What does your character think of the character a-

Maribelle could comprehend the existence of super-soldiers -- knowingly or otherwise, she was situated between so many in her life, cockroaches of mankind. She, however, found it difficult to discern the expressions of most humans, and canid sorts were even harder when taking into account the anxiety swirling the contents of her stomach due to her just being near them. ST was not unalike both, worryingly unique.

Catharsis was equally obscure to her, but ST chased it. A fox hunts a rabbit in the woods, tears its limbs off, and a kitsune, apparently, pursues all sorts of pleasures, all sorts of highs.

It was almost noble, but raised in a household that sheltered her to the point of stunting, that rattled her thoughts to where articulating them was more compared to passing through the gates of Hell. "Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate", or whatever. ST was, to her, a monster of a very particular flavor, no matter his benevolence. He was all vice, a coach in debauchery, corruption she never dared to swear herself to. His body was a temple. She could not nearly relate to even that thought. She was taught to honor herself in the rarest, most fleeting of instances, opportunities she did not take. The kitsune gorged himself on all that was good and enticing, for temptation was not necessarily an evil thing.

But, she thought so.

Maribelle felt so silly, close enough to the famed ST for herself to ruminate on her thoughts, but never to verbalize them. He had seemed kind. Seemed.

And so, indeed she ruminated, a sheep in the meadow. She was scarcely aware of the presence of wolves or a life beyond the pasture, knowing only the safety of the flock and what the bucolic lifestyle gifted her. The caged nightingale watches the wild ravens from a safe distance, separated by gilded bars and half-opaque glass windows. The chained dog wishes it could be as free and as wily as the fox racing across hilltops.

Keeping to herself made sense, she supposed. Rain clouds were starting to come in. She opened her umbrella and took a step back, and then hid.

v  LVOE THIS SO MUCH THANK YOU!!

There was something about Maribelle that made Audemus deeply uncomfortable. Every time he looked at her, he felt some sort of terrible sense of... familiarity, as though he was looking in a mirror. He did not know her well enough to understand why that was, but the two had more in common than either of them would be willing to--or perhaps even capable of--admitting. There were some traumas that sunk their vicious teeth into a person like a rabid dog, some experiences that shattered a person down to their very core. 

Maribelle and Audemus had that in common. And yet, neither of them had support. Not in the way that is necessary, after that; not in a way that is meaningful. Vengeances committed by a hand for the sake of another can leave one feeling shallow and bereft of any sort of catharsis, no matter the intentions. Whether that vengeance would be sought out or denied in the first place, it doesn't matter. It happens regardless. Yet another instance of agency stolen away, yet another piece of a broken person that remains jagged to the touch. 

Audemus stood on his pedestal, as well put together as a man can be who would rather shatter their mirror than examine their scars. He looked down on Maribelle because she was a stranger, because she was smaller than him... but mostly it was because she reminded him of things best left forgotten--buried as deep as deep can go. But because neither of them could look at themselves, they would have to look at each other.  

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v !!!! A (sort of) CONTINUATION?? VERY COOL, I LOVE

There he was again, the elf Vy had seen at the ornate lecture hall. The setting this time was far opposite of that, in the hustle and bustle of the city and him at the steps of the city hall. The way he was dressed, did he have business there? So the professor also played a role in politics, did he?

Politics in the mortal realm were things Vy tried not to pay attention to, yet it always found a way to sneak into all planes of existence. Even the afterlife was filled with it, and the many souls he met were affected by choices made from politicians. Audemus, though, didn't give him the impression that any person would be left in a tragic state from his decisions. Sure, he looked scary and unapproachable, but he still remembered that lecture, about the balance of life and death and the appreciation for both. People that thought that way, in his opinion, had a good understanding of how things worked.

Vy approached the unapproachable elf and handed him a styrofoam cup. "Here. It's lemonade. Figured ya might be parched in this heat with that getup ya got on," he smiled. He chose not to mention the stress he saw on Audemus's face. "Ya never seem to stop workin', huh? Need a break now and then, ya know."

Feel free to pick another character if you'd like!

^ ramyune Honestly I usually don't enjoy replying to god-like characters much because pretty much all of mine are mortals and usually pretty mundane and never get to meet them at eye level but I read your administrators profile, listened to the music and I just got really into it and felt inspired! It was just surreal enough to feel otherwordly but "mundane" enough to understand the dynamic from a human perspective, if that makes sense.

Lachlan was no fool. He knew when he was clearly outmatched. "As you wish", was definitely the only correct answer to any of her demands. At least for now. There was nothing Lachlan despised more than being on the receiving end of commands. Someone else claiming to know his fate and forcing him to accept it. He would challenge even the gods to keep control over his fate. But not at the expense of his life. He hasn't found a way to become immortal yet after all. So what could be more foolish than to endanger his own life in front of this... creature just to shield his pride, as big and hurt as it may be yielding to what the administrator demanded of him.

