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Feel free to bump this thread! I have bump notifs disabled so you can bump it if needed.
(not sure how to word the title //sweats)
But anyways, first forum game, woohoo-
The scenario is that your OC catches the above OC after running after them, or it could just be something like catching the OC above redhanded in the act.
What does your OC do? Give a gentle admonishing, a more blunt verbal beatdown, or something more... physical?
Onto the rules so this doesn't descend into chaos:
- If any issues arise, PM me! Rules may be subject to change.
- (New) Don't post characters that are only visible to authorized users/only visible to you; the only exception is if you have an access key, but otherwise please don't, it ruins the game flow.
- (New) On the same vein, do not post any characters without a bio. If you do, you will be skipped.
- Put any sensitive content under a spoiler or black it out, like this. Please make sure the text color and the background color are the same!!
- Please, nothing sexual/NSFW; I am a minor and I can't mature this thread, so PG-13 at most.
- Romance is allowed though (though i'm not sure if that'll ever come in this thread), but no romantic adult/minor interactions. If I catch this, I will immediately ban you.
- Please put effort in your responses, make your response at least 3 sentences long. No cookie-cutter responses either.
- Edited rule: Please don't get violent unless the above person is alright with that.
- For now there's no "Wait X posts before posting again" rule since I don't know if this is going to be popular or not, but if this becomes popular then I'll add one.
Example posts (please don't copy my bad examples lmao):
User 1: *posts IC as Hermes* lol first fite me
User 2: *posts IC as Raphael* "What the- give me that scalpel back, Hermes! You're gonna hurt someone with that!"
User 3: *posts IC as Tsuko* "Wait, why am I going after you? Uhhh... is going back to whatever I was doing an option? No?"
Ban list. This thread will operate on a "3 strikes and you're out" basis, though I may ban you immediately depending on what you did.
None, let's keep it that way.
Alright, let's start. I'll be sacrificing Hel.
Major violence is OK, but please put it under a spoiler or black it out.
If you want, you can just claim a spot and skip me.
Dhelmar was out searching the city streets once again for a bite to eat. He had recently settled his ship at the port after a long trip and was going to spend his hard earned money on a treat for himself. Perhaps some wine and steak would do! The thought of his future meal made him giddy since it had been so long since he's had a good mean, all they have on the ship is dried up jerky. As he walked threw the city street his tentacles where twirling and churning, all instinctually looking for something to grab, Dhelmar was not paying attention to his surroundings and suddenly got snagged on something......or better said someone...
"OH! pardon me, how embarrassing"
--------
Will write back once someone responds
It had probably been at least a decade since a ship had last touched the shores of Smithson's idyllic coastal town - if only because it was supposed to be a gated community with no outside infringement or pollution whatsoever. This blissful ignorance actually would've continued if it weren't for the fact that he started to receive reports about missing jewelry and other artifacts from some of his peers' homes, and given that some of these aristocrats were literally his sole link to certain officials in and outside of his region...
He kind of had no choice but to heed their request.
"A crown of tentacles, a feathered pirate hat..." muttered Smithson to himself while reading the notes he had written, "Grey skin... Very elusive too?" That's going to make it harder than it needs to be. He grimaced slightly before glancing up and- Would you look at that!? Excellent timing, as someone with that exact description just so happened to pass by in that moment - though that pacing did seem rather quick, so...
To compensate, the middle-aged aristocrat placed the notepad back in his pocket and started to trot not-so-secretively behind the other - most likely hoping that he could catch this supposed criminal red-handed, or... Red-tentacled? Smithson could afford to have no idea how cephalopods, let alone aliens, worked sometimes; it wasn't like it was going to affect his career as a statesman... For the most part? Besides, he did seem to have overestimated the other's speed, for he was soon close enough to make a clearing of his throat audible.
With a wave of his hand, he spoke up (without clearing his throat), "I hope you don't mind me interjecting, sir, but..." He glanced off to the side, then straightened his posture with a huff. "... Have you heard about missing items as of late? I don't mean to infringe too much on your time; you seem like you need to go somewhere, yet it's sort of a question that's commonly asked these days, given how protective those rich folk are becoming of their, uh, property now." You sure, rich man? Are you sure this is an appropriate way to take things casually?
It wasn't like his position as a statesman was a secret he tried to hide... With that opulent cloak and hardened mannerism, it would've been less surprising if he could fry - than if he had a trace of humility in him.
"It's only a few minutes," Smithson insisted while biting back a scoff, "then you'll be on your way. We won't have to meet again after this. Someone else will probably take my place by then, assuming that you haven't left the town by now... Like some tourist." Ideally, of course. Because Smithson was already planning out his ulterior motive, and... Well... It probably wasn't going to end well for at least one of them? Scrawny aristocrats were no match against a fellow with literal regenerative powers and a thirst for gold.
Smithson is allowed to die inside every so often via a follow-up. as a treat.
Well shit.
“You again?” asked Smithson flatly, as if he didn’t even need to turn around to see who was addressing him. How disrespectful! But then again, all of those times before, he had been treated with a similar degree of contempt, so… Why not try giving the literal political leader a taste of his own medicine? Yea… That’d end so well for the measly aristocrat who was Smithson…
“I don’t need to hide from anything, by the way,” the older man sighed with a roll of his eyes, before taking a step away, “I’ve just been rather busy with-” His stomach dropped.
With a more shocked expression, he stared at the other - first at the supposed discovery of his “evil deeds,” then at… How absurd and anticlimactic it turned out to be. He bit back a grimace before shaking out his hair and narrowing his eyes at his acquaintance. Gee.
“I haven’t even seen you for the whole day!” suddenly exclaimed Smithson in protest after a minute of stunned silence, “Then you just come up to me, with this stopwatch in your hand, and tell me that I’m somehow responsible for this!? This isn’t even your court, you know. This is my court-” He stopped, breathing heavy, to jab a finger at himself. “My. Court. And in my court, it doesn’t matter what you consider a crime or not. A bother is still a bother, so…” Smithson shook his head, then stepped off to the side.
