From the Left, Calpurnia, One Serves from the Left! [Open]

[applesaucemod]

Tonight, the dreamers will find themselves at a dinner party. It is an elegant dinner party, for the most elegant people in all of New York. That seems to be the general idea, at least, going by the upscale interior, immaculate table settings, mood lighting, and the small fact that the dreamers are all dressed to the nines. There's even an open bar! Look, they've had worse dreams. It's hard to complain. If anything, they ought to be thankful. That's the reason for the season, after all.

Which isn't to say they'll have nothing to complain about. It won't take the dreamers very long to realize that their thoughts and actions are accompanied by a steady stream of mild, audible narration. It politely cuts out whenever they speak, but if they fall silent, it picks up again. The mystery speakers' voices vary from dreamer to dreamer, but all of them are generally pleasant and inoffensive to the ear. They don't seem inclined towards arguing with their assignees - in fact, they don't even seem to notice when they're being addressed. Are they even conscious? It's not clear. What is clear is that they just. won't. stop.

The good news is that the dreamers won't be subjected to everyone's personal narration at once. The only disembodied voice they'll be able to hear with complete consistency is their own. However, they will find that if they engage in conversation with someone else, they'll start to pick up on their partner's narration, as well.

It probably won't be awkward at all.



[OOC: the usual dream party rules apply. Characters do not have to be apped to the game to play, and dreamers can remember or forget the events of the dream at the player's discretion. For the sake of clarity, audible narration will be enclosed in colons as opposed to quotation marks :a-like so: - this will keep it from getting muddled with the dialogue or confused with the non-audible narrative phrases you'd typically use in a tag.]

Comments

[boneshaker]

Okay, so first things first. He's wearing a tuxedo. Where did it come from. How. Why. So many questions.

Castor glances nervously around the room. There's a lot of people scattered around, no one he knows, everyone looks mildly confused, which is something, he supposes. Has he been abducted? Have they all been abducted? To... a formal dinner party?

:Castor feels he does not belong,: says a deep, declarative, and disembodied voice. Castor startles and turns, but there is no one - what's more, no one seems to be looking at him, so no one's heard this? Is he actually going crazy?

:Of course - he always feels this way,: the voice continues, knowingly. :But the sudden tuxedo does not help matters. He wonders where it came from, and where he is. This place, he thinks, feels like the kind of party pop magicians are always frequenting. It seems he has forgotten all about the dreams.:

"Oh," he blurts, a little release of the slowly-building tension of a voice detailing his personal thoughts. "Right."

:Fortunately, he manages to remember.:

"The fuck is this?" Castor demands, raising his voice a little, enough to be heard by whomever might be close by.

[andhiswife]

:What is she doing in such a fine gown? It has to be some sort of mistake.:

Greta turns her head sharply, her indignation almost immediately undercut by shame and embarrassment - as if she has any better argument against her mysterious adversary than 'shut it.' It is a fine gown, like nothing she's ever worn before, and she probably has no business in it, but that doesn't mean she enjoys being put in her place by some - some random woman she can't seem to spot.

:She'd feel less out of place in the kitchen, wherever it is. But considering the fact that she hardly knows where she is now, expecting her to find the kitchen might be a tall order.:

Oh, that is just-! Greta turns in a complete circle, almost treading on her own hemline twice. She knows how to spot a gossip, she thinks (some things can't be that different no matter what universe you're in, and a marriage can only be childless for so long before people start to talk), but she doesn't catch anyone looking at her, or pointedly looking away, or any other subtle sign that any of the women within hearing distance have seen fit to comment on her presence.

:Still, it's hard to argue that she belongs here.:

Greta reddens. She wants to confront whoever it is, but there's no one to confront, and she's not about to start tapping random women on the shoulder and asking if they have some sort of problem with her. Ugh. At a loss, she starts to edge along the wall with the vague hope of reaching a door. She has no intention of slinking off to the kitchen, but perhaps she can at least put that beastly woman behind her.

