#• in for a nasty weather — visage !

[pondslime]

sam i swear that anon asking about ur sideblog tags has the right idea IT FEELS FIC TAGGY??? it might not be but am i gonna be surprised if its like. the next big masterpiece you write? NO imma be the creator of the ventiswampwater conspiracy crew

every monday wednesday & thursday is when u *think* we’ll be meeting but its actually an every day 9-5 life experience. its ingrained, its forever. its devotion is what it is. smh im a lil goofy for ur fics

next exit does feel very thoroughfare isaiah abram taking ethel cain west in a very manipulative, cannibalistic way!!! not healthy whatsoever!!! nasty fuckery vibes, rancid ho binclair vibes i tell ye!!!

nice weather we’re having eh?

AAAAAA lan 😭💕not the ventiswampwater conspiracy crew jhdfsjhfdjhdf I'm yellin

here's a lil tag directory post to kinda explain a lil bit of the method behind the madness!! my stupid ass is tethered forever 2 the Aesthetic, sadly hdsfjdfsjhdfsj so I cannot just have NORMAL tags💀

had to hop over bc as soon as I went to answer this, I FULLY forgot every single tag I use jfdhjhfdjhfds

but anyway!! a lil breakdown

places to be (forgotten): basically any location that gives me big ambrose vibes

memoirs: sinclair bro childhood vibes!! oh yikes!!!

nightmares: kinda. the reader's fears/unpleasant realities inspo

sitting on the shelves of your mind: things you can find around the house! or alternately! the house that is the reader's psyche!

visage: reader outfit/pose inspo/abstract perception of self. lots of deer in here!! what's that all about!! (not supposed to actually represent what the reader looks like. bc the reader is a nondescript blob of pain n agony. but like. the Vibes. u know)

on the turntable: song inspo!

b/v/l: specific inspo for boseph, vinny, and les

going forward I'll probably have a tag for each new fic I'm brainstorming!! next exit (yes, the fic title is a reference to an interpol song!! bc this is me. ofc it is lmao) is the first one I've used so far bc I have concert fuckery and sweatyweird chance encounters w/bongo sinclogo on my mind atm. regrettably.

and YES!!! he is very rancid in this fic!! in a weird way!!! I just. LOVE writing him when he's on his theater kid shit. and he really gets into it here. he's taken the night off from murderfuck to go drip w/sweat @ a concert and pretend he's a normal person. well, normal is a stretch. but he isn't murderfucking tonight!! so that's smthn (nothing). 🤡🪦

mwah mwah love u tysm for giving me an excuse to holler on abt the dumb shit I'm writing MWAH

[understandableparadox]

Charub camping diaries: Part 3 Side A

"Good morning world!" a familiar chipper voice rings out, attached to it, the same green visage.

"we managed to get a lot done, the hole getting dug out really helps, I wrongly assumed my brother would explain why we were digging underground, its mostly for insulation. our old environment was vary temp neutral so we want to be prepared for our first bout of cold weather living!"

they turn the camera to a somewhat deep whole, big enough to stand in with a little bit of ground over your head. kratanor leans on a shovel, having just gotten rid of the evidence of their excavation.

"The large rocks can be used for something I bet... but i need to make sure that I get everything ready for an outing into two, so its just going to be making a simple covering over the shelter and working on my disguise...which means makeup!"

"I really wish bamboo was more common on this planet... they always have bamboo in the videos, it looks so easy to work with! now my original plan was to cut the tree down into planks, and i still plan on doing that, but that's going to be for much later. i have made another wonderful discovery about your species!"

she dumps out from her strifedex a collection of nasty looking wooden pallets.

"you just have free wood!!! and Nails!!! for free! that's so crazy!"

she uses the axe to start separating the wood into their separate planks, then reusing the nails to create a long enough set of planks to span the length of the hole.

"If I can find more of these, then were golden! HA! why would you ever get rid of these things~? what are they for anyway?"

she takes a breather after setting a nice and basic skeleton to start out with. it wouldn't pass any real engineering standards, but it does manage to stay up on its own. she is once again eating a rather nasty looking bar of chocolate.

"now, makeup! trolls have grey skin, werid chubby looking cheeks, adorable by the way! and a full head of hair! that's so weird!!!"

she sets out a set of assorted paints, most of them digatally crunched for some odd reason... as well as clay, adhesive and a wig.

"first off is the face..."

She taps on the boney protrusions sticking out on the side of her face. she places a little bit of skin save adhesive over each somewhat gaunt check and begins applying the clay, forming a set of somewhat natural looking cheeks, if not a tiny bit lumpy. she works a bit to get them to smooth out.

"why do you need hair? trolls have had their methods of regulating extreme tempratures for so long, it feels like a evolutionary disavantage to have it..."

she opens her mouth, her jaw unhinging to reveal rows and rows of sharp snake like teeth that she painstakingly paints from their original forest green to a more average white. she then applies a set of contact lenses, giving her the expected yellow and black eyes of a troll.

"well how do i look?~"

"its a little bit crude but lets see if we can make this work, im going to talk to some of the natives online to see if they notice anything, wish me luck!"

(hello! im opening up asks for kratanor! feel free to send just about any questions, tips or blurbs you happen to want to send.)

[scribehomunculus]

It was a dark and stormy night...

The wind whipped down the length of the valley. Above, the clouds roiled and writhed, a gray, angry mass. Rain spilled in sheets and drenched the fields and forests. Occasionally they would split and streaks of violent lightning would spear the air. Thunder shook the valley, echoing against the hills and mountains. There was no light beyond the brief flashes of electricity, the stars hidden and the moon absent. Only the bravest creature ventured from their hidey-holes this night - or the most foolish.

Travis leaned towards the latter, as he was beginning to feel. He had left that morning, when the clouds were heavy but still, to collect things from the forest to sustain himself over the colder months that were to come. He hadn’t considered that the weather would turn nasty on him, preventing ease of travel. He had planned on there being a full moon, but with the heavy droplets of rain drenching him and his lantern, he now found himself rushing from tree to tree with no light to guide him.

The young mouse huddled against a large tree root as a particularly nasty gust of wind tried to throw pelting droplets against his already soaked form. He pulled his sodden cloak tight around his tiny frame and shivered. At this rate he would be both lost and catch cold! He could hear the disapproving voice of his mother’s ghost tsking him over his shoulder, but he dared not look in case he saw her visage there. It felt like she had been visiting him more often lately.

Travis felt a slight lift in the wind and gathered up his basket of goodies with haste. He scrambled up the tree root. He had some difficulty mounting the slippery wood with cold, stiff hands, but he managed to climb over. He rushed, head held low against the spray, towards the next tree and its sheltering roots. He gripped his basket tight.

He dreaded getting to the fields. Well, if he ever managed to find his way from the forest, he thought grimly. It could very well be that he had been running in circles, hardly able to see in this pitch-black night with the added joy of water constantly driving into his eyes. He could only hope that he was able to find his way out into the tall grass, where he would be in the open, surrounded by whipping stalks, and liable to get struck by lightning. That would fit in well with his stupid luck.

He stayed behind the root a moment, catching his breath. The cold air stung his lungs. He had been running for quite some time. If his hands weren’t full, he would have been able to run properly instead of propped up on hind legs. The basket was too bulky for him to carry it in his mouth. Travis cast his inky eyes down at the checkered cloth covering his nuts, berries, and mushrooms. His whiskers twitched in annoyance.

Maybe he should abandon the basket. He had toyed with that idea many times. But, every time he stubbornly refused to cast aside all his hard work, even for an ease of passage. He looked over the root, trying to peer through the rain and black air, and then noticed something different. Instead of the bulk of the next tree, he saw emptiness. Maybe… Just maybe…

Excited to be out of the forest, he ran from the root, slipping over it. He raced towards the tall grass. He stopped as he reached it, looking around, chest puffing. He was close to home now, he could feel it. He flicked his tail a little as he started to weave through the grass. Almost home, almost home!

He hadn’t expected the fox. Now he was all-too-eager to drop his basket and run. He ran, as fast as his tired legs could take him, and hoped the fox hadn’t seen him. He should have figured, what with the onset of the storm that extinguished his only light source and caused him to get lost of hours, that he wasn’t lucky. He couldn’t hear the fox over the thunderous booms from above, but the tickle of hair standing up alerted him to the predator close behind.

Something heavy snagged his cloak, causing him to stop short with a strangled squeak as the cloak’s simple button closure pressed tight against his windpipe. He struggled with his numb fingers to undo the button. A chuckle from behind caused him to pause and turn to look. He wished he hadn’t. The vixen grinned at him, her paw pressed hard against the back of his cloak and over his tail.

She teased him by just standing there as he tried to undo get out of his cloak with panicked, clumsy movements. Then, she struck. Travis felt glad that his body was mostly numb and tired as the world got darker forever.

[levi-my-beloved]

Can I request a chubby!levi x reader (fluff)

Just The Way You Are

Summary: Levi comes home to find you in a negative spiral, and does what he can to make you feel better

Warnings: weight and body insecurities

Word Count: 2.2K

A/N: Of course anon! hehe, i'm kind of excited this is my first request :> I was going to save writing these for after i've moved into my new accommodation but I got too excited hehehehe

I hope this is what you had in mind ^-^

You’d never been insecure about your physique if you were truly being honest with yourself. Sure, you’ve had a few nasty insults thrown your way, and school was always an interesting experience since young kids are renowned for their…

Brutality…

But as you grew older, you just kind of realised that’s how kids were, and most people are a lot more accepting as an adult. Emphasis on most.

