Peter Solarz
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JVL
Discoholic 🪩
KIROKAZE
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$LAYYYTER
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Jules of Nature
ojovivo
roma★
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
🪼
★
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@crownhcart
#CROWNHCART — a low activity, 18+ multifandom multimuse centered on horror media and dark topics. triggering content running rampant: reader discretion is adviced. sideblog of ghostories.
as narrated by ghost, 29 y/o, italian, any pronouns.
rules / muses / promo / prompts / interest checker
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Is this blog still active?
yes, it is. it is just low activity. i will probably remake the blog only to clean the tags a bit, but it is still active here until i remake, and then will be active on the new blog. all my blogs are always active, unfortunately i can actually write very seldomly.
Do you still have any interest in writing for Cecil? 👀
OH YES I DO! :3c i absolutely still have interest in writing him!! i think that after season 2 (if i remember correctly) the muse for him solidified in my head and will never go away asfjkgh
𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐓𝐎𝐗𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐒 — 𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒
(obsession, ruin, twisted devotion, and the kind of love that bruises)
POSSESSIVE • “MINE EVEN WHEN YOU RUN”
• “Walk out that door and I swear I’ll drag you right back.” • “Don’t look at them. Look at me.” • “You’re not leaving. Not without me.” • “You knew I was dangerous when you touched me.” • “Keep pretending you don’t want me. I like watching you fail.” • “If you run, I will find you.” • “Come here. Now. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
OBSESSION • UNHEALTHY DEVOTION
• “I’d destroy myself for you… isn’t that what you wanted?” • “Tell me you hate me—say it like your hands aren’t shaking.” • “I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s becoming a problem.” • “You ruin me, and I still crawl back.” • “We’re wrong together… but gods, we fit.” • “If you leave, I’ll follow. I always do.” • “You’re the only addiction I never tried to quit.”
MANIPULATION • POWER GAMES
• “Call it manipulation if you want. I call it control.” • “Careful. I know every lie you’ve ever told.” • “You don’t trust me? Good. You shouldn’t.” • “I never said you couldn’t leave. I just said you wouldn’t.” • “You’re trembling—don’t pretend it’s fear.” • “I like watching you try to resist me.” • “You depend on me more than you think.”
PUSH/PULL • CAN’T STAY, CAN’T LEAVE
• “Every time I get close, you run. Yet here you are again.” • “We’re toxic… but I can’t breathe without this.” • “I should stay away from you. So why am I here?” • “Hate me all you want—you still want me.” • “We destroy each other, slowly.” • “Tell me why you always come back.” • “Push me one more time and see what breaks first—me or you.”
BETRAYAL • LIES • PAINFUL LONGING
• “You promised you wouldn’t hurt me. You lied.” • “Don’t act surprised—betrayal is how we communicate.” • “You used me… and I let you.” • “You weren’t supposed to fall for me. That wasn’t part of the deal.” • “You stabbed me in the back and still expect to be forgiven?” • “We lied to each other. And we’re still here.” • “If you want the truth… I never planned on letting you go.”
TOXIC SOFTNESS • DANGEROUS COMFORT
• “Stay with me. Even if it ruins us.” • “I hate how gentle you are with me.” • “Don’t look at me like that… I’ll break.” • “You make me want things I shouldn’t.” • “I should push you away. I won’t.” • “You feel like home—and that terrifies me.” • “I’m bad for you… but you keep choosing me.”
DAMAGE • BREAKING POINTS
• “If this burns, then let it burn all the way down.” • “We’re killing each other softly.” • “Tell me when to stop. I probably won’t.” • “If you want me gone, you’ll have to shove harder than that.” • “Maybe we’re not meant to heal.” • “You bring out the worst in me.” • “Let’s ruin each other properly.”
mun dash game: pick 4 of your favorite characters from fandoms and let your mutuals decide which one you’re most like, as the mun!
Four of them!
Sherlock Holmes (the original from the books)
Battler (Umineko)
Okami (Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice)
John Constantine (Hellblazer)
( ghost's option >:3 )
in which I held myself back a bit, or this list would be full of investigators and nothing else abdkfk. i almost put phoenix wright in there, he IS one of my favourite characters ever.
tagged by @miratenebrarum ! thank you honeyyy <3 tagging YOU, tumblr mobile is hell, if you haven't done this say i tagged you. <3
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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@crownhcart
[ cont ]
WHAT did she just say!!! Relax, have fun, don't think too much about all the horror you witnessed or will witness in the near future! Maaaaan, he got much more boring with the years, didn't he?
