This is My Island in the Sun [Open to All]

[applesaucemod]

The Rift wouldn't say it's sorry for the fit it threw the other day, because the Rift never needs to apologize. It is (mostly) perfect, and all of its decisions are well reasoned and just. Obviously. But perhaps it has fallen into a bit of a post-tantrum sulk, because this dream is milder than one might expect. In fact, it's downright nice.

The dreamers will find themselves in an archipelago of small islands - most only a few acres in size - connected by narrow strips of sand or pebbles. The surrounding waters are calm. Little waves lap against the shorelines, and no rising tide will cut the islands off from one another. The islands themselves seem to have been lifted from every climate zone on Earth and several from beyond. Some are tropical, some colder and home to hardy conifers, some mossy and boulder-strewn, some covered in multicolored sand and odd, coral-like trees.

Most of the islands boast some kind of manmade or otherwise non-native structure, be it as small as a bench or as large as a pavilion, though there are no houses or shops to be seen. It's more like parkland, just civilized enough for a nice picnic. Some of the islands even have little grills, and a sufficiently motivated dreamer might be able to rustle up some hot dog or burger fixings if they poke around a bit.

And they'll have an extra pair of eyes to help with their searching, because their beloved dæmons have returned… again. Or perhaps they're being introduced for the first time. Regardless, it's the bi-annual dæmon dream party!

Comments

my dæmon top levels are always books

[johnny_truant]

Johnny uncurls slowly. He's dreamed himself (or the rift has dreamed him) into a forest, and not a very big one - he can hear gentle oceanic waves, smell salt on the breeze, all around him, close and yet very distant.

There is something warm and soft and familiar in his lap.

"Hi Johnny," says Novatiana quietly, peeking up at him, and he grins and scoops her up, holding her close.

"Missed you," he says.

"You're so embarrassing," she replies, and he laughs lightly and gets up. "Where are we this time?"

"Dunno, but it's nicer than the last forest." Peeking through some nearby trees lends him a glimpse of an oceanic horizon, so he steps out cautiously, picking his way through, until he's-

"Oh shit," he blurts. He's on a cliff. There is ocean, definitely, and he can see loads of other little islands dotting the water down, down, way down below. He peers out around him. Those ones are lower down. Small but practical. His is small and very fuckin high up.

"Nice," sighs Nova. "Now what?"

Johnny grunts, eases back into the woods. "Gonna find a way down, I guess."

"Ooh, yeah. Or your could fall to your death again." She squirms around, settling herself more comfortably in the crook of his elbow. "You could pray. If he's here, he'll be with Venia, they can fly you know."

"I know." He says this quietly, curtly. Nova lifts her head to look at him but doesn't say anything more for several moments.

"You're a little different," she says finally. "I can't figure out what it is, cause you've always been this stupid, but... something's different."

He nods slightly, though he doesn't answer. The way these dreams always work they probably won't be alone for long, prayer or no prayer. He doesn't want to be having this conversation when someone else pops up.

[apidae]

"Simon!" she squeaks happily, holding him up to her cheek. Simonides balls up nervously, his tail curling around her wrist. All that excitement over him! Bee smiles and softens a little.

"We're okay, see?" She gives him a little kiss on the head. "Everything's fine. Somewhere bright and warm and not scary at all this time. Look!"

He does peek out, seeing the ocean lapping against the sand, shady palm trees behind them - he settles a little more comfortably on her shoulders.

"We're dreaming?" he says meekly.

She nods, absently stroking under his chin with a finger. She senses the melancholy in the question, that when she wakes up they'll be separated again, but she puts on a brave face for both of them. "Best make the most of it then, hadn't we," she says, and sets out to circle the beach, looking for other people or a way to one of the other islands. There are so many of them, and they're all so different! Simonides might want to hide in her hair, but she's going to explore.

