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

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.

Edited 2015-05-02 20:43 (UTC)

"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.

Edited 2015-05-02 22:05 (UTC)

[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.

Edited 2015-05-02 21:21 (UTC)

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?"

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.

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.

Edited 2015-05-03 00:54 (UTC)

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.

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.

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."

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.

Edited 2015-05-02 23:35 (UTC)

"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.

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.

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.

The dappled pattern of sunlight against deciduous trunks and leaf mulch would be soothing to anyone else - anyone who doesn't already nurse a deep and abiding hatred of trees and all the mental associations besides.

The soft brush of wings against his cheek is weirdly soothing, even if Tim's not really okay with being beset upon by birds. Especially not big fucking black ones. He freezes when it lights on his shoulder, shifting its weight from talon to talon, claws digging slightly into the fabric of his shirt.

"We're not safe," it whispers, and Tim looks into its eyes - dark, flickering, terrified - and knows it's right.

"I know," he says back, lifting a hand to stroke it gently with one finger. "And I know you."

"Yeah." There's a specter of sorrow aching under the word when she looks at him. "I am you."

The misery buried in her tone hits him, icy and abdominal, like an ironclad punch to the gut.

"Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

She falls silent for a minute, then fluffs her wings faintly, almost regretfully.

"I'm Zero."

"Tim."

"Yeah." She sounds like she's smiling, pained and mournful. "I know."

Tim swallows, gingerly running one finger down one of her wings. It feels natural. It's - it's okay. She's him. It doesn't make sense, but it doesn't need to.

Because he's not alone. For what's probably the first fucking time in his life. She'd understand, better than anyone.

"I guess you do," he says finally, dropping his gaze, and he walks on in silence, Zero's talons an unspoken reassurance on his shoulder.

Edited 2015-05-03 06:04 (UTC)

Kirk is on a lovely little island. The sun is bright and the water looks warm and inviting, so it's not long before he's stripped down to his underwear and waded in.

The moment he's up to his shoulders, a small creature pops up next to him in the lapping waves. It's a small otter, but if Kirk's not mistaken, he'd guess that it's a river otter, not a sea otter.

"Hello," he says happily as the otter circles him. "Take a wrong turn somewhere?"

"No," the otter's tone answers mischievously, "I belong with you."

It doesn't seem at all strange that the otter should speak, and even less strange to realize that she does belong with him. As he swims, she swims with him, and when he finally swims back to lie on the beach she follows and curls up next to him in the warm sand.

Eliot knows it's a dream from the familiarity, this is like a place he's been before, but that was years and years ago and a traumatic, hateful human melodrama that masqueraded as a family vacation. It has to be a dream, because he'd never end up back in Oregon.

But the Pacific isn't pounding away at the large rocky outcrop he finds himself standing on; through the scattering of trees he can see other little islets, a calm sea, so this isn't his dream, most likely. Less chance of horrible memories rearing their heads. He sighs, relaxing a fraction.

"That's a relief," comes a voice down in the sparse underbrush. Eliot jumps, and catches himself against the trunk of a scrappy spruce; he'd thought for certain he was alone.

"Who the fuck said that?" he asks, peering around for the source.

"Well don't go falling off the cliff, it's only me," says the voice, female and faintly exasperated and not one he's ever heard before.

"Yeah that doesn't help thooOH holy shit-"

"Oh would you hush," says the bird that's looking up at him from a perch on a stump. It's large and blackish and somehow gangly and dumpy at the same time, and it has a horrible garish face. Eliot dislikes it immediately. "All the things we've seen, a talking animal should not surprise you."

Eliot frowns, not liking the fact that a bird is talking to him, let alone that she's taking a tone like she knows him. "I don't have to put up with judgey attitude from some dream creature," he huffs, looking around for a way down the side of this rock, eager to get away from the bird. It's giving him bad vibes.

"I rather think you do," the bird counters, hopping along after him. "I am you."

Chilled, Eliot stops his survey of the island, and turns and glares at the bird. "Bullshit," he snaps, and if he's trembling it's because of the cold. "I did not sign up for any bullshit vision quest woo-woo soul searching, so you can just take what you're selling elsewhere, bird, I am not buying it."

"Good thing I'm not selling it, then," says the bird, cocking one bright teal eye at him. "But you just keep on doing what you're doing, I'm sure you'll catch on eventually."

Eliot scoffs and soldiers on ahead, determined to ignore any higher meaning this dream seems to want to force on him.

It is at this point that he slips on a wet patch of rock and finds himself face down in mossy gravel, with a cormorant flapping about in an uproar.

"We're not supposed to be here," says Hitoshi nervously, his paws restless.

"I know," Mako whispers. This is not the first time she's dreamed of strange things. It is so real and immediate, and she did not even question the presence of the otter at her side at first. He had felt so natural, a logical extrapolation.

Hitoshi balances uneasily on one of the branches beside Mako as she scans the ground for signs of anyone else, animal or human or whatever else may be here. The sun-speckled leaves below are silent, save for when the trickling of an occasional pleasant breeze stirs them into a quiet rustle. Even tucked into a crook between the branches of a great oak, waiting for something to go wrong, Mako cannot deny how - nice everything feels here. The familiar sting of salt is sprinkled in the air, and she can smell the sea. It smells of home.

"Someone's coming," Hitoshi hisses, claws digging into the bark, and Mako stiffens. She presses herself closer against her branch and hopes whoever it is does not see her.

