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applesaucedream2016-01-29 08:14 pm
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Entry tags:
- character: asmodia antarion,
- character: castor el-saeid,
- character: cole,
- character: daine sarrasri,
- character: gabriel,
- character: greta baker,
- character: iman asadi,
- character: jack frost,
- character: james t. kirk,
- character: jess mariano,
- character: johnny truant,
- character: king richard,
- character: rashad durant,
- character: steven universe,
- character: sunshine,
- character: the balladeer,
- dropped: seth,
- party post
It's a Waste of Time, Chasing in the Dark

Tonight, the dreamers will find themselves in a forest. Or an office. Or a suburban living room. Or a castle tower. Or a grocery store. The dream is a patchwork of assorted settings, each one blurring inelegantly into the next, most of them only claiming half an acre or so. The hodgepodge makes for quite a sight.
Or it would, if the dreamers could see anything. Natural light is in short supply. In fact, there isn't any light at all, not even a faint twinkle of starlight; you might as well be deep inside a cave. No matter how good their eyes might be, the dreamers won't be able to see their own hands in front of their faces - not unless they can fashion some sort of light source out of whatever they might manage to find. The dream isn't inclined to make things easy; any appliances or electrical light sources the dreamers stumble over won't be plugged in, and any walls, however solid they might seem, won't contain any wiring. A small fire might be the best bet - presuming you can find any means of lighting one.
But there's good news. Each of the dreamers will find themselves with a second set of
Just… move carefully. You wouldn't want to trip over someone else's dæmon by mistake. Imagine how awkward that would be.
[ooc: y'all know the drill. Characters don't have to be apped or in the game to show up, and dreamers can remember or forget the events of the dream at the player's discretion. This particular dream isn't a power nerf - a character with the ability to create light could still do so - but the range will be extremely localized, as if the darkness is a solid thing that doesn't want to be pushed back.]
ellis here with a shiny new piece of garbage
"Shit-!" He jerks back, disproportionately startled by what must be a very small creature. He hesitates, then leans forward again, expecting it to have scurried off, but it's still there, just staring at him.
Wary but not entirely scared, Castor leans forward to get a better look. He sees tufty brown-gray fur, little needle-claw hands, a somehow judgmental face.
"Take a picture, it'll last longer," she snaps, and he shrieks, actually shrieks.
"The fuck!" He drops the lighter and it goes out. He reaches around for it and instead the rodent clambers onto his hand. "Agh!"
"It's me, dumbass," says the squirrel.
"Y-" He stares at the blackness where he can feel her tiny paws gripping his hand. "You're a squirrel."
"Ooh, get the boy a medal so he can rust it on up," she chitters. "Get with the program, Cas. I'm you. You're me. We're us."
It's absurd, but he does have the overwhelming sensation of arguing with himself.
"Yooouuu are," he says slowly, with no prepared end to the thought She jumps down off his hand and, a moment later, nudges at his leg. His fingers find her and find his lighter clutched in her paws. He takes it almost begrudgingly and lights it again. "You're an extension of my what, my inner self?"
"Sure," she says. "Whatever. I don't get it either, all right? I'm not usually out here, all talky. But you don't see me throwing a fit. Name's Persis."
"Okay," he says, desperately trying to impress a small talking rodent. "If you're so damn smart, where are we?"
"The fuck should I know?!" She leaps onto him and settles up on his shoulder. "But we're together, that's all that counts."
Well. He'll give her that. There is something weirdly comforting about her being close to his ear. This is all very bizarre. He stands up and shines his sad little light around, then lets out a shrill whistle. "Hello?" he announces into the dark.
"Way to advertise our fuckin position," Persis grits out.
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All she's missing is a destination. 'Find Spike' is a pretty vague goal, after all. Her internal compass doesn't seem to be much use in dreams, so it's more likely that he'll spot her than anything else, what with her being so damn spot-able and all.
Not that her light seems to be going all that far. Maybe she's less conspicuous than she feels.
... Or maybe not. Sound has no problem traveling its usual distance, and she freezes when someone from not-too-far-away shouts out a greeting. Definitely not Spike.
