changedpaths

[changedpaths]

@dokkstjarna.

        ‘has anyone told you you look quite lovely today?’  the cauldron boils, bubbles. how traditional! whether the black contents consist of bitter, bitter chocolate, or something a tad more unspeakable, mehana seems reluctant to share. there is work to be done — spells to be woven, a brew to be made. not everything can be done via stave or verbal intonation. ‘tis not often that she engages in the activities one would expect of one holding the title of witch. but work is work, and she won’t be stopping it for conversation. one can just as easily talk over a cauldron of boiling black contents as one can over some tea. mehana smiles, drops the act of idle conversation. her curiosity quickly gets the better of her.

         a beat. the air tangibly sizzles between them. the liquid bubbles.  ‘ --you should tell me something new, my friend. something i wouldn’t know.’

[changedpaths]

@tragedylite.

      a nudge. he points to her forearm -- the naturally gruff intonation of his speech isn’t meant to be forceful or intimidating, only playful. the inked tattoo draws his interest most of all. bigby tries to pretend it surprises him more than it actually does. (he damn well knew that was there. still.) a poke at her arm. ‘goddamn. is that a tattoo you’ve got there? on your forearm, marci?’ the quip is teasing, but his face takes on a faux look of earnest distrust. 

        ‘ -- if that’s even your real name.’

[changedpaths]

@mercysought  /  maxima. 

        the quiet is stifling. maschache blinks -- knocks gently to announce her presence. (many instructed her to knock, having disliked her tendency to appear silently in a room.) people oft thought her presence unsettling and would demand she leave them once her work was done. she felt no offense towards this. ‘my lady.’ she declares flatly, then turns, harsh blue gaze trained upon the tray she carries. the tranquil girl stands still and tall as a stone pillar, unblinking, awaiting further instruction. 

[changedpaths]

@rekant.  /   randomized.

     amélie barely acknowledges the others presence at first. continues as she works, binding her fists up tight, preparing to train. then she shifts. eight eyes blink, black sclera cutting over the reddened vision there. rotate in their sockets, sink and settle. her voice comes dull as a dinner knife.

        ‘what was it like. when it happened.’ 

[changedpaths]

gutrage.

quarry  is  lost  –  the  scent  of  bleeding  deer,  memorized,  muddles;  something  else.  something  else.  old.  he  knows  old,  it  resides  in  his  metal  bones,  wet  on  his  teeth  –  this  is  older  than  he’s  ever  been,  and  he  knows  he  is  like  a  cat  in  a  lion’s  old  den.  but  it  doesn’t  frighten  him  like  it  should.  logan’s  fear  receptors  have  been  numbed  to  pain,  eternity,  agony  –  the  eyes  of  an  old  thing  don’t  perturb  him.

he  shifts,  hunched  on  his  fours  like  an  animal,  caked  in  mud,  foliage,  and  old  gore  –  the  color  painting  his  hands  to  upper  triceps  is  somewhere  between  innards  and  mud.  

sharp  teeth  come  to  bare  upon  speech,  decidedly  animal.  saliva  clings  to  pointed  apertures.  his  fury  rouses  and  twists  inside  him,  unsettled  –  his  meal  is  lost,  and  his  target  changes.  logan  steps  forward,  palms  flat  like  paws.  

the  sound  that  rumbles  in  him  is  not  of  a  man.  it  is  a  tiger,  or  a  bear,  shaking  and  rushing.  

     now isn’t that just exciting. it’s not every day perchta has the privilege to find a berserkr man in her forest. and by the gods, if that doesn’t send her thoughts right back to the ages when men died screaming on these very grounds at the tip of her axe. he looks straight out of a scene from some gruesome viking legend – refreshing, really, that’s what he is. her own features ripple somewhere between young and old, settle on the hag, grin twisted, enlivened at the prospect of playing a game. insects flutter from her gnarled hair. 

      perchta crouches. a rabbit emerges from the bushes– eyes dead, sockets hollow. body twitching like any fleshy breathing being – possessed by some force. she grasps its throat with a crunch. it could still run. she references him, pointedly; ‘uggligr dýr ladd.’   a pause as she bares her own teeth, cackles, holds it between them like a betting chip. he’ll go for her, for it, or for both. ‘tell me your name and i’ll let you have it.’  she almost hopes he doesn’t answer.

