lostcarnival | ⇨ THE REALM OF DREAMS

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⇨ THE REALM OF DREAMS

Who: EVERYONE!
When: S1:D8 - S1:D18
Where: Visiting the Realm of Dreams.
What: The carnival arrives at a new location and has its first performance week with the new cast, as outlined here. This is a general mingling log for convenience purposes, but players are welcome to make as many other logs for this purpose as desired.
Warnings: Could be a lot of things, around these parts.

THE REALM OF DREAMS↴

As the carnival arrives at its first stop since its recruitment phase, and prepares to put its new band of workers to the test. In the meantime, there is a whole new world of dreams and nightmares to be explored, and threats to be faced on carnival turf. As of S1:D11, the carnival will be opening its doors to the creatures within, and the carnival will be open daily from noon to midnight, though the connection to the realm will be constant.

This is an all purpose mingle log for the full duration of the stay, so please mark top levels with some estimate of what days they'll be occurring on. Please bring any mod questions to the original plotting post.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Gnarly."

Despite the ill feeling of congealed panic in his gut, a degree of awe has settled over him. In practice, the flashlight had done little more than irritate the shadow creature, but now without the fog of fear overwhelming everything Greg can see its edges proper. Like some sort of freakishly large, flat slug.

He takes some deep breaths to steel himself, and glances around. The pools of darkness have gone still now that they've started catching on. "Uhhh, big guy, I'm gonna move the light. You keep doing your...your thing."

Sans tears into the rest of it, becoming fixated on his kill rather than paying Greg much attention. It continues to make soft sounds of pain as Sans rips it to pieces and burns it with his breath, searing it away from the ground beneath them.

He manages to clear away what's left of that individual piece, but according to Greg's flashlight there is definitely more than one. He's not sure what they're going to do, but he knows for a fact here doesnt want them to get into the carnival.

And so as soon as he's done there he's quick to leap onto the next one Greg highlights - though by then, it seems like the creatures are not content to merely wait around for their destruction. As Sans moves for another kill, two of the dark blankets suddenly move across the grass, arcing up to catch the back legs of his massive beast form.

Sans lets out a sharp snarl of surprise, curling to snap at his own legs but struggling to manage with the way the creatures can seemingly fold in between his bones.

Not many people can make the fine distinction between a yelp and a panicked yell. It's one thing when Greg thinks he's the one in danger, another entirely when someone else is.

It's also hard to make the distinction between a thoughtlessly stupid move and a planned stupid move. Rushing over to grab at the killer cloaks wrapping around Sans' bones could qualify for either. Greg has no weaponry, nor a strong enough grip to pull them off. But, he is a much meatier meal for them to latch onto.

Holy shit. There are no words. This is one of the stupidest things Sans has ever seen, in a way that is legitimately kind of endearing - there is no practical reason this human should find it logical to try to take a bullet fora giant monster, but here it is.

Despite the fact that Sans is pretty sure that Greg is a more fragile target than himself, he can quickly feel the weight of these creatures against his form. It's something he'd noticed about the nightmares earlier. Monster physiology is highly reactive to intent- which means something made primarily of malicious and sadistic darkness? That powerful desire to hurt is enough to rapidly wear against the monster parts of him, as he soul buckles under the pressure.

This new magic is enough to hold him together and fend it off, but the contact hurts as if the bottom of these things is covered with some kind of acid. Still, he jerks away from Greg, kicking one of his legs in attempt to shake the human off.

"Back off, human," he rumbles, gathering energy in his jaw. He wants to blast them, but the possibility of collateral damage is all too high.

And Greg was right, that at least one of the creatures seems to think that a human would be an easier target.

"Oh man. Oh man oh man oh jeez."

Even knowing it was a stupid move, he wasn't prepared for quite how stupid it was. The speed of the creature latching and wrapping up around him catches Greg off guard, and he only has a few seconds to remember how to words.

He takes a look at the energy gathering in Sans' throat, and prays just for once he got the magic right. "I've got defense spells," he manages, and takes a deep breath as the creature curls around his head.

... Seriously? That's what he's leaving him to work with?

It takes Sans a few moments to decode what he's even supposed to do with that information. Defensive spells might help fend off the acid and crushing parts but humans probably need air. He's prepared to try blasting these things off of his own legs, so maybe... well, that's quite the leap of faith to ask a total stranger to make.

Thankfully, he knows he can mediate his damage flow, at least a bit. Here's hoping this human's spell is up to snuff.

With a fiery snort, Sans breathes cyan flames over the black creatures, focusing on Greg's in particular. The moment he sees a break, he'll dig in a claw instead to try to pry the thing off.

Good news: he doesn't die.

Bad news: it hurts like a bitch.

Greg still can't move much with the thing on him, but the pure energy blasted over them feels like a bath in hot coals and ash. Sans' claws digging in can't penetrate his stone-bolstered skin but the scraping bone really helps grind in that sizzling, burning sensation through the body.

