Scaranames Fandreamsgo

Kin naming dreams, either in individual threads or grouped together.
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Scaramouche Fandango
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Lost Teeth

Post by Scaramouche Fandango »

"What happened here?" growled the nanny Totoma, annoyed enough that she was on babysitting duty, and even more vexed that the little ones weren't dealing with their own problems. One lamb lay crying on the ground, another glared defiant, bleeding from the mouth. "He thaid I wath a flower."

"...What?"

The angry lamb rolled his eyes. "He THAID I look like flowerth! Thnowdropth and daithies! I'm not a flower! I'm thtrong!"

The nanny shook her head, stern and implacable. "Young man, you've got something in your mouth. Spit it out and tell me properly."

Irritated, the lamb spat a wad of blood, three tiny teeth embedded in the clot. "He inthulted me! Tho I headbutted him until he thtopped. I'll thow him flowerth!"
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word count: 128
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Burr

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She was small and weak and nobody expected her to survive the fall- she was the last of the summer lambs, and already the frost was in the air. But she was nothing if not tenacious; with barbed determination she clung to life. When she fell into the ravine, nobody expected her to return- but then there she was, more than a week later, covered in burrs and furious in her triumph.

There was no question of her survival after that.
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word count: 81
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Splinter

Post by Scaramouche Fandango »

...faces fell as the clan rounded the bend, only to see that the way home had been blocked. From the look of things, there'd been a landslide, and fallen trees were blocking the way. The strongest of them could climb it easily, but what of the youngest? The oldest? The mothers-to-be? There wasn't another pass nearby, and the snow would fall soon. While they murmured and fretted over what to do, a young buck leapt forth and assayed the snag- then began to push at a trunk. Heaving and groaning, his great strength was just enough to move the first trunk. Soon he was joined by another and another- and while the task seemed monumental, he was a canny buck as well. Only a few trees needed to move; the rest would follow as gravity did its work. The buck was instrumental in freeing the pass; by the end of the day, he was studded with splinters from where the crashing wood had shattered and bits of sharp shrapnel had flown off. Despite this, he was happy and proud, for the clan would reach home before the snows...
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word count: 192
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Snag

Post by Scaramouche Fandango »

At first, it was laughable that she’d come home with a face full of splinters; after she explained herself and told the story of how she’d chased a full-grown boar into a snag of dead trees and had him trapped there, pinned in place with nothing more than dead wood and ingenuity, it was laudable.
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word count: 58
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Real Big Fish

Post by Scaramouche Fandango »

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Her legs burned as the icy spray hit against them. The little lamb braced herself in the river, watching for a leaping fish swimming downstream. The freezing mist practically blinded her- but eventually, her perseverance paid off.

The creature wriggled and writhed as she struck it against a stone, again and again, until it lay still. It was hard to carry back to her grandmother, but it was worth it to see the beaming pride on gnarled, battle-scarred old monster's face. "That," the doe said, "is a real big fish." And so it was.

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Last edited by Scaramouche Fandango on Tue Aug 25, 2020 8:55 pm, edited 1 time in total. word count: 96
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Water Sprite

Post by Scaramouche Fandango »

They said that the Totoma came from the mountains. That rolling, rumbling rocks and ashen skies were their heritage; that the cold north winds were their legacy. They said that the armored beasts bore the ranges and crags on their backs; one look at their plated heads and you'd know instinctively that they were creatures of ice and stone.

But nobody had told the doe who loved bright water. It was her element; she was content to live in the swamp- to paddle, wade, dive, and fish. Her truest, fiercest joy was to burst from the water after ducking under, lungs bursting with fire, horns and armor covered in duckweed and frogbit and water sprite- the lacy tendrils of the aquatic plants dripping into her eyes and mouth, tickling her nose. She'd shake her head and graze on the water's leafy bounty before diving under again, seeking her prey- the fish that darted and danced between her hooves. The slippery creatures were a challenge- really, the whole swamp was, and it was a challenge she was keen to meet. She knew that her kind simply must adapt. The humid warmth of the swamp wasn't at all what they were built for- but in her case, she was certain that this was what she was meant for.
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Hot-on-the-Tongue

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All children must learn that there is a line between being reckless and being bold. As he held his mouth in the water, tears streaming from his eyes, his mother smiled sagely at crimson remains. Sometimes a thing that looks sweet is painfully hot on the tongue, and she was pleased that he’d learned this lesson so very early- and so very safely. The next time danger presented itself in a charming package, he’d remember the tears and not bite in so quickly. Daring must be tempered by prudence, and the pepper's lesson was one he took to heart.
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Bellows-the-Storm

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There is little glory in the hard work of the night's watch- but somebody has to do it, so it usually falls to the young and the unnamed. He was a little older than most and not the most combative; he tended to be careful and wary and hadn't yet found glory in some great deed. He took the watch without argument, for who was he to argue?

