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This might be a bit far-fetched for a game idea, but, here's how it works: Go through the above user's ocs and pick a character that one of your characters would be interested in, and as your character, say why they're interested in the above user's character. Remember, it can be any character from the above user's gallery, not just the one that they're posting with.
Character A: I like [one of User Z's OCs] because I think we would get along very well.
Character B: I would like to meet [one of User A's OCs] because I think they'd make a good sparring partner.
Character C: I feel like [one of User B's characters] would make a good employee for my company.
These are just examples. Reasons a character may be interested in another can be varied, but try not to get to rude, even if it's in character. Also, try not to get too NSFW, since I plan on keeping this forum open to the general public. Hope you enjoy!
[Please tell me this thread posts OOC]
"I heard about your interest in my friend, from a while back," Johnson grunted to the folklorist seated beside him. The aristocrat paused for a moment, if only to pick at some grime in his nail bed, then raised a brow as if he was ready to utter some carefully thought-out words. Or so he hoped, at the least.
His posture seemed far too relaxed as he added tensely, "I wouldn't blame you one bit. She's an enigma, isn't she? I'm surprised she didn't try killing you on the spot, which in of itself is admirable. I don't think she ever told you this, but she's not at all fond of men. I don't know the reason why, nor do I bother to look into it, but... You're the curious fellow, aren't you?" The last sentence had a teasing air to it, though the middle-aged aristocrat also narrowed his eyes as he continued to gaze at the other party.
He better not direct that curiosity to me, or else he'll go through hell and back.
"Perhaps you can figure it out," he hummed with a small laugh thrown in just for extra reassurance, "Make her less of an enigma. That'd be one way to direct your curious energy into a productive manner, because you're dealing with someone who exists. She's a living legend, but that... That she already told you, most likely. As I said before, women are such complicated creatures..." Hell, he even clicked his tongue against his palate as he leaned back against the seat, flicking his fingers as he would to a cigarette. Johnson then added as his feet, previously dangling in the air, now touched the floor, "... She's no exception, and I have to commend you for getting on her 'I see you as tolerable' side like that. Especially because you're a man!"
"But that asides... I see you as an interesting fellow, because you've dedicated yourself to something so rational and irrational at the same time," Johnson explained as his laughter started to escalate into more than just a chuckle. If it weren't for his dedication to maintaining stoicism in front of a stranger, he would've laughed his ass off. Alas, all he did was just grin at the other man - oddly like the woman he was talking about. "I think you already know this, but most folktales often have an element to truth to it; it's just that they've been warped so much that it's almost... Difficult to tell, per se?" His eyes drifted over to his fingers as he flicked them nonchalantly. "You really must have a keen eye if you know what you're doing in that regard..."
Johnson paused for a few seconds, then got up from his seat. His hands continued to stroke the hardwood arms of the chaise he formerly sat in, as the man bit down onto his lip.
"I understand if this talk is distracting you from your work. I'd react the same way," he opined at last, after a period of uncomfortable silence, "But yes, in case you decide to study my friend, just know that I'm here if you need any information. I could use some insight into her myself, that damn canine..." And with that, the middle-aged man laughed hollowly, before giving the other party a smooth yet almost menacing... Grin? Smirk? Sneer? It was difficult to say, and honestly, it was probably best left unclear.
bless you gray for giving me an opportunity to write younger Brown.... it's kind of funny how I neglect her given that her corruption is such a vital part of her arc, but... alas... *pensive*
here's your follow-up. B)
With a sniff, Brown rubbed her throat, which ached after all the yelling she had to do to get her point across. In a way, she had won, but it was Pyrrhic; the feelings associated with having to argue with someone, a man specifically, just... Weighed down upon the young woman. It was too familiar, too much like home. She had the feeling that if she spoke any further, all she'd be able to make was a croak, and that was something she was fine with in the context of things.
The first reaction she had to her name being called was to tense up; however, as soon as she turned to face a young woman, the aristocrat relaxed her muscles. Nevertheless, she let out a sniff again, as if... She was trying not to cry?
In hindsight, maybe I should have went through with this affair, if it means casting Skinner away forever...
Regret pricked at her bosom as she sighed and replied, "It is no problem, lass. A marriage is not necessarily the life or death of anyone, really, but..." Her eyes clouded slightly as the woman looked away once more. "... It sure can feel like it, huh?" A note of resignation rang in her voice; she remembered reciting it so many times before, when she was first married to her husband. They used to mean something, as a means of carrying her through, but now? Now they were just meaningless.
Just like Skinner.
"Oh, so he fooled you too?" she asked sourly, a single tear forming in her eye for a moment before she briskly wiped it away, "He's a fucking charming person, let me tell you that. But underneath that, he is one of the most patronizing sons of a bitch I know, ever. I wish I was never married to him, but some stupid political bullshit just-" She cut herself off and turned her entire body away again, her nose scrunching as she now struggled to hold back the tears. Apparently, all the times where Skinner had told her not to cry - because it solved nothing - dissipated into the void, and Brown hated him for it, for teaching her such dogma in the first place.
"- Just... Resulted in me being paired up with him, I suppose," Brown muttered with a sigh, "I did not mind being married at all, actually. I just... I just wish it was with someone within my age range. And someone who wasn't a fucking jackass." Her teeth clenched at those last few words as her nails started to dig into the crook of her elbow. "I understood why I was married to him, at first, but... As time went on, and he continued being himself, I could not bear it anymore. I wanted to become a paleontologist, before all of this, but... My parents thought it fit for me to marry someone and climb up the social ladder. My husband thought no differently, even when I wanted to make my fossil collecting a mere... Fucking... Hobby..."
A sniff came out of Brown once again as she trailed off, allowing the other party to pique herself in - insert her own personal experiences into the discussion. For the most part, Brown kept quiet, since she had the feeling that if she spoke, she'd start sobbing, and that'd be a disaster in the making if Skinner happened to walk in just at that moment. Instead, she just bit down on her lip and... Listened. Mostly.
