11-02-2020, 07:18 PM
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THERE’S VACANCY IN EVERY NIGHTMARE
The crustless pie and glass dish tired her out, and Rosemary carefully lowered the food to the ground—though she relied, more than she would like to admit, on her telekinesis. Her ears twitched when the winged wolf stepped towards her, and a shiver of panic rolled down her spine. However, once the canine spoke, Rosemary’s nerves eased, and the ocelot’s four eyes converged on Asteri, if only briefly, as the smaller pair wandered around and took in all the interesting people and sights.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Asteri. I’m Rosemary. Please use she/her pronouns to refer to me.” The ocelot dipped her head in greeting. She considered her next words, mulling them over in her head, but a child joined the two and muddled up Rosemary’s planned words.
“From my perspective, you smell odd. And it is doubly rude to ask questions before introducing yourself. Unless you don’t have a name, child?” Despite the teasing, the witch’s voice remained light, as she enjoyed a bit of banter. She found herself missing Vaas’s company, as the PalmClan tiger was the only one she ever played off well.
Her forked tail flicked, and she used her telekinesis to summon a plate and a tiny cup of chocolate liqueur. Rosemary cut herself a piece of her own crustless apple pie—as allergic to gluten as she was, the witch always found it best to bring a dish she planned on eating herself to events like these—as she answered Sloan’s question. “I am from the Typhoon. We are best described as rowdy pirates who tend to keep to ourselves on our jungle island home. Well. We don’t keep to ourselves in all matters. You can have our captain, Goldenluxury, to thank for reducing the practice of slavery in the lands… ah, you’re a little young to learn all of that nasty business.”
The ocelot sipped on her cider, smiling softly in appreciation for AE’s alcohol selection. “Anyway. I do not like politics all that much. I’m one of the Typhoon’s healers. Have been, on and off, for a rather long time.”
[sub][W]isker[/sub]“It’s lovely to meet you, Asteri. I’m Rosemary. Please use she/her pronouns to refer to me.” The ocelot dipped her head in greeting. She considered her next words, mulling them over in her head, but a child joined the two and muddled up Rosemary’s planned words.
“From my perspective, you smell odd. And it is doubly rude to ask questions before introducing yourself. Unless you don’t have a name, child?” Despite the teasing, the witch’s voice remained light, as she enjoyed a bit of banter. She found herself missing Vaas’s company, as the PalmClan tiger was the only one she ever played off well.
Her forked tail flicked, and she used her telekinesis to summon a plate and a tiny cup of chocolate liqueur. Rosemary cut herself a piece of her own crustless apple pie—as allergic to gluten as she was, the witch always found it best to bring a dish she planned on eating herself to events like these—as she answered Sloan’s question. “I am from the Typhoon. We are best described as rowdy pirates who tend to keep to ourselves on our jungle island home. Well. We don’t keep to ourselves in all matters. You can have our captain, Goldenluxury, to thank for reducing the practice of slavery in the lands… ah, you’re a little young to learn all of that nasty business.”
The ocelot sipped on her cider, smiling softly in appreciation for AE’s alcohol selection. “Anyway. I do not like politics all that much. I’m one of the Typhoon’s healers. Have been, on and off, for a rather long time.”
I FEEL SO HUNGRY —
— Dear diary, I don't know what's going on, but something's up / The dog won't stop barking, and I think my TV is bust / Every channel is the same, it's sending me insane / And earlier somebody bit me, what a fucking day / The sky is falling / It's fucking boring / I'm going braindead, isolated / God is a shithead / And we're his rejects / Traumatized for breakfast / I can't stomach any more survival horror / Dear diary, I feel itchy like there's bugs under my skin / The dog's gone rabid (shut the fuck up) / Doing my head in —— WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?