Greg gasps, from pain but mostly for air, as soon as Sans manages to pry the creature from his mouth. "That was a bad plan," he wheezes.

The look the monster gives him is wild and unthinking as he bites what remains of the black creature, whipping it out from beneath the human and consuming it the same way he did the other one. After that, there's no more messing around. He's going to do as much damage as necessary to fix this problem, and he'll happily send the Ringmaster the bill.

He sears the remaining shadows, making no distinction between grass and nightmares, ripping his claws into the ground as he goes to ensure that they're all torn to shreds as the single creatures stays tightly wound around his leg. He scorches that one last, leaving nothing but faintly glowing cinders.

Patches of grass are still gently on fire as he finishes, limping over to where he left Greg and flopping down to the ground in exhaustion, closing his eyes and resting his head on his front paws. It's like the calm after a chaotic storm of destruction.

Is the human okay? He seems fine. It's fine, it's fine...

Edited 2016-11-07 18:50 (UTC)

Greg gets a brief look at that wild gaze, before yanking off the shadow sets him reeling on the ground. Pain and disorientation distract from the first part of Sans' rampage, but eventually he looks up to see the scene of fleshless carnage around him.

He still flinches back a little as Sans comes over. Though, the flinching just causes more lances of pain. By now he's fairly sure the huge skeleton monster isn't a bad guy, but it was a pretty brutal display he just watched.

Conflicted, confused, and concerned, Greg calls out to him. "Are you okay?"

Edited 2016-11-07 19:04 (UTC)

Well, now he's just tired as hell. He guesses spewing up that much laser and having an enormous leech suck on his legs has taken a lot out of him. Once he's thunked down next to the human, it's all too tempting to rest and fall asleep right then and there - until the thought that he can't occurs to him, very disappointingly.

He cracks open an eye, and speaks without moving his jaw - uncomfortably, as if this form isn't well suited to it.

"Tell me if you see more," he says, otherwise ignoring the question. He's about done for the night, he can tell. That angry blanket had done something to his bones, and along with the work he'd done earlier, he's spent. Stamina was always his problem, wasn't it?

He doesn't ask Greg if he's okay, yet. The fact that he's still up and talking seems to imply that he is.

He chews his lip for a moment; maybe Sans could have better handled these things if he hadn't been worrying about protecting him. Maybe--before he can slide further into that, he shakes it off. There'll be plenty of time for a pity party later.

Slowly, gingerly, Greg sits up. It's like being covered in bad sunburns. Luck has his flashlight lying nearby, still flickering through scorched grass.

It's now that the scene around him really starts to sink in. Greg stares at the ravaged plain, and shakily pulls out his radio again.

"Hi. I think we got it. Sorry to bug you. Over."

He looks at Sans. "I can call medical, if you want." He saw that limp, man.

Sans has to put a pointed effort into hauling himself back into consciousness, having dipped dangerously close to falling asleep just then. Okay, so Greg called off the alarm. Good. Now he just... medical. Right, okay. He's got this.

It takes a few moments of concentration, but all at once the ravaged grass outside of the main gates will vanish in favour of the two of them arriving next to a line of tents - specifically, nearby where the medical tent is centered. It's not for him, though. His problems have another, easier solution.

"Go get patched up," he rumbles softly, unsteadily pushing himself up onto his feet. His tail sways back and forth, trying to help keep his balance. He assumes the human is not usually supposed to look that red. Eh, nothing for it. "I got it."

And that's it. He starts wandering off towards the treeline, already starts to let bits of dust shed as he goes.

Oh, they--that's... That's another thing that happened today. All right then. Greg hisses out a long, distressed sigh. His shift just started.

When Sans gets up, though, it spurs Greg to try and get to his feet as well. "Hey!--ow." Emphasis on the word "try." Greg's in a fair amount of pain right now, but he's alive, and he can go back to his trailer and his son tonight.

"Thank you."

Sans doesn't even muster up a reply at that point, awkwardly bumping into a tree trunk as he passes beyond the treeline. He only waits a few more paces before he fully lets go of that form, excess bone and claw melting into a mound of dust with a soft woosh.

At this point, it feels like dumping a ton of weight off of his back, even if it ends up with him being small and naked and feeling more fragile than ever. It's extremely tempting to go to sleep right in his own pile of dirt, even as he tries to remind himself that he has to get his dreamcatcher out of his pocket dimension first.

Too much magic in one night.

Wait what

Greg is very confused and very uncomfortable, but not importantly now someone has collapsed and he can't stand here gawping. The burns keep him from moving as quickly as he would, but in a moment Greg's by Sans' side.

"Oh--jeez, ah--" Questions like "are you hurt" or "what happened" are pretty stupid by now. They need to get somewhere safe and with a lot of dreamcatchers.

