The Big Applesauce Moderators (
applesaucemod) wrote in
applesaucedream2014-04-25 09:59 pm
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Entry tags:
- character: daine sarrasri,
- character: gabriel,
- character: johnny truant,
- character: peeta mellark,
- character: spike,
- character: sunshine,
- dropped: aglet bottlerack,
- dropped: aiden,
- dropped: andrew noble,
- dropped: bruce banner,
- dropped: james wood,
- dropped: jennifer strange,
- dropped: jodie holmes,
- dropped: the doctor (8),
- party post,
- retired: peter vincent,
- retired: yuri kostoglodov
May the odds be ever in your favor
In the dream there is a jungle. In the jungle, there is an impossible inland sea, briny like the ocean but surrounded by land on all sides. Around the sea there is a beach, and in the sea there is an island. On the island, there is a a cornucopia, a great curled golden horn with an opening that yawns twenty feet high. Around the cornucopia, land bridges stretch like spokes of a wheel from the island to the beach.
Inside the cornucopia, there are weapons. Everywhere, hidden well enough to escape the attention of all but the most carefully observant, there are cameras. Above is a false sky, an electric dome that stretches over the round expanse of jungle and disguises itself as the illusion of more jungle where it touches the ground. To touch it is to be electrocuted.
Those who hike off into the jungle may not ever reach the edge of the dome and learn how thoroughly they are trapped. An invisible, almost always intangible line extends from each of the island's spokes to the edge of the dome, a barrier between dangers for which there is no warning. Viewed from above, this round jungle begins to resemble a clock with its face divided into twelve wedges that all converge on the cornucopia. Unfortunately for the dreamers, this clock keeps time.
At the stroke of twelve, lightning strikes in the segment toward which the tail of the cornucopia points. At the strike of one, catastrophe moves clockwise and the next segment rains blood. Disaster strikes at the beginning of each hour, moving slowly but inexorably all the way around the jungle until it comes back to the beginning and starts again. Some segments represent near-inevitable death for anyone caught in them at the wrong moment, while others simply torture their captives or twist their perceptions. The beach and the island might seem to represent safety and reprieve, but some threats, like the wall of saltwater that comes crashing through the jungle at ten o'clock, reach even that haven. And though the world outside the jungle may be watching, that world is beyond the dreamers' reach. No one may pass beyond the dome except by awakening from the dream and leaving this place entirely in favor of the waking world.
Welcome to the Quarter Quell.
[Mod note: Same drill as always. All players and characters are welcome, current members or no. Characters will remember or forget any and all dream events at players' discretion. Death in the dream does not result in real death. Post your tags under the header for the section of the clock in which your thread takes place (if the thread takes place in multiple sections, put it under the header for the section in which it begins). Threads can take place at any time; note what time your thread begins when starting a new one so other players know whether the section will be active. Multiple threads per header are allowed. Dream time passes more quickly than real time (and is kind of timey wimey anyway), so feel free to subject your characters to as many or few hours as you wish.]
Inside the cornucopia, there are weapons. Everywhere, hidden well enough to escape the attention of all but the most carefully observant, there are cameras. Above is a false sky, an electric dome that stretches over the round expanse of jungle and disguises itself as the illusion of more jungle where it touches the ground. To touch it is to be electrocuted.
Those who hike off into the jungle may not ever reach the edge of the dome and learn how thoroughly they are trapped. An invisible, almost always intangible line extends from each of the island's spokes to the edge of the dome, a barrier between dangers for which there is no warning. Viewed from above, this round jungle begins to resemble a clock with its face divided into twelve wedges that all converge on the cornucopia. Unfortunately for the dreamers, this clock keeps time.
At the stroke of twelve, lightning strikes in the segment toward which the tail of the cornucopia points. At the strike of one, catastrophe moves clockwise and the next segment rains blood. Disaster strikes at the beginning of each hour, moving slowly but inexorably all the way around the jungle until it comes back to the beginning and starts again. Some segments represent near-inevitable death for anyone caught in them at the wrong moment, while others simply torture their captives or twist their perceptions. The beach and the island might seem to represent safety and reprieve, but some threats, like the wall of saltwater that comes crashing through the jungle at ten o'clock, reach even that haven. And though the world outside the jungle may be watching, that world is beyond the dreamers' reach. No one may pass beyond the dome except by awakening from the dream and leaving this place entirely in favor of the waking world.
Welcome to the Quarter Quell.
[Mod note: Same drill as always. All players and characters are welcome, current members or no. Characters will remember or forget any and all dream events at players' discretion. Death in the dream does not result in real death. Post your tags under the header for the section of the clock in which your thread takes place (if the thread takes place in multiple sections, put it under the header for the section in which it begins). Threads can take place at any time; note what time your thread begins when starting a new one so other players know whether the section will be active. Multiple threads per header are allowed. Dream time passes more quickly than real time (and is kind of timey wimey anyway), so feel free to subject your characters to as many or few hours as you wish.]
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There's no one in the cornucopia when they arrive, and Daine gapes at all the weaponry available. Plenty of folk back home have seen battle - her more than most - but the knowledge that all these weapons are intended to be used by unwilling participants in a fight to the death turns her stomach. There is a bow, though, prominently displayed as if it was waiting for her. She hurries over to it and picks it up, swinging a quiver of arrows over her shoulder with practiced ease. It's a fair strange bow, lighter than her own and made of a material that isn't wood, but she hefts it and decides the balance is good enough.
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She turns to Peeta and blinks at the expression on his face. It takes her a moment to guess why he's looking at her like that, and then she flushes unhappily. Katniss used a bow, didn't she?
"It's not much like what I'm used to," she admits, breaking the silence.
