MOTM OC INFOSHEET: CARMENSO CHATTERBOX
BACKSTORY TIDBIT : (might change this later on)
Carmenso grew up alone. He never knew his parents and instead bounced between foster families he rarely stayed with for long. Most of the time he wasnāt even really āhomeā at all. He was out on the streets, or worse, sneaking into casinos to make a quick buck. Not by winning some lucky hand of cards either. Of course not. Pickpocketing was always his usual go-to.
Eventually, though, he learned there were better things to steal than wallets and old watches. Bigger prey. With enough charm and a little flirtatious effort, he could talk people into handing over gifts far more valuable than whatever he couldāve swiped from their pockets. Jewelry, expensive trinkets, anything shiny enough to pawn off nearby for easy cash.
It didnāt always go smoothly. Half the time he pissed somebody off along the way. But in the endā at least to himā it was always worth it. It was familiar. Survival usually was.
As he got older, though, he started getting sloppy. He stopped caring as much about keeping up the facade. The charm people once fell for now came off as a sad excuse for flattery, and the selfishness beneath it all crept further into the light. His mentality warped closer and closer into one simple thought:
I deserve it.
His greed was blinding. And eventually, it landed him in a scandal with a group of men more than willing to smash his head against a wall for it.
It wasnāt prettyā finding him half-dead like that. And honestly, Carmenso barely even reacted once the men were dragged off him and the punches finally stopped.
The only thing he really remembers is that agonizing voice ringing in his ears, dripping with pure condescension.
He canāt even recall what the conversation itself was about. Just that awful grin.
And the fact that he somehow ended up owing a favor to these twoā¦ porcelain things. Cups? Cup and mug? He wasnāt really sure. Concussed out of his mind, he didnāt question it much at the time, chalking it up to some pressure-induced hallucination.
Oh well.
He wasnāt dead.
His rhythm had been thrown off, sureā but all he had to do was fix the scratch in the record player and keep moving along like nothing had happened. Nothing new.
(this oc was made for the beautifully written and drawn comic: @myth-of-the-machine CHECK IT OUT NOWWW)