Yet he didn't hate her. He admired her. In a sense he wanted to be her. She was everything Lachlan was striving to be. Immense power over others, enforcing her rule to anyone she encounters. And all the while keeping a benevolent and dignified appearance that could fool someone into thinking she was your friend and ally if you were obedient enough. The way she made obedience look so tempting and rewarding, making people crave her embrace. For now Lachlan had to accept that all of that belonged to her and not him. He preferred to stay on her good side, as fake as it may have been. Though any "kindness" or embrace of hers felt like mocking sting. A reminder that he had no power or autonomy here.

She was perfect. And a reminder that there would always be a bigger challenge to overcome. But it was a pity how all of that power and grace was used to serve some higher entity instead of trying to overthrow them too. Well... Who knew what she had in mind. Considering he was obediently smiling at the higher entity in front of him as well just to ensure his own survival.

"Mr. Holconia, it's good to see you again. I'm sorry it's been so long since we last met, so much has happened back home-- I'm sure you understand. I've been hoping for a chance to stop by, though. I still think about the cafe we went to last time!" His laugh quickly twisted to a frustrated pinch to the bridge of his nose. "Though I guess that's still not an option since the owners ended up disappearing like all the others." 

En sighed. What drew him here long ago had been the reports about missing people-- even people he'd sent had disappeared! It had to have been the work of some kind of beast, maybe a cult, possibly a powerful person, there just wasn't enough information. Whoever, or whatever, was behind it all was terribly clever, leaving no clues at all. Or was it that no one had looked in the right place...?

Pondering gave way to another frustrated, tired sigh. "I can't think clearly right now. I've been up for nearly two days now! Lachlan, do you have a recommendation for a place to eat? Maybe that will wake me up. I'd love to catch up with you while I'm at it." Having Lachlan around was reassuring. He was a leader in this town and a beacon of hope, always with a calm smile and pristine outfits. He was kind and caring, everyone here relied on him, the king was no exception. Being around him was already starting to lift his stress.

Feel free to reply to another character if you'd like!

The Fritz stared at it's sandwich as if it were an alien creature, as if it were about to bite. It's skin is porous, like sliced bone with the marrow exposed. Thin, green wrinkly membranes hang over the edge- placed with intention under layers of sliced red disks that ooze down the side. Brow furrowed, they carefully turn the plate- too risky to touch it- to get a full rotation of the construct. When a thorough inspection demonstrates that it hasn't manifested teeth, the Frisk reaches out with gloved hands- careful, careful- scooping their hands securely under and around the layers, and lifting.

Fritz takes a bite of the BLT. The red ooze is acidic on their mouth blisters, but far from the sharpest thing they've eaten. The the crisp relief of the green membrane soothes their tongue, bread giving them a satisfying fullness when they swallow.
....Better than expected.

The corpse doesn't like eye contact. Too close. It's too close, too intimate. Who invited you to look into my skull? Who invited you to see the me beneath the skin? It... lifts it's eyes anyway, curiosity braving them to look towards the 2nd biggest mystery in the room. The stranger is a healthy specimen of about 6 feet in height, give or take a few inches. He is physically unremarkable. He has the standard number of limbs and eyes, and no notable blemishes. He has dark hair without a hint of brown. He is exhibiting symptoms of sustained melancholia. He- won't look at them.
This is a relief, in most ways. It's a relief to catch him when he isn't looking back. Even if,, they don't understand.
The Fritz's throat tightens. Hands ball into fists, trembling against their knees. The Fritz will not speak unless spoken to. The air is charged with this itch to know- to know what he's about, what's happening here, the who the who why why why do you look at me like you're grieving a death? Why do I make you sick? Where are you hurt, why are you hurting so quietly? For every shout stuffed in their throat, for every razor sharp question against their temple, the gnawing silence stretches on and-

"W.... Who, um...." The silence snaps, and the Fritz is surprised to hear it's their own voice that does it. The rest of the sentence doesn't come as easily. The Fritz can speak to surface details such as height and weight and coloration but but but these things are not their thoughts, are they? These are notations of the physical realm. These do not tell the Fritz about this specimen, these do not solve the riddles presented by his aching glances in their direction these do not ease the tension needling the air-

"...I am sorry for stabbing you somewhere I can't see," They say, finally. The Fritz awkwardly comes to a stand, taking lopsided steps towards the kitchen counter. "I'm.... um. Please, move out of the way. You are, standing in front of a cabinet. Which, due to your corporeality, makes it. Harder. To retrieve supplies, and then, to prepare you an 'sand-wich'. You, will sit now?"

References to decomposition, it does get a little graphic but here you go

@ NP: Please do not respond to Raphael if you cannot view his profile. Respond to Viorel instead.

There is something existentially horrifying, about what humans can do with words. 

Mandragora had seen Humans in chains, bleeding upon alters, and roaring rallying cries. She has seen them dying slowly in their homes, singing in the taverns, and thanking her for the smallest of kindnesses. But now looking at this man- she saw none of that. 

Mandragora saw nothing but filth. He was weak. But his words were strong, in all the wrong ways. When he speaks she feels the venom, the rot his words spread. Raphael sends soldiers who believe him to be better than that which he fights. Mandragora wished they knew better, but even then some probably did, and followed him willingly. Then there were those forced. But who could make that distinction? 

Raphael disgusted Mandragora, he was everything she hated, she wished she could call him weak, but knowing what he could do. That would be a lie

NP: Choose anyone!