Everything is huge. Everything. The trees, the grass, the looming shoe of an incoming teenager who isn't looking where they're walking and oh no this can't be the end this can't be— Tiny mushroom legs hurry away from the crush of size 11 sneakers, rolling into the shadow of an enormous duffel bag for safety.
"SPOREZ-UM!" the little one shouts, using a pair of lost Mothgarden sunglasses as a ladder to climb up on the bag and shake an itty bitty balled up fist in the direction of the sneaker-holder. "GIBBUM VIZZUS, GIBBUM WUTFORZ." The teenager, however, doesn't hear, and they continue on their merry way. The muscheron crosses his arms and plops back onto the bag for a good pout.
But then there's a sound. Is that… purring?? The mushroom-shaped fairy gulps and turns to see a cat, five, ten, a MILLION sizes larger than him, stalking toward the bag.
"GIBBAK! GIBBAK!" The muscheron grabs the sunglasses ladder and holds it up defensively, the winged frames jabbing right into his chest. He starts to swing wildly, barely able to control the shades, momentum swinging him around in circles. "GIB SPAAAACE!"
"You have to be kidding me," Ramona says as she steps into this memory. Go find memories, the freshmen had told her. You'll save students. It's easy. They're probably off cavorting around in some ridiculous cat pageant with Valkyrie and kitten-aged Free Cat and she's stuck here with a colossal and frankly mean-looking russian blue and her second least favorite mushroom in the world.
At least the memory freezes before the cat has the chance to bat her or Presley into next week. She lifts her beater bat in a precautionary way anyways, looking around the tableau.
"I am the mortal enemy of bugs," Presley says, still high off his last encounter, but the confidence dims and dismay grows as he surveys their Muscheron-scale surroundings. This is ridiculous. He still has people unaccounted for, and he doesn't even like these kleptomaniac little pipsqueaks.
Presley sighs dramatically, and readies his wand at his side. Whatever. They've got this down to routine now. Find the glowing thing, go through the door, move on to the next memory. Except... "Please tell me we're not supposed to carry off those downright Brobdingnagian sunglasses."
"Well, I'm not getting into the bag," she says, taking a few steps towards the frozen Muscheron and its sunglasses sword. Any cuteness conveyed by their tiny size is done away with when Ramona is also six inches tall, and she pauses to give the Muscheron a quick once-over.
"Do you suppose some of them are considered handsomer than others?" Presley wonders, standing next to Ramona. "Exactly what defines beauty standards for a Muscheron? More or less weird knobby parts on the cap?"
He's touched a lot of things during this entire nightmare adventure, but something about being Muscheron-sized makes it stark how unsanitary everything is. Are there still germs in a memory? "Ugh." Presley fishes a tissue out of his suit jacket, and vigorously rubs down a section of the discarded sunglasses before, reluctantly, touching it.
Unfortunately, the glasses glow under Presley's touch. Maybe it's the germs, but it also probably means they have to figure out how to drag this thing out of here.
"Alright. Let's see how heavy they are, I guess." She circles around to the other side of the Muscheron, trying to get a good grip on the tail end of the sunglasses. If one little mushroom can lift them, surely she and Presley can carry them a dozen yards. Or two feet. Whatever.
Presley echoes Ramona's sigh, but also gets into position. He tugs on the sunglasses until they pull free of the muscheron's grasp—or rather, a glowing duplicate does, just as unwieldy as the real thing.
But Presley has strong muscles from dance. He can handle carrying pink plastic, and only whines a little as he hefts the end piece. "Do you suppose it'll stay the same size when we get to the auditorium, or shrink down? Shrink down, right?" He pauses. "I'm going to wear them."
As Presley pulls the sunglasses free, the memory stutters to a start again, the muscheron spinning to a halt with his own pair of sunglasses.
The muscheron looks down. The bag's zipper pull is there, the zipper itself just barely undone.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaah," he yells, the fight reflex draining out of him in favor of flight. He drops his weapon and scurries over to yank at the zipper pull, straining with all his little might as the cat readies itself to pounce. Tooth by tooth, click by click, until the bag is just open enough to admit one (1) mushroom head.
"GIBBYE Z'KAL!" The muscheron hops in, butt first, wriggling and squeezing until he finally disappears under the flap. The little hole in the flap stays open, big enough for a muscheron-sized human (or muscheron) to slip through should they need to leave before that cat gets any closer.
