Chara (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fulllifeconsequences) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2016-10-21 12:02 am
fulllifeconsequences) wrote in entrancelogs2016-10-21 12:02 am
[OPEN] And if it ever starts to feel bad, little fang
Who: Chara, you, hey can you bring napkins
Where: OFF TO NEVER-NEVERLAND
When: Throughout the event
Rating: PG for potential violence? Will edit if necessary.
Summary: Chara is a ten-year-old with a violent resentment toward humans and grown-ups. So basically, business as usual.
The Story:
[A - Remember that your gifts are your game]
Adults.
Chara hates adults. Despises them, from the very pit of their soul. They thought they were safe in Wonderland, that they could live forever among kids who get it, kids who understand, kids like them. But now grown-ups have come, like they always do. Come to drag them back into the dark, kicking and screaming. Come to take them away and lock them up and make them pay for misbehaving.
Ha. They're welcome to try.
Chara has marked their face with warpaint, vicious streaks of berry-red slashed across their rosy cheeks. Two stripes, one on each side, going up toward their eyes. Don't know why, but it felt right. Powerful. They clutch a knife with a blade coated in dreamshade and carry jagged little rocks in their pockets. They're not alone now, not in Neverland. They have something to lose now. Something to defend. And they're going to defend it to the death.
They've scrabbled up into a tree, a smear of green shirt and brown hair hidden in the foliage. They know someone's bound to come by sooner or later. They left a trail, a deliberate and obvious track of snapped twigs and bruised ferns, to bait an intruder this way.
All they have to do is listen, watch, wait until the right moment. Then... they pounce.
[B - The melody sings what the words can't say]
[They'll never, ever, ever admit it, but sometimes, the Lost Ones sort of yearn for something that's missing. Something indefinable and out of reach, made of faint memories of comforting songs and warm baking and bedtime stories.
Not that Chara would know. They never feel that.
But they... sometimes something seizes them, they guess. An urge to be something they aren't? No - not that. They're just bored. They're...
They're making a blanket.
Two sticks that their knife carefully whittled down to straight, smooth evenness, yarn from - they can't remember where it came from, where did it come from again? - and the comforting, zen repetition of row upon row of garter stitch. They don't even know who needs one most, who this one is gonna be for. It's not like they could ever work fast enough to make one for every kid. But one kid, at least, can have a security blanket, if they work hard.
Maybe they'll ask Frisk. Frisk would probably know who needs one. They mull it over as they sit on a stump, looping together row after row together.]
[C - But they might laugh and they might be scared]
They don't like the night.
It's not that Chara's afraid of the dark. It's just... they're a light sleeper. Lost Ones whimper in their sleep, cry in the dark sometimes, snore or mumble or kick as they slumber. The forest is full of animal sounds and rustling branches. Always, always, they curl up as small as they can make themselves and hope and hope that nothing creeps in through a window, crawls its way in through a door, slides to where they sleep and extends a spidery roving hand up their leg and -
They don't sleep too good, a lot of nights.
So they take night watch. They never get tired. Their bedtime is never. And they're not scared of the dark. May as well be useful to someone, if they're going to be up anyway. Tonight's another night where they keep a vigil, feeding twigs and sticks to a campfire to ward off the nighttime chill and illuminate the camp.
Maybe you can't sleep tonight, either. Maybe you're an intruder, making your way to the flickering beacon of a distant campfire. Whatever you are, you can find them here.
[Wild Card
[Any other prompts you'd like to use!]
Where: OFF TO NEVER-NEVERLAND
When: Throughout the event
Rating: PG for potential violence? Will edit if necessary.
Summary: Chara is a ten-year-old with a violent resentment toward humans and grown-ups. So basically, business as usual.
The Story:
[A - Remember that your gifts are your game]
Adults.
Chara hates adults. Despises them, from the very pit of their soul. They thought they were safe in Wonderland, that they could live forever among kids who get it, kids who understand, kids like them. But now grown-ups have come, like they always do. Come to drag them back into the dark, kicking and screaming. Come to take them away and lock them up and make them pay for misbehaving.