...Was it years? Months? Maybe hours. Felt like forever.
Felt like nothing.
"Hey there, watch your--" she swings on the side like the little delighted monkey she is, avoiding the first attack "Watch what y--" the second "QUIT IT ONE SEC-- oof!"
Gets the third, and only then she figures that she might have to get off of him - specifically, she does a masterful pirouette from atop of him, landing on her feet with the grace of a ballerina.
"Is this how we say hi to our old bosses?"
He misses once, twice, and each time his movements get much more exhausted, yet much more violent at the same time. The third attempt is a wider hit, as strong as he could - desperate and uncaring, hoping that it would hit her, or he would have fallen to the ground with her, between the blood and body parts adorning the sand. Thankfully, this time it get her, pushing her down ( almost literally ) and letting him, although stumbling, stay on his feet, his grip on the sword tight to help his legs not give up. Getting tighter as soon as she lands, picking up the weapon and pointing it at her.
And a part of him briefly insults himself for just pointing it at her. Not even attempting a fight, just trying to keep his distance from her, feet carefully bringing him a few steps back from her. He can't even hide the rising panic from his eyes, not concealed enough under the more focused and mature Light shining in them. Her words should make him scoff, insult her, say anything that would place him as far as possible from her. They should make him continue to draw back, and eventually reach the door, and just go away.
But his hands tremble as the sword is pointed at her, and he wants to blame the exhaustion, but he can't. He knows he can't blame anything, not even her, only himself. It took her just to show herself to take again that iron grip on his chains.
He swallows. He tries, he really tries, to tell her to go to hell. And instead, still tense, still pointing his sword to her, he hears himself murmuring: « ... I-I'm... s-sorry, my lady. »
--well that usually doesn't happen!
When he points his gun at people they either freeze or keep on fighting like the rabid animals they are. Rarely one of them went for his hand while looking like a deer standing in front of an incoming carriage, and even more rarely they attempt to-- What. Push him down? Grab him? Grab his goddamn loaded gun?
If it was anyone else, he would've probably shot their fingers off. In a struggle like that, it would've been easy. So easy.
And yet now all he can do is attempt to take a step back, fail to avoid the attack - if it could even be considered one, anyway -, and make sure the muzzle of the gun was directed to the ceiling, and not to that lunatic's head.
He'll blame the bloodloss for how slow he reacted. Or the hesitation.
Mostly the hesitation.
--enough of that. Enough of that. Focus, focus, focus. The first thing he needed to do was putting Reynauld in his place, which means giving him a good kick in the stomach - holding back a painful groan of his own, of course - and hoping that would put him down.
Away from him, too, hopefully.
They'll have plenty of time to talk later.
He feels too dizzy to realize that he doesn't need to put that much strength in his movements to keep Dismas from shooting him. The Highwayman is already pointing it to the ceiling, unwilling to shoot him, but how can he know? How can he trust him, or anyone for the matter? Everyone keeps saying that they saved him, from the chains, from his captors, from the chalice - but he didn't need saving from that! For the first time in his entire life, he was in the right place...! He... he f-felt good! He felt good!! He won't abandon them, he wants to help them in those expeditions he hadn't understood the purpose of, he really wants to be a part of their team, j-just... Just, let him taste the red delight of the chalice, just one last time, ONE LAST TIME...!!
He has been trained restlessly on avoiding the fight when it gets too close, to use his own sword as a instrument to both harm and keep his distance from the foe, yet it all gets forgotten in an instant. His dizzy mind can't form a single clear thought, the instinct that should tell him he's too open for an attack completely silent. The Church would sigh at his umpteenth failure. His father would be so wrathful, so ready to administer punishment upon him. Glad, even, to do that.
He can see him reflected in Dismas' eyes, just for an instant, before the kick hits him at the stomach.
Reynauld barely saw it coming, and doesn't make it in time to do anything to stop it. It hits full force, his grip on the other's arm suddenly becoming nothing, his legs giving up on him as the kick sends him stumbling back a couple of steps, and then down on the floor. His pained coughs fill the empty air between them, close to a retch, both hands pressing on the stomach as he rolls to the side and curls up, giving his back to the Highwayman. Just a pathetic little child, downed by a single hit from a wounded man. He coughs and coughs, trembling sickly as if having a fever, tears rolling down from his tightly shut eyes.