There was one point in which Brown wanted to speak up, but that was quickly shot down, quickly filling the woman with a swell of resentment as her teeth clamped down even more on her lip. In fact, at some point, she thought she could taste blood...
It wasn't long, though, before the other party's started to falter, and Brown just... Sighed. She gently ran her fingers through her hair before quickly fluttering her eyes, to remove anything that might be in the way.
"It is okay," she muttered with the slightest hint of bitterness. Brown took one step away from the other party. "I understand where you are coming from. Being forced into silence is the cruelest form of punishment, and... Well... At least you are trying to escape from that, dear."
To ask NV who their favorite was was nearly an impossible task. Everyone was incredible, they all had their unique personalities and traits, things that made them stand out compared to them. Eventually, their eyes settled on Sterling. "A genius," they spoke softly. "You're able to harvest lives and recreate them, to better them; you give people second chances." It was difficult to tell if NV knew the gravity of Sterling's experiments or not. "Power like that isn't given to anyone. Only someone as creative and smart like you could wield such a talent, and rightfully so." Slowly, wraps began to unwind from NV and slithered towards the scientist. "If I were creative like that, if I was as smart as you, would people like me too? Please, lend me your skills."
Kul perked the moment Skinner brought up beans. And he liked them! Remarkable! Absolutely remarkable! "How splendid!" he gasped. "I'm so happy I could introduce you to a wonderful food, my good man! I always knew you had good taste!" When asked about new recipes, and how it would be good for Skinner's wife to learn some, Kul paused. Brown was interested in beans? He recalled their interaction. She was quite the hotheaded type. No one with such anger could enjoy a pure food like beans. Was Skinner trying to get her goat? Or did beans successfully convert someone? Well, it mattered not, he supposed.
"Very well, dear friend! Come! I was just about to head home, anyway. I'll show you all the wonderful recipes I have stored. In fact," He tapped his chest, the red ring glowing to life. Columns of numbers moved rapidly, and soon a screen appeared in front of them, showing different pictures of beans (and a log of messages he'd sent someone, all left on read). "We can look at some while on our way!"
"You!" Skinner rang out to a tall masked figure leaning on a certain cane, "It's a pleasure seeing you again, good sir!" He laughed heartily, hands clutched against his own stomach as he attempted to not make himself look too much like a fool, before offering the other party his signature grin. Their last exchange involving an aggressive chicken didn't seem to faze the middle-aged man at all, given that... Well... He had his own experiences with aggressive people.
His enthusiasm faltered slightly as he remembered this, causing him to look off to the side a little awkwardly. Skinner remembered that - once - his wife had warned him of how "annoying" this fellow was, how she couldn't stand to be in his presence because "they were so similar, from the height to the fucking bellows you bastards think is acceptable for laughter." And yes, that was verbatim in his mind. It made the man shudder slightly, but as he regarded the other party, that worry seemed to fade. So much for that, then.
"Or should I say, friend," he continued after that somewhat prolonged pause, which hopefully wasn't too awkward, "It's a wonder we keep meeting, but honestly, I don't mind at all. You're always such a jovial fellow to be around, and I appreciate that. A lot, really. It's always just nice having someone to talk to about the more menial topics in life, regardless of whether it's about bugs, or baked beans, or... What would happen in a hypothetical fight..." His eyes drifted over to the cane, which he remembered was topped with a can of baked beans once. Skinner blinked for a second, as if he was trying to register something, and then- Oh!
"Speaking of baked beans!" the older man exclaimed with a near gasp, "I tried some of them, at your suggestion, of course!" He held a hand up to his chin and started to rub it, a grin slowly snaking its way back onto his face as he remembered how luscious that combination of sauce and beans was. It was an unusual deviation from what he usually ate, but... Who said he was here to complain?
"They were delicious. The cans I got were savory with hints of sweetness in them," he mused aloud, "I don't know if it's the right brand, but... They were tasty, nonetheless. Perhaps I should eat them more often, in time." And piss off Brown - who nearly flipped her lid when she saw him coming home with canned food? Sure, apparently.
Taking a step towards the other party, Skinner proclaimed with a grin, "And that's all thanks to you, good friend! Or baked beans advisor, if you prefer to be called that! I don't mind, as long as you're happy, good sir!" He laughed, then proceeded to give the other party a quick embrace. "I express nothing but gratitude for you introducing me to such a good food, I must say," he explained himself further after stepping back and brushing some dust off his clothes.
"Mind telling me more about some possible baked beans recipes, or something along those lines? I think my wife could use some experience with that particular ingredient herself..."
Brown: ah yes. talking shit about my supposed friend. my favorite hobby. :)c
actual follow-up is.... below the spoiler, as per always dgftbdgtfbdfg-
How Roswell got into her house in the first place was... A little bit awkward? Brown had caught him trying to decorate her living room with what seemed like dead mice and other rotting roadkill, under the claim that they reminded him of her and her fossils. Ew? She had wanted to strangle him - right then and there - but after recollecting her breath (and somehow thinking this was the slightest bit endearing), she allowed him to stay in the house for the rest of the night... Under one condition: clean the fucking room, or get stabbed in the fucking stomach.
The former task was somehow completed, though even now, the room reeked ever so faintly of carrion as Brown gently ran her finger through the neck feathers of a large, multicolored prehistoric bird. The odor was enough to make her nose scrunch as she focused on trying to preen her bird's plumage and make it look more... Presentable. Even as it stared down the stranger and let out a low hissing noise at him.
She raised her brow as Roswell spoke, though her eyes remained focused on the bird as she hummed in reply, "My friend doesn't exactly set a high bar, you know. Man got accused for fucking over his wife, and though I cannot say whether that is true or not... To call him the moral paragon of anything is a bit of a stretch." With a haughty laugh, Brown brushed aside some stray feathers before finally looking back over at the Crow with a smooth smile. "The same goes for myself, but that sure did not stop you with anything, huh?"
