wildestlogs | INTO THE WOODS ※ GAME EVENT

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INTO THE WOODS ※ GAME EVENT

INTO THE WOODS

The faerie faire goes on into the evening, the faire filled with the sounds of revelry. For those who've spent the day there, the cool evening air is welcome respite from the bright sun that's shined all day. Those who still have some faerie gold might even want to invest in a cloak if they haven't gotten one yet, because it may get chillier as night falls.

As evening descends and various floating flowers start to glow to provide light, the spring faeries start to bring out night-time merchandise and amusements, like brightly-colored phosphorescent flower jewelry. Fireflies are charmed to blink in different colors and magical fireworks paint the sky in vibrant light. They're quieter than normal fireworks, but there are still satisfying snaps and hisses.

It seems like it'll be a pleasant night at the fair and those only just arriving in the evening will find a charming scene opening up before them.

But one thing that isn't noticed as evening begins to fall is the way the winter faeries suddenly slink away into the rising dark. Or at least it isn't noticed until it's too late. Some of the summer faeries start to react to it with alarm.

"Where did they go? The winter faeries are supposed to provide security, they signed an agreement. Go tell Ponto and get some faeries with warding magic to shore up the wards." Faeries start flying with purpose to speak to others that need to be put on security. "We can handle it ourselves but we need to get enough people out to the borders."

"Should we disperse the faire?"

"No, there's no sign of any threats and if we re-ward it, they'll be safer here than people scattering in the woods at night. Even if we had the bad luck to be attacked before the wards are re-done we can defend them with our magic - and we're contracted to."

Unfortunately that bad luck hits too soon. While the faeries scramble to re-do the defense wards, an unearthly fog rolls in. Terrible screeches start to rend the air, sounding similar to the screams of foxes. Warning bells ring from warning wards placed in certain areas of the woods.

"Nightrenders!" someone calls out and people in the crowd start screaming, gathering their loved ones closer. Horrifying beings start to pour into the faire and the hand stamps of all the people who bought tickets ahead of time start to glow. Faeries rally around those people, casting powerful defensive spells. Due to the panic, several stalls start to go up in flames due to knocked over cooking fires. Fortunately the stalls are small enough for people to escape them easily and spread far enough apart that they can be avoided, but smoke joins the fog in the air.

If a faerie sees one of the squad of otherworlders, and their lack of glowing hand stamp they're quick to offer a warning. "You have to run! The people who bought tickets ahead of time entered into a magical agreement of protection. The warding takes time to charge. We can do nothing for you, without slow-charge wards we're not powerful enough to protect you. The Nightrenders will devour your brain, or your soul."

Apparently that little disclaimer about not being fully protected that some of them read while coming in (for those that had arrived earlier in the day) was more important than it seemed.

The faeries always point the same way, still trying to help the people without tickets. "To the north! There's a place in a canyon with a large, glowing crystal. It looks like an abandoned market and dwellings. You'll be safe there, the magic of the Heartstone will protect you."

USEFUL LINKS

Setting Background/FAQ | Major NPCs

NIGHTRENDERS

The beings known as Nightrenders start amassing on the faire. Their movements are quick but clumsy, as if every one of their movements is made up of a hundred janky, smaller fits and starts, like they're made of clockwork. The faerie magic summer faeries use seems to do no more than stagger them back or temporarily knock them over, but at least makes it clear to the squad that they at least can be knocked over and slowed down. At the very least it seems to take them some time to get off the ground and back to their feet.

Attacks

They attack anyone they see in different ways. Some they wound with massive claws. Or they squeeze someone's torso and nearly suffocate them to give them a chance at possibly chomping into the heads of their victims to get at the brains. Most dangerously of all, they breathe in with a loud sucking noise, clawed hands guiding the magic that lets them drawn out someone's soul to devour it. It looks like a small delicate thing, sometimes in the form of a glittering star or a flower, as its drawn out of the victim's mouth.

This process can fortunately be interrupted if the Nightrender is attacked. As long as the soul hasn't been sucked into their mouths, it goes back into the victim.

