| Logs |
2006-07-09
| Dreams |
| Realms |
Retired
| Reality Fault |
General Info
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Petrouchka
It is an indeterminate amount of time later that Jason is wakened by Diana gently shaking his shoulder and calling to him, "Jason? Lollipop? Wake up, please? I need some help, sweet...?"
Jason comes back to the world, yawning, and blinking. It was such a good, peaceful sleep... and much needed too! Is it just him, or are Diana's cravings getting stronger and more often... then again, he's also been seeing her more too. But he slowly comes back to the world, "...myah?"
She is, of course, radiantly beautiful, and he gladly loses himself for a moment in admiration. Her raven-dark hair is piled high and glittering with diamond sparks of fire, which are reflected gloriously in her long, sweeping gown and headdress. The opulence suits her: shining white silk and samite, trimmed with sparkling gems, swaying with every movement of her hips. He smiles widely... now that's something to wake up to. "You don't look like you need my help at all, love..." he mumbles.
Diana -- no, isn't she the Ballerina? -grins, taking his hand, "Come on, sweet Moor! I need some help; you can admire me later!" He can see part of his own clothing as well: loose silk trousers in a brilliant shade of green, belted with a long, shimmering ruby sash. His scimitar is tucked into the sash, and he can feel, without looking, the matching turban settled firmly on his head. He hopes the large, beautiful emerald pinned over his forehead on the turban is properly holding the decorative ostrich feathers... but he disdains to raise his dark-skinned hand to check. Proud Moors don't worry about their looks -- they already know they look magnificent! A suitably fine escort to so lovely a Ballerina.
Jason -- no, Blackamoor -- swells his bare chest out with a deep breath, rising to stand next to her, and laughs in a rich, booming voice. "Can't I admire and help all at the same time?" he queries, letting her guide him where she will. She is radiant -- his white desert rose -- and it takes some time before he desires to perceive anything else around him.
The Ballerina giggles mischievously over her shoulder at him, dragging him along by the hand. A moment later they're on the darkened stage, and he sees the clown Petroushka already sprawled in place. The Ballerina stands prettily on tiptoe to kiss his dark cheek, then whirls and dances coyly away, to settle in her place.
The Blackamoor knows his spot -- and yet... hm. Did that ugly clown actually dare to stare admiringly at his Ballerina?! Ugly misshapen thing... stooped body; straw-like brown hair; a perpetually tragic look on her painted face; and a silly, plain costume to boot. He swallows a scoff, rolling his eyes at the audacity, understandable though it was. He can ignore this one trespass, this one intrusion on his radiant Ballerina, but he keeps a watchful eye on the miserable pest of a clown.
The Showman turns up, doing a last check before the show begins... straightening a limb here, re-arranging a ribbon there. Finally he nods his long-bearded head, satisfied, and steps behind the back-curtain. The music begins, and the Blackamoor can feel his heart beating a bit faster in anticipation -- the show begins!
The curtain rises! For a moment the Blackamoor can see the busy holiday crowd outside -- peasants, police, street dancers, gypsies -- and beyond them the impressive spire of a huge building. As the Showman's masterful, rolling tones introduce his magical puppets, folks gather: coachmen, nursemaids, a dancing bear, ribbon vendors, masked revelers. Then the Blackamoor has no more time for lying around, as the music crescendos and he knows it is time to begin the dance.
Blackamoor's bosom swells with pride as he prepares to give his finest performance ever! The words of the Showman do not register at first as he sees the people gather. But then he moves smoothly into motion of his own accord, and is startled to feel thin cords attached to his limbs... are these assisting his movement? Are they... causing his movement?
The music is jarring, dissonant, difficult. The huge percussion sections pound out primitive rhythms, and the woodwinds shriek and moan like tortured things. His first movements are jerky and uncoordinated as the Showman demonstrates the nature of his artistic puppets... but soon enough the Blackamoor and the Ballerina are dancing effortlessly, guided through their paces by the Showman's invisible strings. Even the clown manages some manner of grace, and the show is a great success with the crowd.
Too soon the show is over, and they are taking their bows... then the curtain drops, and there is no one to admire him any longer. The Showman scoops the three of them up, dumping them in their various rooms and closing the door. Blackamoor finds himself assaulted with despair... he is not a man, a proud moor -- but a puppet! He would lift himself upright but he cannot as he once did, now that no one tugs at his strings any more. Even as proud as he is, he might cry in frustration, but no tears can be shed from his painted eyes -- eyes that cannot even close as he drowns in the dark. How has this happened?
