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
"um...you might be kind of intimidating? but i don't think you're a bully. if you were, you woulda been mean to me by now."
Which might be a pretty pathetic thing to say, but it's also the truth. Bullies like to pick on the weakest kids more than anyone else, and Sans makes it pretty easy.
He's quiet for a bit after that. No, they don't need to get into the details. They get it; he gets it. Everyone who's here gets it on some level.
He tries to think of something to say.
"well...you haven't made anything worse for me, yet. so. you're okay."
no subject
"Do you want to try doing some stitches, or do you want to watch a little longer?" They ask, breezily moving on. Focusing on practical things is always easier. Tasks to fulfill. Jobs to finish. "The best way to learn this is by doing. It will become muscle memory, eventually. You just have to train your hands."
christ the unintentional metaphors in this tag
"i'd...is it okay? i'd like to try, but i'll probably make mistakes. and it's a blanket for someone else, so i wouldn't want to ruin it. if i did mess up--is that the sorta thing you can go back and fix? or is it permanent?"
It just doesn't look like you can undo those stitches once they've been made.
boy howdy
Ha. Get it? And they say knitting is a boring hobby.
"This blanket isn't really for anyone in particular just yet, anyway. You could say it's for you, if you wanted. Then it wouldn't matter if you didn't do it perfect, unless you want something flawless for yourself." They hold out the needles, waiting for him to take them or change his mind. "Mistakes, however, are an inevitable part of the process. That's why knitting is a nice hobby. No matter how intricately-woven or solid it looks, it's just a single strand of yarn. It can always be undone."
hoo boy
"oh man. i didn't realize that knitting had puns. that makes it even better."
Rip it, rip it. That's a really good one. Even the Froggits back home would appreciate that, and they don't usually have the best sense of humor.
He very carefully takes the needles when offered, a little surprised at the weight. Who knew an intricately woven bundle of yarn could be heavier than it looks? But he supposes that makes sense. Blankets can be pretty heavy, after all.
Mistakes can always be undone. He gives a decisive nod.
"okay. so..."
He attempts his very first stitch. It's very slow and he pauses several times to make sure he's doing it right, concentrating harder than he probably has to. Down, up, yarn comes around...
He's very tentative as he pulls the completed stitch from one needle to the other and tugs it tight.
"is that right? it...looks right..."
golly gee
Maybe not better than self-deprecating jokes. Grave humour. It's okay when it's turned on yourself. Nobody else's feelings are hurt, and everyone knows you must be doing alright if you can still laugh at yourself.
"Yes, that's exactly right! Trust your judgment. You'll know how to read your knitting with practice. If something is wrong, then it will show." Something they'd learned the hard way. Too many times wrapping the yarn around both needles instead of one, then wondering why they had acquired an "extra" stitch. Too many times dropping stitches. Too many times purling where they were supposed to knit.
"Keep going," they suggest. "The more you do it, the more confidence you'll gain. The more natural it will feel. The more you will get a feel for what a successful stitch looks like. It's like playing an instrument; you need to train your hands. Once you've done that, it's almost intuition."
wrapped?
The approval makes him grin even more. People don't usually praise him for anything. Maybe if he throws a good pinecone and hits a difficult target someone will say it was a good throw, but that's sort of...different. He got it right. His stitch looks like just like all the other ones, though maybe a bit too loose.
It's a good feeling.
"okay. i think i can do this..."
He makes another stitch. And then another.