Mun talks about the Muse:

!!!

Given the reception his actions received, the correct and proper choice was plain to see. The prospect of conflict was something he faced regularly, especially when word about his actions came to light. Where possible, however, Miguel preferred to avoid coming to blows, such that, somewhere between the count of 3 and 2, he relinquishes his hold.

I just wanted a creative output other than drawing her for the 10,000th time. I was writing on a different platform when I first started to rp as Circe, her story was a bit different then compared to today. There was a few years gap between then and when I found that others were using this platform to write. So I decided to give her bio a total overhaul before joining, it was also the time when RE6 came out - so I was very much influenced by that.

the warehouse was supposed to be empty. arthur knew better than to trust that word, but the intel had been clean. abandoned shipping site. umbrella subsidiary dissolved three years ago. remaining inventory transferred or destroyed. a formality sweep. documentation. close the file.

he moved through the dark with the quiet efficiency of someone who had done this too many times—gun low but ready, flashlight kept tight to his body, steps placed where dust had already settled thick and undisturbed. the air smelled wrong. not rot. not chemical, exactly. just… stale. pressurized. like something had been sealed too long and had started thinking about breaking free.

he felt it before he saw him.

it wasn’t sound. it wasn’t movement. it was a pressure shift—subtle, almost polite. the kind of thing most people would write off as nerves. arthur didn’t have that luxury. the static began at the base of his skull and slid down his spine, a low hum beneath the ribs, like his body had tuned to a frequency just outside the human range.

he stopped walking.

the beam of his flashlight caught the outline of a man at the far end of the corridor, half-shadowed between steel racks and torn tarps. not shambling. not feral. standing. watching.

arthur lowered the light slightly, not out of courtesy but calculation. the man’s posture was wrong for a civilian. too still. too controlled. there was no visible weapon, no obvious injury. and yet the air around him felt charged—like the moment before lightning splits the sky, when everything goes painfully quiet.

asset.

the phrase surfaced from a redacted report he’d skimmed months ago. off-book containment. field viability. enhanced survivability metrics. most of it had read like fiction stitched into bureaucratic language.

arthur swallowed.

his eyes adjusted. for a fleeting second, the gold in his irises flickered thin and bright, reacting to something that wasn’t visible but was undeniably there. he could feel it now—under the man’s skin. something altered. rewritten. a body carrying something that did not belong to it and had decided to stay.

“ tell me, ” arthur said evenly, voice calm enough to pass for bored, “ are you here because i am… ”

he didn’t raise his gun. stilled for a beat.

“ …or did we both just walk into the wrong building ?? ”

@fableswcrn said:

"Ohhh that's a lotta blood..."

BAD INJURY SENTENCE STARTERS–––ACCEPTING

A BROW FURROWS, one hand pressing pressure to the wound while the other, SHAKES and fumbles while he struggles to try and finish wrapping his abdomen, NO DESIRE to speak on the subject before he lets out an ANNOYED puff.

"Yeah yeah I've heard it all before man–––"

HE HUNCHES over, the pain still wincing inside him, FIRING from his skin up his spine and back again as he grimaces under the force of the pain on his stomach. He ALWAYS hated when he screwed up things like this. It always wound up COSTING him later, and the worst part of it all is now he's gonna TRY and survive with this pain in his gut.