There's a gentle tapping on his door -- then it opens and the Ballerina peeps in. The rich Oriental reds and oranges of his room, and the gleaming gold of the suddenly lit filigreed lantern touch her pale, icy beauty with warmth, as she steps cautiously into the room. It's clear she's not immediately noticed him lying amongst his mounds of opulently decorated cushions -- and suddenly he knows he can move! She brings him to life -- that must be it! She whispers uncertainly, "Moor? Sweet Mo-" She hesitates, looking confused, then mutters softly, "No, that's not right, is it? Wait... who is... Jason?"
He blinks and rises from where he was thrown, suddenly feeling alive again, as he did before. "Jason? Who is Jason? Ballerina, what has happened? Have we always been puppets, and I had never known it? Do I remember with every performance and forget when you bring me to life once more?" he queries of her, clinging to his life as he takes her hand.
The Ballerina blinks her lovely, large eyes at him, and it's suddenly hard to think straight. She's so beautiful! And she's his, all his -- that ugly puppet clown Petroushka shall never defile her pristine beauty with even a touch of her grimy paws. Where he was once drowning in darkness and despair, he suddenly finds himself floating in the pool of the Ballerina's beauty... knowing that what will come next is a typhoon of passion as he takes her right there, as befits him, as Diana is his... Diana? His? -or he's hers... who is he? Is he Jason? No, he is the proud Blackamoor, and not a puppet! "Ballerina, where does this confusion come from?" he whispers, suddenly frustrated at this puzzling identity crisis.
The Ballerina looks around, her eyes slowly becoming luminous as she murmurs, "This... is... not right. I know you are named Jason... I think?" Those full, scarlet lips -- they should not be turned down in a frown, but rather kissed -- often, and by him!
Blackamoor shakes his head. "No, it's not right. Let me make it better." He embraces her then, pulling her into a kiss, trying to find refuge from this confusion in her embrace...
The Ballerina's kisses are ambrosia, fitting reward for such a handsome star as himself! Yet somehow she straightens a moment later, despite his passion, and studies him thoughtfully. She's laid one pale, cool hand on his muscular chest, keeping them slightly separate, "I... don't remember you being so dark? Or... did you have horns, my pet? I -- I remember Jason liked... likes this-" She leans forward suddenly, her teeth closing on his ear with a sensuous jolt of adrenaline.
Blackamoor gasps! His hands clutch at her white dress, for a moment feeling less the proud moor, and more the gentler beloved of Diana -- not Diana, the Ballerina -- and he melts against her. "I am not this Jason, but he has good taste," he rumbles, caressing her face. "No, no, I never had... horns..." He trails off, tracing her forehead where he remembers two twining protrusions once... no, never! How could there ever have been such a blemish on Diana's face! "This is madness!" he growls, feeling of two minds all at once.
The Ballerina sighs contentedly at the Moor's reflexive reaction, the long strands of her jeweled headdress swaying mesmerizingly as she nods, "Ah, yes, you are indeed my Jason! And you're pale-skinned, I remember now!" She runs her hands over his bare chest, smiling languorously into his eyes, sending more electric shocks through his system. The arms he puts around her glittering form are indeed pale-skinned now, and he realizes dimly he's in his own body. Now this he knows is right! It would take very little effort for them both to tumble down onto the soft, heaped pillows -- such sweetness, to drown in passion for the lovely, dangerous lady! ...er, wait. Dangerous?
Jason blinks, the jarring mental disconnect lessened now... this is right! The garb is strange, to be sure, but this body is as it was meant to be. He is Jason. She is Diana, his beloved... neither of them are puppets but living, breathing beings that need each other desperately. He hears the music swell, then, filled with romantic overtones, and he almost gives in to the impulse to move with the music, to take her breath with another kiss as he pulls her to the soft pile of pillows, to couple with her till the wave of their pleasure crests and breaks onto the shore. Almost. "Diana, why are we dressed like this?" he queries plaintively.
The Ballerina Diana leans towards him as if to aid their fall towards the inviting pillows... but then, suddenly, at the Blackamoor Jason's query she straightens, her slitted eyes blazing fire and her clawed fingernails tightening almost painfully on his arms. "I -- I remember! I am Alu Mikajah Diana by-" he hears what sounds like birdsong followed by, "Beatrice Perdita out of Samuel Hezekiah Frasher and I am not amused!"
She whirls on her toes with a dancer's grace, her silver-embroidered skirts swaying provocatively about her, and the diamond-encrusted strands of her headdress dance frantically at her sudden movement, clinking gently against her short, curving horns. Her red-skinned face is dark with sudden anger as she gestures at the door to the Blackamoor's room and commands, "SHOW YOURSELF, DREAMER." She's almost terrifying... pity the poor fool she's angry at.
