entrancelogs | [OPEN] And if it ever starts to feel bad, little fang

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[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!]

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[Chara isn't the only one up late at night- Toriel also happens to be up, and wandering around, checking to make sure nobody's sneaking up on them- holding a flame in her hands so that she can see. And as she approaches the camp, she sees a figure in the distance.

So naturally, she tosses a fireball at them. Just a warning shot- she wants them to know they're here, first! But when it goes whizzing past their head, it makes things bright enough for Toriel to see- interrupting the screaming charge she'd been in the process of.]

AAAAAA-! Wait. Chara?? Is that you? What are you doing up so late???

What're you doing with those sticks?

[The question comes from behind them, as Connie approaches- she doesn't think she knows this Lost One that well. To be fair though, she doesn't know that many of them that well, preferring to keep to herself- actually, she kind of regrets the question almost as soon as she asks it.]

Oh, um- you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, though. I was just curious, that's all.

Although Souji isn't really an adult, he's not a kid, either. Or at least, not by the standards of the Lost Ones. The Lost Ones don't seem to...like people his age or older, so he figured he'd stay out of their way and explore.

Unfortunately? He's lost in the woods. He's found the trail Chara created and is following it, less to catch a kid and more to see if maybe it was a deer that made it. Animals are much better than angry children. Or angry adults. Or even a lot of people who aren't angry at all.

They're not the only one who has trouble sleeping, it turns out. Not terribly surprising, given the way the rhythms of passing time are so strange here. They can still remember, vaguely, what it was like to have a perfect hourly schedule, a rising sun that peeked over the horizon with an unfearful regularity. So when it's lost, they don't always know what to do. Don't always know how to handle the perpetual dark that sometimes shrouds the island.

They take to wandering about, sometimes. Crossing over the beach and watching the water lap at the sand. They've always liked the water. But tonight (today? Is it technically a day now? Does it matter if they never age, never grow old?) they know they at least won't be alone as they're kept awake, fidgeting and restive.

Sleeping easy isn't for children like them.

Frisk makes sure not to come empty-handed, though. They arrive with a series of puffs and grunts as they drag a sizable log, a dried-out chunk of driftwood, and haul it through the dirt and undergrowth. It's sure to make a great sound when they throw it on the fire, and last them the rest of the night to boot. As soon as they can get it - to - move - the rest of the way.

He knows of Chara. They showed up here...he can't remember when, honestly. Was it recently or a long time ago? Doesn't really matter. Time doesn't make much sense here. He's seen them around, talked to them once or twice.

They scare him a little, mostly because all humans scare him a little, and also because Chara has a certain intensity that not a lot of Lost Ones have. So he tries to avoid them, unless they seem very obviously calm.

They're knitting something. He's just passing through on his way to find some food when he spots them and pauses. It's kind of fascinating, the click click of thin twigs and the way the yarn almost seems to shape itself. It's so rhythmic. Relaxing to watch, probably even moreso to actually do.

And they do seem calm.

"um." He keeps his voice quiet. "whatcha makin'? oh...sorry. you're probably keeping count."

Knitting requires counting, right? Numbers. He knows how important numbers are. He immediately feels a bit sheepish for interrupting.

[She's watching from afar for a little bit, the mesmerizing notion of fingers moving as the piece gets longer and longer. She understands the power of getting lost in your work- something to keep your mind off things while you concentrate. Pushing in screws and tightening straps is a lot like knit one, perl two.

She doesn't mean to approach, really, because she's always been wary around humans, and Chara operates with an intensity she can never hope to match. But a bug bites at her tail and she stumbles out of the foliage, brushing it off her in a small flurry of limbs, before looking up and having to meet their eyes.]

Uhm... h-hello. Sorry if I, uhm, i-interrupted you.

Ironically, Shepard doesn't sleep well on quiet nights. There's too much left to the imagination on nights where nothing can be heard, and if she can't take stock of what's around her, she might as well already be lost. Even the whimpering of a kid is a lullaby- at least then she knows she's not alone.