« I... s-so...ry...! » he can only stutter, letters barely distinguishable between the coughs and the hiccups. « I di...n't wan...ted to...! »
Things went bad way too fast. Baldwin was the first to fall, and quite frankly that alone made the team's morale go down the shitter. It wasn't the best expedition they had, far from it, but deep down a small, stubbornly still surviving part of Dismas still dared to hope for a good outcome. Maybe that's why he dared to take a step too far. To face one last enemy, take one last detour, so close to the tavern. He didn't really react when Baldwin fell, or when Junia - the one person who fully agreed with him, just a handful of seconds before - got thorn to shreds by the abomination of the week. He just... stood there, shocked by the sudden turn of events.
Maybe his resolutions wasn't as stable as he thought. Nor was his sanity. Or himself, for the matter. By the time he snapped, lifting his gun to shoot at--
Feck's sake, at anything?! Something that moved, and shouldn't be moving.
...by the time he tried to shoot one thing, another attacked, hitting with the same strenght of a building slamming directly on him.
The shot misses, he falls for the Light knows how much, he coughs. He notices blood.
"...Christ-!"
Two buildings. And a third one incoming, far too fast to be blocked--
--by him, anyway.
He didn't even realize Reynauld was still alive by the time he went down, let alone still strong enough to fight back. He says... something. Words Dismas doesn't catch, too focused on his pain - god, how many ribs are still there? Four, five? -, but he does understand they still have a chance to, if not win, get out of there in at least three pieces.
So, still from the floor, Dismas rolls, and aims.
"On yer right"
And shoots, barely waiting ( hoping ) for the Crusader to move away from the incoming bullet, aimed instead between the Woodsman's eyes.
Blurred, blurred, blurred. The Woodsman looks like a barely coloured shape, browns and reds mixing together. The scent of blood is too strong, making Reynauld's head spin. Both hands join at the sword's handle, trying to keep it up, trying to appear at least slightly intimidating. From the sound coming from the shape, and its vague movements that makes it seemingly bigger, he supposes he's accomplishing the opposite.
His grip tightens, preparing to... swing? Hope to hit? But then, Dismas voice comes from behind him, much more clear over the throbbing headache than any other sound he's hearing right now. An indication, go to the right. And so he does, moving immediately to the side, quick as if the hit to the head did nothing to him - and stumbling as soon as out of harm's way, falling to his knees as his equilibrium suddenly breaks. He barely manages to keep up at least his torso, blinking painfully as one eye can't stay open well. He touches it, and when his hand moves back in front of his face, he can recognize with difficulty a large red stain on the gauntlet.
The hit on the head must have been... much stronger than he thought. The few drops of blood must have become a red river. He can feel the left side of his face terribly wet, and wiping the blood from the eye only leaves space for more of it to drip down. He can barely keep it open.
He lifts his gaze, his heart beating madly in the chest. His mind is just as blurred as his sight, remembering with difficulty about the Woodsman, about Dismas' shot. He looks for it, and finds that brown and red shape barely recognizable on the ground - unsure if it is dead or just downed, not even able to discern any feature on its form. He rises with difficulty, every step threatening to make him fall again as he approaches the other shape that he recognizes as Dismas, trying to take his arm. Still attempting to be somewhat of a guide and a point of reference in the chaos despite everything.
« Dismas— S-sir, we m-must leave...! ». He won't pretend to be able to get to the end of that fight. His sword lies on the ground behind him, forgotten by his owner, not even realizing something is missing from his hands. He can only think of the safety of his only surviving companion - of the only friend still alive. « C-come on...! W-we have to run...! »
oh, the horrors! / @herswxrd bleed + reverse kneel for the butchy circus :3 ↳ [ 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐝 ] : sender has made the receiver bleed. [ 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐥 ] : receiver sender is on their knees in front of the victorious sender receiver.
The crowd roars when Reynauld's sword strikes the younger one. They expected blood, the same blood that the opponent had made him spill through the wounds on the shoulder, the arrows still stuck in it, the entire limb hanging limp on his side, pain too strong for him to move it; but as hard Reynauld hits, it is still with the side of the sword. He sends the opponent flying, make him land badly.
Still, he attempts to stand up. The crusader can see it even before the movements starts - he recognizes that determination ( or perhaps desperation...? ), that unwillingness to stay down until being too broken to move. It's his own. It brought him over the edge so many times.
