Your OC Teaches a Lesson

"Hmm, I'm not sure what I could teach that others can't," En scratched his cheek sheepishly. He could always teach how to bake strawberry muffins, but the last time he tried that it didn't go very well... His gaze drifting to his sword, her perked at the idea and pulled it from its sheathe.
"Let's do some swordplay, then!" he smiled. "Let's have a duel right now! Don't hold anything back, I want to see how much you know. I'll take a look at your form while I'm at it, and I'll see what you can improve!" Despite his happy, excited demeanor, there was a glint in his eye saying that he might not go too easy on you...

It didn't seem that the girl remembered him. It was said she didn't always have the best memory, anyway, but learning things kept her attention easily enough, those lessons she clung to desperately. Honestly, En could teach her how to bake muffins, whether or not it turned out terribly, and she would listen. Swordplay was more engaging, though, she assumed -- more useful. She required the tools to survive, and sure, cooking was apart of that, but she could always just buy food. One couldn't buy knowledge in swordfighting.

Maribelle knew how to use a sword already, but her boss always commented that her style with it was crude at times, and though her left hand was non-dominant, the loss of her thumb rendered her uneasy on that side nevertheless.

Her dark eyes traveled to En's sword as he unsheathed it from its scabbard, and so, she reached to slide out her own, that satisfying sound of metal breathing into the air, followed by her own droning voice, "I already know how to fight, Your Grace."

But, she was a girl, and she had only been using a sword for little over a year thus far, so there was plenty to learn from a king, and this she had to acknowledge. She looked upon her own arming sword and shrugged. "Though, it isn't as though I can refuse the offer." she remarked, "I have armor for a reason, and I have a sword for a reason, Fuchs told me. If I don't practice both constantly, I'll have my head spiked next season, and after all."

She paused, looking En briefly in the eye, before muttering, "I'd want to spar with a nobleman before I do a farm boy."

Maribelle snatched the notebook from the other party and stared at their writing. She studied the inscriptions on the paper, chewing on her bottom lip as she tried to collect herself. She thought she would be better at teaching people snail language, but...

"You aren't doing 'parle' right... I think..." The girl hesitated a moment, before nudging the book back towards them. "'Tu parle anglais' isn't right -- it's 'parles', only 'il' and 'elle' and 'je' have 'parle'." She scrunched up her nose. "'Tu' almost always has the s's at the end. Tu aimes lire, tu parles anglais... Look, here..."

Pressing the notebook back down on the page, she withdrew her pen and jotted down quickly a simple phrase: Tu aimes lire des livres.

"What does this say?" she asked, "It's easy once you do it enough times."

Maribelle will become the Duolingo owl.

follow-up post... maribelle is an asshole as per usual.

The teenager allowed her eyelashes to flutter as she bunched up her hair on top of her shoulder. She attempted to part it, but failed. Zinnia let out a deep sigh as she responded,

"Eheh, I never really wear my hair like that...at least, I rarely ever do," the teenager began before attempting to part it better.

"Okay, so...like this? Is this okay?" the teenager inquired.

"Ooh, I hope I'm not gonna mess this up."

-----------------

Zinnia smiled as she stared down at her gray, three-legged cat before turning to look at the second party. She lifted up the gray cat and turned her body so that she could face the second party.

"Here, would you like to hold Tortellini?" Zinnia asked. She then handed the cat over to the second party and allowed her lips to curl into a smile.

"Make sure you have her butt on something, like your hand or your legs. Otherwise, she's going to think that's she's falling and she'll freak out."

Feeding the cat some leftover salmon and petting it occasionally was different than holding the creature.
"'Old her?" Roswell spoke with a voice that betrayed his disbelieve. Yer can 'old a cat?? this was new territory for the old thief. Not that he was against the idea. It just hadn't formed in his brain yet.
"Sure, just hand her over, " Roswell said. Having this excited but awkward smile on his face. With one hand he supported Tortellini chest, the other her well..butt. 