[etherthief]

:Well, this is certainly different. She's not sure she likes it, nor does she like her hijab being gone. That will have to be rectified somehow. Not to be outwitted by any smugly rendered dream scenario, Iman begins to scan the premises for a suitable piece of fabric to steal.:

"Just keep talkin," Iman mutters to herself, or to the voice, which is showing no signs of leaving her alone. She does as it says, grudgingly, because she thought of it, not because it's telling her to. All kinds of strangers and her hair isn't covered, to say nothing of her damn shoulders. This shit, honestly.

:She pretends to be uncomfortable, but she knows she looks hot as hell,: says the voice helpfully.

"Fuckin-" She whips around to confront the nothing, seething at the partial accuracy. She is uncomfortable. Yes, she... also looks real good. But that doesn't need spreading around, does it??

:She realizes, while she's searching for a hijab, she ought to also search for Greta,: the voice adds. :What with all the formal wear and such.:

Oh. Ohh dear. She didn't really think of that.

And now she has this voice, sharing everything in her head, and - she's not sure Greta needs to hear that quite frankly!

Just be cool. She continues her search for some kind of makeshift headcovering, preferably not a fancy napkin.

:Deep down, Iman knows this search is pointless.:

"Shhhhhhhhut up," she hisses to, apparently, no one.

[andhiswife]

Greta hasn't yet managed to shake off the mystery voice, though at least she has figured out that it's just a voice, not an entire person. The partygoers she's slipped past haven't shown any signs of hearing it, which is sort of encouraging (she doesn't like some of the things the voice has been saying), but also not.

:She feels as if she might be going mad.:

She grits her teeth - hearing a disembodied voice is bad enough; she's not about to start responding to it - and casts about for an exit, or even just a distraction, and that's when she spots Iman.

:It actually takes her an extra moment to recognize her own girlfriend. She looks stunning in that gorgeous, black dress.:

"Yes," Greta breathes in agreement, forgetting herself.

:The absence of a scarf is a surprise, though,: the voice continues placidly. :Iman almost always wears one when they're out in public.:

Greta starts. She's grown used to seeing Iman without her hijab, but the voice is right - she only forgoes the garment in private. Why doesn't she have one now? She watches Iman move along the table, peering down at the chairs in what looks like increasing frustration. Oh, dear. Either she's lost it, or the dream never deigned to give her one in the first place.

:Well, there has to be something she can do to help. Much as she'd like to leave, there's no question of abandoning Iman in her hour of need.:

Right. Greta presses her lips together in determination. She'll just ignore the voice. There's no reason to think Iman will be able to hear it, so as long as she doesn't respond to it, it'll be as if it's not even there.

:She can't help but feel anxious as she approaches,: the voice says unhelpfully as Greta edges out of the milling crowd. :What will Iman think of her?:

Ignore it. Just ignore it. "Iman?" Greta reaches out to take her by the elbow. "Are you all right? Your scarf..." she trails off. Her concern hasn't lessened, but it's sort of hard to focus on it with Iman so close, and looking so lovely, oh dear.

:She's so beautiful,: the voice says, sounding almost wistful.

[etherthief]

Iman starts at Greta's voice, turning with mingled embarrassment and relief Whatever she'd been about to think or say, however, screeches to a blinding halt and the sight of her, that color, that neckline, that everything.

She only distantly registers that the voice that speaks is not her own narrator, though the words fit well enough - the voice is different, and the way it sort of drifts into audibility doesn't fit with how hers has been clear as a bell the whole time.

Oh no. Oh no oh no. She'd thought no one could hear her voice but with increased proximity she's hearing Greta's. And if she can hear Greta's-

:Iman turns to greet Greta in kind but doesn't make it that far, standing instead rooted to the spot at the sight of her, speechless. She really ought to pull herself together but she can't. No amount of imagined daydreams could have prepared her for the actual sight of Greta in an elegant low-necked evening gown. She's stunning. She's flawless. Iman staggers back like she's trying to escape. She feels the pull sit down abruptly, but defies the urge with every scrap of will she has. She will not make more of a fool of herself than she already has. She covers her face to hide the blush, minutes too late.:

"Noooo," she whimpers from behind her hands, praying for the voice to just stop already, before she actually ignites from the heat of her shame.