Cursed Aura

But the whole thing is complicated by the magical aura caused by the Nightrenders. When they draw close, everyone around them is choked with fear, grief, and dread. Some succumb to visions of their worse memories playing out in their heads over and over. Some might be able to still stagger away in this state, trying to see through the visions, especially if someone helps them along, but others will find it nearly impossible to do anything other than curl on the ground. It is unknown why some don't have the flashbacks or can power through them more than others, though it's thought that those that repress their bad memories or negative emotions struggle more.

Anyone that helps someone who's having visions may get a glimpse of their memories - and empathically feel a flash of the pain, fear, rage, or grief they felt during the memory. If two people try to help each other move forward when both are having visions, they may transmit glimpses back and forth.

Weaknesses

The Nightrenders cannot be destroyed, only knocked down, or slowed down. However, those with "holy" weapons, spells, or powers, or those who have weapons, spells, or powers that can hurt "ethereal" beings or evil spirits will find they can cause them enough pain that sometimes they run away. Spells and abilities that create magical manifestations of good will and happiness, as well as spells of light, or purification can also harm them and drive them away.

THE SISTERS

The Nightrenders don't speak, but some have the misfortune of hearing two voices echo out of the fog. The come in stereo, only just slightly out of sync.

"Chosen Ones, you must be so confused. You've become lost in the forest, and the Dark Lord's nightmares already pursue you. Fortunately for you, our mistress desires your company. You'll adore obeying her will. Don't run, embrace a better destiny."

Two woman in white masks and straw hats, with cloaks made from the feathers of ravens, come out of the fog, body language almost identical. No eyes can be seen through the eyeholes of their masks, just darkness.

They start attacking, and when they beset their victims they stop speaking, refusing to talk or answer questions, instead filling the air with wild, mocking laughter. One wields twin katanas, the other a kusarigama with a painful claw at the end of the chain that closes down when it hits something.

Nets

While they're extremely willing to injure the squad they seem to be trying to capture them instead of killing (albeit capturing them after they're maimed), occasionally tossing out nets of glowing silver of moonlight. Being caught in the nets renders someone paralyzed and weak, a deep cold settling into the marrow of their bones. Some may even hear the shrieks of dying loved ones, whether they've actually died in reality or not. The Sisters apparently have the strength to carry even the largest of the squad in the air and will attempt to fly away when someone is ensnared.

The nets are difficult to destroy, but can be with great force of some kind. It has to be aimed at the part closest to the Sisters' hands, because the force required to break the nets would also injure those trapped inside them. The cold and paralysis fades when the victims are free, but some of the rescued may feel weak and need help staying on their feet. Unfortunately, even when they're broken, the nets of moonlight seem to be something they can recreate within several minutes.

Smoke Monsters

For some, they don't attack directly. Instead, one of the sisters pulls out a pipe and smoke monsters pour out of it. They try to drag their victims closer to the sisters so they can be caught in their nets. Fortunately, they can be destroyed with enough force.

While the Sisters seem impossible to injure, they can at least be caused pain with extreme enough attacks, something that makes them teleport away before risking any further injury.

PROMPTS

a) RENT
Uh oh, a Nightrender has you. Either it's squeezing you so hard you're suffocating and about to chomp into some juicy brains, or it's in the process of sucking your soul out through your mouth. In either case, you're likely broadcasting visions of your worst memories in small flashes to whoever is near. You're in desperate need of rescue and the summer faeries can't help - their magic is all but useless on the Nightrenders if it didn't have time to build by a covenant. Only others that fell into the Wilderlands like you did can save you.

(Feel free to provide multiple memory options ala a memshare, but keep in mind they'd only be flashes instead of a full memory!)

b) NABBED
The Sisters have got you, their smoke monsters are trying to drag you away, or you're still trying to fight them to avoid being caught. It'll be a lot easier if you have help - otherwise you're outnumbered and possibly outclassed. The only way to stop them is fight back hard enough that they feel you're not worth the effort and teleport off.

c) RESCUE
Perhaps you're not affected by the Nightrenders or are just good at powering through the haze of painful magic they're inflicting on the area. Either way, you're out to help the people around you. Perhaps you run into another member of the otherworlder squad that needs saving - or maybe they join you to protect a third otherworlder, or a denizen of the Wilderlands that also forewent a ticket and is therefore at risk. Unlike many of the people from other universes, many of the denizens of the Wilderlands are powerless and thought they were in for a day and night of safe fun.

