Audition Tape
Created for @creative-life-event as propaganda to get ya’ll to join the server!
Notes: I'm just playing a character here, any worrying about being selected or any insecurity talk is just for dramatic effect and character roleplay, I don't actually take the application process of events this seriously and I’m emotionally fine and healthy irl (it’s for the ✨theatre✨)
Trigger warnings: Spiders, being stared at by thousands of eyes, morally dubious characters, (morally dubious watcher moderators), severe self esteem issues, chained up against your will, existential dread, thoughts of death, decent into madness, swearing
The (SUPERIOR) AO3 version [if you wanna read this in it’s full formatting glory]
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The audition was supposed to have started by now. This should be the right place, that’s what it said on the flyer. But it's been fifteen minutes since I arrived backstage, and no-one has called me out to perform yet. In fact, I haven't heard a single sound in this place apart from my quiet breaths, the rustle of the curtain behind my wings and the gentle gust of wind from outside.
Slowly, I peer through the curtains with my head barely peeking out from the stage walls in order to look out to the audience.
Or at least, where the audience should be.
Though the auditorium was filled with rows upon rows of seats, there wasn't a single person waiting for me. I'm not entirely sure if this place has ever had visitors.
Most of the seats have something wrong with them; loose stuffing, tethered strings, maybe even a splintered frame or two. Part of the roof had been broken down, the paneling that fell from it still scattered across the floor with frayed timber and shaving dust filling the walkway. If you look up, you could still see the moon shining from above, its gentle rays making the auditorium glow with an almost ghostly white.
There were cobwebs lining the ceilings and covering the floor, probably from one of the several spiders crawling around in the darkened cracks, their twisted limbs intertwined to the wall like tangled ivy as their bloodshot eyes stare at me, bright but unmoving.
I let out a shuddered breath. The atmosphere of this place is no better than a rotten graveyard, I can smell the stench of death and ash in the troubled air.
How many years has it been since someone was last here? I didn’t think it’d be so desolate.
Then again, I probably should have expected this when I decided to impulsively run away to the abandoned theatre out west from an address I've never heard of before just because I found the event I saw on the one flyer interesting, but I'm not too worried. This isn't my first rodeo with sneaking out from my village. Though, none of the places I ran off to have ever been as sketchy as this
Sure, call me a fool, but it was better than filling out a written response. I might be careless, but I'm not stupid. As if I'd trust that if I drop a written form in a half broken barely standing mailbox that there's a chance that maybe someone will decide to open it and then maybe they'll find my application in the sea of the other hundred, thousand something letters.
Like I'd believe that.
And besides, I've never been good with words. Those that know how to weave their words with their thoughts, that can carve out their ideas and feelings onto pen and paper, that can carefully mould emotion in lines and prayers that touch the hearts of those that read it, will forever have my respect. But whenever I try to replicate them, to untangle the mess of my mind, force out my thoughts and shove it onto a page, my words always fall short.
Simple, pathetic, unnecessary.
My words have never been good enough, never been worthwhile. I’m not going to let myself throw away my shot like that. I’m not good enough to be listened to anyways
It’s much easier for me to speak my mind, to let my head spill over, to run my mouth wild without rhyme or reason. Even if the words I perform are an incoherent mess, at least I know they’re loud enough to be heard. What’s the point of pretty words and a clever tongue if it can barely make its way past the muffled whispers from one’s mouth? At least while on stage, even if I make a fool of myself, I know I’ll have a crowd.
That’s what I thought but…
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I know there’s no-one here. I can’t see anyone, I can’t hear anyone, but then why do I feel like… someone’s here. I feel, something watching me— someone watching me, like thousands of eyes staring down, like daggers piercing through the back of my head.
Something inside me shivers, a chill crawling down my neck. My heart beats, it trembles, it plummets.
I’m not alone here, am I?
…I’m going crazy, aren’t I?
