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Topics - sayonarc

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1
Biographies / Storage quiet room - felicity's storage
« on: April 06, 2020, 11:43:04 AM »
felicity
I. tags. / calling out, i don't make a sound
II. bio. / the words are falling from my mouth, but they all disappear
III. timeline / it's too quiet in here
IV. art. / again another sad attempts only ends in tears
V. icons. / but i know you already knew it though
(c) guppy

2
Elysium / Open quiet room - joining
« on: March 22, 2020, 09:53:41 PM »
Felicity wakes up and Sheska is nowhere to be found. It's not like the other serval is hard to find -- blinding white fur, striking pink eyes. The prettiest girl Felicity has ever laid eyes on.
She left a note in her stead. Not a breakup note, -- Felicity doesn't think so, at least. The note was clear, but there was a lack of communication between them, if Sheska couldn't tell her face to face. Sheska had seemed a little distracted, a little sad, in the days leading up, but just as affectionate as ever. More so, even. Pressed side to side, laughing together.
Had Felicity been so unapproachable that Sheska couldn't have brought this upfront? Offered to let Felicity come with? As though Felicity wouldn't have wanted to see her brother again. Like she wouldn't have wanted to see her brother again. Like Felix meant nothing to her.
Had this been happening beneath her nose the whole time? How had Felicity never noticed? (was this how Felix felt, when they left? Except that --)
Felicity,
Hey, I need to go for a little while. Maybe a few months. I need to go visit my family for a bit, okay? I know you want to keep exploring, and that's okay!
We'll find each other again, okay? I promise,
Sheska

Was that the problem? Was Felicity too fixated on adventuring, that Sheska left overnight and with such a brief notice? Was Felicity not consistent enough? Not trustworthy enough?
... She left her whole brother immediately after promising to stay. Of course she wasn't consistent enough.

This is somehow what lead Felicity to the border of -- what was it again, Elysium?
It's interesting first step. Ah, yes. Her girlfriend scuttled away cause she had to do something, and Felicity's first response is to join a group to prove that she could, in fact, settle down or ... something. Listen. Felicity is not a particularly smart person. She wanted to explore, and she could hardly fathom the idea of settling down by herself -- with Sheska or not, but alone nonetheless.
The familiar tang of nostalgia. Surrounded by people. Tended to people, tending to people.
Bittersweet, all on her lonesome. No Felix, no Sheska. No Helier or mom.
The serval taps her paw against the ground. She's a somewhat odd sight, carelessly plodding past whatever borders she may have reached. It's cold -- much colder than Felicity particularly appreciates, but it shows that she can withstand some hardships, right? Oh god.
"Isss ... anyone there?" She yowls, finally stopping in her tracks. Tapping a paw against the ground, impatient. Clearly, since she couldn't wait five minutes for someone to arrive before charging past the border. Ears flicked forwards, mismatched eyes searching. Feathers dangle from her ears. Does ... People actually live here, right? Felicity can smell them, but do they? ... Stupid question, of course they do. Felicity wouldn't be here if they didn't.
Listen, okay. Maybe she's just half-hoping they don't show up so she doesn't have to live in the cold mountains until a. Sheska shows up or b. indefinitely, if Sheska likes it.
Nobody ever said that Felicity's plans were well-thought, or fleshed out in any way, alright?

3
Elysium / Open spice from life - cleaning?
« on: March 22, 2020, 07:32:27 PM »

Videogames
897 subscribers


Videogames was not particularly good at ... well, a lot of things, for one. Like moving around the group, and remembering to interact with people. The days blurred together, and each Videogames spent loitering in his residence, alone. Piecing together bits of ruined devices and scrap metal or wood to create something new. Like ... like, uh. Little knick-knacks. Or all the little accessories Videogames wore.
It was grueling work, but one Videogames enjoyed. Up until the point he realized -- oh, hey. He hasn't been outside in a while, and he literally can't walk anywhere because the floor is covered. Scrap metal in a pile, half-completed projects littered over the floor. The serval's ear twitches. He could step onto something -- and for that matter, he doesn't need this much, does he? He couldn't finish all of this. He'd just be piling more and more projects on.
It's with this decision that Videogames begins to clear out the space. Rolling whatever he can into a pile, before pulling apart the pile once more to drag out of the door. It's slow work. Some of it is ... awfully big. Bigger than him, even. Heavier, too. But he got it in, so he got it out.
Ultimately, this ends up with Videogames outside, sorting through a pile of junk. Metal, old projects, incomplete projects -- he frowns, balancing carefully on a slab of wood. It used to be a table. What would he do with a table? ... Right. Actually put stuff on. Like all of this that was surrounding him. Oh, but what about that little bracelet he was working on? He hasn't touched it in weeks. But, oh what if he decided he wanted to later? His attention span never was that good, it could happen. But what about -- no, no.
And this is how Videogames ends up sitting outside, surrounded by junk, mostly broken -- some not, but certainly without a home. And, even still, as he sorts through it all ... He just can't find anything he wants to get rid of.
What a hassle.
//this is ... ultra garbage but i just wanted to get this out there and get re-involved so. sorry (pensive emoji)


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4
Tanglewood / Open in the air - joining
« on: March 09, 2020, 12:17:56 PM »
Izuku is lost.
Again.
It isn't as pressing of a situation as it is the first time. The Typhoon was just a place for him to stay, in any case. He'd just sort of thought ... maybe if he stayed in one spot, it might be easier for All Might to find him and bring him home. If .. if they were looking at all.
If nothing else, though, he wasn't that big of a deal. It was a temporary arrangement.
It's been a while though, and he'd thought .. well. It wouldn't hurt to go out and explore again. ... And, admittedly, maybe deciding to walk all the way out of the Typhoon was a bad plan when he was still hurt. He hadn't been thinking right. Sure, it'd been a while since he'd got them, but they weren't exactly .. healing very well.
He tries not to think about it.
His mouth is dry, journal clutched between his teeth. He'd -- he didn't want to ruin it anymore than he already had. Izuku, after all, was terribly small, and the bag he'd originally kept it in was already covered in mud, just like the rest of him.
It's hard to smell anything, over the stink of the swamp. Or maybe it's because of how fuzzy his brain has been lately. His notes have been getting ... increasingly messy and at least mildly incoherent, which was really the only reason Izuku had noticed anything was wrong at all. Which probably said a lot about him.
Another step. The ground disappears from underneath his paws.
Izuku, despite his best efforts, can't help back a yelp. He almost drops his journal. Almost, but clamps his teeth down in time. It probably wouldn't have fallen through, the gaps weren't wide, but he doesn't want to risk it.
... ..... .. This meant people lived here, didn't it? Did Izuku do it again? Was he just that bad at being sensitive to his surroundings, that he not only got stuck in a trap but didn't realize people lived here?
... Honestly, as much as he would like to hope they're as forgiving as the Typhoon had been, considering his current predicament, his hopes aren't that high. Miserably, and almost tearfully, the kitten shuts his eyes, and waits.
//tl;dr small muddy boy is Trapped(tm)

