You are on a boat, looking ahead, rust eyes observing the waves hitting against it, almost like they were slowly fighting to wear it down so itâd sink and join the drownyard beneath; to join one of the mysteries down far below where Anantashesha or simply huge beings that shouldnât survive the incredible pressure or the darkness still thrive somehow.
You donât care to understand the science behind it all, leave the understanding to those that cares to do so, tonight you do not care to understand, you care to experience; really, you often care more to experience than to understand most of anything, understanding comes often from the whispers that are fed directly to your aural shells whether you like it or not.
You never had a choice in the process after all.
You are in a hive, two coons in the same small room that belongs to a rustblood, no, to a couple of rustbloods, a mutation, they would say, an anomaly, they would risk guessing. You wave at the mirror in front of you, and it smiles back at you, and waves in a slightly different way back, it then turns itâs back at you and walk towards the nutritionblock, going to prepare a meal to both of you. You smile and lift yourself with telekinesis, following closely behind; an archaic language leaves your lips, it doesnât mean anything to you but a form of communication, but it was something an entire Empire fought to destroy, decimate and undo so hard no one else in the entire planet of kid trolls mightâve known it anymore but you two.
You arenât aware of that, you donât care to be aware of it, leave the awareness to the ones that arenât so common they are many numbers, leave it to those that lives much longer than meager 9 sweeps. You are here to live, and youâll simply live and then die, whether you like it or not.
The waves laps at the work and study and efforts of many engineers, the result of money, manual work and ideas; someoneâs dreams becoming reality and reality being shaped because someone saw something in their mind and looked for ways to make it feasible. You look at the hand holding yours, and it is colder than yours; almost everyone sapient feels cold to you, some may feel what youâd call room temperature. You rub your thumb against the skin, and it feels rougher than yours, your claws almost scratch the surface, almost daring to poison the object of your affections, youâd love to destroy them someday.
You are in The Room, small shapes floats in the distance you can never reach, your hands are holding a mug filled with a sweet smelling and warm drink, cayenne and pink pepper, lemongrass, cardamom, star anise, fennel and cloves. You sip it, it doesnât register as anything but a vague heat in your tongue and you know it is about that time of the half-sweep, the time where you start adding odd things to your food so you try to experience as much as possible of the now.
But now is relative, whether you like it or not.
You eat, your mirror eats, you both are enjoying a meal at the start of the night, cold light of both moons enters through the windows and you both are sitting across one another, you drop your chopsticks and your mirror laughs; you take a shot with a piece of cucumber at them, strike.
You are sitting on a throne and someone is seated on your lap, fingers weighted down with many rings rests on your own hands, you hear laughter and you turn your head towards it, mutant red eyes meets yours back and you look away towards your hand again; underneath the heavily decorated hand rests yours, but a pang of constant pulsing pain reveals to you that your claws have all been removed one by one, a headache courses through you and you donât care to feel this pain. Leave the pain to those that seek to self destroy as much as they seek to take those around them with them down in the process.
But you are to love this troll until the end of your existence, whether you like it or not.
âArch?â Calls a voice, and you turn your head towards it, a piece of jewelry swinging around hanging by the ear cuff you wear, reflecting blue against the light of candles. âWhere are you?â
âHere, as it were.â You hear a scoff. You smile. âEasier to ask when I am.â
âEverywhen.â You scoff this time, and then turn your gaze towards the moons of Beforus. He talks about plans and about the one that does things just because he could do them, because He transforms potential actions into reality, just like the ship, he grasped an idea and transformed reality; just because he wanted to see if he could do it.
You think his plan is good, but you donât tell him that you are aware of what is going to happen regardless, princes of time donât care for fate or careful plans or anything like that, theyâll break plans and rhythm and fate without much effort.
The people that has looked at you and wanted to care about you are going to suffer because of the nearby future, whether they like it or not.
Honey If Youâre Reading This Itâs Me Your Boyfriend Markiplier Youâve Been In A Coma For Three Sweeps And Your Doctors Say Youâve Construxted A Realitoy Where Iâm A Famous YouTuber Who Looks Like A John Alt And Who Touches The Hearts And Souls Of Millions With My Funnie Vdieos But If Youâre Reading This I Need You To Wake Up I Love You So Much
character concept: two people who have been reincarnated for thousands of years and have always found eachother but instead of being in love they just fucking hate eachother
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