#yyyeeep

ESFP-A: Entertainer

ESFP personalities are inclined toward putting on a show for others and generally appear to be very comfortable in the spotlight. However, it is not their love for being the center of attention that drives this sense of confidence but their knack for sensing what’s appropriate in certain situations. They have an uncanny ability to mirror the behaviors of those around them.

ESFPs truly enjoy the simplest things, and there’s no greater joy for them than just having fun with a good group of friends. People with this personality type would almost always choose to be with friends over spending time alone. With their unique and earthy wit, they love soaking up attention and making every get-together feel a bit like a party.

It’s not just talk either – ESFPs tend to have the strongest aesthetic sense of any personality type. From grooming and outfits to a well-appointed home, they have an eye for fashion. Knowing what’s attractive the moment they see it, they aren’t afraid to change their surroundings to reflect their personal style. This type is naturally curious, exploring new designs and styles with ease.

Though it may not always seem like it, these personalities know that it’s not all about them – they are observant and very sensitive to others’ emotions. Often the first to help someone talk out a challenging problem, ESFPs happily provide emotional support and practical advice. However, if the problem is about them, they are more likely to avoid a conflict altogether than to address it head-on. This personality type usually loves a little drama and passion, but not so much when they are the focus of the criticisms it can bring.

You refuse to sleep or even idle while Feferi is resting. Even if you were given information about the attack, the enemy's plan could change. You won't have peace of pan until this event is over.

In the meantime, as you patrol along the beach, you note how empty the island feels. Of course, you prefer that the others are not in any danger, the wrigglers especially. You could never forgive yourself if anything were to happen to your grandgrubs while you had even the slightest chance of protecting them.

On that idea, your thinkpan begins to trail off in unison with your feet.

The absolute desperation in that wriggler's eyes has never left you.

You can only imagine all of the things the poor child is feeling. Confusion, terror, pain... Lusus slaughtered behind him, blade to his throat, gag over his mouth.

"Sufferer," the navyblood greets you with obvious contempt. For a moment, you don't know how to respond, frightened and concerned. Though you keep a stone face outside, she looks smug, fully aware of your discomfort.

She cannot be more than thirty feet from your party. You can see the yellow of her eyes. You just need to get the wriggler away from her...

"There's a pretty bounty on your head," she continues, voice rising to a proud call, as if putting on a show for an audience. You suppose she is, what with the hunting party behind her and a small group of your own troops around you. "You are worth far more, in fact, than any piece of signless garbage has ever been. Fancy that, making history already."

You do not advance, not even when the wriggler begins to wail from behind his gag as well as cry. Not with that knife to his throat.

"Then your feud is with me," you call back. You must stay calm, talk this out, be reasonable. "Release the wriggler."

"Oh, you'd like that, yea? 'Free the lowbloods' and all." Her smirk sports four prominent fangs. "Personally, I'd rather trade the lowbloods. How about... maroon for red?"

Your brow furrows and your lips purse. To accept would be suicide. To refuse would put the blood of a wriggler on your hands.

You feel Tireas shift beside you and place a hand firmly on your shoulder, holding you back. The navyblood eyes him carefully, face turning sour.

"I wouldn't let your loyal little psionic dog pull anything, were I in your boots."

With not so much as a glance at your second, you shrug his hand away. This is a signal to him that you can handle the matter yourself, an order to hold.

"Release him," you repeat, louder. Stronger. "Should you want me, fight me. Have you no honor?"

A hearty cackle flows forth from the highblood. You cannot help the guttural, practically bestial rumble of disdain that starts in your throat, nor the tight clench of your fists. Beside you, the Contriver tenses. 

Finally, words join her laughter as it dies. "Honor? Please, O Noble Sufferer, I am but a meager bounty hunter! I care for a prize, not for honor.

"Now," she rouses darkly, all hint of amusement gone from her voice and her face, "what will my knife taste? Maroon, or red?"

"Sufferer," your deputy murmurs, despondent, impatient.

You give him a sideways glance, a look of defeat.

The navyblood notices, pleased. "Now, drop your weapons, and advance. Alone," she adds, noticing a few of your allies shuffle. Obediently, you take your sickles from their clasps on your back and allow them to drop to the ground. You manage a few steps before the Contriver shouts, begins to conjure psionics, and the hunter, in quick response, presses her knife into the wriggler's throat, drawing blood. The boy shrieks.

"Stop!" You stop and turn just to yell at your second. The psionics die down, though he is no calmer in expression. 

He begins to protest, but you interrupt him with a roared, "No!" He and the rest of your group can only stand there, useless, as you turn back to face the hunter. She has firm hold of the boy, but still does not kill him. Your feet will not move. For a few moments, everything is still and everyone is silent.

"Sufferer!" The hunter and the Contriver both shout at once. You stay facing forward and still.

The navyblood calls again, growing angrier by the second, "Sufferer!"

You start toward her again.

"RK!" And you pause once more.

The ladytroll's last "Sufferer!" is an enraged roar.

"Ratakk!"

Now you freeze and stay frozen. You cannot die, but you cannot let the wriggler die, and you cannot kill the hunter without killing the wriggler, so you choke and you still.

The knife plunges into the wriggler's throat. His agonized scream is cut short and you howl a horrified, "No!" and break into a mad run at the blueblood, unarmed.

As the child hits the ground, your party as well as the hunter's dash forward.

You are directly between them by now, the hunter closer to you than anyone else; far, close, nearly upon you when an arrow shoots from behind you and into her eye. She falls, and everyone halts. You whirl to see your best archer having just pulled, her scouting party joining yours.

The allies of the navyblood are quickly filled with arrows as well.

All of them downed, you hesitate a fraction of a second before rushing for the boy. On your knees, you take him up into your arms and confirm that he has been killed. Killed in your name, his blood staining your hands, your tunic, your leggings.

While your followers gather around you, you cradle the wriggler's head in your lap and lean over him, shutting his terrified eyes. Everyone is still as you mourn for a time, silently weeping over the boy's corpse.

A seagull's cry tears you back to the present, and you find yourself walking back toward the hive. You aren't sure how long exactly you've been strolling, but nothing having been amiss thus far means nothing of importance has happened.

You take a few deep breaths, staring out first at the ocean, then back to the hive.