Yatta!

Errol is Asriel's twin brother in the DR universe, though stuck around in Hometown after just barely graduating high school.

He didn't like Kris at first, finding humans weird and off-putting. He'd often tease Kris for being different, going as far as to hide the horn headband as a cruel joke. They would, however, eventually grow to bond over pranks and video games. Ironically, Kris is the one member of the family Errol still has a decent relationship with.

Errol's Super Smashing Fighters main is Desert King (Ganondorf).

He was friends with Dess and shared her interests in punk culture, and was a little jealous when she and Asriel showed signs of dating each other. Errol did not take her disappearance well.

Locket had excused herself in the midst of Yeshua’s grand performance. The Lady said no words as she moved past her peers, who hurried to move their feet from her path, some uttering swift apologies. It was laughable, though Locket restrained herself. Instead, she hummed a bit to the music, a distraction against the sensation plaguing her body. It was not often that Locket felt the urge to indulge such bestial desires, but this particular visit to the Circus saw her gaining that want to dominate. She could not think of its cause. Perhaps she had played the role of “civilized Lady” for too long, and her body was reminding her of what she was deep down. Whatever the reason, Locket had decided that she would quell the beast’s hunger, and return to Yeshua’s gala with a clearer head on her shoulders.

In time, Locket emerged from the Empire, snow finding a home upon her crimson antlers and covered shoulders. The streets, perpetually bathed in red light, saw little foot traffic. What Kivvas Locket did see were mostly occupied with bodies, gritpipes and alcohol. Some did acknowledge her presence, but only with long, fascinated stares. A bold thing, it was, for the Kivic Queen to wander, alone, in a place of such carnality. Locket kept her head high, though in her chest, her hearts were racing. A part of her wondered if she was going mad. After all, there was a very real chance that her head would be snipped, no matter how small it might have been. Locket thought to turn around and try to drown out her desires with the music after all. She thought against it. She could not think of denying herself her animality. To be an animal was to take risks; that was her ideology. Locket would keep going.

Piece by piece, the Lady stripped herself, a challenge for those watching. She endured the bite of the frigid air, the fuzz on her ashen skin standing on end. Her clothing lay in the snow behind her. She would come to collect it later. Or, perhaps, she would return to the Empire naked. She was not ashamed of her body. She thought she spotted someone taking a step closer from the shadows of an alleyway, claws extended. When she paused to look at them, however, they shrank back. Locket turned to face them, her own claws drawn, lips curling to expose more of her teeth. The challenger’s eyes widened, and in a hurry, they took off into the alleyway. Locket’s golden pupils grew into diamonds. Her feet crunched the thin layer of snow beneath her as she gave chase.

Tiny veins of living light were her guide through the alleyway. Her prey stank of fear, and it fueled Locket on. Onward, she ran, feeling that rush of animality for the first time in stanzas.  Her would-be challenger appeared in the distance, slowing, panting from exertion. They made a sharp turn, and Locket heard a yelp and a thud. She slowed to a halt, hot despite the lower temperature. She could smell another Kivouachian, as well as blood and vilt. Cautiously, she peered around the corner and saw her quarry trembling as a larger male stood over them. 

Fritz, the wandering Blackhall, had come to the Circus with a few companions from his hometown, Soollum. They had gone ahead to the Empire for the gala, while he lingered around the district streets. He was not one for big events and crowds, only coming at the request of his friend, Beatriss. They would share a dance later. For now, Fritz hungered. The Blackhall had caught a Fowler for the local Chopshop, but found his trip interrupted by the Kivva who had run into him. They collided with his torso, falling onto their back. Fritz stared at them, unsure of what to make of the situation. Looking up, the Blackhall’s silver eyes met pools of emerald and ruby. Locket came from around the corner, looking between the Kivva she had chased, and the Blackhall staring down at her. For Fritz, it was as if an Inker sketch had come to life. The Grand Voice, of all Kivouachians, standing in front of him? What were the odds?

