beautiful darkness

if you are sending to a multi-muse, remember to specify the muse that the prompts are being sent for . you can add + reverse to swap roles .

👕 Blood seeps through receiver's shirt from a fresh stab wound.

🗡️ Press a bladed weapon into the receiver’s side.

🤕 Peel back the receiver’s bandage to reveal the infected wound underneath.

💉 Inject a painkiller into the receiver’s arm.

🏹 Yank an arrow out of the receiver’s shoulder with a swift pull.

🪢 Wrap a makeshift tourniquet around the receiver’s thigh.

🔥 Cauterize the receiver’s wound with a hot blade.

🩸 Smear the receiver’s blood across their cheek.

🦴 Snap the receiver’s dislocated shoulder back into place.

🪡 Carefully stitch the receiver's wound with steady hands.

🔫 Press the barrel of a gun against the receiver’s fresh bullet wound.

😴 Carry the unconscious receiver somewhere safe after a brutal fight.

🫳 Trace fingers along the receiver’s old scars.

💥 Slam the receiver into the ground hard enough to crack a rib.

🔪 Drag the tip of a knife slowly across the receiver’s forearm.

🩹 Apply pressure to the deep slash on the receiver’s abdomen.

🦵 Kick the receiver while they’re down.

🫦 Wipe blood from the receiver’s split lip with a rough thumb.

🔄 Twist the knife embedded in the receiver’s shoulder.

🧑‍⚕️ Lay the receiver on a operating table under harsh light.

🪏 Dig fingers into the receiver’s wound to retrieve a bullet fragment.

✂️ Clean and cut dried blood from the receiver’s matted hair.

👊 Punch the receiver to give them a black eye.

🧊 Hold ice against the receiver’s swollen face until it numbs.

Not a good night to have a curse, but then again, when's it ever?

She wondered if maybe Abigail could understand it. But if it’s a wraith, which it didn’t really sound like it was from just what she's heard… its power would probably exceed Abigail’s, at least with how things were right now. And that could be very dangerous.

Maybe it was a Dryad. One of Greek Myth. A nature spirit, like a guardian of the woods… No, that didn’t seem right either.

"You said it was one with the trees?"

I mean, at least sometimes I can get Abigail's little noises? That was much creepier!"

And Abigail is already quite creepy already!, she kept for herself, more focused on the idea of Wendy actually going to look for-- whatever creature could be in the trees! A Wraith, a monster, a particularly ugly and thin Merm-- who cares, really. On one hand, the thought of yet another child hearing about her scary situation wasn't exactly great... on the other, she was quite certain that if there was anyone in the Constant who could actually understand anything about her little supernatural moment, it was the younger girl.

Ahh. Difficult moral choices.

"...yep, but if you're going to check I'm coming with you.

His expression doesn't change. Of course it doesn't. He's a puppet, what else can he show if not his usual artificial politeness in his expression? His hands stay one over the other in front of the chest, the cloth stays elegantly on his arm, and his eyes remain unblinking on the other. Nothing changes in him. Of course it doesn't.

But then he replies. And he replies instinctively, without thinking, as if knowing the answer for certain from experience, as if knowing what that pain in the chest is, what an emotion so strong to make you feel ill is. He doesn't - why should he? -, and yet he talks. A tone of artificial politeness, a voice full of experience, yet apathy.

Maybe it's the answer itself that frustrates him. Maybe it's the fact that, deep down, he already knew the answer to begin with, but didn't want to believe it.

"...alright."

Polendina's tone remains as plain and sure as ever.

Pinocchio's cracks.

"Thank you."

He should move away. He should move on. And yet, while his eyes find the floor, he can't bring himself to leave yet.

"You know? Maybe things aren't so bad! I'm here, I have the nice crackling of a firepit... alone with my thoughts."

"Greetings, miss Firestarter."

He retained the puppet's ways of emote: almost non-existent, that is. And yet, the smallest movements of his features still say so much of what he doesn't dare to admit, or perhaps to even understand. But how can he talk, really? What does he know about emotions, him, the consierge of Hotel Krat? He shouldn't even be noticing these things. This shouldn't be possible.

And he should know, by now, that Geppetto wasn't someone who deserved those kind of feelings. He isn't a man who should be grieved the way his son does.

Yet he stops. Yet he closes his eyes.

Picks honesty, this time.

"Does it ever... go away?"

He could ask anyone else. He probably should. But Polendina is here. Polendina offered his time. Polendina knows a lot about grief.

« My deepest apologies, sir. I believed the room to be empty, and thought it was a good moment to dust. »

He takes a moment of silent consideration, his head instinctively tilting to the side just a little bit at the vision of the boy in such a space. Something sparks, just lightly, inside of him - recognition, perhaps. Perhaps. Whatever it is, it is gone the moment after, almost forcefully shut down by some instinct which he deleted the memory of. Self preservation - he can't be doing a good job elseway.

Not a surprise. While most people respected his decision to keep it closed, with Pinocchio himself finding himself avoiding it as much as possible the year after Geppetto's death... but he always knew that he could trust Polendina to do his job. He was just a puppet, after all. One that closed off his heart once more.

As if that was possible.

Puppets can't lie, they say. But there wasn't a single second in which the only one who technically could ignore that rule believed the other's words.

"It's fine."

Liar to liar, he sighs, pushing himself back.