5
Elysium / Open the simulation - re-intro
« on: February 26, 2020, 08:08:23 AM »

Videogames
897 subscribers

Continue.
Videogames wakes up.
It feels like deja vu. He opens his eyes, thick black dripping from his mouth and his nose and his right eye, and he can't -- remember. He can't remember anything. He'd been having a normal day last he remembers, he thinks, but it feels so distant. He'd had a normal day, and then it's blank. Snatches of something, impressions of feelings.
Videogames can't remember the last few months. And months had to have passed, because the weather'd changed. It's .... nearing the end of winter, he thinks? It's still cold. Very, very cold.
Videogames uncurls, blinking blearily against the light. A brief snatch of pain, for only the briefest second, and then -- it's gone in another blink, as if it never was at all.
He thinks he should be more alarmed by all of this, but all Videgames can feel is a blankness, an empty sense of contented tiredness.
The serval pushes himself to his paws. The black ooze is dripping onto the ground. Was it blood, or something else? Videogames thinks he'd remember if his blood was black. He lifts a paw to his face, only really succeeding in smearing it over his fur. That's .. fine.
Videogames yawns and stretches. He's been away for a while. He doubts anyone remembers him, except maybe Lemy if he's still here, and who doesn't even like him.
It would be so easy to leave. So aimless. It's not like he ever did anything. But it'd be lonely, he thinks. Lonely enough to be worth the effort of getting re-initiated, of being unable to explain why, exactly, he'd vanished. ... ..
That settles it, then. Videogames shakes out his fur, feeling like something other. As though he were only confined to his body in an abstract sense, running through the motions. It doesn't improve through the whole walk back to town, long though it is.
... Now then. If only Videogames could remember where his stuff is. Because he really, really isn't sure. The serval glances around with poorly concealed panic. He hopes nobody touched it -- he wouldn't blame them if they did, but right now he's having enough trouble as is.
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6
Biographies / Storage world search - felixs storage
« on: February 25, 2020, 05:33:53 PM »
felix
I. tags. / side by side, the lovelier goes up
II. bio. / reach for the top, til the bubble pops
III. timeline / pick a memory, insert to the past
IV. art. / which one is sweetest?
V. icons. / save it for the last
(c) guppy

7
The Typhoon / Open oh west - journal
« on: February 22, 2020, 05:54:53 PM »
Izuku hasn't been without a journal in -- a long time. He'd been small, he thinks, when he'd picked up the hobby. His mom had been teaching him to read and write, and, well -- he'd put it to use. He started writing about -- about heroes. Every tibdit of information he could get his hands on, anything he could deduce, every improvement idea -- it was all in there. Maybe it was ... weird. Everyone thought it was weird. Izuku was weird and creepy. He mumbled a lot. The things he writes in his journals are almost stalkerish.
Kacchan blew up his last journal. He'd kept using it, but, well -- he didn't. Have it. Anymore. He'd, um. He'd left it at home -- reasonably, considering that Izuku hadn't exactly left by choice.
These days, Izuku's paws constantly itch for his journal. He'll just -- he'll just see something, something interesting, a cool new power, a cool new application, and he'll start reach for his notebook, and he -- won't have it. It's weirdly numbing, and it just makes his mumbling problem .. worse, somehow.
Izuku didn't think that his mumbling problem could get worse.
For the first while, Izuku ... tries not to worry about it. It's for the better -- what would he take notes on? There's not any heroes to take notes on, just ... the other people living here. And ... and that's ... a little invasive, isn't it? ... ... ..
Right.
In the end, it's inevitable that Izuku get his hands on the supplies for it. How he does so is ... somewhat of a mystery. The book isn't anything special, just a composition notebook. He'd had to tear out a few pages -- the previous owner wasn't using it anymore, they'd said, but they had used it at some point. His writing utensil was ... less usual. He hadn't been able to get any pens or anything, simply because they were so small. So he'd basically .. made his own. He was keeping it in a tiny jar he'd found washed up, empty.
Obviously, the first thing Izuku did upon obtaining it was start writing. He didn't have anything to carry it in yet, but he carried it into an open, sunny spot and started writing.
It's .. relieving. He puts the ink on the rock above him and begins writing. He writes about things he's seen, people he's encountered. Little things that're stuck to his head. And then -- it happens. He's just about to get more, but then -- it topples. The bottle disappears from beneath his paw, and Izuku squeaks, finally looking up. ... .... He only just closes his eyes in time, as the bottle hits his head. It splatters over his face, dripping over his chest, and -- oh. Izuku blinks one eye open, and shrinks away at the sight. It's not -- it's not irreparable. There's still .. a decent amount of fluid over the page, though, making the page he's working on, and the few empty ones after it .. entirely unusable.
The kitten's head falls onto the ground with a miserable whine. A burn on his chest burns with the fluid dripping over it, but Izuku barely pays it, nor his ink-covered eye, any heed.
He can't believe this. He's going to die. This is it. His flow, ruined. He should've just gone through the extra lengths, the extra social interaction, for an actual pen.