Someone was oblivious that she was probably being flirted with, and that was likely for the best.
Brown went back to tending to her bird. She hummed to herself as she gently extended a wing and examined its plumage, before making a clicking noise to herself and nodding in approval. The same was done for the other wing, before the woman started to stroke its back. The bird's hissing ceased in favor of a soft chirp, though it maintained that wary look on Roswell.
"I know he does that," teased the aristocrat as she glanced over at him, "I tried fighting you over my friend being a fucking idiot, but..." She trailed off before turning back to the bird, coughing under her breath as she recalled the outcome of... That. "... Let's just say that it didn't exactly stop you either. You're a real damn persistent son of a bitch, let me tell you that." One hand ran through her hair, the other through the bird's feathers as she continued to hum. "Though to be fair, Johnson really doesn't take that much convincing. He claims to be rational, but if you promise anything remotely political to him, the man just starts leaning towards you, ever so slightly. It's bias at its finest, but of course, he is deep in denial over it. That is how men tend to be, I suppose."
"Besides, I know he admires you, for whatever reason," Brown grunted as she frowned at what seemed like an imperfection in her companion's feathers, "It's almost funny, really. If you ignore all the shitty rumors surrounding him, he really is one of the highest-ranking aristocrats in our society. And here he is, commending you even though you're nothing but a lowly thief." The last few words almost had a joking ring to it as she corrected the flaw, then gave her bird a pat on the head before whispering something into its ear. The bird nodded before flapping its way out of the room, thus leaving Brown alone with Roswell.
"I'm surprised he hasn't tried getting you arrested yet, considering how many times you have stolen his belongings. Must be that bias kicking in." Ouch.
Now, she gazed at the thief as she scanned him, apparently for that cushion he had mentioned. Oh, wouldn't it be funny if she did have it, just to spite her friend? Even then, though, she reasoned to herself, he probably already bought one just like the cushion he had lost. He should have honestly went for something a bit more memorable. Nonetheless, Brown chuckled and laid a hand on top of Roswell's hair, before gently starting to run her fingers through it. The texture sort of reminded her of otter's fur, though a little bit more oily and a little bit less slicked. She appeared quite calm in her gesture, as she didn't mind otter's fur that much, and she continued to pet his hair as he finished his anecdote.
"I see," replied the aristocrat with a titter into her free palm, "I would rather have that pillow than a dead mouse any day, if I must offer my input. Besides... It would be quite amusing to see his reaction if he saw it in my house, even though you took it from him..." Ever so tenderly, she curled a strand around her finger while resuming her humming. "... But at the same time, they are quite comfortable. Perhaps you should take one more, for yourself. As a memento, or something to sell. Someone like you does deserve some luxury, after all."
- ngl...... same...... Roswell is 10/10 having a field day with those recent forum game interactions with Brown though if I'm gonna be honest?? first mans gets a smooch, then he gets to hold her hand, now he basically gets his hair pet for free. (tbf two of them happened in one interaction, but that asides-) low-key good for him, since it... sort of compensates for all the times she insulted him and tried to beat him up- *pensive*
--
His head was almost resting on Brown's lap. Almost. His dirty thief shoes were kicked off and his feet clothed socks, made of goat-wool and filled with holes, were resting on Brown's super expensive sofa's armrest. In his hand, Roswell held a book. Trashy romance-novel, his favorite. "Yer nu," he said adjusting himself in an even more comfortable position, while still reading that book. "Don't tell Johnson dis, but yer me favorite rich aristocrat in dis neighborhud," he said. Showing Brown an innocent smile while looking up to her from his comfy position.
"He just, let me knuk 'is stuff? roi in front av 'is face." Roswell let out a laughter before adjusting his gaze back to his book. He had read it for 5 times now, 5, and still didn't get bored of it.
"Oi tried it oyt yer know! Grabbed a seat pillow an' jist put it roi underneath me arm, while we were discussin' de local weather or some shite. Yer man let me walk oyt av 'is mansion wi' it. Clearly in view," Roswell turned a page. "If yer want it, the pillow oI mean, yer can 'ave it. Loike, oi've said," Roswell's gaze finally went up back to Brown again, with that big smile of his. "Yer me favorite."
--
Her cheeks where redder than her hair when she agreed. She nodded so softly with a big grin. "Y..You dont have to charge me! Cause your my frie- enemy! My worst enemy!"
Leika really didn't need to do much to catch Shrike's attention. Her being an absolute baddie served her well, if one could call Shrike a pleasant person to be around, though either way the feeling was... mutual? Maybe mutual. Maybe unreciprocated.
Either way, the easterling was someone to be admired in some strange way. Shrike could certainly appreciate her spunk, for starters. Her aim with firearms was also applaudable, if also because the older woman before her... wasn't really that good with her own pistol, though she always strived to be. But, most of all... A tattoo sounded pretty good one of these days. Assuming their rivalry was friendly, and still in its infancy, it wouldn't hurt to request a tattoo, would it?
So, here they both were. Shrike stood on one leg, the other lifted and laid straight atop the counter beside them. Show off. Keep flexing.
It was unsanitary, anyway. People would prepare food on that later, and her boot germs would be everywhere, and... ugh.
"I heard that you are quite the artist. Wonderful! Really wonderful." Her voice was a tad slurred, the smell of alcohol was evident. If we want to be specific, she had a couple of lemon drop martinis before imploding into itty-bitty Shrike pieces. "..That is-- That's real nice, though, you know." She drawled, "So good. Especially with the... the carving. The skin painting-- inking. Tattooing."
She lowered her leg from the table at last, taking in a deep breath before stumbling a bit closer to Leika. "You think you could-- you could give me a nice tattoo on my lower back? I always had an idea for it any-- and everything, you know. Would love that." She sniffled for a moment, and then raised her hand to rub at her nose. "..I want some nice angel wings... Something like that, oh yes... Please... I will pay you... You and your amazing tattoo skills. I trust you anyway not to, like, draw something stupid and inappropriate, so, you know, and all..."
