#frenzshe

So Quentin set out for Ormond, finally committing to something he’s wanted for a while.

Quentin circumnavigated the ski lodge until he found the broken maw of the north wall, creeping inside over broken wood and snow slick floorboards. Snowflakes were catching in his hair and melting into his eyes, no matter how often he tried to wipe them away. He’s yet to see any of the actual Legion members, but he kept himself low and close the wall regardless. After all, no killer was the type to take kindly to thieves.

His eyes swept for what he came here for. If he couldn’t find it, then he’d just swipe some of the magazines and leave. Quentin wouldn’t push his luck.

But that wouldn’t be necessary. What he wanted, he found: abandoned on one of the couches encircling the firepit was a mixtape in an archaic Walkman. Quentin quietly hurried over to it, scooping it up. He could see a nice scribbled on the tape: JULIE. So it belonged to one of the girls. Which one, he couldn’t tell, and at the moment, couldn’t really care. Whatever music found on the tape, it didn’t matter, as music was music. An actual recording and not just a lonely guitar in the woods, as talented Kate was.

Breathing a self-satisfied sigh of relief, he finally turned to leave, pocketing the device.

   everything was too bright. the lights felt like they were burning. he nearly stumbled over his own feet as he moved towards the stairs that would take him out of the theatre room. he gripped tightly onto one of the chairs on his right as his breathing sped up. his teeth felt weird in his mouth, like they weren’t his teeth, and it only added to the disorientation. he could barely hear his own breath, it was muffled, like it was further away than it should be. he had to get out of here. he wasn’t certain what good it would do, but the lights were too bright, too painful.

   jiwoon somehow made his way outside of the theatre to the dark hallway outside of it, and he felt like he could breathe again. he let himself sink down onto his hands and knees, taking a moment to adjust to whatever was happening to him. it was his hearing that properly returned first. there wasn’t much to hear other than the sound of his own breath, but it was nice regardless. he sat back and looked up, vision still swimming but slowly adjusting. it was sharp. he’d never seen this clear before in an environment this dark. he blinked a couple times as the hairs on his neck stood up. he turned his head to his right and quickly stood on unstable feet, drawing a knife as he took in the strange figure of a woman wearing a mask.

2. are there any tropes that pull you in or that you realize are recurring in your muses?

the most blatant one i can think of is the “traitor” character. in media, i tend to fav characters that wind up betraying the main party in some way; some of them wind up working with them later on, some of them fuck them over & move on. i like deceitful, tricky characters! i also usually wind up endeared to detective chars or any char that follows “the investigator” enneagram. characters that have an incredible amount of knowledge and want to understand the world around them; bonus points if they’re aloof and unused to human interaction. also mean lesbians 

8. who is your latest muse? can be someone you’re only considering / not planning to play at all, but is tempting you.

                           stupidly,  he  almost  replies.  honestly,  he  might  as  well.  here  we  are  again.  you  me  and  the  corpses  of  my  friends  i  completely  failed,  huh!  not  that  it  mattered  anymore;  with  the  bloody  trail  directing  her  in  a  big  horrible  arrow  to  where  he  had  staggered;  into  a  corner,  like  the  way  the  hometown  jackals  of  his  youth  were  always  herding  kids  like  him  into  bathroom  stalls  and  down  steep  ravines  —  when  any  danger  was  better  than  getting  caught  in  their  teeth.  he  had  been  good  at  it  back  then  —  the  running.

and  the  steps  creak,  the  way  they  do  in  a  horror  movie.  it  had  been  fun  to  pretend,  for  a  minute.  but  now  it  had  to  be  real  again.  richie  looks  blankly  at  all  the  red,  on  his  hands,  on  this  stupid  shirt.  bleakly,  he  considers  if  he  might  be  capable  of  hemorrhaging  himself  out  before  she  got  a  hold  of  him  again.  wishful  thinking,  really.  he’d  given  her  a  pretty  good  reason  to  hunt  him  down,  after  that  little  stunt.  that’s  what  meg  would  call  it,  anyway.

he  nearly  trips  on  the  edge  of  something,  where  the  ground  isn’t  quite  even.  not  just  a  wounded  idiot,  but  a  blind  one.  he  nearly  trips  into  her,  too.  stumbling  back  a  little  rabbit-like.  and  he  blinks  —  a  bit  nauseated  —  from  the  hatch  door  between  them,  to  the  fuzzy  red  streaks  of  her  mask.  he  looks  at  his  glasses,  clasped  in  his  other  hand.  they’re  crunched  in  a  new  and  exciting  shape,  but  he  hangs  onto  them  like  a  pointless  little  lifeline.  he  doesn’t  have  the  energy  for  much  of  a  flourish  this  time.    ❝   ta-da.  well  shit.  you’re  fucking  welcome,  i  guess.   ❞