Most of the time, you liked your curves. Most of the time you didn’t mind the stretch marks or the cellulite patterns on your thighs. But there were days when you’d look through a magazine at all the flawless, lithe models with their smooth, tanned skin and sharp, angular faces and a small bubble of insecurity would rise to the surface of your mind.

When it came to negative thoughts, you didn’t hesitate to tell your boyfriend. You knew Levi always kept an open, understanding mind, and he never once ridiculed you for anything, and would never dream about ridiculing you.

But there was something about this time that made you pause. It could be because he was stressed with work, or it could be because you’d let that little seed of self-doubt flourish and blossom into a dark, stormy flower. These were the same thoughts swirling around your head as you glared daggers at the statue-perfect weather woman on the screen of your TV. Did she have to wear that skin tight, short dress? Did she have to show off her lean thighs and long legs?

A sigh escaped your nose as you continued to slice through the vegetables you were preparing for tonight. You’d promised Levi you’d cook for him since he was so busy at the moment, and you’d wanted to make a warm soup for these winter months. Glancing at the small pile of carrots, peppers and now tomatoes, your growing insecurity provoked you to split the pile into two. You’d still cook for Levi, of course, but not for you.

Crossing to your fridge, you brought out an iceberg lettuce for you to chop later and make a salad for yourself. You shivered slightly as the cool air from within caressed your face and neck, briefly lamenting the loss of a hot meal to warm you up. But this was better, for both of you.

A pit of guilt ridden dread opened within your stomach as your already negative mindset continued to drag you into a downwards spiral. Did Levi not like your physique? Did he find it unattractive? Did he find you unattractive?

You tried to shake these rhetorical questions, laughing at yourself for having such stupid ideas in your head. Of course Levi found you attractive, otherwise he wouldn’t be with you… right?

But…

What if…

What if he was just with you out of pity…?

What if he’d realised he’d feel bad for leaving you for someone who didn’t have stretch marks on their body, and could wear a bikini with full confidence. Not that you couldn’t. Well, not in the past anyway. Right now? You felt if you saw yourself in skimpy clothing you’d burst into tears.

“I think those tomatoes are chopped enough,” you almost jumped out of your skin at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice behind you, dropping the knife onto the wooden board as you whirled around to face the slightly smirking visage of your raven haired man.

“Jesus fucking christ you scared the shit out of me,” you breathed, trying to calm your live-wire nerves. “I had a knife! What if I’d accidentally stabbed you!” Levi quirked a brow, unfolding his arms before crossing your kitchen and wrapping them around you, holding you against him. You cringed a tad, shifting out of your boyfriend’s arms before he could properly secure you. “I’m cooking, don’t distract me,” your lighthearted teasing was usually enough to throw most people of the scent of your increasingly crippling insecurity, but Levi knew your diversion trickery and simply decided not to comment, saving the little moment for later when he had the proper time to talk to you. Keeping one eye on you, he stepped up behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“What're you making?” he queried, eyeing the small pile of vegetables soon to be whizzed in the blender. It didn’t seem like enough for two people if he was being honest.

“Soup. It’s soup season. You need something warm and filling so I decided to make a vegetable soup,” you tried to ignore the feeling of his hair tickling the side of your face, concentrating instead on putting the ingredients into the blender along with some salt, pepper and water. You’d add the chicken stock after, when it was in the pan.

“That doesn’t look like enough food…” Levi’s suspicious tone didn’t go unnoticed, and you gulped slightly. You tried to give yourself enough time to come up with an answer, but the longer you pondered, the more suspicious your irritatingly perceptive boyfriend became. Only emphasised by the second, smaller pile of vegetables and the iceberg lettuce still waiting for your blade.

“Eh, I wasn’t really in a soup mood,” you refused to elaborate unprompted, hoping to end this conversation as quickly and efficiently as you could.

“So what’re you having?”

“Gonna make myself a salad I think.”

“(Y/N), it’s winter.”

“Last I checked, we weren’t sleeping under the stars tonight. I don’t need food to keep me warm, just loo–” you managed to stop your self deprecating comment before you insult yourself, cutting yourself off mid word. “I had a big lunch anyway,” a lie. You’d had an orange for lunch, too busy with work to actually make yourself something, and not having the lunch break to run out and grab a sandwich. But honestly, after your violent storm of self doubt, you weren’t feeling very hungry.

You could feel Levi’s narrow stare bare a hole in the side of your head as he took his chin off your shoulder and stepped around you, leaning his hip against the counter.

“Mhm? A big lunch? Whatcha have?” fuck, this was a test now, wasn’t it? God fucking damnit, so much for being inconspicuous.

“Oh, just like a– uh... pasta.”

“You had a pasta?”

You were glad when the blender whirred to life, cutting the conversation short. Your eyes never left that liquifying broth, refusing to even look at the raven haired man to your left. Would it kill him not to pry for once? This all felt so unnecessary.

The silence was agonising when you released the button on the processor, almost exaggerating your movements so your limpet of a boyfriend would get the hint and leave you alone.

Unfortunately, this didn’t work in your favour.

“So… a pasta?”

“Oh my god what does it matter? Why is this suddenly so damn important?” you turned away from him, crouching down to pull a small pan out from the cabinets beneath the counter, flicking on the stovetop ring and watching it glow red. You didn’t even realise he’d moved until his hand covered yours around the saucepan handle, gently putting it to the side.

“Because you’re lying to me. And I want to know why,” there was no malintent in his voice. No anger or unease. He was concerned, to say the least. You’d been acting a little strange over the past three days, but it had been so much worse this evening. Levi was glad he managed to get home a little early today.

You took a breath, turning back to face him, hands flicking and fiddling nervously with the hem of your sweater.

“Okay, fine… jeez you’re so persistent.” you waited for any kind of signal that the tension had ebbed away, but there was no such movement from the man as he simply stood opposite you, waiting for you to continue.

Shit, when did it get so warm? You assumed it must be from the hob heating up, right?

“I uh… fuck. Look, I don’t really know how to like, put this into words? It’s kinda hard to articulate but uh… Jesus fucking Christ this is so stupid…” you ran a hand through your hair, taking yet another deep breath to calm your stuttering heart. “I– You’re not– Fuck, I mean like–”

“Are you breaking up with me?” well that certainly caught you off guard. You weren’t exactly expecting such a question, and especially not in such a flat tone. Your eyes flew wide, gaping at his almost bored expression, arms once again folded over his chest as if he didn’t even care.

But he did… right?

“No! God, no! No, that’s not… unless you– unless you want to break up…?” you didn’t think you’d ever sounded smaller than you did right now. Crossing your arms across your midsection, across your stomach, you looked away. And with your eyes on the ground, you missed a flash of worried confusion in Levi’s eyes.

“Why the hell would I want that?” his accusatory tone almost made you wince as you looked back to his regularly schooled expression, trying to see past the damn mask he always put up when something wasn’t going right.

“I just… I don’t want you to feel trapped with me. I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay with me out of some civil duty or something. I just…” you subconsciously glanced at the TV, the show having changed now from the news to some sort of dating programme. All the girls strutting around with their skinny, lean bodies and flawless smooth skin. Anyone else would have missed it. Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed the specific programme glaring on the screen. The open magazine on the coffee table depicting celebrity diets and their progress shots. Anyone else would have missed the way you tried to hide your figure today with the baggy sweater and equally baggy sweatpants, the way you crossed your arms over your stomach eventually.

But to Levi, these were all puzzle pieces he put together to solve you. Everything clicked in his head, from the salad to the stupid lie about your lunch. However you clearly felt the need to continue. To elaborate, despite wanting the conversation to just be over.

“I know I’m not the most… physically attractive girl in the world. I’m not… you know, skinny or lean. I don’t have that thigh gap and you can’t exactly, like, show me off, you know? I just–” It was Levi who cut you off this time, gently lifting your chin with his hand to brush his lips against yours, silencing you.

“Do you really think skinny is the only physically attractive trait? Do you really think I’d be in a pity relationship with you because you think you’re not the most attractive girl ever to exist?” you swallowed, unable to really answer his murmured questions as he forced you to look back at him after you tried to glance away.

“But… don’t you want something… I don’t know, more? Better? You could have anyone you wanted Levi, look at you! So why the hell are you sticking with me?” a stray tear steadily trailed down your cheek, singularly managing to break his heart.

“That’s why I’ve got you. I do have who I want. It’s my fucking honour to show you off. I get the privilege to say to our friends and all the people we meet that you’re mine. What the hell could be better than that?” you let him guide you into his chest, nestling your face in the crook of his neck and allowing your tears to fall freely now without an audience. “I don’t say it enough, (Y/N), but you’re gorgeous. You’re so fucking gorgeous. There isn’t a single thing I would change about you, or your body. I’m so sorry I’ve let you think like this, but you are objectively stunning,” your breath hitched in your throat. You’ve never heard him speak with such conviction before and you honestly didn’t know how to respond.

Wrapping your arms around his torso, you softly nuzzled into his chest, a small smile pulling at your lips.