[bibliophale]

[A little retcon, I don't know enough about snakes and last time I claimed Aziraphale's was a lil cutie ball python but NO she is a great big magnificent Burmese python. Very very different. Disregard previously threaded inaccuracies.]

Aziraphale adjusts his glasses and regards the ocean unhappily. Orisa he regards with a mild and esoteric sort of tension, as if to say ah yes, that - he'd almost forgotten about his soul's manifestation being a great bloody python. Now she is draped heavily around his shoulders and looking back at him with matched dryness.

"You could say you're happy to ssssee me," she says, coiling up onto his shoulder. "I didn't ask to be thisss way, you know."

"Yes, yes." He reaches up and gives her a begrudging pat on the head, which is more enjoyable than he'd like to admit. "Anyway it's not that, it's this - scenery I'm not sure about. The rift's trying to placate us, I suppose. Nice dreams after bad things, isn't that always how it goes?"

She makes a fairly unsnakelike clicking sound of consideration but chooses to wander up to settle on his head rather than discuss the matter.

"Must you," he sighs.

"It's a very nice island," she observes. "Perhaps there's something to eat."

"Is that all you can think about?"

She tilts her head down to fix one beady eye on him.

He huffs out a breath. "Fine," he relents. "I suppose I am a little peckish."

"You suppose," she says, not at all smugly.

He glowers at her before stalking off toward the more parkish area. There's a grill there. Surely there must be something. He could bring something into existence of course, but Orisa seems to favor exploration, and while he would try very hard indeed to deny it, it is difficult not to dote on her a little. She is part of him, after all.

[andhiswife]

Greta finds herself on a low, grassy island dotted with boulders, a stiff wind flapping her skirts and teasing her hair into disarray. She scrapes a few strands out of her face, lips pursed in a thoughtful frown at a neighboring island. It doesn't seem as if it should be here; it's too different from the one she's standing on, now. How strange.

A furry head insinuates itself beneath her hand, and she gives it a few absent-minded pats before it occurs to her that she doesn't have a dog. Then she glances down in surprise, taking a hasty step aside when she realizes it's a large dog - a great shaggy sort that you'd see on a farm, herding sheep.

Even as she steps away from it, she gets the impression that it's the wrong thing to do, and she stills. "Sorry. Er." Why is she apologizing to it? "You're a nice dog," she hazards uncertainly.

The dog looks up at her, head canted to one side. "I don't think I'm quite a dog," he says in an accent not unlike her husband's, and Greta swallows hard. "And we both know nice isn't all it's cracked up to be."

She needs to sit. She edges over to the nearest boulder and lowers herself onto it, the not-quite-a-dog ambling after her. He continues his approach even after she's sat, and ends up practically climbing into her lap - a move she objects to with a squeak and a hand against his chest until she realizes that it's... nice, the inexplicably familiar feeling of his forepaws on her knees and her fingers in his fur. No, not nice - good.

She's never even owned a dog. Why should any of this feel familiar?

"I'm Angus," he says, waggling his hindquarters a bit as she brushes aside his fringe, revealing a friendly pair of brown eyes. "And I'm pretty sure I'm yours."

Greta swallows again. "I think you're right." And it doesn't make any sense, but he feels like someone intrinsically her own, someone she's been missing for ages, and it seems the most natural thing in the world to lean forward and wrap her arms around Angus's broad shoulders. He drops his chin to the back of her neck, then pushes himself off of her lap and prances back a pace or two.

"I think we should look around," he says. "There are paths everywhere. Have you seen them?"

Greta gets to her feet, feeling a bit steadier, now. "I haven't," she admits. "Why don't you show me?"

[wildmage_daine]

The last few days have been too eventful for Daine to be inclined towards wandering overmuch. Nice as it is to have Coromotto with her again, they've both decided exploring should take a back seat to relaxing. He'd managed to sniff out an island that smelled like home, a sloping, grass-covered mound topped by a crown of pine trees. And there they've sprawled, Coromotto flat-out over the grass and Daine with her head pillowed against his side. Their eyes are shut, but their ears are open to the sounds of wind and waves - and to anyone who might approach. This doesn't seem like a dangerous sort of dream, but you never quite know.