There are also other hazards to rescue people from. Maybe a small child has been separated from their parents and is disoriented by smoke, in need of rescued from some flaming tents. Or maybe an elderly person has fallen and is at risk of being trampled. There are lots of reasons people might need help, due to fires, panicked horses, collapsing tents, and panicking crowds.

d) RUN
It's time to run! Perhaps, after some screaming and confusion - and teleportation - you finally grab a buddy and bolt through the woods. You better run fast because the Nightrenders and the Sisters may give up chase at some point but it may take time and moving through difficult terrain in the fog to lose them. Perhaps you and a partner have to help a third, injured otherworlder because they're having trouble walking.

Better head north like the faeries said. The faeries were right that this Heartstone to the north may be your only hope - and you'll have to reach it despite the fading evening light, skies overcast with dark clouds, and fog.

It may be easier navigating in the dark with a partner or two.

e) WILDCARD
Maybe you decide to do none of the above. Go nuts!

OOC DETAILS
❧ Quest magic: Players can handwave that the quest bond magic is tugging the group northward to the safe place, with the mysterious Heartstone. They can also use the quest magic as an excuse for many different threads. As the group tries to run, their scattering movements will affect the magic and cause people to teleport at random, allowing for many different encounters with many other characters. This can explain why two characters that might otherwise stay together through the whole thing might get separated.

❧ Network: The network can now be used. Mirrors can and do float if someone is trying to talk through one and running, and can follow someone as they move, allowing people to communicate on the go or during action. Feel free to start using the network in parallel with the log events.

❧ NPCing: The mods won't be npcing but players are free to npc the actions of bystanders, the Nightrenders, and the Sisters. The Sisters won't speak, just continue laughing, and players can npc their specific attacks, capture attempts, and teleportation. Please just don't have them talk or godmode them dying - they're currently a little too sturdy for that. If you have a question about whether/how something will affect them feel free to ask the mods in the first comment below.

❧ Environment: Feel free to manipulate the environment. There are things left over from the faire people can work with like bow and arrow sets from the competition, horses (which can be temporarily stolen, though we'd like to limit any that are permanently stolen to the (1) horse another player already requested), and even explosive faerie fireworks (they're quieter than the normal thing but still create a big bang). Abandoned stalls also have weapons and supplies to grab as people run for it. If they didn't think to steal or buy useful things during the day, please limit this to only grabbing one or two items as they run, like a cloak or sword. They won't have time to loot for more.

❧ Experimentation: We'd like to encourage people to experiment! Obviously ask other players if they're down first, but it could be fun to do something other than 2 person threads, like maybe 2 PCs banding to rescuing a 3rd. Players are also encouraged to set limitations if they think it'd be more interesting, like locking their final escape prompt from the faire grounds to a single thread partner and playing out the drama of a full escape.

[OOC: Plot is visible so people can see and start plotting together but not open until Nov. 1. The mods will enable comments then.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

His breath hisses against her hand. The air outtake has wrinkled up in protest and some muscle in there has torn under this abuse. Even at a slow, lopsided, damaged pace, the night air shoves hard at both of them. Big messy drops of silver ichor trail in the air under Alloran's morphed wings, scattering with every beat, tumbling to splash on any surface they fall against. Mostly, forest floor and the trees he's dodging with often rather narrow margins.

If Alloran was another biped he'd think to question Saturday on jumping, but he's not thinking ahead far enough to remember that she doesn't have four legs. The bieleverd's instincts are clamoring to shake whatever's clinging to it, limp away, and find a place to hide and lick its injuries. It's a lot of effort, ignoring those on top of being in a good amount of pain.

