#howland

5. Name a few of your character's favorite foods.

Baz loves his chicken noodle soup or ramens :)

I feel like if Howland had free time, he would love nothing more than to spend a day making some elaborate delicious from-scratch bread. He loves cooking, when he's able to. He likes his simple foods - bread, seasoned veggies, pot roasts and stews, that kinda stuff.

8. Your character needs to bring something to a party or potluck. What are they bringing?

Baz is bringing something from like a grocery bakery or a bag of store-bought cookies lmao hes not cooking!!

Speaking of dessert, Howland would probably make a killer pie (no pun intended). For non dessert, potato salad and then he'd be upset some old lady made the same thing (then get into a dangerous rivalry with her about it or be petty and hex her... or hex her potatoes lmao his WILL be the best!!!)

15. Your character wants to make a nice dinner, maybe for family or guests. What are they making?

Oh god. If Baz actually feels like he has to impress, he's getting catering and lying through his teeth (poorly) that he made it all himself adsfdgdggh if he's comfortable enough to be himself then he might just go for something easier that still shows he tried: pre made rolls in the oven, box mac n cheese, frozen cauliflower/imitation chicken nuggets. A charcuterie board would be his best bet, very pretty and requires no cooking, but I'm not sure he'd have that idea unless he saw it in a magazine or something.

1. How does/would your character type on a keyboard? The proper way? With one finger? Fast, slow? Do they need to look at the keys?

Baz would absolutely be like a clueless grandpa on a keyboard, it would take him forever lmao. He might try to use like two fingers, trying to mimick what he sees, but it would be such an unfamiliar action for him that he would probably struggle a lot and not be very fast. God forbid its a phone keyboard and has autocorrect, he'd be so unnecessarily angry any time his typed words were changed and he had to fix them.

Howland actually uses computers/phones a lot in the modern day, he handles most of The Creator's communications with others, so he's much better at it than Baz for sure. He's a fast typer and likely doesn't need to look at the keys often at all, he could probably hammer out several paragraphs with his eyes closed.

The Creator would make Howland type whatever he needs or use voice commands probably 🤷‍♀️ he's too easily frustrated for typing

9.Talk about somebody who has taken care of your character in some way, whether it be long-term or just for a few minutes. What did they do for your character?

Ooh, another good time to mention my new oc Bug, in relation to Baz <3 They had a dynamic where Baz was pretty romantically inclined towards him, but Bug was more queerplatonic, and both were okay with that difference.

Bug provided Baz with a lot of comfort and companionship. Small, physical comforts like leaning against each other / snuggling while watching movies or gaming were a big part of their relationship. When Baz would be cold and shivering, even if he said he was fine, Bug would give him his coat or blankets to make sure he kept warm. Lots of joking around and laughter in general too.

Just lots of small acts of kindness that spoke big volumes to Baz and not only healed a lot of hurt, but also showed him what life *could* be, how people *could* be, how happiness is possible even in really hard times <3

17.What's the worst thing that could happen to your character right now? Don't forget to describe how it would destroy them.

Behind him, as he was the first time.

A large raven, sleek and spotless black, ruffled its feathers in greeting. It turned its head slightly, staring at Howland with what could only be described as the pupil-less white eyes of a man.

Howland wanted to speak, but his jaw only trembled.

The raven turned to the black winter skies and Howland followed.

He was led this time to the outskirts of the village, trudging and stumbling through the thick snow into a far-off field. He had lost the raven in his weak treading, following the best he could yet failing, unsure if he was even going in the right direction. Just as he felt compelled to stop, to catch his ragged breath and doubt himself, he saw it: the goat from before, alone in the center of the field, its dark body a stark contrast to the miles of untouched snow.

Howland dropped to his knees. In weakness, in fear, in awe.

"Come closer," the devil said, voice echoing in Howland's skull.

Howland could not stand. His whole body trembled violently, the hairs on his neck buzzing in an unnatural, icy fear.

"Come along, now," the devil insisted. "Crawl."

And so he did. Howland set his lantern aside, the moonlight illuminating his path in the bright snow. He crawled to the devil, elbows dragging the rest of him, desperate enough to care nothing of the humiliation. When he reached the devils pristine black hooves, he dared not look up to face him.

For a moment, Howland heard only his own breathing. Uneven, shaking in fear, struggling in the frigid air.

"Have you any questions?"

Howland's words came slowly, hesitantly. "W-What can a man like me offer you in return? What... what do you want of me?"

The devil hummed, thoughtfully.

"Whatever I desire."

Howland's body wracked in a violent chill.

"None will harm you," the devil said gently. "You will be mine, under my protection forever. Your family's health will prosper. I promise you this. Give only yourself to me. It is a small price to pay, is it not?"

Thoughts of his family flooded Howland's mind. Of Walter, his little body so full of life now turned to an empty shell. Of Constance, tending to him even in her own sickness, and little Anne too young to even understand the world she was born into. His throat grew thick, choking back a sob. He couldn't speak. Barely a nod escaped his head when he felt everything shift.

A wave of energy struck him like a fierce wind, knocking him flat onto his back. It blew through his skin, his very bones, burning everything inside him as it flowed in every inch of his veins like blood. He writhed on the ground, helplessly pinned by the force, his strangled screams erupting into the winter night.

The devil laughed.

"Feels good, doesn't it?"

The wave released him as swiftly as he'd been grabbed. And then it did - it did feel good.

He hadn't known how weak he'd been until the weakness left him. He was no longer hungry, no longer fatigued, no longer sore and weary. A raw energy rushed through him, tingling like static, buzzing through his mind like a euphoria.

Shakily, readily, he asked the devil, "What shall I do?"