8
Private Rendezvous / Private desert to glass - octane
« on: February 20, 2020, 03:37:44 PM »
Izuku, since arriving here, hadn't exactly been ... around ... much. He found it unlikely that anyone had noticed, in all honesty. Izuku was new, and he was small, and not particularly memorable. ... Probably. .. He was pretty good at hanging around the outskirts, in any case.
Izuku didn't need any attention on him. Attention didn't generally work in his favor, and he needed -- he needed to stay here, at least for now. Izuku didn't have anywhere else to go, and he didn't know how to live on his own, and -- and maybe, if he stayed in place long enough, All -- his mentor might be able to find him maybe.
It felt like an far-off dream, hoping for such a thing. Nevermind that he wasn't worth -- right.
Right.
Izuku's going to be brutally honest here.
This place is scary.
Just not .. in the way he's used to. The inhabitants are large, and and also apparently pirates, but there weren't any -- any cruel grins, or explosions. Not yet. And granted Izuku hasn't ... talked to anyone yet, but --.
Anyways.
Izuku's been exploring, since he'd turned up. He doesn't have to worry about being -- being found, or anything, cause he's -- he probably won't get in trouble. Exploring was a good portion of the reason he'd ended up here to begin with, after all. And it's not something Izuku would be interested in under normal circumstances, but these aren't normal circumstances, and, for the moment, he's content with it.
Wings forced half-spread for balance, poking at this and that. Izuku hops off the ledge, shaking himself out as his paws land on the ground. The whole endeavor is ... a little more aimless than the kitten particularly cares for, but it's comforting in its own way. And that's .. that's good enough for him, he supposes.

9
The Typhoon / Open promise me - joining
« on: February 07, 2020, 05:48:42 AM »
Izuku is a coward.
By nature or by experience, he wouldn't be able to tell you. Except that -- maybe he could, if only because when there was something real, something beyond bullying and Kacchan's sneering face, he'd jumped into the fray without a second thought.
But does it really matter? In the face of months of -- making himself small, and crying, and crying, and crying. And -- and he ran. Of course he did. He tried, he did, and everyone else did too, and it's not a big deal, they're all just a little lost, but -- it feels like a personal failing, somehow. The idea that he failed his mentor because he chose you and this is how you repay him --
Izuku is a coward.
Izuku worries a lot.
Logically, one would point out that Izuku is a child. He shouldn't have to worry about these things. He's growing, and yes maybe some things should start to become a concern around now, but he shouldn't need to be -- fighting, or risking his life, all just because his idol looked at him and smiled and told him he could do it. Even he would probably disagree with Izuku's -- mindset.
Izuku is a worrier by nature, and he's -- more alone than he's ever been. He considers this something of an achievement. He had his mom, and he had his mentor for a little while, but beyond that, that's -- all. And now he's lost and they're gone and Izuku has ... no idea what to do. He doesn't know how to get home, and no matter how hard he flaps his little wings he just -- can't.
It'd make things a lot easier, he thinks.
It's just Izuku now. Just a limping, green-furred kitten. And he has no idea where to go, or what he'll find, and -- well, he's never left home before, has he? His mom brought him out sometimes, and they'd camp in the forest for a little while, but all the land he's ever known is somewhere else entirely.
Case in point, he's never been on a island before, nevermind that he technically lives on a very big one. It'd been the first thing that'd caught his attention, the large mass of land on the ocean. And -- Izuku didn't have anywhere to go. He didn't have any plans, or any ideas of -- how to find Aizawa or any of his classmates.
It's .. it's not like he really knew any of them, anyways. He's not even sure they'd have any better of an idea than he did.
So, Izuku just -- he waits. He's scared, and alone, but he's never been here before and he's curious.
Ultimately, it's curiosity that brings Izuku to the Typhoon. He bounds along the shore and wishes and wishes that his wings would just work, whydon'ttheyworkwhyishesouselesswhycan'theusetheONEthinghewasbornwith, until, finally, he stumbles upon .. metal.
It takes a moment for Izuku to realize it's a railroad. He hadn't ever seen one in real life, but Izuku liked to know things. He liked to read and research and -- he'd seen railroads in a book before, and it leads right towards the island.
It's almost too convenient. Izuku's eyes are wide, gaze flickering between the old metal and the distant island. Then, hesitantly, he slowly steps onto it. Question after question dances in his head, soft mumbling erupting from his mouth as he questions and theorizes and he beams. He's not thinking about it, and he's not worrying about it, and he's just excited as he ever is to have ideas and thoughts and theories.
His steps haven't been so light as they've been trotting over the railroad, steadfast ignoring the sharp stings and aches of burns untreated. He's been covered with them for near his whole life, and it's strange to consider that now that he's alone and he might never be found and he never might see Kacchan again, he might just -- never have them again.
(Kacchan had stopped hurting him as much after the Incident, but between the mock fight and the other children -- well.)
It's a long walk. Izuku is tired and sore as is, but he's determined if nothing else, he had endurance and training and he just wanted to have some measly goal to fill in the void. Anything at all.
He reaches the shore, passes through the gate. His paws are wet, aching, and the kitten's blue-green eyes are wide as he looks about.
He hadn't considered the possibility that people lived here. He'd smelled something on the tracks, but he hadn't worried about it, because he'd come so far and he wanted to see it, and .. well. sometimes Izuku just dismissed what the analysis side of his brain said. But there's .. there's signs, and a bell, and it doesn't look abandoned. A gentle sense of dread -- were they friendly? With Izuku's luck, probably not. He'd come so far, though ...
How long can he get away with exploring? Izuku was good at making himself small and unnoticable ... His ears twitch. A sense of niggling anxiety. He glances between the bell and the signs and the basket, and he's nervous.
Izuku's always nervous. For that matter, it's a .. little out of character for him to be doing ... whatever it is he's been doing. But, well. Well. That's what happened when you catapulted an anxious child from his old life and left him alone, huh?
He nervously scans the greenery. He doesn't ... he doesn't see anyone, nor does he smell anyone, but his senses are on overdrive now, paranoid as he ever is, and it works against him. It's hard to make things out.
He waits another moment, heart pounding, feeling exposed. Then, with another glance -- he scuttles towards the abandoned train. It doesn't take much to launch himself onto it, spreading his wings instinctively as he claws his way up the rusted metal.
The smell of rust is almost -- familiar. Almost comforting. Reminding him of the months of training, of the way he'd looked up at his mentor and they'd talk and -- Well.
It doesn't matter.
it really doesn't.
//revamped him 8 )
tldr there is just a Small Boy(tm) investigating the train
- WE'LL BE THE LIONHEARTED
BUT WE DON'T CARE ABOUT IT