<Hopefully, not a place with an ambush I'll miss from the air. I'll demorph as fast as I can, but if there are enemies then I will be helpless for most of that,> Alloran informs her, and goes into a long and angled glide, trading height for speed and distance and soon clearing the heavier forest for a not-quite-clearing. Brush rises to meet them, snatching leafy branches against his underside. <This should be low enough.>

If she does jump or fall clear, he'll continue in this trajectory, carving a silver-daubed swath through the saplings and bushes until he can manage to land. It's not going to be a good landing, he's injured enough that he can't neatly touch down, but the important thing will be that he doesn't die, and will start to shrink before he's come entirely to a stop.

Edited 2021-11-08 17:35 (UTC)

Saturday jumps, or more accurately, falls with style. She hits the ground in a forward roll, sparing her leg, and pops up on one knee.

"Alloran, you gonna be okay - " but he's already shrinking, beginning his change. Saturday looks away, mindful of a previous conversation.

"Need anything, or will the morph handle the damage?" she asks

<Morphing undoes injury. Keep watch for three minutes and don't speak unless something comes up. Please,> he adds awkwardly. There's a grating and a crack of bone and some unsettlingly squishy pops as he says that. Morphing is an upsetting way to change shapes, one that seems like it should be agonizing.

Night animals have scattered before the big shape and all the crashing, and the woods are filled with rustling and mysterious chatter, and the song of crickets just starting up again. If Saturday looks back the way they came she'll see the gleam of that silvery blood scattered like coins in the moonlight.

"'m on it."

They're a little exposed for her taste - she'd prefer Alloran have his back against a tree or something - but at least her expanded sense aren't on the fritz. She settles into a meditative pose, legs crossed, and listens with every part of her body. The one nice thing about what they're fighting is, it absolutely cannot sneak up on her pretending to be something else. The renders and the sisters distort the world around them; it's impossible to mistake for something natural.

The air is still, the sounds of the forest regular and unconcerned with the drifting screams and smoke not fifty yards away. Alloran's blood leaves a nice, visible trail; she can already see insects descending on the unexpected feast. At least they're having a nice time. She faces his blood-trail, on the principle that anything following them will likely be following that.

The sounds coming from Alloran continue to be bad. Except for a few more bones, it's mostly a soft, fleshy, liquid assortment of noises. During part of it he's gasping audibly through changing airways. Morphing is painless and does indeed undo injuries, but it's an unpredictable and unpleasant process to witness through any sense. His morphing is, anyway. There are individuals who can control the change and find ways to make it beautiful, to a point.

Some of the insects attracted to the silvery blood are moths drawn to its reflected moonlight. They flutter against it and it sticks to them, pulling them down.

When his morph completes, Alloran climbs to his hooves and shakes out his tail. Traces of bielevard blood cling to the mane that runs down his chest and hangs from his barrel, but he's left most of it on the ground. He closes his main eyes, stalk eyes standing watchful out from his head, and breathes hard, almost silently and with his sides visibly moving. Morphing is effort, flying is effort, carrying someone is effort, and he is out of shape.

<I'm done. Saturday, you were hurt? How bad is it.>

"Not great. I can move, but not fast. I don't know if it was poisoned or what, but it feels wrong. Could just be that those things are made of bad magic."

She had taken some time to get a better look at it, and bound it up with a ripped off bit of her shirt. The blood is still oozing through, but slowly. It had been a deep wound, but very clean, at least. No ragged edges or smell of infection, not that that would have set in just yet, but it was a point against poison.

"Have you ever seen anything like those things?"

Alloran considers his extraction options. He could morph back to bievelerd - given proper time to settle he could probably fly Saturday much farther than this wild sprint. It's been decades since he pushed on to that degree of effort while this tired but he used to be capable of it. Then again, that means taking yet more time when there's a clearly visible trail to their location.

He could just carry her on his back as an Andalite. That's not really something he wants to do, the back being a sensitive region when it comes to bearing another person's weight, but certainly she's not heavy enough to hurt him and it's an option he can't just reject outright. He can't exactly let a... are they friends? He can't exactly leave her behind out of prudishness.