When the cat started too purr, Roswell beamed with pride. "It's loike 'olding a baby,-" he told the teenager. Wait. Stop. How do you even know how holding a baby feels like in the first place? Babies don't make good thieves..right. "-But a bit more hairy."
Roswell gently rocket the cat.
"Did ye know sweet Tortellini wriggled 'er way into me apartment wan day, " he told the cat owner. Weeks after the accident. "Dat day wi' de massive thunderstorm? It was rainin cats and dogs back then, " Roswell said. Still rocking the cat stiffly in his arms. "Not ter brag, " he bragged "But oi calmed 'er down, " Roswell said. His gaze shifting at the cat in his arms as he lowered his voice into that chirpy tune you use at your pets. "Now didn't oi sweet Tortellini, now didn't oi.."

--

"Well, it's all on de wrist movement, " the old thief assured you. "Yer see, most nicker purses dangle from small but sturdy ropes. Braided ropes. At people their belts. If yer want to cut them, " Roswell paused. "For snatching purposes, " that's illegal Roswell. "Yer 'ave to be quick and convinced. No 'alf baked swings, no 'esitstion. If yer 'esitate, yer don't cut it, get caught and dragged of to jail. And get 'anged" Roswell said. Pressing his boney finger on your chest. Well that escelated quick. The leidsman presented you  a small shank, a bandensnijder. The blade itself was poorly made and bendable, the handle just some leftover cloth wrapped around the more dull edges of the shank. Secured with some small leathery ropes. 

A 'true' gift. "No need to thank me, " he said with a sheepish grin. "Just go and create some 'avock sports."

--

"Kind of a weird flex, " Roswell said perplexed. "But okay."

Anaximandro scoffed. ”If you want someone who needs your advice, I’m not your guy.”

He went on, despite knowing that Roswell would certainly be capable of kicking his ass for having that attitude.

“I’ve been in my line of work for decades. I know all the tips and tricks. I don’t need someone like you to teach me things I already know. I’ve come this far on my own.”

At least be grateful that he’s not turning you over to the authorities.

“And who even steals people’s bags anymore? They can replace those easily. They can’t replace their identities or bank accounts just like that. Maybe you’re the one who needs to learn your lesson. I’m just saying.”

—

“This is how you properly present donuts to me,” Anaximandro instructed you. He was sitting on his signature pink-and-gold throne that had probably taken a toll on Brasilia’s budget. “I’ll be using my servant, Severino, to demonstrate.” He turned his head to face a different direction, and called, “come here.”

A frail-looking man came into view. This must be the Severino that Anaximandro had referred to. He was holding a purple silk pillow with golden embroidery. Atop the pillow was a large donut covered in pink icing and sprinkles. 

Severino began walking forward slowly.

“This is the first step,” Anaximandro explained. “Approach me like I have a gun pointed at your head, which I could replicate if you want me to.” He gestured to a boxy lump in his right pocket.

Severino stopped before Anaximandro, and shakily held the pillow out in front of himself.

“This is step two. Hold out the pillow so I can reach the donut.“ Anaximandro proceeded to lean slightly forward and grab the donut with his right hand. “And that’s it.”

He then took a nice bite out of the donut.

Besides the frail servant stood a man with pink hair, who seemed to be concentrating heavily on the notepad in his hands. "Gun... pointed at... head..." he muttered to himself as he furiously scribbled it down (though, unfortunately, as he didn't know how to write, his notes ended up looking like one, continuous, scribbled line). Once done, Dudley quickly looked up. "I don't know what a gun is!" he spouted. "I may need it pointed at me so I can walk correctly! Also!" He pointed at the pillow. "Does the pillow need to be blue?" Purple, but the point was made. "What kind of donut do you want? Does it change every time? Do you prefer warm donuts? How do you like them to be warmed up? Any sprinkles or icing? Would you like a drink with it? Should I also look like Servino? Because I can! Watch!"
And just like that, he melted into a purple blob! Just as he'd become that way, however, the blog rose and solidified into... Servino! The only difference between the two was that the once-blob one's skin was entirely pink!
"I can turn into anything else if you'd rather have a donut presented to you that way!"