"Just keep walking," Modomnoc mutters from her collar.
Sunshine frowns. That's certainly an option, but it's also undeniably a dick move. Whether Shouty McStranger has actually seen her or not, it's one thing to politely avoid a fellow dreamer and another to just outright abandon them - especially when she
ishas a light source. Sure, it's only a dream, and falling down a surprise staircase would only result in a rude awakening, but that doesn't make not-really-dying pleasant. Gods, what would even happen to their animal-thing, in that scenario? Yeesh.She's just... not gonna think about it. Or take her bee's mean-spirited advice.
"... Yeah?" she calls back, her wince pretty much audible. This is awkward, and not just because Dom is huffing at her in disapproval. What is she even trying to do, here, really? Rescue some random dreamer from a clumsy accident? She peers into the interminable darkness. "You okay?" she asks, uncertainly, like she's reading off a cue card written in exceptionally shitty handwriting.
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"I think so!" he says brightly, and takes a few steps toward her voice. He realizes suddenly that he can see something - a little bit of light, soft and about as unhelpful as his lighter. But it's something to move toward. "Is that you?" He waves his lighter. "I'm here. My name's Castor."
"You have decided this person is trustworthy based on four fucking syllables," Persis whispers, low and edged. He dismisses her cynicism with a little directionless swat. Man, he likes having his voice of reason on the inside, thank you very much.
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"Um. Yes." She shifts her grip on her knife, allowing more light to spill from between her fingers. It would probably be more efficient to just open the thing, but she's pretty sure brandishing a glowing weapon would make for a poor first impression. Light: good; naked blade (even a paltry little one): bad. "Sorry, it's not much. Light doesn't... go very far, here."
Still, it's brighter than the inconstant flickering of his lighter. Once he reaches the outer limits of her knife's range, she's able to get a better look at him and his squirrel (who looks about as enthusiastic about this whole arrangement as Dom feels). His shadows (of which there are plenty) say 'human' and 'Rifty,' but there's something else there, too. She can't quite parse it, which should be off-putting, but isn't. Maybe she's just getting used to not knowing what the hell is going on when it comes to the marks other universes leave on people.
"Sunshine," she says, giving her knife a little lift as if to add, go figure. "And this is Dom." Dom waggles his antennae in the new arrivals' direction, then begrudgingly lifts one foreleg in a half-assed wave.
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"Yo," says Persis, coiled over his shoulder like she can't decide if she's hiding or getting ready to pounce.
"So I have no idea what the hell is going on," he says. "I just met this asshole-" he nods at Persis "-a minute ago. Light, as you say, does not work."
"What are you, prepping her for a pop quiz?" Persis demands. "She don't need no bullet points, man. Like - this is you right now: 'Hi, my name is Castor. I am homeless. I am gay. I am a street rat magician. I'm new in town.' Quit wasting time."
"Yeah, so, I hate this squirrel," says Castor pleasantly, eyes on Sunshine, or what little he can see of her. "Are you - sorry if this is a weird question, but are you a conjurer or something? Just, that light isn't exactly normal."
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"It happens," Sunshine deadpans, echoing the shrug.
Her eyebrows lift a little at Castor's question. Anyone with eyes would clock that her glowing isn't normal, but his tone suggests a certain familiarity with this particular brand of weird. Is that what that edge to his shadows is about? Is his universe more along the lines of hers than Manhattan's?
"I don't conjure," she says with a wry smile. Even if she did, she probably wouldn't want to admit it; it's one of the more frowned-upon skillsets back home. "But I'm a magic-handler. Small stuff-changing, mostly." No point in talking up a skill that isn't going to be of much use here, anyway. The likelihood of tripping over the necessary components to transmute herself a flashlight from scratch (if she even could, in this godsawful darkness) seems about equal to the odds of just tripping over a functioning flashlight in the first place. She looks down at her knife and suppresses a sigh. "This is--was--sort of an accident."
Lifting her gaze back to Castor, she adds, "What about you?" If he's a magic-handler who's fallen into Rift York, she's gonna have to track him down and invite him to brunch or something. They could start a club.
