Although Raymond had long since retired, he still thought back fondly on his time as a mathematics teacher. He had taken great pride in being known as ‘the fun one’ and ‘a DILF’, whatever the second one meant. To his understanding it was a compliment! But with the good memories come the less so, and in his teaching days Ray had become displeased with his coworkers. Unenthusiastic, mundane, and seemingly hating the very children they taught, Raymond had wondered if they were trying to sabotage the children’s education, something he cared deeply about. As he thought upon Terry Lovejoy and the behaviors he had observed, he couldn’t stop a sigh, or resist the longing feeling overtaking him. He wondered then, how nice it would be to switch places with the man. Ray could go back to the life he so enjoyed, and Terry could live his existence as he so pleased. Raymond wished this for both his sake and Terry’s, as he could see that the man was quite unsatisfied in his life.
It's Time For A Game, Kids
i believe this is pretty self explanatory, post IC and have your OC say what they dislike about the OC above them. be sure to give more than two-word answers tho! im sure you wouldnt like that if some put that low of an effort into a reply to your oc. you dont have to write paragraphs either just - yknow, a response that has effort into it!
also, this isn't some like Super Personal Mean thing, this is just for fun. dont get nasty to the PEOPLE who own said ocs
lets mcfreakin lose it!!!
"I... I don't like how you're a bad guy, moo! You need to be better, moo!" The small cow boy shouted, his ears flapping in anger as his face scrunched up, brows furrowing together, looking much like a pissed off chipmunk as he pouted and puffed his cheeks up. "Also... I also don't like how you use violence, moo! It's not a good thing, moo! You shouldn't... You shouldn't use violence, moo! Words are better to use, moo!" He began to ramble on, his words beginning to topple over themselves as he spoke faster and faster, getting flustered in front of the taller male, really hoping that he wouldn't get whacked for saying this stuff.
Jane wrinkled her nose disdainfully at Muu. "Ackk, who named you? Your parents should've been more creative! At least mine didn't just name me Emerald." She pointed to the glowing green emeralds that grew from various places on her body.
Jane was rather fond of children so there was not much she disliked about the little calf child, aside from the name he had that all seemed to be related to cows. If anything, she knew she shouldn't take it out on the little child but it was too late now- the words had flown out of her mouth almost without her meaning to say them. Although she was certain she would never have children of her own, she thought she'd at least be good at naming others. For Muunitaur, she'd have likely chosen a name about strength or something, since the young calf-boy would likely grow into a strong bull.
"Sorry, kid," She said with a chuckle. "Nothin' against you but, man, that name...!"
HYPERB0LE
Salvador despised the rich. Queens, Empresses, it all boiled down to the same thing. They had power. He had not.
Salvador held his breath as he hoisted himself up the roof top and released it as he followed Mingo from above. The cold end howled. It tugged at his scarf, at his hair, but he was determemt to fulfill his mission. His observation. Salvador's leidsman had instructed him to keep tabs on her, ask around, to figure out her patterns, to learn when to strike. To steal. As so, Salvador had learned some valuable information about her, things that made his stomach turn in anger. (It must be noted that he only learned the public stories about her, not the real ones. Poor Salie, misinformed.)
Father-killer. Poisoner.
Salvador spat beside him to wear off the evil of those thoughts alone. He, by doing so, broke his focus. His foot slipped. Salvador recovered but made a loud THUD noise as he had to stomp his foot back down. This surely should be audible to Queen Mingo's as well. Salvador felt a shiver run down his neck as their gazes crossed.
"Is it true that you killed your father?" He shouted from the (relative) safe distance from the rooftop and over the bellowing storm.
"Are you a killer?"
He didn't wait for a reply.
"I despise murderers," Salvador confessed. "Especially the wealthy father-killing type."
--
Oh my God that is so well written and cool ahshr expect a know that I love this with my entire heart, the atmosphere is SO good
Salvador had to crane his head slightly upwards to look back at Gris. He stared at them. Those reddened eyes full of hatred. "Thanks," he replied. As his lips pressed themselves in a straight line. "I died once." Salvador scratched the back of his head and finally broke eye contact with the new ruler. He frowned. As he softly counted the pieces he ''collected'' underneath his breath.