Goodness, was his wife going to be so pissed when she figured out why he was late for dinner…
Which was probably why he was shuffling from one side to the other, as a convenient escape method.
With a roll of his eyes, Smithson grunted, “If I have any say in this, then I should opine that this ‘Brazil’ of yours is… Insignificant compared to the might of the Confederation. Whatever you do will be regarded as a layperson’s action, if you ask me. It’s not worth it. Quit it while you’re ahead.” And with that, the man turned on his heels and started to walk away, humming briskly under his breath as if he just confronted some extravagantly clad member of the bourgeoisie and not an actual political threat… As a treat.
However, before he was fully out of earshot, he turned to face the younger man and sniffed, “And by the way, it doesn’t matter what you do to rile the people of Brazil up, or of my home, for that matter. As far as they’re concerned, at least here… You’re nobody. You’ll be dismissed as nobody more than a blasphemer, and that’d… That’d be a real shame for you now, wouldn’t it?”
"You thought you could hide forever?" Anaximandro asked, although it was clear by his tone that he wasn't really looking for an answer. "Then you're terribly mistaken. I was bound to find out about your evil deeds sooner or later. And now, the rest of the world will know, too."
He took a stopwatch out of his pocket and stared at it for a few seconds, before he pushed a button on top of it.
"It's about time that someone confronts you for your sins, and I've decided that the 'someone' in question shall be me. You are undeniably guilty..." - he showed the front of the stopwatch, displaying '24:00:00', to Smithson - "...of not complimenting my hair for a full 24 hours."
Anaximandro put the stopwatch away. When exactly he started the timer, nobody knows. But it had most likely been far more than 24 hours since Smithson's last compliment towards Anaximandro's hair; boldly assuming that he had given one in the first place.
"Who, in their right mind, would go such a lengthy period of time without praising their rightful lord and savior?" He gestured to himself to emphasize his point. "It's a crime of the highest degree in Brazil - I set that law in place, by the way - and, in my opinion, it should be the same way here! You may have a lovely needle-like chin, but that does not place you above morality. I am starting to regret what I said to you about letting you work for me, should you run into serious financial trouble. I can't bear the thought of having a traitor in my castle. I feel...betrayed, to say the least."
Anaximandro took out his cell phone, typed something in, and held it up to reveal the screen - it was open to the 'Phone' app, and a complete number was at the top of the screen. All he had to do now was push the 'call' button.
"This is the number of Brazil's official news channel, that I appointed as such. I'm going to tell them everything about your blasphemous crimes. All of Brazil - all 209 million of us - will know about your true nature within the next hour. Maybe you should think twice before you procrastinate on your obligatory daily prayers, don't you think?"
“You now! Stop right there so I can catch up, or I will make you, you hear me!?”
The harsh barking voice came from none other than Beatrice herself, in fact, as she stomped up to this supposed president of Brazil - in all of his pink-haired glory - while pointing a finger in his direction and shaking it. At that moment, it was rather fucking difficult to tell that she was in her sixties, based on how imposing and muscular she looked from a distance… And that image was only going to get closer, so running or trying to flee was probably redundant at this point. Uh oh.
“I have some questions to ask you,” the journalist continued to bark while taking out a notepad and pen then jabbing the tip of said pen into the page, “so you better have some time on your hands. You have no excuse considering that you make servants do all the work for you, so you should have all the time in the world for this little… Interview, if I want to state this nicely.” Gee. But Beatrice did have a point, in spite of the bitterness in her tone. One of the aristocrats had apparently blabbed about the existence of a state outside the Confederation, called “Brazil,” and Beatrice was here to investigate - for better or for worse.
Tightly gripping a hand on his shoulder (almost like a vice), she grunted, “Oh, and by the way, I’m not here to compliment you or your hair. Just ask you some questions, but I might give you some donuts once you’re done-” Her tirade was interrupted by the older woman trying to not gag at how stupidly saccharine her words sounded. Was it obvious enough that she abhorred the politician, though not necessarily because of his standing?
No, it was more of the fact that someone existing outside of what she had known for her entire life - the Confederation - was… Baffling. And then this man had the audacity to proclaim that Brazil was the most important of the states, when someone as grizzled and knowledgeable about world affairs as Beatrice hadn’t even heard about it until her associate started blabbing!
And that, of course, ignored the rumors surrounding him as to how he treated his enemies. Like… Servants, apparently. Beatrice knew the feeling all too well, and it made her gut twist in the most visceral, most disgusted way possible. She was, in short, willing to sacrifice some ethics just to prove her point - of the foreigners stepping on the natives for a false sense of supremacy.
“Just answer the questions,” she growled while digging her nails into his suit, “and don’t try making those weasel words. I know them when I hear them. I’ll take you to somewhere private, to save you some dignity, and then we’ll go from there… Okay?”
Beatrice is officially the fucking Arthur fist meme @ Pewter. follow-up time.
“What is it now?” barked Beatrice when she heard a rap-tap-tap on her door, which only prompted the elder to implode on the inside as soon as she saw whom she was face-to-face with. Greeeeeaaaaaaat. There was the fucker who tried luring in her wife with the promise of “success” or whatever the fuck that was. She still thought whatever the other uttered was hogwash, if only because of the fact that she had accepted her own mediocrity a long time ago, but…
Fuck it.
If Rochester at least tolerated her, Beatrice was going to have to at least shut the fuck up and swallow her pride. It was either getting bothered by a person whom she personally didn’t like, or getting her ass kicked by her wife- Verbally, of course.
So, she leaned against the doorway and coldly grunted, “Oh? You want to discuss something with me? Then get inside. I bet that you can’t wait to spill every stupid little thing that you have in your mind. Not that I care, of course. This isn’t an interview.” And with that, Beatrice stepped off to the side so that the guest could enter, whether Beatrice actually wanted it or not.