I breathe once, then— fuck it. It’s not like anyone’s going to show up here soon anyways, and if they do well, there’s nothing wrong with performing a test run. Carefully, I force myself to stop cowering behind the curtain, and I walk towards the microphone, my every step ringing in my ears.
The presence feels stronger. I feel more eyes. There’s something heavy in the air, like weights dangling from my shoulders, a thickened fog engulfing the stage.
It’s suffocating.
It’s fine.
I tap the microphone and the feedback reverberates across the walls.
In a single moment, the world turns to static.
Strange, there hasn't been any true noise since I’ve arrived, yet only now does this place truly feel quiet. The auditorium was silent before, but this feels different somehow.
It feels focused, deliberate. heavy
I ignore the sinking pit in my stomach, breathing one last sigh before grabbing the mic.
“Gre–greetings!” My voice breaks as I speak, but I force my butterflies down.
Breathe Uxini, You’ve played this part before.
“As you know, I wish to partake in this death game of yours, but I’m well aware you already have several other applications, so what makes me so different?” The words feel hollow on my tongue, but I don’t let my smile wither.
I clap my hands twice, causing my hands to turn blue for a brief moment, before summoning a few pictures onto the stage.
My ‘art’.
“I created quite a few pieces before this.” I flick my finger and the images spin, a standard practice I do whenever auditioning. It makes the pieces feel more alive than they actually are.
I flutter my wings, and then take flight, circling myself around the carousel of drawings.
Carefully, I take one in my hand.
“I know my style is different from what you usually take, It looks atrocious but I think it would provide some diversity into your cast. If that’s not to your liking, well…” I clap my hands again, but only once this time, causing passages of text to float to the other side of the stage.
“I’ve also made written works. Simple. Pathetic. Unnecessary. So I’m sure at least one of these pieces will catch your eye.” I sing my words with the manufactured cadence I used for all my other auditions.
These performances all feel the same. And yet I’ve never been accepted before.
“Now I understand this is a lot, so please take your time and–”
Ỳ̵̡̢̺̤̦̖̱̖̤͚̮̣̪͎̦̤̋̈́̋̔̀̀͛̓̅͐̓̚͜͝Ợ̷̡̢̢̭͓̞̱̭̯͉̺̹̐̚̕̕͜ͅU̶̧̡̲͚̖̐ ̶̬͕̈́D̶̥̜̦͎̼̮̹̔̂͝Ơ̵̧̢̡̫̝̝͍͓̩͓̳̥͉̩͓͂̈̋̅͐̐̑̅͠͝ͅN̵̡̡̛̗̳̺͉̦͇̠̥̹̭̳̞̙̻̅̀̀̇̿̌̍̒͝ͅ’̷̨̫̩̼̳͖͓̺͔̑͑̏͒͠ͅͅT̷̝̦͎̗̓͌͑̈̇̎͠͝͝͝ ̷̖͚͆̏̅Ŭ̵̧͙͖̰͔̤̣̞̺̼̟͊̕̚ͅͅͅŅ̴̛̺͈͇̳̲͉̰̦̬̝͜D̵̨̘̥̖̺̺̝̊̉̂̏̍͒͝Ẽ̴̢̺̲͉͇̙̬̘͇̤͊̾̿̕R̷̼̠̗̹͚̦̳̓̆̎͜͝ͅS̵̖̝̣̰̱͎͔̾̓͑̀̒̓̈́̃̈́̍̎̊̈́͝T̶̢̧̖͎͔̦̗͎͉̭̫́͋̏͌͑̍̓̃͑͑͌͛͘ͅḀ̵̜̮̲̝̱͗N̶̲͎̖̜̹̳̂̐̈́͂̀́D̵̢̲͚̰̘̹͈̮̀̃͐͗͗̽̈́́̀̑̐̉̽̅̅.̸̡̨̭͉͇̦̘͖͍͓̹͎̯̩̬̩̈̆̂͜”̵͓̺̥̥͑̔̌͛̆̑͂̄͌̈́͂̄͗̕̚͠
The sound blares into my head like a mallet and for a moment I fall, but just before I hit the ground, my wings catch me.