10
Biographies / Storage lionhearted - izukus storage
« on: February 06, 2020, 06:02:18 PM »

IZUKU MIDORIYA


-

-


I | TAGS | when you wake me up

II | BIO | it's my mind that will start to blur

III | TIMELINE | youre in my head enough

IV | ART | to repeat my thoughts without a word

V | ICONS | i can't stop this beat from beating

11
Tanglewood / Open ANALOG BOY ➵ waking up
« on: February 01, 2020, 02:42:21 PM »
-
Crowley wakes up, and he's not entirely sure where-when-why he is. He feels groggy and confused and aching and alone, and, for a second, he wonders where Aziraphale is. At the bookshop, probably, or maybe -- out there getting himself into trouble somewhere. He thinks that he should probably get up and check.
And then -- Oh, right. Aurum.
It's like a hollow ache. He abandoned Aziraphale, he can't check, and he left Aurum hanging and -- Crowley doesn't need to breathe, probably, maybe, but he breathes in and out and it hurts. He feels too light and too heavy and like the heavenly light had sunk into his very being.
He's a coward. How long had he been sleeping? Weeks, months? He can't tell, he doesn't know. Gaze unfocused, and he just wants to sleep. Sleep, and sleep, and never wake up.
He doesn't. He stares into the middle distance, heavy-light and gaze unfocused, and thinks getupgetup, get up you stupid fucking snake.
He's tired of sleeping. He'd slept a century away, once, and the look on Aziraphale's face had been terrible, and he thinks of Aurum and wants to die (but that's not new).
So he does. He groans, and forces himself to his feet. It's as hard as the last times he'd woken up. But he does, and, blearily, his gaze travels around the room, the room where he'd slept surrounded by plants and flora and, oh -- they've all wilted.
Logically, he knows that plants die and wilt and he'd left them unattended for .. just a few months, it looks like.
There's no miracles that can fix this. He regards them with a dead eye, and he's so tired. Like he's been hollowed out with a rusty scooper. His breaths are shaky.
He has a front to put on later, people to talk to. But right now, at this moment -- he squeezes his eye shut, and he wants to topple them to the ground. Maybe it'd be his natural element, that way -- soil and shattered pottery and death.
He doesn't. He's excruciatingly gentle as he drags them out and he thinks fuck, shit, he's so fucking stupid, and he's being so fucking emo right now what the fuck.
Crowley drops the pot onto the ground, and he has to blink against the first rays of sunlight he's seen in a month and he just wants to leave. He's in the public eye now, and he should be perking up and at least pretending to be the snarky asshole, but he's ... tired.
He sighs, flicks his tail. And then, with the utmost reluctance, turns his attention to the long-dead houseplant. He needs to .. get rid of it, and then he can start again. All over again. And again, and again, because as much attention as he put into them, he never thought about it. He never thought about it before he went on his ridiculous fucking naps.
He refuses to even start, at this point.
Crowley flexes stiff claws, remembers the last time he did something like this. Around winter, maybe? When he'd needed to bring them inside. He hooks his claws into the soil, and, with a contradicting sense of reluctance and .. brutality, he tears the plant out.
And so, rinse and repeat. He's not careful, doesn't care about his image, and it's not long before he's covered with dirt. It's not like it was any worse than the swamp mud, in any case.
God, fuck. He'd gone through quite a bit of effort to get these kinds of plants in this god-forbidden* wasteland, with animals and a complete lack of convenient plant shops. He doesn't know if he can bring himself to bother with going through it again, but, well -- he'll probably have to.
Fuck.
*almost quite literally,
-

12
Tanglewood / Open TRAP AND RELEASE ➵ snake
« on: December 04, 2019, 12:17:19 PM »
-
Crowley isn't safe.
Crowley hasn't ever been safe. This is true, and it always has been, but now more than ever. He's been ignoring it again. Still paranoid, still ignoring it. Still doubting people. Still doubting himself. He's ignoring his problems, and that's fine. That's fine. Hell's still coming from him, and they aren't gonna stop just cause he escaped once or twice. He's ignoring his problems, and it's killed him before, but that's fine.
Crowley's experienced some ... highs and lows with his injuries. Sometimes his head hurts so bad he can barely see, sometimes he's dizzy and hurting and his insides are burning. Sometimes, it stings, and his head is pounding, or maybe he's a bit out of it. He goes outside during the highs, and, for the most part, that works out fine. For the most part, he hasn't missed out on anything just cause he's feeling bad.
Today's a bit of a low. He hurts, he can't breathe, and he can't stop thinking. Eyes half-lidded, he leans against a wall, and he thinks, and he thinks. He'd been trying not to. He doesn't want to think, and he wants to continue rolling with it, but one his eyes are gone, and he's burning from the inside out.
He's had to think about it since he'd seen Kaz, at the training session. He'd thought there for a second that it was -- them, with the knife. That wasn't entirely fair, their only similarity was being a cheetah, but it was still -- ... He'd been seeing traces. Seeing things, maybe. Maybe he was just being paranoid again. Maybe he was right.
It wasn't exactly paranoia if it was true. It wasn't exactly paranoia if they really were still after him. A traitor, a liar. One of hell's finest demons, who'd never really done anything at all. He lied and lied and claimed he'd done the worst when all he'd done was glue a coin to a sidewalk.
A glimmer of gold.
A glimmer of gold.
He wonders, where did that knife get left?

He finds it. He can't quite recall what happened to it, not immediately. Was it hidden, did it get taken? Did anyone even piece together what'd happened? Didn't matter. He found it eventually. Looking at it alone burns, and he squeezes his eyes tight. White-hot, burning. Cold-hot from the inside out.
Hold it for too long and he might cease to be. A red-spotted serval, no demon left to be found. A husk, no life -- it was made for him, tailored for him. Wasn't anyone without him. Decisions. He needs it. Discorporation alone means nothing to a demon, not one who can come back so easily.
Were Crowley to die, he'd plummet straight to hell. He'd be executed immediately for his crimes. Crowley wasn't strong, or smart, and he had the unfortunate habit of discorporating on a regular basis. Never had Hell been happy about that, but he'd been a good demon, hadn't he? Spanish Inquisition, wars, some of the worst crimes in history? He'd only actually done a quarter of those things he claimed to have, of course -- M25, little, daily inconveniences.
He wasn't a good demon.
Good, bad, demon had always been a defining trait. It hadn't ever occurred to him that it didn't have to be.
This is the dilemma Crowley faces, staring down at white-hot, glimmering, burning gold.
And, very carefully, Crowley reaches for the knife, cradling it in ill-suited paws. A simple slip has him brushing against uncovered gold, and Crowley hisses through his teeth, white-hot burning, cold-hot. Don't panic. He drops it. Checks the damages.
Nothing. Not one singed fur.
A sweep of the tail. Maybe he hadn't held it long enough? He'll burn out if he's not careful, overdoes it, holds it too long, but ... carefully, gently, he presses a paw against the blade. Grits his teeth against the light, the cold burning ache of it leeching into everything that makes him him. A demon can't wield that which is holy.
And yet, when he looks at it, at his paw, there's nothing. Nothing feels missing. It hurts. It hurts.
But that's it.
He's too woozy to question it. Crowley picks up the knife, gold, glittering, heaven-sent gold, and leaves. The brush of gold feels like bursts of electricity, numbing and painful all the same.