[changedpaths]

rekant.  /  chiyo. 

          the garden doesn’t tend to itself. if not for the gardening gloves, she’d be up to her elbows in soil. a green thumb is another of those selfish gifts tadao had bestowed upon her, she is a good gardener because it had benefited him for it to be so. it is not uncommon for people to wander into the garden, thinking it’s a public place  —  a small park that one might use to cut through the block, a vegetable garden tended to by the community. chiyo has taken to leaving the back gate open, perhaps begging for company. leaves rustle beneath kyoko’s feet, and chiyo turns.  ‘ hello,  have you lost your way? ’

        kyoko was trained not to speak unless requested specifically to do so by nathan himself. but programming -- at least the type of it that bases her brainwaves -- is designed to grow beyond step 1. step 1 was silence. she looks at the garden that the other tends to and wonders how it will look in 20, 30 years. this is step 1 of its growth. what will step 37 look like?  her tangent comes to a close, legs taking her closer, fingertips skating along greenery. kyoko’s body whirs impatiently in the silence. then, quietly;    ‘i did not have a way in the first place.’

          '......this garden. it’s yours?’

[changedpaths]

where in your mind do you put what you can’t understand? multimuse.   /   written by remington.

[changedpaths]

@astroshe.

      a pause. maybe it’s -- maybe it’s not her place to ask. maybe it’s impolite. who knows.  #TK-6767 was never exactly taught MANNERS, only subservience, diligence, fear. still it couldn’t hurt to ask. so the ex-trooper gestures, mandibles twitching, hovering between speech & silence, suspended in thought. then she just blurts it out;  ‘what were -- are they like? -- your family.’

[changedpaths]

@gutrage.

       the roots and leaves don’t crunch under her step, barely shift, acknowledge her presence only in their utter silence. that’s how things are here in the forest. the sky goes up, the ground goes down, air is air, the woods bow to buschgroßmutter, and the dead things don’t stay dead. but still it seems that this fellow, unlike the plantlife, has taken notice. perchta emerges, white gown bedraggled and filthy. she smiles.

       ‘you shouldn’t be out here.’  a pause. she’s not very nice and she’s just itching to express this fact. ‘you’re pretty hairy, aren’t you?’

[changedpaths]

The only etchings I’ve seen have been behind glass, And the closest I’ve been to a bar, is at ballet class.

Eartha Kitt - I Want to Be Evil

[changedpaths]

@rekant.  /  chiyo.

        she’s staring at the other android. strange. men make women into machines, machines into women -- and then leave them. whether it be by choice or not, something about it stings. kyoko doesn’t possess verbal language to share the frustration, however. (at least none which she’s yet willing to share.) so she just stands, looking at the other, reading them. barefoot. clothed in old, worn things. her appearance speaks of the time she’s spent in the surrounding nature. her head tips, a question, a hello, a curiosity. 

[changedpaths]

ruinem.

     he’s still adjusting to the eating part of things. it’s… it feels unnatural, to consume on a daily basis. he doesn’t really need to ( does he? ) but others look at him strangely if he doesn’t, so he performs the menial and mundane task of putting food in his mouth to chew, swallow, and shit out later. for their comfort. he won’t lie: puppy thinks he likes coffee the best. it can taste like many things, even if his taste buds aren’t really up to par after his first one was cut out.

     he’s in the middle of adding roughly six more packets of sugar to the mug when he realizes his commander is sitting across from him. oh. there’s no nervous twitching, no display of difference in physicality or emotion, but he does pause. just for a moment. a split-second. a hint of betrayal in his own body. there are no words to say; he wouldn’t if he could. he won’t make himself look, either. can’t.     /     @changedpaths.

      gabriel — well, gabriel hasn’t exactly had time to give puppy a thorough read through. it’s a thing of habit, really, to look at, categorize, spend time specifically assessing the behavior of the team. sounds clinical. it is. but – effective. methodical, individual understanding of every member of his team and their motivations, habits, likes, dislikes, typical emotional responses could offer some enlightenment. call it a one-man team building exercise. never too late to get started. ‘you got any coffee in that, or just a nice, big tall glass of sugar.’

       his brows raise. puppy isn’t the first kind of weird underling he’s dealt with (he certainly wouldn’t be the last / nor was he the weirdest) so he copes just fine with the silence. a pause as he stirs his own tea. he’s trying to lay off the stronger stuff.