“Did you just objectify me?” you lightly teased through your now slightly stuffy state. A low chuckle reverberated through Levi’s chest, the vibrations from which you could feel in your soul.

“Yes, but I’m allowed to, because I love you. So fucking much,” there were no words you could think of that described just how warm you felt. And not the sweaty, uncomfortable warmth from earlier.

This was softer, cosier. Like a bowl of warm soup on a cold winter’s evening. A blanket of reassurance settled over your shoulders, and you couldn’t be more thankful for the man who’s embrace currently held you tight.

“I love you too. Thank you, Levi. I know it was stupid but… just been feeling insecure I guess,” you shrugged within his arms, Levi refusing to let you go.

“Don’t. It wasn’t stupid. No insecurity is stupid… idiot.” a soft giggle bubbled to the surface of your voice, shifting your head slightly so you could look at him properly through silver lined eyes. His hand came up to gently cup your face, brushing away the blotchy tear stains. “Let’s put the rest of those vegetables in the soup. But I’m not eating it if it tastes like shit.” Levi swore he lived to see your grin. His sole purpose in life was to make you smile. To make you laugh and feel loved.

“Oh shut up, you love my cooking,” you pouted through your wide, contented smile. An expression Levi mirrored as he stooped down to gently kiss you again.

“That I do.”

[indiavolowetrust]

Carajillo II

SUMMARY: The sequel to Carajillo, which you can read here. A coup d'etat has been staged in the Celestial Realm. The human proposes a plan to halt the impending war.

Part One: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Part Two: Coming Soon!

Part Three: Coming Soon!

TW: Blood, Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Mention of Rape

PART ONE: CHAPTER SIX

The knife strikes with a steady, precise rhythm against the board, the pearly onions rendered to slices within moments. Then there are the leeks, shallots, garlic, and bunches of mint, all of which sit idly by the expansive chopping board. The bandages wrapped around my hands prove to be rather cumbersome in the task, reducing my efficiency -- but it is my experience that allows me to work deftly around the obstruction. It is likely that I would have to change the bandages at some point within the next hour: the crushing of the cumin, cinnamon, wild bulbs, and numerous other spices that I had found myself unable to name have both stained and left the bandages with a savory smell, leaving me currently unable to work with other meat. Or any other food, for that matter. I imagine that baking a butterscotch pie with traces of pork fat and savory spices would have little appeal.

Despite my best efforts, I find that the image of her is branded into my mind. Seared deep into the recesses of my memory, dredging up both unpleasant and pleasant thoughts. Her dark curls had spilled over her shoulders as I pressed her to me, and I was vaguely aware of the soft, full lips that laid beneath my fingers. The moonlight had illuminated her features in such a loving manner, embracing the soft brown tone of her skin, the shape of her curls, the dark pools of her eyes. Everything about her had been impossibly ravishing, even more so than usual. Had I not known she was only human -- a human spirit, to be exact -- I would have assumed she was a fellow demon who had come to seduce me. A succubus in the most innocuous sense of the word.

At that moment, I had wanted to do nothing more than devour her. To tear her apart in the most wonderful ways imaginable. To feel her body writhing beneath mine as I brought her to orgasm again and again, her pretty mouth letting out soft moans. To hear my name on her lips as her blunt, human nails rake down the skin of my back, the control of her body having fully lost itself in the sensation. To feel my own release paint her insides white. I had prided myself once on my ability to resist temptation, even against my own nature as a demon -- but I could not help but become undone at the sight of her loveliness. Despite the guilt --

A sudden warmth carves a path down my palm. I pull myself back into the present, forcing myself to focus on the sensation.

There is a rather nasty, painful cut on my thumb. The blood spills into the bandages. I watch with horror as the skin does not immediately knit itself back together, the wound remaining a fresh, vivid crimson.

* * *

The hours pass by much quicker than I expected. While the other kitchen staff are allowed nearly an hour of a break for lunch, lower servants such as I have only been given half an hour’s worth. The higher-ranking chefs couldn’t be bothered to do something as lowly as peel potatoes and chop onions, after all. I make a note to increase the pay and rest hours of the castle servants once I return to Lord Diavolo’s castle. There are only twenty-seven minutes and forty-two seconds until I must return to the kitchens. Twenty-seven minutes and forty-two seconds for me to scout the servants’ halls and whatever else I can find.

And so I make haste.

Maria’s instructions had been vague, given her general unfamiliarity of Sanctum’s layout -- but they are enough. The marble corridors, great columns, and alabaster sculptures pass by in a blur. My eyes flicker towards endless halls and gatherings of various servants as I make my way towards what should be the laundry room, paying little mind to the vicious, judgmental gazes of the paintings as I pass. Even with the aid of the Apple of Lies, there lies enough power left in the paintings for the forms to sense my presence. Given my innate sense of time, it is all too easy to discern the thoughts of the silent works of art, their words echoing in the back of my mind.

Impostor! Impostor! a plump, painted cherub wants to cry out. Its stare is both hateful and scathing. This one is an impostor!

Sinful, abhorrent demon, another wishes to spit. If the alabaster sculpture could shift its features or throw its voice, it would. I hope you rot in the ashes of your own guilt. Have you no shame?

You are but a simple, loathsome creature, says the carving of Samson, one of the Celestial Realm’s greatest demon-slayers. Who were you to play god? Who were you to make her suffer for your own ends? The human hates you! Detests you! Loathes you with every fiber of her being!

Or perhaps it is only my imagination.

True to Maria’s words, a relief of an archangel stands just outside of the laundry hall. The sounds of splashing water and falling garments can be heard from within. I stride just to the threshold of the room, catching sight of a ruddy-faced angel. He stands on the highest most step of a ladder and reaches towards a clothing line that has been strung up high on the ceiling. A sopping wet garment and a pair of pins are in his hands. I knock on the door.

The angel nearly falls off the ladder. The pair of pins clatter onto the floor, the garment meeting the surface with a squelch.

He regards me, eyes wide. “You -- you --” he stammers angrily, clutching the ladder, “-- you could have killed me, you idiot! Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

“I did knock.”

“You know what I meant!” The angel looks with frustration towards the fallen garment. He begins to clamber down the ladder, each step prompting another creak from the rickety object. “Now look what I’ve gone and done. The head laundress will have my neck for this, I assure you, and I’ll be sure to mention --”

“I’m looking for someone named Maria,” I lie. “Do you know where she is?”

He raises a bushy brow. “Maria?”

“Frizzy hair, frail, stands at approximately this height.” I gesture with my hands. “Have you seen her?”

He taps a sole finger on his chin, his free hand holding himself in place on the ladder. “Frizzy hair, you said?”

“Yes.”

“You must be talking about the little one, then. The head laundress sent her out back to gather some water for the washing.” He juts his chin towards the end of the room. A painted door stands wide open, the rays of sunlight nearly blinding me as I look towards it. “Don’t expect info like that to come free, though. In exchange for nearly killing me, lad, you can --”

I’m already halfway to the door.

The sunlight nearly blinds me as I step outside, flooding my vision with pure white. I find myself blinking in the aftermath, shielding my eyes against the sun. Thankfully, the effects do not last long. It is only nine seconds and twelve milliseconds before I am able to fully discern the image before me, the overgrown flora nearly obscuring the path. The nearly hidden path seems to have experienced little, if any, tending, reflecting only a few other areas of Sanctum. Areas that are less likely to be seen by high-ranking officials tend to be either under construction or completely unattended. Even the great hanging garden at the heart of Sanctum appears to have just experienced the fruits of the gardeners’ labor -- an aspect that the pale creature had checked on the first day of our arrival.

That indicates one of two options: one, the new empress has little control over her servants and people, thus leading them to be disobedient; two, the new empress has just come publicly into her position and has had little opportunity to exercise her power. If it were the latter -- which I would assume it is, given the general lack of unrest -- that would further indicate an unsteady balance of power amongst high-ranking officials.

If the new empress wants to keep her head, she’ll have to rule with an iron fist.

I continue onto the path, deftly avoiding the brambles and clumps of thorny flowers that seem to lunge at my feet. Five minutes and forty-one seconds later, the path finally opens into something a bit more spacious. A dry well sits in the middle of the space, a bucket having been long abandoned beside the stone structure. The sounds of activity can be heard beyond the weathered walls of the buildings that surround me. I press forward.

The sounds of activity, as it would turn out, originate from a rather extensive training yard. Despite its size, however, as well as my own biases towards those of the angelic persuasion, I must admit that its design is rather clever. The training yard is divided into exactly three levels, each of which is populated by a number of recruits testing the true might of their weapons. Swords ring out rather noisily against spears; another group trains with a smaller set of daggers. A stairwell leads up to each level, allowing convenient access to the space, while an observation deck sits some distance from the highest level. My gaze flickers instinctively towards the observation deck, inspecting the figures that stand there.

My eyes widen at the sight of the pale creature. A rather thick veil covers her visage, creating a shadow -- but it is obvious that she is having great difficulty discerning the finer details of the training. Her pink pupils shiver and waver under the assault of sunlight, and she squints. A slightly shorter angel stands beside her, her skin a deep, rich umber. A number of painted designs trail what skin is visible through her light robes, the fabric dyed surprisingly a vivid collage of orange and gold. Her long, braided hair is beset with gold coils. She lifts her hand to her mouth as she laughs, the multiple rings on her fingers gleaming under the sun, and her teeth --

I pause. I have never seen such a sharp, fearsome maw on an angel.