:This is agonizing. It reminds her of the texts her phone sent, the premature truths she worked so hard to conceal. She still remembers every word. They might as well be etched into her heart. Greta I know we just met in the relative scheme of things and you don't know me all that well but I think I might be in love with you. You probably didn't realize a woman could love another woman like that? I don't know we've never talked about your relative understanding of gender and sexual norms. But I can teach you about that stuff. Not for ME, for you. You're so lovely, I hope this isn't too much.:

"STOP IT," she shrieks at the ether, flailing away from Greta as if to protect her, like she might be a bomb about to go off. She reaches out at random, grabs a bottle of wine off the table, stares at it, then breaks into a run.

[andhiswife]

Oh. Greta blinks in surprise as a second disembodied voice enters the mix. It only takes her a moment to realize it seems to have assigned itself to Iman the way her own voice has been tormenting her, and it's clear that Iman can hear it, too. That probably means that Iman can hear her voice as well, which would probably concern her if she wasn't too busy gaping at the sudden onslaught of Iman's narration.

Oh, goodness.

She's gone crimson by the time Iman's voice pronounces her flawless, and has to cover her mouth to hide a grin of mortified delight. She probably shouldn't be enjoying this when Iman so clearly isn't, but, well, it's sweet. She drops her hand when Iman staggers back, reaching after her with a sympathetic wince. "Iman, wait..."

But Iman's voice isn't finished. Greta pulls up short, eyes widening as it brings up those texts - not just mentioning them, but reciting them. She'd been curious about them; the only reason she hadn't asked about them before was because they'd been sent months ago from a phone Iman no longer even had. She'd assumed the details had been forgotten.

:Apparently not,: her voice observes quietly, just before Iman shouts at her own voice, nabs the nearest bottle of wine, and bolts.

"Oh, not again." Greta fists a hand in her skirt, hiking it up enough to hopefully keep from tripping over it, and follows.

:Why does this keep happening?: her voice wonders as she gives chase. :She supposes it would make sense if Iman's feelings for her were still a secret, but they're not. She already knows Iman had a crush on her for ages, she even knew the texts happened. Iman can't possibly think Greta would find any of it upsetting, honestly.:

This is ridiculous. Greta pauses long enough to kick off her shoes, and not being in heels gives her enough of an advantage to finally catch up. "Iman, stop." She stretches forward, finally seizing Iman by the hand that isn't already occupied by a wine bottle, bringing both of them to a standstill.

:That's better. She hates it when Iman runs from her; she always has. And this time, she's not even sure why it's happened. How else could she feel after that outburst but terribly flattered?:

And now this. Iman can probably hear it. Well, let her. Fair's fair. Greta releases her skirt and smoothes it over with her palm as she catches her breath, still keeping a tight hold on Iman's hand, lest she get any ideas.

:She's so lucky - lucky to have Iman, lucky to be so well-loved. She can't imagine running from this. She can't imagine wanting to.:

Oh, god. Greta buries her face in her free hand, then peeks at Iman from between her fingers. "You have one of these voices, too," she says, unable to fully mask her relief. "I thought it was just me."

[etherthief]

:Iman has no idea where she's going or why she's even running,: says the voice helpfully, cutting off when Greta snatches her hand. She stops short and turns, staring up into Greta's eyes with a stricken expression.

Greta's narrator divulges a few things and she draws a sharp little inhale, about to protest or apologize or something, she doesn't want to hurt Greta's feelings with her stupidity, it's just-

Well. It's hard to remain distressed when Greta's hiding her face like that. This is all ridiculous, as per the rift's usual - which is better than awful, which is the other usual.

"Yes," she says, hoping to speak before her voice gets any ideas. "I - I'm sorry, I wasn't running because I thought you'd... It was just too much, sometimes when things get to be too much I can't - I just panic." She looks down sheepishly at the hand still holding hers, and the wine she's still grasping like a ridiculous lifeline.

:Even as she settles down, she feels herself pulled between several instincts - to pull Greta along with her on her journey to whatever lies beyond this room, to drink this entire bottle of wine, to cover her damn hair - most of all she wants to be alone with Greta, which might almost be enough of a reason to give chase again, were she not intent on keeping close.:

During this monologue she starts gesturing along with her wine bottle, humoring the oversharing of information as though it were intentional, grinning in near-hysterics. She needs a drink. She needs eleven drinks.

