Carole is—— Carole sits with a straight back, lengths and lengths of black cloth in a cloak, a cape, a robe, loose off the sleeve, pooling fabric. He, it, them - they do not sit in a chair like everyone else in the office, Carole sits of a sort of cement slab bench, legs must be tucked up under the fabric. When <character1, he, them, you> enters the room, there is no discernible face, only what look to be the creases of eyes. Beside you, <character2steelethecommander> Is introducing you to the other agents in the room, showing you to your desk. Carole is introduced as the ‘counsellor’ of your sect, a <Fehruvian, Ferouxvian?Feruh>.
When it comes time to make your introductions, you’re hesitant at first – the creature is humanoid in shape but thin and wiry and altogether unknown. Eyes – you were correct in that at least – open to an amused crinkle, the irisless sclera shivering at a blue-green-yellow-orange; colour seeming to swirl almost like an oil spill, or one of those holographic pictures you can buy at cheap gift shops and dollar stores. A thin, thin dark hand reaches for you, to touch your face. <Character2,commander,introducer> SI still behind you, watching with arms crossed and relaxed. You decide to put your faith in this ‘counsllor’. The skin that smoothes across your jawline, cuping your chin is electrified velvet, the touch jolting against your mind.
Warmth, amusement, slides across your consciousness from the outside. You find yourslef involuntarily relaxing and the friendly flitting.
“It is my pleasure to meet you, <character1youthisisyou>, <character2steelecommander> has been very anxiou of your arrival, I assure you. Come, will you sit with me? We will talk, you will relax. It will be good.”
- - -
Carole is—- supposed to be comfort. Friendly. Very VERY touchy. contact-oriented. Looks simple, inhuman, something unknown thatmakes you nervous. Feels like home.
Your name is Amaimon, and you are the Earth King of Gehenna. Currently you find yourself hanging upside down from a light fixture, your gangly legs crossed around the base as you stuff your face with a delightful dish filled with little nubby appendages you find have the most precious gummy squish to them. So far, your favorite part about being in Assiah has to be the food. You’ve found an exceptional amount of sweets to your liking, and have no idea why anyone wouldn’t fall madly in love with such confectionary.
Honestly, it’s the only good thing about this plane. Everything else is dreadfully boring. Which, you correct yourself after a second, isn’t completely true. Some things are more interesting than others, though most of them originated in Gehenna anyways.
Your thoughts are interrupted by a brilliant plume of pink smoke from behind you. A little whisp curls past you, and you turn your head to acknowledge the new presence.
In an eccentric flourish, Mephisto Pheles removes his hat and hangs it on a hook that is attached to nothing. His coat and scarf come next, and then the hook and garments are gone, the negative space filled with the same fragrant pink smoke as was his entrance. From your perch, you tilt your head at him, clicking your chopsticks between your teeth.
'Good day to you, little brother!' He coos as he crosses the soft red carpet towards you, his tail unfurling from it's home around his waist in a daring show of both his comfort around you, or that he finds you absolutely no threat to him. You take it with a grain of salt, as you're pretty sure the saying goes.
If there was one thing Death the Kid strives to keep under control, it’s his neurosis over Human Flaws. There is nothing worse than feeling his skin prickle when Patti has her hair clipped only on one side, revulsion fluttering through him faster than he can stamp it down. He doesn’t mind the frustration as much; striving for true beauty in symmetry fills him with such a swell of positive emotions it was overwhelming. Things /should/ be beautiful, symmetrical, -perfect-.
Death the Kid is completely over Crona’s hair. It had bothered him for a long time- straggly and imperfect, slobby and unforgivable. Disgusting.
Kid took a deep breath from where he sat on the sparkling balcony, a smile slowly blooming from a smirk to a grin as he tucked his hand under his chin.
He had come to terms with Crona’s hair by the time the meister had come to him, all small smiles and clutched elbows.
"Soul said that you would not mind, perhaps, to cut my hair..?" Crona started, "Maka said it’s very scruffy. W-would you like to make it.. Neat?"
Averted gazes, shuffling feet. Kid had agreed, readily. He had loved every second, Crona sitting with his legs together on the stool, shuffling nervously as Kid worked out /everything/. He was sure it had taken longer than Crona would have liked, but the shy swordsman had run his fingers through it in delight once Kid had stepped back.
"It’s very soft, like a girl’s! It feels so light and it moves when I shake my head." Crona had chirped, tilting his head this way and that. “Oh, thank you! I feel so free, that’s so strange. I have no idea why hair would make me feel that.” Crona smiled warmly, twisting one of the longer bits between delicate fingers.