<No, never. And I know little or nothing about magic, either.> He comes up alongside Saturday, giving her a measuring look. <What if you just kept a hand here at the bend in my spine for support? Would it help you to walk? If we're pursued and must move faster, then I can take the rest of your weight.> A compromise. A hand grabbing the stretch of mane over his foreshoulders isn't nearly as uncomfortably intimate as what riding would entail.

At least this gives him something to think of other than Esplin's voice, which makes him want to drive his tailblade into the back of his skull.

"Yeah, that'll help. If we have to run we have to run - can you carry me, though?"

She eyes him with some skepticism. To her eye his legs seem too slender and his overall frame a bit too deerlike to comfortably hold her. But then again, she's only ever ridden a quadraped twice in her life, and only long enough to tackle the other guy off his horse.

The joust seems like a very long time ago.

"I suppose if you had anything else to turn into, you'd propose it. Let's just - try not to get noticed."

<Go on, then,> he says, turning in place. This is a more involved maneuver than it is for a biped, including a careful repositioning of his hooves. <This way is north. Don't pull too hard on my mane unless you're about to fall.>

It's a reasonable question. Alloran is small for an adult male Andalite and can easily be described as delicate and dainty-looking, with a certain unicorn aspect. Not counting the eyestalks he's barely above six feet tall. His back slopes dramatically, without that dip in the middle that horses have, and bears that bristly mostly-upright mane.

 he says dryly, and chooses not to mention any of the context. <She was around your size, but he wasn't fully grown. Decades later his brother helped extract a political figure in a similar way. I can't imagine it's comfortable but if I get a leg injury that doesn't matter. And I have other creatures that might be capable, but nothing... subtle. Besides, this is too close.>

"All right." She wraps her fist in his mane as tight as she dares, putting maybe half her weight on him. "Tell me if I need to lighten up a bit."

Under normal circumstances, some part of her notes, being this close to an alien would be cool as hell. But it feels - not normal, exactly, but ordinary. Right now Alloran is her buddy, and they are getting the hell out of dodge before the enemy finishes what it started. Like they have before, and will again.

It's comforting, in a weird, horrible, good-thing-elves-live-for-centuries-cause-I'm-gonna-need-that-much-therapy way. Maybe it shouldn't be. But being alone would be way, way worse.

"Let's go."

<It's fine.> He'll manage. Despite his apparent delicacy Alloran weighs over six hundred pounds - a good portion of that is tail - so weight isn't really the issue that general discomfort is. Despite everything, he's really pleased to be able to have that choice and decide, no, I'm not going to carry an alien bouncing around that close to my genitals unless it's a matter of life or death and also to not have anyone know.

It's going to take some trial and error to pick a good pace. His first inclination is probably too fast. Alloran's enormous tail curves up well over his head and strikes a decent-sized branch they've just passed under so that it rustles to the ground. Ideally, that's a tripping hazard, but it might be noisy.

 he says, rather casually for such an admission. During his whole time on the Rig, Alloran downplayed the speed and power of his tail, even holding it submissively low much of the time. <But I don't know what those creatures are made of. If I can't take one's head to pieces as a bievelerd, I can't imagine my tailblade would do much better.>

"I don't think anything that ain't magic really touches 'em. An' on top of that, they're fuckin' tough. Fast, too, an' strong."

She grunts, and her fist tightens at her side, fingers digging into her palm. Alloran is going a bit fast, but the tug of pain from pushing it comforts her, feels like an outlet for her shame and fear.

"They fuckin' outclassed me. If there'd just been one, maybe, but so many..."

And whatever they'd been able to do, getting inside her head. Making her remember things, think about them instead of the fight, knock her out of her flow. Lost her focus. Like a god-damn amateur.

"I really don't like those fuckin' things."

His hooves thud rhythmically on the ground and his stalk eyes scan the woods, the way behind them, the sky. It's dark enough here in the woods that breaking into a run might be more dangerous than a fast walk, but he wants to, like he could outpace his own brain. The great thing about so laboriously flying and sharing his psyche with a big animal's instincts had been that they'd driven out most thoughts, which are coming back now.