[MEMORY COMPLETE! Now squeeze that linchpin through that portal back to Peckenpaugh, or stay here and get eaten by a cat. Two equally valid options.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
peckishmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
peckenpaugh2020-06-01 11:18 am
MEMORY: Move-In Day
[CRITERIA: Minimum 6 Replies]
Everything is huge. Everything. The trees, the grass, the looming shoe of an incoming teenager who isn't looking where they're walking and oh no this can't be the end this can't be— Tiny mushroom legs hurry away from the crush of size 11 sneakers, rolling into the shadow of an enormous duffel bag for safety.
"SPOREZ-UM!" the little one shouts, using a pair of lost Mothgarden sunglasses as a ladder to climb up on the bag and shake an itty bitty balled up fist in the direction of the sneaker-holder. "GIBBUM VIZZUS, GIBBUM WUTFORZ." The teenager, however, doesn't hear, and they continue on their merry way. The muscheron crosses his arms and plops back onto the bag for a good pout.
But then there's a sound. Is that… purring?? The mushroom-shaped fairy gulps and turns to see a cat, five, ten, a MILLION sizes larger than him, stalking toward the bag.
"GIBBAK! GIBBAK!" The muscheron grabs the sunglasses ladder and holds it up defensively, the winged frames jabbing right into his chest. He starts to swing wildly, barely able to control the shades, momentum swinging him around in circles. "GIB SPAAAACE!"
MEMORY: Move-In Day
At least the memory freezes before the cat has the chance to bat her or Presley into next week. She lifts her beater bat in a precautionary way anyways, looking around the tableau.
"Watch out for bugs," she tells Presley.
MEMORY: Move-In Day
Presley sighs dramatically, and readies his wand at his side. Whatever. They've got this down to routine now. Find the glowing thing, go through the door, move on to the next memory. Except... "Please tell me we're not supposed to carry off those downright Brobdingnagian sunglasses."
MEMORY: Move-In Day
"They're pretty ugly, aren't they?" she asks.
MEMORY: Move-In Day
He's touched a lot of things during this entire nightmare adventure, but something about being Muscheron-sized makes it stark how unsanitary everything is. Are there still germs in a memory? "Ugh." Presley fishes a tissue out of his suit jacket, and vigorously rubs down a section of the discarded sunglasses before, reluctantly, touching it.
MEMORY: Move-In Day
MEMORY: Move-In Day
"Alright. Let's see how heavy they are, I guess." She circles around to the other side of the Muscheron, trying to get a good grip on the tail end of the sunglasses. If one little mushroom can lift them, surely she and Presley can carry them a dozen yards. Or two feet. Whatever.
MEMORY: Move-In Day
But Presley has strong muscles from dance. He can handle carrying pink plastic, and only whines a little as he hefts the end piece. "Do you suppose it'll stay the same size when we get to the auditorium, or shrink down? Shrink down, right?" He pauses. "I'm going to wear them."
MEMORY: Move-In Day - COMPLETE!
The muscheron looks down. The bag's zipper pull is there, the zipper itself just barely undone.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaah," he yells, the fight reflex draining out of him in favor of flight. He drops his weapon and scurries over to yank at the zipper pull, straining with all his little might as the cat readies itself to pounce. Tooth by tooth, click by click, until the bag is just open enough to admit one (1) mushroom head.
"GIBBYE Z'KAL!" The muscheron hops in, butt first, wriggling and squeezing until he finally disappears under the flap. The little hole in the flap stays open, big enough for a muscheron-sized human (or muscheron) to slip through should they need to leave before that cat gets any closer.
[MEMORY COMPLETE! Now squeeze that linchpin through that portal back to Peckenpaugh, or stay here and get eaten by a cat. Two equally valid options.]
MEMORY: Move-In Day - TOKENS!
Upon emerging from the memory out into the auditorium, the portal snapped shut behind them, while the sunglasses remained enormous. Hm.
Out in the Central Green, a muscheron thief and crabgrass, a magimagicicada were freed.
You can check your token totals in Pouch's shop here, and maybe see if there's anything worth grabbing while you're there!
MEMORY: Move-In Day - TOKENS!
Muscheron are the worst.