Oh, and reveal whatever the fuck she had in her mind. Beatrice supposed that was fine too, but only because she didn’t want her wife to find out she had punched someone unconscious and therefore had to clean up some blood.
Yea… They probably couldn’t afford much assault charges at this point. Unfortunate.
Beatrice therefore just listened to what the other woman had to say, about… Falling in love? Okay, she was fine. She had fallen in love with Rochester many years ago, though she hadn’t said anything about it until they were in their forties; prior to then, she had been hopping around her friend and hoping that someday, all her pining would come to fruition. Besides! She had only seen Rochester talking to men, so… Beatrice shook her head. It didn’t matter; she was the one who got to marry Rochester in the first place.
Also, Harold… She’s a lesbian. She can’t relate to liking men.
The journalist nonetheless just nodded along to the story. Fell in love with a man (sort of), had a child… Blah blah blah. She just minded herself by going over to the kitchen and hoping that Rochester didn’t forget to make that usual pitcher of sweetened tea again, because she was going to need that shit for the upcoming onslaught. Beatrice huffed while she opened the fridge, found the pitcher, then got a cup for herself.
Weeding out clinginess, leaving a child with babysitters near constantly- Wait a second.
Beatrice’s brows raised when the implication of the words hit her. Though she had no personal experience with such an upbringing herself, the journalist had met enough people to know that such a childhood was… Common. All too common. Especially within the aristocracy, or people vying to become part of it, which caused her to curl her fingers around the cup and give it a squeeze. For a second, she imagined it to be the other’s skull, though she said nothing about that; she rather just pretended to listen, humming under her breath as if none of that concerned her.
It did, in fact.
“If you say so,” was all Beatrice uttered after that giant ass monologue. She blinked slowly before putting the cup off to the side, then rolling her shoulders. “If you say so, miss.” Though she did have to cock her head slightly when the woman raised a rhetorical question: why all of this? Why?
She paused for a second, and- Big mistake. Once she heard the other’s explanation, Beatrice curled her lip back into a snarl.
“You little-” she hissed before shaking her head and barking, “You did all of this to him, because you didn’t like how he was behaving!? It’s normal for a child to be attached to their mother, you heartless witch!” Beatrice balled her hands into fists before giving her head another shake. “No wonder he likes us more than you. He calls my wife ‘mom,’ you know. She’s been more of a mother to him than you ever were, or will be. It’s something that he deserves. It’s something that she deserves, but you…” Beatrice stomped up to the other until they were almost toe-to-toe with each other.
“... You deserve none of that. You monster. We were better than you from the start. Don’t be surprised if I tell Rochester about this, by the way. She’d be hurt that someone she was interested in turned out to be like this, but… It’s for the best, really.”
Spoiled for length, a mention of teen pregnancy and implications of emotional neglect/abuse of both her husband and her son because Pewter is awful and just dumped her entire family drama on Beatrice.
Black had only just left Rochester and Beatrice’s cottage, and now Pewter was here. They really couldn’t get a break, huh? And plus, Pewter certainly didn’t seem happy right now. She stared up at Beatrice with a scowl on her face, and if it weren’t for the fact that Beatrice would probably beat the shit out of her, she would have likely started a real fight. Wonder what’s gotten her so pissed?
“I’m here because I would like to discuss something with you, but to show how much impact it has, I have to bring you back to the beginning, back in 1993. That was the year my childhood friend introduced to me someone he called his best friend, and that man’s name was Champagne Hall. He was an interesting man, to be sure, but a useful one. One that fell in love with me real damn quick. I never actually loved him, but I saw his usefulness, as he was so determined to give me the world and do anything for me, so I agreed to date him. It wasn’t long into our relationship when I found out he was dating another girl during our time dating, who he had a child with, by the name of Raven Carter. The only reason I know his name is because he’s famous now for frankly stupid reasons. Anyway, he claimed he loved both of us equally, but the other girl- her name was Isabelline, I believe- cut off his relationship with him soon after the baby was born. On the contrary, our relationship continued through college, but the event still stuck out to me. See, Champagne’s fatal flaw was that he was very emotional. You would know how he felt at any given moment, because it was so damn evident. He was also quite clingy, and always wanted to be with me. He practically attached himself to my hip, and it was fucking annoying. But, he was still useful, and I had to figure out a way to ensure that he would never do that shit again… So, with a little white lie about birth control and nine months later, our son, Black Hall, was born. It didn’t take long for me to fucking regret it. He inherited his father’s emotional tendencies and clinginess, and he always wanted our attention. That wouldn’t do. If my son were to be successful, I had to get rid of those somehow. So, I decided to take some action. With a little convincing, Champagne and I were almost never home, and we left him with babysitters constantly. We told them exactly how they were to treat him, as in, give him limited attention no matter what. He had a stuffed animal he always had with him that he was really attached to, and I had thought he would grow out of it. He didn’t, though, and so I had to take the bear away on his 13th birthday. All this did seem to work, though he was sort of a troublesome kid. He would destroy shit, have tantrums, run away… You name it. This did seem to slightly go away by the time he was a teenager, but he was, and still is, aggressive and agitated to a majority of people he meets. That’s much better than him being a mini-Champagne. And guess what? I watched Champagne get murdered, and I let the killer get away. It was disappointing, sure, he still had his uses… But, I was rather impressed by the murderer’s guts to both murder a COO of a famous company and not immediately flee when they realized they had been found out. And besides, like I said, I never truly loved him.”
She paused again, before huffing, “And do you know why I’m telling you all of this? I just saw Black’s car pull out of here.” Oh. Oh, no. She finally caught them. “Now, listen here. I know my son, and I knew- well, thought- he didn't have friends. I didn’t go through all of that for nothing. If you two have been softening him up, feeding into those emotional instincts he had as a child, I’m going to be disappointed. I thought you two were much better than that.”
