The Big Applesauce Moderators (
applesaucemod) wrote in
applesaucedream2015-01-25 03:45 pm
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Entry tags:
- character: daine sarrasri,
- character: eliot waugh,
- character: gabriel,
- character: greta baker,
- character: iman asadi,
- character: johnny truant,
- character: lucifer,
- character: rashad durant,
- character: spike,
- character: sunshine,
- character: the balladeer,
- dropped: andrew noble,
- dropped: calliope,
- dropped: castor nubari,
- dropped: dana cardinal,
- dropped: daniel jackson,
- dropped: ianto jones,
- dropped: illyria,
- dropped: jay merrick,
- dropped: jay zimin,
- dropped: nicholas rush,
- dropped: seth,
- dropped: the doctor (12),
- dropped: the tardis,
- dropped: tim wright,
- party post,
- retired: aziraphale,
- retired: bee,
- retired: crowley,
- retired: melanie,
- retired: peter vincent
Sweeter than the First Time [Open to All]

Hello, dreamers of Manhattan. The Rift knows that things have been kind of rough, lately. The last dream didn't go as well as it had hoped. Consider this an apology of sorts, and a hearkening back to the good times you've shared.
It's a grand old (and potentially familiar) cabin house that the dreamers will find themselves wandering. The furniture is plentiful and comfortable, the floors are strewn with cushions and blankets, and there are cheerful fires burning in the grates. It seems a little odd that the house still manages to be on the chilly side despite looking so warm, yet it is.
Oh, well. You'll just have to find another dreamer or two and
[OOC: Standard dream party rules apply. Characters will be affected by the dream-whammy to whatever degree makes the most sense for them, and will remember or forget the events of the dream at the player's discretion. Backtag into infinity.]
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When the blue-ish person says 'hunger,' the corners of Melanie's mouth turn down in a tight frown - almost a pout. Speaking of things she ought to find alarming… but as it is, she's mostly just indignant. "I'm not hungry," she insists. She's not. The box hasn't even rattled once since she got here.
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"You can hear the cordyceps?" Melanie asks, wrinkling her nose.
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"I hear the calls of all the green," she murmurs. What a strange thing. "Even those that live in your shell."
Slowly, her shell drops into a crouch to make herself even with the child's eye level.
"What are you?"
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It's also a silly thing to focus on when this person is insisting she can hear it. Melanie being able to hear it is bad enough; she doesn't like the thought of other people listening in. Knowing she's dangerous is one thing - that's important. Knowing just how badly the cordyceps wants her to tear into them is something else entirely. No one should have to hear that. If Bee or Daniel could, they'd never speak to her again. Which would probably be better for them, but she still hates the thought of it.
"I'm a..." she's not going to say 'hungry child,' "... a symbiote." Is this an introduction? "What are you?" she echoes uncertainly.
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Perhaps the child sees variegation in the spectrum of its own tiny plant-things, but Illyria sees only the things that are beneath her and can voice their protest, and the things that are beneath her and cannot.
"A God-King from before your time, or anyone's, when the world was in its first form." Illyria watched that cosmic embryo come into being and claimed a section of its surface rock for her own. But despite her long and untold years, she has not met before now a - symbiote. "But I know not of your kind. They did not exist in the world I walked."
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This might be the strangest conversation she's had since she arrived here. How do you talk to a God-King? Melanie hesitates, then offers a hand. "I'm Melanie."
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She takes it delicately and holds it for a moment - small, seemingly fragile, teeming with foreign life, stronger than those of any ordinary vermin - before simply releasing it. That is near enough to the socially accepted custom.
"You are not afraid," Illyria observes with equal parts puzzlement and disappointment. There are only wisps of guarded interest radiating from this symbiote-creature.
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But it was also sort of funny.
"We're dreaming," Melanie says with a little shrug. The worst thing that's happened to her after a dream was waking up hungry. Granted, bad things can also happen in dreams… but if Illyria wanted to hurt her, she could have done so already. Melanie just gave her a good enough opportunity, holding her hand out like she did. "Should I be afraid?" she asks. "Were you planning on hurting me?" She sounds more perplexed by the idea than nervous about it. Even if Illyria was curious in the way that Dr. Caldwell was (which Melanie could believe), cutting people open to see how they work seems a bit low for a god.
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She looks at the symbiote-child-thing again with dismissive curiosity.
"I am sworn against harming your kind, or those like you." Her tone, once iron with contempt, sinks into something more glum. The child may not be definitively human but it is near enough, she thinks, that her oath still stands. And she does so miss crushing tiny squirming squealing things, but this is no longer her purpose.
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But she does know how hard it can be to restrain yourself.
"There aren't really humans left in my universe," she explains, "so I'm not dangerous there. I have to be careful now that I'm in this one."
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It is how Illyria is. There are - remnants, scattered, of Winifred Burkle, but all of them are swallowed out by the far superior presence of the God-King within. But this symbiote-child's hunger is made of so many small things, and the child itself is without question the one who speaks and decides.
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"I'm… almost always the dominant entity," she says carefully. "If I wasn't, that's when I'd be dangerous."
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"If you are dangerous," she counsels gravely, "then you are feared. When you are feared, you have power. You have such potential, yet you eschew it. Why."
It is a quiet demand. When one has strength, one must embrace it to become all they are. This is how the Primordial beings warred during the world's conception. Why would one deny this pivotal part of themselves?
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"Besides," she continues, standing up a bit straighter, "I don't want to hurt anyone."
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"With your strength you could do much." She pauses. This symbiote is a strange and curious creature simply by its own nature, but its complete lack of a desire to conquer as it so could makes it even more so. "But you choose not to."
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"You would prefer - not to rule?" This, too, is an alien concept. Some would prefer to follow, this is true, but there is doubt in Illyria's mind (doubt, laughable, something removed from what a god should be, what she no longer is) that this child-thing would acquiesce to even that.
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"That's right," she says firmly. "I don't want to rule. I... I want to learn." Even a hungry child is still a child, and learning is what they're supposed to do. "That's what I'm best at, and what I like the most: being a student."
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"I came into being upon my world's conception," Illyria tells it solemnly. "In the time of the Primordials, there was no learning except in the ways in which we dismembered our foes. In living so long and knowing so much, my knowledge is infinite, but the space it occupies," she looks at her shell in utter disgust, "finite."
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She loves stories.
"Maybe there are things you could teach me," she hazards. Illyria might not like the idea. Aziraphale might not like the idea. But if he doesn't already know about Illyria, he probably should meet her, right? "About plants--the green?"
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"I hear them," she tells the child-thing. "I hear their song. There was a time when I could not, and there was a time when no Rift would stop me from visiting whichever world I pleased." She looks at the thing in its eyes with a direct, penetrating blue stare. "Do you wish to know what your voices say?"
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"Box."
She sees no box. The symbiote has given no indication of a box. Human biology is fairly incompatible with containing boxes within, as boxes are typically meant to encase things in an external.
Illyria was once kept in a box. Her essence was intended to remain contained until the end of time. A simple box could not hold a god, however, and she circumvented that pitiful boundary to be reborn.
"They are in your blood," she says evenly, displaying a minimum of confusion. Gods do not experience confusion, particularly not over small symbiote-children who speak of nonexistent boxes. "Within you. Not within any box."
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