It took a couple adjustments, but it was perfect. Glancing over the railing of the balcony to the small cluster of people in the garden now, it was still perfect. Both sides swept out just slightly, the same amount. A small lock of hair came down longer in front of each ear, just so. Perfect. Kid beamed just thinking about it. Stunning.
Crona seemed to preternaturally sense the shinigami’s eyes on him, turning to glance back over his shoulder. He split a smile and raised a small wave in greeting, dark eyes meeting Kid’s bright gold ones.
Death the Kid shuddered gently. Almost too perfect he thought as he stood, straightening his crisp suit before returning Crona’s smile and gracefully leaping the balcony rail to join his friends on the soft grass below.
He couldn’t sulk up here the whole night and miss his own party, after all.
Liz and Patti had spent over an hour setting up the small hanging lanterns that lined the yard on both sides alone. Each one was the exact same length apart, the same height off the ground, the same brightness as their partners across the way. Smiling proudly, Liz poked her measuring stick into the grass and leaned against it.
“This is taking so freaking long.” Patti whined as she straightened the tablecloth on the fourth table again.
“It will be worth it, you’ll see. I’d say it was a waste of time for anyone else, but you know Kid is the only one that would actually notice that each tablecloth hangs within an inch of the same length as all the others.” Liz mused back. “We didn’t actually get him anything for his birthday, so straightening everything will have to be enough. I think he’ll love it.”
Otis sighed heavily, craning his head this way and that. Behind him he could hear Lyza humming softly, wiping her axe blade clean. She must have caught sight of his fussing, however, as she spoke up.
"Sore dear?" She soothed, clinking quietly with motion. He snorted audibly.
"It’s nothing important, love."
"Ahh, but how sore you must get, with horns so heavy…" She murmured, and he felt the cool press of her hands across the back of his neck. He stiffened momentarily before relaxing under her touch.
He purred by way of reply to her compliment, shifting his head so she could palm at his sore muscles.
Not that he’d been sore over it for a while. When your horns get bigger and heavier as you grow, you become more accustomed to them. It’s not like they just appear on your head out of nowhere, he mused. Though Lyza’s rack (he snorted internally) was almost as hefty as his own, so he supposed she would understand more than most.
"I must have thrown it out." He murmured quietly, leaning back until he felt his horns rest against soft flesh, "Turned too quickly, tilted something wrong…"
Mallets stands still - anticipating, waiting, breathing, flaming. She has not acted yet, and she will hold for as long as possible. She can feel All of them.
The heat from the sword (hericonheressenceherstrength) coursing up her arm, hot and tense and powerful. Eager.
It whorls up ever muscle, bunches in every cord of her being.
Though not a breath moves through this dimension made of a thousand thousand threads, she imagines she can feel a breeze caress her face, soft and shorn.
Tense, twenty gods stand facing an extra planar deity. Sharp wits, dark threats, struck deals. Everyone is ready to fight, and She fights with all of them.
Lady Mallets, Mother Mallets, Balinda Lisa Dorine Yolanda. Yoyo.
She has been mortal for a very long time. Waiting, preparing. Feeling the heat spread between her shoulder blades.
Now the heat is her, and she has come.
The Mother of War is waiting.
Your name is Lothlorin, and you live on a farmstead in the World Above. You are at the high edge of your teenage years. Your House abandoned their Name and Honour and left the Underdark a few generations ago, though you’ve never been told why. Apparently they killed the original owners of the farmstead and set up camp.
You live with your Mother, a beautiful woman with thick, long stark white hair all bundled down her back. She is strong and proud, and leads you household with a firm hand. You love and respect her with all your heart. She’s the one that loves the World Above, often getting up while the sun is still in the sky to lay on the lawn in the waning light. She’s the reason you get up once the high sun is starting to sink rather than once the dark has already taken the world.
You have a younger sister who barely comes to your waist. Her hair has touches of blonde, and she wears it straight and long. She wears cute white dresses your mother makes for her, and she is the light of your life. You adore your sister, and want nothing more than to protect her from everything that would bring her harm. She likes cats and flowers and the sunshine, even though if she goes out early in the day it burns her eyes. Like you and your Mother ad your Aunt, they’re yellow.
You don’t get along well with your father. He has shoulder-length hair and red eyes. He doesn’t like being in the World Above, and tries to get your Mother to go back underground. He dislikes the way she challenged the House system and runs the family structure in a more human way, but doesn’t say it to her face. You think hes a coward.