[has_a_horn]

Gabriel arrives dressed in a tux that's a little old fashioned, but he feels comfortable in it. :The dreams aren't unknown to dump dangerous situations into pleasant environments, but it's hard for Gabriel to imagine anything deadly creeping out from behind the mood lighting.:

Gabriel looks up suddenly, then around him. The voice was probably female, soft-spoken and clear, but nonetheless odd to hear aloud.

"Yeah, Stranger than Fiction was a pretty good movie, but it wasn't that good." He waits a moment for the voice to reply or say something else, but it doesn't.

He walks up the the dining table and reaches out a hand to turn a silver fork over in his hand at the same time that he reaches out with his mind. :These dreams have become something of a magical space to him since he saw Seth here. Now, he can't help but reach out for the TARDIS in hope of seeing her again.:

He frowns and sets the fork back down.

[johnny_truant]

Johnny doesn't even notice Gabe as he brushes past the table, still trying to find a place to stash himself - it's his helpful accompanying voiceover that brings his attention to his tailcoated boyfriend, and brings him more or less crashing to a halt.

:There's Gabriel, looking amazingly fucking handsome, and Johnny almost moves right past him. He needs to slow down. Stop and notice. That's never ended miserably, right? The Devil's in the details, all that. Or the angel, as it were. Gabriel is the safety net he's never been allowed to have, and still he almost keeps moving. Still all he wants is to run.:

Johnny looks at Gabe, wondering if he can hear this. He averts his eyes, focusing idly on Gabriel's high-waisted trousers, his perfectly shined shoes.

:Well,: amends the voice, :not all he wants.:

[has_a_horn]

Gabriel turns when he senses Johnny, and for a few moments his grief about the TARDIS is masked by other more attractive thoughts. Johnny is staring right back, so at least the surprise is mutual. :The world of his experience has felt muted and fragmented lately, like his life is the emotional equivalent of watching a cable channel when you don't have cable. In the midst of his grief and indecision, Johnny is an exception - something solid that he can get a fix on. Right now, he matters more than anything else Gabriel has left.:

"Hey, kiddo. Lookin' good." He smiles fondly and takes a step forward, then reaches out a hand to run down the length of Johnny's tie. "You have a new voice inside your head too, or is that just me?"

[johnny_truant]

"Uh." Oh shit, oh shit. It doesn't seem like Gabe heard any of his disembodied bullshit, but Johnny definitely heard that. It hurts to hear all that, to know Gabriel is hurting so much, and hinging his happiness on Johnny - who, if his narration is just as audible, can only make this worse. He should escape. Gabe's hand is on his tie.

"They're not really-" he starts babbling, not quick enough.

:Johnny feels an immediate burst of guilt upon realizing he is carrying such a weight. Gabriel needs him, has so much invested in him, and here he is wanting to run. Needing to, because dreams never go well, and he has an astronomically bad feeling about this one. He doesn't run, instead stammering a few weak syllables and reaching out for Gabriel's hand.:

"Shit," he mutters, his hand almost flinching back.

[cheeseburger_backpack]

:Steven has seen many strange and wonderful things, but this is a first.:

"It really is!" Steven agrees, running an appreciative hand over his sleeve. He didn't know fancy dinner jackets came in pink. Or fuzzy. He watches the color shift as he pushes some of the velvet against the grain, and his eyes widen. "Look, I could write in this! Or draw a little smiley face!"

:As he prepares to cover his jacket in tiny drawings, it occurs to him that he'll need help if he wants his back covered.: Steven pauses, considering. :He could just take the jacket off,: the mystery person continues, :but what would be the fun in that?:

"Do... you want to help?" Steven asks. He'd been largely focused on his awesome fuzzy jacket, but now he has a good look around, trying to figure out who's been talking to him. "Hello?"

No response. Weird. Maybe they left.

:With a mental shrug, Steven-:

"You're back!" Steven spins around, even checking the ceiling, but he doesn't spot anyone. "Hey, where are you? Do you have a name?" Nothing. "Are you shy?" he hazards. "It's okay if you are. But it's safe to come out, if you want to. I'm not gonna hurt you."