“Barbatos?”

I turn towards the noise, despite the nearly inaudible quality of it. Maria stands by a well that is situated on the far end of the training yard, hoisting a  sizable bucket of water under her arm. A number of curls fall from her low bun, making her appear disheveled, but she strangely shows no other signs of effort. Then again, the shadow created by the awning above does much to obscure her form. Her sudden vigor is likely my imagination.

What are you doing here? she mouths. Aren’t you supposed to be in the kitchen?

I tap my wrist, miming a wristwatch. She nods in understanding, positioning the bucket of water at her hip as she begins to make her way towards me from the well. Given the odd structure of the training grounds, she manages to pass where it is cooler in the shade.

Tomorrow, she mouths once more. As if I would forget. She manages the steps quickly, spilling only some of the water over the edge of the bucket. I am only vaguely aware of the racket of the training yard as Maria begins to near me.  If --

I sense the shift in the air before I hear the scream. The sharp reverberation of a blade, passing wildly through the air. The gasp of an onlooking recruit as they turn to witness the disaster that will be, their own reflexes and speed too underdeveloped to make a difference. My eyes only catch the vestiges of the image as the blade moves towards Maria, the human continues unaware down the steps, the balance of the bucket occupying her thoughts at the moment.

I lunge for her. The blade nicks my cheek as it passes by, slicing open the flesh -- then it is embedding itself audibly into the column beside us. Maria squeaks as she falls beneath me, releasing the bucket. It is only a moment before we are both soaked in its contents. I wrap a bandaged hand behind her head before we can both fall against the stone, disregarding the pain that is to come. It is, as anticipated, as unpleasant as I thought it would be: the flesh of my hand nearly tears itself open upon impact, the cut on my hand reopening within the confines of the bandages, and I can just barely see the blossoming of crimson. No matter. Maria’s head has not met the stone. Her body has likely produced no more than a few bruises.

It is six seconds and twenty-one milliseconds before I pull myself away from her. One hand propped up against the stone, the other cradling her head. Her eyes are still wide with shock, the dark, coiled strands sticking her forehead, but upon inspection I discern that she is unharmed.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

There is a clamor before us. I look in its direction, curious -- only to see the empress making her way down the stairs in her finery, the gold coils clinking against one another as she does so. A portion of her robes are gathered beneath her fingers, allowing her to move with haste. Combined with her many rings and golden bracelets, however, it is a wonder how her pace has not slowed from the sheer weight of her jewelry. Even more surprising is the worry that is etched on her features. The pale creature follows close behind, nearly soundless as she glides down one stair to another.

“Are you two alright?” the empress asks, stopping a mere distance from our fallen bodies. Her robes meet the stone once more as she releases them, falling with a hush. Her golden eyes -- the form of which also seems a bit strange, I note -- inspect both Maria and I thoroughly. They widen at the sight of my cheek, which has now been fully drenched in its own blood. “You are wounded, good angel!” she cries, bringing a hand to her mouth. The empress turns to the pale creature. “Oh, Gallatha -- Gallatha, my dear, come closer -- this one is wounded!”

The pale creature, Gallatha, nods. “It would appear that he is. I will send for a healer.”

“Send for the best one that we have, my dear,” she orders. “What if he expires?”

“My Divinity, I am sure that he will not expire at this very moment.”

Before I can react, the empress pulls me from my position and back onto my feet with astounding ease. She reaches for Maria as well, searching her for injuries as she does so, and frowns at the sight of lacerations on her knees and elbows. Maria fidgets awkwardly beneath her inspection, clearly unsure of how to react to the overbearing empress’ attention.

Her face flushes, her eyes quickly averting themselves from the empress’ gaze. “My -- My Divinity, I’m pretty sure that Boris and I are --”

“Oh, nonsense!” She ruffles Maria’s hair with ringed fingers, smiling with the grace of a benign monarch. “There’s no need to be so reserved, my dear girl. The days of that horrid system are now gone. I will ensure that the recruits are duly reprimanded for their carelessness. My advisor will ensure that you two are treated in the infirmary.” She turns to the pale creature. “Gallatha?”

Gallatha steps forward. “Of course, My Divinity.”

I cannot help but stare in disbelief.

According to what Maria could remember in limbo, the coup d’etat had seemingly been the work of one ravenous, powerful beast. A golden creature had stormed into the throne room one day, interrupting a private meeting between God and his council members. The grand doors had slammed against the marble walls with such ferocity that none could help but stare at the intrusion, the sound giving the act a sense of finality. The air of an execution. It was only after a moment that God had dared to speak from his throne.

Begone, foul creature! he had ordered, rising to his feet. You have no business here. Leave this place, and you shall leave here alive. Stay, and I shall smite you until you are no more than scorched earth!

The creature had only tilted its head in a curious manner, its teeth clicking together in terrible humor. Is that so? the creature had said, the sound of its precious stones and many golden coils echoing in the hall. Will you smite me, truly? You, an insect who dares to place himself above the affairs of men and beasts? You, a cowardly beast who has become obsessed with power? You are nothing more than a false idol. Your throne is no more worth than a bed of mud.

And then the great creature had thrown back its head and laughed, its maw shining in the divine light. God had ordered his guards to seize the blasphemous creature, demanding that it be executed at once. Declaring it to be an affront to the Celestial Realm itself.

But he had neither the foresight nor the knowledge to realize what this creature was.

The creature took God by the collar, dashed him against his own throne, and devoured him whole. All was silent for a moment, the screams of the desperate being dissipating to the air. The council, who had for so long reveled in the absolute power and control over the caste of the Celestial Realm, could only watch with horror. And then the golden, wondrous creature had turned to the council with an all-consuming hunger, licking its chops, and the throne room regressed into chaos.

Rich, sweet blood, pooling on the marble. Lumps and limbs scattered about, the bodies having been long torn asunder. The golden creature had lapped at the remnants, its maw a deep, vivid crimson. And then it had plucked the crown from the marble, the precious metal stained with the blood of its former owner, and settled upon the grand throne.

For all that Maria could not remember of her time in limbo, given her state, she had told me these things with the utmost confidence.

And so the kind, generous empress before me cannot possibly be the one who had staged the coup d’etat. She cannot be anything more than a figurehead. I find myself searching the empress’ smile before she is escorted away by her guards, searching for any signs of that terrible maw. Yet there is nothing but the image of her plump, smiling cheeks, her teeth very decidedly not sharp and horrible, her genuine, kind gaze, and her array of golden adornments.

END OF PART ONE

[nebutomo]

An Ineffable Cold

Here, have some cute divine beings! -------------------------------------------------------------------- Rain pattered gently against the roof of Aziraphale’s beloved bookstore, setting up a rather nice atmosphere for a day of reorganizing the store and tea drinking. The best kind of day really! Well aside from getting to spend all day actually reading that is. The angel hummed a soft but merry tune as he moved about the shop, seeming to bounce from one shelf to the next, fixing the books often so carelessly disheveled by the hands of modern man.

Sometimes he wondered how humans could be so careless with books. Perhaps because reading actual books was a dying art? With those annoying cellular thingy’s occupying so much of their attention on a daily basis anyways. He scoffed a bit at the sheer thought and if he wasn’t so holy he’d curse Crowley for ever inventing them! Speaking of Crowley, it’d been a few days since he’d seen or heard from the demon. He wasn’t worried, figuring he was simply off indulging in a bender of sorts.

His reverie was interrupted as the small bell above the front door chime noisily, signaling a customer no doubt. “Welcome~!”,he called out cheerily as he made for the front, pausing in surprise when he didn’t immediately see anyone,”Oh..well that’s rather odd. I could’ve sworn I heard someone come in?”. A sudden crash sounded behind him, the sounds of precious books hitting the floor making him rush back to the aisle he’d just been in, once again not seeing any humans but catching what looked like the literal tail end of a certain demon he knew.

“Crowley?”,he called out,”Love, is that you?”.

No response came.

Aziraphale huffed indignantly, picking up the books that had been knocked over along with the small table they’d been displayed on.

“You know I don’t appreciate you being so reckless with my books..”,he pouted, dusting off the covers and righting the table,”You haven’t spoken to me in at least two days. The least you could do is be mindful of my things..”.

A hoarse, echoing whisper met his ear coupled with the distinct feeling of a large serpent winding it’s way to his shoulder,”Sssorry, Angel. Mby sssenses are a little bunged up at the moment.”.

Aziraphale cast a glance at the large snake head resting on his shoulder, watching as it slowly shifted and morphed into Crowley’s familiar visage. Although he seemed a bit paler than normal and the angel was sure his nose wasn’t that vibrant of a red around the edges the last time he’d seen him.

As if to add to the angel’s suspicion, a thick and liquid sniffle sounded (right by his ear might he had!) just before the demon swiftly turned away,”Hh’gSTchKK! Eh’IstCHHk! Oh..bloody hell, think thad last one sprang mby throat..”. He backed off Aziraphale in favor of fishing a silken, deep red cloth from his pocket, gaze squinted at the lights up above.