Jason is taken aback at Diana's sudden fury, suddenly regretting that he did not do as the music bade him. But even as that shock of fear washes over him, he suddenly faces the door, wondering at what she sees; who she commands. "Dreamer?" he whispers, squinting at the door... his turban flops to one side comically then, and he rips it off in frustration, hand going to the hilt of the scimitar at his waist.
The door creaks reluctantly open. A moment passes... then slowly the clown girl Petroushka steps hesitantly in. She does her best, whirling and dancing comically to entertain the beautiful Ballerina, shying away fearfully from the frowning Moor with his hand on his sword... but overall it's a sad, hopeless display, and in the end the clown falls to her knees as if her strings were cut, pathetically aware of the Ballerina's disdain for her ugliness.
Jason stares at the dance, beginning with the disgust of the Moor at her not-at-all entertaining display, and ending as Jason, his hand leaving the sword as he goes to her. He's still bemused, but showing the concern that Jason would under the circumstances. "Rita... what has happened?" he whispers to her, feeling her pain as his own.
Diana looks fit to spit nails when Petroushka/Rita first comes in, and she spends no time looking at the clown's little display. What precisely she's doing is not clear, but she turns, studying different parts of the room and occasionally waving her hands, murmuring under her breath, "That's not right, let's fix that... nope, don't need a stage here... he doesn't belong in this dream -- off he goes..." The collapse of the clown occurs at just about the same time as the music suddenly, jarringly ends. Diana turns to face Rita and Jason, staring down at the fallen woman with a frown.
Jason reaches out to Rita, and at his tentative touch she shudders, falling over on one side. She is recognizably Rita -- but a stylized, ugly, misshapen caricature of herself. She looks much like a damaged Harlequin doll. Jason shakes his head. "My god, Rita... what..." He takes her into his arms, trying to determine if there is life in her or if she truly is a doll... his fingers touch her face, as if to try and smear the makeup.
Diana sighs quietly, kneeling down next to Jason, her full skirts swirling gracefully around her like the glittering petals of a lovely ice flower. "She's very determined to believe herself doomed, sweet. From the confused images I'm getting, she's not just fighting me for control of the dream... she believes she dies at your hands at the end of it." Dryly she adds, "That would be... extremely bad to fulfill."
Jason looks shocked. "I wouldn't kill her... why... how can this be possible?" He shakes his head. "She can actually control your dream?" His upset is only heightened by the fact that Rita does, in fact, seem to be a doll. His mind races, trying to absorb this all.
Diana pushes back the intricate jeweled strands of her headdress with one slender hand, "No, sweet, this is her dream. If it were mine, she'd be whatever I wanted her to be." Jason's brown knits, trying to think. If killing her would be bad, killing himself would not likely be a step in the right direction either.
"Since it's hers, and she has very strong preconceived notions of what will happen should she try to attract my admiration..." Diana's voice is dry, "well, we're currently arguing about whether or not there should be music. I'm winning right now, and given enough time I'll indubitably crush her ability to resist me... but I'd rather not go to that extreme if possible." She frowns, delicately chewing on one scarlet fingernail, "I'm just... not sure how to convince her instead of eat her, if you know what I mean?"
A germ of an idea forms in Jason's mind then. He stands upright and pulls Diana with him, as if into an embrace. But instead of kissing her, he whispers into her ear frantically, "Don't stop the music -- change it. Make it a rising crescendo, as if some dramatic act were to occur. And when I raise my scimitar, you have to stop me, pull it from my hand. You have to reject me, and make even me believe it! You have to choose her!"
Diana blinks confusedly at Jason... then nods slowly. Her eyes narrow in concentration, and then the music does precisely what Jason expects, almost as if it were pulled from his own mind -- a swirling, rising crescendo of orchestral music.
Jason grits his teeth... this has to be the acting job of a life, now. He moves from Diana's embrace, and sneers at the prone form, trying to recapture his distaste for the Harlequin Rita. With a flourish he pulls the scimitar from his belt... holding it out at arm's length, he raises it in a cutting motion, as if with his next stroke it would bite into Rita...
Diana moves as Jason has directed, gracefully vaulting in a ballerina's leap between him and the fallen clown. Curiously, she seems to be getting paler-skinned as she dramatically uses her body language in dance to reprove the Blackamoor -- shaking her head angrily, her slender hands blocking his own, preventing the sword from falling... and abruptly the clown Petroushka bestirs herself suddenly at the apparent danger the Ballerina is in, lurching clumsily to her feet and throwing herself between them both!
Jason grimaces -- what a tangle! He tries to roll with it though, making up a struggle and hoping Diana will be able to come through on her end. Finally he twists his wrist to the side and drops the scimitar away from them, as if he was disarmed. His expression affects despair and betrayal, holding his arms outstretched as if trying to apologize for his almost homicidal act.
