3647/We dream

We dream
Date of Scene:	01 October 2020
Location:	A Dreamscape...
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Donatello, Terry O'Neil

---

Donatello has posed:
The voices echo, muffled by distance, though as loud as they could ever be.

    "Donnie?!" "Donnie?!"

    A quieter, squeakier one. "...Donnie..."

    Falling.

    Falling.

    Falling.

The swirling mists of time and space blend together like watercolor -- the deeper pigments of fate and love slowly spread into the nebulous, flowing splashes of reality, gradually taking over as it expands. Love is used to paint the juniper trees -- shown here as a deep magenta with splashes of pink for the leaves. Deep greens, painted from fate, provide a meadow. In this meadow, a hedge maze dominates -- obdurate in its cause: to keep its wandering captives confused and lost. A lone turtle, bipedal and mutant, stands alone and steps through the maze's threshold.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
White. A blank page or canvas.

Art comes forth from the bleeding of souls- or so it is said.

Some say that it is the interplay of

(Order.)
The maze, creating a contained world within a world, a microcosm of an orderly macrocosm- alike in turns and surprises, and dead ends.

There, along its corridors, there is a breeze.

(Design.)
Although there may be a myriad paths branching off the path every which way, there are certain things that might catch the eye- a repeating motif that recurs every so often... the hints of a line here and there that suggest a leaf, or a flower petal, etched on the ground. It is always etched at the start of a path.

(Tension.)
Even so, the shadows creep across the path, casting violet shades of despair that threaten to obscure the path. The shadows are chilling to the touch, and despondency emanates from them.

(Balance. )
Even then, the shadows are offset by bright patches of aquamarine aspirations, where the light still shines. There seems to be a maze within the maze, paths strewn with shadows, paths strewn with splotches of light- and while the etched leaves seem to suggest a path, they always lead to a fork with a light-strewn path and a bright one. The choice doesn't seem to be obvious at first sight...

(Harmony.)
And then, there is the voice.
A soft, simple humming floating in the breeze, but always coming consistently from one point, a sort of magnetic North by which a wanderer might set his compass...

Donatello has posed:
    A three-fingered hand is laid to rest on the greenery that frames the entrance of the hedge maze. The turtle it belongs to takes a breath -- the desire to move from the serenity of the meadow, with all of its deep viridian tones, and into the uncertainty of the maze is overwhelming. The turtle turns to look back -- can't go that way. That was before.

    It would seem he would have no choice. The turtle takes a cautious step and moves deeper into the oppressive hedge maze. His heart sinks, though deep inside he knows this was right. The obviousness of the choice meant that it wasn't one.

    Finally, the turtle speaks. "Father?" he calls out into the void, his voice filled with pain and betrayal. It echoes back to him a dozen or so times before fading away into nothingness.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
The solitary cry is returned and then diminished, and its silence is even louder than the echoes- deafening and finite.

And then, slicing through that sepulchral silence, a light-hearted voice. It fades here and there, as a candle in the wind would, occasionally words can even be heard-

~Mapping out a sky...
What you feel like, planning a sky
What you feel when the voices that come
Through the window
Go...
Until they distance and die...~

And then, suddenly, a shadow runs across one of the many pathways. It is a silhouette in shadows, but the turtle might have been able to see what it looked like.

A rabbit.

Donatello has posed:
    "Father!?"

    The turtle's cry echoes back again, his pain flowing through the air before it putters out once more. A few more steps in the maze...a turn... Each step seems more natural and correct than the one before it. The desire to keep moving is all-consuming. Going back is impossible and the turtle knows. He must move forward.

    The curious riddle goes unnoticed by the turtle, or at least it doesn't bring him enough concern to react. Though, as if guided along by it, the turtle's path through the maze would be informed by those lighthearted words.

    The rabbit passing through the shadows brings the turtle to a halt. His head turns to watch the shadow grow, stretch, and then shrink off into nothingness. Another deep breath before the turtle continues its journey through the unyielding maze.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
There is no reply, as even the singing becomes indistcint... which is funny, because it is actually growing stronger in volume.

And there it is. Just one turn, and an exit opens on Donatello, like a grin. An expanse of blue and white at first, empty for a moment, until graphite lines scrawl across it, bringing shapes out of nothingness. A garden in shades of grey, until color explores in liquid splendor, separating shadow from light, giving birth to shape out of vagueness.