Taking advantage of the situation, the panicked Kivouachian squeezed around Fritz and rushed off, leaving the Blackhall and the Lady to continue staring at each other. Fritz could not think of anything to say. What could he say? Perhaps it was best if he simply left. She seemed busy. Fritz stepped forward, extending his arm so that he could push his way past. Locket, still driven by that want for combat, caught Fritz’s arm, sinking her claws into the scaly hide. While she did not draw blood, as Fritz’s skin was quite thick, the Blackhall reflexively swung out at her. Locket grunted as he caught her chest, knocking her back a bit. 

“Keep yer ‘ands off me,” Fritz warned in his low, Scottish drawl. Grand Voice or not, the Blackhall did not care to be grabbed. 

Locket blinked. It was rare someone spoke to her without the usual adoration or fascination she was used to. It intrigued her. The Blackhall was a bulky thing, beating her height by a foot, and his skin proved difficult to penetrate. He was a challenge, far better than bending some quivering coward. She watched as Fritz attempted to walk away, and her right arm began to morph into a hard club. If she could not pierce flesh easily, then she could bash in his skull with a few good blows. Teeth gritting and nostrils flaring, Locket leapt onto Fritz’s back, her left arm wrapping around his neck. Fritz’s eyes widened, and his maw fell open as he hissed. He grabbed Locket’s arm as she raised her club-arm to strike. Dropping his kill, the Blackhall staggered back towards the wall behind him.

THWACK!

The club made contact just as Fritz smashed Locket against the wall. While Fritz roared as the waves of agony rippled through his head, Locket croaked as the Blackhall’s weight pressed into her. The claws on her toes kicked out, desperate to get him to move and allow her to breathe.  Fritz lurched forward, his black tongue hanging from his mouth and darkness forming around the corners of his eyes. He shook his head. He would not be felled like this. He had to stay awake. Blowing hot air from his nostrils, Fritz reached back, clutching Locket by her mane and yanking her off him. Locket cried out as the Blackhall effortlessly flipped her over his head and onto her back. He then raised his foot to step on her head. Locket rolled out of the way quickly, standing on her feet, chest heaving.

There was a brief respite as both Kivouachians caught their breath, staring each other down. There was a shimmer in the Lady’s eyes, Fritz noticed. She seemed to be enjoying herself. He snorted. 

“Walk away,” he demanded, wiping blood that trickled from the gash on his head. “Don’t make me kill ye. Yer too pretty t’die.”

Locket broke her silence. “Spare me your flattery. It won’t save you.”

“Why’re y’doin’ this?”

“I simply must.” The muscles in Locket’s legs tightened as she prepared for a pounce. Her club-arm was raised. “This isn’t anything personal, understand that.”

“Hmph. So y’won’t let me leave?”

“No.”

“C’mere, then. Let’s finish this.”

Locket sprang upward at Fritz’s head. Spinning around, Fritz’s thick tail swung at Locket: his own weapon. Locket hit the ground, breathing in sharply as the stone cut her. Fritz charged at her, and though the Lady tried to get to her feet, Fritz threw himself upon her, his fangs on her neck. The club-arm morphed into a pointed blade, which Locket plunged into Fritz’s softer abdomen, piercing thick muscle. Fritz groaned into soft neck flesh, his claws raking the stone beneath him. Nevertheless, he tore into Locket’s throat, wanting nothing more than to end this fight. Locket struggled, choking and gurgling, but to no avail. Her tongue slipped from her mouth, her eyes began rolling back, and with an involuntary shudder, she gave in to the darkness as vilt spilled from her. The Lady’s dollfaced head tumbled away. Locket had been defeated.

Fritz lay atop Locket’s body for some time. When he felt brave enough, he pulled himself free of the black blade, pressing his hand against the wound. 

“Ugh. . .” groaned the Blackhall as he leaned against the wall, catching his breath. “Bend me backwards. . . Now why’d y’ave t’make me do that, ol’ lass?”