But when she can't sleep, and it's still often, she heads to the fire. And tonight's as good a night as any. She's restless, wants to go out and find those adults where they lie, dare them to take her anywhere. But she's not stupid enough to go without a team, or at least a plan, and right now she has neither. So she plops down, unceremoniously, nearby to Chara without thinking much of the other person there for the first few seconds until she looks over.

"Hey. Didn't notice you there. Couldn't sleep?"

[OH SWEET HOLY SON OF A GOSH DARN.

Heat and light and embers go exploding past their head, and they jolt so hard they topple right off the fallen log they're seated on, scrabbling wildly to their feet and drawing their knife, its point tracing trembling little scribbles in the air as their hands shake. Fight or flight screams through them - they've found them, the adults are here, they're going to take them back to that horrible horrible place where you get the belt or you get locked in the crawlspace and it's called a "time out" and you're terrified they've forgotten about you and nobody will ever find your bones in that cramped little spot full of Christmas decorations and old boxes and -

...And it's just Toriel. It's not an adult. It's nothing bad at all. They let out a long, sharp sigh, like they're forcibly throwing every last trace of breath out of themselves.]

Criminy, Toriel! Don't sneak up like that! I thought you were one of those things.

[Things. The only title they deserve.]

I'm guarding the camp! So nobody sneaks up while everyone's trying to rest, you know?

[They glance up, just for a moment. Can't quite pin a name to this face, but they know it's a fellow Lost One. A kid like them. So it's okay, it's safe.]

I'm making a blanket. It gets cold at night, right?

[Never so cold that the children can't take care of themselves. Never so cold they'd have to go crawling back to - to a place they never, ever want to return to. But... cold.]

Someone's got to take care of the Lost Ones, right? And nobody's going to take care of us except us. So... I guess I thought... I don't know. I just felt like it, maybe.

Nuh uh! That's what I'm doing!!

[Toriel huffs indignantly, starting to tap her foot on the ground, because how dare Chara do this thing that she was already doing? That neither of them announced to anyone that they'd be doing?]

Go on back to bed, Chara. I'm gonna be the one beating up any creeps that come snooping around, got it??

Good news, Souji! Some would argue that what you've encountered here qualifies as an animal. Most people sure didn't seem to think of it as a human, after all!

Bad news: whatever it is, it's also a very, very angry child.

They can hear the snap and rustle of shifting undergrowth. Heavy, inelegant footfalls, like they own the forest, like it doesn't matter at all what they trample underfoot. They can spot a silver head, sticking out like a sore thumb amid all the green. An obvious target. An oblivious one.

The perfect victim, right? Ha ha. Practically asking for it, daring to exist so openly. If you're not screaming no - and sometimes, even if you are - then you're asking for punishment.

They wait, hardly daring to breathe, as their target gets closer and closer. They gauge the distance carefully, try to map their trajectory. Three more steps, two more, one more...

They lunge off their branch, diving straight at him like a wildcat, dreamshade-tipped knife swinging in an uncontrolled, vicious arc.

A blanket?

[Connie looks over what Chara is doing, and... it looks familiar. Maybe she read a book about it, a long time ago. Sewing, maybe?]

That's... really nice of you, actually! It's, um... sweet!

[Connie's clothes are definitely starting to get a little... worn out. They were meant for a warm, summery place to start off with, so... she can definitely understand the desire to be a little warmer.]

They definitely don't get taken by surprise when Frisk shows up; it's not hard to hear them coming.

In fact, there's a stab of irritation spiking through them, because what kind of stupid baby just drags a giant heavy thing like that right to the camp? It probably left a clear-as-day trail of flattened foliage leading right home! What if a grown-up sees it? You can't afford to be playing games, to be acting like an ignorant oblivious child! You have to think about survival. You have to keep your back up. You have to always be watching out, or they'll get you, the minute you relax is the minute they hurt you!