Now, here's the dilemma. Would Leika give this drunk lady a tramp-stamp?
..Well, the pay would be good. And knowing Shrike, she wouldn't regret anything after the hangover.
FOLLOW-UP TIME i am very late i am sorry :^(
Otto hadn't seen Krys in some time, though he supposed he knew them well enough at this point to consider them... a performer who was a bit too into their art, though he could applaud such. They were strange, of course, but charming to be around. So, he decided to visit that day, bringing with him a jug of chilled tea, hauling it under his arm as he marched into the garden. It was hot out, still. Summer wasn't his favorite season, honestly, since... Well, the chance of heat stroke went up drastically.
He placed the pitcher aside, smiling and nodding in response to Krys's chirp as he did. He spoke softly to them, saying quietly, "This is tea for you. The temperature is going to go up soon, so I assumed you might like it." He was southern, but also not southern, so Krys would have to be ready to explode from sweetness, because god only knows how much damn sugar was dumped into the drink.
He looked back to the person as they approached, flowers in hand. Yes, he continued to be entirely convinced that they were a human, as already stated. But! That wasn't important here. What was important that he was, once again, being gifted flowers. He leaned his head closer to Krys, letting them place the flower in his hair. He exhaled lazily.
He stared after Krys as they scurried back to their garden. He hauled himself after them, immediately impressed with the upkeep of the plot. He leaned towards one of the flowers, one that was still budding. He looked over it curiously, before moving on to study the other blossoms, finding contentment in the way their petals caught the sun's rays. After a moment of staring, he leaned towards Krys and nudged his shoulder against theirs.
"You grew all of this, did you? I must say that I'm impressed." he remarked, "I have a garden of my own, you know. It's a bit bigger." Though, he didn't really take care of it. He paid his servants well enough to tend to it.
"I think you would fit right in there, perhaps even as a worker, or just prancing around. There's a pond, a stream... A couple of fish... Sometimes ducks and geese fly down to the water." He continued on. He walked a bit closer to the garden and stooped down to one knee, placing his arm atop one leg as he looked at one red flower. Speaking of his garden, and of this one... "If you would like more plants, I would be open to giving you a few more." he offered, "Something new to liven this up with, something... exotic, I suppose, quite like you. You're a quaint little thing, you know."
Krys kept mostly out of the way here, in Yenereth. Such an odd name, and odd people to go along with it. Most people thought they were wearing a costume, or some weird set of armor, as if they would need that! To add on, people rudely started up rumors about them, which they couldn't exactly dispel given their muteness. They buzzed with irritation just thinking about it. However, there was...one person who they liked, who had been the first to greet them and had accepted their gift of flowers. Of course, he had thought they were wearing a costume too, but they were willing to forgive him, because he had called them things like "dear" and "darling" and had shared drinks with them. So friendly, so gentlemanly!
And now, here they were again, with Otto standing across from them. They chirped happily upon seeing him and stood from where they had been kneeling down, cultivating the small garden they had started. Krys quickly made their way over, and made a move as if to hug him, but then paused, considering. They weren't sure if the man liked being touched and couldn't exactly read his body language or facial expressions. So instead they reached up and plucked a flower from their wild mane, before carefully tucking the stem behind Otto's ear. The flowers had worked last time, so they would keep it up, perhaps make a tradition from it.
With that done, the bug then stepped back, giving him space. Then they turned and waved the human over to their garden, showing it off with another chirp, this one holding a note of pride. It was small but pretty in their opinion, free of weeds and thriving. They hoped that the man saw it similarly and would continue the same friendliness he had given them when they met. It would be nice to have an acquaintance, or dare they say a friend, in this unfamiliar land.
Follow up :)
The moment that Buzz entered his domain, Miktia was aware of him, watching him through his servants eyes and the shadows. And the god was...interested, admittedly. Not because he needed or wanted a minion, he had enough servants. He was more interested in what Buzz was, a thing he has never seen before. Some type of construct, but not made of magic, and to add on, seemingly sentient. Miktia had so many questions, like what happened to the soul? Did he die? Did his consciousness escape somewhere? Oh, the things he could learn..
However, he stayed put in the library, letting Buzz come to him. When the bot entered, the doors closed behind him with a deafening thunk, all too loud in the silence of the realm. Miktia didn't put his book down at first, but faintly acknowledged by tilting his head, his eyes glancing over the top of the book. He let Buzz speak and get out what he wanted, not interrupting until he was prompting him to answer. That was when the god moved, closing his book and setting it aside, before rising to his full height, towering above the small robot.
"I think you've gotten the wrong idea of me, little one," he stated, his voice having a sort of wispy, echoing quality. "I'm just in charge of the shadows of the world, keeping the balance, bringing reprieve from my sibling. However..." He paused, leaning down to curiously run his claws over metal pieces, invading the robot's personal space. His hand even went to touch the buzzsaw, but he didn't bleed, it didn't even seem like he registered the sharpness of it or the pain it caused. "I could help you find a master, I have several suitable candidates in mind. However, this doesn't come for free. I'd like to study you first...nothing like you exists on Torrania, and I'd love to lord this over the God of Knowledge." Although he framed it like a request, it didn't feel like it, what with the doors being shut and Miktia hovering over Buzz. But..he could try to deny the request and see where it landed him.
Buzz's circuits were buzzing him with boundless energy. His orange opticals brightened up as the munchkin machine was about to meet the God of Shadows, Miktia. The amount of time and effort having to traverse from earth to a new planet would be well worth it. He didn't know much about Miktia personality wise, but any being with the title of God of Shadows has to be brimming with evilness. If there's one thing Buzz excels at the most, it's being a backstabbing minion to a higher, more eviler master.
