to encourage it to tip back toward her again. "I can't get up!" he explains/complains --otherwise he'd be climbing out right this minute.

Well, that does explain why she isn't getting much help from whoever's inside. "I think I've almost--" she starts, before a particularly well-timed heave from the bag's captive finally sends it toppling onto its side. "There!" Grinning, she untangles her hands from the ribbon, then flounders through an escaping drift of paper so she can lift up the top of the bag.

"I can't believe all this paper," she comments as she peers into the depths of the bag. "Have you ever seen so much?" Then, remembering that he said he couldn't get up, she hastily adds, "Are you all right? Do you need help?"

Edited 2015-01-02 02:29 (UTC)

"Well--"

So many questions! Of course he's seen this much paper, he wants to say, though now that she's brought it up he's not sure he's seen this much of it in one place, let alone in such large pieces. More pressing matters, though! Now that the bag is on its side and the paper can spill out to the side rather than just press in around him, Andrew is able to get onto his side, and from there to his hands and knees. "I'm fine!" he assures her as he comes crashing through the paper. "Blimey there's a lot of it -- aha! And look, there you are. Brilliant!"

Well, at least he's genuinely happy to be free as he tears down one last barrier of paper and pokes his head out. That's followed by a hand in an unspoken request for help getting up anyhow.

And there he is! Greta offers him the sheepish smile of someone enjoying the temporary camaraderie while it lasts. His accent is familiar, but he could be a Prince for all she knows. Best not to get too familiar. But then he's extending a hand, and there's nothing for her to do but take it and help pull him out of the bag and up to his feet, and--

… Oh.

Greta stares at the unmistakable bulge of his stomach in open astonishment. But he--he is a he, isn't he? Her gaze flickers back up to his face before it's drawn inexorably down again, and she shuts her gaping mouth with a self-conscious snap. "Um." She blinks, turning her head a little, as if it will make more sense if she looks at it sidelong. It doesn't. "I, er…" she attempts before trailing off. It doesn't even occur to her to let go of his hand.

Edited 2015-01-02 04:01 (UTC)

Andrew scrambles up out of the bag and -- yup. There it is, confirmation that it really is obvious what's going on with his body these days. Maybe he ought to invest in a muumuu, keep everything more covered and vague than the sweatpants to which he's been relegated can manage.

Not that he leaves the base much these days.

"Andrew Noble," he announces, turning the hand-holding into a handshake as she doesn't seem inclined to let go. "And that's exactly what it looks like; you're not imagining things."

The normalcy of the introduction and the oddity of that huge, pregnant belly on what would otherwise be a skinny slip of a man clash absurdly, and for a moment she fears she might laugh (which would be horrible), or faint (which would be worse). In the end, she does neither; manners dictate an automatic, "I'm Greta--Greta Baker," and she forces herself to look back up at his face as she returns the handshake. Well, at least she's not going mad. He sees it, too.

She releases his hand a little belatedly, then - sorry, but she can't stop staring. "H…how? Sorry, I've just never--" oh, she is almost certainly being rude, and she winces apologetically. Say something appropriate, for god's sake. "Um. Congratulations?"

It's good she doesn't laugh, because Andrew's body image is terrible all on its own without strange women tittering at the fact that he looks like a broom with a bowling ball duct taped to it. He does laugh, though. "Thank you. And the short answer is that I still don't really know. You're taking it pretty well, though."

"Was it magic?" she asks with a sudden rush of sympathy. There's a straw she can grasp at with both hands. "I do have some experience there."

She absently presses a palm against her own decidedly un-pregnant belly as she explains, "A Witch had cursed our house so we couldn't have children, and once the curse was broken…" she makes an illustrative gesture around her midsection with an accompanying inflation of her cheeks. See, these things happen, and she's a bit more worldly than her homespun appearance might suggest.

But there she goes, being too familiar again, and she rocks back onto her heels and drops her gaze self-consciously before risking an inquiring glance back up at him.

