2022-05-03 - The Revenge of Jimmy Red Deer

It's dark here. Dark, and cold. A chill draft has claimed the floor, and the air smells like old spices and strange, chemical scents. It's a dreamscape; the sensation of being Somewhere Else is imminent and powerful. It's --

It's a wizard's tower. Straight out of somebody's Dungeons & Dragons game -- there's shelves of books along the walls, bottles, alchemist's vials and burners, even a stuffed crocodile hanging from the ceiling. Fat wax candles provide light, and the dust on the floor parts in patterns that show where feet walk and where feet never tread.

It's quiet here but for the breathing of other dreamers, finding themselves sitting or standing in the open space in front of the great hearth. And somehow, the shadows feel very, very alive.

"You know." There's not even a sigh this time. It's getting easier and easier to just immediately open her eyes, inwardly say fuck it all to hell, and move right on to the sarcasm. "I'm starting to wonder if my Dreams are taunting me with the fact that I'm never able to bring my clothing with me. Because lately I've been getting dresses that do wonderful, gravity defying things to my chest, and I just have to leave them here in Dreamland. It's a damn shame." Ava's voice is softer than usual. The tones are creamier and smooth. But the voice is still recognizable as hers. As is the face, though a little sharper than usual, and the ears far pointier. The hair is longer and in pretty waves down her back as she sits poised elegantly on a velvet stretched chair.

Her dress is green, and seems to be either silk, or satin, belted with woven fabric around the upper waist, seeming to be the only thing to protect some form of modesty. There's a delicate, golden shawl around her shoulders, and equally delicate jewelry all over her. "Again with the bare feet," she protests. "The Veil is a pervert." Her eyes begin to drift, surveying the others to see who else has joined this adventure this time around.

Zara, this is why you don't eat cheese before going to sleep. Especially when the decision to consume involved phrases like 'I can always cut around the mold'. As your grandmother used to say, albeit with no scientific evidence, eat cheese before bed time and you have strange dreams. Ergo, the one that Zara finds herself in now.

At least there is a familiar voice that causes her to look around. "Ava?" The ears throw her for a moment but it is her. And Zara has to nod in agreement about the gravity in this place. "Damn, girl. Is that a push-up handkerchief you're wearing?" Her eyes narrow with concern. "Wait, is that really you? We're in a dream together?" She glances down at herself and her eyes are now wide with concern. "Woah, definitely not my dream."

Zara's body is also demonstrating some gravity defying that reminds her of her youth. She wishes she could be wearing as much as Ava, but whoever has constructed this world has her in a 'scale mail bikini'. At least she has boots on - with fur lining, so that's nice. Still, Zara is already looking around for a cloak or something to cover herself with. "Definitely a pervert" she agrees. "I'm too old for this outfit. Don't suppose I can borrow your shawl?" Fluttering eyelashes for her best friend. "Seriously? I have a sword?" She does, hanging from the belt above her scale mail bikini bottoms.

Never fall asleep watching something, either. One moment Monroe was watching a fantasy movie downstairs in his bus, curled up on the converted couch slash kitchen table slash computer desk slash homework desk... and the next he's standing here, also bare foot, his long ginger hair twisted and braided to create a positively luxuriant faux mohawk of curls that spill down his back. His freckled face is painted in such a way as to make him look like a white deer. A singular golden horn rises from his forehead, surrounded by a low set diadem. He, too, bears sweeping elf ears, though his are heavily freckled.

What is clear is that whatever dressed them has decided that he, too, should be showing skin. Diaphanous green silk, faintly plucked through with golden thread to give it something of a leafy appearance, barely covers his slim chest from shoulder to knee, cut low at the torso and forming a loin cloth. A wide leather belt with a thick, wide plate covers his torso, golden antler tines sweeping into the carved wood. A long cloak sweeps down his back, currently swept back, its forest green fabric also plucked through with faint gold leaves and whorls.
In one four-fingered hand is a gnarled staff with a dully gleaming green gem in its center...

And in lieu of boots, Monroe finds himself balancing on a pair of delicate golden hooves, his slim legs having been reconfigured subtly to allow for this mode of locomotion... and that's ignoring the long, whiplike tail tufted with red curls at its tip that is swishing gracefully behind him.

"... Bloody hell. You've got to be kidding me." He takes a step, feeling awkward, then another, finding himself not off balance, his movements surprisingly graceful. He doesn't seem particularly bothered by the scanty fabric covering him, more fixated on his odd feet.

"You're never too old for that outfit, it lifts and separates." Monroe points out, cheekily. "As for me... I... think someone shagged a unicorn, and I'm the result." The accent is decidedly British, Received Pronunciation to be precise. He moves easily, sweeping free his cloak and offering it up to Zara without hesitation.

"Here, I'm used to being half naked in public."

Well this is fitting. As Deacon appears and looks about there's a moment's hesitation. His gaze looks to the others. "Alright...is this one of THOSE dreams or is this my own dream? Cause...right now this could go either way." Though he has a quick way to test it as he looks over to Ava. "Wench! Fetch me thy finest flagon of mead." In HIS dream - that might work. If it's one of those dreams...well, Ava's likely to kick his ass. There's some amusement as he hears the other conversation though and laughs. "Definitely not my dream. In my dream I wouldn't be holding my own staff." And then he says in a playfully quiet voice, trying his best to affect a British accent. "You're a wizard now, Harry."

And in truth, it looks to be the case. Which is fitting since his real weapon of choice, a gun, wouldn't really be a thing in this setting (at least not without going deep into splat books and just...we don't need to go there). "Did anyone else get that creepy vibe? I'm not a mender. I might be a den fender? I dunno though. How do you make a perception roll in real life...well a real dream? Oh good Lord, I can't even talk and figure out how to describe this."

This creature goes along really well with the whole D&D wizard tower vibe. Tall and gracile, jet black but dappled with white, bearing a very long horn of bronze opal on its brow, it's not a horse or a deer but something with attributes of both. The cloven hooves are the same bronze opal, and the tail is absurdly long and absurdly tasseled with billows of black silk.

It's wearing a hinged, heavy silver bridle that's chained to the wall. It snorts, yanking at the chain, but it seems powerless to escape. And then the voice of Itzhak Rosencrantz comes out of it, unmistakable New York gravel that could put a hell of a crack in your windshield. "Stupid--" yank, "fucking," yank, "bridle!" Despite the bit, the unicorn's voice is not muffled. Seems to just happen, no physical talking required.

He rolls his eyes white, sidling around. "Can someone get this thing off me?"

"Meow." There's a raggedy-ear black tomcat sitting on the unicorn's dappled backside. It looks feral -- not in the please save me way but in the I will rip your balls off and feed them to your girlfriend if you bother me way. The cat regards the scenery and the people in it with a feline expression of absolute failure to be impressed. Yay, humans are gonna human. And unicorn, and whatever it is Monroe is doing.

The cat opens its mouth again and says again, "Meow." Then it rolls blue-grey eyes and licks a paw. Nothing worth commenting on, apparently. Hold still, unicorn butt.

A door opens. It is not a big door, nor is it an impressive door; it's just an oaken door on old metal hinges, and the only interesting thing about it is that it wasn't there before. A man enters -- for a value of 'man'.

A tall and slender figure in black robes, revealing a pale face under dark hair, triangular and pointy-eared. Numerous belts and pouches are fastened to his belt; mystic sigils are embroidered in black silk on black cloth, almost imperceptible to the eye but for a shimmer in silent darkness. A small dagger with an ivory handle completes the outfit; sorcerer's apprentice.

His green eyes widen as he takes in the scenery, and the people -- creatures -- inside. Then he nods. "We're doing Dragonlance today, are we? Could be worse."

He takes a breath. "Ahem. Well, if we're doing Dragonlance then I'm Dalamar of Tarsis. Welcome to the Tower of High Wizardry. The Master is not present at the moment. Can I help you?"