"Okay. Hang on." Greg hesitantly tucks his arms under Sans. He's light. What a weird reversal from fifteen minutes back.

Shit... this guy's still here? He's so out of it when his exterior body falls into dust, that he still hasn't shaken thick layers of it off of his skull and body. When he changes back, it always leaves enough of a mess to almost bury him.

Somehow, in that time, this human has already followed him. Part of that makes him feel threatened, and the rest of it just makes him confused. He doesn't really have the mental space to consider that, at least to this one guy, his cover is totally blown - or for him to think about why he tried to keep it a secret in the first place.

He fumbles as Greg tries to pick him up - god this guy has some nasty burns, what is he doing, did Sans do that? - slipping in the dust and reaching out for something as he dully tries to remember how to open his portable hole.

At the very least, now Greg will probably recognize him from around the carnival the last couple weeks.

"Nah, man, what are you doing..." He trails off there. God, he's so tired. He's not hurt anymore, he left his injuries with his now dusted alternate form, but he's still totally drained and more brittle in a way he can viscerally feel. "I said I got it..."

Okay, this skeleton is suddenly small and a person and covered in ash and barely coherent and Greg is no expert on skeleton health but he's pretty sure this is not the ideal state.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you look terrible." Greg gestures to himself, in all his glory. "And that's coming from me."

Greg shakes his head. This guy saved his butt a second ago, he's not about to ignore him. "Just come in with me. Get some rest in the tent, whatever you need."

"Look, just gimme..." he mumbles, pulling away from Greg's support for a moment. He traces a circle into the air with a claw, a faint glowing line left in its tracks. A moment later, the space in the middle vanishes into some kind of void, and a bunch of stuff falls out of it. A hoodie. Some shorts. A walkie talkie.

"...a sec..."

The hole warbles shut, and Sans immediately falls face forward into his pile of clothes and the lingering mountain of dust. A few moments later, he snores loudly.

Right now, Greg has two choices; dressing a naked, unconscious, fully-grown (?) man, all while ignoring his own burns, or carrying said naked dude into the medical tent and having to explain without any answers.

Greg drapes the hoodie around Sans' dead weight to the best of his ability, and that's about as far as his remaining energy can take him, Dad Mode or no. He just can't mess around with skeleton legs and shorts right now. He can't.

And that's the story of how a man covered in light, chafing burns carried the unconscious, half-dressed warden into the medical tent.

Zecora turned away from her cauldron as the pair entered --

and frankly, if this were enough to even make her blink, one would really have to question what the heck she'd been doing for the past two years to have seen nothing stranger. Sitting in the corner with blinders on, at a minimum.

"I can see what brings you near," she commented, motioning to a pair of cots with a flick of her tail as she paced across the room on heavy obsidian hooves to a large rack of jars.
"But what ailment has him here?"

"Zzz," says Sans, his tail flopping around loosely as he lays limp in Greg's arms. It's absolutely not the first time she'll have seen him naked in a general sense, either, though usually he just comes by for brews to help with the whole 'being chronically unhealthy' thing.

They are both very dusty.

Edited 2016-11-08 01:05 (UTC)

"I dunno. He might just be tired." Greg himself isn't doing a lot better, unable to really register the Zebra and her rhyming as especially strange. He sets Sans down on one cot, all but collapsed on the other, and then hisses in discomfort from moving so carelessly.

"I'm not used to--there were nightmares, like, monsters." With adrenaline fading, everything in the last fifteen minutes has mushed into a big, terrifying, pretty rad blur. "He stopped them."

Picking up a jar in her teeth, Zecora casually stitched together an analysis spell as she paced over to them. The result was subtle, simply falling over the two of them to check their status. The side effects, though, were blatant, as grey lines shone through her fur where they twisted around her body like clouds and spiderwebs.

"Apply this paste
To your burns with haste," she said, pushing the jar of unguent into Greg's hands. Then, she turned to the wall, plucked a dreamcatcher off it, and with a flick of her head lobbed it straight into San's ribcage while she pondered the results of the spell.

Sans's will come up as him just being purely exhausted - like someone who has just pulled an all nighter, or gone for a very long series of runs. He isn't hurt or damaged, but with the way monster physiology works, the lack of strength in his spirit at the moment makes him physically vulnerable and weak.

He does probably just need to sleep, though. Though that dreamcatcher landing on his chest seems to be what wakes him up just enough to process where he is. One socket cracks open, dull blue light shining from within.

"Just tuckered myself out," he slurs, like he's trying to answer a question that he's not even sure was asked. It was probably asked, right?

Greg lapses into silence as he applies the paste, too tired and lost to keep rambling. Y'know, it's crazy how the burned areas stop right at where he was already poorly tanned.

On top of the burns, Greg's had a brief tussle with oxygen deprivation, but nothing to cause lasting damage. Also a long irrelevant list of ailments that come with middle age. Did you know he's got androgenetic alopecia? Wild.

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