Step Right Up! [Open]

[applesaucemod]

It might be winter in the waking world, but tonight, the dreamers will find themselves wrapped in the warmth of a blazing August afternoon. Here, it is summer - and what's more, the Carnival has come to town!

Whatever the dreamer's tastes, there should be something to amuse them. There are rides that tend towards the rickety, wooden end of the spectrum, a petting zoo occupied - for the most part - by tolerant farm animals, food stalls selling every kind of carnival faire you'd imagine, and an arcade full of rigged games. Inquisitive dreamers might find that some of the wares tend towards the esoteric, and some of the stalls might seem a little out of place, but it's all the sort of thing that might show up in a carnival somewhere. Look, no one's perfect.

Overall, though, it's a modest set-up. The once brightly colored canvas has been faded by the sun, and the paint is peeling in a few places. But the gentle wear lends everything an air of comfort (as opposed to an air of a lawsuit waiting to happen). Whether you're riding the ferris wheel, petting a goat, or trying to win a stuffed animal the size of a small child, the only harm the dreamers can expect is the kind they might dole out themselves.



[OOC: oh, you all know the drill by now.]

Comments

[cheeseburger_backpack]

"You remind me of someone I once knew," Steven says gravely. "My son, Steven Junior."

The goat responds by pulling the hem of Steven's t-shirt into its mouth.

"He was brave and true," Steven continues, petting the goat's neck. "Well, mostly brave. He kinda went off and did his own thing after we got the Heaven Beetle." After a moment's consideration, which comes in the form of an intense, thousand-yard stare, he concludes, "He couldn't be tamed."

The goat tugs on Steven's shirt, and the boy drops his air of dramatic recollection. "Not like you, huh, buddy?" he asks as he scratches behind the goat's ears. "You seem friendly! Do you like it here? Baa once for yes, and twice for no." The goat doesn't baa at all; instead, it leans its forehead against Steven's hip and rubs its head up and down, scratching its horn buds. "That isn't part of the code," Steven objects.

[wildmage_daine]

It's rather cool in here, isn't it? She'd like to be warmer. A slow, thorough exploration of her enclosure doesn't result in the kind of warmth she's looking for. Clearly, she will need to leave.

It takes some doing, but she's not short on muscle. She presses her nose against the screened roof and shoves, steady and inexorable, until the fine mesh gives way. There. It takes her another minute to squeeze through the gap and flow down onto the floor, in part because she's moving sluggishly, and in part because there's a lot of her to move. Her head is nearing the door by the time her tail leaves the tank, and she pauses there a moment, tongue flickering as she considers her options. She can feel the thrum of footsteps in her belly, but it doesn't scare her.

Nothing scares her.

She continues forward, towards the warmth outside this dark place ("LIVE REPTILE TENT," if she bothered to look up and read the sign). It's bright outside, and her pupils constrict as she slides out into the sunshine. Much better. Her tongue flicks, and she tastes the dust - animals and two-leggers and other things she can't categorize, but that doesn't concern her. All that concerns her is finding the most comfortable spot to bask.

[ooc: so, Daine's not entirely herself, but if anyone talks to her, she'll probably snap out of it. Otherwise, enjoy the giant snake slithering around the place.]

[spiritofwinter]

If you'd asked Jack before today, he would have told you that this kind of thing wasn't his scene -- sure, carnivals might sound fun, but they come hand in hand with summer heat.

Right now, though? Right now Jack is making up for lost time. One can probably find him laughing with glee and running from one ride to the next.

[rae_of_sun]

Sunshine's been enjoying a few weeks sans oppressive, sick-making sunlight deficiency, but December has still been intractably itself, so this is a welcome change of season. She's not so sure about the location - it's all a bit nomad for her tastes. Traveling carnivals are, almost by definition, difficult to ward. But they also tend to be crowded, and there's safety in numbers, and it's daylight, besides. Glorious daylight, and she's soaking in as much of it as she can, wearing screamingly purple shorts and a turquoise top that achieve an acceptable standard of public decency by a slimmer margin than her mother would probably approve of. Whatever. It's hot out, and it's not like everyone else is in long-sleeved formal wear.

She's also managed to find a charm stall, which she's checking out more out of morbid curiosity than anything else. Charms don't tend to travel well, and she's wondering if someone's making them on-site, or if the poor things are half-cracked to begin with. Taking a sip of sweetened iced tea, she ventures to poke at one of the more garish feathered specimens, trying to judge if the spark of response is cheery or just desperate.

[boneshaker]

Castor could not be happier. He's heard a few stories by now about rift-induced group nightmares, but so far they haven't even been that bad. He's never been to a place like this but it's familiar enough thanks to cultural osmosis. He wonders if this is anything like the fabled State Fair, back before it became a permanent fixture and a major crime den.