I was right. I’m not alone.
I tried to focus on what the noise sounds like. It was discordant, almost like several different voices, each with varying pitches and timbers, overlaying on top of each other, the result a most dissonant choir. I could barely understand it, it felt like radio static and garbled noise and it was
Ļ̵̈́Ő̵̧̳̻͐͛U̵̻̼̟̒͛̎D̶͖̈́̆̕
It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurtsithurtsithurtsit-
I hold my head.
Calm down, you can’t falter just yet. Just keep smiling.
I think back to the words they said.
Don’t understand? Don’t understand what? What am I missing?
I try to regain my composure.
“Why if it isn’t my audience! It’s a pleasure to finally meet you! This is anything but a pleasure. But I must ask, is there something about my work not to your liking? Am I not good enough? Whatever it is I’m sure I can make it up to you if—”
Ẉ̶̧͎͉̬̻̥̖̦̔̍̓̂͑̈́͝E̸͇̺̠͍͇̤̪̣̹̜̯̻͚͍̎̽̈́̅͂̍̊̈́̋̀̾͝͠͠ ̴̲̱̰̣̗͎̱͔̘̹͆̿͛ͅD̶̛͉̗͚̮͇̙̟͈̘̥͎̗̦̱̺͍̮̅̿̀͝O̵̭̞͉̺͓̜̭̣̯͋͑̓̏̒̾̍̃̅̎͂͐̚͜N̴̲̖̰͎̝̺̙̓͋̊͝’̵̡̰̝̱̯̼̗̥͇̯͙̣̗̌̈́̽̅̍̑Ṯ̴̮͍͍̺̆̑̉͆ ̷̯̼͍͍̀̽̓͒͒̌̃̇̌́̑́͘̚͝͝C̴̛̰̘̱̮̻̰̗̰̺̜̩̫̘͓͖̻͑̏̀̎̀̂̓́̒̍͂̀̆̚͠͝A̷̡͚̟̝͔̹̦͊̏͂̈́͌̂͠ͅR̶̢̨̲̘͈̲̳̣͕̤̖̟̋͗̓̕͜͝ͅE̶̛͎̟͎͕̭̹̜̝̦̻͍̫͚̞͙̝͆̈̌̋̄̃̆͋̆͘͘̚̕ͅ ̴͎̯͕͖̮̠͙̓͊̇͋͑͒͒Ä̸̡̢͔̟̤͉͖̮̳̭̫̞̲͇̙́̇̈̅̔̎̌́̇̆̀̓̀̕͜͝ͅḄ̵̢̨̼̯̲͈̼̙̻̰̪̹̫͎̤̣̈́̀͘Ǫ̸̨̬̲̬̤̣̜̮̲̣̜͘Ú̸͙̬̠͕͓̼̼̦̥̩̯͙̖͓̗̠͗̌̋̅̓͐̔͘͝͠T̸̨̧̠̖̳̩̟̪̰͚̦̈̂̿̀̊̈́̔͂̿͑̐̿̓̾͒͠͠ ̴͚̻̫̭̯̗̹̦͙̺̼̤̘͎͆̀̏̅̀̓Ȳ̷̧̡̫̗͍̻͍̹̞̮͎̹̪̲̱͇̇̊͊̈́͐͑̀͑̈́̈́͐͗͜͠Ȯ̷̻̦͙͋̏͋̌̈́̓̽̌̔̎͂̋͊͜͝͠Ų̸̥̭͕̹͓̖̬̝͈̃̈́ͅͅR̴̮̙̘͇̩͙̩̳̊͒͂́̃͆́̂̿̀̇͠
̷͇̤͖̫͈͔̪̜̩̗̦͓͔̗̩̈́͗͜W̵͇͂̅Ơ̷̮̯̐̈́̄͐͋́̐̌̚̕͝R̷̢̧̢͕̻̼̬̥̜̣̹̈̒̔̈́͗̎̃̃̍̓̚͠K̵̪͍̎Š̴̡̼͓̗̠͍̖̲̤̞͉̼͎͔̈́̈́̈́̎̇̿̽̓͘͝.̶̝̹͕̮̜̟̳̖̆͒́̈̐͛̾͛̓̓̊̈́̽̇̄͠”̷̨̗̬̣̣͛̒̆̈̍̿̕̚̚
“W–What…”
“̸̢̯̥̯̪͘W̷̨̥̝͖̥̤̔̇͐É̷̡̇́̈́̆̓ ̴̢̡̡̰̟̪̘͈̝̜̳̝͌͂̿͛̅̌̀͐̕͠C̶̺͚̲̫̬͙̙̉͛͋̓̾̆̃͌́A̵̛̬̜̯͕̞̜͙͚͛̉͒̅̌͐̿͊Ŗ̷̨͍͎̼͎̦̭̓̈͆͊͗̊̚͝E̵̯͇̙̪͕̾̌̽̊̚͜͝ ̶̛͎͕̝̱̤̯̤̈̍̐̅̀͊͛͒͜͜͠Ä̴͔̝̜̰͕́̀̇̒̚Ḃ̵̜̠̣͎͓͙̭̣̱͈̍̐͒̓̌͆̍͘̚͝͝ͅͅỎ̸̢̮͚̼̞̲͈̪̤̖͌͜͜U̴̼̦̻̍̐Ţ̴̮͈͕͉̞͔̼͙͛̐́͑̅ ̴̡̯͉̖̯̙̲̘͇̘̲̌̾͊̓̿̒̅̾̀́͐Y̸̡̫͎͕͙̥̖̮̮̿Ơ̴̹̙̞̍̈́̈̓̀͊̍́̚͝U̴̞͎̹̜̒̏͘.̴̛̹̜͚̱̝͍̺͛̀̈́̆͂́̍̄̈”̴̧̧̛̪͖̦̫̆͝
I feel something akin to acid burn against the back of my throat.
“I…see.”
I didn’t actually think it meant it.
On the flyer, just beneath the audition dates, was a note.