Buzz tugged on his cape tightly as the atmosphere was rather...dreary. Almost like walking on a silhouette of earth. Everything seemed dark and scary looking. The grass was pitch black, trees looked twisted enough to grab at you. This was Buzz's kind of place. He was designed to be nasty, evil, and cruel. So living in spooky places was just perfect for him...Despite the fact his buzzsaw tail was quivering more times then a drinking bird toy.
It took a little traversing, but Buzz had managed to find himself in a library of sorts. He heard whispering voices say the location. He did not know what or who the voices were, all he knew was the God of Shadows was bound to be there. Sure enough, Buzz witnessed the High God reading in the middle of the Library. Alone...With it's books.
This was Buzz's chance. "Mister-Miss-Er uh, God of Shadows? Buzz the Beaver, Let me just say what a honor it is to meet with someon-Somethi-A god. You are just brimming with dark intentions. Creepy world you have here, took me forever with crazy rituals and fortune tellers and uh-" Buzz tapped his bronze platted head. "Well uh, I'm sure you totally need a lacky henchman? A yesbot who kisses your leg-s? I mean, it would be quite the high honor to work with someone who must be the baddest of the bad, the worst of the worst? The supreme shadow savant!" He held up his little robot arms upwards doing a jazzhands motion. Mostly trying to get the God's attention. "So uh? Is that a yes to having a minion oh spooky shadow supreme?"
___
Follow up time!
Trim-Trum clapped as he turned around. “Oh my, thank you ever so much for the compliment!” The stubby egg-shaped ghost knight seemed excited about the old man. He loved getting compliments. Usually he would never get them. His Queen would always dismiss him as some lowly servant, and even his brother would demean him for not being evil enough.
Trim-Trum stood at attention to Pourife, giving him a salute. You could hear some clanking noises each time he moved. “My duty is to protect the Evil Demon Princess Jezabelle. She prefers that title, kinda rolls off the tongue…If I had a tongue I mean. I mean I had a tongue but since I’m a ghost…No Tongue, so my previous statement is true…Or was it?” TT banged his head a bit. Yet he looked back, rather his helmet did a 180 as it appeared backwards to see Pourife. “Oh, you like the plume huh? It’s what helps me feel regal.” He couldn’t help do a chuckle before fixing his helmet back into position.
He went back into attention. “A knight is a civic duty to help protect those we work for. The armor helps against protection from say, a demonic heat blast for accidentally breaking a certain mistresses’ glasses at one point. But bravery is what I will do to keep my Evil Demon Princess Jezabelle happy!”
Yet the little knight seemed rather intrigued by the mustached man’s proposal. “I do not see any reason not to doubt a mustached man with not a name I know of to enter into a strange lab and have some tea which could be poisonous despite me being a ghost inhabiting a suit of armor. Should be quite delightful.” Trim-Trum was not the brightest when it came to reasoning. He wanted to make people happy even if half of the time, he would cause the incidents.
"That suit of yours," opined the middle-aged man while eyeing the other party, "is rather... Intriguing, must I say? You seem like the type of fellow who really takes your job seriously, you know?" Which was sort of ironic, considering the shorter knight's demeanor, but alas. With a small laugh, he then placed his hands on his knees before stooping down to his eye level. You know, as a proper sign of respect. And not in a low-key patronizing way at all.
This will be fine.
The man, however, did try his best as he gently poked at the red plume sticking out of the other party's helmet, still chuckling to himself like this was fun and games to him. Besides, he was just a little bit stupid - as a treat. He assumed that underneath those jolly eyes and witty words was someone dedicated to their job, someone who exercised competence when it came to serving his employer - or something along those lines. The exact details were left up in the air, as M. Pourife... Technically didn't know what a knight was. Oops.
So he asked, "But... What is a knight, anyhow? You folk are so intriguing, if you have to wear a full suit of armor like that for whatever you do..." The man shuddered ever so slightly, now that he thought about it further. Perhaps this fellow needed it because his job often led him into life-or-death situations! And the fact that he was so, so happy made the man grin, because he found it admirable. "... It is a good thing, of course! You are a brave fellow, one who always sticks to what is said! Obedience is good, at the very least. It should be considered an underrated virtue-"
And he mainly said that because when he was independent for one second - back at home - he got his ass kicked. (It was a melodramatic exaggeration, but still.)
"- And you exemplify that perfectly!" exclaimed the man in an almost saccharine tone. He was still stooped down like he was going to pet this other party on the head, and holy shit was it obnoxious. "I must take you back to my lab sometime, for me to study! Or... No... I think we should talk! Later on, at least! I can pour some tea for you, and then we can talk! How would that be for you, good sir?" At least he didn't have a hat, because if he did, then he would've taken it off and did a little gaudy gesture with it. Yikes.
welcome to the Smith fan club, Philomena....
here's your follow-up as a thank you for your sweet necromancy:
Want to know who personally thought canines were adorable? Smith.
In fact, the young woman seemed like she was trying not to hop around like some child as she gazed at the other party, eyes all wide and sparkly as she - well - took everything in. Oh, how she wanted to carry this canine in her arms and whisk her off back home, where she'd be a convenient playmate for her son... But there was a problem: Smith also found that rather rude. That, and she was probably too physically frail to do shit about it.
So, she stood there, but holy shit was she enthralled by everything unfolding before her.
Even the fact that Smith could tell she was being gossiped about didn't exactly faze her. Maybe it was because of the fact that a dog was talking about her. Huh. Though to be fair, if she knew that this canine was her husband's associate, the young woman would start cowering and worrying over what was going to happen to her; so, in a way, it was best that she was left a little clueless - as a treat. She sniffed and took a step back as the other party approached her, which...
... Smith didn't seem to mind, as she smiled calmly as her hair was pat.
"I hope I come off as friendly," Smith replied meekly with a gentle laugh, "It's the impression I should have when confronting... Anyone, yes?" Her eyes flickered over to the party whom the canine was speaking to just moments before, preceding a timid wave from her. "I'd rather make allies or friends than enemies. You know how the saying goes. But honestly, I'd rather make friends than allies, because friends at least have the potential to be more satisfying in the end." Oh, thank fuck Johnson wasn't here...