Still nothing. Maybe they're hiding. Steven looks around the room, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

:For an accomplished player of hide-and-seek,: the voice pipes back up, :the room offers many options. The long, central table is the most obvious.:

Steven grins. "I might just have to check out this table," he says slyly. No one's sitting down, yet, so he won't be bothering anyone if he pokes around. He braces a hand on one of the chairs and bends over to peer through the forest of wooden furniture legs. "Helloooo?"

[johnny_truant]

:Do you remember the first time, Johnny? The first time you dreamed with the others, when you met him - before you fully understood what had become of you? Do you think time is repeating itself? You know you are never truly safe in dreams like this one - where there is a house involved, where your mind can run away into those dark corners. You should wake up, Johnny. Wake up before you hurt someone.:

Well, this is going well. Johnny fidgets with his tie - the suit is at least fitted and comfortable, and he can think of at least one person who would consider its addition to his person a perk - but right now he mostly just feels like finding a place to hide. If this narration shit is going to continue, and if there's any chance anyone else will hear it, he needs to get away from everyone as fast as possible. Lock himself in a closet or something. Sure Johnny, great idea.

:Even as he thinks of solutions he knows they'll only end in disaster. Everything Johnny Truant touches turns to disaster or death - especially in dreams.:

Johnny assumes everyone is going through this narration event, though he wonders if everyone's is as pointed as his. No one needs to hear this shit. No one.

:Again his mind whispers to run and hide like the rabbit he is, but all he can do is pace toward the wall, where he hopes against stubborn hope that he can linger undetected.:

"Shut up," he snaps under his breath.

[royaldick]

Richard is wearing a pretty snazzy suit, and he greatly approves. He's seen these outfits around, but he has yet to acquire any, so he's very happy to get to try one out. Add to that, this looks like his kind of place, and he can't help but walk a little taller.

:Dressed for the occasion and feeling confident, Richard fits in much more smoothly than usual. He hasn't been to a party this fancy since he threw one himself. That was when he was still King however. He's rather missed organising parties like this.:

Richard blinks, taken a little aback. That sounds a lot like his old jester.

"Steve?" he asks, looking vaguely upwards and around himself. He can't tell exactly where it's coming from. It's just sort of omni-present.

:Richard is not a stranger to metafiction, but this is a new twist. It does add a certain panache to the situation, he has to admit.:

"...True," he agrees. With himself? Ah, whatever.

:Satisfied he's familiarised himself with the situation, Richard decides it's time to get a drink. He can't spot any waiters, so he'll have to track down the bar himself. He's reminded of the time he ended up as a waiter at the Enchanted Forest, though this place looks substantially less gay--:

"Yes yes yes," he interrupts, waving his hand as if waving away smoke as he heads towards the bar.

[boneshaker]

There's no bartender either, so Castor has taken it upon himself to slip behind the counter and mix himself a cocktail of the fanciest stuff he can find.

:No sense in letting all this go to waste,: says his voice, which refuses to leave him alone. :Even if it is all a dream, it probably still tastes good. Castor wonders if he can get drunk in these dreams. It seems like a perfect time to find out.:

He sighs, rolling his eyes to himself and he finishes up a mix of champagne, spiced rum, and brandy. It's going to hit him like a truck, if it works.

:Castor is already gaying up the bar, at least,: says his voice, apparently apropos of nothing. He looks up, trying to decide if he should be offended, and is immediately diverted to see a scraggly-looking man in an incredibly snappy suit.

"Uh," he says. "Hi."

:He wonders if he should reveal that he's not really the bartender.:

[royaldick]

Richard approaches the bar, thinking of what to order. Maybe he'll just ask the young man for a recommendation. He's a little surprised when he realises he can hear someone else's narration, but not particularly perturbed. He's good at just running with things.

"Hello," he answers cheerfully.

And then it becomes evident that this guy is not the bartender.

"Oh. Well then." Richard steps around the counter and looks at the various equipment. "How do you do this?"