Maybe, if Crowley were more like to run to people with his problems, he might've recruited someone to help him. Aurum, most likely, or maybe Snarl. Maybe this would have been better. Maybe the chances of this going sour would've fallen.
Crowley hasn't yet learned when to ask for help. He falls, and he falls, and he falls, and he pushes away the hands that help him. Was it fair, to ask something like that of Aurum? Hold a knife to rotted skin, ask him to protect him if they came back again.
Crowley doesn't want to be protected. He's tired of being weak, and he's tired of being scared. He's a liar, and stubborn, and .. and he'd abandoned Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who had so much faith in Heaven. Who made excuses again and again. Who liked food, and wine, and books. Who trusted easily, and got hurt because of it.
Crowley doesn't think he deserves to be protected, or liked, if he isn't doing anything in kind. If he isn't providing for someone, what does he deserve? Why does he deserve to be their friend? He's selfish, and tolerates things until he doesn't, and he doesn't talk about things, and he doesn't think about things.
It's just Crowley. Crowley and his knife, and his stupid paranoia. He knows they're there. It's just a matter of finding them before they found him.

Crowley's always been good at sleuthing. He'd rescued Aziraphale again and again and again, and it wasn't just because of miracles. Even stumbling over himself, if he wanted to find something, he'd find it eventually. Find the trail. Rotting, burned. Burning sulfur.
Hell-bound demons have a distinct smell, once you get down to it. It wasn't hard. It wasn't hard at all. Heart pounding, aching. He's scared. He's always scared. Behind the end of a knife, he feels no safer. An act, a barrier.
Despite what one may be lead to believe, Crowley wasn't made to hurt. He fell for questions, wrong place wrong time. He was a tempter, he lead them to doubt and he put a solution right in front of people. They didn't have to take it. He didn't want them to, but, well, if they did, was he at fault? For offering a choice?
Free will was a choice, but not one Crowley had ever had.

"Of course you still have it," He finds them. Of course he does. Curled lips, flattened ears. The stench of rotting in the air. They look at him, wild-eyed. Their corporation is falling apart on them, piece by piece. Strings of flesh from their shoulder, maggots feasting. They've been waiting. They've been looking. This whole time. It's not fair. It's not fair. He didn't ask for this, he never had a choice. Humans, these animals, they'd always had a choice. They chose who they wanted to be, they chose their path. Crowley had never had that. An accident. He tripped again and again and again and any mistake lead to his end.
It's not fair.
"Fuck was I ssh'posshed to do, leave it out on a platter for you?"" Crowley sneers past the handle. He can do this. He will do this. And he'll do it again and again and again if he has to. He's not a pawn. He'll take his destiny within his hands and line his own path with its ashes. The cheetah snorts, but a squeal is drawn from their mouth as Crowley advances, head tilted. Gleaming, burning gold. One wrong move, one wrong slice.
He wants to hurt them. He doesn't want to hurt anyone at all.
He wants to be left alone.
"If you think," Deep breaths, steady voice. Intimidating as anything. Crowley isn't as scary as he thinks he is, but he can play a part. Maybe he never wanted to scare anyone worth scaring to begin with. "I'll give in, get burned alive, dragged to hell," He's scared, he's scared, he's so afraid. He wants to be alone. He wants to be his own. He wants Aziraphale back, and he wants to see Aurum. He doesn't want to be here, and he's sick of pretending. "You're wrong," They're wrong, they're wrong, they're wrong. He'll prove them wrong. Grit his teeth over the knife, advance. Crowley has not ever met a demon who wasn't a coward.
Crowley isn't anyone. He's not anyone important, and he's not anyone that they'll ever remember, should they replace him without a thought. He'll make them listen. He'll make them leave. They'll forget, and Crowley will be just another somebody lost to time.
"Sssho listen here." Heart pounding, head spinning, he's barely here. He's acting on instinct, on impulse. He'll do what it takes. Whatever it takes. He's tired, he's so tired. He's so tired of being bossed around and controlled. He's so tired of being afraid, of making excuses for everything he does. For this single moment, he'll admit it -- he's him. "I'm not going back. You're not going to do anything. None of you," He'll make it happen. He'll make it happen. He will. The demon curls its lips, tries to snarl something derisive.
Crowley doesn't want to hear it. They yelp.
"You're going to forget about thiss." He demands, blunt. Inside, he's screaming, screaming, screaming. He so rarely sticks up for himself. He's so rarely fought back. Maybe he won't again. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But .. this once. "Or," Sharp grin, teeth. The gleam of a knife, hot-cold white. It's pressed against their neck, only just. Singing gold, the sent of burning fur.
Demons are cowards, in the end.
"Fine," He gasps, snarling. Pressing a paw to the sting as Crowley draws away, cold. They narrow their eyes at him. "It's not forever. It's not the end." Until they can find out a way to get to him, he means. They're cowards, they're scared. No miracles, new forms. Crowley doesn't respond. Keeps eye contact. It might be genuine, it might not be.
Crowley will be lost to history as a traitor and a liar.
And then, they're gone. Even still, Crowley can't breathe easy. He's not safe, and he never will be.
He'll take his destiny, and he'll, and he'll ...
Deep breaths. Head pounding, vision spinning. Four legs is worse than none. He doesn't want to be here. He's sick of being something else, and he's so afraid, and he's so open. Crowley stumbles, and he walks, and he trips. Farther away from here. Somewhere sunny, and warm, and secluded. Somewhere alone, or maybe not. He's not sure if he wants to be or not.
And, at last .. he trips. And, when he hits the ground, well -- needless to say, there's no serval there. A black and red snake, curled up on the grass. A knife clatters to the ground. Cold, white-hot light.
He's tired. He's so tired. But he did it, maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe. A shaky breath, and the snake coils into itself, black gleaming scales and block goop dripping from his now-uncovered eye.
Later. Maybe everything will be alright later.