[omnomnom_feels]

Rashad does not like this place, but Rashad has disliked nearly everything he's encountered over the past few days. He dislikes that he dislikes things, that everything around him provokes some sort of reaction, as though the world has any right to intrude on his mind and alter his formerly pristine, unbiased perceptions. He is not sure whether he is more afraid or more angry at what has been done to him, and the lack of clarity and lack of control only serves to make him more afraid and more angry at every turn, and it was not meant to be this way. Not for him.

But it is this way. He cannot escape the cloying reality of his own broken mind, cannot hold to the shreds of rationality left to him in the face of the feelings that will not stop occurring apropos of anything, apropos of nothing. He is unable to function and it is killing him and he's dimly aware that he's being dramatic when he says that to himself, which is all the worse. He is not a dramatic being, or at least he should not be. Drama is the refuge of creatures unable to cope with their lives in a measured, reasonable fashion, and he has never been such a thing, not until he quite suddenly was.

His body has healed in the wake of the attack, but the deeper damage remains. His corporeal form is huddled in some hidden corner or another, wherever he last left it in his futile efforts to isolate himself in the vain hope that being away from the feelings of others would help him stop having feelings of his own. His mind, however, is elsewhere --

Salty, wet air presses in on him, but things are not as terrible as they might be. He huddles in tropical greenery, vaguely attempting to remain hidden from the view of unknown people, and while he is not alone the presence on his shoulder is not an unwelcome one. The little reptile is scarcely longer than his hand if one doesn't count the equally long tail, but her slight weight against his neck grounds him in a way he has not felt grounded in several days.

"You must try to be less agitated," she is saying softly (impassively) into his ear even as her eyes swivel seemingly aimlessly about. Is this how he sounds when he speaks? He wishes it were still so. "Gain control of yourself."

"I cannot control it," he protests, hearing his own voice tremble. "I cannot do this. I do not want this!"

"You should not want at all," the chameleon reminds him, and Rashad lets out a soft, keening sound.

[singthesong]

The Balladeer recognizes the dreams by now, but that doesn't make him any less pleased to find himself standing in the shade of a palm tree, on a beach. A few feet away there's a narrow path of sand, leading to a tropical-looking island out on the blue. "Oh!" Somewhere above him, a female voice cries out in delight, and a second later a small weight drops onto his shoulder. "Let's go over there! Now! We have to hurry, or we'll wake up before we can see it all!"

He turns to peer down his nose at the bird on his shoulder. She's some kind of bright yellow-orange parrot, looking back up at him now with intelligent little black eyes. He lifts a finger and she flutters onto it without prompting, spreading her wings and giving them a flap. "Look!" She's a brighter little thing than he first saw, with blue and green feathers in her tail and the tips of her wings. Far from knowing her own colors, she seems equally charmed, running the edge of her beak over a long emerald primary. "I bet you I can fly that far."

"Sure," he agrees. "Why couldn't you? You're a bird."

"Well," she says, sounding at a bit of a loss. "I've never flown before. But I think I know how! We'll try it over there, though, I don't want to get too far ahead of you."

The idea does sound unpleasant, though the Balladeer can't quite say why. He'd just prefer she stay here, or at least close by. The parrot hops back up to his shoulder as he starts walking across the sandbar. The other island is closer than it appeared at first; there's a park bench on the beach over there, but otherwise it doesn't look particularly inhabited. If he knows these dreams, though, the two of them won't be alone here for very long. "If you took your shoes off," the bird suggests suddenly, "you could walk in the sand."

"Good idea!" So he stops to kick them off. The parrot jumps off his shoulder again as he pauses, gliding over to perch on the back of the bench. The sight of her even at that short distance tugs at something in him, and he breaks into a light jog to catch up. She, meanwhile, fluffs up her feathers to savor the sunlight and starts trilling to herself.

