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

Current Music: Evening of September 6th/Morning of September 7th, 2013

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

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!

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A faint notch of perplexity darkens his brow, his confusion a mirror of hers. Rumpelstiltskin inspires familiarity wherever he may tread, but it is always a bristling fear and dread as the Dark One their way comes.

He is known through some great many lands as some great many things: Spinner, Dark One, Deal-Maker, Crocodile, Beast. Yet he has never once heard this title directed at him, uttered without one grain of terror or frightful recognition.

"I beg your pardon," he says, calmly taken aback and wholly polite, his accent a subdued streak over the sharpening of his interest. "I don't believe we've met."

Commoners are so very interchangeable, all of them wanting the things only Rumpelstiltskin can provide, but he always remembers those with whom he keeps his deals. This woman conjures no memories of past encounters.

Greta blinks, her mouth shaping an 'o' several moments before her voice catches up. "Oh. I'm sorry, you look just like--" she starts to say 'a friend,' realizes that might be overselling it, and goes with, "--someone I know." She flaps a hand, embarrassed and dismissive, and curls her fingers into Angus's fur as he leans his solid, comforting bulk against her leg. The urge to curtsy rises in her like an impending sneeze, but she pushes it away. Whoever this man is, he's not dressed as anyone from her time. He'd probably find the gesture bewildering.

"I'm Greta," she barrels onward, "and this is Angus."

Angus doesn't move from her side, though he does lower his head a little to peer at the man's companion. "Has the Rift taken you, too?" he asks.

Grizelda's tongue whispers out between her jaws in an experimental flick in the dog's direction. She is so an easily piqued thing, and in the moment, so is he. She knows his face, but not his name. She knows his appearance, but not his nature.

It has been a long, long time since Rumpelstiltskin has found someone who could not name him. He is not even recognizable as the Dark One to her; this much is plain, or she would be quaking with the knowledge of the powerful and terrible thing to which she is speaking.

"How interesting," he notes. The intrigue is genuine. The air here is not thick with magic, but dreams are pliable creatures that bend easily to the imagination. He finds that he wants the instrument of menace that was his cane, and so he has it. It curls into existence beneath his fingers in a soft swirl of purple smoke and he folds his hands neatly over it.

"I'm not familiar with that term, I'm afraid." Rumpelstiltskin evaluates the woman with neutral curiosity, head tilting ever so slightly. He cannot resist but to put forth the question that has been needling at him: "Do you truly not know who I am?"

Edited 2015-05-10 22:51 (UTC)

The cane's appearance is appropriately surprising, and Angus lifts his head with a quiet cough - not quite alarmed, but not at ease, either. Johnny is the only person she's seen change things in dreams before. It's never occurred to her to try it, herself, nor does it strike her as a common skill. And it looks so much like magic, it can't help but make her a little nervous.

Given the circumstances, perhaps it's just as well he knows nothing of the Rift. Even if he's perfectly friendly, it would be odd having another person around Manhattan who shared Rush's face.

His ignorance of the Rift also makes his question a bit less nerve-wracking than it might be, otherwise. She's certain she's never met the man around the Village or anything, and if he's not from home and not from Manhattan, there's no shame in not knowing who he is - whatever his notoriety in his own universe. "I don't," she says, lifting her shoulders in a little shrug. "I expect we're from different universes, so I, er, I... wouldn't. Sorry," she adds, in case that's some sort of disappointment. Nothing to be done about it, though.

One corner of his mouth lifts, unmistakeably amused. How utterly charming. ~~Won't you guess his name~~.

"Different worlds." He inclines his head further, acknowledging that point. "Some things change. Other things, well - there are always certain - constants."

Grizelda hisses almost soundlessly, but he pays the little piece of his soul no mind. Greta may not have summoned him, but there is a certain theatrical enjoyment to be had.

"Rumpelstiltskin," he says with all the air of an exaggerated bow, curling the word with a barely detectable trill and a lifted hand redolent of an elegant, extravagant gesture.

There's a beat during which neither Greta nor Angus move, waiting for the name - delivered with such flair, and ingrained expectation - to set off a ping of recognition that ultimately fails to sound. Then Greta raises her eyebrows and presses her lips together in polite, apologetic bemusement, and Angus bluntly says, "That's a mouthful."

He can't suppress the soft chuckle as he twists his cane to brace the leg that does not need support in the fluid fabric of a dream. It is, like so many things, an expectation, the affectation of vulnerability. That serves even more a purpose here, with this person who does not know his face or his name or the weight it typically carries. The lack of recognition does not unbalance him, but rather serves to deepen his intrigue.

"You come from a world without magic?" he guesses. His tone is placid, even and conversational, the further he goes on. "Most would run from a name such as mine, dearie."

"Well, we--" she starts before the last bit hits her, and then she frowns, not liking the patronizing 'dearie' or the subtle threat that preceded it. Angus shifts to stand in front of her, his alert gaze darting between Rumplestiltskin and his as-yet-unintroduced lizard.