"Five," Salvador confessed. "Five of them."
Salvador's lips pressed themselves further in an even straighter line as Gris started to laugh. Something about it made the hairs in his neck raise and his hands damp. Something bad. He lowered his gaze once again and his frown deepened. There was a hint of insecurity on his otherwise unmoved face.
"Roswell wants me to be his successor. I'm his aspirant. Student. I have to lead someday," he said.
"I try to have charm," he defended himself. Salvador raised his head and showed them an awful forced smile. "See?"
Salvador's smile faltered directly and his brows raised. "I can get everything I want?" He asked. "Can I send some of it home? To my sister? My mum?" He eagerly asked. The allure of having a full stomach and a warm place to sleep was blinding.
"I will!" He sputtered. As a moth hypnotized by the flame. For a brief second he forgot about Drakenburg, about Roswell and his aspirant rank.
"Y-yes. Tell me what I have to do."
[I’m glad you liked it! 🥺]
[OH SAL SWEETHEART NOOO]
Gris looks at the small man, the smile on their face showing their amusement. “Timely, very, very punctual. Far from spineless when you speak on what you believe in. All of these are wonderful traits to possess. I feel as though you have many years of experience despite your apparent youth. I say, how many timepieces do you own, sir? All lovely pieces, I imagine.”
Their laughter is detached and their smile no longer reaches their eyes, instead, their expression falls, showcasing the examination they’re proctoring against the Timekeeper. “Some may say that these traits cannot be taught, yet I believe I have developed the most foolproof plan yet to ensure all of my constituents mirror perfection as closely as possible. Salvador, my good sir, you would fit in so well! But one thing plagues you… you have far too little couth. Your sociability could use some direction; how exactly would you lead a team if you have no charm to allure them with?” Now they laugh - their attempt at a joke. “Sweet sir, within this kingdom, there is no need for thievery. You will be adequately stocked with more than you could ever need; should those needs change, we shall work as a family to make sure you are properly cared for.”
Now their gaze is distant. “I would like to find you a place in my home, Salvador. But I fear you will need to prove yourself first… this society embodies perfection, and my sweet sir, you have yet to attain such a flawless appearance. I would apologize for my bluntness, but there is nothing to be sorry for; I will simply offer my hand in assistance. We will make you the perfect citizen yet.”
“I’ll admire your assertiveness, but Detective, your intention has been misdirected. You’ll come to understand that the people that live here are quite happy. They are well fed, none go without a roof over their heads, and are appropriately clothed. No violations will be found. Go home.”
Grisangore saw Coco polishing her boots in the woods somewhere deep in Edologia. They approached and confronted her, as angry as they had ever been.
“IDENTIFY YOURSELF IMMEDIATELY, HUMAN!”
“I am a hired detective. I am not an invader, but a neutral individual under international law.”, said she. “We are here to investigate and rectify reports of human rights issues within this nation!”
"GAH! Fuckin' god, the fact that yer a half-zombie makes it so easy t' TEAR YE OFF!!- sorry, i just can't control it."
Emperor scoffed, taking one last puff from his cigarette before dropping and crushing it with his black boot. He crossed his arms, glaring slightly downward at the.. erm.. chest.
"What's up with the unnecessary killin'? Don't ya got better things t' be doin'?" His southern drawl bled out as he spoke. "I can't deal with that stuff anymore. How the hell is it appealin' at all? And fer what? Mild pleasure in th' moment? The joy of battle or somethin' like that?"
It wasn't that Emperor was prudish to the idea, the exact opposite, in fact. He couldn't dare think about how someone could do it without any form of remorse. It made him think about how he was decades ago.. Never again could he imagine going back to that wicked lifestyle.
"Sick, really. Ya must got no dignity left, no soul, nothin'. Sure you got somethin' you could be focusin' on other than yourself."
Ugh, young people these days.
Ziiena knew about this man. She had heard stories of his deeds, actions, and accomplishments.
Accomplishments her ass, she could smell the hatred coming from his body, she had heard that this man changed, that his actions were from a long time ago, and that he had changed!
So?