"I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty, and bright! And - oh, don't think of it like that!" she laughs, hopping aside a little as the Balladeer drops onto the bench next to her. "Sam doesn't own West Side Story!"

Somehow it doesn't seem terribly odd that she knows what he was thinking, or even who Sam is. The Balladeer leans towards her, and she flutters back to his shoulder again, ready to set off down the beach. "Fair enough. Let's go walk around some! We can sing something else on the way." He thinks they could harmonize well together.

[all_the_gifts]

Melanie and Nikolaos have been mostly avoiding the islands in favor of paddling about in the surrounding waters, which are cool but not unpleasantly so. Niko had been favoring hippo shape, large enough for Melanie to sit on his back as if on her own, personal, mobile island. She's been enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face and the varied view of the assorted islands in this... grouping. She knows there's a technical term for it, but it escapes her.

"Archipelago," Niko says, and Melanie tsks and shakes her head. Of course. She knew that one. "But look at that," he adds, turning himself towards an island that towers above all the rest of them. "It's huge!"

Huge, Melanie thinks, and not easy to access. There's a sand bridge leading away from it, just like all the others have, but scaling those sheer cliffs wouldn't be easy. Not for someone whose soul-animal-thing can't climb well, anyway. "We could explore it," Melanie says, giving Niko's back a pat. "You could fly me up there, couldn't you?"

"Easily," Niko says, paddling over to the nearest strip of sand. Melanie clambers off his back as he lumbers out of the water, then grin as he takes the shape of an enormous bird of prey. "Think this is big enough?" he asks, ruffling his feathers.

"Let's find out," Melanie grins, holding out her arms.

A minute later, she's whooping with delight as Niko carries her into the sky, one strong, taloned foot carefully wrapped around each of her arms. It's not the most comfortable thing in the world for her, but it gets the job done, and flying is so exciting she hardly cares. They circle the island a few times as Niko slowly gains altitude, and then he banks a bit closer. "I see something!" he says, nodding towards the trees.

Melanie squints, then grins as she recognizes the person stuck atop the island. He'd been nice to her before, and she waggles one of her hands in a wave. "Hi, Johnny!"

[fucking_ebay]

As much as Peter whines about missing Las Vegas, it's not the desert he missed. He's not pleased, therefor, to find himself on a literal desert island -- not even one with a little open-air pavilion filled mockingly with slot machines and a distinct lack of anything resembling a bar.

"Fuck this," says Cascia, sides heaving as she pants in the hot air, and Peter is inclined to agree.

"There's another island that way," he points out, gesturing to where the sand of their island's shore tapers into a narrow sandbar that seems to connect it to a neighboring island with considerably more trees. Peter squints, not sure if it's an illusion -- but they can always turn back if they run out of sand, right? "Can't be worse than this," he decides as the pair go striding out, bare feet and bare hooves sinking into the soft ground.

[stronglikebear]

The scene should be perfect -- the island on which Yuri arrived ends in smooth white sand that tapers into the water, a series of umbrella'd beach chairs providing shelter from the heat of the sun. The ocean is a deeper blue than he's ever seen water be.

It's not Penza's overheated panting from under the chair in which he sits that has him on edge. His mouth is set into a hard frown, his hands fists against the painted white wood of the arm rests. Two days. Two days since ROMAC fell and no one can tell him why Erik isn't to be found among the former prisoners. He'd finally done what he's dreamed of doing, stormed the building from bottom to top and back again in search of his brother, only for there to be no sign of him whatsoever. He waited too long. He didn't do anything, just waited until the world handed the chance to find Erik to him, and of course it was too late.

"We should walk," says Penza quietly, not looking up at him. "I don't think I can stand to just sit here."

"Yeah," says Yuri, not making any move to stand. "Yeah, I know the feeling."