God, Pewter, you suck. Spoiled for mentions/discussions of abuse.
Pewter glared at Rochester with a scowl on her face. She could only assume what she was going to say to her, and her predictions weren’t quite positive. It didn’t matter. The usefulness of these two were gone, especially if her own son bothered to absolutely disrespect her by calling someone who he hardly even knew ‘mom’. She had raised him to be successful, not an emotional mess like Champagne once was, and yet these two had the absolute fucking audacity to feed into those inherited instincts! How horrible!
She only continued to glare as Rochester stayed silent for a long while, and then finally began to talk. Pewter stayed completely silent as Rochester went on and on about how she was a piece of shit, how badly she treated everyone… Shit she didn’t care about, but that she would still defend herself from. She wouldn’t reply until Rochester was completely done talking, and when she was, Pewter growled back, “What do you know about gaining power? What you call ‘throwing people under the bus’ was a requirement. I did what I had to do to get what I needed and wanted. And they are accomplishments, things to be proud of, because it ultimately worked out for me in the end. Why would I be remorseful for guaranteeing my success? I am not a piece of shit, nor a jackass. I raised him to be successful, and he’s throwing all of it away for two old ladies who give him attention. That is quite disrespectful to all the work I put in to making sure he had success. And my husband? He did it to himself. He could have left at any time, you know? And he never did. If he didn’t want everything I did, he would have left, don’t you think? There is nothing wrong with me. Just because you find it despicable, doesn’t mean it was truly bad. You are just narrow-minded. And yes, I understand. I don’t care. I can see you have no use to me, and as such, it’s not too much of a loss to me. Just know that if anything happens to jeopardize my son’s success, I’ll know why: Because you and your wife decided to spoil him, make him soft again. Soft people don’t make it in our rough world, and to have success, you sometimes have to be just as rough. That was my only supposed crime, being rough, but you seem to be disillusioned and not understanding of that, so I won’t talk more about it.”
MOM FIGHT TIME. gonna spoiler my response for potential length, as well as discussions/mentions of abuse!!
Technically, Rochester knew that she was getting herself into some pretty hot water for inviting the woman over to her house once more - when she was not only aware of Beatrice’s disdain for the other, but also the supposed atrocities that the other committed. Emotional neglect, mistreatment of a child, manipulation… It made Rochester’s stomach turn, though the elder was also quick to shoot herself in the foot by reminding herself that she had condoned worse things in the past… Right? Right?
And that troubled her, because the elder genuinely was distressed by such thought, now that she was old and could look back at what she had done. The future ahead wasn’t much, unlike twenty-something years ago, and yet… The older woman broke eye contact with the other while carefully thumbing her cup, if only so that she could look like she was just trying to see if Beatrice was eavesdropping. Nothing visceral here - promise.
“I have no idea what to say,” the elder finally piqued in after a long silence from her, “I was intrigued by what you had to offer as a person, or at least as a professional, but…” Her brows furrowed as she finally mustered the courage to look back at the other and heave out a sigh. “... I cannot excuse what you did. Sure, I can understand where you might be coming from - a desire to gain power - but why did you have to throw so many people under the bus in the process? Your husband? Your own child? And you say all the things you did to them like they were accomplishments, or at least means to an end. No remorse, no empathy whatsoever. All you see is practicality, and while I was curious about it at first…”
She paused, then hissed, “I can understand why he took my wife and me in with open arms now. It’s because you’re a piece of shit, and he wanted something that was more than shit.”
With a shake of her head, Rochester continued, “Which doesn’t set a particularly high bar, but to know that I am better than you in at least something is enough to make me feel better about it. And if you feel bad about ‘losing’ in that particular competition, then I hope you keep feeling that way. It’s only what you deserve for being such a fucking jackass to your own child. And your husband too. He loved you, and yet… Yet you fucked him over like that. The fuck is wrong with you?” Just to decompress, Rochester took a sip of tea, but she maintained her death glare at the other woman in the meanwhile.
“That’s some despicable shit right there,” the elder snarled, “And yes, Beatrice told me everything. Wives do that, you know. And old women too.” She laughed harshly, though it sounded more like a cough than anything else due to the fact that - indeed - she was trying to hold back a cough. Drank too much tea too fast, apparently. So, with a shake of her head, Rochester huffed, “So I do apologize for the monologue. You gave one to Beatrice; I might as well return the favor.”
“Oh, and by the way, before I forget… You better savor this household, because I’m not going to invite your bitch ass back here again after this. Understood? The next time I see you on my property, if there is one, I will make sure you stay off it. Beatrice will too, so don’t think you’re any better off if she is the only one home. Got that too, you numbskull? I won’t repeat that for your favor.”
*slaps this follow-up* this bad boy can fit so much angst and introspection.....
Rochester was quick to scoff when she heard a voice speaking to her, for she was pretty sure that the baritone inflection she heard now was just… A bit familiar.
Too bad she basically forgot when the hell she had last heard this type of lecture!
Wait. A lecture. Rochester didn’t normally get lectured. She was normally the type to lecture somebody; that part was true. But being lectured, being subjected to uncertainty as to what the other party could levy against her… That was different. Very different. It would’ve been hypocritical for her to resent whoever was speaking to her just based off that principle alone, but it was true. She did resent him, even if she believed that this was a first-time meeting.
Nice.
And then the source of the voice came into view, and Rochester couldn’t help but wince at the sudden appearance. Tall figure, lantern head… The elder narrowed her eyes before scanning the area with a furrowed brow, just baaaaaaarely biting back a scoff because she knew that she was in for a ride- Lecture. It was still more of a lecture than a ride. At least rides were entertaining to gawk at from afar, both literally and figuratively.
Besides, she couldn’t even gawk at the fog that had started to settle in the almost dreamlike, ethereal scene, though the elder could just baaaaaarely make out the silhouette of a familiar building in the distance. Her gut quickly twisted itself into a pretzel, knowing that she had sold it to someone to pay off some debts and propel herself and her wife into a more comfortable retirement, but-
That was redundant in hindsight, if only because she knew that Beatrice was still working.