"Wow, I've never taught any of the servants before!" Dudley beamed proudly. Never mind that it was entirely possible you weren't even a servant or training to be one. It seems like, once again, his boss had left him with a random task in order to get him out of the castle, and you just happened to be in the line of sight.
"Okay! So I just learned how to do this properly myself. Sometimes, when things are busy, we have to stand really tall and still! We can't make a single movement! Not even to BREATHE! We have to look like statues," he said with an intense gaze. He pressed his feet together and planted his hands at his side. "See? Like this!" He took a deep breathe and stood still.
One minute...
Two minutes...
Th-Three...
Four??
Ten minutes passed. Just as you were about to react, Dudley finally exhaled. "Not my best time," he chided under his breath. He smiled at you. "Why don't you try?"

Allowing her whiskers to twitch, Tortellini craned her neck towards lucky. Was he... talking to someone, or was this all directed to the three-legged Scottish Fold herself? Either way, Tortellini sat through the whole conversation, loud trilling noises in tow. She sniffed at the locked door in question, then she turned and watched the human intently.

"Ya-ang? Yang? Yang?" she meowed, allowing her tail to swish around. Hopefully this man could get her treats with his self-proclaimed lockpicking skills!

-------------------------

Crash!

The loud, jarring sound of a pot contacting the floor had sounded from the kitchen. The unsightly mess that was now produced looked as if it were a scene from a horror movie. Tomato sauce was slathered all over the floor, accompanied by the feline, who's fur has been painted red. She happily chewed on the meat that had been simmering in the sauce, a delicacy that the cat had been staring at. She paid no mind to how hot the sauce was; she saw an opportunity and she took it. Looks like the spaghetti is going to be eaten plain tonight. Don't leave Tortellini alone when you're cooking.

Baby Ruth slowly walked in upon the huge mess that had been created, with a gasp... Her lesson would be cleaning this up, wasnt it? She sighed, grabbing a mop, and dipping it into soapy water. She proceeded to clean the floor, all the while trying to keep her child out of the mess. It took her a while.... But she got it done... But not without a child COVERED in ravioli sauce.

___________________

"Its been i while since I've taught candymaking to anyone but my little Gumdrop here..." Baby Ruth started, standing at the counter, which was covered in sugar and fruit. She slowly picked up some sugar, pouring it into a small pot with sifted corn starch and butter. She took the time to explain everything she was doing with care and importance. "Be careful, now. You don't want to burn your fingers, dear."

Honey stared at the sugar with wide eyes, instead of pouring it into the pot, she just poured it into her muzzle and smiled, tail wagging. "Is there any more sugar?" Her head tilted, soon licking the remainings of the sugar off of her muzzle and some bits on her paws. "I mean, I did enjoy the idea of candy making but I enjoy eating the sugar a bit more."

--

Honey smiled, teaching something to someone was very easy for her. Of course, she knew exactly what to teach. MODELING. Honey clasped her paws together, standing on top of a pedestal. "Soooo, today I'm gonna teach you modeling!" She put one paw on her hip, one under her chin as she propped her right leg slightly in the air, giving a tail sway. She stuck her tongue out finally, leaving the pose there for a few seconds. 