“You don’t sound well at all Crowley. Are you ill by chance? You know the last I saw you like that was--”

“Nduh uh, ndope. Don’t even--Hihh!--say it! I’mb a demon, I don’t get sihh..sigk..”,his breath wavered and hitched unsteadily, cloth raised just in front of his flaring nostrils,”Probably just all these dusty books..Hh’TsCHKK! Fuck, thank Satan, there it is..”. He buried his pointed nose into the cloth, gingerly massaging it between thumb and forefinger.

The angel looked only mildly offended that his books had been insulted. Dusty? Why he cleaned three times a day for his information! And even if he didn’t he didn’t know Crowley to be allergic to anything besides certain blossoming plants but he made sure to keep those out of the shop solely for that reason alone.

Besides, he wasn’t so confident allergies could make one look so..awful. The last time he’d seen his demon look like this was 1897 if he remembered correctly. The weather had been much like it was now, rainy and a bit frigid and Crowley had caught a particularly nasty cold from God knows where. Aziraphale could practically see him in his pressed suit now, sneezing much like he was currently, and desperately trying to look put together in front of the others in the Gentleman’s Club they’d been a part of back then.

Such fond memories..

Crowley eyed him with a suspicious pout,”You’re thinking about it aren’t you? Stop it. Stop it right now because I. Amb. Fine. Look at me, I’mb the picture of hellish health!”. He stood a little straighter, chest puffed out a bit for all of a few seconds before a coughing fit overtook him and he quickly doubled over.

“Ah, yes..absolute health. I must say the plague victims sounded much better than you. God, what a disgusting point of history..”

“Hey! Thad was some of mby best work..”.

“If you say so, dear. Why don’t I close up shop and we head upstairs for a spot of tea, hm? I bought that kind you like. The stuff from India.”.

“I’mb ndot sigk but that sounds ndice, Angel..”.

[nilim]

If your still taking prompts for drabbles, someone in the new group is afraid of thunderstorms and needs comforting. Anyone you choose.

This is a very old prompt, but somehow this is the one that inspired me tonight. Here it is finally.

---

Curled, green fingers traced raindrops down the window as the storm outside lashed out against the glass. Nott sat quietly curled up in the window sill. She could feel the cold glass leeching heat from her through the soft woollen blanket she had wrapped around herself. A flash of lightning startled her, but the thunder was slow and rumbling; still far away. She relaxed.

Between curtains of rain she could occasionally catch glimpses of the large oak tree on the other side of the courtyard. As her eyes focused and unfocused on it she suddenly found herself peering into her own reflection. The moment snuck up on her, and she let out a soft, shuddered breathe. It fogged up the window, hiding her face.

Nott closed her eyes, taking the time to steady herself. As she opened them again, the glass was clear and she took a moment to just look.

She studied every inch of her face. The dark freckles on her small upturned nose. Her curled lips and crooked teeth. She caught her own eyes and studied them too; the tired lines at the outer corners. The seriousness of her gaze. The deep swirls of green and yellow in her irises. Her gaze wandered upwards towards her hair, green strands plastered to her forehead. It was a tangled mess of knots and dried dirt. Not exactly the visage of a lady.

Maybe she should borrow Jester’s comb again.

Her eyes wandered once more, and she noticed other reflections beyond her own cast against the dark, swirling background. The large bed behind her, empty but inviting. The fireplace; warm and glowing, making her silhouette dance against the glass. The dark shape of Caleb, quietly sitting in a chair in the corner, his head bent down between the pages of a book. She turned to look at him, listening to the wind get caught in a crack between the window and the wall, howling and whistling.

The spattering of the rain mixed with the crackling of wood and fire, the rumbling in the distance, and Caleb slowly rifling through the pages of his book. She felt the rhythm sync with her own breathing. It was like a symphony of comfort.

She could stay here forever.

Caleb straightened up, scratched the back of his neck and then turned to reach for the mug on the small wooden table next to him. As he lifted the drink towards his lips, he caught Nott looking at him, and he paused to give her a brief smile. Nott blinked, a spell broken.

As they shared the moment of contemplative silence, a question bubbled up in Nott’s mind. Without further thought, she spoke up:

“Do you think we’ll ever find a home?”

Caleb stopped, holding the mug to his lips. A brief moment passed, before he lowered it and looked at Nott with a thoughtful gaze.

“What do you mean by that?”

“That’s what humans do, right? Build homes?” Nott asked. She looked down, peering at her bare feet poking out from underneath the blanket. They were dirty. Just like the rest of her. She wiggled her toes and specks of dirt fell onto the window sill.

Humans liked to keep their homes clean, she knew.  

“Well, don’t most creatures?” Caleb replied, uncrossing his legs and setting down his book on the small table next to his chair. He nodded towards the window. “It keeps you safe from nasty weather like that.”

“Goblins don’t. We never build things. We just hide in caves or underground, where the rain can’t reach us.” Nott replied, wiping away the dirt from the window sill onto the floor. She looked up towards Caleb, swinging her legs off the ledge, leaving her feet dangling in the air.

Caleb paused, his eyes wandering around the room before finally settling back on Nott. He gestured towards all the furniture in between the both of them.

“You know a home is more than all of this, right? And it’s definitely more than just the rocks and bricks and lumber that make up this building. A home is a place you always want to return to, so a cave can also be a home.”

Nott was quiet for a moment, thinking back on her life with her clan. The concept of a home had always sounded wonderful to her. These houses; full of light and warmth and comfort. They didn’t sound anything like the caves she knew.

“I don’t think I ever considered our cave to be a home.” Nott said softly. “As long as I remember, I’ve always wanted to get away from there.”

Caleb gave her a soft smile in reply, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “That’s okay.”

He picked up his tea again, holding the cup with both of his hands. He stared deeply into it, as if the murky liquid might grant him some vision of the future.

Or perhaps - the past, Nott thought as she studied his expression.

“I think the point is, you can make a home anywhere with a little bit of effort. It’s not made out of… stuff. It’s made out of…” Caleb faltered, searching for the right words.

“Well. It’s made out of a feeling, I suppose. A home is your refuge, the place you go to feel safe and comfortable.”

Another flash lit up the room - Nott could briefly see her own long shadow appear on the floor, outlined against the window. She opened her mouth to ask another question, but before she could get that far, a loud thunderclap rattled the windows. Instead of a question, a short, shrill squeak escaped her lips. She leapt down from the ledge and bounded towards the bed.

A few moments passed as she cowered underneath her blanket. Then she noticed the room had grown expectantly quiet. She apprehensively poked her head out once more. Her eyes immediately caught the bemused gaze of Caleb. He was grinning.

She could feel her cheeks flush, quite annoyed at the smug look he was giving her.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Caleb pointed out, sipping his tea. Nott glared at him.

“Look, you know I’m not a fan of rain. So what if I’m not a fan of lightning either?” She said, feeling defensive, wrapping the blanket around herself more tightly.

Caleb raised an eyebrow. “Nott. I’ve seen you shoot lightning out of your hands.”

“That’s... different.”

“How is that diff-” Caleb began, but was interrupted when there was a soft knock at the door. They shared a look, both confused.

Caleb got up and gently opened the large, oak door, peering through the crack to identify their visitor. Before Nott could get a good look herself, another loud thunderclap announced a lightning strike quite close by. At the same time, a quick, blue blur pushed past Caleb. Nott immediately recognized the figure as Jester. Standing now just inside the room with her back against the wall next to the fireplace, she was nervously wringing her hands. She was wearing a simple, white nightgown.

“Well come in, Jester.” Caleb said, closing the door behind her. “What gives us the honour of your visit at this late hour?” Nott could hear a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Weeeell... Beau has gone somewhere and I don’t know where she is, and I’ve been all alone in our room for hours. I’m lonely and bored.” Jester said, slightly relaxing. “I saw the light underneath your door and figured you guys could use some company!”

“Hm.” Caleb replied, crossing his arms. Lightning flashed. Jester jumped, nearly knocking a candle off its sconce.

Caleb sighed.

“I’ll make us some more tea then.” He said, moving towards the fireplace. A small, brass teapot was hanging from a lug pole crane. He removed the lid to check the water level and then swung it over the side of the fire.

While Caleb busied himself, Nott and Jester shared a look. A few seconds passed and then Nott slowly lifted up one side of her blanket. A grateful smile appeared on Jester’s face as she hurried over towards the bed. Nott could feel the warmth radiating from the Tiefling’s body as she settled in next to her. It was nice.

Jester was quiet and they both watched as Caleb poured them two mugs of tea, before he himself settled back into his chair. When he caught them both staring at him, he sighed.

“You know, statistically, the chances of getting hit by lightning are-”

“Caleb.” Nott muttered, a warning evident in her voice. Caleb paused and then shrugged, thinking better of finishing his sentence. He returned to his book and a comfortable silence settled down on them.

Slowly sipping her tea, Nott listened as the thunderstorm continued to rage far above them. As another particularly violent thunderclap made her jump, Jester draped one arm over her. She leaned towards Nott and whispered in her ear;

“Back in Nicodranas, when I was just a little girl, I sometimes got scared because of storms like this.” She smiled at Nott. “And you know what? My mom would always hum to me this one song, and it would always make me feel loads better. Do you want to hear it?”

Nott hesitated briefly, but then quickly nodded as another flash lit up their room. Jester grinned, settled back against the frame of the bed and began to softly hum underneath her breathe. It was a kind of melancholic tune, but something about it was familiar and made the soft, nervous thrum of Nott’s heart settle down in her chest.