     'you've been doing a damn good job lately, puppy. even obie mentioned it.' the overdramatic little jazz hands throw in emphasis on just how impressive of a feat that is. 'i've been trying to think of who you'd be the best match with on the field. thought, hey, maybe the best person to ask that is the man himself, right?' not that gabriel would heed the answer should he pick someone the commander didn't agree on. still. the sentiment in there. 'anyone you'd like to be the other half on your two-man dream team mission?'

[changedpaths]

@crosscircle.

          ‘bärchen.’ perchta’s face is less than happy. a palm extends, red nails wound tight round a dangling rock-climbing belt clamp. in the other hand, a bloodied hunting knife. she looks about as disgruntled as a teenage girl would upon discovering a sibling had been swiping from her closet, only, backed up by the barely-bridled fury of an old god. 

           ‘there are men in the forest. trudging about. men, hunting without need. hurting things, looking for something. a thing, a thing they won’t find.’ she shakes the knife. ‘one stabbed me when i stepped forward.’  (more like, when she grabbed him by the throat.)   ‘i let him go, yes, let him, but i think i should seek him out tonight.’ 

[changedpaths]

@ruinem.

      jade wants to run, wants to shove him away, wants to scream or yell or claw. she doesn’t like men. doesn’t trust them, doesn’t choose to see them. but kyoko – kyoko just stands there. 

      she won’t talk to him. won’t sign or write. won’t cough or smile, laugh, frown. gestures, instead, at the strange helmet he wears – fingertip beckoning to touch, asking permission, crooked in question. wonders momentarily if he is man or machine, or if he even knows. still, this has no effect on her understanding of him – not that there was much to begin with. she wonders why he wears the thing. 

[changedpaths]

starter  call. 

[changedpaths]

4 for anyone !!! 💕💕💕

30 multipurpose prompts. /   4. the tree is very old.

          they’ve been alone for nearly a month now. no companion from before their exile was brave enough to accompany them; no friend nor foe tracked their steps, no pet nor demon tagged at their ankles. no, nuniq alvethen was truly and deeply alone, in a manner which only the truly destitute could relate. trudging through the frostbacks in search of work had been the first challenge — now was the time to wander through the thick woodlands below, and forests are precisely the kind of place that nuniq has never familiarized themself with. a huff of breath erupts from chapped lips. a curse. a shake of the head. their short, stocky body stumbles towards a tree, boots caked thick with snow, hands dusted in white. 

           muttering beneath their breath, they tug at a glove, pull it from chilled hand with their teeth and shake it briskly, bringing it up in a fist to release hot gusts of breath against it. slowly, nuniq relaxes. hands settle into gloves again and they sigh, lean back slowly, breath leaving clouds in the air before them. it’s not so bad out anymore, they note. spring is coming. though lacking in personal experience, they’d read and heard quite much about surfacer’s weather changes. the merchants they passed explained more, and the carta dealers from below had told fascinating stories, long ago when nuniq still did not even know what color the sun was. yes, spring is coming, winter passing, the cold night will soon be over and the fields of earth will come alive. nuniq shuffles his feet. slowly rising, they press a hand to the bark for support, dark eyes reading the world around them —

           their gloves meet with grooves and dips in the surface of the wood. precise and intentional. they turn their gaze upwards, staring in awe at the previously unseen artwork. on the wood of the tree lies a carven depiction of the tree itself, interwoven with words in a language nuniq does not speak, drawn in a style nuniq has never seen before. it is beautiful, and she is breathless, awed and wide-eyed at this creation. they are honored to have witnessed it, and sink to one knee, fascinated fingertips running bare inches over the carven words. ‘gesterdag, brev bann ge dejt’, it reads, and nuniq’s academic heart yearns to understand.

           still, though not within his linguistic comprehension, they could honor the site of art and ritual. gently, the healer reaches into a coat pocket and places a small stone, collected along the way. it holds no great meaning, but they do it anyway, and step away. the tree is very old, very worn, and has seen much. they bow their head before her, tug their pack up higher on their back, and with newfound determination turn their chin to the woods and trudge onwards.

[changedpaths]

starter  call.