RULES. STATS. MAIN.
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Janaina Medeiros

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@fullcfphobias-a
RULES. STATS. MAIN.
psst! @fullcfphobias
This is Very sudden and I do apologize for it but I think I'll be putting this blog on the shelf. If the url change didn't give it away this doesn't mean Oz and co. are down for good I'll most likely remake but I gotta let the dust settle and collect my thoughts.
Thank you all and I hope to see you around (if not on other blogs of mine, on the eventual remake!)
When you're in the dead of night, and underneath the pale moon light,
A Mystery Unfolds, It's a thrilling, eerie sight.
"... Yeah- that- probably should've answered my question."
An awkward laugh, Oz glancing away a moment to regain their composure before refocusing on the chain. They drew a bit closer to get a better look at the shackle, still maintaining a bit of distance.
"Sorry- I.. can probably help with the shackle thing-!"
They would make an effort regardless, though they suppose the difficulty of the task would depend on the qualities of both the woman and the chain. If she was human, as told to them, it would be no problem to snap the shackle in two. If she wasn't, if there were other forces as play to give the chain the ability to keep something stronger restrained, it'd take a bit more.
There really was only one way to find out.
Moving over to the wall, they examined the chain's anchor to the wall for any signs of wear. The blade upstairs seemed perfectly pristine, but they'd hoped the basement's conditions would've age the metal faster. They take hold, giving it a hefty tug.
The Princess can't help but watch with some apprehension as they drew closer by the moment. It was a relief, of course, that they were apparently going to free her. That, in and of itself, was enough to keep her from flinching at their approach; her own gaze stopping to look at the chain's anchor point. She'd never really bothered look at it herself, of course, because surely it was as sturdy as the rest of her.
This, appeared to be, the case for the chain itself. Heavy and solid, looking more akin to something that would be set up to keep some unruly large creature in check than just a person. Still, with them so close, the Princess hadn't so much as shifted from her sitting position. Merely tilting her head curiously as the other examined it.
"That'd be nice. They really don't tell you how painful a shackle gets after awhile."
Hand rubbed the other wrist, shifting the heavy chain as she tried to soothe the slight ache.
It wouldn't be impossible to break, no, but they certainly didn't skimp out on using the high-quality product for a relatively mundane-looking woman.
"I, ah, don't think I caught your name. It would be a little strange to try thanking my savior if I don't even know what to call you."
"Yeah.. can't imagine it's a particularly- .. good time. How long have you been here?"
Oz kept their gaze on the shackle as they spoke, both to maintain focus as their hand unwound itself to probe the chain for week links and to refrain from fumbling any further in this conversation than they already had.
Phobias began to crop up, some slinking along the length of the chain to aid in the calculated breakage, others openly staring at the princess.
One pressed itself closer to the amalgam's cheek, muttering worriedly into their ear at the emphasis certain words were receiving in the descriptions fed to them. They didn't get the time to offer reassurances before the princess was speaking again.
"Ah- sorry.. it's Oz! What's, uh... your name?"
are you a fan of anya from spy family? maybe prismo from the adventure time series (and fionna and cake series... and that other mini series..)? or hey! what about skid from spooky month?! i heard episode six is right around the corner :] OH WAIT NO! how about abby from the new five nights at fr.eddy's movie!? if you're a fan of any of these character, maybe consider following my blog which features all these characters and more. though you should know, i am SELECTIVE in who i interact with. but a little like or follow couldn't hurt!
oz look out- OZ LOOK OUT!!!
B.P.R.D. Investigations: Man Hook Car Door.
"... and you're saying you're on a roadtrip," Gruff voice spoke around the cigar between red lips, pen held to notepad in hand. "- with a ghost, a werewolf, and more. All of whom are currently serving the night shift at this Soup-er-ia here?" The cambion continued, gesturing at the 'Simon's Soups' whose lot the car was parked in.
Where he'd found the pile of fears cowering in fear of the hook-handed killer outside, whom big red had clobbered & captured.
