Demmel Mellod and Friends!!!!

“Rehtuu!” she snaps. You freeze mid-step and angle an ear towards her. She’s removing her hood and stepping between you and this bulgebag excuse for a subjug, which… you can’t help but make a low trill of distress. She puts her hand lightly on your chess, and that’s all you need to stop trying to step around her. You’re still gonna growl at bulgebag, though.

She takes another few steps to properly stand in front of you. She’s wearing her robes, and they’re shapeless but light enough to do absolutely mesmerizing things at the slightest movement. Ain’t never seen no one prettier than your girl, but that’s really besides the point right now.

You eye them. Purple brother still looks like he wants to rip your throat out, if you’re real honest. You wonder if you can escalate this again. C’mon, you need an excuse here.

For once, you wish Teylir was here. She arrests attention. Even without that quick, sharp whistle she's perfected, speaking, it seems, is all she has to do to make people listen.

You, on the other hand, dig your claws into Rehtuu's bare chest and wrack your sponge for a way to wrestle the situation under your control. You're burning at the leash comment, and by the choirs is it tempting to let Rehtuu take a crack at the Starboy here.

"Oh my brother beat be thinkin' haarrrrd about what he's up and sayin' 'bout my matesprit here," he's yelling, again struggling to sidestep you, "I done taught a hundred better, bigger motherfuckers 'bout respect afore he showed his unrighteous face to me this night, bitchass heathen he is, maybe he gots t'learn what a short leash feels like wrapped 'round his filthy throat stem-"

"Sweetheart," you mutter.

"-taint done nothin' wrong and my brother best be gettin' his know on there-"

Shutting your mouth on what you were going to say, you think about this. You checked the minimum distance yourself. Of course you haven't violated any rules, and Starboy knows that or else there would be some actual threatening. No, he's provoking, which means...

male witch aesthetic (requested)

Oh. Oh, did he just threaten your beloved?

“Ain’t a need for this,” you repeat softly. Your eyes shine a shade more orange. “And you better not be leveling none of them threats quad-ways, brother, ain’t here to bother you and I’d like it if you didn’t bother me OR my best motherfuckin’ girl. We can both carry on our ways.”

——-

You’re name is Mageth Kohinr, and while you don’t know everything, you sure as hell know when something is up. You last customer, still holding gauze to their arm, thanks you and slips out the tentflaps. This wasn’t your best work, the music turning off hells of distracted you, but they seem satisfied.

There’s movement in the corner of your eye, almost too little not to be subconscious. You flinch, both hands on your club in an instance, but the dancer’s ‘sprit just glares and does nothing else. 

“Rehtuu!” she snaps. You freeze mid-step and angle an ear towards her. She’s removing her hood and stepping between you and this bulgebag excuse for a subjug, which… you can’t help but make a low trill of distress. She puts her hand lightly on your chess, and that’s all you need to stop trying to step around her. You’re still gonna growl at bulgebag, though.

She takes another few steps to properly stand in front of you. She’s wearing her robes, and they’re shapeless but light enough to do absolutely mesmerizing things at the slightest movement. Ain’t never seen no one prettier than your girl, but that’s really besides the point right now.

You wonder if you made the right choice when he pulls specibus and the darling trolls in your audience give him a wide birth. You drift the back of your hand half an inch away from some oliveblood’s adorable cheek and slip into a set of moves that justify pulling out a pair of clubs.

“If you wanna dance by my club, fuck yeah you do. Wait, scarlet sister?” You peer around the corner before you spot the sign, but look back to the dancer to make sure he’s not doing anything funny before you read it again. “Future”, you scoff. “Nah, brother. No one wants to hear that shit. And ‘sides, she’s gotta pack her shit too, not just you.” 

Oh. Oh, did he just threaten your beloved?

"Ain't a need for this," you repeat softly. Your eyes shine a shade more orange. "And you better not be leveling none of them threats quad-ways, brother, ain't here to bother you and I'd like it if you didn't bother me OR my best motherfuckin' girl. We can both carry on our ways."

-------

You're name is Mageth Kohinr, and while you don't know everything, you sure as hell know when something is up. You last customer, still holding gauze to their arm, thanks you and slips out the tentflaps. This wasn't your best work, the music turning off hells of distracted you, but they seem satisfied.

@glowtrolls

It’s not quite sunrise here, but the day club is picking up business well anyway. You and your ruby red girl have set up “shop” nearby; you’re close enough to pull over trolls not yet inside, but far enough away you don’t think you could be breaking any rules!

Your girl predicts this will be a good day, and you know your girl well enough to be excited. The bitch ain’t NEVER wrong about nothing! She’ll be gettin’ you some fine-ass paints to work with, you bet your best buttons. Your best buttons, which are currently adorning your braids alongside Beloved’s lusus’ feathers and turquoise and amethyst beads. A boom box is on a meter or so away giving you a beat to dance to. You do this for the carnival, too, also dressed only in patterned harem pants and shiny silver jewelry. There’s a bowl at your feet for tips, and a club in your specibus in case anyone gets funny ideas. You’ll take someone’s mirthless head off without missing a beat.

Imagine your surprise when it looks like a Messiahs forsaken carnival out here, complete with a huge ass tent and a belly dancer in full face paint. But you counted your steps from the club’s entry to the cluster of people, and were out of steps before you reach him, which means you can’t legally drive them off without a good fight. 

Not that you’re complaining.

You take a moment to just mingle with the audience, hands in your pockets and watching the guy flirt with people. When it comes to your turn, you expect to just grab him and get it over with, but somehow, you can only stand and watch, like a bystander of a scuttlebuggy crash. You’ve gotta admit that you’re a little irritated at yourself for that. It would’ve been so damned easy to pick a fight right then, right there.

Fine, alright, then the hard way.

Your club hits the floor with an audible clunk and everyone around you who knows what’s good for them backs away. But you just leave it there for now, lean on it, keep watching, and hope that your ‘security’ shirt does the rest for you. 

You wonder if you made the right choice when he pulls specibus and the darling trolls in your audience give him a wide birth. You drift the back of your hand half an inch away from some oliveblood's adorable cheek and slip into a set of moves that justify pulling out a pair of clubs.