With another giggle, she added, "You can... Keep petting my hair if you want, miss. It's not that serious. I could always just... I don't know... Ummm... Brush it later, I suppose." And she meant it too. Something about being given attention made Smith flustered, but it was also something she craved - thanks to a certain asshole not exactly providing that to her back at home.
"Humans are adorable," Philomena chuffed, glancing up and allowing her eyelashes to flutter.
"You know, in their weird, little, human way. Especially that one over there," she added, gesturing over towards the brunette. Philomena turned to her second party and muttered,
"Okay, fine, be like that. They're friendly—at least, some of them are! Look!" Philomena approached Smith, maintaining her curious expression. Upon arriving, she hesitantly reached her hand up and ruffled it against the human's hair.
"Oh, that's adorable," Philomena quietly cooed, pulling her hand away and shoving it into her pocket.
"Alright alright, " Xander said with a warm laughter. His lute rested on his lap and he held his hands on the strings. "I play you another song young lady Summer, " he said with a smile. "Though, I want to remind you that I've played you ' Good' king Barabus' several times already, " Xander said with a careful smile. "So, what so you want to hear? Something new? Something different?" He asked, testing one of the strings with his thumb.
And so she suggested the song she wanted to hear next. Xander smile and expression froze. "You sure?" He asked the youth but in his heart, Xander knew she was sure. Summer confirmed his predictions with a nod. No, several nods. The older man let out a barely hearable sigh. "Well, okay then misses Summer, just make yourself comfortable, " Xander said with a slightly broken smile as his hands started to play the first tones of 'Good' king Barabus'. A children's song that revolved around an old king, losing his set of pants and riding his horse, in only his underclothing, to get it back. A classic tour de force.
--
for not a second , not after his awakening till now Salvador had thought of using his powers in such a beneficial way. Growing crops, rebuilding forests. The entire forest we're just fingertips away. Nope. Salvador had only thought of the basic things, growing facial hair and oxidate locks. Now he felt incredibly selfish and small-minded. No more hunger, can you imagine. The youth stares at the stones and herbs. Roswell used similar things for his rituals, none as noble as Witch's cause. He swallowed. Uneased and a bit frightened. Salvador bit his lower lip, then nodded. "N..no I'm ready, let's..do it!" He said her with a very thin, very insecure smile. Salvador even gave Witch a shaky thumbs-up. This is going to be great.
"We'll start with easy stuff," Witch said, lining her items up on the table in front of Salvador as she named them. "Plants, fruit—don't worry, the rat's already dead, natural causes, hasn't started decomposing yet." The lattermost she kept in a box with a clear lid, closer to her than him. "Then, I brought some wood, some stone—don't worry about the specifics of this," she added, waggling a small circuit board between her index and middle fingers like a playing card, "s'just something I brought from outta town. Just curious. And once I get enough notes..."
She reached into the array of components right in front of her—twigs and herbs, shining rocks and gems and flower petals all arranged in a circle around a single candle; all the tools she'd need if the wand at her right between the makeshift altar and her open notebook was inadequate for her spell casting—and pulled out a single crystal pulsing with soft blue light to pinch between her index finger and thumb.
"...I want you to hold this." She spun it around, and said, "It's enchanted, but the spell's gotten plenty of tests. There's no reason to think it'll do anything to you. I'll be able to tell how the magic interacts with yours, though."
What a fascinating power the poor man had. The moment Witch heard about it, she knew she needed to study it. She hadn't made promises, and had emphasized heavily when she proposed the idea that she couldn't guarantee answers or fixes or anything, but if the problem plagued him so much, it couldn't be impossible to see it undone, or at least mitigated. If nothing else, the information could be useful to have; she'd never seen anything like this, and every instinct in her needed to understand it. Uses for such a thing had been bouncing around in her head all week as she prepared; burnt forests regrowing overnight, food shortages fixed with rapid harvests.
"I'll be able to get the data I need on my own," she said, and decided not to explain the nature of the bionic eye and its information-gathering abilities under her patch to this man, "and I might have questions, but mostly I just need you to touch things."
She finished her arrangement of items and folded her hands in her lap. Her voice went a little softer, less matter-of-fact as she said, "And if you want to back out at any time, if this is freaking you out or making you anxious or anything, tell me, and we're done. Kaput, finished, don't even worry. Nothing I'm gonna learn's worth anything if it's gotten under duress, got it?"
A scholar is always in want of a subject. Witch, though, is her own one-woman ethics committee, and won't shove aside a person for an answer.
AAAAA LOVE THIS
"All we can do is try," Phoebe agreed. She puttered this way and that while Flavio drank: here, she packed together another salve to add to her collection of medicines; here, she bundled up enough cheese and bread to call a lunch, as anyone who came to her was bound to be hungry. The actions only seemed idle because they were so familiar; more than once, she had handled the aftermath of the fight before the next, and taken the casualties from the fray as they came. Preparation became a second-natured science. Glancing up, she smiled lightly in return to his, inclined her head just so, and returned to her work. A rejection of what she assumed was a silent offer to share, but one without offense; Solaris's followers encouraged revelry, in manageable doses, when one could afford it, but Phoebe, so far as she was concerned, could never afford it. Not with work to be done yet, not while walking among the wounded, not when she feared allowing one drink could never end at just allowing one drink. But Flavio seemed comfortable with his whiskey, and she bore nothing against it.
Only as he said the words give up did she pause in her work, wrapping up one last pouch of food and folding her hands over each other on the table. Ah, in a way, hadn't she already given up? Left the church behind, decided she hadn't the strength to bear the shifted familiarity anymore, called it a pilgrimage so she wouldn't have to admit it. Some things were the same everywhere she went, even so. Always, there was fighting. Always, people died. With or without her. When she realized that, realized how little of a difference she could make herself, hadn't she given up, then?