"Yeah, darling, we're in a Dream together. Wait, Z? We've never been in one of these together. Oh no. It's probably because we were messing with all that magic stuff the other da--" Ava lets out a little whistle as she notes the chain bikini her bestie is wearing. "Not too old. Trust me. You look hot." She glances back to her cloak and its rather sheer nature. "I don't really think that this thing is going to be much help to you, I'm afraid." But Monroe has Zara covered, thankfully, and that earns a thankful look from at least one of the doctors on hand.

Which is just in time for another familiar voice to catch her attention, and force bright eyes to go wide. "Nooo, Deacon? See? What did I tell you would happen? I told you this would happen, didn't I." Wench? He gets a poke on the nose. "You're lucky I'm not wearing shoes, because you'd be eating one of them right now, you know that right?" It's offered with a laugh before the panicking Itz draws her attention away and she's hurrying over to help him panic less. There's no mistaking that accent.

"Well, aren't you a pretty boy." Ava can't help it as she gives his long, black neck a little pat. "Don't worry, I'll get it off, just give me a second." The bit, bridle, and assumed reins to go with them are all removed. Is there a saddle? She takes the time to get that taken off as well. Everything that binds him to the stereotype of mount is removed until he's completely free. She's probably still working on that when Dalamar walks in. "Can you?" she wonders.

"Let me out," the unicorn says through his teeth, "or I'm gonna lose it. I swear to God I'm gonna lose it. Take this fershtunkener thing off me!"

Unicorn butt is not holding still, slipping all over as he prances and slews back and forth, rainbow-bronze-opal hooves flashing. Ava comes to help him, swinging the hinge of the bridle free. The unicorn spits out the bit and kicks the whole contraption across the room. He turns enormous dark eyes on Ava. "Thanks. I was about to go loco." He's still shivering, satiny black skin twitching. The bridle seems to have left marks on his face, the fur pushed around by the metal pressure and then Itzhak fighting to get out of it.

The introduction of Dalamar makes him sigh aggrievedly. "It's been thirty years since I read a Dragonlance book, pal, okay?"

Zara gives a smile of thanks to the uni-baby as she takes the offered cloak. She clips it on before looking down at her barely covered body. "It certainly lifts but not sure it separates unless..." A sigh and a roll of her eyes. "Whoever is dreaming this has given me rather impossibly large breasts, so no separation here, just all cleavage. At least they didn't remember the back pain." A little twirl to show off the cloak before looking back to Monroe. "You normally walk around half-naked? But you sound English. I thought that was against the law. Even at home."

"I don't think we've been in a Dream before, Ava. Certainly not one with a capital D" Zara laughs to her friend. "And, please, you look surface of the sun temperature yourself. Those ears suit you. And those clothes you are almost wearing...perfection. Whoever is dreaming this certainly has some exotic thoughts about us."

A unicorn! How cool. Though its New York accented voice does ruin the magic a little. The unicorn is probably the most in need of them for a pair of pants.

"Deacon?" They may not know each other very well but a cop and an Emergency Department doctor do run into each other in the course of their business. "I'm Doctor Thule? Remember me? Ava has been telling me so much about you." A wink at Ava to further embarrass her friend. Though the use of the word 'wench' does get a scowl. But before more can be said or swords drawn, a possible explainer shows up.

"What's Dragonlance?" Zara asks no one in particular before trying a question more in context of the Dream. "Who is The Master? Perhaps it was she who summoned us? Probably had something very important for us to do." A look around the large room. "Tidy up?"

Deacon... gets a look from the red head with the unicorn horn. "I beg you. Never try that accent again." if anything, Monroe's accent has only gotten more pronounced in response, which... how much more pronounced can it get? He's about to go right into Posh Yawning. And then Itzhak the Unicorn is flailing around, and Monroe's eyebrows raise. "... are you my father?" he asks, only partially teasing, before he takes in the cat.

And then Ava is freeing Itzhak, and Zara's asking him about his comfort with less clothing. "We're not all utterly repressed and unable to take joy in our lives. Mostly just the royals, these days. But, I'm an art model. Sometimes it requires nudity. Which invariably brings about giggles and blushing from the students, but honestly, it's just skin. I don't understand what everyone gets so worked up about."

As if to make his point, he stretched out one too long leg and examines it, before turning those sage green eyes to Dalamar. "Nice robe."

"I ... well now this is fun." He looks over to the Unicorn and thinks. He's seen Jumanji. He taps about a moment to see if a 'character sheet' shows up a-la Jumanji or a D&D sheet that lists skills. And he's absolutely positively not looking for the riding stat. No sirree Bob. Still, Ava makes her way over to help and he just grins, which turns into an even wider smile at Monroe's declaration regarding his accent.

Looking to Doctor Thule, he playfully plays things up a bit. "I do believe I remember. Though you are definitely a bit different without your lab coat. Probably for the best. You are supposed to be preventing heart attacks, not causing them." He does wiggle his nose as he is booped by Ava, her response seeming to be accepted and, even more likely, exactly what he was fishing for. "She has, has she?" At the mention of Ava having mentioned him to the good Doctor he just sort of smirks wryly but yes, he has probably spent a decent amount of time there especially prior to making detective when bringing in suspects or having to get blood draws after an accident or such.

"Dragonlance. Wasn't that Raislin and some other guy? It's been a long time since I read that. Also we're missing Tanis then aren't we? Or...oh what was that other fellow's nam. Fizban? Zifnab? Anyway...help us? I assumed we were here to help you?"

"I know, I can tell," Ava offers in a soothing tone as the angry unicorn informs her of how close he was to going loco. She looks down to those big eyes and offers a sympathetic look, feeling the shivering and the anger at the same time. PTSD? Just a trigger? Either way, there's a look of understanding. "I won't let it get put back on you," is offered quietly. "Anyone tries, I'll set them on fire, okay?" Her fingers smooth out the rough parts of the fur on his face, making sure he didn't actually injure himself when he was fighting to get out of the bridle. "Besides, you can stab them, right? You've got a horn, now!" She gives it a little wiggle.

Her eyes flicker towards the cat, studying it for a moment. "You one of us, too?" she wonders, reaching a hand out, palm up. "Tap my palm if so." Of course, that's when Zara is ratting her out, her eyes sliding in the woman's direction with a how very dare you sort of expression. "Woman." Deacon gets a smirk and a little finger waggle. "Don't you go encouraging her bad behavior. I should have known better than to have the two of you in the same room together." Not that she had any control over the Dream putting them all there.

"I believe we're all under the impression we're here to assist you, not the other way around, good sir."

The unicorn accepts face petting while he trembles on his long legs. Then he snorts, jerking his horn out of fondling reach. "Hey! It's still me in here." And as obstreperous an asshole as ever, apparently. "Just like it's still Abildgaard in there," and he looks over his shoulder, which technically he doesn't have to do but it's habit, at the cat.

Ravn isn't saying anything. Weird. "Yo, Abildgaard," and he swishes his tail at him. "Jeez, usually you can't shut up, cat got ya tongue?"

But Monroe distracts him from everything else. He looks at him, ears up, and slowly stretches his graceful neck out to have a sniff. The thick velvet of his upper lip rises to really get a good read in smellovision. "I ain't nobody's father," he offers casual like, "but on occasion I have been called Daddy."

The black cat on the unicorn's dappled backside raises one paw. And then, pointedly, slowly, gives the unicorn a one claw salute. That was bad even for you, Rosencrantz Ponybutt.

The elf in the black robe nods at Deacon and offers a wry little smile. "Raisin, whatever. Tell you a secret? I never read the damn thing either. Boss likes 'em, boss says we're doing Dragonlance, we do Dragonlance. You folks here to see the big man? Might have to wait a bit, should have made an appointment. Meanwhile? Feel free to wander. Haggleford's mighty proud of his illusions so don't forget to admire all the weird-ass paraphernalia. Mind the crocodile, it's prone to falling down if there's a draft. Ring the bell if you need anything. Don't go into the laboratory downstairs, it's full of Hosts."