She doesn't like it, but she's not running away from it, either. This is only a dream. "We do have magic, back home. A Witch lived right next door. But I've never heard of you."

Angus shifts his gaze from the lizard to the man. "And she's not your dearie."

What a touching tale, the dog moving to nobly defend his counterpart. He pays the beast no mind. If Rumpelstiltskin had the slightest provocation to hurt either of them, he would have already done so, and he doubts very much that he will receive any such motivation. This has been an illuminating, peculiar venture into a world not his own, breaching that shadowed scrape of magic over an unfamiliar backdrop.

Grizelda merely regards the thing coolly. "Please," she murmurs with an inflection reminiscent of a world-weary roll of the eyes.

"You had no Deal-Makers?" Rumpelstiltskin asks, never once departing from that subtle, diplomatic interest. "No Dark One? No spinning of, say - straw into gold?"

Perhaps those more universal calling cards will ring some bells.

Angus leans back against her legs, his meaning plain. They should go. Whoever this man is, he's not the sort of person they want to get mixed up with, dream or no. Surely there is more pleasant company to be found elsewhere.

But they're standing on an otherwise-unoccupied island with nowhere else specific to go, and no way to ensure they won't simply be followed. What is she supposed to do, hike up her skirts and leg it? Vaguely menacing as he might be, he hasn't given her cause for that.

"We had Giants," she says flatly, "and Wolves, and Witches, and Curses. And that was quite enough to be getting on with without..." she flaps a hand at him, "Deal-Makers, if that's what you are."

Edited 2015-05-11 00:59 (UTC)

"Really." He pulls out the word without resolving it as either a statement or a question. What a remarkable premise. Her world sounds so very like his, yet missing those critical pieces. He inspects the handle of his cane for a thoughtful moment.

"You speak as though it's something past," he remarks, abruptly looking up at her again. "Does your world no longer exist?"

It is quite a reasonable question. Years of meticulous planning resulted in the ripping of the Enchanted Forest beyond easy preservation, and it may not have been the first to meet that unfortunate, tumultuous end.

What does he want from her? She supposes the bargain they struck with the Witch could have been construed as a deal if you tilt your head and squint, but 'Deal-Maker' isn't a description she'd use for Witches, generally speaking. And who is he to speak with any kind of authority on other universes, anyway? She feels vaguely affronted, as if her home is being accused of something.

"Of course it does," she says shortly. It's doing just fine, she presumes - even worst case scenarios regarding the Giant don't include the entire universe's destruction. "I'm just not in it anymore."

"That's what the Rift does," Angus adds impatiently. "It takes you away from the world you belong in and drops you in another one."

In an instant, Rumpelstiltskin's attention compounds into a sharpened point. Where Greta may have merely been vaguely intriguing, she now has his undivided interest.

"Travel to other worlds," he whispers, the words nearly soundless but for the snap of the consonants. He leans forward, eyes glittering, and it is more of a command than a suggestion when he continues: "Do tell me more."

The weight of his full focus lands on her like a blow, and she takes a step backwards under the combined pressures of Rumplestiltskin's interest and Angus's leaning against her legs. Oh, dear. This is so unnerving, how much he looks like Rush and how much he clearly isn't him. She can barely imagine Rush displaying such an intense interest in anyone, let alone her. And while she's often found him exasperating, he's never made her feel this uneasy.

"There's not much else to tell," she says, putting a hand on Angus's shoulder to steady herself and him. "The Rift is a sort of, of tear between worlds, like--" how had Andrew described it? "--like a hole in the bottom of your pocket. People fall through." Or climb through, but she doesn't want to let on that it can be done on purpose. "That's all."

"To worlds without magic?" he prompts. "Or worlds like yours? Or to both?"

This is more the reaction he is accustomed to. She is unsteady, fearful and forthcoming, and she should be. She is addressing the Dark One, and it may finally be occurring to her just how true that title holds. Not everyone can sense the magic, bottomless and pooled in his every atom, but there are certain sparks of unimaginable things that lace his words and his stare.

"Why, something like that," and Grizelda chooses that opportune moment to hiss as she slinks to Greta's other side, almost circling her, "you simply must tell me more, dearie."

"Wh--" Greta turns her head as that lizard starts to prowl around her, and Angus circles round her legs to snarl a silent warning at the creature. Her gaze flicks back to Rumplestiltskin, and she stammers, "Both, I suppose. I'm--I'm hardly one to ask." She hasn't studied the Rift as Iman and Rush have done, and she honestly can't tell him much more than she has, already.

Except that at least one person has managed to control it. And she can't tell him that. Little as she knows about him, she's certain she doesn't want him showing up in Manhattan because she inadvertently showed him the way.

"That's all we know," Angus says shortly. Then, to her mingled embarrassment and relief, "We're leaving." He punctuates it by giving her a pointed bump with his hip, his forelegs firmly planted between her and the lizard.