‘You will not be rated/rejected based on your works. This is just to know about you.’
I scoffed when I first read it. I thought it was a joke. All auditions are the same to me, show off your pieces, act like you’re better than you actually are, watch the judges pretend to think about the decision, then get discarded, Rinse and repeat.
It’s a lie all these places tell, in the end they always accept the ones that have the talent, and toss away any that don’t. And I’m one of the people that don’t.
It’s easier for them, and it’s easier for me.
It’s easier to accept rejection when they are just judging me for my pieces, but when it’s me as a person being judged on the stage...
What do I even say?
What’s there to even talk about?
I’m not an interesting person.
I’m selfish, I’m desperate, I’m clingy, I’m impulsive, I can’t do anything right, I can’t make anything special. I don’t understand what's there to talk about when it comes to me, and if I do get rejected, well what does that mean? That I’m not good enough as a person?
I know that’s not what this is, but I just can’t see what everyone else sees in me. In this world there are people who are special, and interesting, and talented and I….
I’m just not one of them.
There’s nothing special about me, so it’s easier to pretend I’m something I’m not, to hide behind a mask, to put up fake bravado and perform a show. Sure, the mask shares some similarities to my face, but at the end of the day it’s just the same as any other mask.
Plastic, hollow, empty.
It’s easier that way. It’s better than seeing the broken shell of a person underneath
I try to change the subject.
“I can see where you’re coming from, but are you sure that this is necessary? My pieces reveal more than enough about me so maybe we can come to a compromise?”
The audience doesn't reply, and yet the empty silence is more deafening than any noise could ever be.
“Okay then.” I bite my tongue.
It's for the show.
“I came here because I found your concept interesting, you know? It’s quite an entertaining premise and I just, um…”
Spit it out
“I want… to create a story.”