Don't say the man isn't friendly. 10/10, would hire as a receptionist again. He turns to close the door behind him, moving at a leisurely and entirely interruptable pace.

[U]p, [D]own, [S]tay? A narrow staircase winds its way around the oval room's walls, lending credit to the idea that this is some kind of tower structure. The windows are small and do not let in much light; stained glass under heavy draperies, as if to deter anything on the outside from looking in.

Monroe looks at Deacon for a few seconds, blinking owlishly, as if trying to place something... and then it clicks. "... Oh." Yes, Monroe completely forgot that cisgender straight, allosexual men are a thing, for a second.

And then he's looking at Itzhak, trying not to quirk his lips at the man, er, unicorn. "Does that line actually work for you?" he's trying, very hard, not to smile and hurt Itzhak's feelings, but it's hard not to when Twilight Sparkle's butch cousin is (possibly) hitting on you.

... and then they're being told that Haggleford is on the premises, and Monroe manages to keep his temper, though there's an angry flush starting at the tips of those pointy ears, his jaw tightens and his nostrils flare slightly. "I'm going to burn this tower to the ground." he says, very quietly. Yes, it's made of stone. But Monroe is certain he can manage it. Ginger rage and all.

To be fair, CIS Deacon /is/ wearing eyeliner and clearly a bit of hair product to get THAT look he's got. So at least dream Deacon can be cool.

Haggleford on the premises? That would be easy. No...the scary part is they seem to be on Haggleford's premises! There's a look to the others as he looks to the stairs. "I don't know. When you go down it's hard to go up. If we go up, there's at least one fast way down, you know?" He grins at that. Gallows humor. Aren't detectives the best at parties? "I'm not sure I'm excited about where this is going OR who our host is...but we have a little time to at least get the lay of the land. Anyone want to go on an adventure?" He points up the stairs and looks back to the group, seeming content to see what the others want to do before just going to run off but it's preeeeetty easy to see what Deacon's idea is.

Still though, his wizard's staff does tap easily enough on the floor of the tower as he walks. "So do you think we would do better going with our own names, or do we need to come up with really cool in themed ones?" See how chipper his mood is? It's easy to be excited when you're going to get a shot at murdering stupid-face bad guys.

"It's a unicorn horn! It's on your forehead!" Ava offers in her defense even as her hand pulls away immediately. No accidental fondling. Embarrassment doesn't last long as it's made clear that the cat is Ravn, her face brightening into childish delight. She all but cackles. "Ravn? Awwww, who's a pretty kitty? You and Kitty Pryde would make a very cute couple," she teases. That kitty middle claw gets a snicker. "Yup, that's him."

Itzicorn gets another couple soothing pets down the length of his long neck before she starts to make her way back towards the others. Those footfalls stop at the mention of Haggleford's name. Her foot doesn't land fully onto the ground until the nice man has left the room, the plastered smile on her face suddenly dropping. Look, she's managed not to light anything on fire yet. Monroe's comment draws her attention in his direction, her head inclining in agreement.

"We start the blaze over his dead body."

Do No Harm is out the window right now. Deacon gets a look and a crooked finger to come back. "We probably only get one shot at this, so we need to plan. Shit." She turns back to the unicorn. "No charging in. We have to plan." The last time he saw Haggleford he went charging in head first. Have to make sure it doesn't happen again. Although, now she certainly understands the urge a little bit better.

"I dunno," the unicorn says to Monroe, a smile in his voice. "I never tried it before. Is it working?" He whuffles the diaphonous thing Monroe is wearing. "You smell great."

That is a unicorn's opinion, of course the half-unicorn faun smells great.

He lifts his head, ears perked in the elf guy's direction. They pin flat when he names their nemesis. Itzhak has a sworn nemesis and Haggleford is it (today). He glances over his shoulder at Ravn kitty. "No promises," he says to Ava. To be fair he is now exceptionally well equipped for charging in.

"Hosts?" he echoes Dalaran or whatever his name is. "Hosts? Oh, fuck that."

He heads directly for the down direction, and knocks over a table with a kick on his way there.

"I fucking knew he was going to do that," Ava sighs.

"Haggleford!" Zara gasps in alarm before looking more confused. "Who the fuck is Haggleford?" It seems to have upset a few of the others but it is obvious she is late to the party. Nope. No idea who Haggleford is. "Ava?" Her best friend will help. Right? Even if she blabbed to Deacon. "Is this something I should be worried about? Something I should know about?" And the cat is this 'Ravn' person that Ava has also mentioned?

"I didn't intend to dress like this" Zara reminds Deacon of her heart attack potential. "This is someone's idea of a cruel joke. I mean, seriously, how is this 'armor' supposed to protect me?" More words she doesn't understand. "Who are the Hosts? Isn't Haggleford our host? I don't need a full explanation, cliff notes will do."

Whoever they are, they seem to have got the unicorn's goat. "Not trying to be funny, but can an equine actually walk down stairs? Especially when angry." Since the others seem to know the details, Zara will warm herself by the fire - it's also chilly in this armor. "I vote for plans. Plans are always a good idea. And information about what we're facing. Though whatever we decide..." She draws her sword to hold aloft. "You have my blade!" A beat. "Where the hell did that come from."

Dalamar the Elf has no desire to get gored by unicorn horn. He dodges up the winding staircase as Itzhak the Unicorn thunders down. A table is flipped -- knick-knacks and magical-looking paraphernalia go flying, some of it with ominous little crunch sounds as brittle objects meet stone floor.

"Mind the third step," the elf calls after the unicorn. "It's wobbly!" Whatever that guy is, or is supposed to be, hostile he is not. One is reminded, a little, of a late night receptionist in a large hotel. Don't blame him, he just works here.

The black cat blames the unicorn. This is because the black cat was sitting on the unicorn when suddenly, said cryptid exploded into a table flippin' rage and headed for the stairs. Eighteen razor sharp claws dig in on reflex and he doesn't even look sorry -- at least not until he manages to orient himself and jump off that moving, furry backside. Tail lashing, Ravn!Cat lands on the floor. He looks very undignified. He looks very unhappy about this. The blue look the cat shoots Zara speaks volumes; it would like to speak volumes, but alas, cats cannot talk.

Unicorns can talk, it seems. And cats cannot. A cat can look at a barbarian princess, however, and it can draw a paw across its own throat, before nodding towards the door -- and then saunter after the unicorn.

"Oi!" Monroe doesn't so much side-step as he prances away from Itzhak's nose those cloven hooves of his sounding positively musical as he pulls away.

"I don't think I know you well enough for your nose to be anywhere near my arse." For a second, that accent sounds more coarse than the slightly posh tones he normally uses... and then Itzhak is charging down the stairs... and Monroe's moving after with a sigh. Unicorn solidarity, even if that snout was wayyy too close to boldly going where no man has gone before.

It sounds like he has bells on as he trails after. These floors are going to need a good sanding and polishing after Monroe and Itzhak are done with them.

The ears flatten, and one can see Ava's legs begin to twitch. "No. Itzhak. No. We may only have one shot at th-- fuck!" As soon as the unicorn is moving, Ava is too. But two legs just aren't a match for four and the good doctor can't manage to get to the stairs ahead of him. "I'll explain on the way, Zara. It's bad, like, flesh trade, slave labor, monster making bad. Just come on." Already on the stairs having tried to stop him, Ava is taking off after Itz, careful of that third step.

"You're going to break all four of your ankles. Don't even know where you're going. Could be leading us into a trap. I said we could be walking us into a trap last time, and what was it? A trap! What did you do last time? Charged right into the trap!" Mutter mutter down the stairs.

"I don't even have any stupid shoes."

Sparks fly from the unicorn's hooves as he rockets past poor Ava. She's just trying to help! But he's already gone, leaping down the stairs, neatly avoiding the third step. Head down, horn ready to skewer the first thing he runs into, murder in his eyes, he bellows, "Are you ready?! HERE I COME!"