//TL;DR part 3! crowley threatened a demon and may POTENTIALLY be left alone by hell, depending on if i come up w future plots (pensive emoji). he was so worn and exhausted by the experience though that now theres just sorta,,, a snake,,, chillin. with a knife nearby. hes not Immediately placable as crowley if youre not Looking so your char is free to freak out (pensive emoji)
this is TECHNICALLY the final part. again though there is some post-arc stuff.
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13
Artist Loft / Shops YOUNGER NIGHTS ⚝ art shop .. again
« on: November 30, 2019, 01:12:48 PM »
tryin,, for the THIRD time. im not the most consistent person in the world but im here to stay i think? hopefully? if i ever Failed You in the past just dm me and ill Actually Do It This Time i pROMISE
i CAN draw most animals. humans are,,, ok, i guess? not great. im 100% open to art trades if you want to dm me! if i make any Oopsies just let me know, even if it seems nitpicky to you!
Examples
deviantart is here
icons: ShowHide



fullbodies: ShowHide



PRICING
Icons 6k
Fullbodies 12k
Other i AM willing to do things like refsheets, pixels, etc, etc, but we MIGHT have to negotiate prices a bit. Willing to do backgrounds of any sort, varying prices. like, 3k more per character.
Waiting list
1. oblivion // ref sheet // paid
2. gregory // ref sheet
3. misty // icon & fullbody
4. stygian // fullbody
5. grimm // icon & fullbody

Form
FFA, basically. include a ref OR an in depth description, and an idea of tone. anything beyond that is up to you!

