> Sollux: Open up your little shop of horrors.
> Your name is SOLLUX NITRAM, you have FOURTEEN SWEEPS under your belt, and you’ve been DEAD for WHO KNOWS HOW MANY OF THEM.
> You awoke some time ago in the heart of your dream bubble -- in the “heart of the jungle” so to speak. You don’t remember how long you’ve been here, and you don’t particularly care. One moment you were staring down the business end of a bloodthirsty tyrian’s weapon, and then found yourself blinking up at the root-infested ceiling of your old hiveblock. You remember crawling over to the cut hole that served as a window and peaking just over the edge, only to see a silent version of the favela that once was your home.
> A ghost town. You smacked your head against the wall and mentally reprimanded yourself for the pun. There’s a sticky note on the sill to this very day that only says “c;udad muerta.”
> Not that you know how many days it’s been. The passing of time here is impossible to keep track of, and though you’ve watched the jungle grow and overtake the carefully stacked, colorful architecture until there was nothing left but a sea of blackened viridian, not even the growth of the plants you spent so long poking at in life were able to give you a marker of the days passed. Ah well. Who cares. It’s not like you have anything to go rush and do now that you’re dead.
> So here you are; the solitary resident of a bubble made for one, spending the rest of your dead-end existence laying in hammocks made of intertwined vines and scribbling note after note after note of all the fleeting thoughts that pass through your head.
> Your head snaps up as you hear the sound of voices not too far off -- close. Very close. You hurriedly cap your marker and hold it between your teeth as you grab onto the vine above you, and with a simple mental push you are up whisked up into the dark shadows of the overgrown banyan tree that forms around the majority of your home. You set yourself down on a branch, lean over, and watch.
> Three figures appear. You can’t quite make out facial details, but you can see their general shapes. You lean forward a little closer and squint. It looks like two of them are wearing some kind of...robe set?
> Horns. Look for horns. Tavros’s are easy to spot from miles away; your eyebrows raise up in surprise. You wonder when he died, and how. Treading carefully next to him is...is that Vriska? Huh. No shit. You can’t say you’re exactly surprised to see either of them here -- after all, you knew everyone would wind up dead thanks to that power-hungry Peixes and her blueblooded dog --
> You freeze, and it seems for a moment that the quiet, living hum of the forest silences with you.
> He’s right there. And they’re all heading your way.
> You waste no time jumping down the branches until you’re low enough to be within sight, and by the time they notice any movement in the trees it’s already too late -- your palm is pressed rough against a hardened root, commanding vines to lift from the jungle floor and slide up their ankles, rapidly entangling their bodies in thick plant life until they have no choice to but stay where they are. Vriska gets the least of it, and Tavros could probably kick free if he wanted to, but you aren’t concerned with them. You’ve got an eye on the motherfucker that helped killed half of your friends, and is probably back to finish the job.
> Vines thicker than your torso grab Karkat and drag him high in the air, flinging him back into the ground before lifting him back up again.
> Your rushedly sign their way:
snowghoul
germansingergirl
tangentwithtanner
titsay
pixelskylines
gracieabrams
theartofmadeline