In a weirdly accurate German accent.

So much for game planning. To be fair, his intent to get the lay of the different floors of the castle was part of hopefully coming up with a plan. However, Furycorn over there has other ideas. And so Deacon is finger-crooked and he starts to walk towards Ava, making sure that he's not in the way of said thundering hooves and pointy object atop head. Getting gored by the people in your party is not the best.

"That's it," he says. "In all future dreams I insist I have a packet of sugar cubes in my pocket." He looks over at Zara and is about to answer about Haggleford when that is handled. Monroe gets a nod as well before he loks over to Ravn. It's meant to be under his breath but can still be heard still. "Ravn...Ravn...Ravncat Hoooooooo....." So depending on how well Itzhak gets moving forward, Deacon sets to follow Furycorn.

The plan seems to be - headlong rush into danger! Zara can go with this. Even if a cat seems to be making death threats at her. Though once slavery is mentioned, Dr. Thule is all for charging in and doing good. Rushing after the others she calls after Ava, "I guess you've met these Hosts before." Somehow, the 'fighter' of the group has ended up at the back instead of leading the charge. Maybe this means she will be able to rescue the others from ambush?

The unicorn seems to be half mountain goat as it descends the stairs with a becoming grace; becoming more frantic with every step. But no pile up.

The cat walks down daintily, thank you very much. Everyone else can gallop into danger as far as Ravn is concerned. He's a cat. Cats arrive when they want to, and danger can take a seat and a cup of coffee and wait its turn. Also, he has no desire to get trampled, whether by human feet or unicorn hooves, or whatever in between Monroe's got.

Dalamar the Elf reaches down in an attempt to pick him up. Dalamar the Elf gets clawed. No one puts pussy in the corner, or on his arm. Twitching tail as he walks spells out fuck you as much as a cat's tail possibly can. (If he had had pause to think about how prominently that displays his furry little balls he'd be under a chair, tail tucked between his legs, blushing crimson through heavy black fur, please don't tell him).

The spiral staircase is wide and solid and fortunately, the steps are wide too; horses -- and unicorns -- are not built to walk down stairs. There's an Arabic tale about how easy it is to get a donkey up into a minaret, and how hard it is to get it back out; because an equine can walk up with relative ease, but not down. Their depth vision simply don't work right for it, and their hips are not flexible enough to support their weight as they reach out and down for the next step.

Some old cities are built with staircases with wide, large steps that a horse drawn carriage can ascend. Note that no step on those is taller than 5 cms. This is that kind of stair. Fortunately.

Is the next landing the lowest floor of the tower? Who knows? A large oaken door bars the way -- but once the handle is touched it opens easily enough. "Mind your step!" Dalamar calls from up back; he walks along, right behind the cat. "It can be slippery in there in this incarnation!"

It's a room. It has walls and a roof; these are the usual qualifiers for 'a room'. What it looks like is a cave full of stalagmites (points up) and stalactites (points down) over a pool of dark, oily water. There are faces in the water. Oily reflections, as if someone was looking into a reflecting surface and saw their face mirrored back at them but smudgy. Each and every face looks tormented, pained, frightened.

Dalamar draws up from behind. "Don't touch it," he warns. "They'll pull you in, and you won't like it. The Hosts aren't very happy in any incarnation and particularly not in this one."

Looking around as they walk, Deacon is attempting to make a mental map then of some of the distance between floors and what there may be as far as number of stairs. Not that this obviously can't change depending on the skill of the tower's host to fit his whims, it's at least good to know that too - if something does change. Yay mentally trying to think ahead!

Still, following the others in, Deacon keeps the rear guard as it were, letting others in first. "Who are they?" It's the first question that comes to his mind - who is trapped in such a state? "How long have you worked for Haggleford? " Gotta get information somehow, right? May as well try the easy route first and just ask.

In this incarnation. That's been said a couple times now. "How many incarnations are there, then? Do you know?" Ava glances towards Dalamar with a slight frown. "You're being awfully kind considering we kind of barrel rolled down to the exact area you told us not to go to. Are you just keeping an eye on us until he gets here with guards, or is there another reason?" she wonders without trying to sound accusitory. After all, in his shoes, she'd do the same. Perhaps he actually needs help? Either way, she isn't letting him stand behind anyone enough to risk pushing anyone into the pool.

"Are these the people he's been abducting? from the other side of The Veil?"

The sound of Monroe's cloven hooves chime throughout the stairway as he hurries after Itzhak, "This has got to be a negative modifier to stealth..." he mutters, holding the staff out for a bit of extra balance, as this entire leg-situation tends to have him a little more off balance than he's used to... but he keeps his feet, er, hooves, and ends up coming to a stop before the door, frowning.

"What... are they?" he asks, sounding slightly winded. Doesn't get a lot of running in, Monroe. Maybe time to get some in, now.

"But you can probably run away quicker" Zara points out to Monroe about his stealth. "If we were in an open plain with less stairs and walls." Though his panting after coming down the stairs may suggest this would not be the case. At least Zara is fit in this world and the other. All that camping she does.

The faces in the water cause a shiver of horror down her spine. She's a doctor, dammit! Zara wants to help these people though there is Dalamar is able to make her reconsider sticking her hand in. "I'm not sure whether we should believe you or not, Dalamar. Like Ava says, you told us not to come here but then don't seem overly concerned we did. You don't even know why we're here at all but act like people appear in your master's home without invitation all the time. Which may actually be true, I suppose, since this is all a Dream. Your intentions are unclear, Dalamar."

Zara points at the faces. "So, these are the Hosts? They certainly don't look happy. Or very powerful for that matter. What are they hosting?"

The unicorn skidded to a stop, haunches dropping, and had to get back to all four feet. He makes a low rumble and sniffs at the 'water'. One front leg paws, but he doesn't dare touch it. Not even him.

"They're souls." The unicorn lifts his head to look at the others, his tail lashing. "Taken outta their bodies, like Gohl." He turns towards the elf guy, dainty cloven hooves clipping lightly against the floor. "So which is it," he says to him in a tone of tightly restrained violence, a I know you just work here kinda tone. "Does he need the souls or the bodies?"

Come, menders-of-wounds. Come, den-defenders. One of your own is hurt. Many of yours are hurt.

Like a whisper from far away, words unspoken slither on the edge of shadow, following paths unseen into human minds; currently sheltered in the bodies of elves, unicorns, felines, and things in between, those minds are human still, and something knows how to call them, how to dangle the bait at them. In shadows, things darker than shadow watch and try to lick the lips they don't have.

Dalamar the Elf brings up the rear, walking on silent feet in soft boots; black robes swirl softly around his slender body, granting him an aura of if not power, then at least the power that comes from knowledge. This is a sorcerer's tower and he is the sorcerer's apprentice; this is not Fantasia and he is not Mickey Mouse.

Deacon turns to him first, and then others. The elf folds arms across his chest. He does not at all look surprised that these intruders, human and otherwise, may have questions. Maybe he's used to having to answer questions.

"I just work here," he agrees with what the Rosencrantzcorn does not say aloud. Green eyes focus on Deacon first. "How long have I worked here? A day. A millennium. A pineapple. What is time in Dreams? Long enough to think I don't much care for what we do here, and long enough to know that it is necessary. You're not meant to be here, but you are here so what's the point of playing hard to get? He may get mad, he may not. Either way, I'm just the front desk clerk and if he wanted me to do something else about your arrival, he should have left instructions."

Strong talk to the manager instead, Karen energy there, Dalamar.

The elf's gaze slips to other elf in the room; Ava's slender form next to him. He shrugs. "Incarnations. The forms of things? How you see it all. Like you -- you don't look like this, wherever it is you're from. This is you in this incarnation." A slender hand gestures at Itzhak, Monroe and Cat!Ravn. "They're not horses or cats where you're from, but in this incarnation they are. I don't look like this either, in my home incarnation. I think this one's from your reality, isn't it? Or something you made up -- dunno, I never read the book anyway. Something about an evil wizard and his apprentice who betrays him so I'm really just following a theme here."