There's so much to do, he doesn't know where to start. Rides, dubious-looking foods, vendor stalls bursting with colorful shinies. He's almost too much. On second thought, he's a little overwhelmed.

It's probably inevitable that he starts out by rooting through the garbage. Comfort zones are important. The dumpsters here are overflowing with weird and interesting shit. Will he get to keep the energy he absorbs when he wakes up? Who's to say. It's a fun experiment.

[singthesong]

"SHOOT TO WIN!"

Needless to say, finding himself in a carnival gives the Balladeer a somewhat unpleasant jolt.

More than that, even - he flings himself sideways into the narrow space between two tents before he even has the chance to think. The nearby barker goes on shouting, heedless. His voice isn't familiar.

Hemmed in by two thick sheets of striped canvas, the heat is stifling. The Balladeer breathes shallow and quiet, leaning back against one of the poles. He's not afraid of home. He lived there far longer than he has in New York. Besides, he can't really afford to be. It would be a weakness if he ever found himself there again - assuming, of course, that he'd be able to feel anything at all. Maybe he'd just vanish, and Oswald would go on and do whatever it is he does. Harassing the new storyteller, perhaps? That's a strange thought.

But even if he remained fully himself, he's just...not sure he could go back to that kind of life now. Not after Manhattan.

Swallowing, he turns back to listen. The sounds here are unfamiliar; the games are beeping and playing little songs like more modern things, and there's faint pop music coming from a tinny speaker somewhere. That man is close, but he can't hear much of anything from him. There's only one reason for a person to be that empty. This is a dream.

The realization makes him feel a bit ridiculous. He can't just panic over things like that! He's been so much more jumpy lately than he ever used to be, and it's been months since anyone so much as fired a gun near him. The Balladeer straightens his spine and strides swiftly out, walking past the shooting game without a single acknowledgement. He knows he'll only glare at the man, and it's not really his fault. Those aren't even real guns. He just needs to put it all out of his mind, before someone happens along and he has to try to explain the whole carnival thing. That aspect of his previous existence is something he's never really touched on in any of his explanations. It just seemed like a distracting, yet not really important, facet of things.

He's spent so much time talking about home lately. He doesn't want to do it anymore. And anyway, this dream might be fun if he gives it a chance! The air here smells like sugar and fried dough, and there's a Ferris wheel looming above everything. He's never actually gotten the chance to ride one, and he's always been intrigued by the concept. The Balladeer sets off in that direction, quickly at first, but much more relaxed once he's left the games area. It could definitely be fun - but he's still not comfortable trying his hand at those.

[andhiswife]

Well, this is different. It seems like some sort of fête, though it's not clear what, if anything, is being celebrated. Not that the Rift needs an excuse. She should probably just be grateful that it feels friendly and normal and not like some sort of trick.

Greta's a bit dubious of the games, and more than a bit dubious of the rides (there's quite a bit of screaming, and it sounds more exhilarated than terrified, but still). So she follows her nose to the assorted food stalls, her eyes widening at the variety of what's on offer. Some of this stuff, she thinks, can't possibly be healthy. Of course, it's a dream, which means she could theoretically eat whatever she wanted without getting ill in the waking world. But she might just as easily get ill here, and that doesn't sound like much fun.

welp

[grimaud]

Lucien looks quite out of place here, 17th century clothing clashing against the more modern if faded carnival. He feels out of place too, though probably not as much as he should. This is almost all unknown to him, yet he's not as bothered as he should be. The concept of the place does not escape him. Besides, he's got three different weapons on him. While he may feel a little unsettled by the unfamiliarity, he is not one to scare easily.

Still, he mostly keeps to the shadows. Or the sidelines, anyway. The sun seems to reach everywhere, though he is no stranger to heat. He keeps his hood up to shield him from the bright light, mostly watching the other guests as opposed to partaking himself. This isn't the sort of thing he would usually describe as fun.

so, this asshole

[hot2trot]

Carnivals are well known to be safe havens for the criminal and those estranged from society as a whole. The fact that this one seems to be staffed entirely by well meaning and well-vetted individuals is a little disappointing for Mick. A fair should hide hidden grotty depths not...a storeroom filled with stuffed animals and goat pellets.

He knocks the door closed to the room he'd been investigating, then returns to stalking the stalls.

He pulls to a stop when he sees a line of air rifles laid out along a booth under a freshly painted wooden sign that says SHOOT THE STAR in bold red capital letters.

"Ah, this is more like it!" He slaps some money down on the counter and waits impatiently while the attendant sets up the gun and explains that the goal is to completely obliterate the red star on the paper at the other end of the range. "No problem. Come on, give me that." The attendant seems more than willing to give him the gun and flee to the other side of the booth.