Ziiena had never heard once about why that man did what he did, just that he "had changed", well Ziiena had gone through similar dealings, similar actions, and she had changed as well,
She just wondered if that man had any reason do to so. She never heard about this man's past, did he need to become a criminal? Did he need to cross the boundaries of law to survive? To help his family survive? To help people he loved get food and clothes so that they wouldn't starve or freeze to death? To try and save people who seemed to already be lost?
Ziiena needed to do that, but she doesn't think that Emperor had the same pushing factors...
“I don’t think poison is de weapon of a brave hero,” the old thief, said. He leaned into Ziiena direction, then smiled.
“Oi’m not sayin’ dat oi’m a noble man,” Roswell said. He flashed his teeth, then leaned back in his chair. He rolled a coin between his fingers, placed his foot on the table between them and eyed the other rogue, “but poison? At least oi have some honour,” he said. Roswell snorted. He threw up the coin and catched it with the same hand.
“See kid. People loike us,” he pressed his free hand on his chest. “We need to make a show. We need to make people actual recognize us,” he said. “De roi people. Not de citywatch. Yer don’t want dem hot on your tail,” Roswell babbled on.
He finally placed the coin on the top of the table. “No. If yer want to rescue yer mum, yer need to make it a show,” he said. Roswell grinned. Almost feline-like.
“Cause if yer not, does cultist will not leave yer alone. Dey will find yer. Dey will hunt yer. So yer need to give dem de idea dat yer hunt dem instead,” Roswell said. He sat up straight. “Or, make dem believe ye’ve dissapeared with yer sad-sump mum. Dat definitely helped me losin’ sum of de bloodhounds dat trailed my steps. No poison, kid.” Roswell planted his ellbow on the table and eyed the dragonborn, with that same grin. “Give dem hell. Sumethin’ dey not so quickly forget.”
--
Roswell's reaction summed up in one meme
Roswell bit his tongue so hard that he could taste blood. He started daggers, Lauderdale. Roswell rarely got confronted so directly and frankly, he did not know to react. He was dumbfounded and very angry.
"Deplorable?" He spat back. "Well listen 'ere cat face," he defended himself. Roswell went as far as pointing his boney finger at the other, waving it in equal disgust. "Yer know what's disgusting? De whisky yer sellin' in dat club of yers. Oh yes, ye've heard me," he barked back.
"I am an opportunist!" Roswell said. He ran his hand through his hair, like a krō that cleaned its ruffled feathers. "A businessman!" He sputtered. Though Lauderdale was right. He should be rotting in jail. Or swinging from a nearby tree. At least, that's how they took care of thieves in good ol' Drakenburg. Roswell broke eye contact and eyed his missing finger for a brief second. Then spat on the ground.
"Yer doesn't have an eye for business loike oi do," he tried to recover.
Roswell froze up as the other dragged Xander into this hissy fit between two old (jealous) men.
"Oi leaves him out of it," he replied. "Xander has a foine taste in 'mates' 'and whisky! Ye should ask him for sum advoice!" It must be noted that Roswell had never even set foot in Lauderdale's gentleman club. Let alone had the money to pay for whisky.
"Good heavens a theif. A kin pin of theives to be exact. Ugh. Deplorable! Scoundrels of the earth! Steal our hard earned money well you!!?" As he covers his nose. And fans the air. Not that Roswell had a particularly bad smell. But the fancy man did think that of him. "You gamble, cheat, and lie throughout your life. And somehow.... Here you are... Not rotting in jail, buy standing here next to me like we are equals. Disgusting." Lauderdale was the same. A crook. A liar and cheater... But he hate seeing someone do it better. And hated seeing someone more successful than him. Makes him rather jealous. "You especially have no class to you. Nothing of value to your name. A nobody." Not knowing the title, name, and legacy The Crows carries with him. "And those rats that work for you! Filthy leeches." What. Jealousy really. How does this Roswell character have such loyal workers!? Lauderdale can't even trust his personal assistant!? He clears his throat, "Your ONLY saving grace is your husband. Now he is a man of Worth. Man of real talent and taste. Though his taste in choosing a mate may need work. But it is because of him that I am even able to look at you! Hmp!"
"Away with you maid! A person of your status shouldn't even be talking to me! Your opinions does not matter to me. Now go back to cleaning your master's house. Shoo!"