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At her proclamation, he gives the machete in his hand a look caught somewhere between angry and sad. "It never is," he murmurs.
Turning his attention back to Daine, he nods at a collection of small knives to her left. "You should probably grab a knife, too." Even more than being a secondary weapon - which he hopes won't be needed here - they're useful for basic tasks, like cutting up food. Better to have one than not.
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At his suggestion, she picks out a knife small enough to tuck into her belt. Most of the ones on display are wickedly large, but she'd rather have something practical than something that looks as if its primary function is just to scare folk.
She joins Peeta outside the cornucopia and nods back at the shoreline. "You said it was a big clock, right?" He's given her a rough overview of the arena before, but she wasn't about to press for details at the time. Now, though, she'd best hear them.
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Pointing to each in turn, he names the ones he knows: tidal wave, insects, lightning, blood rain, poisonous fog, monkeys, jabberjays, and some kind of animal. "I don't know what's in the others. The beach is safe for most of the areas, except the tidal wave. Each sector is active for an hour, starting with the lightning section."
Doing a quick count, he adds, "The monkeys are from three to four."
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She pulls out one of the arrows and examines it, turning it between her fingers and frowning. Much like the bow, the shape is more or less right - it's the materials that throw her. It's not even fletched with proper feathers, just with some sort of plastic - or it is metal? For a moment, she's reminded of stormwings, and she jerks her fingers back in sudden fear of being cut open by the not-feathers' edges.
"Back to the beach?" she asks as she carefully puts the arrow away.
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As they restart their circuit, he glances over at her. "I'm sorry for pulling you into this."
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Even as she says it, though, she knows how little comfort it will be. Accident or no, she's still privy to something personal that he'd rather she didn't see. She drifts closer to him and briefly rests a hand on his shoulder. "I've had folk drop in on my nightmares, too. It's not much fun, but it can only last so long before we wake up."
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"Don't suppose you can wake yourself up, huh?" he asks Daine with a wry smile.
A short, but loud, rustle in the trees off to their left draws Peeta's attention, and he pauses for a moment to study the treeline.
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Daine pauses when Peeta does. "It's all right," she says. "It's a tamarin - a normal one. They're primates, but very small." And this one is more scared of them than they are of it; they probably wouldn't have heard it at all if it wasn't in such a hurry to get away.
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They walk in silence for a while, Daine keeping an ear out for any danger, especially any to do with the People. Her footsteps slow as her focus shifts to one particular part of the jungle: the four o'clock section. They're well past it, now, but she can still feel the birds in the area. There seem to suddenly be a lot more than there were before. Daine stops, then slowly turns back to face the way they came, her brow furrowed. The birds don't quite feel right, either. She knows better than to go charging back toward them, but they don't feel as violent as the monkeys. There are just a lot of them, and they're all stirred up.
She tentatively reaches for them with her magic. What troubles you? she calls.
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"Daine," he says in warning, his body tensing in preparation for whatever might happen.
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Maybe she can draw them out, encourage them to disperse. They don't feel aggressive, just upset (and why wouldn't they be?), and she figures the only threat they pose is in their sheer numbers. If she can just get them to spread out a little…
She shifts her focus to a smaller number of the birds, a little flock of ten that seem to be sticking together. Here! she calls, trying to draw them away from that section of jungle. They veer obediently, and for a moment she's certain she'll be able to manage this.
She didn't know there was a barrier. As the birds strike it, agony flares in Daine's mind, and she lurches a little as if she's been shoved. "They're trapped!"
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Please, calm down! If she could get some of them to stop zipping around and just land for a few minutes, maybe that would give the rest of them enough space to avoid the barrier.
Daine! It's not Cloud. It can't be Cloud. But the bird's voice sounds just like her, and Daine stiffens. Daine, I can't find you!
"No." Daine sits down hard on the sand, letting the bow drop so she can cradle her head in her hands.
You left us, a bird accuses in Brokefang's voice. The Pack needed you, and you left.
She squeezes her eyes shut. Why are you saying these things?
This is all your fault. Spots. You should have listened to me. Cloud, again. You abandoned her. Kitten's ma. Daine clamps her hands over her ears, but it doesn't make any difference. The voices are in her mind.
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"Don't listen to them, Daine," he says, dropping to his knees in the sand beside her. He places his hands on her shoulders. "Whatever you're hearing, it isn't real." He can't hear anything himself, but he knows what's happening - Daine hears the jabberjays.
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You left us, chorus the achingly familiar voices from home. Zek. Rider ponies. Her stomach drops as some of the birds start to mimic the voices of her two-legger friends, Onua and their majesties, Alanna and George. Numair. You left us you left us you left us.
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"You're fine," he tells her, "they aren't real. This is just a dream. Nothing they say is true. No one is here but you and me." On and on he goes, and endless stream of chatter. He can only hope it is helps.
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But before too long, Peeta's voice starts to cut through the jumble. He's right. It's not real. Gritting her teeth, she throws up her mental shields. The jays' voices are cut off, and hundreds of pinpricks of copper fire are abruptly doused. Now, she's as unaware of the People in the arena as any other two-legger would be.
She pulls in a shuddering breath, then drops her hands from her head. "I… I'm okay," she says. "I turned it off."
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"Daine?" He bites down the instinct to ask if she's okay; of course she isn't. Instead, her names hangs as its own inquiry.
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She doesn't like to think about what's still happening out there while she turns a deaf ear, but this isn't the first time she's been forced to block out the People's suffering, and it probably won't be the last.
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Sitting back on his haunches, he glances at the jungle nearest them. For now, at least, it will be safe. "We can rest for a while, if you'd like," he offers.
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