It made him too pleasing to watch for the crowd and its ringleader.
The other can barely get to his knees, and Reynauld is already on him. The crowd screams at the thought of his sword drawing blood, but his movement stops right before doing anything, the blade just barely touching the other's throat. He keeps it there for a few, needed seconds of catching his breath, looking for his eyes, demanding / begging ) to stay still. To give him his attention.
« Stay down. » he tells him - murmurs, barely, half a request, half aa somewhat desperate advice. « Really. Stay down. D-don't win this. Don't make them love you. » He gulps quietly. In that short moment of humanity he's letting himself feel in so long, the facade of the ringleader's champion slowly slipping, he has never looked more exhausted. Not even the dungeon had brought him this far. « Stay down. Lose. Or they will never let you go. »
@lostshcll "Y- You want me to go down there, kill those crabs and risk death, just so you can get that. Thing????" The thing in case being a particularly huge can, in admittedly pretty colors - gold and pink, dark and shiny despite the dents. Surely something that could get them a good amount of microplastics, sure, but that would also double his bodycount and risk him an unnecessary death! "No! No no no, I'm sure that they- they got it fair and square, no? It would be like stealing, and that's a huge no no!" a very panicked beat "I'm literally in this situation because someone stole from me!!!"
« You got microplastics in your ears? Yes, that's what I said! » That guy is difficult to deal with today, huh? He thought he had been extremely clear with his instructions, and especially in pointing the treasure he'd have to get back so that he they could become so rich to buy the entire uppertown! What's so hard to understand?
It takes Kril's following stutter to make him understand something about his motives - which, to be perfectly honest, he finds just a poor excuse to make him lose time. And he won't try to hide that thought in any way: he sighs, rolling his eyes, and crosses his claws in front of the chest with an extremely judging glance at the fellow hermit crab.
« Welcome to the real world, princess. » he tells him with a particularly annoyed tone. « It's steal or die out here. And they- », he points at the possibly-near-future-bodycount-rising, « have stolen that shell! Just to keep it there!! There are people out there who need a shell like that, and they are not using it, they just stare at it for no reason at all! Believe me, buddy: you take it from them, and you're doing the entire reef a favor. »
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tagged by: @infernalpursuit i don't even know how long ago SJFKG tagging: you <3 ( if you want )
phoenix wright ( ace attorney ) / koichi zenigata ( lupin iii ) / wander ( wander over yonder )
doctor alto clef ( scp foundation ) / zagreus ( hades ) / skipper ( the penguins of madagascar )
okami ( sekiro: shadows die twice ) / sabin rene figaro ( final fantasy vi ) / john constantine ( hellblazer )
Well, that was a bust. Her eyes closed tight as the blade landed on-- no, next to her, yelping as her own is thrown away with little to no effort.
Something made a terrible cracking noise. Something in her arm. There goes another bone, apparently, and with her luck way more as soon as the Hand squishes her like a bug--
"...I-I--!"
Breathing heavily, Laure instinctively tries to drag herself back, keeping wide eyes on the Hand's helmet, unable to find his own. She shouldn't talk about their mission, that could just make things worse, but-- her religion...!
"There's... a prophecy--!"
As soon as she starts talking, she lets out another yelp, followed by a groan. Speaking hurts. So. Bad.
"If-- if the C-Chosen One... defeats the King once and f-for all--" a cough, filling her throat with an awful taste of iron "--t-the Malaise will disappear...!"
With a gulp, she at least attempts to sound sure of herself, despite how much everything hurts and how terrified she is.
"S-So no matter h-how many times you kill him...! We'll-- we'll defeat the King!"
She stutters, she yelps, she hesitates. The reply delays to come, making his grip on the symmetrical lance grow stronger and his control over himself harder and harder by the second. She must disappear, just disappear, everyone must disappear from the throne room! Yet he's keeping her alive still, although only temporarily, wishing only to crack her bones even more.
Why is he even asking her? Her religion does not matter. No metter how sincere she thinks of herself, people always lie. What is delaying to arrive is an answer he isn't sure he even wants to hear.
And yet, he waits. And yet, when he hears it, he can't but think that she, at least, thinks is the truth. And it makes his heart skip a beat in a sudden sense of despair. That is the reason? Because she thinks killing the King will turn the wrongs right? That the Malaise will just disappear then?