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He rubs the back of his neck. "Magic-handler," he confirms. "Self-taught. Uh, matter manipulation, mostly." That's the quick answer that doesn't get into all the awkward questions. At a glance, Sunshine doesn't seem the judgmental sort - well, at least not about this, no more than his own squirrel self could be - but it's still not something he wants to just dive into yet. He always feels like he's writing a dissertation he's never gonna get credit for.
"So - wait." His thoughts catch up eventually. "Wait. You said this is... a dream?" He looks back at Sunshine's shoulder, in the general direction of the bee. Yeah, he's gonna need some elaboration on that point, cause this feels pretty fuckin real.
"Finally gonna follow up on that, huh," says Persis dryly.
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Self-taught, though. Does that carry the same implications? Said implications being things like 'might accidentally light everything on fire' or 'might be a bad cross' (because you can't help someone's demonic heritage but you can sure help stirring the pot by encouraging a partblood's magic-handling endeavors by teaching them).
Or 'might be capable of just about anything, because no one's taught him what he can't do.'
Well, who is she to judge? How much of a leg up did some haphazard childhood lessons really give her, when all was said and done? And she turned out okay.
Dom snorts. He doesn't even have to speak for Sunshine to get the message: keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.
Whatever, bee. She ignores him in favor of focusing on Castor's question. "Yeah. It's a... group thing. Happens every week or so. You get used to them." Raising an eyebrow, she adds, "I take it this is your first time."
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All good questions he's not actually asking. He's still stuck on the thing itself. "So we're dreaming, right now," he says. "You and me are both dreaming... the same dream."
"Keep reiterating that, I'm sure it'll help," sighs Persis.
"I'm just trying to-" Castor cuts himself off with an exasperated exhale. "This feels incredibly real."
"It's also incredibly illogical," says Persis. "There is absolutely no ambient light, what light we have isn't working normal, and you have an animal self talking to you. Did you not suspect maybe something was off?"
"I..." Well, those are all good points. Stymied, he refocuses on the dim outline of Sunshine. "Is there... a way to wake up?" he asks cautiously.
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And of course he'd go straight for the idea of waking up. She can't really blame the guy. The only real thing this dream has going for it is the whole animal-self thing, and given his squirrel's attitude, she's not sure that qualifies as a selling point.
Still, she doesn't really want to explain the finer points of how to wake up, and it's Dom who offers, dry as dust, "If you don't mind dying, then sure, waking up is pretty frigging straightforward."
Sunshine winces. "Or there's just... waiting. Waiting works, too." Eventually.
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"That's fucked up," says Persis bluntly. Funny how as soon as he picks up the sarcasm she shifts to being more straightforward. He supposes that makes sense.
"I guess it could be worse." He sighs and shrugs. "Death could mean real death. That would be the real kick in the ass. Wait, so, transmutation - that doesn't account for the light, does it? How are you doing that?" And can she do more, is really where he's hoping to go with this. For his first adventure in this group dream whatever, it's kind of a bummer that he can't even see it.
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Talking shop seems comparatively safe. Sunshine uncurls her fingers and lets her knife rest on her open palm, the glow radiating upwards like a tiny, perpetual dawn. They could use all the light they could get, and she's pretty sure Castor isn't going to snatch it and go sprinting off. "It... sort of does. Indirectly. I don't know how magic-handling works in your universe, but do you have affinities? Things you're good with, like water or wood or whatever?"
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Persis keeps quiet this time, so apparently she is finally in agreement with his line of questioning. She crawls from one shoulder to the other. She feels nervous, he thinks. Probably because that's a big fucking implication right there, and he only just got used to 'we're dreaming'.
Instinctively he reaches up and cups his hand around her, stroking her head with the pad of his forefinger. She doesn't resist the gesture, which is weirdly comforting.
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"... Um. So you're, uh, newer than I thought."
"Excuses," Dom mutters helpfully. Sunshine gives him a poke, and he buzzes his wings indignantly.