Greta lets herself be herded, shuffling out from between the man and the lizard and angling herself toward the clearest path away. She casts a flustered glance over at Rumplestiltskin and manages, "Er, yes. Um. Good day." Then, much as turning her back on him gives her a chill, she deliberately turns to walk away.

Grizelda looks up at him, tongue flicking out inquisitively, but the Dark One does nothing but lift a lazy hand, and purple smoke engulfs both man and lizard and floods around to deposit them neatly in Greta's path.

"Come now," he says softly, the words a quiet hiss over a latent threat. "Surely you can say more. I find this whole idea quite intriguing, you must understand."

Weren't they just with Greta? Scratch that, weren't they just with Rush? Dreams, especially when you're pretty well aware of them, are insufferable.

No time for smoothing out the tangled continuities now, though. She can't see who that is harassing Greta but the harassment part is visibly obvious even from a distance. Aqil takes to the air from her shoulder with a menacing, snarling caw, and she takes the opportunity to run the rest of the distance it takes her to put herself between Greta and whoever the fuck is oh my god what.

"Rush?" she blurts before taking in the freaking komodo dragon, definitely not Rush, which is a damn relief because everything apart from the minor matter of his body and facial features is totally wrong.

Making a reasonably fast recovery, she snaps a hand up to seize him by his absurd collar, Aqil flapping down to buzz around the dragon's head.

"Is there a problem here?" she says icily.

Greta falters when he simply appears in front of her in a swirl of smoke, so very like the Witch - a bit less windy and violent, but no less alarming. Does he know she's lying by omission, or is he just threatening her to see what happens? "I don't--" she starts, before a harsh avian cry interrupts her.

Aqil. Iman. They're approaching at speed, and while some part of her doesn't like the thought of Iman getting mixed up in this mess as well, the larger part is absurdly relieved to see her charging to the rescue, yet again - this is getting to be a habit. How ~~thrilling~~ embarrassing.

"Not Rush," she says - then, as Iman grabs Rumplestiltskin by the collar: "Careful, he has magic."

The woman who seizes him is unexpected, but ultimately beyond his interest.

"Why does everyone call me that?" he asks in vague, quiet annoyance, directing the question at no one in particular. It takes but a twitch of his fingers to dissolve into smoke again and slip between his assailant's grasp. He rematerializes a few feet away, equidistant to the both of them.

"Such hostility." Rumpelstiltskin evaluates his quarries with a cool, almost puzzled frown. "I simply wanted to know more about this Rift of hers. It is quite the entertaining prospect, is it not?"

"Wha-" Iman blinks as he dissipates right out of her hand and recollects nearby. Magic indeed. Well, isn't that fancy. Surprise is quick to turn into a scowl as she tilts to face him.

"You leave her alone," she says. Ordinarily someone wanting to know about the Rift is an open invitation for friendly conversation, but not with this guy, not the way he's behaving or the way Greta and Angus are so obviously uneasy, or the way he calls it Rift of hers. Cloying little fuck. It's just an extra insult that he's wearing the face of her friend. Probably not even doing it on purpose, some weird result of quantum iteration, but it makes her blood boil all the same.

Aqil settles back on her shoulder, glaring as much as a crow can glare. "Who is it wants to know about 'this Rift'?" he practically sneers.

Greta smooths her palms over her skirt, trying not to look as apprehensive as she feels. Has Iman ever tangled with magic before? Probably not, aside from the curses, and she'd said hers wasn't so bad. Rumplestiltskin doesn't seem inclined towards physical violence, at least... but then, he wouldn't have to be, would he? She eyes his cane the way one might eye a loaded gun.

"His name is Rumplestiltskin," Angus says, lip curled in a one-sided snarl. "And she never introduced herself." He nods stiffly in the lizard's direction.

He makes a subdued show of straightening his tie; a name such has his carries a sort of gravitas that cannot simply be glossed over. He surveys the array of humans and beasts with muted irritation. The wariness Greta now directs at him is much more what a monster of his reputation and title deserves.

"Grizelda does not speak unless she has something to say," Rumpelstiltskin murmurs, gaze drifting briefly to the scaly thing at his side. She opens her jaws and snaps them shut again in wordless warning, but says nothing.

His attention sharpens back to the newcomer, and his curiosity again flares.

"Do you know who I am, then?" Surely someone here must.

"Rumple...stiltskin," she says slowly, anger turning to bewilderment. "Really?" This guy? N... no. Not. She refuses to believe that another universe's Rush is Rumplefuckingstiltskin.

"Wait, is - is he from your world, then?" she blurts, looking back at Greta.

Wait, Iman's heard of him? Greta looks over at her friend in surprise, a glance that turns into a double-take when Iman puts her question.

"What?" Ugh, the very idea. Not that she knows every resident of her universe by sight, but he's dressed all wrong for it. "No. I've never heard of him." And since he seems to take his notoriety for granted, she'd like to think if he was from home, she would have.

But Iman has. Greta frowns over at her in confusion. Why would her friend think he was from the same universe as she is? "You know him, then?"

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

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