<Yes, they are a problem. I think their poor coordination is likely the best angle to approach them from... that song though, that makes any handling of them much more difficult. Ideally with exposure comes tolerance, as with anything I can sing, but we can't expect the ideal situation, can we?> His voice is tight with revulsion and self-hatred. Alloran's delicate hands flick and wring, signing something that he repeats in thought-speech. <Disgusting. Disgusting.>

"You gonna be okay?"

She doesn't know how to reassure Alloran in this form, exactly, so she settles for a comforting sort of pat on his shoulder. Well, human half shoulder. Well, alien that kinda looks humanish half. The bit that sticks up and has parts she recognizes as being shoulderish.

"That thing with the fear aura... that what you mean by song? Nasty shit, yeah? But it's not real. It ain't. Even if it uses shit that was real."

She needs to say it as much for herself as for him.

He has a more or less shoulder-adjacent connection of arms to body, but they're not prominent like more human shoulders are. Closer to the way a rat's forelimbs join its body, in some ways. His ancestors weren't brachiators.

 he says darkly, cutting the air with his tail in a lashing, emphatic gesture. Given that he was just saying he doesn't think he can use it to kill a nightrender, he's absolutely not talking about fighting them.

Alloran's nostrils flare and his sides puff and subside with deep breaths as he signs something intricate and repetitive, performing a ritual to calm himself. He keeps doing it - palm down, palm up, fingers flickering while he traces up one arm to his elbow, hands together, spread apart - as he looks at Saturday out of one huge horizontal-pupilled green eye. <Are you all right? Leg aside.>

For a moment Saturday is going to say something stupid and reassuring, like it won't come to that or where there's life, there's hope. Then she remembers who she's talking to. Alloran's already seen the world with its skin off, all raw and torn and bleeding. He doesn't need a lie to keep him going.

"With luck, you won't need it. If we don't have any luck, spare a second for me. I don't wanna find out how these guys treat prisoners."

She sighs heavily before she answers his question.

"I'm up and movin'. Still breathin.' Gonna have nightmares for a while, but that's not new. Honestly - I'm startin' to wish I had more bad experiences just so's I can get some variety in the mindfucks."

<Yes, of course.> He knows more than he wants to about killing humans. <Please endeavor to give me a signal if it comes to that. This... the one time I've killed a human of my own discretion it was to spare her infestation. Naturally, I didn't know liberation would come two years later. Many people can bear two years, if they survive.>

It's so hard to know what's right. So many of the choices he's made aren't even ones he would make differently, necessarily.

The ground is rougher and more irregular here, the trees sparser. Alloran slows unwillingly, his hooves clicking against rock, both stalk eyes swiveling at a sound that turns out to be a deer crashing away from them. <They are coming faster than I would like. What is it like to nightmare? Andalites have some sleeping brain activity, but we retain very little of it when we wake, not like these visions.>

"I'll probably just yell something like "now, do it now!" while one of those fucking things is trying to leech the soul outta me."

Not all her bluster is a facade. There's always been a hard, callused part of her; it's as real as her desire to be kind. In some ways, it's the reason she has that desire. This is why she can talk so casually about her own desperate suicide.

"You didn't know she'd be freed. You did what you thought was right, an' circumstances made it a bad call. It happens. A lot. And she might not have been one of the people who can make it two years."

She's has to slow her pace, too, both because the ground is rough and because her leg is starting to go, not numb exactly, but more like her brain is giving up on trying to get her attention about how much it hurts.

"A nightmare? It's like. Well, it's just a dream, but it's a dream about something scary. So it's like. Being in a hallucination of everything you ever feared. Most of the time you wake up after a bit, or if you realize it's a dream you can wake up on your own or change it to something nice. Sometimes you don't wake up, though, or don't realize. So there's this second right after you wake up where you don't know what's real... with a nice dream that can be fun. With a nightmare, it's. Less fun."

He laughs humorlessly, a series of static pops. <Refreshingly direct, thank you. It's unlikely we'll ever be in a reversed position, but anything is possible. I would appreciate if you reciprocated, given the chance.>

There she is, giving him the benefit of the doubt again. Alloran almost tells Saturday that she's seen that human's face, that he was weeping through it earlier, but he's confessed so much to her already and this is one thing he feels some justification for. Nearly all of the people whose DNA he's acquired live on only in and through him. He just gestures to indicate he's heard her.