The Bureau only had him out here to catch the idiot currently laying unconscious on the ground after taking a stone fist to the skull, and if this were standard routine, he'd already be gone... but, standard routine didn't usually involve other paranormal forces just. There.
This was one of the few times he didn't need to make himself as scarce as possible, and thus, could actually perform normal agent duties this time around. Like taking witness testimony.
// A Starter for @fullcfphobias. //
"Yeah, pretty much— intense stuff like this sort of just happens to us generally.. so I thought I'd stay in the car. Uh, didn't really.. work out all that well."
Oz had a number of worries when the agent first strolled up to the car, from potentially dealing with another one of those containment agencies to just run-of-the-mill trouble with the law. They were terrible at keeping their cool, this was more of a situation practically any of the other passengers would thrive in– fortunately, however, the questioning seemed rather unrelated to the laundry list of shenanigans this roadtrip entailed.
"Th.. Thanks though! Y'know.. for the help."
Their gaze drifted from the restrained killer to the building proper, then to one of the numerous watches on their person. Still would be a bit before the others finished the impromptu shift, Oz cleared their throat after a moment.
"I'm, uh, Oz! Just.. in case you needed that. And you are..?"
@fullcfphobias || Continued from here.
Oz was answered back by a chorus of merfolk, lifting their voices high and whistling with the words. Only perhaps three others within the group seemed to recognize what Oz was saying, the others seemingly receiving a translation a few moments afterwards, as the wash of song continued, a few more words that Oz could sort-of understand being slipped in as it was translated back to them. The first three called back with two "Hi!"s and one "Hello!", though this was not the only words that Oz would hear, as among the others there came a few distinct "Greetings!" in what was clearly Miranda's voice carrying her accent thicker than usual.
The one who answered in 'hello' tugged at Oz's arm, reaching for their shoulder. They were close, pressing their purple head in close to one of the phobias, though their fins turned, kept on Oz in a better gesture of merfolk attention. In the meanwhile, they nudged the phobia with the tip of their snout, as if trying to see how they responded, their eyes kept there.
"You are-! Long? Long in the limb," they started, less of a complete thought and more of something they were trying to process, speaking as they looked Oz over.
"Long, black, soft — like aiun-ioa'tye? Oh!!" Another, one of the 'hi's picked up, marking a small call back in the chorus. They were lifting up Oz's hand in their own, looking them over, laying their hand against the palm to see how different it was. Their hand was larger, again with the coarse sandpaper-scales over the pads of their palms, which cast into abrupt contrast how thin and delicate not only Oz's were, but the hands of all of those who lived inland, with only a single thumb and no need to walk upon them when they did move. "You are so small! Do they not feed you here?"
"Why do you look like that?" came another, lifting their head up to try and rub it against Oz's from behind, running along their snout so that their cheeks would press together. The position shoved into sharp contrast how firm and muscular their bodies were, even wearing clothes borrowed from Miranda and her castle, a sharp stab of alarm with the reminder of how strong merfolk were. "Silly, silly!!! Get down here, stop that!"
The reef merfolk, the first one to speak, laughed a barking seal laugh, pushing against the last with their hand. "They cannot help it! You get down!"
Miri, appearing more and more bewildered at what to even do, kept glancing from Oz to the merfolk, hands pulling in close to her chest, ringing around her knuckles. Occasionally she would be pulled from the overwhelming sensation by a question enough to make her answer back in the local merfolk language, but the princess's normally unruffled demeanor was starting to fray at the edges. Unlike her friends, unlike Oz standing before her, these were people who knew her as a Crown Princess, as a ruler who reigned over their lives. That made it hard to settle, hard to figure out which version of herself she should be, what she should present herself as. She seemed to be having a good time, at the least, as much as she was trying to satisfy two different sets of cultural norms at the same time.
Another question came for her in the quick, weaving song, and that startled her enough to realize she had an actual job to do here, instead of sitting there and looking in over her head.
