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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Johnny reflects that he might be the only animal that is instinctively drawn toward its natural predator, time and again. Blood in the water just circles the shark and he finds it on his own.

He doesn't try to run because it's too late, one of that thing's heads will spot him, or hear him, or something, he's always pinned as soon as he gets within view, every time. He stands at the threshold between jungle and beach, rabbit cradled in his arms. She's gone stiff, head raised in alert, but she is not interested in running either. They both have some kind of business here, they both know it. Or rather they, together, singularly, know it.

So he doesn't run or approach. Not quite drawn enough for a willing and immediate surrender. There's some itch at the back of his head that might be scratched here, and he doesn't like that impression, but it's not ignorable either. Like the itch for a cigarette, or any other drug. His shoulders ache.

Of course it's too late. And liminal spaces are dangerous places, nobody like Johnny has any business lingering on a threshold, either a literal border or the line between engaging and fleeing. The chimaera signals its awareness of Johnny's arrival with a luxurious stretch; it could easily fetch him, would even enjoy it, but why? It's unlikely to be necessary.

"Johnny!" Zagreus hails him with mania disguised as predatoriness further disguised as friendliness. "D'you like hangman?" There are only wrong answers to that question, but one is less wrong than the rest.

Easily hooked, or perhaps 'roped' would be the cleverer turn for this exact moment, Johnny finds himself answering the call, stepping closer, unusually measured. He stops not too far from the monster, not within arm's length (and certainly not within serpent's/paw's/hoof's), but not at a good length for escape either. No such length exists.

He has to answer. That's the rule. He doesn't want to answer, but more alarming than knowing he will is not knowing what he's going to say until he says it.

"I don't think I want to play," is what it ends up being. He looks dully at the sand.

There's a lot to be said for recognising futility and responding to it maturely, though maybe Johnny doesn't get all the credit for being wise beyond his scant human years. "Why not?" He sounds, he actually sounds, disappointed.

The chimaera is less invested in coyness, and takes it as a foregone conclusion that Johnny will play. "We could always make it interesting. Name your stakes for playing." Its melodious voice is indulgent and entirely without worry.

His eyes drift, just as dull and devoid of feeling, to the chimaera. Nova squirms and he lowers himself down a little, letting her out onto the ground, apparently tired of being carried.

She's not immune to it either, the urge to put herself in the immediate way of danger.

He stays in his deferring little crouch like a fucking dog. "What kind of stakes." He can't be fucked to inflect the question.

The chimaera watches the rabbit lazily, stretching out on its rock and dangling one huge forepaw closer to the little animal like an afterthought. "I don't know, you tell me," Zagreus says with poorly concealed irritation an imminent dream crackle in his throat. "Anything you like. That's the point," he tries again for amiability and mostly succeeds. The chimaera has better advice. "What would you like to win? What makes playing worthwhile."

But he won't win, he'd never win, that's not how this works. No point in saying that, no point in being churlish. Those altercations end with him in the water. He considers the paradox of requesting that he'd like to win at all, but of course there must be regulations against that kind of thing, a 'you can't wish for more wishes' kind of deal. Well, all right, Truant. What do you want.

I want my money's worth.

"I want you to leave me alone," he says, tiredly, like stop me if you know this one. "I want you out of my head."

Worth a shot. And if his words get twisted, well, he hasn't agreed to anything yet, has he?

There are always rules, naturally, but that does go both ways; Zagreus won't cheat, can only twist words within reason and where inspiration or narrative strikes. "That's two separate things, technically," he chides, like Johnny should know better, but he'll let it slide just this once, in recognition of his efforts.

"But what if we win?" asks the chimaera, now half off its rock, like it's trying to balance on the technicality of keeping its hindquarters on its perch. What could Johnny possibly have to offer, of equal worth to getting Zagreus to leave him alone? Not like he's ever really done that, so the novelty alone makes it a very valuable term of condition. Experimentally, the thing cages the rabbit in one huge paw, digging its claws into the surrounding sand like bars, with a comfortable wriggle. I'm not touching you. Unless of course the thing decides to actually stand up.

Johnny stiffens abruptly when the chimaera brings its paw down over Nova, trapping her more or less in place; she's hunkered down, holding still, but he can almost feel her frightened little heart beating.

He doesn't speak out against it, too cowed to threaten, and already too entrenched with the current bargain. It doesn't matter. They both knew this would happen. And he's just as trapped, if not physically.

"Out of my head," he reiterates, reinforcing it. If he wins, if Zagreus follows the fucking rules, this could be it, he could excise one invader if not all of them. This might be worthwhile. But what does he have to bet with?

It's not like he's bad with words. He's a writer, you know. Ha ha.

"What do you want," he says with an impatient shrug. "Me? Free access to all of it? You wanna hold me under again, every fucking night?" He gestures recklessly at the water. "Do whatever you want to me. I don't care. If I win." He jabs a finger into Zagreus' chest. "You get out of my head and don't come back."

This is stupid.

He knows it's stupid.

Wouldn't be the first time.

Zagreus raises an eyebrow at this outburst; the chimaera chuffs warningly at this boldly hands-on treatment of its other half, but lets the rabbit go with an overbearing little pet. Oh, Johnny. "Not drowning, not every night," he says, offended. That would get old, given time. This isn't some classical punishment, liver-eating eagles and pushing boulders up hills, dead tiresome repetition. If someone's been tormenting Johnny to the point of bone-weary familiar despair, tracked his mind up with mental pacing like a dead dirt path where there should be grass, it was Johnny himself, wrapping up in his familiar anguish like a childhood blanket. Cute that he thinks that would be a nightly effort from Zagreus, when he's more of a groundskeeper. It's also not very creative, when he could throw him onto black rock fangs or have him pulled apart by the walls, any number of things, with their combined impressive imaginations the sky's the limit and that's just garden-variety bodily torment. "That would be quite the committment. But alright, I agree to these terms. Would you like to start first?" It's another indulgence, Zagreus has no shortage of confidence.