Ha. They're welcome to try.
Chara has marked their face with warpaint, vicious streaks of berry-red slashed across their rosy cheeks. Two stripes, one on each side, going up toward their eyes. Don't know why, but it felt right. Powerful. They clutch a knife with a blade coated in dreamshade and carry jagged little rocks in their pockets. They're not alone now, not in Neverland. They have something to lose now. Something to defend. And they're going to defend it to the death.
They've scrabbled up into a tree, a smear of green shirt and brown hair hidden in the foliage. They know someone's bound to come by sooner or later. They left a trail, a deliberate and obvious track of snapped twigs and bruised ferns, to bait an intruder this way.
All they have to do is listen, watch, wait until the right moment. Then... they pounce.
[B - The melody sings what the words can't say]
[They'll never, ever, ever admit it, but sometimes, the Lost Ones sort of yearn for something that's missing. Something indefinable and out of reach, made of faint memories of comforting songs and warm baking and bedtime stories.
Not that Chara would know. They never feel that.
But they... sometimes something seizes them, they guess. An urge to be something they aren't? No - not that. They're just bored. They're...
They're making a blanket.
Two sticks that their knife carefully whittled down to straight, smooth evenness, yarn from - they can't remember where it came from, where did it come from again? - and the comforting, zen repetition of row upon row of garter stitch. They don't even know who needs one most, who this one is gonna be for. It's not like they could ever work fast enough to make one for every kid. But one kid, at least, can have a security blanket, if they work hard.
Maybe they'll ask Frisk. Frisk would probably know who needs one. They mull it over as they sit on a stump, looping together row after row together.]
[C - But they might laugh and they might be scared]
They don't like the night.
It's not that Chara's afraid of the dark. It's just... they're a light sleeper. Lost Ones whimper in their sleep, cry in the dark sometimes, snore or mumble or kick as they slumber. The forest is full of animal sounds and rustling branches. Always, always, they curl up as small as they can make themselves and hope and hope that nothing creeps in through a window, crawls its way in through a door, slides to where they sleep and extends a spidery roving hand up their leg and -
They don't sleep too good, a lot of nights.
So they take night watch. They never get tired. Their bedtime is never. And they're not scared of the dark. May as well be useful to someone, if they're going to be up anyway. Tonight's another night where they keep a vigil, feeding twigs and sticks to a campfire to ward off the nighttime chill and illuminate the camp.
Maybe you can't sleep tonight, either. Maybe you're an intruder, making your way to the flickering beacon of a distant campfire. Whatever you are, you can find them here.
[Wild Card
[Any other prompts you'd like to use!]
no subject
Better to be the quiet type. The loner type. Better to say as few words as possible. Get to the point, even if it means clipped, incomplete sentences.
They look for some dead leaves to scatter into the fire, praying their traitorous rosy complexion doesn't go any rosier.
"I mean... if you're bored, or something. I'm going to be around for a very long time, too, so... it'd pass the time, would it not?"
no subject
They're not the only one that wants to be anything but themself, after all.
"You're good to talk to! I'd definitely like to spend the next thousand years or more hanging with you," she says with a grin, balancing herself on her goatlike head and trying to lift her tiny body into the air. When she topples over, she giggles more and smiles up at them from her position, lying on her stomach.
no subject
"I can't remember when I came here," they admit. Sometimes it feels like they arrived when Frisk did. Sometimes it feels like they showed up a hundred years before Frisk. Sometimes it feels like they've been haunting Neverland just about as long as Toriel has. "Does a thousand years feel very long?"
no subject
"Ummm," she ponders, "it's pretty long, yeah. I can't really remember how many thousands I've lived, 'cause it's hard to count that long, but it'll be easy to ignore the years as they keep coming. You won't even notice it after a while. Just take each day as they come."
Years seem like nothing to her now. The more they pass, the less she notices it. More than day by day, she lives minute by minute. She distracts herself by transforming, hanging out with animals, watching over the other kids. Antagonizing the mermaids.
Her years alone in that old canyon still weigh on her shoulders. But every thousand years it feels a little lighter.