The Ballerina/Diana does indeed keep up, doing her best to make the struggle part of the dance. When Jason releases the scimitar the clown and Diana fall away from him, Petroushka protectively shielding the Ballerina with her own body. The music thunders dramatically as Diana sits up, half cradling the limp clown, and Diana looks up in sudden worry... then down at her pale hand resting on the clown's side. Spreading from underneath it is a spreading crimson stain...
Diana says angrily, "Oh, now this is too much! I refuse to play the woman realizing she truly loves the person who just died for her! Rita, stop this!" She looks up frustratedly at Jason, "Do something! Tell me a play or something where things go differently -- I need a happy ending!"
Jason is utterly flummoxed... how could this be? Does Rita have that much control, that it defies logic? He falls to his knees then, making it audible to get Diana's attention. 'Kiss! Her!' he mouths exaggeratedly as he lifts his arms in continued supplication.
She blinks at Jason -- then brightens, "Sleeping Beauty! Oh, that works!" She leans down, drawing Rita into a slow, passionate kiss. Softly in his head Jason hears Diana murmur, Favorite love theme music, sweet... concentrate on that, please?
Jason is stymied for a moment, freezing up, and then a tune comes to mind -- this is perhaps appropriate? The dramatic theme comes to a screeching halt, and is replaced by a pair of gentle guitars and a harmony of two female voices:
So we're okay, we're fine
Baby, I'm here to stop your crying
Chase all the ghosts from your head
I'm stronger than the monster beneath your bed
Smarter than the tricks played on your heart
We'll look at them together, then we'll take them apart
Adding up the total of a love that's true,
Multiply life by the power of two...
Petroushka/Rita shudders, limp in Diana's arms. Slowly, dramatically, Diana's skin goes back to its normal reddish hue, and Rita's skin goes from clown-white to its usual warm brown. She moans softly, her head falling back as Diana lifts her own head from the kiss. Rita's eyes are closed as she whispers softly, "Oooh... I'm dreaming, aren't I... don't make me wake up, please...?"
Jason's lips involuntarily curl back in a snarl then, suddenly enraged that this clown would defile his perfect Ballerina! His fists clench, and he looks down in surprise to see one pale, one dark fist; half of him wearing the shirt and pants he wore last night, and half is still bare-chested, with those fancy Moorish pants. His left hand grabs his right, stopping him from reaching for the scimitar. He's literally at war with himself as the dream takes hold of him, trying to force him back into the role.
Diana and Rita are oblivious to his struggle, as Diana is completely focused on the smaller woman cradled in her arms. She whispers softly, "Dream, yes. Open your eyes, Rita... the dream won't vanish. I'm a half-succubus, and if you give me your dream, I can give you what you want." Her voice is low, sultry, and persuasive, and her slender fingers trace a delicate pattern along Rita's soft throat, causing the other woman to moan softly again.
A moment later she stiffens, her eyes glowing in triumph as she looks up at Jason, "Got it! She's mine now. Thank you, sw- er..." She blinks, then grins and curiously asks, "What's up with your clothing, lollipop?" As Diana speaks, Rita whimpers softly, and the clown clothing disappears, melting into jeans and a red tank top.
Jason's nails are almost biting into his dark-skinned wrist, trying to wrest control away from the dream... and then as Rita's clothing changes, so too does his. Abruptly the struggle is over and he looks once more like himself. He lets out an explosive breath then. "Dream... tried to go after me... weak link..." he mutters, flopping onto his hands from where he's kneeling.
Diana smiles, her eyes bright with affection as she looks at Jason, "No, sweet, you're not the weak link. Dreams just hit us where we're least prepared, speaking to us in emotional language we're deeply affected by."
Rita blinks, struggling half upright, and bemusedly says, "Diana? Why is Jason in my dream?"
Jason looks up. "You wanted it that way, Rita. You wanted me to kill your chance at attaining love," he says simply. "To kill you."
Rita looks shocked, one hand coming up to her face, and Diana murmurs quietly, "He's helping me, sweetling... helping keep your dream from becoming a nightmare. Now... close your eyes and kiss me again, and when you open them he will have disappeared, and you will have forgotten this, and you will be all mine." Rita looks confused, but obediently turns her face up to Diana, her eyes closing. Diana smiles at Jason again, and he hears her soft murmur in his head, You sleep too, lollipop. You need your rest. Then she dips her head down to Rita's lips... and the forms of the two women blur and fade to darkness before Jason.
Jason smiles and sighs in relief... and then sinks to the ground, himself like a puppet laid to rest as well. He closes his eyes, giving himself over into the gentle oblivion of sleep...