As she listened, she finished her tea, and could hear the slow rhythm of the raindrops hitting the windows return as the storm gradually moved away. Eyelids growing heavy, a soft glow spread through Nott´s body. Lying warm and comfortable underneath the blankets, Jester’s humming was like a lullaby. She could stay in this moment forever.

You can make a home anywhere, she thought. Caleb had said that a home was made out of a feeling. But maybe, home was made out of people instead.

She liked that idea. That meant she could take her home with her anywhere she went.

[harold308165-blog]

Cleansing Skin Care - Top 4 For You To Baby Skin Color

Skip shaving your legs and use wax, depilatory, and/or soy-based body moisturizing (which slows hair re-growth) to be free from of your unwanted body hair during the cold months. Shaving dry skin could be irritation. First summer time seems to deliver more drive. More bugs brings bug bites Skincare Tips . Those nasty little bumps that hurt and itch in great amounts. But don't do it, don't scratch. I know you're dying to, but scratching can trigger scarring improvements not what you require left behind when summers over. Incredibly best deterrent Located was immediately apply a piece of ice. After the initial itch wholly apply a calamine lotion or hydrocortisone cream. Please remember itching and scratching can cause permanent damage (scarring), avoid it. Cleanse, tone, and protect the skin on deal with and neck with a good protective day cream, preferably one with a humectant or liposomes. Humectants help retain moisture and liposomes are microencapsulated moisture agents which have delivered deep into the skin, often with timed-released agents in order that longer shielding. Look for a product with a sunscreen for at least 15. Do not forget that the bridge of the nose can receive sunburned and also the eyelids and ears.

Form a simple skincare routine so that the products would not turn into some burden to your skin. Only cleansing and moisturizing are meant to be the essential steps in every day. Also make sure you use the natural or organic items that contain no irritant ingredients at all. People, which dry skin, try to drink two-three liters of water every month. Try to make it your habit as water is particularly essential for body. Some people will want not only better skin but also perfect figure should attempt to avoid eating junk food as these food items contain a fat. Add brown bread, whole grain, oat bran and Alpha Visage Reviews flax seeds to your breakfast. Shave with pride. Pick the best electric shavers and razors that you can depend on. Men will never use really sharp blade to remove their facial hair. A standard shaver used with soap and water, or shaving cream (soap) may you obtain that smooth finish. Doctors suggest men to shave gently, and shave only if needed for acne skincare maintenance. The second tip help you reduce the baggage and puffiness under eyesight. You may have seen this next tip in the media or from the movies, and laughed at it, but it actually works. You will slice a cucumber and Alpha Visage Cream apply different the slices to your eyesight. You can even tie a scarf, loosely around your head, to hold them guaranteed throughout the night while you sleep. Cucumbers contain antioxidants aid to get rid of those dark circles beneath your eyes and also reducing any puffiness. There are a associated with weather elements that can damage the skin, bringing on wrinkles and fine lines. Wind damage, for example, can collect period and cause the DIY Skincare skin look older personal computer really is. It can also dry your skin, which might make the usage of an anti-aging skin cream necessary for rehydration. Heat can also affect epidermis by becoming worn the elasticity of your skin. Try to stay cool by wearing breathable, cotton clothing, and take frequent breaks from being outdoors during summer season. The power of precious water. Water is the least developed substance we could possibly use for acne skincare routine. When washing your face, make sure to do it softly. Don't rub and scrub your facial affected skin. For most effective acne skincare results, applying a toner or Alpha Visage Moisturizer mild cleanser one time in the morning, noon and evening, and afterwards huge work out, will assist you achieve an obvious skin.

[iamapoopmuffin]

Nanbaka OC Week - Day 1

So, as I already have quite a few OCs for this I decided to cut it down a little bit and not talk about all of them, but talk about at least one from each section (as I put my OCs for this into three groups when making character files for them - Inmates, Guards and Things I Ship With Canon Characters (Or Civilians)) 

So, an introduction to three of my dumb OCs!

Inmate - #28, Otto Otto is a cheerful and flirtatious person who enjoys teasing those around him. For the most part, he seems to be calm, friendly and fairly sociable, but sometimes says some rather suspect and messed up things, usually without breaking out of his cheerful visage. When not teasing those around him, Otto tends to spend his free time on quiet and rather solitary passtimes, but he does enjoy board games, so if anyone’s up for Monopoly...

Otto is from Italy, and his nickname is the Italian word for the number 8. It is known he has a sister back in Italy somewhere, and he considers the two of them to be close. He’s hoping to see her soon, but she didn’t come to visit him in his previous prison. Still, that doesn’t mean she won’t ever visit him, right? She has a full time job and is probably just very busy, certainly too busy to travel to a remote Island somewhere off the coast of mainland Japan...right?

He is 21 years old, and was originally arrested for murder. He claims to not regret his actions in the slightest. He does, however, accept that he belongs in prison. He did try to escape before, because his sister’s birthday was coming up and he had to get her a gift, but frankly, now he’s at Nanba, he feels right at home in his cell. Moreso than he did back in Italy with those people he killed, certainly. At the moment, he is incarcerated in Building 4, however this was randomised, so there is a possibility it will change.

Appearance wise, Otto is a white male, 5′11, with a slim build. He has lilac hair with seafoam green tips. Honestly, the hair style still needs work, but currently, aside from the left side of the fringe, his hair is short and flicks out in some direction or another. Overall, it may look a bit messy. The left side fringe falls more naturally, but is separated into three sections. Otto wears full framed glasses with green frames, but otherwise his outfit is undecided. His eyes are blue. Unfortunately, I have not yet designed any tattoos or make-up for him, so his design is still in progress, but both of his ears are pierced.

It takes a lot to piss him off, but when he snaps, he snaps.

His cell mates still have nightmares about the Monopoly tantrum.

I have drawn a picture of him before, but it was when I was first figuring out his design so it’s no longer accurate...plus a lot of the colours are too dark. Like, the only purple I had available to me was the same shade as Honey’s hair.

-

Inyoka Atherisi - a guard, building currently undecided.

Inyoka doesn’t really like to open himself up to others. He’s quiet, professional and rather strict. He is not easily angered, but he is easily embarrassed and a little too easily confused, which is more likely to make him raise his voice than anything else. When things happen that he doesn’t like, he’s more likely to ignore it than deal with it, which tends to lead to a build up of bad stuff, though he’s certainly better at dealing with misbehaving inmates than he is his own personal problems.

Inyoka has spent most of his life in Central Africa, but was born in Indonesia. At 24 years old, he is the eldest of two sons. Following his parents’ divorce, his mother and younger brother stayed in Indonesia while he and his father moved back to his father’s home town. At first, Inyoka hated being separated from his brother so completely. Eventually, he stopped caring. His younger brother is currently incarcerated at Nanba prison, and aside from that being one interesting touch of fate, Inyoka tends to ignore that and tries to avoid the tearful, heartfelt reunion his brother wants. Incidentally, Inyoka believes in fate, destiny and similar life forces far out of his control, but the fact his younger brother is in prison for god only knows what act of stupidity is just what Inyoka likes to call ‘bullshit that is going to ruin my life and reputation’. I am currently undecided as to whether his brother, Rora, is in the same building he works in or a separate one.

Inyoka’s appearance sets him as a 5′10, muscular/athletic male with light tan skin. He has long, pink hair with purple flecks and highlights, a yellow-tipped fringe and the underside of his hair is also yellow. His hair is often tied in a ponytail, with the tie near the bottom of his hair, and slightly messy in a way that gives a scale-like effect. He has green eyes and a slightly snakey quality to his appearance. This includes a forked tongue, especially evident when shouting. The Ourobouros symbol - a snake eating its own tail - is present somewhere in his uniform, but I’ve only decided that today (previously it was a tattoo on his right upper arm, but I figured that would never be visible. He may still have the tattoo.) so I’m not totally sure where yet, but the belt is probably a good place, or the top of his boots, but otherwise his uniform is standard. His appearance is based off a red Atheris Squamigera, also known as a Bush Viper, Leaf Viper or Green Viper, a snake endemic to parts of western and central Africa.

Also, toying with make-up ideas, thin layer of eyeshadow, dull pink, with yellow dots under the eyes, again to match the body colours of the red AS.

He loves fizzy drinks and hates humid weather - it makes him feel gross and makes his hair go nasty.

His first name translates into ‘snake’.

He is my newest Nanbaka OC overall, but because he’s my only guard, I’ve given more focus to him than I have to some of my older OCs.

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Most characters I ship with canon characters these days come from accidentally imagining what a character I don’t ship with anyone’s child might look like, and then accidentally imagining the other parent. These are what all my civilians (and female Nanbaka OCs) are formed of at the moment.

I’m choosing to showcase Ruth here, but on the shipping day I might talk a little bit about all my civilian girls. I’m not sure if Ruth or Meigui is the more thought out of my girls, but eh...

Ruth Handley has a personality I find kind of difficult to explain. She’s laid back, confident, and has a bit of a flippant attitude. She’s a bit lazy, and can often be found on days off just lounging on any comfy surface she can. She can seem like a bit of a grump at times and is easily frustrated, and can be a bit difficult to calm down, but she’s a quiet grump, even if her funk can last a while. It’s best to just leave her to defunk herself as well. Bothering her, even if you’re trying to calm her down, can make her outright angry, though she’s not super likely to raise her voice unless she’s worried about something.

