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Entry tags:
- character: asmodia antarion,
- character: daine sarrasri,
- character: gabriel,
- character: greta baker,
- character: iman asadi,
- character: johnny truant,
- character: lucifer,
- character: rashad durant,
- character: spike,
- character: sunshine,
- character: the balladeer,
- dropped: mako mori,
- dropped: nicholas rush,
- dropped: seth,
- dropped: tim wright,
- party post,
- retired: aziraphale,
- retired: bee,
- retired: crowley,
- retired: melanie,
- retired: peter vincent,
- retired: yuri kostoglodov
Here You Are, Stick Figure and a Busted Grin [Open to All]

The first thing that the dreamers of Manhattan might notice is that the ground is a good deal closer than it normally is. The second thing they might notice is that their surroundings are larger than they might expect. The playground looks almost daunting. Of course, there are other ways for the dreamers to occupy themselves on this hot summer day: a charming fountain bubbles away a little distance from the playground. There's an ice cream stand with treats free for the taking. Beyond the paved area is a meadow, covered in wildflowers and dominated by a huge, sprawling tree, perfect for climbing.
It's all prime entertainment for children. So really, it's just as well that 'children' is what the dreamers will find themselves to be - once more, for those who had childhoods, or for the first time, for those who didn't.
Perhaps you'll remember everything: the Rift, Manhattan, the friends (and enemies) you've made since your arrival. Or perhaps you'll only remember who you were when you were young, and find this an opportunity to forge new friendships - or new (and probably pettier) animosities. Run around, get dirty, have a good time.
[ooc: usual dream party rules apply. All are welcome, whether they've been apped to the game or not. Characters will remember or forget the events of the dream at the players' discretion. Mental and emotional regression is optional, but physical regression is mandatory: your character is in the body of a little kid - human, or human-ish - regardless of who or what they are in the waking world.]
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Fare you well, my dear, I must be gone,
And leave you for a while;
If I roam away I'll come back again,
Though I roam ten thousand miles, my dear,
Though I roam ten thousand miles.
As she sings, she fiddles with a little heap of wildflowers she'd gathered into her lap. By the end of the second verse, she's made herself a little circlet, not quite a crown but close enough. She settles it on her head with a grin - it lists a little, but only a little - and starts in on another one. Maybe someone else will come along to play Princes/Princesses with her.
[ooc: Greta's about six and fully regressed and adorable.]
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A little girl in a hijab scampers through the meadow wielding a stick like a sword and looking for trouble. She's never seen a place like this before, it's certainly not her home in Tehran, but that's okay. There's so much to explore!
And now there's someone singing. She hurries toward the voice and sees a little girl sitting under a tree some short distance away. Iman creeps closer, keeping herself hidden behind the tree - she doesn't want to scare the kid but she has to make an entrance. She clambers up as quietly and quickly as possible until she's standing on a sturdy, low-hanging branch, one hand braced on her staff, the other against a higher limb. She can see the little girl has a flower crown and grins. She can play this game!
"Ahlan, pretty lady," she says in a big voice. She looks like she probably speaks English, so this'll be a great time to practice. "You look like you need a, um, uh..." What's the English thing for fāris? She falters with embarrassment. "Sword person!" she decides, holding up her stick like this will help.
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He stands on one of the far branches of the tree, barefoot and draped in white linen, closest to the girl and her flower-weaving, so that he can see what she's doing. This is a new creature to him, this bipedal little hairless ape-thing, and she uses words. None of his Father's other creations had used real language yet, like the angels do, so that makes her especially curious.
And she puts flowers on her hair. Why would anything put flowers on their hair? If she's trying to hide herself, it won't work well. There are some animals that hide themselves in foliage, but they do it much better than she does.
The angel flicks his fingers, a little come-hither motion, and the crown disappears off of her head and reappears in his hands so he can look at it.