This island could stand to be a lot more fun! The Pan has been flying around for ages and there's not a single child anywhere, and no mermaids, and no pirates! It's no fun being all alone with no one but his shadow for company, not even when he's flying around a magical wonderland (his magical wonderland is so much better than this one).

Finally, he spots a person -- maybe they'll want to play! Or maybe they won't, but that's no problem. And they've got a funny animal with them, what's with that? The boy ~~monster~~ alights on the ground, grinning from ear to ear.

Jed creeps up the stony slope on his belly, slowing as he crests the ~~smallish boulder~~ mountain top and peeks over, one hand keeping his hat out of the clutches of the wind. The sources of the booming voices he heard a moment ago are immediately apparent: two giants, one of them an animal, neither one looking at him. "Hang on," he mutters to himself, "How come that one's talking...?"

"Think we can get the drop on 'em?" asks a lady's voice at his side, and Jed lets out a yelp and flails at the coyote crouched beside him. She pins her ears back and snorts derisively. "Hold your horses, Jed, it's me!" she protests.

"Who's you?!" demands Jed, forgetting that he meant to stay hidden from the giants -- and really, forgetting about the giants in general for the moment, because why is there a coyote, why is she to scale, and why is she talking?! "I don't know any dang talking mongrel!"

The TARDIS is wary when she finds this dream, aching and exhausted from the rift's recent instability, and therefore all the more drawn to it when she senses calm and companionship in it. She manifests on a small strip of a beach, sand a rosy orange and strewn with boulders the color of the ocean. Not far off are trees whose leaves glint silver and white in the sunlight. This isn't a Terran scenery for once, and that is pleasant too. The island also seems larger than most, the long swooping shoreline cradling a few smaller isles in the distance.

While she takes in the view and the salty air and the cool breeze, she notices the familiar Unicorn close by, the sea gently lapping at its front hooves. Once again there is no discernible reason for its presence, and again it has no distinct mental presence to interact with. She frowns at it for a moment, but it's enjoying the water and that is actually not a bad idea. So she steps forward, dismissing her shoes to join the large creature's side in the muddy sand, delighted by the soft rhythmic sensations. The Unicorn turns its head to look at her and finally offers, "Here I am," in Gallifreyan, syllables and tenses linking in circles to say that this point in time is, and there would be no sense in questioning it. "Perhaps someone else is, too," the TARDIS points out and so they begin to wander along the shore towards the nearest pebbly path between islands, the TARDIS resting a hand against the broad shimmering flank of her own mind.

On a relatively plain island, with buff sand, starkly huge, smooth rocks, and shockingly bright water, is one monster in two parts. One part, sitting neatly on one of these rocks with its serpent-tail coiled around a forearm, looking as shockingly bright and hyper-real as the water, is watching the other with idle interest as he scratches busily in the sand with a stick. "Alright, I admit chess might be a bridge too far, considering the circumstances, but you can't argue with Hangman. Never have seen the point in tic-tac-toe." Alecto sighs. "You're still in sphinx territory. I hunt heroes, I don't play games." She's lying, of course. They both love games.

Dreaming has become a rare treat to Calliope since her wondrous revival in New York. This is a sad fact she more or less attributes to her lack of a dream self, left behind dead on Prospit's moon. But it happens often enough that she isn't horrified when she looks down at her hands and finds sharp, green, immutable claws. It would be just splendid to get to explore a dream bubble without having to worry about being seen, about frightening the other dreamers, but apparently there is one rule in this odd corner of Paradox Space and it forbids her from taking on her preferred shape while sleeping.

So she sighs and imagines herself a long black cloak and hood to hide her ghastly skull visage, before taking a look around at the spacious dream bubble she appeared in. The first impression is one of sand, lots and lots of fine, red sand arranged in gently sloping dunes. The sight tugs at her with quite unexpected melancholy for a home she'd hoped to escape all her life. Though the sun in the clear sky isn't red, and a little further down the dunes there is a rather startling amount of water. Even more than the lake by the TARDIS, it doesn't actually seem to stop anywhere, how puzzling. Curiosity piqued, she begins to wander towards the water. The sand beneath her bare claws is pleasantly hot and grainy, causing minuscule avalanches wherever she steps. Is this what it would have been like to walk on her Earth's surface? To leave the confines of the four walls and roof that used to be her home, and explore the dunes?

Calliope is startled out of her wistful musings by a flash of white in the sand, or rather a long streak of white winding through the loose sand without quite getting anywhere. She recognizes him immediately, it's the charming brave little snake that helped her meet the Doctor! He seems to have grown a bit, and he seems to have some trouble gaining traction in the sand, poor thing. Swiftly she bends down and holds out an arm, which he climbs gratefully.

"Hello again," she greets, smiling. She hadn't felt lonely in this tranquil dream bubble, but with the snake settling around her shoulders she also feels less alone. "I don't believe I quite caught your name last time?" Her scaly friend flicks his tongue pensively while he shifts slowly to wrap around her neck, and finally pronounces, "Ophion. There is no need for formal introductions, Calliope." Her breath just about catches to hear her full name spoken aloud, but somehow it strikes her as proper and safe for this creature to know it. "Well, uh, it is a pleasure to meet you, all the same!" she replies, uncertain for just a moment until Ophion nods kindly in response and then rests his head around his tail. This is apparently all the conversation he was interested in, so she resumes her way down to the water splashing across the sand. Once there, it doesn't take long for her to find a stick of wood and some inspiration along with it, and she begins to draw large sweeping swirls and circles and spirals, pausing now and then to watch the water erase her transient creations.

my dæmon top levels are always books

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