all aboard

[groundrules]

WHO: a few members of the Merchant's party, the cast & crew of the Sandman.
WHEN: part ii of the Dream a little dream of her journey.
WHERE: the illustrious confines of the Sandman.
WHAT: clue sleuthing in an old timey train near you.
WARNINGS: n/a!

Comments

→ beitang moran

[aprescoup]

( As the midday and a fine glass of port happen the Contessa is enjoying her time sprawled in the dining halls by candlelight, while big, strong men huff, puff and lift far too much weight to proceed with the train's external repairs.

The staff intercede to coax Beitang Moran away, when he takes his seat so close to her Excellency, but she waves them off, flute shaking perilously. )

Oh, no, that's all right. That seat's not taken. I'm not expecting anyone.

[beitangmoran]

Much obliged, my lady.

[Allow him to sit very elegantly, his royal blue and silver-embroidered robes fanning out around him as he pulls out his fan.]

I have heard that you've been having some household... troubles? That can't be easy while traveling. I do travel light myself when I can, but being without staff is such a hassle when on the move.

[aprescoup]

Isn't it just? ( But then she's frowning, gently, a crease on her forehead. ) Household troubles? You mean, the... oh, I suppose everyone's heard, it's all that and a teaspoon of sugar, isn't it? Can't be better gossip on a train that's stuck. The wedding. Our household in disarray. Dear Prassenze. Well. It's true.

( She leans back in her chair, somewhere between far too touched and indifferent. ) We're the party with the missing bride.

[beitangmoran]

Oh yes, the wedding, of course.

[Said a little breezily, he was there of course, but it's bad manners to insist on this.]

I do hope your sister is not too distraught. And also that nothing untoward happened to the young lady.

But I also heard you were now without a maid. If you're looking for a replacement, I may have a few people to recommend.

→ jon snow

[aprescoup]

( Slow, sluggish, loitering. Everyone on the Sandman is just —

By this point in the train's disruption, what little's left of Firo's patience has largely exhausted itself, and she goes from door to door, knocking, knocking, knocking, a small candle and a piece of parchment with a particularly poorly penciled sketch of Prassenze in hand.

She might be sticks, stones, or entirely alien. But Firo seems convinced everyone will know her — including the next gentleman at whose compartment door she knocks now, aggressively. )

Have you seen my wife? She's averagely tall, averagely slim, and she has an average disposition. And she's the best woman in the world.

[northerndragon]

[When he opens the door, his hair is tousled; there is a very beautiful, very young blonde woman asleep in a bed across the room, just visible from the door. His loose trousers and untucked shirt, and the turned back covers, make it clear that he's just gotten out of the bed himself.

And when he sees who has knocked -- ah. The bride. One of them. A hero, he has heard, followed much of the time by a trail of people, like his own ducklings of past days.

He pities her. No one would want to lose a bride they really wanted to wed.]

The best woman in the world is asleep over there. But we should all think that of our wives, or the ones we wish to wed, aye?

Average doesn't tell me much. What did she look like the last time you saw her? [He does not add that he very much doubts that the best woman in the world is also so ordinary. His glimpses of the missing woman, brief though they were, made him think more of a mouse.]

[aprescoup]

We should. ( She nods, slowly, a certain flush coming to her cheeks at the state of him, of the woman asleep behind him. ) I'm... I'm awfully sorry, you're for bed. I won't take too much of your time.

( Only, his inconvenience doesn't seem to be her priority. ) She was... uhhhh. My Prassenze. She is — a head shorter than me, and... slight? And she wore veils, constantly. She was reserved. She is reserved. Typically. She made do at the wedding, and I... I admit I was a little irritated everyone was so charmed, and I barely got a word in with her, but I —

( No; she shakes her head, composes herself. ) She's usually shy. She couldn't hurt no fly, she's a delicate thing.

Jon, you just need to watch both Baccano *and* Utena.

[northerndragon]

No, it's all right.

[He steps further into the corridor, mostly shutting the door behind him.]

You say she wore veils and barely spoke, but everyone was charmed with her, so much you couldn't talk to her?

You wrote letters before, aye?

[How much has Firo talked to this bride at all?]

→ jimmy

[aprescoup]

( Dulcinea has lived a long life in the shadows — earned her coin there, her keep. When the train's disruption takes place, and the compartments are enshrouded in humble darkness, she feels at ease, accepting only the smallest, weakest candle for everyone else's sake.

She is the first one to venture into the dining halls in the morning, moments after the passengers are allowed to wake — enjoying a cup of plain, hot water, when the man... scuttles close. Slinks. There is something entirely... cockroachy about his manner. She squints. )

Not doing something... suspicious? Are you? Little man.