Ruth is American, and currently is the oldest of the characters I’ve given an age to, but is only 30. I haven’t decided what she does for a living yet, but she’s definitely a working woman and most likely someone who hates having to rely on others.

In terms of appearance, Ruth has tan skin, red hair, blue eyes, slim build, and I don’t have a specific height for her yet, but she has to be quite tall. She’s definitely the tallest of her friends in the States. Her hair is layered, kind of like Ruka’s - short over layer, long under layer - but obviously the style isn’t the same and it’s not separated into sections. The upper layer is longer and flatter, and the under layer is completely behind her shoulders...if I’m not explaining this well, you’ll have to forgive me, it’s really late as I’m writing this character’s stuff out, sorry, and now I’ve started to describe it in terms of Ruka’s hair I don’t know how to stop :/ *Clears throat* anyway, additionally, Ruth normally wears fairly obvious make-up, but I need to consult someone who knows something about make-up on colours. White or yellow or pink eyeshadow?

Ruth smokes. And likes ‘cuddly’ clothes, you know, the snuggly comfy stuff. Perfect for lounging around in. Fuzzy hoodies. Her favourite place to just lie down and do nothing is her sofa. With the curtains drawn and a bag of assorted snacks. And hot chocolate with marshmallows.

[igniferrus]

Conventional Wisdom

Conventional wisdom states that you don’t make deals with demons.

Emlyn learnt this at age four, sitting porcelain doll still at Lord Alcott’s side during a society dinner. Four years had been enough to teach her many things, like how to walk silently, all the little nooks and crannies in the manor that can hide her treasures — or, in a pinch, Emlyn herself — and that being able to listen unnoticed to the Lord could provide invaluable information on his mood and intentions.

It was easier to go unnoticed as the dusk closed in and the men and women around her turned their attention from food to drink, alcohol loosening their tongues and dulling their senses. It was then, sitting among them and half hidden in the shadows untouched by the low burning candles, that tiny Emlyn first heard the warning: you don’t make deals with demons. She had been debating going to bed, unsure if leaving the room without dismissal or staying where she wasn’t welcome would beget more punishment, when a sudden hush fell, and the atmosphere changed from lighthearted banter to an unbearable tension. She tuned back into the conversation she’d been half-listening to.

“We don’t speak of such things, Jerome. To even mention one of those contracts is to invite an unwanted guest into this house. Lord Alcott will most likely have to hire a mage to ensure his safety,” hissed some duchess at the unfortunate speaker, who was now the focus of hostility.

The venom in her voice had intrigued Emlyn, who leaned forward in an effort to hear more of the conversation. This movement drew a squeak from the old chair she was seated on and brought all the attention to her.

A moment later, Lord Alcott was there, a tight smile on his face and a bruising grip on her arm, hauling Emlyn out of her chair and the room itself. He dragged her from the room, loudly proclaiming that he would return after putting his ward to bed. She went with him obediently, unafraid of her guardian in public places and unwilling to upset him in private.

That night, she sat alone in the dark, puzzling over the implications of her new knowledge. The next day found Emlyn sequestered in the library, trusting books, her only friends, to answer the questions she had. She only found the same words over and over again: you don’t make deals with demons.

*

Thoughts of demons are driven from Emlyn’s mind at age six. Like at four, she was small and thin for her age, but it was not enough to dampen the natural buoyancy of children. Emlyn bounced around the manor, dresses supplemented with the castoff trousers from the cook’s young son, as no one had been able to find a way to get her to stop climbing trees for good.

Emlyn was, however, wont to come inside when it started to rain. Not out of the desire to stay dry or even clean, or, as many assumed, the fear her weak body would fall ill again. Lord Alcott’s wrath at the extensive puddles even an undersized child could make while sopping wet put an end to any schemes that might take Emlyn out into the rain.

It was one such rainy day that she found it. With the ambient sounds of the weather as her backdrop, Emlyn wandered the hall of the manor, turning the problem of demonic contracts over in her mind. It had been a frequent topic for her to ponder over the last two years, and she returned to it again and again, for the simple reason that she could not figure out why the adults around her were so fearful.

From what she’d read, and the books were admittedly reticent with any information of substance, deals with demons could bring great boons, except the summoners had the nasty habit of dying. To the simple mind of a child, the answer seemed clear: plan ahead and you’ll be fine.

Her musings had distracted her from where her feet had taken her, and Emlyn ended up further in the southern wing of the manor than ever before. That specific wing belonged to Lord Alcott, and while it wasn’t forbidden for Emlyn to explore it, it was most certainly not encouraged. The tacit promise of pain or punishment was generally enough to keep Emlyn away.

Perhaps being forced to stay inside made her particularly impish, or maybe it was sheer boredom, but on that stormy day Emlyn decided to investigate Lord Alcott’s private wing. For the most part, it was the same as the rest of the manor — ornate but uncomfortable furniture and large portraits of Lord Alcott in every room.

Less than an hour after her exploration started, Emlyn grew disinterested. She was about to give up and return to the main section of the manor, when a tiny door shrouded in shadows caught her eye. Curiosity piqued, she crept closer, holding her breath in excitement. It seemed to be the entrance to some sort of vault, and it took much struggling for Emlyn to heave the heavy door open.

Upon opening it, her hopes were dashed. It was a small, cold storage room filled with paintings. Emlyn blew a piece of hair out of her eyes and made a face at the way the dust in the air swirled in response. It was a vanity vault, where her guardian stored all the self portraits he couldn’t hang on the walls. Just as she turned to haul the door shut, something caught her eye, as the light from the hallway illuminated one of the canvases. Blond hair.  

Emlyn froze for a minute, then began to silently laugh. These portraits had obviously been put away to avoid the shame of having grey hair in one’s late twenties. Shoulders still shaking with mirth, she approached the painting — really, Lord Alcott’s looked hadn’t suffered much, and if he were anyone else she might have called his long silver tresses handsome and — the boy in the painting had blue eyes.

Lord Alcott’s eyes were a dark brown, so the boy was clearly not him, and Emlyn was at a loss for his true identity. Further examination showed that the painting of were all of unfamiliar children, all at roughly twelve years of age. There was nothing similar between these children, except their stiff and formal pose and their chair. Despite finding nothing concrete to justify it, Emlyn’s stomach churned with dread.

Then she saw it. One of the painted girls’ white sleeve had been transparent enough at the time that the artist had captured the mark on the inside of her forearm, just below her elbow. It was a bruise blue circle with intersecting lines surrounding the star at its center. It matched Emlyn’s perfectly.

Lord Alcott had always told her it was magic — meant to help stop her mystery sickness in a way the doctors couldn’t. When she was particularly weak, he held her arm in both hands and ran his thumbs over it hungerly. She had always assumed it was because despite everything, he wanted her to get better.

Her face whitened in shock as she began to understand. The odds of Lord Alcott even knowing two girls with the same unknown disease were astronomical, much less gain custody of them both because — because she knew that wallpaper behind the other girl, she saw it everyday in the parlor. So even if the ages didn’t line up — the girl looked twelve, Lord Alcott wasn’t yet thirty, and Emlyn was six and had never heard of her — the girl had lived in this house. And there were thousands more portraits.  

Confused and uncertain, Emlyn backed out of the vault until her back hit one of the decorative tables in the hall and a vase shattered on the ground. This loud noise startled Emlyn out of her trance and made her jump. Breathless, she glanced about, pounding heart shuttering to a halt when she saw the stony visage of Lord Alcott.

“You were always one of the most inquisitive ones,” he said with a sigh as a hand reached out to grab onto one of her pigtails and yanked Emlyn closer. She tamped down on the instinctive whimper of pain, as it would do no good to have Lord Alcott hear it. It never brought relief and sometimes made him angrier.

He knelt, looped an arm around her waist and drew Emlyn close to his chest in a way that would be comforting if she trusted him. The furious expression on his face made Emlyn want to cringe away from him, but not even terror could quell her inquisitive nature.

“It’s killing me, isn’t it?” she asked softly, fingering the sigil on her arm.

“Yes,” he answered slowly, “but your essence is keeping me alive, and isn’t that a great honour?”

Emlyn shook her head wildly, a frightened whine escaping from her throat. She pushed against Lord Alcott’s chest, trying to loosen his hold.

“You — you’re my guardian, you’re supposed to protect me! Someone will stop you!” she wailed in childish distress. Her flailing ceased when Lord Alcott grabbed her jaw, tightening his grip until it hurt.

“You are only one among thousands of my batteries. I have lived many lives and haven’t been caught yet.” Lord Alcott let go off her chin and brushed a stray lock of hair back with a false, cold smile. “My batteries rarely live past twenty, little one, so I suggest you keep me happy if you want the rest of your short life to be pleasant.”

Quick as a flash, Lord Alcott scooped up of the vase shards and brought it down from eyebrow to cheek. Emlyn stood frozen in the cage of his arms for a second, until the blood began to gush down the left side of her face, then she gave out a choked cry.