Nova scurries from under Alecto's paw back to huddle by Johnny's foot, but he's too stiff to pick her up.

He agreed. Just like that.

That's it.

Johnny has just signed a fucking contract with open-ended terms he put forth himself.

Lips moving soundlessly for a moment, he finally says, shaky, pale-faced and ghost-voiced, "Okay."

Should not have done this. Should not have said. Too late now and in any case it's so hard to resist these days, getting harder.

He bends to the sand and draws out a little line of dashes.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

"Very good," Zagreus says, waiting patiently for the game to be laid out. He even offers Johnny the stick, so he can draw a gallows, if he likes. Clearly he's got no showmanship, as drawing the gallows to drive the point home to your opponent is the most important part. "It's only a game, Johnny, why do you look like you've just seen your own corpse?" asks the chimaera with faux-concern; Zagreus flaps a hand at it warningly. Let it stick to routing fuzzy little woodland creatures, he will do the diabolical deal-making and wordplay. "I'm making this easy for you, you know. I could be making you guess. That would be more in keeping, anyway." Trust Zagreus to grumble in his bed once he's made it. But he really does mean to be sporting. "I'm giving you a chance. So never say I didn't." He scrutinises the dashes in the sand, mouth working. Hangman is a very serious game, a divination really. And Zagreus can always use some foresight. "'R,' to start with." Textbook, for now.

Johnny tries not to feel relieved. It's way too early for that.

He draws an R beside his shitty little gallows picture, and a small circle for the head. This game is so morbid, of course it is, of course this is what Zagreus wants to play.

He remains where he is, squatting in the sand, looking up at Zagreus expectantly.

Way, way too early. Johnny didn't make a beginner's mistake, at least--some players like to pick the longest word they can, like that's an advantage instead of more rope to be strung up with. Zagreus feels only a tick of annoyance at missing his first guess, doesn't bother not to let it show; the chimaera begins to pace. He really ought to have had Johnny be the guesser, unnerving him would be so easy and so fun, but there's something to be said for taking the high road in life. Once in awhile. Just to see what it looks like. "'I,' next." No more textbook. Don't want to look worried, even if it means sticking your neck out.

Johnny chews his lip and doesn't look up anymore, eyes on the sand. Nova curls closely against him and he rests his free hand against her. He wishes he hadn't agreed to this. His heart is pounding so fast and there's still twenty-four whole letters to be guessed. Yeah, unless he picks right. Unless he guesses the word. This choice was dumb. Obvious. Easy. He's so fucked.

We'll just see. Just do the fucking thing. Throw the ball, Johnny.

Abandoning the stick he draws with his finger:

_ _ _ _ _ I _ _

Edited 2015-05-22 01:03 (UTC)

"Well that narrows it down," jeers the stalking chimaera. Less verbally, Zagreus agrees. But is Johnny the sort to play clever, or to play to meaning? Serious now, Zagreus sits down cross-legged on the sand, a literal and visual buckling down. "'N,'" he says, with the weight of real actual calculation behind it. It can't hurt to be cautious, at least in this one, singular thing.

Johnny feels cold, feels like his insides are stone. It's only two letters but it seemed like such a purposed, informed guess, like he knows, he's onto him. Feeling like every scrape of sand is a cut into his own skin:

_ _ _ _ _ I N _

There's no rope to call Johnny predictable yet, just the English language, but it's early still. Really, what did he hope to achieve here. "Calm down, Johnny, it's just a game. In a dream, no less. 'T,'" he prompts.

Yeah, well. Every little bit counts.

He draws a slow, intent line beneath the little head, adds 'T' to the pool beside R.

"I'm fucking calm," he lies. "Next."

Zagreus and the chimaera just grin knowingly at him, eerily in tandem. What adorable and false bravado. "'L,'" he says, on a whim. Still some limbs to spare.

To his false bravado's credit, whatever that's worth, he does remain calm even as he slots the letter into place. No choice but to remain calm, hope for the best, hope is stupid but it's all he's ever had.

_ _ L _ _ I N _

Zagreus stares at the regrettably few letters in the sand meditatively. All he has to do is win, but it would be nice to guess the word impressively, before it's obvious. And knowing Johnny there's probably some wretched hidden meaning, something anchored in his past traumas or personal mythology, etc. True unpredictability is well beyond him. "'A,'" he offers.

He'd been expecting 'A' much earlier, and its absence had been giving him all kinds of false hope. There's some kind of metaphor to be found there but he has no wherewithal to look for it now. He sighs heavily and Nova digs her paws nervously into the sand as he writes. He's starting to feel sick. And not just because he knows he's going to lose.

_ _ L A _ I N A

Zagreus wrinkles his nose at this development. Not what he'd been expecting at all. Maybe Johnny is more creative than he gave him credit for; wouldn't be the first time he'd underestimated an opponent, won't be the last. "'M,'" he guesses, and while it's the only likely guess, it's still a guess.

Is this cheating, he suddenly asks himself. Maybe not. Zagreus has been in his head enough to have a homefield advantage.

In any case, M goes off to the side, and the tortured stick figure gets an arm. Three more turns, right? Three more. He can do this.

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