Is that an attempt at humour? Maybe. Maybe it's just strong I just work here, ma'am energy.

Then the unicorn answers the question that seems to be pressing on everyone's minds the most: What are these floating, horrified apparitions in the oily surface?

Dalamar nods. "They're souls, yes. Got to store them somewhere. No matter what incarnation, there's always some kind of pool or pond or other storage facility for them. This isn't the nicest one but I don't think they actually can tell. When the body dies they fade away as well. We can't let them move on on their own -- then the body dies too."

He pauses. And then looks at the faces around him with a searching impression. "You guys don't know, do you? No wonder you're mad. This whole thing isn't something we do for laughs, you know. We need those bodies, for the sick who would die otherwise. We can give them a kind of life, this way." He holds up slender hands to forestall the inevitable question. "Yes, yes. It's awful and it's unfair. But every kid that dies out there, might have been that kid who grew up to find a solution to the plague. There aren't enough of us left that we can afford to let them die. Every single one we can save this way, might be the one who saves us all."

"All we know is Haggleford keeps coming into our town, kidnapping our people, and attempting to kidnap some of us. Not to mention releasing and murdering Crytpids, along with who knows what else. So yeah, we're a little upset." Hearing that they're souls doesn't make Ava any less upset. In fact, the fire that's starting to dance around the green of her aura is easily recognized by those who've seen her angry in a fight before.

"So you are kidnapping our people so that you can rip out their souls to suffer in torment, and what? Sticking the souls of sick children into the adult bodies? Because there's a plague that you need a solution for? And. And, instead of asking for help from a whole world full of non-sick people, you decided to kidnap some of them and hope a sick child would have the answer. Am I vaguely in the ballpark?" Because that's relatively what she's hearing.

"Also, I'm going to need to know exactly how this plague is spread, since your people have been traipsing all over our town."

Listening to Dalamar, there's a quiet nod. He doesn't press too hard on the 'just following orders' bit, at least not yet. This is also a lot to try to wrap one's head around. He's used to people trying to justify doing bad things for good reasons. That happens at least on a weekly basis in his line of work. There's always a reason. So it is that he probably manages to keep a fairly neutral expression. Still, as he looks to the - trapped...places...in statis? - souls in the water he steps away from being right near them so that he is not tempted to push further.

Ava's question is of interest though, one he will be curious to hear an answer to as he looks back to Dalamar before proceeding a little further into the room. Was there another door at the end? With Dalamar behind the group, Deacon prefers to scout slightly further ahead.

"Listen... if the choice is running or death... the only reason I'm running is I've got a little brother to look after. Once he's an adult, I'm never running again..." Monroe tells Zara, pushing a few of those bold red curls out of his painted face.

Understanding crosses over Monroe's face, then horror accompanies said understanding. "He was kidnapping people..." Monroe takes a deep breath, his four fingered hands tightening around the staff. "To eject them from their own bodies."

"Could you not have picked... I dunno, comatose people who had no chance of coming back to their bodies, at least? No, you had to pick healthy people just living their damn lives..." Monroe is seething, now, pink spreading from the tips of his elongated ears down his neck and shoulders, making the freckles there stand out. His tail begins lashing not unlike an angry cat's.

"You don't get to steal the lives of other people, even for children!"

"That is a completely illogical plan" Zara informs the Sorcerer's Apprentice. "What if one of these souls you have imprisoned was going to invent the cure for your plague. You've just lost it. And you're putting sick children into new bodies which already have relationships and families, and expecting them to come up with medical solutions rather than going insane from their new life? And why should they come up with a cure when they have a new body and don't have to worry about the plague anymore? Seriously, you haven't really thought this through, have you?"

"Where are your ill people? I'm a doctor, let me have a look at them." Zara realises she is waving a sword around and quickly slides it away to try and look more medical. Nothing says 'Doctor' more than a chainmail bikini. "Let us help in a way that might actually work, not based on delusions, wishful thinking, and terrorizing others." Her brow furrows a moment. "You're not sticking sick kids in adult bodies or anything like that, are you? That would be a new level of self-defeat. Maybe we're all here to help you out? Show you a different way. A way that will work."

The unicorn listens carefully to Dalaran. He doesn't look at him (or remember his name right) but those ears are like little radar dishes, focused on the elf while the unicorn snuffles around the room.

So he takes in a lot of information, and everybody has really good questions that's all the stuff he wants to know too. He does not like what he hears. Not at all. After the elf is done, the unicorn spends some time sharpening his horn against a handy stalagmite. He does it with even, steady strokes, stropping first one side then the other. He does it with great care, as if grinding an edge on a blade.

Scraaaape.

Scraaaape.

"Look," says the elf in black. "I don't kidnap anybody. I just look after the tower. But if you people had the cure, we'd have come asking. You don't. We trade a fair bit with your reality, you don't have anything like it. We're just trying to survive here."

Doors lead in multiple directions. What does a sorcerer's tower contain? Every high fantasy novel will remember to include an alchemist's lab, a library, a bedroom, maybe even some bondage fantasy play room, and -- well, let's be honest, they usually skip pretty lightly over bathing and toilet facilities. Presumably, Haggleford and his helper don't just stick their butts out of the window; the neighbours would think that Gondor calls for aid. Some of those doors probably lead to cabinets, store rooms, bathrooms, bedrooms, hell, there's got to be a kitchen somewhere unless this place has a standing order with a take-out place.

Ravn sniffs around as a cat will. If he finds anything he doesn't say. Maybe he can't say. He stays far from the pool's edge, too. Most cats would.

Dalamar glances at the unicorn. Subtle, real subtle. He sighs. "Look, you guys can take me out, I'm sure. So there'll just be one more soul here needing a body. Which of these did you come for, anyhow? Maybe I can sort it out for you, let you take it home so it can pass on the natural way. It's a solution, yeah?"

He doesn't sound as if he really believes it himself, either.

And in the water, faces stir. Like moths to flame, they float towards the living, the watching. Some of the faces attempt to shape words. Others scream, forever. Some look like they plead. And others look hungry.

"Just because we don't already have it, doesn't mean we can't help you find it," Ava points out. "You're waiting for children to have the answer instead of asking fully educated adults. There are two in this very room with medical degrees." Her arm gestures between herself and Zara. "I don't see you trading with our reality. All I've seen you do is take, and murder."

Itzhak is sharpening his horn and Ava's hand rests gently on back. "Wait," she murmurs softly. Not 'don't'. Just wait. "Please?" There's still answers they need. "Are there any children in there? A child's body for a child? That's the soul I pick." Please, show her how to release the souls.

"Let us have a look at a patient, please" Zara urges Dalamar. "I have a feeling that your attempts at seeing what we have to offer were, as Ava says, rather diluted by the whole kidnapping and murder thing. Give us a chance. We're in a Dream, right? I think between us, we could dream up a cure to pretty much anything."

That unicorn horn sharpening is starting to get like nails down a blackboard. "If we release these souls..." Zara gestures to the water. "Will they go back to their bodies? Will the squatting souls in those bodies then go back to their original bodies?" She is hoping that they're not lost in the Ether. Any of them. Zara has no idea whose souls they are looking at, or who has been kidnapped over the years, so if there is a particular one that they're here for then she doesn't know it.

"One is a start, yes, but it's not a solution. You'll just steal them again tomorrow. We need to figure out a cure so that all of this stops and we can all get back to our realities without fear or anger."

Anger continues to seethe below the surface for Monroe, but he's fighting hard to control it. "I'm not exactly a slouch when it comes to medical information and healing, either. Mine's more focused on emergency services than pathogens, but... I'm willing to put my utter disgust aside if it means helping children."

Deacon admittedly is a bit lost in how to help. He knows how to fight, but it's harder for him to know how to do things when it doesn't tie directly with his influence.