Grass, and towers of flowers hanging from high walls, treetops swaying in a gentle breeze to the tune of the murmuring of water fountains, not directly seen but hinted at in the distance.

And people. There are people here. Or, at least, there is /one/ person that is easily seen. A figure clad in an artist's smock that is so iconic as to be almost cliche. The figure is dabbing furious at a canvas with a brush, and it soon becomes clear that it's the origin of the singing voice.

"Hmm, I can never get the trees right..." Vorpal mutters, standing back for a second. In the background, there are figures that might be people, but they are indistinct, as if the artist had intended them to just be background detail. Can't have the background overwhelm the foreground, right?

Donatello has posed:
    A three-fingered hand is brought up to cover the turtle's eyes as the light from the expanse fills his vision. Almost without control or even conviction, he takes a couple of steps towards the warmth of the light. His beady eyes blink a couple of times, as if doing so might provide clarity, but this is a special place and those tricks do not work here.

    "Father?" the turtle questions, his eyes squinting as as tightly as they could before being considered closed. He reaches an arm out. "Father?"

    But...it isn't.

    "What..."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
An ear tilts in Donatello's direction, but it is a few moments until the rest of him turns to face the turtle. His green eyes widen for a second, and then in the next heartbeat he is quickly advancing towards the turtle.

"That's... I didn't expect..."

He stops short of the turtle, and he reaches out a hand to gingerly touch a green arm, as if to ascertain himself, "I don't understand... did I paint the wrong shade of green?"

Donatello has posed:
    There's something familiar about that figure. Something unusual. One of the turtle's green arms reaches out to meet the hand. His head swivels slowly, vaguely looking at the surroundings before rolling forward to watch the other being.

    "What...who...where..."

    The turtle takes another breath. "Why are we here?" he eventually asks. It's the first fully-formed sentence from the turtle. It's unclear if he recognizes Vorpal, but it's a start.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
The Cheshire looks at Donatello with a puzzled look, equalling the turtle's. "Well... everybody has to be somewhere," he answers softly, "Otherwise things would be rather disorganized..." he tilts his head, still holding on to Donatello's arm, then he looks down at it. A frown creases the usually smiling face, and a finger traces up and down the arm, as he squints. "That's strange... you looked different the last time we met. It was at the beach, do you remember? You had told your tale to the nosy little girl. But you look so different. Not so 'mock', and a lot more 'turtle.'"

He raises his eyebrows as he lets go of Donatello's arm. "And you've been working out. Good for you. I did tell you a few turns at the Caucus Race would do you some good... come! I have something to show you!"

He dashes over to the canvas and covers it up, hastily, with a cloth. "I want your opinion on it... go ahead, uncover it!"

Donatello has posed:
    Everything would have to be somewhere. Yes, that's certainly true, but where was here? Why was 'his' here this one? Why did he feel such an incredible sense of calm around some corners, but dread around others? Why did he so badly want to move through the maze and towards that bright, warm light? So many questions.

    The turtle who might normally question Vorpal's story -- what beach, what girl, what race -- does not. Instead, his legs bring him to the canvas as if it was only up to them. He reaches out and slowly reveals the canvas.

    Rats.

    As soon as the canvas is uncovered, the sky is replaced with fantastic bursts of energy and light that travel from one end of the dreamscape to the other. Their arrival is announced with loud, thundering blasts, while their departure is given the shrill kickback of circular saws.

    The turtle turns away from the canvas and crouches suddenly, covering his head with his hands, cowering.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
The easel is swiftly kicked over, and the canvas falls on its face against the grass. Where it falls, the grass turns from green to brown, rat-fur brown.

The light begins to fade, turning the garden into shades of grey, definition melting like a chalk drawing left in the rain.

"No nono no-"

Vorpal's voice. Suddenly, the Cheshire's body is crouched next to Donatello's, an arm draped around his shoulders, and the other hand touching one of the hands covering Donatello's face,

"...Hey... hey... stay with me, stay with me. Stay with me..." his voice is gentle, coaxing, "You can't fear it like that. It makes it grow... Do..."