[biscuit_powered]

It takes Asmodia longer than it really should to realize that this isn't Shadowfoot Island. The island on which she finds herself is much too small, the ocean audibly too near at hand behind the nearby trees, the growingly familiar compound absent from the view to the east. She might be forgiven, though, for initially believing herself still at home for a moment or two, given the...peculiarities of the view. Weightless boulders bob gently in the breeze, and a stream that looks almost exactly like the one she broke back home flows noisily uphill.

"Come on, Biscuit," she says, turning uneasily to go. "It's not safe here. You, too." She glances up at the raven wheeling in tight little circles overhead.

"I don't know!" calls down the bird cheerfully. "I kind of like it!"

Asmodia laughs and picks up Biscuit -- and, as an afterthought, the smaller rodent toddling about at her feet as well. The jolt of...weirdness that goes through her hand (and through the guinea pig, into Biscuit, and up their emotional bond) makes her stop for a second and stare at the little animal, surprised, before hastily putting it on her shoulder to stand on her shirt rather than bare skin. She lets Biscuit clamber onto her other shoulder, though she knows she'll regret it when he starts to feel heavy in a few minutes. "When did I get two more familiars?" she mutters to herself, amused and bemused. Maybe it has something to do with the broken physics of this place -- either way, best to leave before a rock falls on her. Minding her step lest she find something else magically wrong with this place the hard way, she sets off for the treeline, away from the floating boulders.

[biscuit_powered]

Hello, peasant woman. Hello, peasant dog. Meet a demon tiefling woman covered in animals. Asmodia has convinced Biscuit to use his own feet for once, but the guinea pig that's somehow attached to him still rides on one of her shoulders, and a great, sleek raven perches on the other, having finally been convinced that no, her neck could not handle him riding on one of her horns.

Spotting something other than foliage through the foliage up ahead, Asmodia picks up the pace a little. "Hello?" she calls, at ease enough with these surroundings and confident enough in her ability to defend herself to announce her presence.

[singthesong]

Somewhere off on a nearby path, Angus at least might be able to pick up the sounds of two voices in hushed conversation. Only for a moment, though, before they fall silent.

Then a clear female voice rings out:

Out there!
There's a world outside of Yonkers
Way out there beyond this hick town, Barnaby
There's a slick town, Barnaby!
Out there!
Full of shine and full of sparkle
Close your eyes and see it glisten, Barnaby...
Listen, Barnaby!

Upon investigation, there's a little yellow parrot perched on a tall boulder and striking a rather theatrical pose for a bird. The Balladeer is trotting after her a foot or so behind, watching her with a grin. Some people just can't shake their musical roots.

[andhiswife]

Greta and Angus turn towards the voice with closely mirrored sounds of surprise, though hers is more of a hoot and his a woof. They hadn't realized this heavily forested little island was inhabited, though admittedly it's hard to tell through the aforementioned heavy forestation. She and Angus had been sticking to the pebbly little stretch of beach to avoid him getting burrs in his fur.

"Yes?" she calls back, somewhat uncertainly, as Angus sniffs the air. She doesn't recognize the voice, and she can tell Angus doesn't, either. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. This is a dream, after all. Even if the caller is from ROMAC, she (sounds like a she, anyway) won't be able to truly hurt them.

Still, it's a rather alarming-looking individual who steps out of the trees with a great black bird on one shoulder. The other two animals with her are less easy to identify, but Greta's more concerned with the person's curling horns and tail than her pets. This is the first time she's ever actually seen someone so obviously from another universe.

It's Angus who finds his voice first. "Who are you?" he asks, ears pricked forward.

well now I have THAT stuck in my head

[andhiswife]

Greta is stepping briskly along with Angus by her side when the singing starts up. She slows for a few moments, torn between curiosity and mild embarrassment, as if she's unwittingly eavesdropping on something personal and not merely being treated to a public performance. But Angus doesn't seem to share her reservations; he trots forward without hesitation, leaving her stumbling to keep up - and not quite knowing why it's so important that she do so. It's not as if she's likely to lose him here.