“Remember your place,” Lord Alcott’s deep voice came from somewhere above her. She paid no attention to his leaving, nor his shouts for help — shouts that his precious, sickly, girl had tripped into a vase while running in the halls — as she sank to her knees from the pain. In the wake of the startling revelation and the agony, everything else seemed to fade away.

*

It was not until age nine that the warning and its associated questions were brought back to her attention. She had been climbing on the bookcases in the library in an attempt to see the higher shelves. This quest for new reading material bore fruit, and Emlyn leapt down with an — outdated, if the condition and age of the cover was anything to go by — encyclopedia of demonology.

Shortly after, she was confined to her bedroom, excused from daily life under the usual pretense of being a sickly child, though she really was quite well apart from the contusions and sprained wrist. Unwilling to risk more of Lord Alcott’s ire, Emlyn resigned herself to boredom until she remembered the old tome stashed under her bed. The weeks passed by in a blur of miniscule script and burgeoning ideas, and before she knew it, Emlyn was free to move about the manor again — and gather supplies.

The process was tedious and time consuming. It took months for Emlyn to gather the supplies, as she was forced to steal it in bits and pieces. Her light fingers were able to filch phoenix feathers, herbs, and even an ounce of silver without detection, among other ingredients. The chalk used to draw the sigil was easy enough to get, she just pocketed a stub when one of the labourers asked her to take their scraps to the garbage.

The night she chose to conduct her ritual was carefully chosen. Lord Alcott himself was one town over, paying tribute to someone higher on the social ladder than he; the various staff had taken advantage of this and drank during the early evening and slept soundly. Not a creature stirred as Emlyn crept downstairs, books and supplies cradled in her arms.

In the damp of the cellar, she drew the sigil so that it covered the entire floor. The intricate central circle provided the majority of the power, while the four peripheral circles stabilized the magic. With every ingredient in place, she lit dozens of candles placed strategically around the room, picked up the most worn of the books, and read aloud from the bookmarked page.

The effect was immediate. The flames around her took on an unearthly green glow and the already chilly air plummeted in temperature. In the distance, there was the distorted howl of some animal, clearly in pain. The outline of a twisted form faded in and uncurled, revealing a creature that seemed to be made of grey mist. Its features were largely indistinguishable, aside from the horse’s head.

The demon stared, and Emlyn had to concede she was most likely not the expected summoner. Even at nine, she was undersized, with the gauntness and pallor that were part and parcel of ill health. Her shoulder length black curls were pulled into pigtails with red ribbons, which, coupled with her oversized nightgown, gave the appearance of an even younger child. At odds with this image was the striking scar on her face, and defiant set of her mouth.

In the silence between them, Emlyn, unsure of proper demon summoning etiquette, stepped forward and offered her hand.

“Hello, esteemed one,” she began, having been raised to be the model of politeness, “I would like to read your grimoire, please.”

The horse head did not move, yet Emlyn both heard and felt the reply deep in her chest.

“Little one, we demons are not foolish enough to bring our grimoire into the realm of mortals,”

“I understand, esteemed one,” the answer had been expected. A demon’s grimoire was the sum of its knowledge of magic. Each demon had their own personal version, though some spells and enchantments were universal. They were jealously guarded, for they contained incredibly powerful magic, and had never been brought into the tangible world of humans; they were kept in the spirit realm inaccessible to most beings. Emlyn gripped her forearm tightly, the sigil seeming to burn her hand through her nightclothes. “However, I still wish to read it. I need the information it contains,”

The horse head loomed nearer, and the thick grey mist curled around the child, clutching at her possessively. “Are you offering to make a deal with me, little Emlyn Alcott?”

Emlyn shuttered at the use of her full name, but she was not ready to admit defeat.

“Yes,” her voice was naught more than a hoarse whisper. The foundations of the manor shook with the demon’s laughter.

“What can you offer me that I cannot obtain for myself?” demanded the demon, who obviously did not believe the waif could actually offer anything of value.

“A physical vessel in the human world,” replied Emlyn without hesitation.

The demon took a moment to ponder the child in front of it. Her posture was open, welcoming even, and held nothing defensive in it. Her expression was calm, and she stared directly ahead, neither shying away from the demon, nor challenging it. The demon could detect no deceit in Emlyn, and it decided that yes, she truly intended to exchange demonic possession for the chance to read its grimoire.

Emlyn’s lack of hesitation was mirrored in the demon. It noted with glee that the child was clearly a novice mage — if even that. She had used a truly impressive amount of reference books to achieve a summoning enchantment so weak the demon had originally come only to investigate how some fool had accidentally called on it. There was little chance she would be able to understand any of the concepts in its grimoire, so there would be no danger in allowing her to read it while the demon ran amok in her body. With a predator’s sharp smile on its horse face, the demon accepted Emlyn’s deal.

It felt like a violent tumble down the stairs. The sudden lose of sure footing, the feeling of falling head over heels, and the disorientation they caused were familiar, though it lacked the grounding sensation of finally hitting the ground and the pain that signified the ordeal was over.

It didn’t feel over. Emlyn felt like she was floating, it was a strange sense of weightlessness that jarred her senses and made her feel a little nauseous. More disconcerting was looking up and seeing how her own body grinned hellishly back at her, the demon’s telltale grey mist flowing gently from her eyes, mouth, and nose. Looking down, Emlyn noted distantly that she was, in fact, floating, her faded and incorporeal bare feet dangled half a foot above the floor.

With a wave of its — her — hand, the demon’s grimoire popped gently into being, on the same half-real plane of existence Emlyn inhabited. She reached for it and held it as tightly as two unreal things could hold each other. She tucked her legs up under her, and hovered there in an approximation of sitting, and eagerly inspected her prize.

Only when Emlyn first bit her lip in confusion did the demon feel confident enough to leave. It turned and took one step towards the door when it slammed face first into a containment field. It whirled on the girl, whose concentration was still fully on the tome in her hands.

“What is the meaning of this?” it shrieked in a mixture of its previous otherworldly voice and Emlyn’s own childish one.

“Anything with too high of a level of demonic energy cannot leave the containment field of the summoning circle. Surely you were aware of that?” responded Emlyn without looking up; she was trailing her finger down one of the last pages, too fast to actually be reading it.  

The demon snarled under its breath as it looked down and confirmed that the child’s feet were indeed firmly planted within the chalk outlines of the circle. For a moment it was lost in its own confusion. How could this be, when a summoning circle had to be activated from the outside? Then the rage returned as it remembered that the first thing Emlyn had done after she had seen the demon, after she was certain the summoning ritual was complete, was take a step forward.

It made the demon want to howl in a way the human body it now inhabited was incapable of. Its grand plan of causing mayhem, defeated before it even began. Now the child would have the privilege of reading a demon’s grimoire without paying a toll! Then, a malicious, self-satisfied smile curled the body’s mouth. The child could read if she wanted to because there was no way a novice, no matter how clever, would be able to comprehend the complex theories.

The demon’s sudden chuckle wrenched Emlyn’s attention from the grimoire to her possessed body. At her questioning look, the demon explained the reasoning for its mirth.

“We are at an impasse, child. I wish to be free of these constraints, and you will undoubtedly want to return to your own world. Only I have the power to return us to our original states, and I demand payment equal to my humiliation.”

“I could let you die,” Emlyn’s pronouncement effectively killed the demon’s laughter, its — her — face looking lost and confused. “You’re in a mortal body that can’t leave this area. It is already malnourished. How long do you think you have before you starve? It’s only in your interests to switch back, as I could happily read your grimoire for the rest of eternity.”

The demon screeched, head flung back and looking wild, with the grey mist still coiling around its face mingling with the blood trickling from its nose — the result of walking smashing into the containment field. While in the thralls of its fit, the demon failed to notice how Emlyn traced her finger in a pattern on the cover of the grimoire, murmuring something under her breath.

Without warning, the falling sensation ended. Emlyn’s head spun, in part from the pain of being thrust back into her body, but also because of the throbbing in her nose. With her unoccupied hand, she wiped the blood from her face while glaring furiously at the demon.

“That hurt,” she muttered, and stepped away from the clearly livid demon, hoping that her rudimentary containment field would not fail her at the most crucial moment.

“You will pay —” the demon cut itself off when it caught sight of what was in Emlyn’s hand. The grimoire’s cover glowed eerily, the pattern a simple bonding charm, and the lilac light implied the book had accepted its new master.

It lunged for her but was once again stopped by the containment field. The horse head tilted at an angle that suggested a broke neck as the demon considered its revenge. Unconcerned by its obvious frenzied attempts on her life, Emlyn cut her energy off from the summoning circle, and the sudden lack of fuel caused it to fizzle out and die. The demon faded as the candle light returned to its usual colour, cursing Emlyn’s name.

Tucking her prize securely under her arm, Emlyn quickly and efficiently cleaned up the evidence of that night’s work before she returned to bed for a few more hours of sleep, the grimoire under her pillow.

Since that fateful night, whenever Emlyn’s chores took her down to the cellar, she felt the dark presence she assumed were low level demons that were attracted to the site of a summoning. Using the grimoire, she decided on a few trinkets and treats she thought they’d like and began leaving them in the spots where the demons congregated.

After all, conventional wisdom states that if you make an enemy, it was best to make some friends too, and Emlyn wasn’t done making enemies yet.  

[serviceforthenewarrivals-blog]

[mvsesf-blog]

tag dump.