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She follows the branches as far out as they'll bear her weight, and crouches to watch the other girl, looking at her braiding the flowers and planting the circlet on her head.
"That's very pretty," she says, voice a little loud and brash and not near as elegant as her hair and clothes. "The flowers. Who taught you that?"
[enter: The Witch, age nine. Hi.]
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Where did he go this time? He feels like he'd remember if he ran away again, but sometimes he forgets and he doesn't know what he's meant to remember anymore. The playground is terrifying in ways he can't enunciate, so he hides instead.
He hides, but it'll find him. The tall man always finds him.
All alone at the base of the tree is better, because maybe he can hide for a little longer. He's supposed to be alone, he's meant to, can't anyone see? There's a tall man behind him. He can't see it now and it disappears every time he looks over his shoulder but it's there, he knows it is. It whispers. It tells him horrible things. Things he doesn't want to do.
There's a lighter in his pocket, and he doesn't know how it got there. Maybe it got put there. The tall man makes him do things, and if he says no it makes him hurt and cry and scream, makes him cough, makes his nose and mouth drip black gobbets of blood, makes it so the pressure builds behind his eyes and his head until he wishes it would stop.
Tim is eight years old and sitting with his knees drawn up and his head buried in his arms because he doesn't want to remember the screaming.
He doesn't want to play with the tall man anymore.
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But this one's different. He has darker hair, like hers - not anyone from her village - and he looks scared. And Ma didn't raise her to be rude.
"Beg pardon," she says quietly, her frown more thoughtful than disapproving. "I didn't see you."
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He stops, stumbling a little as his momentum carries him over some stray roots. What's wrong with him? Everyone else here is having fun. He can't remember seeing this boy around before. Of course he's still gonna check on him though. Who just goes and plays while someone else is sitting all sad on the ground? "Hey!" He takes a few steps forward to lean over the boy. "Are you okay?"
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She can hear them giggling at her as she makes her way along a branch, far more slow and clumsy than even a young squirrel. It's a friendly sort of giggle, though, like they're pleased she's trying. They're not jeering, like the children from the village do, sometimes. So it's with a lopsided grin that she tells the nearest one, "You'd be slow, too, if you was wearing these," and gives her skirt a pointed flap with one hand.
[ooc: Daine's about eight and remembers nought of the Rift or Manhattan.]
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Asmodia huddles as low as she can in the crook of the big branches, all her limbs curled in tight as she tries very hard to breathe quietly. Maybe the girl won't come up this high, and maybe she won't see Asmodia and yell and bring grown-ups that'll ask questions and want to know whose she is and why she's somewhere that's meant for citizens. Maybe. And maybe Asmodia will suddenly learn how to make herself invisible like she's always wanted. Neither seems very likely.
She shouldn't even move, but she has to see. Quietly, slowly, she peeks over a branch at the girl below. She can't see who the girl is talking to, but she doesn't dare keep her head out in the open long enough to really look, and quickly retreats back into the little hiding place that no longer seems so secure.
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A leap and a scurry, and a few moments later, a head swings down through the foliage to peer at Daine, wild sandy mullet and eyes that seem to take up a good half his face, and a twitching smile at the corner of his mouth, attached to the body of a six year old Vince Noir, hanging from his knees from a branch. He looks nearly painfully skinny, and his t-shirt has his own name in glittering pink rhinestones across his chest.
'Alright?' he offers hopefully. 'Who're you?'
Despite the improbability of it, his accent is still thoroughly Cockney urchin.
The squirrels in the branches chitter their laughter, wanting to know why she's got all that stuff around her legs, she can't hardly climb in it! and Vince waves a hand at the nearest of them. 'It's clothes, people wear them, you know that.'
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Obviously this is not Glasgow - Glasgow is gray and full of rain, and this place is neither of those things - but Nick is still in possession of a pocket knife. He scratches studiously at the wood paneling beside the slide, chipping in his sprawling, untidy script;
He stands back to scrutinize his completed work with a scowl, arms crossed over his chest.