Where was she though? Rochester could only see the ghostly figure standing near her, as well as the faint faces of people… Familiar people. Rochester’s eyes widened for a second as she realized just whom she was face-to-face with. Brown, M. Pourife… Maybe an aristocrat… Johnson? Skinner? The elder had wrenched her gaze away from the scene before she could properly identify the latter. Rude.
And it didn’t even matter, for it soon went dark…
For a moment, until the lights seemed to turn on again. The laboratory was clearly in view this time, but there was just one person instead of a series of changing faces. Huh. Rochester instantly recognized whom she was speaking to, giving a shake of her head and letting out one word:
“Beatrice?”
Then, she turned to the other and asked, “Wait one fucking second. What does my wife have to do with all of this?”, before giving him a glare. “Don’t tell me that you fucked something up involving her… Not that she can do much with you in the first place.” But before she could muse upon her wife any further, all of the illusions had seemingly dissipated like a fleeting flame. Oh.
She glanced over at her to see whether the entity was still there, only to find him gone… Yet his voice was still there.
With a sniff, Rochester merely replied to his conclusion, “And what if I leave the question unanswered?” Kind of how she wanted it to be, huh...
"You see it, don't you? How much closer it gets everyday?"
The shadows climbed towards Rochester as the voice echoed, darkening everything in its path. The air suddenly grew chilly. With a CLICK!! a cool, blue light was cast over the elderly woman, and from its source was a tall man, his head replaced by a black lamp, and his long arms folded behind his back.
"When the day ends, the shadows grow longer, and their reach extends. Day by day its reach extends further and further. It is not a question of when they will touch you, but what lies inside them." It was difficult to see through the dark fog, but one could barely make out a lab. There were different faces that appeared there every second, one instance being a certain assistant, another being a successor, and at one point it was even someone with money.
"Our doubts, our bitterness, our fury; we hide our negativity in the darkness so that we may not see it again. But without acknowledgement and guidance, it festers and grows stronger, lashing out and hijacking the other emotions. It surrounds us, catches us, latches on to us, and ultimately drowns us."
Everything went dark.
"However."
Blue flames ignited once more. The lab, too, was visible again, but instead of changing faces there now stood one permanent person: a certain investigative journalist.
"In our haste to hide our past, we forget the joys that come with it, and realize that not everything in our darkness is sinister."
The scene disappeared, now showing the area Rochester was originally in. The strange man was gone again, though his voice echoed:
"You've known for a long time that your shadows had caught up with you. The true question is if that is bad or good."
Tortellini was happily minding her business, searching around for the perfect spot to sunbathe in. She hobbled around, letting out a variety of trills as she did so. Heck, she even got pets from a variety of passerbys! Tortellini is having a great day, and all she needed was that perfect sunbathing spot to make it even better.
However, as soon as she caught a waft of meat in the air, Tortellini abruptly began to follow the scent until she arrived to see a scene unfold. She watched as a pink-haired woman was reaching her hand in a purse. Was there meat in there? Did that purse belong to her or to the woman who was seated in front of her? Either way, the pink-haired lady smelt like steak, and Tortellini really wanted some steak. What better way to get this than to start begging as jarringly loud as she could?
"Yang! Yang! Yaaaaaaang! Prr-brrp, yaaaaaaaaang," Tortellini yelled, hoping that the woman would at least feed her some steak. At least a little taste?
Luck was not in favor for both Tally and Tortellini, as Tally was abruptly smacked and reprimanded by the woman. While Tortellini watched Tally retreat, she let out another variety of trills, this time it was out of confusion. She swore that this would be a surefire way to get a free snack, or mayhaps a whole meal! However, the deed had already been done. Tortellini didn't get her treats, and now her day is ruined.
Brown took one look at the half-ghoul, then at the ceratopsian seated next to the guest... And started to laugh. All that dread and suspense for nothing, huh!? How fucking stupid of her! She might as well have dropped dead from sheer shock, but-
With a quick shake of her head, the middle-aged woman then remarked while leaning against the doorway, "If you wanted to try feeding Tabby, you could have just asked me. Just saying..." She chuckled into her knuckles and fluttered her lashes. "Besides, I have to admit that she fucking pretty much eats everything like a hoover, but certain items are better for her than others. For example, I would consider it veeeeeeerrrrrrrryyyyyyyy unfortunate if she ended up eating a carpet, or your hair." And as she said that, the aristocrat's eyes focused on the other's locks like those of a harpy. Was she hoping that the hair would be used as fodder, or...
"Fruit or vegetables should be fine, though," Brown emphasized with a surprising amount of insistence in her voice, "Grains are okay, but they do make her gain weight faster. Plus, it kind of teaches her that anything that is long, fibrous, and flowing is food, and... That might lead into her trying to eat your clothes or hair again later." Why the actual fuck is she caring about this now, though? The aristocrat had stressed previously that she didn't care what Tabby ended up eating because she found it funny... Or something along those lines.
Why now? Unless...
The older woman's eyes actually softened for a second before she sighed, "But... Well... I mean... If you are so fond of the creature..." She fluttered her lashes and glanced off to the side, rubbing her arm with one hand while attempting to articulate the next few words she had in mind. You might benefit from a companion animal like her. No, that sounded stupid. Didn't the other work for some, uh, church? Despite her naïvety concerning religion, the middle-aged woman was almost certain that having an animal - let alone one as bulky and ravenous as sweet perfect angel darling Tabby - was discouraged, if not forbidden, in many public institutions... Churches and other religious grounds included... Maybe?
"... I do not mind. Just, as said before, let me know. You do happen to have something on hand like an apple or strawberry at the very least, right?"
