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ಠ_ŕ˛
Kee chewed on his lip contemplatively as he stared at Foryar from across the room. He didnât seem to care if heâd be noticed or not, as there were much more important deliberations going on in his mind.Â
Another downside, he thought to himself, is that I couldnât get super creative about positions with that guy. Anything where his eyes arenât in view would be out of the question.
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It was absolutely frigid. So cold that Silon couldnât feel his fingers or toes at all. He tried to focus on moving them instead of the building vertigo and nausea. (He couldnât be sick in in the suit, or heâd get in huge trouble.) The only thing to see through the screen of his helmet were the dimly glinting stars around him, suspended in the unending blackness of space. Soon enough the feeling of there being no up or down was getting unbearable, and he instinctively reached behind himself to grab the tether attached to his back. When he gave it a sharp tug though, there was no resistance. He gasped.
He turned his head to look behind him, looking for the silvery hull of his auntâs ship. There was nothing but more stars, more blackness. His home was nowhere in sight. His breaths quickened as he pulled his tether close to himself to inspect it. The thick metal cord had been snapped in half. How long ago, he wasnât sure.
He tried to cry out for help, only to hear a indistinguishable moan coming from his throat. In a panic, he realized his translation implants were gone. He couldnât propel himself back to the ship, he couldnât stop spinning, he couldnât speak, and he couldnât even cry from the despair of being left alone. All the mordesh could do was hug his knees to his chest and choke on every breath he took as he watched the stars flicker peacefully in the distance.
"3, 2, 1..."
Well, it was that time of year again. The one annual moment where none other than Kee Oozebloom would treat the nearest bystander to one of his excellent kisses, completely free of charge! He let out a drunken laugh and threw his arm around the nearest aurin, pulling them into a dramatic dip and likely spilling a bit of liquor on them in the process. âTo the new year!â he slurred loudly before planting one right on his victimâs lips.
As time passes, the young aurin seems to be gained more patience. For the longest time she went by 'Spell' or 'Spellslinger', even, 'that aurin over there'. But now she knew her name. Luana. And she had a feeling... N was like her. Unable to remember anything. Maybe if she told N about this, asked him, maybe they would be able to get through this together. It's lonely on nexus, not knowing who you are. Luana knocked on his door, a baked sweet in her arms to share with N.
Rascal is first to the door, zipping out the moment N pushes it open and sniffing at the new aurinâs feet while his master blinks. âElkhanâs not heâO-ohâŚâ He blinks at the familiar spellslinger acquaintance (Were they acquaintances? It didnât seem like they were friends just yetâŚ), letting his usual greeting trail off in favor of staring at the sweet in her arms. â⌠hello, Spell. D-did you need something?â
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"Hey N", the purple nameless aurin Taps his shoulder. "Ya don't look so good. Feeling okay?"
âMrf?â N gives a few slow blinks, and he waves a hand dismissively. âThink itâs just a bug of some sort. Iâll be okay.â
As cold as Whitevale is, luckily Last Man Standing is luckily packed with people and company to stay warm. Unfortunately most of that company would be drunk and not in their right minds A young Aurin, somehow, managed to get herself into an argument with a random granok patron. An argument that soon got her slapped across the face and sent her flying backwards onto an unexpecting stranger.
N wasnât a barfly by any stretch of the imagination, but he very much liked being out of the cold too much to care about the drunkards around him. Whitevale seemed especially bitter today, and every scratch and bite under his clothes began to ache. He huffed a warm breath into his gloves, rubbing his arms to try and get the blood flowing back into them before the XAS called again.
Perhaps the bar wasnât the best place to do this, as at one point in the night he found himself smashed into by a near-airborne patron when she was effectively knocked off her stool. It took a few seconds for N to process what exactly had just happened, but it clicked by the time he shook himself off. âAch; Iâm sorryâŚâ Why did he say that? It hadnât been his fault! âA-are you all rightâŚ?â