[ooc: Rush is in the 10-11 range and he doesn't remember anything about Manhattan, the Rift, etc. He's also going through a difficult time in his life regarding gender and identity, so be warned.]
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"Is that physics?!" she says excitedly.
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She hates that she and her mom had to move away - away from her dad, and her grandmother, and her house and her room and all the things that were hers and aren't anymore. She hates how her name has been chopped in half for reasons her mom can't or won't try to explain. She really hates their new apartment, which is dark and gloomy all the time. It's like the shadows in her new bedroom have been creeping into her while she sleeps and taking pieces of her away, important pieces that she needs, and she wakes up feeling sick and empty. School is too much - first grade is too old to be sent home crying, but she can't help it.
She should probably be scared because she doesn't know where she is, but it's sunny here. Sunshine is the only thing that makes her feel better anymore. So she's lying on her back in some tall grass, eyes shut against the heavy beat of the sun against her face. After a minute, she hikes up the hem of her shirt so it can shine on her belly, too. This is nice. She'll just stay right here
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Aziraphale looks down at himself with immense displeasure. He's in a similar body to the one he's been wearing in Manhattan, but it's so low to the ground. And his hands are small and pudgy, his belly is even rounder than usual, and he feels all - soft and tiny. Cherublike, one might say.
This is the body of a CHILD.
Okay this is just a bridge too far. Of all the indignities the Rift has put him through this has to be the worst.
He stalks through the meadow looking like a little ball of fluffed up cat, so annoyed he nearly trips over a pale little girl.
"Oh-" he blurts, and then he takes another look at her, agog. There's no mistaking her, even as different as she is, a person is always the same throughout life to the eyes of an angel.
"Sunshine!" he says, immediately plopping down next to you. "Are you all right? You look terrible!"
Well, that could have come out better.
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Climbing the tree had felt risky and daring, especially the part when she almost fell out of it, but she's proud of the hiding place she found where a bunch of branches come together in a big knot up high. The idea was that she'd watch and see when the children leave, but that got boring quickly and she's since occupied herself by pulling bits of bark and twigs and leaves off the tree around her to make into what might be generously deemed a doll. Her brow is furrowed in concentration as she ties it together with a bit of twine from the pocket of her smock -- and, in a fit of half-daring, leaves the end of the twine trailing off from its middle to be a tail.
[Asmodia is somewhere around eight and fully regressed. She looks like a bitty version of her adult tiefling self, though her horns are just little stubby things at this point.]
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He obviously hasn't noticed Asmodia, but after a few seconds he starts pulling himself up onto the next branch. He's not going away.
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That's alright, there are lots of other kids here. Peering over the railing of the high platform he's scaled, he spots someone down on the ground and calls out to them without the slightest hesitation or shyness. "Hey!" he shouts. "Hey, yoo! Wanna play tag?!"
[Peter's maybe five or six and does not remember a dang thing. Mmyep.]
oh lord I hope I can get this right
This place is very pretty but it's not home, and she doesn't know any of the kids here. Other kids are scary and they never want to play games her way. So she's on her own, waiting until momma or granddaddy come to fetch her. They'll come, surely.
She's making a circle of pebbles. It has to be perfect and nice. Otherwise it's ruined and she has to start over.
Someone's talking to her! Oh no, oh no. She covers her head with her arms, curling into a little ball, then peeks out, looking up at him. What's tag? What should she say? Maybe if she doesn't say anything he'll go away.
[Bee's around 4 or 5]
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Sam's staying away from the playground, away from all the other normal kids. Maybe eight-year-olds aren't supposed to be morose and lonely, but it's not like Sam even really counts as a kid anymore. Maybe he wasn't ever. Freaks don't get friends, just knife collections and a long, long list of grisly things they know how to kill.
