world's best sacrificial lamb 🖤

written by piri (30, he/they). / themes of: nature will kill you and then make new things from you. innocence lost and innocence found. the aftermath of unspeakable tragedy. kindness. warning for body horror, follow at your own discretion. / follows back from pennyawfuls. character sheet under the cut.

ask. / memes. / lore.

"oh, i don't want to die, it's just that i can't die. because i am already dead, you see."

nól stares down at the bugbear's spear stuck through her abdomen. she could have cast a spell at range, but then she might have hit the tiefling astronomer, or-- heavens forbid!-- she might have missed entirely and that poor tiefling would be the one skewered instead. no; inflict wounds was definitely the best course of action.

she looks up at eleva with a vague smile.

"only half? that's strange. most of the time you ought to remember nothing at all."

'you' being 'people', in this quasi-hypothetical. (or maybe 'you' being 'i'?)

"true possession doesn't really fall into the talents of a ghost," nól continues thoughtfully. "it's more of a demon thing, or aliens. even a poltergeist can't really make you forget. they just need your muscles for a bit."

something taps quite loudly on the wall, two knocks in quick succession, as if to confirm. she is unbothered.

show itself in nól's shadow

throw things at you

stand at your bedside and watch you sleep

if pyewacket doesn't like you, it will:

mark said there has been a string of murders lately that suggest a vampire, so naturally, they've gone to the nearest occult bookstore for research. it's midday outside-- the wisest time to research vampires, in nól's experience-- but in the far, cramped back end of the narrow shop, the only light is a weak fluorescent half-blocked by the stacks. dust and dim and close space doesn't bother her, though! she is used to being in a coffin.

she can only read one out of every ten or twenty book title, though. she has to pull them out and look at the covers or flip through for illustrations in order to judge whether they'll be helpful. presently, she's on her tiptoes on the second-from-bottom tier of a packed bookshelf.

the feeling of someone's hand at her waist or in her hair isn't worth noting-- nól assumes someone is passing by behind her, or wants to glance at what she's reading. but then there's warm breath on her shoulder. hard teeth in her platysma. she startles, makes a nervous bleating noise, and nearly falls on top of him.