#thegear

joey slashes an angry face into the pumpkin's blood-orange shell. their clothes could smell like pumpkin-pulp for days, damp and thick and sticking to their sleeves like meaty viscera. but the cutting is easy. joey knows how to use a knife; their hands are ice-steady, surgical. distracted, sometimes, by the din of the castle, dozens of staff and security personnel filing through mordhaus like worker-bees. large, scarred bodyguards carving pumpkins and setting up macabre, gory decorations over the walls and ceilings.

hundreds of jack-o-lanterns are spread out across the long, dark corridors of the castle's foyer. joey's handiwork grins, scowls, snarls back at them, warm and flickering, their candlewicks heating the air. they glance at @thegear, eyeing the contrasting gentility of his scarred hands, cutting into a pumpkin with a serrated blade, chipping away at the illustration of a thorny rose.

"Mind the floor, sire. It's just been waxed." - @thegear

nathan explosion's gaze was wild. green eyes peeled open, like a deer in headlights. he stared off into the distance. nathan was prescribed a higher dose of xanax this morning. with the pressure of saving the world, the dethklok front-man has not been handling the stress well. his large hand gripped onto a white mug. the graphic on the side read, 'i don't do mondays.'. he entered the room 547 was in, boots trudging against the freshly waxed floors. he didn't even hear the warning. nathan didn't even know the gears were in the same room as him.

he walked forward in a trance like state. hand trembling, spilling black coffee onto the polished floors. nathan didn't even know where his feet were taking him. he hoped it would lead him to charles; who may have more answers. maybe a solution. within a matter of seconds, his large body tumbled to the ground. spilling his coffee all over his grey shirt and shattering the mug in his hand.

HEY! Those old Raiden sketches I have!

I remember liking his eyelashes

listening to Sunrise by Spectrum while drawing this