:There is a reason Richard was the waiter, not the bartender. And it wasn't just for the puns about Galavant serving behind bars.:

"Oh hush you," he answers casually.

[boneshaker]

Castor opens his mouth and shuts it again as two things become immediately apparent: this person can hear his voiceover, and Castor can hear his in return. Fabulous.

:Richard at least seems to be taking this in stride,: Castor's voice carries on with no regard to how awkward this is becoming. Castor squirms in place, looking at the bottles as if they're going to help him.

"I can make you a drink, you just don't need to tip me," he says after a moment, endeavoring to follow Richard's example and treat this like it's not a big deal. He looks around and goes for a bottle of gin.

:This guy looks like a gin kind of guy, insofar as Castor is any expert, which is not at all.:

"...I mean, are you?" Castor asks as prompted, looking weakly at Richard.

[omnomnom_feels]

:It has been some time since Nhodd has found himself among such finery. He finds little comfort in the neatly laid tables and the clean lines of his tuxedo, beset as he is by the hubbub of mortal -- and not so mortal -- emotions that beset him from all sides.:

Rashad stiffens, hands twitching. Remain calm and assess the situation. He turns in place, searching for the source of the voice.

:He has learned by now to control his base responses, or at least to pretend that he has control over them. He would not enjoy a repeat of his performance in the last dream he frequented.:

"Show yourself!" hisses Rashad in a stage whisper that is entirely too loud to be a proper whisper. Adversary unseen, he is already retreating toward some dark corner of the room, seeking some semblance of isolation.

[worth_it]

"Did somebody say 'Draco Malfoy'?"

:Probably not, but who cares? The young wizard sweeps in, striking a dramatic pose, and then looks down his nose at the man edging towards the corner. It's an impressive feat, considering that Draco's substantially shorter than he is. Pity Goyle isn't here. Or that other bizarre patchwork person - Ecks, wasn't it?:

Draco smiles, two hundred pounds of smug in a one hundred pound package. He assumes the funny voices are some sort of spell, but he hasn't bothered himself about finding the counter-curse or whatever. Why would he? It's awesome.

"Magic making you nervous?" he asks, his tone a bit too condescending to qualify as 'pitying.'

[omnomnom_feels]

:The arrival of any given mortal is no cause for fanfare, or even particular notice...provided, of course, that the mortal in question is not Iman Asadi or one of her retinue. In the old days, Nhodd would hardly have replied to such a taunt at all. Now he responds as though he were little more than a mudman himself.:

"I have no fear of magic," Rashad sneers, incensed by the voice's accusation...but unable to prevent himself from fulfilling it. "And that name was not spoken."

[worth_it]

"Um," Draco's brow furrows in mock confusion, "of course it was. I just said it." He sweeps around in a little circle for the sole purpose of showing off his dress robes (which are more or less identical to his school robes, but swooshier). "Duh."

:As far as Draco is concerned, his arrival is always cause for fanfare, even if he has to provide it himself.:

Draco gives the empty air a knowing smile. His voice knows what's what. He smirks at the stranger, then gestures upwards as if to say, you see?

:He's not sure what's going on with this person, though. Magic isn't news to him, but 'mudman' is a little too far off the mark, slang-wise. Perhaps he's some sort of beastly American. Draco almost feels sorry for him.:

[rae_of_sun]

"Gods and frigging angels."

:There are, admittedly, worse dresses she could have been stuck wearing, but this is still approximately 500% too dramatic for her tastes. Which is almost an impressive feat, considering the objectively boring color scheme.:

Sunshine had been craning her neck to gape at her unnecessarily long train - because seriously, it looks as if she somehow managed to get an entire tablecloth caught in her waistband - but now she turns to narrow her eyes at her general surroundings. "... Hello?"

:Okay, so, the dress could be worse, and so could the surroundings, which are also too dramatic for her tastes (though at least they're upscale in a 'rich snobs actually frequent this place' kind of way and not in a 'derelict ballroom where no one can hear you scream' kind of way). If she was some kind of pollyanna type, she might chalk those as positives. But it's sort of hard to be optimistic when you're hearing goddamn voices. What kind of kali Rift crap is this? Is one gimmick not enough?:

"Spartan," Sunshine mutters under her breath. So, she has some kind of... what, narrator? She considers herself pretty well-versed in all things Other-related, but off the top of her head, she can't think of anything that would lurk around invisibly and announce her innermost thoughts to the world at large. It doesn't feel like anyone's trolling her, though she waves her hand in front of her face, just to be on the safe side.