Now somewhat regretting her words, Brown just stood there awkwardly for a few seconds before muttering to nobody in particular, "Fuck it," and walking into the room. "You better," the virago affirmed curtly before narrowing her eyes and huffing, "but do save some fruit for yourself, miss. I can't say shit because I fucking hate fruits and think they're shit-" Imagine saying this slander in front of Tabby? "- But the brightness could help you a bit, along with Tabby. You seem to have a soft spot for her anyhow... Besides." Brown paused, then seated herself on a couch with an amused smirk. "You are what you eat now, right?"
*holds this gently like a burger* this is..... so cute.... ty fizz for the good food (and also the rooftop date bless thee).
HERE'S MY LONG BOOMER FURRY™️ FOLLOW-UP.
“Shit-” Brown could hear herself blurting just as she watched particles of frost get kicked away from the roof and towards the seemingly infinite void below- Not that she should’ve placed too much focus on it anyhow. If it weren’t for the urban environment, she would’ve assumed that she was up in the crags again, digging late into the night while trying to secure that fossil for herself before anyone else could.
But she wasn’t.
She instead peered over at Roswell and gave him a soft yet still sheepish smile, reassuring him, “Oh, for fuck’s sake- I’m fine, all right?” Brown playfully scoffed while clutching her coat close to her body, then peering over at the rooftops; the scene was dark except for the streetlights and house lights below, as well as the occasional starlight reflected by the frost.
“You were not kidding when you said it was breathtaking, otterface,” the aristocrat muttered under her breath, then gave his side a playful nudge. “And to think that I spend much of my time indoors when it’s night! Sure, it’s cold as fuck outside in Krettwick-” And she seemingly corroborated her statements while holding her coat close to herself and spitting a curse under her breath. “- But… Shit…”
“Who knew I was missing out on so much, huh!”
With a rough laugh, the aristocrat gently squeezed the leidsman’s hand and nodded. Her eyes had still yet to properly adjust to the nighttime scenery, so much of the rooftops just looked like indistinguishable, geometric blobs to her - asides from the frost that got illuminated by the stars, of course. She’d be hit by the true beauty of it all in time.
For now, though…
“Mm?” remarked Brown when he remarked about the beauty. Poor Brown. Imagine not getting the implications of him looking at her, not the rooftops, when he said that!
Fluttering her lashes, she turned to face him and leaned her face into his touch. “It is,” she answered with a huff before playfully teasing, “but that doesn’t excuse nearly fucking killing me by letting me slip to my death, mm? I might as well take you to the crags next time we go out, then!” She nodded, then muttered in return, “But yes… Maybe there is something about it. Even if it is cold as hell right now. Your fingers included.” Her smile remained while she reached a hand to gently stroke Roswell’s cheek, because apparently it didn’t occur to her that she could get cold fingers too.
Eugh.
Brown leaned in a bit closer to reciprocate the kiss, her hand shifting up slightly so that she could delicately curl the leidsman’s locks of hair around her fingertips. Again, those fingers were probably cold. That didn’t stop her from returning the kiss again, as well as chuckling under her breath as she could feel their lips brushing against each other.
“I see,” the aristocrat cooed in reply before taking a step towards Roswell and giving his hand a squeeze. “Even if it was a bit of a shame that I was not able to come along with you. At least you, well, eventually came back, mm?” She tittered into her knuckles, then took the cigarette and held it out for him to light up. Once she noticed smoke coming from its end, Brown put it into her mouth and started to chew on the butt. Gross!
Her other hand still gently caressed Roswell’s hair as she teased, “But you’re damn right. Goorse was a bit boring even if it is closer to the crags. I may be an outdoors person, but…” She rolled her shoulders, then looked back up at the smog-filled sky. “... Damn, there’s something about smaller towns that just make my stomach turn - I guess…”
Why that was the case, Brown didn’t really care about. Or did she just not want to know? Who knows.
She instead chuffed, “It kind of is, really. But there is no denying that the city is growing; it will just…”, before trailing off with a more somber nod. It was true, in a way. All that Gespan infighting seemed like nothing when one could just focus on the city as a whole, and not every single microcosm within it-
Not that Brown wasn’t in a microcosm herself, as she gazed over at Roswell while chewing on her cigarette.
“Mm?” the middle-aged woman asked once he mentioned that he had brought her something. Huh! She fluttered her lashes while he reached a hand inside his pocket and pulled out a small trinket. Unsure of how to feel, Brown merely cocked her head as she watched Roswell carefully open her coat, then pin it to its inside; she then quickly closed it with a flutter of her lashes. “Warm, huh?” she repeated with a tentative laugh while nevertheless holding the coat closer to her.
He wasn’t wrong, though! Brown did feel a bit warmer now that the trinket was pinned to her coat, but… At the same time…
She stepped just a bit closer to Roswell, just enough for their shoulders to brush against each other, while she opened her coat and draped it over him- Or at least tried to, because of how damn tall he was compared to her, but close enough.
“It’s good,” the middle-aged woman finally opined once she was able to wrap her coat around the leidsman, or gave up in the process of how awkward the gesture turned out to be. She still smiled gently, however, while elaborating, “Though, otterface, I do have to be honest. It doesn’t matter how cold it is out here. Just as long as I am here with you, mm?” After another chuckle (and taking out the cigarette, of course), Brown quickly pecked him on the jawline and muttered while carefully resting her head against his torso, “Thank you for the present, though. You really didn’t have to do this, otterface. You really didn’t.”
^ That's so cute I crie ❤️🥺
Roswell noticed her slipping away and managed to catch her. With both of his hands tightly secluded around Brown's arms, the Kraker managed to pull her up and onto the rooftop.
"Careful," he said. A bit late.
Roswell laughed as he let go of her hands. He turned away from her. Allowing his gaze to drift over the city. It was a breathtaking sight. The curfew was in effect making the streets almost empty. The sun had set and the winter-night was cold. Only the light of the houses and streets managed to break through the white smoke. Created by coal-stoves and hearthside. Beyond the rows and rows of houses, lay the ocean. Dark and calm.