14
Tanglewood / Open ALMOST HUMAN ➵ injuries
« on: November 21, 2019, 06:11:33 PM »
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Retribution was always quick, once something crossed hell's radar. Mind, it could take a while for anyone to realize. Hell wasn't quick on the uptake, mind -- too much to do, too much to keep track of. No need to keep an eye on their field agent.
Crowley has been trying not to think about it. They may be quick, but the, frankly, brutal way that Aurum had taken Hastur and Ligur out had him thinking it might take just .. a touch longer. Regardless, he was on edge. Jumping at every noise, every sudden movement. He doesn't think he'd done it in public much yet, thankfully. Crowley's not sure he could take his paranoia just being .. public knowledge.
It'd only been a few days. He wonders what they'd been doing in all that time -- was he the main focus, or not? Crowley thinks it'd be rather delightful if he was, he'd rather like to go out with a bang. Yes, chances are it'd be an undignfied death, but he'd die content that he caused a minor uproar in hell.
This, of course, implies Crowley will die. Crowley isn't sure he is, because he'd thought he was going to last time, too.
In any case. While this is the point, it's not the point.
Crowley's been doing some wandering, lately. He doesn't go far, but he doesn't want to constantly be in the thick of it, either. It's just .. hard to deal with, somehow. The point is, Crowley is wandering. He still aches, just a little. His shoulder and wing are still stiff, but he's been .. trying to deal with it, the more .. human, in a manner of speech, way.
Somehow, when it finally happens, Crowley's paranoia doesn't fail him. It just could've done .. a little better. A snap of a twig. Crowley whirls, half-expecting nothing important, and finds -- a fucking cheetah.
"Interesting choice," Crowley says, edging back. The idea that it may not be a regular, random passerby doesn't even cross his mind, and for good reason. Seriously, how much more ominous can you get? Turn around, and there's this random, edgy cheetah, trying and failing to lurk. For that matter -- they have something strapped to their side.
It was almost like they were making up for their lack of experience by making themselves big, and scary. Crowley isn't impressed, but he's afraid nonetheless.
"I was so close," The cheetah, for their part, looks affronted as they lift a paw to investigate the snap. They promptly wobble, however, and have to put it off. Crowley's ears flatten back, and he shuffles just a little farther back. He can't place who it is directly, but he knows he knows them. They're probably a fucking asshole. Like, even in terms of demons.
"So close, yet so far. Try again another day," Crowley deadpans. He's experiencing a strange mix of emotions -- a weird sort of apathy overlayed over the fucking hurricane of emotions he always seems to have to deal with. It's different, now, but Crowley wouldn't be able to tell you precisely what changed.
Crowley, knowing full well it's inadvisable, turns tail and runs. If he's lucky, the fucker will just trip. Crowley knows at least some of the territory like the back of his hand ... paw .. He's fine. It's fine. Absolutely fucking fine. He can just ... find somewhere to lie low for a bit. Just has to .. vanish.
Unfortunately, this does not happen. There's a strange moment of hesitation, and then the fucker is running after him. They don't trip, but they do catch up, and rather promptly. This is, unfortunately, fairly easy to predict -- servals were fast, but cheetahs were .. what, some two dozen kilometers faster? The serval grunts as the cheetah practically trips over him, both of them tumbling to the ground -- it just so happens that Crowley's being fucking crushed.
"Fffuck," He snarls, wriggling, digging his claws in purposefully as he tries to push himself out from under the bastard.
God dammit. He's so fucking stupid. What the hell. There was a multitude of things he could've done to prevent this, but no, he just had to keep running off, and he just had to take the least sneaky option with a fucking cheetah. A cheetah that was very bad at being a cheetah, but a cheetah nonetheless. The demon doesn't seem phased by this, just reaches for something they'd dropped. It glints gold. Its handle is covered in .. something. Presumably whatever it'd been wrapped in when it'd been strapped to the cheetah's side. A nauseating sense of dread is starting to sink in.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.
The demon turns. Paws very carefully and inefficiently grasped around the protected handle. Gold, goldgoldgold, wings carefully etched into the ceremonial knife. In closer view, Crowley can see the aged, rotting burn wounds covering their paws and face.
"A, Ah," Crowleys says, realizing, trying to sound like those action movie heroes he'd looked up to since they came out. He fails miserably, but he gives himself points for trying. "You're the smug one, aren't you? The one everyone hates," They'd made a hobby of stealing angelic weapons. Most of them were pretty shit, not everyone had a flaming sword, but they were certainly effective against demons in some way or another. The bastard was smug about it though -- barely shut up about it. Would make sense to employ them for what basically accounted for a fucking hit.
Fucking Greg.*
*crowley wouldn't be able to tell you if greg was ACTUALLY their name, because crowley didn't care, but that's certainly what he was called in some circles.
Shit. Fuck. This sucked -- quick and efficient, right? Less time for anybody to show up to help. Smart, but .. maybe not enough.
He needed the knife. He needed to get the knife. They'd probably hesitate to try again if he had a knife? Right?? Right???? Oh fuck.
"I'd say they're jealous, but yes," Ah, yes, bastard syndrome. Greg has mostly gotten off of him, absolutely not in position to stab him from where he is. They both know that Crowley can't run -- the serval's tail lashes, eyes flickering over the cheetah's face, reading.
Think about it. Think about it. He ran away, he was always evasive. He's always evasive. All except for his first attack on Hastur, or Ligur, who was it? Except for that, he was just responding. He thinks -- he can barely remember the whole thing. They wouldn't expect him to just go for it, would they? He's not sure.
Try anyways. What's the worst thing that could happen, he gets fucking stabbed? Crowley might've laughed at this, but it's, unfortunately, not particularly funny.
The cheetah has switched the knife to their mouth. Apparently, they'd realized that there's no strength in their paws. This is a problem, but he can work with it. Knock it out. Distract them. Break for it. Deep breaths -- he doesn't need them, but it makes it easier to focus when his mind is going at a hundred miles an hour.
He wriggles, subtly getting into position while the cheetah struggles to figure out how one stabs with their head. It kind of ruins the vibe of the whole murder, to be honest, but Crowley's not complaining. Deep breaths. Go.
He pushes off, immediately going for the shoulder -- sink his claws in, hang on. Loop his legs around the neck, hang on, don't fall, don't fall, don't fall. This is not a particularly ideal position for knife-stealing, but it's something. The cheetah, startled and infuriated, tightens their grip around the knife, trying to back up.
They can't just shake him off, or even shove him. They don't have the balance to do so. They'd wobbled just lifting a paw up. They're stumbling under the extra weight even now. Crowley might've considered grinning, but he can't.
Deep breaths. This might hurt if he slips up, it's going to hurt a lot. He can take it, it's fine, it's fine.
The metal is practically creaking under the tension of the cheetah's teeth. It's not, not really, but it would be.
Deep breaths.
Deep breaths.
They're headed for a tree. No problem. Not at all. This is fine. Absolutely fine. Crowley, with all the grace of a plummeting dog, practically falls over the cheetah's face, claws scrabbling over what knife he could reach until -- there. He barely notices the hellish** burning until he hits the ground. Don't focus on it. Don't focus on it. Please don't.
It feels sort of like the color white does. There's probably a phrase for that that he can't remember.
**heavenly?
"Smarter than you look," The cheetah says, recovering faster than Crowley did. To be fair, they hadn't gotten burned. Or fallen to the ground. Hadn't gotten his eye scratched up from broken sunglasses, either. The handle-cover on the knife is loose, but still fastened.
"How dare you accuse me of being smart," Crowley says, dazed and struggling to pull himself together. It hadn't been that smart of a plan -- spectacularly stupid, in fact, so he has no fucking idea why the guy is saying that.
"I'm going to enjoy this," They're grinning. Crowley really doesn't appreciate this, but before he can get up, there's a paw crushing him to the ground. Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Where's Aurum when you need him, huh? Greg is still struggling to figure out how knives work without hands. "I haven't actually used this one yet, y'know?" They might've seemed genuine, maybe even friendly, if there weren't a certain glint in their eyes. And also the fact that they're pick up a knife.
Crowley braces himself. He's like, what, half of the guy's size? That's enough, isn't it? He just .. he just has to make a bit of a sacrifice, that's all. His breath shudders. Take it. Take it. His paws are burning, white hot. He subtly shifts his weight, subtly positions his paws.
Their face draws near. Carefully positioned at Crowley's .. eye. Was this torture, or was he going to slice through Crowley's head like fucking butter? Very, very carefully, the cheetah positions the knife. His fur is singeing, skin burning as the fur gives way. One, two, three. One, two, three.
Very carefully, Crowley does not close his eyes, meets the cheetah's eyes. One, two, three.
Crowley shoves his paws against the cheetah's upper leg. Greg gives an embarrassing squeak, concentration broken. They hadn't been focusing on their balance. They tumble sideways. Crowley doesn't even notice when their weight clips him -- it's agonizing. White-hot, in the way lava must feel. He can't see, he can't see, it's all black, but it feels white, and gold, and it's dizzying. He can't think. He can't think, it hurts.
He doesn't know if he cried out or not.
So don't think. Don't cry. Get out of there, get out of there -- he needed something. He needed something. He chokes on his own breath, stumbles to his paws. Something, something, something -- think. There's something sliding down from his cheek.
The knife. The knife -- it's hard to register, but Greg is hissing in pain, too. A flash of blood around their cheek, a spreading burn. They'd fallen on it. It's lying on the ground.
The knife. Get the knife. Don't think. He doesn't need to.
Crowley lunges for it. The demon's head whirls around, sees him moments too late. His breath comes in gasps, but he grabs it.
"Dont," He wheezes around the knife. It hurts. It hurts. He's been through it all, but it hasn't hurt like this. "Don't, don't, don't --" He's not sobbing. There's no tears, he's not sobbing. It hurts. Part of him wants to hurt Greg, or whatever the fuck their name is, too. He doesn't know what he's trying to say.
So he does. The cheetah's reflexes are slowed, half of their cheek taken out. Crowley only does it because they'll follow him. They can't. They won't. A threat. So he nicks them on the shoulder, following a line to their chest. Greg howls.
It wasn't even that deep. Crowley wheezes, and kicks them for effect. It's not strong in the least, but Greg wobbles anyways.
Crowley runs. He stumbles, for the first few steps, before righting himself -- he has to go somewhere. Where's he going? He's not safe, he's not safe, he's not safe. It hurts.
Aurum? Crowley doesn't know where Aurum is. There's a cold press of metal against his cheek, white-hot, slowly spreading. Crowley barely registers it. What happened to his eye? It got cut. It got cut, he knows, but it hurts.
To be entirely honest, the very concept of finding any of the medics barely occurs to him. Crowley had barely even met any of them in his goddamn life, and it doesn't know, when he's panicked and it hurts. Like a blight on his entirely fucking being. His immortal goddamn soul. Fuck. Fuck.
So he keeps running. He's not safe, and he might never be, but he -- needs to get home. Is it home? It's somewhere. He didn't go far. .. He's not leading the bastard there, is he? ... It's fine. It's fine. Distracted -- hurt. Could probably handle it anyways. Not Crowley specifically, but .. somebody.
He barely notices when he's almost arrived. Crowley stumbles to a halt as buildings come into sight -- and he goes no farther. How close are they? Hard to tell, but not far. He's lost momentum. He's tired. He's tired.
He drops the knife. His breath catches. It burns, he burns, he's fine. Absolutely fine. His right cheek is fucking soaking with whatever is dripping, too thick for proper blood, and it hurts. He's fine. Just needs to rest. He can just .. leave it here, right? He can walk there?
Crowley doesn't. He wheezes, half-falling into the mud as he sits down heavily. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It's fine. He's fine. He's not fine, but he will be.