...But... everyone here is a baby, right? Everyone Lost One's a child. Just a child. And - and isn't the whole point of Neverland, of the family Pan let them into, that they never have to grow up, never have to become like a grown-up is?

They stand up, stray a little from the campfire's halo of warmth and illumination. Blink in the darkness, trying to assess how much of a trail the log might have left. They can fix it themselves, maybe. Take care of it. Stomp down a fake trail diverging from it, try to draw potential trackers away. Some of the kids can be kids. Chara's guarding them tonight. Chara will be vigilant for them.

"Need some extra muscle?" They instead volunteer. "You look like you're having a hard time."

They don't look up or pause in their knitting, because they've sunk into a rhythm by now, into the soothing endless repetition of knit, knit, knit. Poke the working needle into a loop, wrap the yarn around it so that the loose end falls between the two needles, maneuver the working needle under the loop, push the loop off the stationary needle. Repeat and repeat and repeat.

Don't have to keep an eye on him. He's a Lost One. Not even an especially rowdy one, either. He won't play rough. He probably won't play at all; he's one of the ones who's scared of them, they think, because he's always quiet and avoiding them.

"Don't really have to count; it's garter stitch, so every single row is just... knit. Never purl, never slip stitches. Just a rectangle, so never increase or decrease. Don't have a pattern, so I can just bind off whenever I think it's long enough."

They pause, realizing they're kind of just saying things that probably don't mean anything at all to him. "...That means you're not breaking my concentration," they clarify. "I'm just doing the exact same thing forever and ever, basically."

"I've - I've almost got it!" Frisk huffs, teeth gritted as they really put their back into it. Not that they've got a lot of back, or even muscle to begin with. They're leaving a dark trail scored through the dirt, but they can go over it later with a tree branch and broom away the evidence. No harm, no foul. Besides, anyone can see the fire from miles away. It's like a beacon in the dark.

They manage to get it up against the firepit and lean against their trophy with the air of unmistakable triumph. Take that, you stupid log!

"Up late," they add, nonchalant, as they extricate a decently heavy branch from the nearby underbrush so they can use it to lever the log up and over the stones.

[They don't really expect to hear from one of the monsters, honestly. With the exception of Toriel, they're pretty sure all the monster Lost Ones don't like them at all. They're too scary, right? Humans don't like Chara because they're not human enough, monsters don't like Chara because they - they're not monster enough? They're too human? They're not sure. They're just... scary.

So they glance up, not entirely sure what to make of this. Does she want something from them?]

Nah. I can knit and talk at the same time. I could probably do this with my eyes closed. I've had lots of practice.

[...When? They haven't made that many blankets, right?

They decide not to think too hard about it.]

If you want the blanket, it's not done yet.

They laugh. "I can never sleep."

Because... because they really can't, right? They struggle sleeping among a crowd, among other people, always terrified of what might be done to them in their sleep - even if they know that's stupid, know that the Lost Ones are different, know that it's not like that here. They can't beat up nightmares, can't kick and punch and slap the insubstantial terrors their subconscious wakes them up with. They just kind of... kind of run on adrenaline and spite until exhaustion makes them sleep, over and over.

"It's not even a problem, though. Someone's got to keep an eye on the place while everyone else is resting, right?" Someone's got to. So they might as well be useful, right? They can be useful to the Lost Ones. "What about you? Staying up late because that's what big kids do?"

He has his hands in his jacket pockets as he watches them. His posture is casual, though he's ready for a speedy escape if necessary. Always ready to dodge. They probably won't come after him, though--they'll mess up their knitting.

They answer, but he understands maybe one word in five. He has no idea how knitting works. But then they pause and clarify, and he nods.

"oh. okay, good."

He watches them in silence for a moment. The same thing forever and ever, huh?

why does that seem familiar?

"...you're really good at that. how long'd it take you to get that fast?"

It's a little mesmerizing, in a good way. Click click click and the row they're working on proceeds. Like...like, what are those machines called? With the letter buttons that click when you press them? One of those.