Roswell let out his breath as he reached for Brown's hand. Entangling his fingers with hers.
"Yer can see de ol' Chapel from 'ere," Roswell said. He pointed at the church's tower far in the east. Then beamed her a smile.
"Yer house is more North," he said. Roswell glides his finger and now pointed at the north.
With Brown's hand still resting in his, Roswell stepped to the rooftop. The frost cracked underneath their boots. There were a few little stars in Drakenburg and even fewer that managed to break through the smog and night, but the little ones that managed to do so, made the frost glitter. Like liquid silver. At the highest point of the roof, Roswell halted. He turned to face Brown. Still with that big smile on his lips.
“Aint it beautiful?” he asked her. While not looking at the surroundings he was talking about. His free hand reached for her cheek. Roswell thumbed her cold skin, before barking out a peal of quick laughter.
“Sure oi got de feelin’ dat oi’m freezin’ me fingers off as we speak but,” for a few seconds, Roswell’s gaze dipped away from her. Back at the city below them.
“But it sure got sumethin’ don’t yer think,” he muttered under his breath. Allowing it to make clouds. Roswell smiled at Brown. Then kissed her lips. The hand that rested on her cheek now reached for her hair, his fingers buried themselves in her locks. Roswell smiled with his eye closed. Set a step closer and kissed her again. Lifting up her head slightly with his hand.
“Oi don’t care about de cold if yer ‘ere with me,” he told her. As he now fully broke away from her, his fingers eased. Roswell retrieved his hand and reached for his pocket.
“Goorse was borin’ without yer kickin’ up some fuzz,” he said. Roswell shot her another grin, this time with a hint of teeth. He plucked a cigarette out of his jacket and pricked it in his mouth. Holding out another for Brown. “De journey way too long.”
With his tondeldoos, he lighted both. Then shook his head, dropping the topic ‘Goorse’ as a whole.
“De city, Drakenburg , looks so small from here,” Roswell said. Giving her hand a soft squeeze. “All de gespan-fighting so pointless. Loike dogs chasin’ their own tails. And for what? De Void doesn’t care if we slaughter each other or freeze” Roswell said.
He let out his breath for a second time.
“Speakin’ of de Void ‘nd de cold. Oi got yer sumethin,” the witch-tief said. His hand reached for his pockets yet again but this time Roswell plucked a small trinket out of it. One made with the hollow bones of a krō. The old crook let go of her hand and carefully opened her jacket slightly. He pinned the trinket on the inside of her coat.
The bone-ornament felt warm to touch and its surface was scratched.
“It keeps yer warm,” Roswell said. He closed her jacket again and smiled brightly at her. “Do yer feel it? Noice hu... It’s made with iron-dust from Goorse. Works loike a stove. Though it never gets cold,” Roswell said. Then placed his hand in his pocket. Giving her a sheepish grin. "Whatcha think?"
Get yourself a loser that crafts you something with dead-animal bones am I right.
--
Roswell is so disgusting, he actually likes Brussel-sprouts. Can you fuckign imagine.
Roswell had a knack for finding things he wasn’t supposed to find. While his twitchy-thief’s hands searched the pile of books, his fingers had found something.. Expensive looking.
Leather-bounded hu? Sure, he could sell that for a dime or a duit. Depends where he was.
The old thief picked up the book, thumbed its edges, and… Well...
He got tackled.
Roswell let out a singular ‘oof’ as the elbow found his chest. The leidsman wheezed before leaning slightly forward. He didn’t even noticed that the book got snatched back.
“Void!” he cried out. “Kid!?” he added. Roswell opened his eye and stared at her with raised brows. His hands still resting on his chest.
“What the fuck,” he muttered. Then recovered his posture. Like a krō whose feather’s got ruffled, Roswell started to pet down his chest. “Swipin’ things dat oi don’t own is sort of me job,” he bounced back. “Yer could just asked me to lay it down!” Roswell said. His voice pinched up a tone to express his distress. Making it clear that this man, this beanpole wasn’t a fighter and would rather whimper at a teenager then slap hands.
“Literature,” he corrected her. The old thief’s nose wrinkled. “Romance books are literature, me sweet Maribelle, it's wat keeps our society together. Loike glue.”
Sure.
His tensed shoulders eased a bit as she headbutted it. Poor Maribelle, if she didn’t have lice, she would have them now. The man had been sitting on a camel’s back for days and sleeping in the wilderness. If the futuristic diseases didn’t get her, old ones surely did.
Roswell shouldn’t have given her a knife. Soap. Soap would have been better.
“De difference between savages and us is our literature,” Roswell schooled. Still talking about his trashy novels, the leather-bound journal was already forgotten.
He shrugged. “Oi sometimes read Xander’s drafts. But oi’m a harsh critique.” Roswell rubbed the back of his neck as he continued.
“Salvador reads magazines about trains. But dose are horribly borin’.”
He’d tried to read one, once and immediately had passed out.
His interest however was peaked when Maribelle spoke the name Gustav. “Me camel is named Gustav,” he breathed. “Yer ‘ave seen him, roi? He’s big. Lovely, with dose magical eyes. Mysterious. Aye, Gustav is mysterious.”
He then pressed his lips into a straight line. “Whatcha mean its not ‘ere. Dat’s stupid,” he said. Harsh critique hu.
Roswell huffed. Then took over the book she offered. “Does ‘e found a lover. Loike.. A lovebird?” Roswell directly eyed her. To see if she could appreciate his dad-joke.
Thank fuck Maribelle just talked over it, about hymns. Roswell pressed his lips even tighter together, which made them color white as a result.
“Oh no Angel-cakes yer don’t want to ‘ear me sing. Back when oi was a bishop apprentice, they prohibited me from singin’.” He snorted. "That bad."
Roswell then laughed as Maribelle recollected a similar story. “Maybe we should do it,” he said.
A mischievous tone crept into his voice.