[slippin]

[ For reasons that aren't worth mentioning, Jimmy's not totally thrown by the power outage—not navigating by candlelight, not waking up in the pitch dark. Not even the lightless windows, though the storms outside—and the crew lumbering around in those suits—are something else.

Or maybe he's thrown in a different way, and that's why he doesn't even try to sleep in.

In any case, he's managed not to slop wax everywhere or bruise himself too extensively on the way to the dining car, and he takes the even-earlier-riser's not-quite-accusation in stride. ] On the hunt for coffee. [ He peers at her cup, refrains from commenting on the sorry spectacle within. ] But— [ A smile with a hint of conspiracy in it, a pointed finger. ] I'm willing to entertain suspicious requests.

[aprescoup]

( ...coffee. Here, she's frowning, a little bit lost, a little more intrigued. Finally, her nod complacent, she lands on the conclusion — the man is offering. Very well. Why should she be the fool who refuses? )

You bring the booze, little man. You will know it. Stinks.

[slippin]

[ He raises his eyebrows, blatantly reappraising her and settling on: impressed. ] Okay. I like the way you think. [ Now if she'd just knock it off with the “little man” business.

He does not scuttle off to the dark depths of the kitchen, no matter how it may appear to the untrained eye. He proceeds there with appropriate haste, resisting the temptation to sneak a glance back, see what she's up to.

It's five or ten minutes before he returns—there's brewing the coffee, locating the booze, finding a good spot in which to stash some of the remaining coffee for later use—with a pot of coffee in hand, a bottle under one arm, and a pinky hooked through the handle of a mug. He sets everything on the table one by one, the bottle in front of her. ]

You weren't lying about the smell. Guess the wedding soaked up all the good stuff, huh.

→ five

[aprescoup]

( ...well. Well, a man should be allowed to ease two things at all times, when he finds fit and necessary: his conscience and his bladder. And so it should be forgiven of Master Rigolante, who urgently rushes out of his compartment on the second morning of the train's disruption, bound for the bathroom, leaving his cabin entirely unlocked in his haste —

Only to draw the entirely unfortunate, incorrect conclusion when a young man happens to be passing by his compartment, on Rigolante's return. )

Oh! Oh! Thief! Thiiiiiiief! Thief, is someone hearing me, thief, he's come agaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiin! Thief!

[somebadnews]

[ For several reasons, Five has been bothered by this entire 'reality altering' fiasco, with dream thieves and a missing culprit. Then there was the train breakdown and that weirdly urgent warning from the Merchant. Since everyone is busy helping with the repairs, it seemed like an opportune time to address what he sees as the main issue here.

The brainwashed conductor is useless, so he turned his attention back to the wedding party. Tracking down Rigolante was significantly easier, but he doesn't get one word in before the old man loses his mind. ]

Would you pipe down? I'm not the thief. I'm a passenger, same as you. [ He looks over his shoulder irritably, then turns to glare at Rigolante. ] You know, if I'd been robbed, I'd think about not leaving my door unlocked.

[aprescoup]

Oh... oh, I see. Well. Good to know young men still have morals.

( Untroubled, seemingly, by his flimsy accusation, he only taps the handle of his door once as if to test that it is indeed unlocked. Well, would you look at that. )

As it happens... nature called. One day, when your body is no longer young and lean, you'll understand the urgency.

[somebadnews]

[ Five twitches at that remark, but doesn't rise to it. At least the old nutjob calmed down before anyone came racing to his rescue, which honestly makes him think this isn't his first outburst. ]

Maybe someday. [ He frowns. Refocuses. ] You must have been carrying some valuable herbs. Are you expecting them to target you again?

→ dean winchester

[aprescoup]

( She's heard about the Three rushing on board, heard they're wild and unkempt and something entirely bizarre, and to tell the truth — well, she's not one for complaining, not she, and the Conductor fellow's awfully competent most days, but she must say.

...this all sounds rather disagreeable. It should surprise no one that Lita spends the better part of the Three's visit aboard the Sandman in the dining halls, nursing her champagne and keeping her candle alive, while she murmurs to her next-seat table neighbour: )

Well, I don't feel comfortable being alone, knowing these... street women are coming and going as they please, like fleas. Do you?

[cholesterol]

( When your party is over ten deep and you're injured, you don't take initiative and you don't take the lead. As far as Dean's concerned, he's on vacation and he's on sabbatical. He's not going to be one of those heroes that hits the beach, surfs the waves, stumbles onto the dead body and Mystery Machine's his way into the solution. (He still swears there are dead bodies offscreen in Scooby Doo).