A pause, as the Cheshire frowns for a moment. And then his voice acquires an urgency. "Wait. I /know/ you... I know you, don't I?"

Donatello has posed:
    Cowering from the sky's aggression, the turtle remains crouched, his shoulders slumped. His hands remain on his head. Deep breaths.

    "I...I don't know," he replies quietly. "I've never been here before." So, therefore, they must not know each other, right? The turtle finally leans back a touch, allowing his head to lift and check his surroundings once more. Something stirs a look of recognition from the turtle. Suddenly, he stands and rights the easel. It seems to have another canvas, white and pristine, at the ready. The turtle reaches out, a brush in his hand.

    "I...I think I'm an artist?" he wonders. "Someone told me that." He doesn't sound sure. The turtle drags a tongue against the front of his teeth and slowly moves the tip of the brush towards the canvas.

    An instant before the brush touches the canvas, ominous silence imposes its rule. As soon as the bristles bend against the canvas, discord takes over. Loud ominous tones send more energy coursing through the sky, punctuated once more with a high, shrill screech. The turtle takes a few backward steps away from the easel and finds his shell against a hedge. The paintbrush is dropped.

    

Terry O'Neil has posed:
The Cheshire cat back ups alongside Donatello, one hand raised as if to protect himself from the canvas, or whatever it appears on it. He hastily crouches and grabs the paintbrush and thrusts it at Donatello, "No! Hurry, before it..."

The hedges are starting to weave, as if they were not topiary walls but the sinewy spine of some serpentine being, hard to make out as the light dims even further. "You can't go out like this!" Vorpal's voice is urgent, almost shrill with alarm as the brush is pushed against the turtle's plastron, and suddenly he speaks with almost violent recognition, "Donatello!"

Donatello has posed:
    The turtle's eyes watch their environment melt away, the weaving of hedges to become the spinal support of something else, something truly horrible. As the paintbrush is pressed at him, he moves his hands to try and push it away. "No!" he screams. "I'm not an artist! She was wrong!"

    "I can't do it! I can't do it! I can't do it!" the turtle continues, screaming against the horrors that they've unleashed upon the dreamscape. As the hedges continue their gradual metamorphosis, the sounds of rats start to echo from all directions. Gnawing. Squeeking. Clawing. The shrill sounds of energy blasts off in the distance.

    "Donnie!" a disembodied voice echoes in the heavens.

    "Donnie!"

    "Donatel--"

    The voices immediately silence in time for Vorpal's voice to ring true. Donatello.

    The turtle's eyes stare at Vorpal and then glances down at the paintbrush pressed against his plastron. A look of recognition appears on his features as he grips the brush.

    "What do I do? What do I do?" Donatello calls out, panic setting in.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Vorpal frowns, staring at at the gathering darkness. It is a mass of dark strokes and impasto blobs coalescing into a growing, dark shape. Ultimately it coalesces into a lumbering shape with three heads. Each one, a rat head with glowing red eyes.

"Erase it," the Cheshire cat says, trying to get Donatello's hand to grasp the brush, "You /are/ an artist, and artists take out what doesn't belong in the picture, right?"

Is that paintbrush... growing? It seems to become longer and longer with each passing second.

Donatello has posed:
    The turtle stares up at the shapes swirling and splashing to become a three-headed rat. As the rat's form becomes more specific and less ethereal, the glowing red eyes open wide and unleash a barrage of laser blasts into the air. A look of horror fills the turtle's features and he presses the flat palm of his hands against the brush, refusing it.

    "I can't do it! I can't do it!" he shouts. The turtle begins breathing heavily, his eyes filling with tears. "I'm not an artist. I can't do it!"

    "You do it!"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
The Cheshire cat frowns, "Alright, then!" and takes off, running.

The brush, however, lies forgotten on the ground, and it has grown to the length of a staff.

Vorpal is running towards the rat- or is he? There is a blurring, as if water had been washed over the surface of a fresh watercolor painting, and when it passes it doesn't look like the Cheshire cat running.

It's a dark-haired woman in a yellow jacket. A laser blasts the ground close to her feet and she loses her balance. She falls down with a cry of alarm. Images are super imposed, at times the rat monstrosity is there, at other times it is dark figures dressed in black, but they all advance towards the prone victim, who lets out yet another cry.