“Singin’ oi mean,” Roswell said. He lay down the bird-man book and took over the hymn one.
“While we’re travelin’. Just to make dem turn in der graves. All of dem,” he made a dismissive gesture with his hands. Not specifying ‘them’ in any way shape or form. "Just sin' on de top of our lungs and such!" Roswell nodded.
“-As some koind of petty revenge,” or hearing damage.
“Roi roi,” Roswell said dismissively. He started to browse the hymn’s book, not even paying attention to the ‘don’t touch my stuff rule’. “Just be sure add some of dose sprouts in de stew, dose Brussels ones. Oh and yes,” he looked up. His brows raised again.
“Bring along some water dis time,” he smiled. Then nodded. “Gran’. Cause Oi don’t want to mop yer up ágain.” The old crook flashed her a smile.
“Of caurse oi worry Angel-cakes,” Roswell said between a huff and a rustle of a turning page. The closet to a spoken ‘fatherlike- love-you’ you’d get. He didnt even look at her as he spoke. Rude.
Maribelle was alerted in 0.854 seconds. Poor Roswell, the girl didn't have anything even resembling the dollar store romances he so enjoyed reading in that shitty, cramped room of hers... Or, anything else to read or fiddle with, really, because it was already established that he hated her insect collection, and she had yet to bring out a game board or anything for him to go solo on. Not that she needed to know about that, though, because then she would just cry like a baby and wouldn't feed him the absolutely [not] delicious stew she had been working so goddamn hard to prepare, the smell of mutton wafting from the tiny kitchen she busied herself in. Until now, of course, because she was alerted to the softest sound of paper turning and books stacking atop one another.
She glanced into the room, and it took looking at a singular leatherbound notebook for her to go into overdrive. She darted from the kitchen -- which didn't take much time because her quarters were, again, painfully small -- and then bodied the poor man and ripping the journal away. He hadn't even looked at it... She just had to protect her terrible teenage girl vent poetry from prying eyes...
"Don't touch that!" she scolded, as she elbowed Roswell in the chest and swiping the journal aside and off the desk, "That's not yours! Don't be dumb!" It also wasn't even meant for said terrible teenage girl vent poetry. She told Raphael she used it for her political studies, and hopefully he wouldn't find out otherwise, because he would immediately laugh in her face. Slumping over against the man, she glared at the fallen notebook that laid sadly on the dusty stone floor.
"I don't have your kind of books, because I think that shit's horrible." She grouched. He gave her a cool knife, and this is how she treated him? How awful. He should invest in a better child.
..But, then again, Maribelle couldn't bring herself to be pissed off at Roswell for longer than two minutes, as she breathed out a sigh and slouched further, resting her head briefly against the man's shoulder. Probably not a good idea. She very well could have lice, and also probably a thousand futuristic diseases, but she remained there for a moment anyway, continuing to look down at the journal.
"You do read other things, right?" she asked him, "Because I might have... uh..." She paused, looking at the stack of books on the desk. "I had a book about a man named Gustav. Maybe you'd like that, but... Had. I had it. It's back home in Sauveterre." she droned out, "I have this, though." She eased away from him, grabbing the second book from the pile. "You can just have this, if you want. It's about a man turning into a bird. Though I also have..." She took out another, smaller book. "These are hymns. You can sing, or something... If you can sing. I can't sing. My father made me study regular old scripts instead of hymns for temple, instead of singing, like, four or five times a week, because I'm so bad at singing." How sad. "I also have... I have a lot of books." Not a lot, not really, but... She sure did have books.
"Just don't touch my shit." Maribelle told him, looking back at the notebook on the floor. She kicked it under the desk. "..Dinner will be ready soon, though, too. I'll-- I'll give you extra for you to bring with you on the way back to Drakenburg, if you want. It's... It's, you know, really cold, anyway. And, I promise I actually have water this time, too, so don't worry about that. I don't know if you actually are, but I have water. I'm not going to be an idiot again."
UH OH. FOLLOW-UP POST.
Maribelle dragged the jellyfish around the man's estate for... who knows how long, honestly. She, of course, slipped out for only five minutes to force-feed the animal something that probably wasn't good for it. Ice cream, perhaps? Definitely ice cream. In fucking January. She got a fruit sundae for it. Aw. You might forget that both of them are homicidal.
The girl definitely forgot that it was homicidal. Or... maybe she just didn't care. After all, as they stepped up to the door, she offered a spoonful of vanilla ice cream and banana slices to the jellyfish, cooing all the while. "Aren't you so cute?" she squealed, "I bet you want even more ice cream, huh? Or a hot chocolate? It's not that cold here, though. You want some hot chocolate, anyway? I'll get you some hot..."
And then the door opened, and just like that, she shut her mouth and stopped her escaping brain cells. Except, she then whispered, "Chocolate."
Hopefully it wasn't sensitive to theobromine..?
Maribelle patted the jellyfish's face, nodding in respond to Smithson's first question, even though nodding didn't answer said question whatsoever. The next, however, she shook her head and quickly responded, "Of course not. I wouldn't make it attack anyone." Are you sure? "Besides, it was totally calm the whole time. Me and... it. It's calm." She patted the side of the beast's face as it gurgled. "See?"
As for the demon talk... Maribelle stared into Smithson's soul. Demons weren't real... But unfortunately, Ophesians were idiots, and this included the girl, who was forced to sit her ass down as a child and study demons from a more religious standpoint, thanks to her father. Right now, she was just very, very confused. Still, shoving her bewilderment to the back of her mind, she offered up another nod. Chess was good. She could play chess.
"I could still use the jellyfish, anyway." she said, "It has... water powers, is that right? I need a lot of water, like, all the time." Nevermind that it might be unsanitary to use an animal's cool spit as water, but... "I mean, just to water my plants, you know. I need the rest of my buckets for cooking and bathing." The only water-type move it knows is hydro pump, so that's also probably dangerous. You gotta die to live, I guess.