Except, here he is in another universe and someone has gone missing. Three things have boarded. Dream thievery is involved. It feels above his cosmic paygrade. Dean's not the champagne type, but when in Rome.

He always takes more than he needs if offered, which is why he's sat himself down with not one, but three champagne glasses. )

Lady... ( Oh, it's her. ) Contessa. The missing bride not ruffle your feathers?

( From what he's seen they don't give off the Pretty Woman vibe. He's not going to say that out loud. )

[aprescoup]

Oh, dear Prassenze? ( She seems, for a moment, prickled as if a persistently sour aftertaste lives in her mouth. Not entirely aghast, but indisposed. )

Well... well, it's been something of a fuss, but... look, I won't ask if you know about Firo, because everyone does. And so you know just how hard it's been for her to find Mrs. Right. ( A pause, while she fishes through her purse for her cigarettes case, briefly offering Dean a stick. )

But she'll get over it.

→ wrathion

[aprescoup]

( Attru has been... discontent throughout this journey, somewhat out of place and ill at ease — but equally, excited. Now that the Sandman has stopped, he may enjoy the tranquility of the earth no longer moving under his feet — and he hunts in the dining hall, where it's pitch black and candles and strange, confused faces, until he arrives at a table where his exceedingly loud sniffling stops, and the scent... seems to relieve him. )

You smell of rain-wet dog, my friend. Wind. And sun! Like my littlest wife. Who scares children. With her teeth. Big teeth. She is a... a... ( A moment, the word must come to him. ) Queen?

[blackscales]

[ Wet... dog?

Wrathion feels like this should be an insult, but it's giving him this opportunity so he'll let it slide. He gestures for Attru to join him, curious. ]

Prince Attru, if I am not mistaken? Join me, please. Tell me of your wives.

[ He presumes this is something he'd enjoy speaking about. May as well allow him to begin on a comfortable topic. ]

[aprescoup]

( There's something a little loose about his grin, as if he can't shutter his mouth tightly, can't help baring his teeth. He takes the nearest seat to Wrathion, pointedly ignoring that most passengers seem to prefer sitting opposite each other. )

You heard about me? ( But he nods, seeming to take it for granted. ) And my wives. My beautiful wives. I have... eh? So many, many wives. Many wives. A man... natural man. Should have many wives, no, friend?

( A bit of elbowing, for good luck and brotherhood. ) I have... a wife who is beautiful. A wife who is... of the mind. And a wife, who... is scary. Fathered children on all of them. Good children. Good wives. I'm going back. I'll father more.

→ natasha

[aprescoup]

( On the last day of the day's disruption, as the train restarts with a purr and a jolt — a lanky, exceedingly pale and faltering man neatly stumbles in Natasha's path, on the way to the dining hall. They've resumed the electric lights and attendants are rushing everywhere to restart regular service, while passengers are emerging from their compartments like small, frightened animals from their lairs.

In this world of incessant clatter, Hugo seems to need solidity. An anchor. He fumbles, half collapsing down in the seat of the nearest table, half descending at a steady pace — and holding Natasha's hand throughout, to steady himself. )

We'll be, ah.... off. Off the Cradle soon. You can... ( He sniffs, wipes his nose on a napkin. ) Feel it. I'm sorry, I'm... a little... only a little faint. Could you — just a few moments longer, stay... I won't keep you long. I'm so sorry.

[redhourglass]

( she’s gotten a little more comfortable now — at least, more comfortable with the fact that no one is going to be banging her door down for being a stowaway. there are bigger fish to fry, probably; like whatever the hell is going on with prassenze (though the travelers seem to be the only ones who care there) and the repairs to the train itself.

plenty to watch. plenty to see.

and it’s easy enough to offer a helping hand to the man who seems about to collapse into her arms, to help guide him into a seat and not flinch or pull away when he holds her hand. )

Don’t be sorry. ( a cursory scan tells her he’s faint, but not bleeding from anywhere obvious, not holding his body differently in a way that might indicate an injury. she slides into the seat next to him, offering her arm bracingly. she’s seen him before, with firo and her friends. )

You get like this often? ( her tone is benign and neutral, shifting to purposefully worried as she adds: ) Can I get you anything?

[aprescoup]

( He's all the better for her company, grip strong, thankful for her to lean on. A kindly woman, seeing him down, and he hesitates to rest, before finally sprawling — as if he struggles, briefly, to trust the seat he sits on. )

Now and then. It's the... the energies. The flux and flow and... ebb and... tide. I think. I'm told. Sometimes, I'm told, people get like this with headaches. When the weather changes? It's, uhhhh. I'm. I'm like that. With... this. Dream... dream nonsense.