Thump
“̵̡̥̟̗̘̒̐̒̑̅̌̒͊G̷̛̠̍͊͐̂̐Ǒ̷̼̩͑͒̂̚͝ ̸͎̦͌ͅȌ̷̫̜̩̪̰̦̭͆̾̌͜ͅN̴̢̫̲̭͔̔͒ͅ.̵̧͕̞̞̜͌̀͋̐”̷͈͉͕̼͗̎͛̈͘̕͠
My heart is racing, but I keep going.
“I’ve always liked stories. Fairytales read to me when I was a little kid, DVDs my mum bought for me with the latest serial, the plays performed out on the streets. I really loved them.”
I hate this. I hate feeling so vulnerable like this. I feel like my broken, bleeding heart is exposed for all the world to see. But I can’t stop, because this is what they want to hear.
“And I’ve seen stories like these before, this game of life and death. I loved watching them. I loved watching players form alliances, I loved watching them interacting with each other, I loved watching them laugh, watching them fight, watching them get betrayed, watching them fall, watching them triumph…” I swallow.
“I’ve always been just watching.”
Their gaze is stronger now, I can feel it.
I’m being judged.
“Now, don’t get me wrong! I like watching, really I do, but is it wrong to want to be a part of that story too?”
Just, be honest.
“I want to experience a new world for the first time, to make friends despite the risk of losing it all, to create a home even when it could be burned or destroyed, to have the chance to fight for what I believe in.” to be noticed
Breathe, it’s almost over
“I’m… willing to break hearts for this.”
Just say what they want to hear.
“I’m willing to break my own heart for this. I know I’ll get attached, I’ll get hurt, betrayed, killed whatever. I don’t care what happens to me, I just… want to be able to create something. So please…” my limbs shake, I feel like falling over, I feel so weak, but I don’t break.
Instead I lower my head, and force myself to bow.
“Let me be a part of a story worth telling, just this once.”
One moment passes, then two.
V̸̧̢͉̘̌́͗̐̾͜͝E̸͐̆͂̚͝ͅR̴͙̜̮͚̱̊̎Ȳ̸̦̣̓͗̐̚ ̴̢̙̞̪̦͆̐̋W̸̝̭̫̝͚̍Ę̴̣̫̺̳͋͒L̵͚̄̀́͛̈́Ḻ̶͉͙̋ͅ.̴̨̨̻̼̱̈̿͂͝ ̶̪̩͔̥̫͇̍̇̊̅͐͌Y̶̭͉̣͓̼̺͌̃̎̐͝Ǫ̴̯͚̔̉̾͠Ű̴̡͑̈́͛R̷̢͔̻̼̅ ̵̹͌͂Ả̴̮̯͌͋̈̕Ù̵̘͕̿̈́̿͝ͅD̴̢̻̗̝͈̗̎̉͒̎͘I̵̫̤̟͈͍̐̇ͅŢ̴̙̜̜͆͜I̶̠̤͈̞̅̄́̚͝Ö̸̺̩̻͍̥́͛̋͆N̶̳̥̘̠͆̑̔͊͒̕ ̶̼̯̟̽̌̿̈́Į̷̨̯͕͎̟̔̓̚S̴͍̬̥͐́͝ͅ ̷̢͔̙̻̹͑́͒̍̎̄
C̴̱͈̮̱̼͋Ó̴̪͇̼ͅM̶̧͕̖̬͖͖͑P̶̼̲̈́́̉̽̏͝L̴̼̟͇̼͖̾͋̉̈́͠E̷̛̩͘T̴͎̬̂̏Ė̵̘”̷͙̯̿̏̿
I breathe one shaky sigh of relief. All the tension weighing on my shoulders seems to dissipate for just one moment. I prepare to flap my wings to leave and—
My wings.
They’re not moving.
I can’t fly.
Why can’t I fly?
I try to move my wings forward, but all I feel is a visceral singe across my spine, like something pulling against them, pulling me back. Every time I try to push myself away it feels like I’m ripping my wings from my very flesh.