"I've seen what battles like these do to a body," she said, quietly. What they do to a person. All the ways a body breaks, how to mend them, how to ease the unfixable.
All the ways a soldier breaks. How to ease the unfixable.
"The truth no one wants to tell is that you have to give up, sometimes. You need to take a break." Even as she said so, she was back to wrapping parcels, sneaking something sweet into a lunch. "You can't perform your duty if you push yourself to breaking points. Never let yourself stop and the day will come sooner rather than later that you can't protect anyone at all."
Walking over, she set the cloth pouch down beside him. Bread, cheese, and—it wasn't often that she baked desserts, but she was rather good at it—a soft cookie made with vanilla. Meeting his smile again with a light laugh, she said, "Now, you don't think enough of yourself to call us equals. I've done nothing special. Only what's expected of me." The good and kind clergywoman, the devoted follower, someone with faith yet left in what she did. A lovely role to play.
"But that's magnificently kind of you to say." Briefly, she squeezed Flavio's shoulder in a reassuring gesture before she walked back to her preparation work. "I truly am glad to be here, able to aid you and yours. I want to help however I can."
She thought about asking to be called Phoebe. Decided madame was all the familiarity she could afford.
"We can try." Flavio muttered, "I'm no healer, not like you are, but... We can both try, I suppose, to be the best for the people who look to us for guidance-- you with your medical knowledge and me with my work in the military, and really I suppose it's all we can offer." He could tell people where to go to stay the safest, of course, but those who didn't get the memo would need someone else to tend to their wounds. The most he knew was how to clean and stitch minor wounds, so thank the gods Phoebe had come to meet him. While they would never be able to rid the world of strife, he supposed it would be good to surround himself with those who still had the heart to tend to others.
He turned towards the round woman behind him. He held a whiskey tumbler in one hand, raising it to her with a brief smile before he went on to down the beverage. He wanted to offer her a drink, but honestly wasn't certain whether or not it would be... what was the word? Offensive, maybe? People such as herself-- people who dedicated themselves fully to their religion-- were, at least back home where he was from, tended to... You know, not drink. Alcohol was the poison of demons and all that jazz. Nevertheless, with the look he sent her, he hoped it was enough to get across that the suggestion was still there.
He grimaced once he finished off his drink, and then placed the glass atop the mantelpiece behind him. He rubbed the side of his face as he studied her. She had been kind thus far, though hardworking to the point of not quite being affectionate. He could relate to that, although he regretted that sometimes it felt as though the relationship between him and his family had grown distant over the years.
"Maybe this isn't the way to say it, so please stop me if it isn't." he carried on, "But, sometimes... Maybe it's good to give up. Gods, I wish I could give up sometimes. I'm not so old yet that I have to lay down and rot in my bed, but to have to fight everyday-- it takes a toll on the body, you know?"
He knew very well. His knees were getting shittier and shittier as he grew older. He wondered if Phoebe felt the same way, although he wasn't sure if a medic would understand. Though, assuming that she had been exposed to such conflict, maybe...
"Not that I don't think I would even if I were old." Flavio sighed. He considered another cup. "It's my duty to take care of the people, as it is also yours."
"And," He offered another smile, though this time it appeared more forced than the last did. "I hope that would mean we're equals in some way, and if not... Well, respect is earned, even then. You've certainly earned mine, madame."
some mentions of sexism in this follow-up because otto is an asshole
also fun fact: german chocolate cake is not german, and was instead named after Samuel German, the English-American man who developed dark baking chocolate.
Otto thought he was getting somewhere, and was genuinely delighted to have been invited by the woman. He went out of his way to clip a few jasmine stems and bring them to the house, and once he stepped inside he was relieved to find there was no sign of his host's husband. That relief carried over into the room where they both now settled, and while he didn't look at her, he did listen intently to his surroundings. Any squeak from her, any bustling from the household servants.
He smiled when she spoke, no matter how hushed her voice was. His gaze moved from the flowers and to the magazine she clung to, and though it wasn't risque, as one would put it, it might as well be to him, the guy who lived in a shithole, as his smile vanished once he paid more attention to it.
"Should I not be here?" he asked her, "Really, I'm not as busy as you might think-- not right now, anyway." The man then barked out a raspy laugh. Not funny. Go to jail.
"But, no, I wanted to see you, my lady, though I realize a man doesn't like it when another approaches what is theirs. I can understand that, especially if your husband is of any note in that regard. I don't like when people even glance at what is mine." Ew? "We're territorial in that way." Ew??? "But, this visit can be our secret, can't it? As can all others. You can toss those flowers once I leave and carry on with your day as though nothing happened, so long as you don't act as coy as when I'm here."
Then, there was the topic of the marketplace, and then his retainer. Otto shrugged at her question. The old woman who accompanied him seemed anxious in crowds, although he didn't care enough to either question or console her. He doubted it had anything to do with Smith. He just picked up the retainer who he considered the most competent at the time and hauled her ass to a too-public location, and then forced her old lady arms to carry Smith's groceries.
Zuri didn't deserve it.
He looked back to the flowers. He didn't know when he had to leave, really, but he set a mental alarm for twenty minutes, as that seemed to be enough time for him to chat the woman up and then abscond back to Sauveterre like nothing happened, as he told her to do the same.
"You're such a dear." he sighed, "A sandwich and some water would be fine, really, as we speak to each other. I'd like to get out of your hair as soon as possible."
- dsfhjgsfvhsjdfbvjkshfdvsdfv oh god..... rip Smith...... each interaction they have only makes her like him more, albeit for all the wrong reasons-
Smith was careful to invite the nobleman over when her husband was gone, probably with some political negotiation that he never exactly told her about. And only at that time. She knew that it wasn't with the fellow in question as she sat across from him, some distance away from him while wringing her hands together and giving him an all-too-nervous smile.