So as he looks to the pools, he can't actually touch those. Perhaps there are vials? Perhaps there's a well or some sort of area that seems to be how the souls get here before they end up in the pools? If they're kidnappung them, is there a 'stopping' point before they hit the pool? Such a thing might help a Deacon see a hitn of the past, see a bit more about the Jimmy fellow who called them here - or it may help him find a bit more about the plague or the experiments being done. Perhaps it'll give him a bit more of if any of the pools had a children or were anyone from their town. But for now, there's no where for him to use his cool electric wizarding powers so maybe there's somethign he can put his hands on and get an idea of who, or what, it is like to be in here or where they came from.

Something for him to gleam a bit off of that might help them more. Or something to help them against Haggleford cause having an idea if HE has ever been hurt - perhaps any blood or scratches or markigngs that seem out of place. These are the things Deacon looks for. (Mental 4),

"Take you out?" The unicorn pauses in his horn sharpening to swing his head around at Dalamar. The expression on his face is purely Itzhak, somehow, despite his equid/cervine skull. "You're the only one who's told us shit and didn't try to kill anybody. No, pal. This ain't for you."

Ava lays her hand on him and he jolts, skin shuddering. He looks at her, careful of the horn, and noses her hard in the chest, with the unselfconsciousness of an animal.

"So are they dead?" he asks Dalamar. "Or can we put em back? This a one way trip?"

"No children," Dalamar the elf replies, likely much to Ava the elf's relief. "Children's bodies aren't grown enough to survive the Immersion. The brains have to be mature -- full frontal lobes and so on. It's complicated."

He scratches his chin in a gesture that's oddly reminiscent of a perfectly normal human being who's not feeling too great about having to deliver bad news, and wondering if he should try for sugar coating. "We don't have diseased bodies here. I mean, obviously. Contagion? They're in the lower streets -- and the uninfected are in the towers. You're some kind of healers in your home reality? You understand this. But I can show you what they look like."

He walks over to a section of the wall -- and gestures at it. Somehow, by laws of physics that don't apply in the reality Gray Harbor tends to inhabit, stone wall slides aside -- evaporates, really, like ice under a very intense ray of invisible heat.

The view out is something else. A city bathed in darkness; medieval-ish towers, interconnected by bridges and ropes, so high up that there are wisps of clouds below, obscuring the view. And down there; lights, so many lights. In the towers, maybe hundreds, thousands. Down there on the ground far below, millions. Above, two moons, distant and pale -- one red, one white. And behind, them, almost unseen, a third, black moon.

"This isn't entirely right," Dalamar says. "In this Incarnaton, the Tower of the Arts is supposed to be in the city of Palanthas. Dragonlance always tries to combine it with the city of Solace which is up in very large redwoods. Anyway, you get the idea. We're up here and there's not a lot of us. And they're down there and not doing great. Let me get you a closer look."

The tower falls.

Oh. No, it doesn't. It's the 'window' that zooms in on something far below.

People. Medieval-ish, in the way of a fantasy novel. Men in plate armour; men in loincloths; men in very skimpy loincloths. Ditto for women though oddly, their breastplates seem to come with surprising detailwork for boobs, and their chain mail skirts are slit all the way up over the hip. People in robes. People in faux-Rennaissance costumes. People who seem to think medieval means garish and colourful. People who seem to think medieval means gritty and starved. People who think they're in the eight century and people who think they're in the sixteenth. A Dungeons & Dragons style fantasy melting pot for sure.

And each and every one looks pale. They're not all pale skinned; some are black as ivory, and yet their skin is covered by some kind of pale fungus or lichen. Dark rings under their eyes; bloodless lips; many of them walk as if walking itself is exhausting. Most are thin; some outright emaciated. Something sucks the life right out of these people.

"They look the same in any Incarnation," Dalamar supplies. "The clothes change, obviously. The Larry Elmore art look is for this one. But the plague looks the same anywhere. The spores grow inside, and it eats them up, until there's nothing left but the skin. You don't see the worst of them in the streets; they're in the houses, bed-bound."

There aren't a lot of children down there. "They become sterile early on. We try to save children's souls by moving them into healthy bodies. Give them enough life time to at least procreate. It's all we can do, at least at this time. Master Raistli----Haggleford is not the only sorcerer travelling the realities, trying to find a cure." Dalamar hitches a shoulder. "I'm really sorry. If they thought there was anything you could do, they'd have asked you. It's not like we haven't investigated your reality. Hell, we get most of our firearms from your reality, you're very good at weapons."

The black cat snorts. Ravn is a pacifist. Just the thing you'd want your reality to be famous for.

One perk of all this show-and-tell? It's very easy for Deacon to quietly find a vial on a shelf. Emotions pour from it; fear, despair, grief.

Each and every pair of eyes in the pool turn to watch the police officer. Whether anyone else notices -- there's a lot to look at out there, after all. The cat does. Probably because cats don't have great depth vision in the first place, and Ravn finds it easier to see something as close as movement in the pool, as opposed to whatever is going on the window ... screen ... whatever, over there.

The voices, however, seep into every mind present.

kill us
kill them
tell my wife I love her
please, I have children
make it stop

And then, a far more powerful presence -- one which causes Dalamar to spin around and look around as if something is wrong (never mind the presence of a whole contingent of uninvited guests). The expression on that face is panic.

COME, DEN-DEFENDERS. COME, HURT-HEALERS. DO YOU NOT WANT YOUR REVENGE? BURN IT ALL. DID I BRING YOU HERE FOR NOTHING?

Ava gets nosed and blinks down at Itzhak with a chiding sort of amusement. It doesn't stop her, though. The resting hand works to sooth, lifting to the front mane to start petting downwards in an attempt to calm. At some point, as those walls open and the city is revealed, that petting may suddenly turn into something meant more to sooth herself than to sooth Itzhak, however. Or perhaps both parties? The horror of the plague has her brows knit together as she tries to piece things together just from sight. "Is it possible to get non-contagion samples of the spores to look over?" Ava wonders. "Blood samples of the sick that won't risk getting us sick? Of course we don't already have a cure for a disease we don't have. That doesn't mean it's not possible to create one."

Ever the optimist.

That is, until those voices hit her mind and cut through her like a knife. A gasps shudders past her lips, hand gripping hard against the poor unicorn's lovely hair as a tear streaks down her face. Ava's head whips in the direction of the pool of souls.

"Show yourself."

The unicorn hears the despair pouring from the vial as he sees the awful sight down below. The voices from the pools plead. And then something hungry speaks. If you thought regular Itzhak was temperamental, you ain't seen nothing yet.

Screaming, he rears, hooves slashing. Ava's petting cannot soothe him through that. Too much emotion acts like jet fuel.

"Show your face so I can rearrange it for yas!" Itzhak's voice is a snarl and a stallion's scream at once.

"Putting children in adult bodies with histories is not a clever thing to do" Zara notes as she watches the scene 'below'. "Desperate, perhaps, but not clever. You do persist in saying we can't do anything, Dalamar, but since you don't know what the cure could be, you really have no idea if we can or can't. A spore? More a fungal parasite than a virus? If that is the case, it is unlikely your towers will do you much good. Where do you get your food from? Has no one ever survived infection?"

A nod to Ava. "If we were dressed more appropriately we could easily draw samples safely. And if we had the right equipment. This sword could definitely draw blood but not in a helpful manner." Zara spins around as that voice booms but there is no one to see. She draws her sword in a flash. Will it actually do any good against a disembodied voice?

ClINK!

Oh yes. Deacon and his bright ideas. As he sees what is going on out of his peripheral vision, he manages not to fall on his ass. Glimpses of people who are part human, part mushroom it looks like which probably isn't right but he's focused on the vial. Until, that is, the onslaught. There were likely two things that could have happened. Number one is that he could have dropped it. Number two is that his hand closes around it and it breaks. Fortunately, as he already almost knee buckles at the cacophony of souls and then that booming voice, well, that'll do it. The vial drops from his hand to the floor, and likely breaking one imagines.