If that is the reason, if they truly believe that... they will never stop. This will be a neverending nightmare. They will never stop, they will never stop...!
« Y-you...! ». One hand grasps his head, the other visibly shaking on the symmetrical lance, desperately stopping himself from hurting her more... « Y-you damned FOOLS...!! » ... and failing, as a violent instinct takes control over him, and his hand leaves the weapon down to attempt to get her, trying to grab her at the neck and lifting her up from the ground. « H-how can't a Guardian of the Truth not realize?! IT'S A LIE! IT'S A DAMNED LIE!! »
@herswxrd The elevator stops in its tracks, and Links steps off to walk deeper into the Shrine. It feels different than usual. Lacking of most lights, signs of what to do, or even the pillars typical of those where he had to challenge a Guardian. Just an armor knelt in front of. Something, someone, he isn't sure. A statue, a corpse, a skeleton? Frowning, Link still prepares himself, holding tight the Master Sword in one hand and the shield in the other as he carefully steps further in the empty room, waiting for something to happen.
The elevator should not be working. Not out of abandonment, he would never allow the place of his King to become anything less than perfect. Most of the lights had been deactivated or destroyed by he himself so to not strain the King's eyes, and then all had been carefully cleaned, to avoid any accidents were he to stand up and walk - for he will, one day, stand up once again, and reign again over the land, over everyone, over him as well.
No, the elevator should not be working, because no one should be using it. No one is allowed the entrance of the throne room if not for the Hand of the King himself. No one must come close to the King. His fingers tighten feverishly on his symmetrical lance, barely containing the sudden flame of fury starting to burn inside of him. He cannot show it so suddenly, he is an extension of the King himself: he must act strongly, but without letting his temper get the hold of him. Focus. Focus.
The elevator stops at their floor, and small steps starts to echo in the room. For a moment, he simply waits, hoping to hear them draw back and flee - but they do not, of course. So, his grip on the weapon becoming so strong to threaten to break it, he slowly stands up.
When he turns, he doesn't care that he finds himself in front of someone so small, compared to himself. He doesn't care how young he looks, how frail his puny sword seems near his symmetrical lance, lift from the ground and pointed at him with one single, powerful yet almost elegant movement. He only sees an intruder. And he wants him out of there.
« No one is allowed in the Throne room. » he declares, his voice resounding deep and yet almost choked by such a long time without using it. « Leave. Now. »
James apologizes, and Anya, in response, doesn't seem surprised one bit about those two, simple words.
Everyone is obsessed with them, too.
"There's no need." she shakes her head, a hint of a gentle smile still present on her lips for a second before she returns to look through the board games. His own change of expression isn't seen, but it's heard in his tone.
She isn't as bad at this as she thought, after all. The wonders a good patient can do...!
"...how about Snakes and Ladders?" Anya chirps, taking out a particularly old box, one that certainly had seen better days... but from what she could see as she opened it, still had all the pieces necessary, as old and chewed on as they were "I didn't play this in ages, but it's a good way to turn off your brain.
Surely better than Monopoly. I'm glad you didn't pick that one."
His tone changed, and so does her. It's a hint of her former self reappearing after so much time. A more jokey side, a bit sarcastic, openly so, a sass without malice. The game is left on the desk in front of them, and she absent-mindedly prepares the necessary.
"We can just play, if you want." she continues, her eyes focused on the small tokens she places on the first square of the grid and the dice she pushes closer to James "I'd love for us to talk more. But I think we'll have plenty of time for that another time, if you prefer."
He smiles wearily, through sincere, at her proposal. He feels his hands finally releasing their iron grip on each other and becoming a much more gentle hold as he moves them to rest them on the table, even managing a short chuckle under his breath at her words about Monopoly. It has been so long since he felt... normal. Like any other man again, in a room like any other, talking with someone like any other. The small and simple everyday life he came to miss so much.
He is not like any other man, that is not a room like any other, and he's talking with someone who is not like any other, he is aware. But it's the illusion that matters, that makes him feel a little bit alive, after so long.
« You're welcome. » he replies with amusement. « Yes... That one is okay. »
She leaves the game between the two of them, and starts to prepare it. For a few moments, he just watches her, finally starting to feel more than his hands relax. The tension of his shoulders is slowly loosing up, and he even manages, despite just barely, to take a less mechanical and much more natural pose on the chair. His hands eventually manage to leave each other, as one reach for the manual for a quick self reminder of the rules. He looks at her, just for a moment, only when she speaks again about talking.