//part 2! just one more to go! (though act 3 is a bit redundant at this point shfkjsdf)
UH. BASICALLY. crowley got Actually hurt this time. hes just sorta, chillin somewhere outside the town with a goddamn Knife. his left paw is burnt, along w a bunch of his left check, and his right eye is like,, fuckdt. basically turned to Goo. the area around it is also burnt pretty badly. worth noting, no you Cant stop the eye bleeding its like this Forever now.
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15
Tanglewood / Open GET DISOWNED ➵ fight
« on: November 16, 2019, 08:55:21 PM »
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It's over.
Crowley shies away, useless heart thudding in his chest as thick black blood slides down his cheek. The sting barely catches his attention, despite the shock of it.
"Enough is enough," Hastur snarls, teeth bared. The lynx's fur is matted and covered with maggots. Crowley's lip curls. Enough -- it'd been, what, two, three months? Hardly a flicker in his immortal's life, technically, but it'd been .. nice. it'd been nice.
"I'm honestly surprised it took you this long," Crowley snarks, because he is. He'd, what, stolen some important files? Run away? That was reason enough to come come chasing after him as soon as possible, nevermind that he'd put the files back. His gaze refuses to settle on either of the duo, mind racing for a solution far too quickly for him to settle on one.
Maybe, it's because there isn't one.
Under normal circumstances, Crowley would never have been able to match up to either of them. He wasn't a particularly powerful demon, after all. Just one of many lower ranked demons. .. Mind, under normal circumstances. It's a hopeless plan. It's a terrible, horrible plan.
It's the only one he's got.
"And you'll be paying for every extra hour," Crowley isn't surprised the bastard had jumped at the chance to have a hand in his .. execution, probably. His slow, gruesome execution. He doesn't doubt that they must've dug up some dirt in his absence.
You see, the thing about lying about nearly every portion of your life to your superiors was that, even if they didn't really get to the meat of it, there was still so very much to hold against him if you looked for only a moment.
"I, uh. Hm. I see," Crowley smiles thinly, a sliver of fang slipping out of his jaws. All or nothing. All or nothing. This is it.
He doesn't want to go back.
What's a little more rebellion, in the grand scheme of things? At least then he can be dragged down to hell having fought back. For the first time in his goddamn life.
"I ... don't think I am, actually," His tail lashes. He's not thinking about Aziraphale, or the Tanglers, or, or .. anyone at all. He's not going back, because he doesn't want to, and he's sick of it. He's sick of it. He's done with it.
This is it.
Things happen very quickly. Ligur starts to say something, stepping towards him but Crowley's catapulted himself into the wolf's chest before any words can registered. Ligur yelps, losing balance and tumbling to the ground. It's his own fault -- it's not Crowley's fault that he'd probably only had this form for, what, a few hours at most?
You see. When Crowley said normal circumstances -- well. He'd been a serval for much longer than they'd been a lynx and a wolf, and he'd gone without miracles for much longer than them. This was a purely physical fight. What Crowley lacked in size and strength and ... ability, he made up for in familiarity.
Hastur is tripping over himself. Crowley scrabbles against .. whatever surface he's on, Ligur, or maybe just the ground, and sinks his teeth into the wolf's shoulder. The revolting taste of demonic blood floods his mouth.
Crowley has never been more thankful that his sense of taste is so dull.
Hastur is a fucking idiot. The lynx digs his claws around Crowley's chest, trying to yank him off, and both of them slam into the ground as he loses balance. Ligur is on his paws in a moment.
Crowley is so fucked. Crowley is so fucked. His only strategy here is to keep them separated, and he needs a second of distraction. Just one.
Crowley tears his claws down Hastur's face and, quick as a flash, is back on his paws. He feels dizzy, and afraid, and it's impossible, but he wants to get out of here. Ligur's there, and he's put too much weight into his lunge, and he stumbles. Crowley hisses regardless, feeling the dizzying dig of Ligur's teeth. He's not in a position to fight. He doesn't know how to fight, not really -- not in a humanoid form, not in his demonic form, and certainly not now. He's fucked. He's fucked. He's fucked.
Crowley, though part his shoulderblades are otherwise occupied being bitten, desperately swipes at the wolf until a lucky shot -- where? The neck? He doesn't know -- has the black wolf reeling. Crowley scrabbles back, but doesn't get a chance to reorient himself before he's back on the ground.
Again.
None of them know how to fight like this, after all -- knocking them down seemed to be the agreed upon safe option.
"You," Hastur snarls. Disoriented, Crowley worries that he's going to have maggots on him, and in his wounds, and maybe there's something wrong with Hastur's corporation, because he's practically foaming at the mouth. "Are going to regret this,"
"Ngh," He feels like a fucking marshmallow. His brain was replaced with a marshmallow. "Yeah," He agrees, miserable. He can salvage this. He can. He just -- squeeze his eyes shut, wriggle a bit, and close. A strange noise emerges from Hastur's throat as he's launched off of Crowley's form, and Crowley tries not to wince at the blossoming ache in his wings. Wings had terribly powerful muscles, after all, and it'd be .. difficult, to push Hastur off with an injured leg, wouldn't it?
Crowley catapults to his feet as quickly as he can, shying away from his superiors as he shakes out his wing. He's covered in mud, and probably a few maggots, he's not sure, it's hard to focus. It's a rather hopeless situation, he thinks. He's not exactly .. meant for this. The only reason he's made it this far is because they're all shit at fighting, and he's managed to keep them from double teaming him properly.
All in all ... not the dream scenario.

//part 1!!
tl;dr crowley told his superiors to Fuck off and is now Kind Of Cornered. powerplay is, in fact, allowed on them, feel free to chase them off!
anyways crowleys pretty much fine, just pretty disoriented from panic and also falling to the ground like 5 times cause theyre all idiots
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'BEASTS OF BEYOND + an ability-based animal roleplay In Dire Straits: Awoo BIANDRI: fantasy canine rpg RPGfix 'SOULS-- post-apocalyptic werewolf rpg