"Sorry," she adds to Castor. "The Rift does this, sometimes - bringing people into the dreams before it brings them into Manhattan. But... yes. There's a Rift that's weaseling its way into other universes and sucking people into some arbitrary iteration of New York City, so..." she sighs, shoulders slumping. She's really not good at this. "... I guess you might have that to look forward to, if it hasn't happened to you already."
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"A Rift," echoes Persis, picking up on the more pertinent information as usual. "That's some next level shit right there."
"No kidding." Castor shifts his lighter to his other hand and reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "So, you're saying I might, what, wake up there? Or..." How is this even happening, this dream thing, when last he remembers he was in his own shithole flat back in Northfuck Minneapolis?
"Okay. I'm just gonna. Deal with that when it happens," he says abruptly.
"Yes, that always works out so well," sighs Persis, even though she knows full well it kind of does.
"The answer is yes, we have, um, affinities," says Castor, barreling onward and away from the too-dizzying concept of a new universe. "We don't call them that. And... we choose them, kind of. Is that what it's like in your... universe?" What what what.
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Hey, maybe he'll get lucky. Maybe the Rift will decide not to mess with him, after all. Hell if she's going to float that theory, though.
Back to talking shop, then. That's probably wise. "We don't choose them," she says, intrigued by the thought. Wouldn't that be convenient. "It's a born-with-it kind of thing. Anyway, mine is sunlight, which... basically just means I do my best work when I can sit in the sunshine." We'll leave counter-affinities for another time. He doesn't need to know about all the vampire stuff; it's not like any of it pertains to him. "It, uh... it also means that if I do stuff after dark, it can get a bit... weird. Which is why my knife glows, now: transmuted it after dark."
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Fortunately the rest of what she's saying is totally fascinating, so his wariness is short-lived. Sounds about the same, practically speaking, as what he does - but equally as limiting and finicky as what the more elitist handlers do.
"Man, that's something," he says, examining the knife curiously. "I've never heard of a sunlight focus." Then again, no one's ever heard of a trash focus either. And the way she's describing it, it sounds like she doesn't work with sunlight directly, rather it fuels her transmutation.
"I take energy from my f- affinity," he says, "and I can do, like, simple spells. But it's a lot more about the thing I work with. Like if you could use sunlight to fight."
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He could be out there.
"Hey," Dom says sharply, and she feels the prickle of his feet moving across her neck until he can tap his foreleg against her faintly glowing necklace-scar. "Sheer." Her knife, too, is brighter than it had been a moment ago, warming her palm like a hot cup of tea.
Gods. Get it together, Sunshine. It's just a damn dream, and the more of a show she puts on, the more of an explanation she'll owe.
She inhales, and her scar fades. The knife stays brighter, but she doesn't have it in her to tell it to cool it. It can stay that way, if it wants.
Right. Let's just pretend that didn't happen. "What do you work with?" she asks, risking a brief glance up at Castor.
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But it's not his place to suggest. It settles back down and she obviously doesn't want to talk about it. And he knows well enough what that's like.
Case in point. It's not that he's ashamed of what he does, far from it, it just usually involves a little more explanation than he'd like, especially with fellow users, especially since this one follows different rules entirely. But if it'll help push away whatever she's pushing, then he can deal.
"Well," he says, sucking air through his teeth. "It's kind of a long story, but the short answer is... trash."
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Instead, he shares his affinity, and she immediately understands his initial reluctance. Her first response is an incredulous snort, because sunlight might be rare but refuse is frigging unheard-of. (What would that even mean on a counter-affinity scale? A resistance to cleanliness? No allergies or autoimmune disorders?) But, okay, no need to be rude. It's not like he was born with it. He chose garbage. And actually...
"... That's totally thor," she says. "Talk about constant access." Trash is everywhere, all the time.
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"You just wanted to scandalize all the rich kids," says Persis.
Castor can't help but grin. "Yeah," he says. "I'll admit that's part of it."
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What would the Wars have been like, if magic was as accessible as algebra?