She stared at it for a long time, then giggled. "Oh Honey, I don't think I can do that," she told the fox. She petted one of her tentacles as she softly shook her head.
"I'm afraid I'm no longer considered cute with these things," she continued. The tentacles curled up and tried to hide behind her head with little success. "But! But I can let my sheep model before me, wait.." Mary had found new energy and with a big grin on her face she made her way over to her flock. Mary came back with a lamb in her arms. Just a year old! The lamb was fuzzy in every sense of the word, it's legs were too long and its head too short for it's lamb-body.
The wool that was starting to sprout from its body had a fresh mint-white color. What a model this little lamb was, with its fluffy ears and it's soft little muzzle. Mary carefully placed the lamb down on a tree trunk and gestured Honey over.
"See, he got talent." The small lamb bleated in return. Somehow he managed to heave his small head in the air. Striking some kind of pose!
Mary started to laugh. It was ages since she had so much fun, let alone with a kind-of stranger. And while Mary's modeling career was hopeless cause maybe this little fellow had a future in the show business in front of him. Who knows.
Lamb, Mary's not so cute lamb, had his doubts but kept silent. The creature just sat there, watching the two of them trying to teach the actual lamb how to pose.

"Okay now we try pose while's he's eating," Mary held out some grains for the lamb to eat, "see.. You're way better of teaching him your tricks then me I'm afraid. Though, I have to say that I admire your skill," Mary said. Then nodded.
"Just the energy you give those poses bring a smile on my lips every time!" she said as she softly clapped her hands together.
"I always wanted to be a dancer when I was younger," Mary said. She tucked a rogue lock of hair behind her ear as she continued. "I asked Jack every harvest fest to dance with me. The square was lit up with paper or jack-'o lanterns. You know, those lanterns they made from carved pumpkins," Mary told Honey. One of her arm tentacle gently rubbed the fashion-lamb's head as she continued. "But that was a long time ago.. I do, really do appropriate you for reaching out to me," Mary said. She grimaced. The harvest fest must be around this time of year.. Would Jack attend? She wondered. Would he dance with someone else? Mary didn't want to know the answer. So she quickly shook her hear.

Mary allowed a small smile to creep on her face. Another hair lock pushed behind her ear. "This sounds really silly but you made me feel like that little girl on the harvest fest again. Just, you know," she smiled. "A girl, doing girly things.." Mary softly shrugged.
"And not some freak of nature with only her sheep to care for." Mary avoided Honey's gaze for a small bit before finally getting up again. With her hands she dusted the grass of her dress and with and watched the posing-lamb jump of the log and wobble back too his sheep-family.
"If there is anything I can do in return as a favor," Mary said. "Please let me know.. And sorry for being such a horrible student."

--

"Oh you're in luck," Mary said. As she leaned a bit in your direction. "I'm the best tailor in this meadow.. Though, my only competitor is Lamb," Mary nodded at the feisty beast that paced around the flock. It's long yellow fangs exposed at the stranger from time to time. "The others don't have thumbs I'm afraid," Mary added with a joke. Then she focused her attention back to this patchwork blanket she was making. Mary held out a needle and thread. No sewing machines here, uh-oh.
"It's simple," she instructed. Then picked up her own needle and thread. Her hands as fluent as water started to stitch as she explained: "This is the backstitch. It's just as the running stitch but you let the needle go back.. Hence backstitching.. I suppose," Mary said with a soft chuckle.
"Just close the gap like this," she pulled at her needle and then showed you her stitching work, "and you'd be good."

--

Know that I love their interaction ok thanks V

These days, he finds, moments of reprieve are rare. When was the last time he sat down to partake in a gentler pleasure? Only the gods above would know. His calloused palms are better suited to criminality and the handle of a weapon than tools of the arts, though a fondness from his youth finds him drawn to her practice all the same. Perhaps, in part, it brings forth memories of his mother—she always did take pride in her needlework, even long after the life of a seamstress went abandoned in old age. Sat upon the misty meadow that reminds him of Yharnam so, Roscoe watches her handiwork with an idle fascination and one leg drawn to his chest. Push the needle through, pull the needle out: all so mesmerizingly simplistic. Were it not for her intentness in teaching him along the way, he would have likely found himself overcome with an involuntary drowsiness at the sheer serenity of it all.