Your Aunt is agreeable enough. You don’t know her as well so you don’t speak to her much. Her hair has a silvery sheen to it, and she likes to carve spiders even though Mother abandoned Lolth when she came to the surface. Your mother gets angry at her for it when she gets caught.
Drabble for these characters.
Lothlorin has been trying to teach you Drowish. The first time he spoke his native language in front of you, you had visibly paled. The sounds were potentially the most foreign thing you’ve ever heard. He made small hissing clicks in the middle of his speech, sounds you didn’t know humanoids were capable of making.
You had just stared at him dumbly as he spoke angry gibberish at you. After your lack of response he had sighed and started trying to teach you to understand the basics. There’s no way you can contort your mouth to make many of the sounds, so instead he taught you to recognize the words, then tries to get you to pick up the corresponding sign language.
It’s extremely hard for you to get your head around, (you’re really not the smartest kid) but you’ll admit it’s nice having him speak so intently to you, sometimes bringing his deceptively delicate looking fingers to yours to correct your forms.
It slowly becomes part of your nightly routine with him. You head out to the wading pool at about an hour after dinner with your family, wait for him to get up and join you, all squints and sleepy eyes. You figure he comes out to see you as soon as he rolls out of bed, which you find unbearably flattering.
Then sometimes you two swim in the pool, or wrestle. Sometimes you hunt - generally the most energetic things are done while you can still see in the setting sun. Once the dark of night engulfs the wading pool and it’s occupants, you like to stay closer to him, sitting and talking and not wandering away. Sometimes he works on his scrimshaw, sometimes he tries to teach you his native tongue and it’s secret dialect.
While you love splashing around and fighting with him (you’re so much bigger that if you get his wrists fast enough he can’t do anything but struggle beneath you), it’s the quiet times when he’s working his fingers around the bones, or when he’s making fierce yellow eye contact, speaking slowly and deliberately that you enjoy the most.
Even when he speaks in common, his voice retains the accent, clipped and formal. Unless he’s upset, you note grimly. Then he’s either all hissing and teeth and screeching frustration as he fights against you, or the much, much more unsettling velvet venom.
The first time he dropped his voice that way was when you had come to the pool with a cut cheek and a bruise that flowered across your cheekbone and pulsed uncomfortably even when you weren’t touching it. He had met you with an intense deadpan stare when you showed up later than him, a small hiss escaping between his teeth as he scraped his eyes across the bruise.
"Who did this thing." he had stated, cold and hard. It hadn’t felt anything even related to a question.
You explained you’d gotten into a fight with your father after dinner, that’s why you were a bit later than usual, no big deal, these things happen.
He had asked if you would like him to kill your father.
'He would not even see me coming before I plunged my dirk into the soft of his belly.' He had stated matter-of-factly, only the set of his shoulders giving his anger away.
'If he raises his hand against me, I will remove this from his arm as well.'
You had told him wow, no, no hurting your family that’s not ok at all. It had taken a bit, but eventually he dropped the subject, though his mood remained dark. You caught him glaring at the wound when he thought you weren’t looking.
Though he was your best friend, Lothlorin still scared the fuck out of you. You don’t doubt for a second that if you had said yes he would have followed you back to your farm that night and killed your father in his sleep without a second thought.
You guessed Drow just didn’t have any reservations against that sort of thing. That’s probably why the race is so readily prosecuted when uncovered on the surface world. At least it wasn’t for no reason, you supposed.
Drabble for these chars.
One of your favorite things about the human you spend your time with is what he calls ‘freckles’. You’ve never seen them before you met him, as your own black complexion lacks such irregularity. You’ve found yourself fascinated with them. They cover every part of his body you’ve seen - heaviest on his cheeks and the backs of his arms, but they also spatter across his nose, down the lower parts of his legs, across the tops of his feet. When you go swimming they’re painted across the tops of his shoulders sprinkling downwards - you figure the parts that get the most sun are covered the most.
You’d never say it because it’s creepy, but you like them a lot. At first you thought it was some sort of disease. Relieved of that thought, you found them comical, and when you said as much Ilsen got visibly shy, trying to cover his arms feebly. Now that you’ve gotten used to them, you think they’re quite an endearing quality.
You ask if all humans have freckles, and he says no - they can get them through sunburn sometimes, but it’s usually a genetic trait. You let it slip that you are glad he has that trait.
art by the beautiful sanjista
Another off branch of Ribbon, set before - also based of the asphyxiation headcanon set by Hands Off. Also posted here.
I don’t write /ever/, so it’s all kinds of not good, but it was a gift for a friend who was egging me on as I wrote for her.
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