It hurts.
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I try to turn around, but I can’t move my body either. I try moving my arms, my hands, my waist, my legs, but I feel the same pulling sensation whenever I try to move.
I open my eyes, and then I see it.
Strings.
There are several purple strings around my body. One from my ankles wrapped up to my knees, another was firmly tied to my waist, one starting on each of my wrists and twisting themselves until they reach my shoulders like vines and I can just barely feel the itch of one coiled around my neck.
The only thing I’m able to move is my head, I slowly raise it and the sight before me made the pit in my stomach worse somehow.
I can finally see them.
I can see their eyes.
I can see each eye on every surface, on the walls, on the ceiling, on the floor. I turn my head to the left and I see more eyes, I turn to the right and there are still eyes.
There are eyes everywhere. Hundreds, thousands, millions looking at me, watching me, each one glowing with the same haunting purple. Never blinking, never looking away.
“STOP IT PLEASE.” I try to scream out, but the pain consuming my entire body feels louder than any sound that escapes my mouth.
W̶̺̼̪͍̲̙͙̫̥̞̖̥͚͓͂̈́͛́́͒̍͘Ȩ̷̧̡̥͉̰̭͍̪͓̲͒̃͛͆̿́͋̌̐͂̌̈́ͅ ̵̤̺̫̓̓̾̀̔̀͋͂́̓̅̊͝͝͝D̸̥̫̹͉̘̤̟͈̥̘̝́̇̇̈͑̍̿̈́̅͜O̸̘̩̫̠̫͓͇̝͖̖̫̱̔́͋͂́̀̈̈́̆̆̀͑̒͌̄̕N̸̛̛̰̗̂́͗̈̾̓̐̊̎͝’̵̘̌̏̉̐̿̈́̇͌͝͝T̵̨̡͈͓̮̝̱̹̲̄̂̊͜ ̶̢̧̭͓̜̪͇̹͓̳̈́̑̓̈́̑͌͜M̸̥͐̀̓͆̒̔̊̒̽̕Ę̷̱̜̲̣͔̩̪̥̩̦͙̖̐ͅȦ̵̡̬͕̼̖̪͉͚̓̈́N̵̯̫̈̎̾̌͒̀̋̈́͋̋͐̇̕̚͠ ̴͔͓͎͓̺̝͈̼̄́́̋̌͋́͝T̴̹͓͉͇̻͓̹̬̯̗̮̻̊̋͂͒̒̾̾̓̃̚͜Ǒ̶̙̭̖̞̼̤̰̥͖͛̈́̇̾͂̾̐͗̄̀́͠ ̸̡͇̬̯̣̹̹͎͇̆͂̌̈͒̈͌̋̌̊͘̕͝Ḫ̷̝̳͍̦̟̪̳̉̒͐̈͊͊̍̔́͗͗̀̕̕Ä̴̘͖̺́̿̍͆͋̏̅̂̅̈̚R̶̠̯͖͈̠̣̹̲̋̉̋̉M̴͓̜̪̬̙̱͈̜̍͜ͅ ̸̨̧̢̨̖̟͖̖̖̖͇͇̹̭̆̂̈͌̋̚͜Y̴̡̙̩̱̻̠͍͋Ǫ̵̞̼̞̠̣̬̾̅̽̔̑́̿͆̔́̽̐̑̽͠͠Ų̴̳͈̠̖̈́̾́”̶̪̹̹̯̟́͛̌̌͗̈̀̽̉̚͝
“LIARS.” I shout. “What more do you want from me? Why won't you let me go? I completed the audition didn't I?”
I want to fight back, I really want to, but every little move I make, a twitch of the arm, a fidget of the neck, a twist of the ankle, every little thing sends a sharp tug across my every nerve, like thousands of needles pricking against my bare skin, engulfing my body in this paralysing agony and it hurts.
It hurts so much.
It makes me afraid. It makes me afraid to move.
I don't want to be afraid.