The swing-set's a cliché, but it's empty, and that's good. Sam kicks at the ground, hands wrapped around the swing chains, puffing up little swirls of sawdust where his sneakers scrape over the stuff.
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The unassuming little brown-haired boy with the shaggy haircut and flannel is like a metaphorical weight on the fabric of the universe; he feels his presence like gravity, like nothing else he's ever felt expect possibly his Father. His name is seared across his mind like it's branded there, deep and permanent.
He could stay away from him no more than he could stay away from God.
His bare feet are quiet as he walks up behind him and reaches for the swing beside him; he sits, facing the opposite way, and hooks his elbows around the chains.
"Hello, Sam."
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Perhaps it is not authority he is meant to convey, but comfort. Even so, he does not know who is his target, and it is troubling that he cannot remember on what plane he was last situated or on what task he is meant to complete. He tilts his head and stares up into the sky, stock still, as his aetheric essence expands and reaches out for his brethren, seeking contact so that he might make the necessary inquiries before taking action. That he cannot immediately sense them is unexpected but not outside the realm of possibility. Perhaps he should dispense of this physical body and leave this place to seek them out? But if he made the effort to put himself here in this form, surely there was a reason and it would be wasteful to undo it so quickly, and wastefulness is abhorrent. Frozen in indecision, he remains where he is, his little form unnaturally still, as he considers the options and their consequences and waits for someone who may give him instruction.
[Rashad is pre-fall and is very confused about why he has manifested as a nine-year-old child. This is a celestial automaton more or less how he was before he got broken the first time.]
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There's one little boy happily running and climbing and crawling all over the giant wooden structure. Not entirely in the intended ways, either - you probably aren't meant to walk along the upper railings like that. He's got both arms out to his sides like a tightrope walker, and despite the occasional wobble he's comfortable enough to be humming to himself while he does it. He doesn't really remember how he got here, but that doesn't worry him. There's plenty of other kids around, and it IS a playground - so obviously he should be playing on it!
Maybe later he'll go down and get some ice cream, too. He's pretty sure it's not normally free, but he's been watching the stand for a while now and no adult's come back to run it. That means it's free now, right...?
(( OOC: He's about seven or eight and fully regressed, if that is indeed the right word for it. ))
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She wishes her mother was here.
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Gabriel wanders through the little meadow covered in wildflowers, enjoying the breeze, but only until he realizes that he's not alone here. He looks about 12 and is draped in a white linen gown. These creatures around here are strange and new- like small upright apes, but there's more to them than that. They've got a special spark to them that he doesn't quite recognize.
It's strange that he looks like one of them. His Father must have done that, and he wonders why. Is he supposed to learn something here? Probably. He props himself behind a large branch of the great old tree and watches, half hidden. He doesn't think he's quite ready to interact with them yet, but he's very curious.
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"Hello, little brother."
What odd little forms these are. They're small and fragile and strangely shaped compared to their Father's previous creations.
"Are you going to talk to one of them? They use real language, like we do, except it's ugly and crude."
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tw lots of child abuse references :|
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"No. Agh! What in the buggering hell is this supposed to be about. Fucking-"
He's a child. Obviously, a child. And wearing fashion that went out of style a couple hundred years ago. All in all, this feels utterly ridiculous.
He plops himself down at the little fountain and crosses his arms over his chest. Nothing to do but wait for this whole thing to end.
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Seth is so overwhelmed by the scope of the playground that for a while he just kinda stands there gaping at it. They don't have anything like this where he lives. There's a lawn and some unclimbable trees, and that's about it - and the lawn is usually full of either people (always older than him) or trash or both. There's a swing-set at his school, but they're either all broken or taken up by people (again, always older than him).
He cautiously starts exploring the playground. There are other kids running around too, and Seth finds it's almost just as fun to watch them play as it is to climb the fort. It doesn't quite occur to him yet that he could approach one of them.
