#warped perception

Warped Perception somehow feels like a free pass to Lovecraft. Most Outer Gods would probably have fitted the description. But I decided to go for the god from the panteon of more familiar peeps that was still missing from our ensemble, Yogh Sothoth. Eyes, tentacles, more eyes - a classic :D I, for one, have fun with the idea that each eye is actually a wormhole into another dimension - and Yog can peer through each one into that very dimension...

Creeptober-Promptlist by @creep-tober

--- Wanna support your humble artist?

---

The Minor Injury Overreaction

Whumpee got a splinter. It’s the end of the world, it hurts so badly, we’re gonna have to amputate oh god tell my partner I love them.

Every sniffle is the plague. Expect everyone to complain about how bad a patient Whumpee is and silently draw straws about who has to deal with their nonsense this time.

The bed is too soft. The blankets are scratchy. They’re cold. They’re hot. They want a shower, to pee, help them walk. They want soup. No, they aren’t going to drink it, the smell is turning their stomach. They complain about everything and anything they can.

And why does Whumpee react like this? A few reasons, maybe. Because it’s the only time anyone pays any attention to them. Because the resident hardass is nice to them even when they’re a nuisance. Because it’s the only time they feel like anyone cares about them. They know that their caretaker(s) would rather not deal with them, but they don’t feel well and really don’t want to be left alone and if that means playing up a cold to force people to interact with them, then so be it. They know they’re already a burden, so they figure what’s the difference if they’re more overt about being useless right now? Or maybe they don’t trust that their caretaker(s) mean it when they say they care, so whumpee is trying to find the limit of this scary, unfamiliar care and concern.

The Major Injury Underreaction

You know it well. The hand to the open wound, staring in dull amazement at the crimson on their palms. The soft “Oh,” of surprise that falls from their lips before they fall to the ground.

The whumpee doesn’t say a word about being poisoned. They don’t speak up when rations are being handed out, even though they haven’t eaten in days. They don’t mention that they have a broken rib because they can treat it themselves. They brush off an injury because they’ve had worse, no matter how bad the current injury is.

The whumpee maybe fears vulnerability, fears what will be done to them while they are defenseless. Maybe they worry about being useless or deemed expendable or not worth the effort. Maybe they were once denied medical care and forced to learn how to take care of themselves and cannot comprehend that they have just as much right to healing as anyone else. Maybe they don’t want to “waste” the medical supplies.

The OOC Moment

I LIVE for this, okay? When the roles are reversed. When the whumpee usually reacts one way and then for whatever reason this time they don’t. And what really sells it is how the others react to this change in behavior.

The underreacter finally admits they aren’t okay. What’s good is everyone coming together and doing everything they can to help Whumpee. What’s better is their pallor after being told, after Whumpee is asleep or out of sight, their panic that crawls up their throat, because for Whumpee to admit it’s bad, how bad must it be? Can they even help Whumpee? Is Whumpee going to die? What’s the best is when everyone is panicked and trying to help but there is nothing they can do.

The overreacter... there’s a few ways to play here and I love all of them.

The whumpee is really and truly ill, or desperately tired, or just generally in bad shape. They are asked to do something — perform, present, give of themselves — and they can’t. They try to explain it but, in true boy who cried wolf fashion, no one believes them. Correction, no one believes them right up until their inevitable collapse.

Or, maybe, the whumpee, injured or sick, falls silent after a little of their usual complaining. They don’t complain again. Maybe they started with a cold or a hard blow to the chest and their usual shtick, and then slowly stopped making a fuss. Maybe the others, with a sort of dark humor, laugh about how it took so long for whumpee to man up about their simple bumps and bruises. Then whumpee collapses. Their cold turned to pneumonia. The bruised rib was actually fractured and now they have to treat a punctured lung. As they fret over the survival of their friend, they feel guilty over missing the signs. Bonus points if Whumpee had heard their praising comments about their silence and forever becomes an underreacter.

The Mixed Case

My absolute favorite incarnation of all time because I am a simple, simple man.

The whumpee will complain until they’re blue in the face about a hangnail, but don’t feel that the stab wound is worth mentioning. The rich prat, the shallow playboy, the ex-villain and the dramatic one are wonderful archetypes for this. The rations are awful, tasteless and flavorless— but they don’t mention that they haven’t even had a taste of them. They’ve been walking so long they have blisters — oh and they’re walking on a broken ankle. The character is accustomed to hiding things by being as obnoxious as usual, or even more so than usual. They know they’re disliked, so they’re not going to accept any sort of socially obligated sympathy. They might even be dying, but at least they still have some modicum of dignity.