On the less stable ground Saturday's hand is tight on his mane, just a shade painful. He doesn't say anything about it. With only two legs, of course it's difficult to move when one is damaged.

"It ain't. Even if you sleep through it, you don't wake up feelin' any better. Some people can get nightmares so bad they can't sleep - you can imagine what a pain that is."

In an obscure way, she's pleased that Alloran is opening up a bit. Less pleased that it's happening in the context of a frantic limp-for-your-life, but she's been worried about the guy since back at the Rig. Maybe she's not an Andalite therapist, but the idea that people are people no matter how weird their context is to you has gotten her this far.

She does wonder a little if he's not telling her some things. Probably so. He's too torn up about shit that - well, it's miserable and it sucks and it's the kind of thing you never stop carrying, but Saturday's got a few burdens like that, herself, and sometimes the shit you can't put down is also shit you couldn't have done anything about.

Maybe that's the thing that makes it so hard to put down. Come to think.

"Do Andalites not get nightmares, then? Must be nice."

<We'll wake with ill feeling sometimes. Perhaps an image in mind. It isn't any sort of narrative though. Is that what insomnia is for you? Dream problems?>

There's the sound of running water, and they reach a riverbed that cuts deeply into the ground. In the low light it's impossible to tell if this is fordable right now, but it looks like a distance he could jump, even with a burden. Alloran swings a stalk eye over to look at Saturday.

 The idea of carrying someone above child size in his arms doesn't so much as cross his mind, and any kind of riding jump sounds kind of painful to him.

"Sometimes it's not wantin' the dreams. Sometimes it's that you really can't. Usually 'cause of anxiety - do andalites get that? It's like, uh, your fear instincts get all fucked up so you're nervy all the time, even when there's literally nothing to be scared of? Or sometimes it's a chemical thing. Brain doesn't make enough sleepy juice. Most of the time it's kinda both, I think."

Saturday eyes the river herself, does a few mental calculations, then nods.

"Yeah. You better carry me over - I might make it, might not, don't really want to risk the noise if I don't."

<We're descended from prey animals. Anxiety is very common,> he says dryly. Andalites tend to be light sleepers, and to struggle to whatever degree getting to sleep, and to keep a stalk eye open. That state where one is sure they're awake but time passes more quickly anyway is almost obligatory.

He nods back stiffly and pulls free of Saturday's hand. It takes some maneuvering before Alloran's in position, angling his tail out horizontally so that as he starts to pass her, she could sit on it. The base of his tail is thicker than her waist and, under the fur, absolutely hard with muscle, it won't move at all taking her weight.

If Saturday does put her weight on his tail he'll coil some of the length of it around her and just pick her up, keeping his tailblade well clear. It's kind of awkward, but she's probably seen him using his tail to move heavy things and pick items up off the floor before. <Stable?>

Saturday puts her weight on the tail gingerly at first. When it doesn't budge, she sits fully on it.

She can't help giggling when the tail wraps around her like an anaconda and lifts. This is definitely going in her top ten weirdest moments.

"Sorry - yeah, I'm stable. Wow, this is new. It really is like a whole extra manipulator limb, isn't it? At least for big stuff - tail would make delicate work hard."

<That's exactly what it is. My hands are for detail work and communication. Anything that requires strength or speed depends upon my tail.> Alloran doesn't have ball-jointed shoulders like humans do. His hands and arms are weak and slow compared to hers - he struggles to catch a ball unless it's lobbed as softly and precisely as possible - but he does have a ridiculous level of fine dexterity. The last foot of his tail, past the blade, does have a hairless padded stretch that can grip on things. No fingers though.

Gingerly Alloran shakes Saturday up and down a couple of times to see if he's got her securely. He can feel the strain in his tailbase and hips, just a dull warning right now. 

He trots back faire-wards, stalk eyes set far apart and scanning, ears held out and low.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

INTO THE WOODS ※ GAME EVENT

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