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This is one of the strangest - and oddly thrilling - dreams Melanie has had, yet. None of the children here are hungry children; she checked carefully, half hoping and half dreading seeing someone from her class, or one of the others she'd discovered later, in what was left of London. These are all normal children, though. That's exciting, too. She's seen normal children before, but never really interacted with one.
Would it be safe? Probably, she thinks; the hunger is shut tight in its box. She just doesn't know how to go about it.
When she spies another child more inclined towards observing than playing, she decides he might be a good place to start. Maybe he's more interested in books, like her. So she approaches him directly, making sure to walk at a normal pace and stay within his line of sight, so he doesn't think she's trying to sneak up on him. A few feet away, politely out of arm's reach, she stops. "Hi. I'm Melanie."
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She's not used to being able to play so openly. Nyx loves to run around, she loves to jump and shout and play games in the fields, but the other students at the Academy think that it's unseemly, or messy, or that they'd get in trouble. And yeah, maybe they will, but who cares? But her arguments tend to fall on deaf ears, and she's left to run around on her own.
But this? A whole structure made for playing on? Forget using bogs or fields or fruit-stalls, or trying to climb up the smooth walls of one of the libraries in the Capitol. She could do whatever she wanted here. She didn't even realize it at first, not until she watched a couple of the other kids.
And so there's a rambunctious, blonde Time Tot racing around--spinning the tic tac toe board, jumping off of the more moderate platforms, and swinging from the hanging bars. Just wait until Keikophnyxol finds out what a slide does.
[not in the game (yet???), so fully regressed to about 8 or 9.]
ohai thar, it's cully!
He's skipping haphazardly along a long wooden bar that's clearly supposed to be used as a railing but which is much better utilised as a balance beam when he sees Nyx spinning the tic tac toe board, and prompts launches himself in her direction. He lands like someone who's spent a lot of time launching himself at things (he has; comes of growing up in the jungle), a crouch that he springs up from easily.
'What's that?' He points at the spinning board. They're letters, he thinks; Bryan has sporadically been trying to teach him to read, but Vince isn't much good at it.
He's an incredibly small child; skinny enough that ribs can be seen under his t-shirt (decorated in pink rhinestones with his own name: VINCE), and short for his age, but his hair and eyes seem to be trying to be big enough to make up for the rest of him. His feet, when he stands, point in, a pigeon-toed stance that betrays some of his nerves at the unfamiliar situation, despite his decided lack of shyness.
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Here is bright and pretty and peaceful, and Mako likes playing in the water even if she's well and truly soaked by now. No more caring about things she hears on radios, not today. She's having way too much fun to worry about that.
[ooc: Mako is about 10 and is also probably still learning English.]
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This has got to be Earth, strange though it is that he can't remember how he got here, nor how he ended up in this body, which-- he looks down at his hands-- seems uncommonly small. He spares a frown of thought, but puts it down to ineffability with the shrug of one who is perhaps already getting slightly cheesed off with that whole concept. The structure that dominates the field looks like a sort of... crude imitation of some of the palaces of Heaven. Funny. But it merits exploration, he thinks, and he sets off curiously to do some poking about.
To those dreamers who hail from Manhattan, they might recognise this particular boy as looking much like an aged-down version of the demon Crowley. Or, at any rate, what that body would look like if it were about twelve; weedy, with wild hair and-- unusually-- dark and entirely human-looking eyes. But Zaphkiel wouldn't know anything about that; he's an angel, and demons haven't even been invented yet.
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A very damp (and very round) bear cub can currently be found pawing open the door of an ice cream stand someone went and left unlatched. He very studiously pries it open, shoving his nose into the crack so he can use his face to push it the rest of the way open and clamber up inside. He is going to wreck this place until he gets the ice cream he can smell, and possibly wreck things some more after that also.
[Shut up it's close enough to the full moon, I do what I want]
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"You shouldn't be in there," she calls, twisting her hands together. "There'll be a fuss."
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