He hesitates, there. His eyes focus on her for but a second, then wander back on the instructions, then ends up staring at the blackened window on the wall between them. He doesn't feel anxious, this time. Just... mh. He's not that sure, to be honest. Sad, perhaps...?
« ... I'm... not sure we will, to be fair. » He stares at the window for a few seconds longer, than he moves his attention to the board, and the pieces placed on the first square. He can't but wonder how long the game will last before he will be forced to interrupt it. With a sigh, he picks up the dice. « Not because of you. I'm... not sure you understood what I'm from. ». He looks at her for a moment, and smiles shyly. « And, hm... I don't want your bosses to be mad at you. I-I'd love to talk more too, in any case. I'm... I'm not sure I can reply to everything, but I can try. »
examine! / anonymous Examine! a bottle of black ink for Sammy
The dim light seems to reflect only on the object your Lord had sent you to fill. The bottle of black ink in your trembling, humbling hands. You're keeping it under one of the many flows of ink, letting it fill it to the brim, like you always do. Your only eye stares at the object, transfixed on it. Empty of any light, without any emotion. Only that nerve wracking, constant sense of anger.
To your Lord, that ink is more important than you. Everything is more important than you. Always. You serve him, every single fiber of your being is his, every waking moment is of his and every sleeping moment just a poor attempt at recharging your strength to serve him again. But you are never enough, you are never truly loved. Boris is more important than you. The Devil in the lowest floor is more important than you. That artificial sense of drunkenness given by the ink is more important than you.
Because he needs not to think. He has so many problems! He needs a break. And what about you? You useless, small, desperate, pathetic excuse of a man? You are not more important than a bottle of ink. You are less, because you can't be drunk, despite you would allow him even that you if you could. He doesn't care about you. Why should he?
You're only useful to vent out frustration. You're only useful to be beaten up like a rug.
The bottle is full already. It has been for a small while, but your empty gaze remained fixed on the black flow in front of you, coming out of it. Without really thinking, you bring it to your lips, and you drink it all. The taste is awful in your throat, you send it down forcefully and start coughing - and you immediately feel guilty, and you want to cry at the thought that you should immediately admit your sin and accept punishment. You cannot drink the Lord's ink, it has been forbidden, you can only consume the cans of bacon soup and be grateful for them.
But as you wipe your mouth with trembling hands, you think that you... won't. You won't say a thing. You won't be punished for this. You just fill the bottle again, so you can bring it to your Lord. You will be punished regardless for so many other things. The blame is always yours, after all, and his hand will go down on you, as it always does. You useless, pathetic rug.
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examine! / anonymous A pair of sunglasses for Leon to Examine!
It's a pair of sunglasses?... here? You pick them up with a small hint of that curiosity that Krauser attempted to kill, but never truly could. They are black, perfectly kept, even clean, despite everything in the house being abandoned and in poor state.
Your training taught you to never trust something like this. It is a clear trap, so you shouldn't fall for that. Don't be always so naive, Kennedy! Krauser's voice resounds in your ears, that mocking tone of someone who thought you would never make it ( and yet, here you are ), after you failed his umpteenth surprise test. But still, you can't but smile at those glasses. If they're a trap, it's a very stylish trap, you can't but think.
So you shrug, and you put them on. There might be poison on them and keeping them on might kill you, perhaps? Whatever. Everyone must die, sooner or later. For now, they're just cool as hell, and if you die, you'll die looking like one of those guys in Matrix. Which is okay in your book.
Oh yeah. Fuck it. You're keeping those glasses.
examine! / anonymous Examine! meme for the headless - the drifter
... who's this douchebag?! You mean - good fighter, you can tell that much. Despite the apparent frail appearance, and the sudden shaking of his form after he deals the final blow, followed by a cough you have heard this strong only in the lowest parts of the Stilt Village, you can see immediately that he's almost as skilled as you are. Not more, of course not more, but almost. But this was YOUR kill! He stole YOUR kill!!!
You slam the dagger to the ground, and pace angrily towards him, pointing an accusatory finger at him like that could say everything you can't tell him since you're missing a mouth to scream - and in response, he almost faints in your arms.
You stare at him with confusion for a few seconds. Then you... well, you don't sigh, but you do the closest thing to it you can do without a mouth, and keep him up, patting his back slowly. Okay. Alright. Fine. The scolding can wait.