"We've heard that voice...and that phrase. Something tells me that whatever it is that has Mr. Belvedere over there looking so upset is not something that we want to have be upset."

Free advice, ladies, gentlemen...and other fantasy creatures. Deacon's here all week.

Noises in his mind telling him to burn things? Monroe, for a moment, looks like he might want to. His eyes drift closed and his head tilts back. Heat's waving around him... aaaand the he's shaking his head (which makes those ridiculous ears he's currently working with flap about, humorously) and he's free of it, the heat fading. Someone probably needs to talk to him about getting a better handle on his impulse control.

"We're not here to get revenge, are we? We're here to help the sick. That's what we are. Healers. Defenders. People don't just exist to reproduce, and... putting children in the bodies of adults so that they can is so many levels of monstrous I can't even calculate it. Tell Haggleford to get his pompous ass in here this bloody instant, I'd like to pick up our last conversation where we left off."

Dalamar shakes his head. "No cross-contamination. Look, we're assholes here because life forces us to be. We'll do some pretty horrible stuff to survive. Spreading the plague to other realities, that's not going to happen. We need you people healthy." A glance to Zara at that. "We import most of our supplies. Your reality is quite big on exports -- food, weapons, bodies."

He too might have wanted to say more, and he too is cut short by that sudden, forceful incursion by something or somebody unseen. The elf swallows and looks at Monroe. "I don't get to tell a man like Haggleford anything besides 'yes, sir' and 'how high, sir'."

Behind the elf, the black cat seems to decide against pawing the pond and instead jumps on the unicorn's back. It's safe up there. Safe-r. What disturbed the feline might have been the slithering and agitation of those disembodied faces in the oily liquid; an agitation that is increasing, significantly, as the conversation continues.

WHAT DO YOU WANT, JIMMY RED DEER? YOU CALLED ME HERE, WHAT DO YOU WANT?

So much for showing itself. Maybe the speaker has nothing to show; the voice is booming and intrusive, but does it have sound? Or does it exist only in the minds of those who listen to it? Are the shadows alive, or is it merely the tricks and illusions of candlelight and reflections?

flesh
I want flesh and blood and life
revenge
avenge me
kill us all

Is it the voice of missing park ranger Jimmy Red Deer speaking? Or another disembodied soul? All of them or just a few? A consensus of the group, or one soul brought forth by the booming voice?

Who knows. Dalamar the elf has gone white as a sheet. "You have to go," he tells the visitors. "Please, go. If they rise up I have no choice but to flush the pool, and destroy them all, before they kill everyone in sight."

Behind him, black water bubbles up; a pillar of swirling liquid and faces rises and -- falls, splattering the floor, exactly where the elf leaps away from. Droplets scatter in a spray, striking skin and hide alike -- cold, so very cold. Not like freezing -- but like a void, in which heat never existed, a darkness that no light may penetrate, an eternal absence.

"Run," the elf pleads and gestures at the door behind his visitors. "Get out!"

"You're an idiot if you think there are ways we can't avoid cross contamination. Our world has come up with tons of ways to study these sort of things without risking exposure. We can help, but we are cattle for you pick from, and if you think we're going to allow for you to continue taking our people like this, you're wrong. There's a better way and we can find it. But not if you keep this up. You keep this up, they're all going to die, because we're going to stop Haggleford and the rest of you. Period."

Shit. There's really not a lot of time for righteous ranting with Jimmy Red Deer getting all pissy and the souls of the bodies stolen all coming together to form a horde like that. "We can't destroy it. We have to see if we can figure out a way to get them back into their bodies first. We have to go," Ava advises in a strained tone. But Dalamar, oh you stupid elf, she's not done with you yet. Her eyes drift up in the cave to the pots and other things hanging from ropes. As he dodges away from a spray, she watches, fingers gesturing. Heat sizzles, burning through one of those ropes before it pops, sending a heavy pot crashing down, right on top of the other elf's head.

He collapses, struggling to get up for a moment, bleary and confused. "I'm not done talking to you," she hisses quietly before his eyes roll back and his head impacts on the ground with a dull thud. She gives a quick nod and then grabs his arm. "Someone grab the door, someone grab his other arm, let's get the hell out of here."

Now there are two voices in Zara's head, arguing with each other and ignoring her. The psychiatrist warned her there would be days like this. Thankfully, there is the quest for knowledge to distract her.

"But if you flush them, won't all your people die? So, you really want us to leave so your people don't get wiped out. Which gives these guys..." A gesture to the stirring black pool. "...quite a bit of leverage." Maybe she can talk to them? It's a Dream, Zara can do anything! "Hey, everyone, calm down" she urges the pool of screaming faces, probably driven insane by their condition. "Give us time and we'll get you out of here and back where you belong. You have the power. They can't hurt you without hurting themselves. Patience. We won't forget you. If any of you can tell me your name, we'll find your bodies and keep them safe." Perhaps they can do some soul transference at the other end - in their world.

"As for you!" Zara turns on Dalamar. "We don't export anything. You steal because it easier than actually doing something..." And then he's knocked out by a pot. "Ava! I was doing a big speech! Sheesh." She quickly moves to help her friend with the body.

The unicorn's dark eyes widen. He drops to all fours. Ravn lands on his back and this might not be the safest place because the unicorn promptly gets between the pool and everybody else.

Zara is trying to talk sense into the cheated souls in the pool, Deacon is reaching to soothe them, Ava is... kidnapping Dalaran, okay!, and the unicorn flings the weight of his mental Song behind Deacon's. Calm things, his mental presence sings in the voice of a violin, offers them up. A summer day with his niece putting flowers in his beard. Dinner with August's family. The first time he held a violin. The first time he heard a violin.

Deacon can sense the presence of the Furycorn's mind in his head., also reaching out to calm and he joins. Sending out soothing wave of calm, of patience. This is still a bit new to him. He has historically used this to calm an upset suspect or victim. He's used his powers to get information from an object so that maybe he can figure out where a lead might go on a dead end. A group therapy session is a whole other ball of wax. Still though he looks to the pools, to the rising wave of souls, and while Zara - Warrior Princess and Ava Firestarter go about securing Dalamar, Deacon focuses (despite being the one with actual martial training) on trying to make things happen with his brain. It takes an extreme amount of willpower to not think of the River Tam line while trying to CALM the spirits, not rile them up.

Working in concierto; each in their way trying to impose peace on the bubbling, frothing, rage of liquefied souls in the pool. Reasoning with them -- we will find a way -- and projecting calm, warm emotions -- memories of good, quiet, and joyful times -- and removing the thing that upsets them -- Dalamar. Those are likely wiser choices than trying to fight the oily liquid that rages. After all, where do you punch something that has no body, no soft spots, no vitals? Might as well try to shoot the ocean; easy to hit but difficult to do a lot of damage. Men, women, unicorns, cats -- working as one, in each their way, to impose quiet.

DISAPPOINTED!

The presence, the unseen shadow, churns and froths and bubbles.

leave us alone
kill me
I am Jimmy Red Deer, I am Jimmy Red Deer, I am Jimmy Red Deer
listen

LISTEN!

That last call is nothing but avarice. Hunger, greed, pure desire to hurt. It's the kind of voice that would make the Marquis de Sade give away his wealth to spend the rest of his life humbly growing medical herbs in a French monastery while making little cross-stitch doilies of Bible verses in his free time. That last voice does not come from the pool; it comes from the shadows, the darkness, the -- everywhere, even from inside one's own mind. It is something primal, and something evil, licking at frontal lobes to lap up sweet terror.

For once, man (elf, unicorn, combinations thereof) is not the prey. In a flash of clarity it is obvious; the suffering of the trapped souls attracted something darker. It could amuse itself with these visitors whom it no doubt pulled here due to the memories of those trapped souls -- but what a short pleasure would that be?