The air smelled faintly of flowers. Not wilted ones, but fresh ones. Normally, she'd find it comforting, but under the shadow of such an impressive party, the young aristocratic woman merely tensed while twiddling her fingers with the corner of a fashion magazine, one that she had forgotten to put away before his arrival. Oops. That was going to get awkward. Especially because the outfits she looked up within those pages... They weren't risque by any means, but they were experimental in the sense that they were a bit "modern" for her tastes.
"I'm... Surprised that you actually came here," she confessed to him in a voice that was barely beyond n audible whisper. Can he even hear what I'm saying? Smith attempted, of course, not to linger too long on the subject, for either outcome didn't exactly appeal to her. He could be judging her if he heard her, and then what would he think of her? But at the same time, the fellow did seem... Interested in her company, in a way, and perhaps the silence was starting to weigh down upon both of their shoulders - and not just hers. "... I mean... We're both busy- I mean, you are, usually. Are you here to discuss something with my husband, and you're just here to stop by for a bit, or..."
The possibility that he came here just for her company evaded her comprehension as she ran her fingers through her hair. That was for the best, not that she deserved such ignorance anyhow.
With a small laugh, the young woman hummed, "But... That asides, I'm... I'm glad you're here, sir. Really." Oh no. Her hand still remained entrenched in the strands of her hair as she continued to comb it, her preening likely becoming more and more obvious by the second. "It was just a surprise, but... A good one. I do hope we get to know each other better during the time we have? Before you have to leave?" She bit down on her lip before glancing over her shoulder to see if a servant was passing by. Speaking of servants...
"And I must thank you for your help at the store too," she told him with a nod, "It was... Very sweet, though that older woman did seem a little bit grumpy. Is she like that with everyone?" Her question ended with a squeak as her mousy hands clutched themselves close to her chest. "Not... Not that it's an insult, of course. I'm just... I'm just curious. Do you need anything while you stay here, sir? Like... Food, or a drink? I'm more than willing to ask a servant for that, though I don't know how well they obey me... Usually it's my husband who directs the orders, really..." Smith laughed once more, but holy shit was it awkward for her. It showed miserably.
this is..... so cute..... thank you fizz for the necromancy......
time for a somewhat long follow-up. Fitzgerald forsakes his disdain for goats for one (1) second to make his frenemy happy. >:( (also potential cw for pregnancy mention?? it literally lasts for like. one second and doesn't go in detail, but here's one just in case, as it does seem to be a sensitive subject for some- u_u)
"Hey! Just where do you think you're taking me!?" spat a very irate Fitzgerald when the smaller thief suddenly took his arm and started running through the streets. The latter's feet made a signature tap-tapping sound, similar to those that a weasel would've made if thrown into a city environment as cobbled and covered with grime as Drakenburg's more isolated alleyways. "You better explain yourself, and no, I'm not going to that stupid party again! Not now, not ever! At least not until you explain yourself!"
Yet for whatever reason, he didn't try wresting his arm out of the thief's grip, or yelling at any passerby to get the blond arrested. Hmmm...
It seemed that, in all honesty, he was just going along with the flow, because even if Fitzgerald hated the idea of hanging around with the lower classes in such a potentially humiliating fashion, there was also just the fact that it was probably better than hanging around at home all day and doing nothing. Or just toiling around at the outskirts or ports in search of wildlife. Emphasis on "probably." He sure as hell wanted to transgress on his own rules of social propriety on his own terms, and the smaller thief was violating that.
Fitzgerald did, however, raise a brow when the thief brought up the coat the aristocrat had given him a while back. Well, for a moment, before his look soured again.
"Listen, that shit was for you to wear," he spat with a roll of his eyes, "Not as something for your goat to eat, sleep, and shit on." Woah there. He attempted to anchor his feet into the ground to be a total prick, but by then, both men were close to the Old Chapel - as well as the shack behind it - so... It didn't exactly matter anymore, did it? "I still fucking think you don't own that goat. That you stole it or some shit. Why the hell would you take a goat, out of all things? I still think a wedding cake would be better. It's big, but it tastes good..."
He trailed off just as the other party let go of his arm and guided him inside of the shack. Yes, the same shack Fitzgerald drank beer near and almost imploded in just a week earlier. And that ignored the dancing he had to do... With a sigh, the youth brushed some stray locks of brown hair aside before taking in the fresh scent of hay.
But that wasn't the most impressive thing in the building. That title would have to belong to the camel, who stared at both men calmly before flicking an ear.
The goat's bleat, in fact, was enough to piss Fitzgerald off as he pointed at the nanny and exclaimed, "Holy shit! The goat has kids!? Fucking hell! You didn't tell me that there'd be four damn goats on my precious coat! I thought there'd just be one!" Fitzgerald had no idea how pregnancy worked. He was so indignant by the thought of four ungulates chewing up the precious rabbit's fur that he almost reached over to the blond thief to pinch his ear. Again. Not that the aristocrat had done so in a long time, anyway, but it would've been one hell of a catharsis...
Instead, he just sniffed and ran his fingers through his hair, attempting to ignore the musty scents of hay and goat mingling in his nostrils as he stared at the kids playing.
"I guess they're cute..." he muttered - but only enough for the thief to barely hear - before turning to the other party with a frown, "That still doesn't justify you using the coat like that, though. You have no idea how delicate rabbit's fur is, even when not used like... That." He waved a hand at the goats. "I wouldn't be surprised if they ear the entire coat inside and out before they're considered adults." With another sniff, the man allowed his eyes to drift over to the smallest goat, the one that was "supposedly" named after him. I'm not that small!? Fitzgerald immediately thought like an ungrateful bitch, What the fuck are they talking about!? It should be named after the thief, if anything! I can reach over and pinch his stupid fucking ear right now-
But he didn't pinch the ear.
Fitzgerald instead just sighed both resignedly and calmly, "I mean... It's a nice name, for a nice goat... But either way, your secret's safe with me. Why would she punch you over that, though? Does she just like... Punching shit?"