Who died and made you queen of Neverland?

[They snort, feeding another twig to the campfire. Watching it fizzle away into nothing. The little ones burn up so quickly, don't they?]

There's no reason we can't both be guards. I hate trying to sleep around other people, anyway. Every time someone rolls over or makes a noise, I just start thinking they're coming to get me, or something, and...

[They realize how stupid it sounds. How mean it sounds, because what kind of person just goes and assumes all their friends are out to get them? Nice kids trust their friends.]

...I just don't feel like sleeping. I wanna stay up late. So that's what I'm gonna do.

[Their rosy cheeks go rosier, and they duck their head. Try to hide their face behind their bangs.]

It's not sweet. I'm not a very nice person. I'm just... this is just so I don't get bored, that's all. I'm just doing it for my own entertainment.

[See? It's actually selfish, right? They're not one of the good ones, they've never been a good kid. They're not altruistic or selfish or any of those things.]

Peter Pan. Died just last week, something to do with not minding his own business! Real tragic. They found him with 87 stab wounds and a couple black eyes.

[A joke, of course, Toriel just grinning a bit, and holding up a closed fist.]

So listen to your new queen, suck it up, and go to bed, buster!! I can't watch over everyone if some of you are just off wandering around!

Well, if Frisk's got it under control, then who are they to get in the way? They fold their arms behind their head, just watch casually as Frisk gets to work. Cast a look back into the darkness, maybe sort of... start casting around for a good branch, one with lots of twigs and leaves, so they can obscure the trail.

"Aren't we always?" They laugh. Frisk hasn't been a Lost One for as long as Chara has (Have they? How long has Chara been Lost? Their memories feel sort of weird, like it's somehow simultaneously equally possible they've only been around as long as Frisk has and they've been Lost for so long they sort of think they must have - have just been born lost, or something?), but they've been around long enough for Chara to see a kindred spirit in them. Someone who sleeps worse than the other Lost Ones - and most of the Lost Ones don't always sleep good.

"I think I might have been a vampire before I was a Lost One," they announce, just making up something ridiculous and impossible. "I mean, I'm pasty and bitey and bloodthirsty and up all night. And it'd explain the red eyes, wouldn't it?"

Edited 2016-10-22 03:41 (UTC)

Oh. Sorry, I didn't mean to assume, I just...

It's still really helpful, though, even if you're not trying to be, so. It's good, that you're doing that.

[More helpful and useful than anything Connie could really do, at least. It might even get people to like them.]

"...I don't know," they admit. It sort of feels like they shouldn't be able to find yarn at all out here, maybe? Or like... not this yarn in particular? Because their stash is... because it came from...

They knit (ha ha) their brows together, scrunch their nose up. Don't think about it. Doesn't matter where it came from, doesn't matter how they know to do this. Doesn't matter who taught them to do something with their hands that wasn't picking or scratching or breaking or ripping or destroying, destroying, destroying. Doesn't matter who they were thinking of when they made sure not to whittle the points of the needles too sharp, because they don't need to be sharp. They're not supposed to hurt when you press them into the pads of your fingers.

"It's not like it's hard to do, anyway. I bet you could do it just as fast as I could if you learned how. All you're really doing is just making loops and counting."

Frisk manages to tip the log over into the fire with a soft hoot of victory. It nearly extinguishes the thing on the spot as it crunches down over the pyramid of charcoal and twigs and leaves, a reverse cascade of golden sparks flaring up into the air in a bright shower. The fire soon latches hungrily onto the stray splinters and bits of wood sticking out of the side of it, and merry blaze flutters back into existence.

"Maybe you're just well-red," says Frisk, smirking. Bad jokes are a common thread around here, at least among some of them, and that's something they can well appreciate. "Besides, I thought vampires aren't supposed to like the heat and stuff."

They stick their hands out over the fire, crouched as they are on the spot. The heat soon warms the slightly reddened palms of their hands accordingly.

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[OPEN] And if it ever starts to feel bad, little fang

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