Andrew gapes at her in slack-jawed horror for one unguarded moment, because being this pregnant that fast sounds extraordinarily uncomfortable. "I'm sorry," he says, then realizes she was talking about breaking a curse, so presumably she wanted to be pregnant and that's a terrible thing to say sorry about, so he stammers, "Er, congratulations, I mean." And then, as another aspect of the instant pregnancy hits him, he adds incredulously (and okay, a bit jealously), "Hang on, you got to skip the early parts?"

"Oh," she flaps a hand dismissively, assuming it's the curse that he's apologizing for. Which is silly, if kind, because it was hardly his fault and they managed to break it. "It's all right - it all came to a happy end."

"And yes," she adds with an embarrassed smile. "It all happened more quickly than either of us were expecting." She almost adds that it wasn't uncomfortable, then notes the jealous tone and thinks better of it. Her smile takes a turn for the sympathetic. "I take it you didn't?" Then, with new-mother enthusiasm, "How far along are you?" ~~Let's talk shop!~~

"Nnnnot exactly," says Andrew. "And I'd say -- ooh, five months? Dunno how long I went -- how long we went at the start before anyone realized."

Really, though. Curses. "It was an honest to goodness witch, though? Like an actual witch came and owned up to it?" The fact that the pregnancy happened apparently instantaneously probably lends credence to her story rather than it being a matter of them simply not realizing one or the other was infertile, but Andrew's still the sort to wonder just what sort of creature (or technology user) this supposed witch was.

His explanation is a bit mystifying, both because she's not sure who the 'we' refers to and it's hard to imagine a man being cursed (or uncursed?) into pregnancy and not noticing. Before she can decide if asking for clarification would be rude or not, he's turned the subject to witches with… well, with a shocking amount of skepticism, really. Greta blinks, taken aback.

"Yes. The one who lives next door to our bakery. It belonged to my husband's father before him, and apparently he stole some vegetables from her garden and she cursed his entire house for it." She frowns a little, because even on the other side of said curse, she can't help but feel it was an overreaction on the Witch's part. Even if it was technically her father-in-law's fault that the Witch was punished for the bean thievery, an eye for an eye makes the whole world ~~tragically infertile~~ blind. "We had no idea; my husband was hardly more than a baby at the time, and she didn't bother to tell us about it until a few months ago."

What, don't all pregnant people use the royal we? If he's going to carry around tiny human-ish people inside of him he rather thinks he's entitled to it.

"Vegetables." It's clear Andrew can hardly think of anything less worth cursing someone over. "Seems just a little overreactive to someone rooting through your rutabagas. And then, what, she came by again to rub it in? I hope you wrote a strongly worded letter to your home owner's association."

Greta blinks again at that suspiciously familiar turn of phrase, then gives her head a little shake. "Well, it was the magic beans that were the problem. The Witch was cursed for losing them, and then she cursed our house out of revenge, I think." That was the impression they'd been given, anyway.

"Oh, well, if there were magic beans involved." Andrew's grin is friendly despite his sarcasm; he's not entirely sure he believes her but there's no particular reason he can see that she would be lying to her. "Who cursed the witch?"

"Her mother," she answers absently, brow furrowing in response to his disbelieving tone. Honestly, you'd think a pregnant man would be a bit more credulous.

"And they were magic," she insists. "An enormous beanstalk grew out of them, and Jack used it to climb to the realm of the gi--" and she cuts herself off abruptly as a few puzzle pieces slide into place, so long overdue that it's just embarrassing. She turns on her heel, looking out beyond the stack of oversized boxes and bags to an equally oversized hearth. "Oooooohhhh dear," she says under her breath. "This is… not… good."

This is, in fact, very bad, and she takes Andrew by the arm and tugs him behind a gaudily striped box with sudden urgency. "We're in the realm of the giants," she hisses, eyes wide, before peering out around the corner as if she expects a giant to descend upon them at any moment (because she does).

But he's pregnant through science! ~~Inexplicable science that more or less amounts to magic owing to him still not having any idea how it works, but science nonetheless he is sure!~~

His grin only grows more incredulous as she drops the words Jack and beanstalk in quick succession, but then there's stumbling behind things to be done, Andrew tottering after her with the waddle of one whose midsection has become roughly the size and shape of a blimp. "We're wha -- oh, so we are. That's...different."