I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. But what else can I do?
Ẁ̴̳̗̙̝͂Ẹ̷́̔ ̶̰͔̗͗̈̐͠Ȃ̵̺͇̗͛̚͜R̵͙͓̔̊͘̚Ē̷͕͕ ̶̖̈́̇̾͜D̵̮̚͜͠Ẽ̴̜͊̕͝C̸̛̲̓͌͝I̴̩͠͠D̶̡̛̖̝͜İ̵̭̼̀ͅN̶͎̦̍G̸̙̥̫̩̐̉̕.̸͓̕ͅ ̷̧̞͑P̶̧̣̱̬̃̈́͊̕L̵̳͑͛̕͠Ḛ̸̈́̈́͆̚Ȁ̶̻S̶̗͙͌̉̈́Ë̷͚̓̂ ̵͙̟̇̐̍͝W̵̖͖͖̊̚Ä̷͔͍̣͙́͒I̶̼̻̹̭̾͆̚͝T̶̨̨͗̑ ̴̙͕͎̮͌H̶̠͌̎É̸̲͑Ṟ̸̫̝̳̿͆́̈́E̷̩͂͒.̵̯̩̪̉̉͗ͅ”̴̹͔̯̥̇̽
Wait?
They want me to wait?
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Oh.
Ah
Aha
Ahahaha
Ahahahahahahaha
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
I’m going to be forgotten again, aren’t I?
I’m going to rot away here, aren’t I?
I’m so stupid. I’m so FUCKING STUPID.
I should have left. I never should have walked over to that microphone. I should have left the moment I realised this place was empty. No, I should have left when I saw how decrepit this building is. Even better— I should have never even come out here in the first place.
Why did I read that stupid flyer? Why did I decide to trust it? Why didn’t I see the signs? Why couldn’t I be happy with where I was? Why do I feel the need to seek out something more? Why do I always run away like this? I already have a good life, why couldn’t I just settle for that? Why couldn’t I just be satisfied? WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?
Now look where I ended up at.
Nobody knew I left.
The village doesn’t know where I am.
Do people even know this place exists?
They aren't going to let me go, and they will never come back for me, and I’m never going to be found. I’m never going to be able to leave this place.
My heart seizes.
I’m going to die here
I’m going to die here, and no-one will know. I’m going to die here, and it’s all my fault. I’m going to die here, and I can’t do anything about it. I can’t do anything about it because no matter where I look there are only eyes, eyes, eyes.
So, I do what I always do when I can’t do anything. I lie to myself. I lie to myself and pretend I’m fine. I slip on the same tired mask, and force out that horrible, horrible smile on my lips.
“Of course,” I reply back.
A̴̢̼̥͂̈͌̕Ņ̵̯̥̆̀Y̸̢͉͊̌T̷͈̣̄̀̂̏H̷͕̺̻͈͆̎͝Í̸̢͚͍̮͆̓N̸͈̝͈͌̕G̶̪̹̖̑̔ ̸̮̗̒F̴̛̩̳̪͕̆̈Ǫ̸̊͜R̶̨̞̜͆̾ ̸̙̿̚T̶̪͈̔͋H̵̩̗͙̘̏̔͗̿Ẻ̵̥̓͐ ̷͖͍͋̂͗S̷͔͓̃̀͝͝Ḧ̵̳̗̪͕͘O̴̘̯̯̳͐W̴̬̎͐.̷̨̬̜͖̓̂͝”̴̹̙̙̍̅̐
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This is just a snippet for all the lore shenanigans cl!Uxini is gonna get into. There’s gonna be a lot more lore for this character coming up so if you want to learn more about her story or learn about all the other AMAZING players and watchers and watcher helpers who are creating character lore of their own come join as listeners and you get to see first hand all the drama! And if you’re not a roleplaying person, there’s still tons of life series and other Mcyt fandom content being brewed for this event so there’s still stuff for you too!
I am really loving this little community and I hope more of you can join us!