Maybe her dubiousness is just a side effect of growing up in a universe where magic makes weird demands and goes rogue and isn't always biddable. It's hard to get all starry-eyed over the thought of some magical utopia when you can't even buy a charm without knowing, in the back of your mind, that it's probably going to go a bit nuts one day and have to be taken out back behind the proverbial woodshed.
Castor's universe isn't sounding that spartan on the egalitarian front, anyway. Setting aside the question of why something as basic as fire would only be available to the elite - he's carrying a lighter, after all - she gets the gist.
"So it's just about money, not the physical properties of the material?" she asks. Gods, this is the nerdiest conversation she's had in a while. "Like, when I transmute things - when anyone back home transmutes things - some materials are easier to work with than others. If it's denser, or if it's been heavily worked by people already, it's more stubborn. So, like, cloth is easier than stone, and a stone carving is harder than an unaltered rock."
"Strap in," Dom mutters to Persis. Then, to the group at large, "Should we sit down or something?"
Sunshine gives him an unimpressed look. "Like it makes any difference to you."
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He does so without hesitation, and Persis settles down into his lap.
"It's a little of both," he says, moving his hands around expressively and without much purpose. "The problem with the fancy shit - like fire, for instance - it burns out quick and it's really hard to control. Lightning they sell in fuckin' bottles, some weird jacked shit that self-sustains. That's way expensive, and super impractical. It's like breeding in. The more you draw from the same source, the weaker it gets - it's a racket, really. The rich people keep buying more of it cause it keeps burning out. Fire - I mean, people can make that themselves, but you have to do it with paper and matches like anyone else, and then you just have that one source, and it's not gonna last. Entropy always gets to it eventually. You can spread it out a bit, but try that without burning your whole condo down. It looks impressive but its utility is like... basically just showing off. Light shows. I work with entropy. Garbage is eternal. It's everywhere, it's malleable, and it's subjective as shit. No need to buy anything specifically designed for me. And it has more uses than you might think."
"He really likes talking about this," says Persis. "He pretends it's such a hardship but look at him go."
"Not every day you meet a user from another planet," says Castor with a wry grin.
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It's weird, listening to Castor describe his universe's version of magic-handling. Utility seems to be the big difference. The big magic-handling families tend to be rich back home, too, but the correlation is reversed: they've earned more because they can do more - and because they go back umpteen generations in a relatively straight line. Money tends to flow through the same carefully controlled channels as genetic predispositions. The end result of that more literal inbreeding tends to be diminished skill (go figure), but the point is rarely - if ever - something as straightforward as pyrotechnics. And even if the general competence level takes a dive, it's arguably worth it if it means avoiding a bad cross. A third-cousin who can barely twist a charm is less embarrassing than a third-cousin who went on a homicidal spree.
"So, hang on," she says as Dom trundles down her arm and into her palms, "what is it you're doing with magic? Aside from light shows. Ward-cutting? Charms?" Transmutation is comparatively unmarketable, but at least it has practical applications.
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"I mean... whatever they want?" He shrugs. "It's just a thing people use. You have to get documentation to use it, but that's not hard. That's just like a note on your ID. Mine just says 'handler' cause I don't use it for anything specific. There's like... academics, they're all theory and alchemy and shit. There's pop magicians, they're like entertainers, or they just use it to show off at parties. There's a ton of people who use it in their work, like... cops, doctors, architects... And then there's regular people who just kind of... know how to do it but don't get paid to. That's me. Undocumented users are either criminals or hedge witches."
"Successful criminals," says Persis pointedly.
"I am a thief, not a criminal," says Castor, sounding wholly affronted, which he knows is almost entirely for Sunshine's benefit. "If you're my inner spirit, you should know the damn difference between organized heists and stealing a damn watch or whatever."
"What part of you do you think I am?" says Persis. "The part that's like 'this is fine' or the part that's like 'if you weren't such a piece of shit you'd have a real job'?"
Castor stares at what little he can see of her for a moment before looking up at Sunshine's dimly illuminated face. "Sooo," he says. "Does that answer your question?"
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for this tag I'd like to thank Big Al, who also says dogs can't look up
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