Far better to kill the messenger, to lay traps, to bleed this whole city dry. And to make these otherworldly elf-human-unicorns do it, and forever torture themselves after with the guilt of genocide.

COME, DEN-DEFENDERS, DEFEND YOUR DEN. COME, HURT-HEALERS, DO YOU NOT SEE HOW THEY SUFFER?

And for a moment, clarity -- how easy it would be. Toss that unconscious elf in the pool, out a window, hell, even just wring his neck. The guardian gone, these souls can find ways to leave, to reclaim what is theirs, to destroy everything.

Or is that just another false promise, to incite these otherworldly visitors to make the right (wrong) choice)?

Black water bubbles and froths and churns, and forms a pillar, rising up. A human shape? It has arms and a protrusion that could be called a head if one is feeling generous. A compilation of souls, struggling to communicate, a mass effort -- and one that bears a resemblance in form, if not colour, to a man wearing some kind of -- if you squint, it could be the silhouette of a park ranger, the coat, the hat, the gun and tool belt.

go

Gesturing, flailing, struggling to keep its form.

tell the others
tell all the people
don't follow the monsters
don't go with the creature
run from the sasquatch
don't look at the lake monster
tell them
don't go with the monsters

And then, like a soap bubble bursting, the pillar collapses. The pond is quiet and still, like the lifeless body that Ava is still holding onto.

Something was here, dark and primal and fearsome. If it can have nothing else to feast on, it will have the anger and frustration of the people trying to find answers, and having to way to extract them from a dead elf. If there was ever a time to rage and scream against the dying light, now feels appropriate.

Ava watches in horror as the combination of souls tries desperately in it's attempts to get them to do their bidding, with Deacon and Itzhak standing between them and it. This is not a situation she's particularly fond of, concern keeping a line drawn between her eyebrows, and her grip tense on Dalamar.

That's when she feels his body go even more slack. Unconscious as he was, his body shouldn't be slackening further. "No," she hisses, shaking the body. "Oh you fucking coward, you get back here." But no, it's just a dead body now. Or, is it more of just an empty vessel? It wasn't really him, after all. So he probably just slipped the skin, or had some help slipping it so that he could give any answers. An angry noise slips past Ava's lips, fingers curling into her palms.

She hears the souls' warnings, watches as it starts to fall back into collapses back into a silent pond. There's a rage bubbling under the surface of bright, elven eyes, but she turns on bare feet and starts to march towards the stairs. "I'll be in the library look for information for as long as this fucking Dream continues to last," she growls.

"We need to go. We need to get out of here, and find that bastard Haggleford... but we can't leave him lying there, or something might take him." Monroe kneels to try and lift Dalamar, then settles for grabbing his arms.. He's basically wearing platform shoes with no heel and that sounds like a terrible idea to add much weight to.

"If someone can get his feet? Or we can drape him across the proper unicorn's back? It... doesn't seem right to just leave him on the floor."

Just when you have a vague idea of who the bad guy is, something more evil shows up. Though what forms out of the goo is something else again - the nobility of helping others. "We will tell them" Zara promises Jimmy Red Deer. "And we will get as many of you back as we can." She will also check on park rangers. Does this mean there is a park ranger out there inhabited by the soul of an alien child?

"He's dead?" Zara asks Ava of the elf corpse she holds. Or was he ever alive. "Keep calm, Ava. Use that anger, don't succumb to it. "I don't think there is anything there to steal" she replies to the half-elf half-unicorn (Unielf? Elfcorn ? Don't they sell Elfcorn around Christmas?) If a soul use that body to dwell in, it means there is one less stolen from our world. I don't think it was anything more than a shell to begin with. I'm heading upstairs with Ava." She'll need a Warrior Princess to protect her at the very least. "See what we can find. Maybe even see what's upstairs of the room we started in."

Though, knowing Zara's luck, the alarm for work will probably ring any moment.

"Fucking...hell."

Deacon is sweating. Like dripping sweat as he leans back against a wall or such as he looks around the room then back to the others. Looking to Zara he frowns, "I don't think that replaces Haggleford as the bad guy. I think it's another bad guy, a-la a side effect of what Haggleford has been doing. We may have to deal with it...too...someday...but you're gonna need someone better than me for that." He looks absolutely exhausted. As if he jus chased some perp for a mile or two, over fences, up stairs, and around buildings, only to end up in a fight with said perp and three of his buddies. "River may have been able to kill you with her brain. All I want is a drink."

Other than the sheer exhaustion of effort however, he looks over to the others, giving Furycorn a nod of approval. "That...was great by the way. Thanks for the push...or the backstop. Whichever it was..." he says before looking to the lifeless Dalamar. "Well this isn't real Dragonlance and I don't have raise dead or speak with dead so, my thought is we may definitely have to leave him here if he's truly dead. Unless you can do something," he looks over to Ava and the kitty. He lacks a good answer for Monroe's idea of not leaving the body here, plus there's still the city and its plague to have to deal with...at least someday.

There's a very horse-like huff of frustration from Monroe as nobody wants to help him with Dalamar's body... but it's not like he can manage a corpse, even the elf's corpse, on his own. There are certain disadvantages to being a waiflike non-binary twink. Who knew?

"Bloody hell. I really hope this is just a vessel." Monroe mutters, and then he's standing and moving for the stairs, too, irritation evident in the tilt of his ears and the lash of his tail. He might be part cat, too, who knows. He looks to Deacon, tilting his head. "Are you going to need help getting up the stairs?"

Kitty looks at Deacon. Kitty looks down at the dead elf's body. Kitty jumps off the unicorn's back to sniff it. Kitty shakes his head because Ravn inside, even in this feline, no fucks given boody, can smell that it's dead as a dead thing and probably not even worth eating. He sits with his butt towards Dalamar's slack features, and makes a gesture as if burying it. As a cat will, to a turd.

Shadows coalesce; they reach and wind and grow thicker, drowning out the light. Darkness claims the room and the staircase until nothing remains but the light in the eyes of elf, cat, unicorn, and whatever exactly it is Monroe is.

It's not a good feeling.

That day -- the day you did the thing. The day you did the thing you knew you shouldn't have, but you thought you'd get away with it, except you didn't, and everyone looked at you and knew exactly what you had done, and what a terrible, miserable excuse for a human being you are -- it's that feeling. That day is back. That's who you are -- small, pathetic, useless, fit only for consumption, and only when nothing better is on offer. You're the pack of old, stale biscuits at the back of the cupboard.

And the shadows watch, and see everything.

This city suffers and bleeds, the shadows say. Each generation of the healthy dwindling, each generation more desperate than the previous. A feast ever-lasting, but so unchanging in flavour. Den-defenders, hurt-healers, I will call upon you again, to add spice to my feast. Why would I settle for the cries of this one soul in the dark, if I can have them all?

Shadow winds its way around, its tendrils almost tangible.

Let me pay you for your service. A laugh, cold and bone chilling. A single light in the dark -- a glowing pin point of light rising from the pool. This one called. I will set him free. He is avenged. The soul that dwells in his body will go with him.

A pause. What is it you people say? Rage against the dying light, do not go silently. Jimmy Red Deer does not go alone.

The light flickers upwards. Another light appears, from heaven only knows where. It follows the first, upwards, and somehow, against at least one universe's laws of physics and nature, it radiates terror. Jimmy Red Deer is going wherever his personal afterlife is waiting, and like his Cree ancestor -- whether he ever existed or not -- he gets to take somebody with him. The soul occupying the body of Jimmy Red Deer, somewhere down there, now as dead as the body's original owner.

It's not a good feeling to wake up with, whether on Oak Avenue or anywhere else. Dread, a deep and existential terror. The knowledge that somewhere out there, where realities meet, there is a city where the dying steal human bodies to prolong their own lives. And beyond, perhaps deeper in the Veil still, there are things, very powerful things, to whom watching this unfold is the equivalent of wandering past a hotel buffet and picking all the bacon before leaving it behind, forgotten.