#rasse ref

Inktobertale day 1, gonna do it with three of my Inks this year

who are all technically alts or something of the mid guy

Inktobertale day 3: Mirror

"Happy? Edwin, where's-?"

"He's fine." You hear Rasse say as you turn to see him. "As are you."

He sits on the other side of the room in a battered old wheelchair, the mutilated stumps of his legs on full display, the metal of his prosthetics beside him. In lieu of his normal coat and turtleneck he wears a plain tank top, and finally, without the mess of dark blood covering him, you can see just how bad the last ten years have been.

All over him are old, deep claw marks left by many hands, thick raised keloid scars and tightened skin left as evidence of burns. There are healed cuts stitched by an educated hand, deep shredded gouges left by an uncaring one, little puncture marks and deep dents where chunks of his flesh were torn out. On his neck are lines of textured skin like the remains of a ropeburn and over that the flesh is pinched by scar tissue, the shape of a huge hand crushing his throat with thick punctures from oversized claws.

But the worst of them all takes up his entire left shoulder, going slightly up his neck and down his arm, puncturing so deep with skin so warped that it twists his tattoos themselves, the constant motion and swirling dead and still where the old wound lies.

It is a bite mark from a being five times his size, the punctures they left finger deep and twice as thick, crunched and steadily torn as if they took great delight in dragging their sharp teeth through his skin like a red-hot knife through butter until an exit wound tears and they pull back, reposition and sink their canines in again, picking another angle as they laugh, gnashing their teeth and repeating the process until there is nothing left but mashed flesh and blood.

.............................

Happy sits on Rasse's lap, snuggling a soft plush jellyfish and chewing on a sucker. He's bright and shiny and solid and he coos upon seeing you, happily waving and wibbling the stuffies black tendrils in your direction.