But there's the Balladeer up ahead, so it seems there was no reason for her to be worried. Is that his bird atop the rock? She seems to be the one singing, and in a fine voice. As they reach the boulder she's using for a stage, Angus rears up onto his hindquarters and plants his forepaws against the stone, looking up at the bird in evident interest, for all that his eyes are hidden beneath his fringe.

"Hello," Greta says to the Balladeer with a sheepish smile. Then, gesturing to the bird, "Is she yours? She's beautiful!"

[etherthief]

"I remember you." Iman grins easily as her crow buddy flutters down from a tree to perch on her arm - he'd been peering around from a higher vantage point with the same curiosity and eagerness that she feels, if only she had wings. She appreciates his exploratory attitude as much as she appreciates his closeness now - it's much easier to appreciate him in general now than it was in the last strenuous dream, where he was strange and they were both stressed and sassy.

"We're on an island," he says, nuzzling his beak against her in a brief greeting. "There are a bunch of them, all woven together."

"Sounds nice," she says lightly. She picks a direction and starts walking. "I think we could all do with a nice dream."

"It has been a while," Aqil agrees.

"How would you know?" she asks, glancing at him. "Have you been having dreams of your own?"

"I dream with you, silly," he says. "We're always together, even if I'm not outside. That's how it works."

Interesting. She lifts an eyebrow, wondering over the implications of that. Before they can really get into it though (and she can feel his itch to discuss just as much as her own) they're disrupted by a rustling from nearby, signifying the presence of another dreamer, and they both look up with equally birdlike alacrity.

[omnomnom_feels]

This is the opposite of what he wants. Rashad stares wide-eyed through the foliage at a woman whose face he knows too well. He can't cope with this right now. He can't cope with the fact that he can't cope. He strongly regrets the little motion that made enough sound to draw her attention to the spot where he crouches among the ferns.

Maybe if he holds very still she will not pick him out from his surroundings. Both he and the little chameleon on his shoulder sit still as a pair of statues, both of them regrettably failing to be green at the moment.

DEER OF DEERCHILD: A NEARLY-TRAGIC NOVELLA

[deadeyedchild]

He would very much prefer not to be in the fucking woods.

Not after last time. Not ever, really.

He's hit the ground running like he so often does in dreams (though he does not yet realize that's what this is) - scrambling and slipping over twigs and pine needles, struggling to get out in the open, somewhere safer, somewhere he can breathe-

There's a pain in his chest. Sharp, sudden, overpowering. He would think heart attack but for the violent tug, like he's tethered to something, something pulling him back, back toward the woods, no, no. He strains against it, pushing forward, and the pain takes his breath, he crashes down onto his knees, scraping them on hard, water-smoothed rocks. He grasps his chest, fighting to breathe, and, against every pragmatic impulse, looks over his shoulder.

He expects to see It, but what he sees is a deer - a stag, staring at him from the underbrush.

"Wh," he whispers, but the pain is too great for him to speak, he turns and pulls but it's like he's being dragged, he feels like his heart will burst if he pulls any harder-

"Jay!" cries a voice, desperate and pleading. He startles and freezes. It's not a voice he knows, but it's not entirely unfamiliar either. He hears cracking and rustling behind him, footsteps getting closer with alarming speed - no, not footsteps. Hoofbeats.

The deer is standing beside him now, and the pain has dissipated utterly. He looks up, still trying to catch his breath, his hand still over his heart.

"What the hell," he gasps, looking behind him for the source of the voice, seeing nothing, and looking again at this weird deer that is standing so close to him.

"It's me, Jay," the deer says.

Jay screams and snaps back, barely getting a few feet away before his back collides hard with a tree and he's left curled up on the ground, staring up at the talking animal.