:How is she even supposed to walk in this thing?: the voice continues, and now she gets to feel stupid for waving her hand in front of her face for no reason, sure, pile that on. :Just... mosey along as if she isn't dragging an entire goddamn dichromatic fabric store in her wake?:

Sunshine grimaces. Actually, it's more of a pout. Then she hikes up the front of her skirt and tries taking a step, her lips tightening in displeasure as however many pounds of dress reluctantly slides along after her.

:Ugh. It's almost like being clotheslined, but without the commitment. She looks around the room for a suitable destination, spots a bar, and decides that'll do. If she has to schlep this frigging pup tent any distance, let there at least be an alcoholic reward at the end of it.:

[eliotwaugh]

:the best thing about getting drunk in a dream is that he won't wake up with a hangover, but Eliot would be hard pressed to find any negatives about this particular one. Given the decor and wardrobe, he actually feels, mercifully, comfortable.:

Or not. He frowns and puts down the bottle of Frangelico he was raiding from the bar, looking around for the source of the voice.

:He could make up some experimental cocktails, of course, but that sort of pastime is far more enjoyable with company, and lately he's had precious little of that. Which could be why he already made a head start on the bottle before looking for any mixers.:

"...the fuck?" Eliot murmurs, irritated. What kind of dream bullshit is this, ruining a perfectly good fancy party. The voice isn't loud, and Eliot can't decide if it sounds familiar or not, but he's not here to be judged on his social life (or lack thereof) by a narrator. He wonders, a little bitterly, if this is what Quentin feels like all of the time.

:He looks up at the sound of fabric rustling, someone coming to the bar--thank goodness for a familiar face.:

Oh for fuck's sake. Eliot shakes his head and gives Sunshine a weak smile and a wave. "So hey!" he starts, hoping the weird voice doesn't continue. Maybe if he can ignore it, it'll just go away. A one-two punch of denial and optimism. "This is pretty swank, huh?"

[rae_of_sun]

"That's one word for it," Sunshine says as she trudges up to the bar. Finally. Success. And Eliot will probably hook her up with a fancy booze concoction if she asks him nicely.

:Look at Eliot's nice, practical suit,: her narrator grouses helpfully. :No queen-sized bedroom set's worth of superfluous cloth for him. He could actually move around in that, if he wanted to. Sunshine, meanwhile, isn't even sure how to navigate sitting down.:

Sunshine flaps a dismissive hand at the empty air. "I'm being narrated," she says. If this wasn't a dream, and she wasn't already five hundred percent done with it all, she'd probably think twice before admitting such a thing (and then settle on admitting nothing). As it is, well, whatever. "It's frigging obnoxious, and I am prepared to drink whatever you care to put in front of me."

:There are probably kinder ways to greet a friend.:

Sunshine lets out a long-suffering sigh, not least of all because the asshole voice has a point. "Sorry. How are you?" She drapes herself over the bar in Eliot's general direction. "It's been a while."

:More her fault than his, she thinks. She really hasn't been up for much, lately.:

[eliotwaugh]

:Eliot can't help but notice Sunshine's obvious discomfort in the dress, and wishes he could do something to change it without causing some kind of catastrophe.:

He really didn't need that reminder. He laughs in relief when Sunshine reveals she's hearing voices too.

"Oh thank fuck, I thought it was just me, like this is the dream where I'm trapped in a navel-gazing bildungsroman." He searches the bar for something suitable. Well there's mint in the mini fridge, that'll do.

Eliot shrugs at the question. "Drunk and disorderly, for the most part, though I must be getting old because the one-night stands aren't as fun as they used to be." He shifts his attention back to Sunshine. :Better to focus on lighter things, instead of the mess with Johnny and Gabe.: Wow he wishes that would stop. "How have you been, how's the vampire? You aren't hiding him in that circus tent, are you?"