At first, Calliope thinks she must have stumbled into another one of the TARDIS' splendid rooms. Everything seems bright and welcoming, there is an abundance of pillows and books, and the window she finds herself next to doesn't show a distinct landscape. But something rubs her the wrong way about this assumption, chiefly the fact that it is bloody cold. Immediately upon that realization, she becomes a little smaller and tenser, wrapping her arms around herself to not much avail. Really, it's never been this nippy in the TARDIS, and she doesn't remember exploring new rooms anyhow, she remembers... her bed.
Her bed? Could it be...? She'd all but given up hope of ever dreaming again, what with her grave lack of a dream self, but... by jove, that's what this must be!! Calliope's spirits lift instantly, despite the heavy chill in her bones. She has finally joined a dream bubble again, or made one of her own, though if she'd dreamed this up it would definitely be a lot warmer. In fact, the chill seems notably stubborn and resistant to her tentative attempt at reshaping things just a little. Quite similar to the scary forest's frightful ambiance, actually, so perhaps there are other dreamers close by, muddling up the fabric of this space with their memories and emotions. She will just have to make do with what she can find here.
Which, as it turns out, is a mercifully large amount of blankets piled up on a sofa. She grabs one, but almost drops it at the sight of her own sharp claws. Oh shoot, she'd nearly forgotten. As usual, she pictures her much preferred troll shape, expecting to look at soft grey hands in the blink of an eye. But, dreadfully, she only succeeds in changing into her Prospit gown. The chill in her gut solidifies into dread as she tries harder to be presentable and fails yet again. Just like in the forest, too. Why can't she have a nice dream, if she's getting to dream at all? It seems rotten and unfair, to be stuck looking horrendous in such a beautiful dream bubble, but she is too cold to stand here and agonize about it. So she drags down several blankets, burgundy and orange and midnight blue on top, covering herself in them like a multi-layered hood. It helps a little, and she pulls the 'hood' down all the way over her eyes, hiding her ghastly appearance as well as she can manage.
The let-down of this dream and the stiffening chill make her just about want to curl up in a heap until she wakes up, but she's too glad to be dreaming at all to let it go to waste. Especially since she can now hear the faint sounds of other people in other rooms, the murmur of conversation and laughter. She would really very much like to be a part of that. And she still wears her true appearance quite often, when she's too tired before bedtime to be a troll (that's how the Doctor knows it's bedtime; she's begun to suspect he would never make her go to sleep if she could just hang onto her horns). Granted, it's only the Doctor who sees her then, but that isn't so bad. And he would insist she'll be fine now too. Reluctantly, she shuffles closer to the door, even dares a peek into the next room. But it's still an awfully big step to take on her own, so for now she remains an oddly shaped blanket pile by the doorjamb.
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Her bed? Could it be...? She'd all but given up hope of ever dreaming again, what with her grave lack of a dream self, but... by jove, that's what this must be!! Calliope's spirits lift instantly, despite the heavy chill in her bones. She has finally joined a dream bubble again, or made one of her own, though if she'd dreamed this up it would definitely be a lot warmer. In fact, the chill seems notably stubborn and resistant to her tentative attempt at reshaping things just a little. Quite similar to the scary forest's frightful ambiance, actually, so perhaps there are other dreamers close by, muddling up the fabric of this space with their memories and emotions. She will just have to make do with what she can find here.
Which, as it turns out, is a mercifully large amount of blankets piled up on a sofa. She grabs one, but almost drops it at the sight of her own sharp claws. Oh shoot, she'd nearly forgotten. As usual, she pictures her much preferred troll shape, expecting to look at soft grey hands in the blink of an eye. But, dreadfully, she only succeeds in changing into her Prospit gown. The chill in her gut solidifies into dread as she tries harder to be presentable and fails yet again. Just like in the forest, too. Why can't she have a nice dream, if she's getting to dream at all? It seems rotten and unfair, to be stuck looking horrendous in such a beautiful dream bubble, but she is too cold to stand here and agonize about it. So she drags down several blankets, burgundy and orange and midnight blue on top, covering herself in them like a multi-layered hood. It helps a little, and she pulls the 'hood' down all the way over her eyes, hiding her ghastly appearance as well as she can manage.
The let-down of this dream and the stiffening chill make her just about want to curl up in a heap until she wakes up, but she's too glad to be dreaming at all to let it go to waste. Especially since she can now hear the faint sounds of other people in other rooms, the murmur of conversation and laughter. She would really very much like to be a part of that. And she still wears her true appearance quite often, when she's too tired before bedtime to be a troll (that's how the Doctor knows it's bedtime; she's begun to suspect he would never make her go to sleep if she could just hang onto her horns). Granted, it's only the Doctor who sees her then, but that isn't so bad. And he would insist she'll be fine now too. Reluctantly, she shuffles closer to the door, even dares a peek into the next room. But it's still an awfully big step to take on her own, so for now she remains an oddly shaped blanket pile by the doorjamb.