The night of the great storm, the stars above burned clear and bright. He waited and watched. Perhaps another sentry would have focused on the mountain pass or the treeline, but he watched the sky. When the clouds started gathering, obscuring the starlight, he had a prickle of intuition. They were coming in fast, a thundering herd on the move. The group would be annoyed that he woke them up for anything but serious danger- and he knew this was serious. Running around their sleeping forms, he bellowed and shouted, rousing them from their sleep. "Storm's on the way! Get up, shift your hooves! Move!" The group was listening to him, actually doing what he said. It was the first time he'd ever had authority, but there was no time to bask in the glow. There was a storm on the way, a bad one from the look of it. Fully awake and not drowsy like the sleepers, he herded the party to shelter, hidden from the storm in a small craggy cave.

They had to dig their way out the next morning, but they survived. That was what mattered. After all, battle prowess means nothing if you're not alive to use it.
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Sensible

Post by Scaramouche Fandango »

"We'll stay a day more, we can wait out the storm." "No, " he said, and nobody froze in the blizzard.

"We'll climb higher, we can make it!" "No," he said, and nobody died in the landslide.

"We'll ford the river, we can swim it!" "No," he said, and nobody drowned in the rapids.

"We'll listen to someone else, someone who lets us do things!" "No," he said, and nobody said anything more- for while his decisions might not have been popular, everyone knew a live Totoma was better than a dead one. He might not have been bold, but he was certainly sensible.
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Smash-and-Mash

Post by Scaramouche Fandango »

She liked to smash. She liked to mash.

She smashed her enemies. She mashed their bones.

She smashed for her family. She mashed for her friends.

It was all so straightforward. She liked to smash, and she liked to mash, and that's what she was good at. That's all anyone needed to know.
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word count: 55
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Snake in the Grass

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His quick eyes saved them all.
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Sultry

Post by Scaramouche Fandango »

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The whirring of cicadas was a constant drone, wavering in pitch only at the start of their communal screams. How long had it been since they’d last seen the sun? The heat shimmered in the air, movement only an illusion; there wasn’t a breeze, and the air was as stagnant and thick as swamp water- so thick you could take a bite of it, but at least water would cool you. Spring’s breezes were a distant memory; it was so hot, you couldn’t even recall what the wind on your neck felt like, or what it was to move. All you can do now is lie down and melt and pray for the abstract concept of winter. Pools of water, choked with mud, are just as hot as the air; there’s no relief, and the noise and noise and noise of the cicadas chases words and thoughts from your mind. Even the hawks aren’t circling, the vultures haven’t left their roosts. Too much effort to fly. It’s too hot to think, too hot to move, too hot to breathe. Night comes, a hot humid night where the leaves droop and the owls are too languid, too sleepy from the heat to patrol the evening sky. You sleep, fitfully, dreaming of the height of summer- the melting butter-gold daisy centers, the deep piercing bite of the horsefly, and always, always the cicadas, too sharp to tune out. The sulky, sultry heat here is wet, oozing, dense. It weighs on you like sin.

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Strange Creature

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A half-real world comes into focus when one finds something familiar; the strange creature solidifies, becomes real at the touch of another.

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Last edited by Scaramouche Fandango on Wed Mar 23, 2022 10:55 am, edited 1 time in total. word count: 23
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The Wind's Way

Post by Scaramouche Fandango »

I cut a path through bright daisy meadows; the dandelions bend their head as I pass.
Leaves quake and tremble in my silent presence; my gentle pressure humbles the grass.
You can't see me, but you can hear me. You can feel me, but you can't touch me.

What am I?

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Slightly Mad

Post by Scaramouche Fandango »

He felt the temperature rising, and the meaning was oh so clear.
One thousand and one yellow daffodils began to dance in front of him.
"Oh dear. Are they trying to tell me something? Am I missing that one final cue?
I'm simply not in the pink, I think- to be honest, I haven't a clue."

He felt himself down with a fever, adrift and out to sea. His geyser is boiling over-

"I think I'm a banana tree."

When he awoke, he knew that his dream made no sense, and that he'd gone slightly mad.

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word count: 100
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