"You make it look easy," he admits with a breathy laugh. The sound is muffled by his bandanna, having been artfully equipped to stave off the beginnings of a headache in her otherworldly presence. He inclines his head in the direction of her flock, to which Lamb bares its fangs from afar. Roscoe merely lofts a brow, far too used to the existence of beasts to find himself unnerved. It seems a protector more than a perpetrator, besides. Certainly more than can be said of the ones typically encountered by him. "M'not so deft. Even without thumbs, they'd likely do better." He drums his fingers atop his knee. Then, a handkerchief is retrieved from his coat pocket. It's fraying around the edges and notably torn down one side. "Don't suppose you could, ah... show me how to patch this old thing? Needs a finer stitch, I reckon."
____
"Not often that people ask me for these things." Roscoe muses, running his hand across his stubbled jaw in contemplation. "Lessee..." What to teach them? He's far from academic in nature, so surely nothing substantial... then again, perhaps that's subjective. A beat of silence passes until it's broken by him snapping his fingers. "Ha! I know. C'mere." He leans over with an excitable grin, bringing his left hand up behind their ear... before drawing back with a little flourish, to which he simply ooh's. Between his digits sits a shiny coin, soon tossed into the air and rolled across his knuckles. "Nowt wrong with party tricks. Impress a friend..." Wink. "Or distract an enemy. It's an easy one, I promise. All about sleight of hand..." With that, he begins to explain the process.

„What a pedestrian form of deception,” Sine said, mockingly, “why did you think such silly tricks would be useful for the most powerful illusionist of all time?”

Of course, there are situations in which illusions do not work. Knowing that, Sine had payed attention to Roscoe’s lesson and demonstrated what she had learned.

(I hope I didn’t get anything wrong; I looked this stuff up myself to make sure it was accurate.)

“Listen up a*holes, what I’m going to teach you today could save someone’s live. Let’s say you’re you come across an unconscious person on your way home,” A portal opened up next to her and a strange man carrying a chainsaw falls out. On Sine’s signal, her summoned minion laid down, pretending to be unconscious, “what do you do?”

“You do CPR, right? WRONG! The first thing you do is call for help! Because you’re not an expert, you can’t save someone who’s having a medical emergency. The best you can do is stall for time while a professional is on their way. Also, you should probably check if that person actually needs help first, so gently try to wake them up and check their breathing before you call help.” She called one of the people listening forward and pointed them to her minion, “What are you waiting for? Check his breathing, tilt his head back slightly to open his airway.”

“Let’s pretend that my assistant isn’t breathing, so now, we have to start doing chest compressions. Put your hands together, interlocking your fingers, and place them in the center of the unconscious person’s chest. Now push down hard, about twice per second. The victim’s chest should go down by about 5 centimeters or 2 inches.” She waited for her ‘volunteer’, to follow her instructions before continuing. "If you hear a crack or a pop,” she cast an auditory illusion to demonstrate, “it means that eighter some ribs got separated from the sternum or, if the placement of your hands is off center, a rib was broken. DO NOT STOP! These things can happen but they can be fixed. And you don’t have to worry about getting sued eighter, there’s a thing called the ‘good Samaritan law’ that will protect you. If you get tired, have someone else take over for you.”

“After doing 30 compressions, you can try giving two ‘rescue breaths’, so mouth to mouth resuscitation. If you do, remember to keep the victim’s head tilted back. Also, the victim might throw up, don't be supprised when that happens. ” She bowed down to her ‘volunteer’ and whispered, “You don’t have to do that if you don't want to.”

“There’s one more option that you might have, there might be something called an AED nearby. These are automated defibrillators, they come with recorded audio instructions, so if you have one of those, just start it up and do what it tells you.”

“And if you’re wondering how long you’ll have to do all that, you cannot stop until eighter a professional arrives or the victim’s breathing normalizes.”

"Slowly. Warming someone with hypothermia up too quickly can cause cardiac arrest, heating up their arms or legs too quickly can kill them too. So it's better to stick to blankets and warm drinks. They should also move as little as possible, keep them in a horizontal position. And mind their breathing, if it stops, start doing chest compressions immediately."