Andrew doesn't share her immediate alarm, but he does scan the horizon for lurking giants. "I don't remember making a trip to the realm of the giants."

Greta leans back against the box, mind racing. "I don't remember, either. Maybe they stuffed us into those bags and then brought us up." She doesn't add: like some kind of horrible trip to the market. Does Andrew know what giants do to people? Perhaps she should spare him the ghastly details; he's in a delicate condition, after all.

"But," she adds, "there must be a beanstalk nearby. If we find it, we can just climb back down." Which won't be easy for him, and Greta gives him an apologetic look even as she tries to sound reassuring. "I can help. We'll just--we'll just take it slow, and it'll be fine."

Okay, she's really attached to this beanstalk motif. And alright, it's not every day you wake up gift-wrapped for Paul Bunyan Junior, but she's making it sound like it's reasonable and/or expected to assume this all comes down to them being perched atop some unsuspecting cumulus.

"Or we could be dreaming?" he suggests, remembering the last time he ended up somewhere out of place -- and the time before that. He's practically an old hand at this. "At least, I hope we're dreaming. This probably wouldn't be a good time for this sort of thing to stop turning out to be a dream."

That's because it is completely reasonable, Andrew. Have you been living under a rock these past few months? Even if he had been, at this point, there's really no excuse for not being aware of the existence of giants. News might travel with comparative slowness in her universe, but the giant that fell in Jack's yard was there long enough for news of it to travel well outside the kingdom.

All that not being said, the idea of this being a dream isn't an entirely new one to her, and Greta's shoulders slump a little as that theory reasserts itself. She's not at all used to dreaming like this - to knowing she's dreaming - and it's easy to forget. Apparently. "Oh. Yes, that actually--I think that might be right. A, er, talking unicorn said much the same thing." She does sound faintly embarrassed about the unicorn; unlike giants in the sky, the thought of talking purple alicorns just sounds like plain nonsense.

You caught him, Greta, he is actually a troll in disguise. Help him find the rock he lives under and he'll reward you with riches from his pot of gold or something.

"Well, that's a relief, I was a little worried I'd be wrong about it." There's actually no trace of the earlier sarcasm. Andrew sees no reason to doubt the word of a talking unicorn, though he's been here long enough to know that such a person's presence doesn't automatically mean this is a dream. "It happens. Fairly often, actually -- and when you say unicorn, are you sure you mean unicorn, horn and everything? He wasn't by chance a little blue and white pony sort of thing, was he?"

~~Don't tempt her with such a mission. They have a new baby; they could certainly use some gold.~~

"Horn and everything," Greta confirms. "And purple. And a she." Should she be surprised that he knows of another oddly-colored talking pony? Maybe they're common in dreams. There is quite a lot about dreams she doesn't know. Evidently.

She isn't keen on leaving the relative safety behind the box - dreaming about being eaten by giants doesn't sound much more appealing than the reality of the thing - but she does step back in mild embarrassment now the threat doesn't seem so dire. "It's never happened to me," she says. "These odd sorts of dreams, I mean." Not that she's complaining. This doesn't feel particularly restful, and she imagines it would be exhausting if it happened all the time.

"Not the one I know, then," mutters Andrew under his breath. Hadn't the pony version of him said there were unicorns about, though? Perhaps he ought to find her and talk to her, find out if she knows anything of that other Andrew. Not that he cares, of course; he's not the one who has to live with being a pony.

He frowns, significantly more bothered by this being her first time than she is. "Where are you from, Greta? And more importantly, where are you now?"

What a question! Or pair of questions. Greta looks faintly perplexed. "The Village at the edge of the Wood," she replies in response to the first one.

"And I…" She hesitates a moment. Is he asking where she's sleeping? It feels vaguely indecent, as questions go, and she colors slightly. "if you mean to ask where I am really, then... the answer's the same." He doesn't need any more detail than that, she thinks. It's enough for her to get her head around the idea of being both at home, asleep in their little room above the bakery, and having a conversation with a near stranger in some dream-giant's sitting room. She's not going to go giving said near stranger the floor plan of her home, for goodness' sake.

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