"Don't - don't," the deer begs, staying put, shifting its weight like it's just as uncomfortable. "It's just me. It's just me. You know me, Jay." The deer pauses, a little hesitant breath. "Don't you?"

Jay stares up at it. This is completely insane, and yet there's some kind of sense in it too, something that is striking a chord. He sits up a little straighter and reaches forward with a trembling hand.

The deer dips its head and presses his snout up under Jay's palm.

Relief floods through him at the touch. It doesn't make sense, but - but it's happening, this feeling of absolute comfort as he moves his hand slowly up the deer's head to stroke behind its ear.

"Omit," he whispers, some part of him offering the word up like it always knew, all along.

"Yeah," says the deer - says Omit. "Yeah."

This is totally nuts, but Jay isn't prepared to second-guess it anymore. Omit shifts his head close, careful to keeps his antlers from knocking against him, and Jay actually wraps his arms around Omit's neck, hugging the deer like he's never hugged anything. He doesn't do this. He doubts he remembers how.

But this just comes natural. Or rather it's like something he had a long time ago that he's just now finding again.

It's weirdly emotional.

[andhiswife]

It's Angus who emerges from the foliage first, trailing leaves and twigs from his brief and sudden foray off the path. "Iman!" he says cheerfully, wagging his entire hindquarters in lieu of a tail. Then, over his shoulder, "I told you it was Iman."

"Yes, yes," Greta says as she shoves a branch aside and steps through, tugging her skirts behind her. Despite the inconvenience of cutting through the little strip of woods instead of working around it, she has a faint, irrepressible smile on her face. It's nice to see Iman - and look, she has a lovely bird, too!

"Hello," she says to both of them before turning her gaze back to Angus. "And you're a fine mess." She crouches to pluck leaves from his fur, wrinkling her nose in mock annoyance when he licks her chin.

[peeta_mellark]

Peeta is always pleased to see Nilakshi, and he's even more pleased that this time they're somewhere pleasant. "Nilakshi!" he cries, trotting over to her. Nilakshi lets out a happy rumble, so excited to see him that she literally lifts Peeta off his feet with her trunk-hug.

"Peeta, it is so good to see you." She sets him down gently before ruffling his hair with her trunk. "This is a nice place, much nicer than last time."

"It is," Peeta agrees, studying the tiny island they are on with interest. It's desert-like, but beautiful in a way. And the general atmosphere is peaceful, refreshing. "Want to explore?" Nilakshi nods her agreement, and they set out.

Neither are all that interested in the first island they come to, which is too reminiscent of home for Peeta. The next island is too cold for Nilakshi, and the next is too small. Finally they arrive at one that is more jungle, with a beautiful sandy coastline. Having tromped across the earlier islands, they decide to walk around this one, enjoying the beach and the calm ocean. They haven't gone far when they hear faint noises that draw their attention.

Catching sight of the cause, Peeta stops dead. There's a man, and he appears to be wearing a snake as a hat. Peeta can feel Nilakshi's similar befuddlement when she nuzzles his shoulder.

"Hello?" Peeta calls.

[singthesong]

"Oh, thank you!" It's the bird who pipes up, apparently distracted from her performance by the arrival of Greta - and a dog! He's not a real dog, of course, any more than she's a proper bird, but he's like her! Apparently they can be dogs as well as birds! She leans down, flapping her wings erratically for balance as she tries to touch her beak to Angus's nose. Failing that, she just hops down to perch on his head. "You have so much fur!"

The Balladeer shrugs, a little sheepish as well. "Yeah, she's mine." His what, they haven't quite decided, but it seems clear that they belong to each other in some way. "And he's yours? Do you know what they are?"

[etherthief]

Iman sees him right away, no matter how much he tries to evade her, or become invisible, whatever he's doing. Aqil scoffs next to her head, and she grins, brief and vicious. She has a score to settle with this prick.

"That's less nice," she says under her breath, but she strides toward him with no lessened energy. Raising her voice, she calls out, "Well look who the fuck it is."

Aqil takes flight, swooping down over the man, perching on a branch to peer down imperiously at his chameleon.

[etherthief]

"Oh," Iman utters in faint surprise when a big dog comes bounding out, calling her name - and then she goes very silent when Greta steps out behind it. She's in minor disarray from wandering through the woods after a huge adorable shaggy dog - which, holy shit, by the way - and she looks gorgeous and happy. Aqil ducks his head down, poking his beak lightly behind her ear, moving stray hairs back under the hijab - is he nervous? Fuck, she's relying on him to have his shit together, here.

"Hi," she says with a big doofy grin. "That's a real nice dog you got there."

Greta's animal-self is a huge adorable shaggy dog not over it never over it.

"Hi Greta!" blurts Aqil, and Iman tilts her head to look at him in vague disbelief. Are you serious right now.

He hops off her shoulder and flaps over to Greta, circling once like an exuberant idiot dear god this is so embarrassing before landing neatly on her shoulder. Iman feels an immediate twinge beneath her sternum, not painful but not exactly normal, faint but odd enough that her smile fades slightly.

[andhiswife]

Angus drops back to all fours, taking care not to jostle his new passenger. "I do," he agrees, his tone suggesting that he isn't entirely sure what to make of the observation. Is it a compliment? "You have very nice feathers," he returns, in case it was.

Greta watches the exchange with a faint, bewildered smile, then shrugs at the Balladeer. "I'm not sure what he is, exactly. We just know he's not a real dog, and that he's mine. And his name is Angus." She glances curiously between the Balladeer and his bird. "Does yours have a name?"

SORRY I WROTE A NOVEL

[lottawork]

He wakes to the not-terribly-distant crashing of waves. Immediately he squints against pale, clear blue, and lifts a hand to partially obscure the too-bright glare of a sun suspended overhead.

He does not remember being here. A dream, then. Most likely.

ROMAC did not allow him rest before. It has become marginally more difficult to discern.

He's lying down, so he braces both hands against the ground to push himself upward until he is sitting upright. The whisper of sand against clothing is low and dry, his bare feet pressing into the thin crust of moisture left by what can only be one of the shallow waves that soon sweeps up to tug gently at the hems of his jeans.

The beach Rush is on is idyllic, and peaceful, and the quiet swish of a tail is his only warning that he is not - quite - alone.

"Fucking excellent," says the rather disreputable-looking cat beside him.

Rush isn't entirely certain how he should respond to that. He looks at it.

"Oh, spare me," it says, and Rush is left with the absurd, distinct impression that he has just received the feline equivalent of an unimpressed, arched brow.

He continues to look at it.

"Fascinating," says Rush.

"I'm sure," snaps the cat with another flick of its thickly-furred tail. "Figure it out, genius. There's a reason why I'm here."

"And why you're talking?" he asks wryly. "You seem rather on the larger side for a cat."

"Wild cat." It exudes exasperation, and Rush has to re-evaluate his perception of feline emotional output, because he may not be absolutely positive, but he feels he may posit with reasonable confidence that most felines are not typically adept at displaying a recognizable range of emotions. Nor do they typically speak.

Nor do they typically feel uniquely, bizarrely, inherently familiar. It's an utterly baseless sensation, yet -

"Arista," says the cat, sounding tired or bored or some variation thereupon. "Surely you've determined it by now, yes?"

"I know you," says Rush, soft and puzzled.

"Wonderful," says the cat - Arista - as she stands to arch her back in a brisk, efficient stretch. "So very pleased we've established that."

"Yes," Rush says vaguely, frown darkening neatly between lowered brows. "I suppose we have."

He pushes himself fully to his feet, the cat winding herself between his legs in a fluid, unconcerned saunter. There are a number of subsets to this situation he is yet to categorize or make full sense of, and this particular dream's nonexistent logic has made that rather difficult.