"Af- dii'eqa uirn ia Oz prr'aht! Oz, this is Eii'ekte, Gra-ateh'l, Sajtajii, V'ry'uie, Mui'oadi, Jua-it, D'dyrea'k, Kq'tu-Nuj—" Miranda continued, gesturing to each merfolk as she listed them, starting with the reef merfolk who kept staring at Oz's legs like they couldn't believe it, then the blue-silver one holding Oz's hand in theirs, then the silver merfolk with patches of white who playfully smacked their tail against Eii'ekte, and so on. Each one, in turn, lifted their head up and sang back a soft "Wrr'aet Oz!" in greeting, fanning their fins out.
Oz remained still, or at least as still as they could manage amidst both the prodding of the merfolk and the constant shifting of their mass.
The phobia closest to the purple mer practically lit up, a cluster quickly crowding around their head in order to return the gesture. A crowd of soft, but audibly excited chatter followed. The amalgam nodded at the initial observation.
"I sort of just.. copied what majority of the monster's up here were shaped like- I can be smaller!"
Up their hand went– the claws, which appeared sharp at a first glance, were far duller upon closer inspection, and their hand shifted to match the mer's own before returning their more default humanoid shape.
At the second question they paused, thinking over their answer.
"Well.. eating is more sort of- recreational for me? At least eating the food up here. I don't do it as much as most, probably!"
They startled slightly at the other's voice and the sudden contact, having to take a moment to readjust so they would not be knocked over with how light they were. Phobias rushed to greet the other, swarming to press against their cheek in turn. Oz laughed faintly, quick to reassure.
"Oh- It's okay! I'm alright, really!"
Gaze returning to Miranda as she spoke, Oz'z ears perked. The names were taken in, eyes darting to each in turn as faces rose to claim titles. Were they meant to repeat the greeting? Their ears drooped a moment, typical uncertainty clouding their face, before they brought themself to speak.
"Ah- It's nice to meet you all! How's your visit been so far?"
"Ah! Sorry, I sort of got turned around and this was the only real building for miles and-"
Oz came to a complete halt, sentence and all, once they spotted the princess. Their eyes were immediately drawn to the heavy chain binding her wrist to the far wall, a million questions flooding them at once. Why was she chained down here? How long had she been in here? Why had a dagger been sitting on the table just before the basement entrance?
Setting their queries all aside for now, the amalgam did their best to play off their reaction by clearing their throat. Starting from the top, they spoke again.
"Sorry, I'd come in here for directions but-.. are you alright?"
There's several long moments as the Princess looked at Oz, who'd stopped everything they were doing to stare at her. She blinked, once, shifting somewhat uncomfortably at their gaze being locked on her so long in dead silence. The only building for miles? She'd be kidnapped and placed in the middle of nowhere, it seemed like. That made sense, she supposed, it wouldn't be wise to keep a Princess locked away where anyone could stumble upon her. Yet, well, that appeared to be what had happened.
Finally, it seemed, they regained their voice.
The question brought the room once again to an awkward pause. The woman - at least, she looked like a regular run-of-the-mill human woman - glanced down to the heavy shackle on her arm after that pause. Was she alright? It was such a baffling question, of course, that it almost made her laugh. Almost, anyways.
"Well, besides the fact that I'm locked in the basement, with no other signs of civilization for miles, shackled to a wall against my will, spending who knows how long by myself, and having just been asked for directions by a total stranger? Yes, I guess I'm alright."
It might have sounded scornful, had she not sounded so genuinely amused by the baffling question. She wasn't bad, it was true, besides the actual situation in and of itself. Surely that had to have been what Oz meant, after all, as she couldn't even fathom asking a lady chained to a wall if the chains were too uncomfortable or something of that ilk.
"... Yeah- that- probably should've answered my question."
An awkward laugh, Oz glancing away a moment to regain their composure before refocusing on the chain. They drew a bit closer to get a better look at the shackle, still maintaining a bit of distance.
"Sorry- I.. can probably help with the shackle thing-!"
They would make an effort regardless, though they suppose the difficulty of the task would depend on the qualities of both the woman and the chain. If she was human, as told to them, it would be no problem to snap the shackle in two. If she wasn't, if there were other forces as play to give the chain the ability to keep something stronger restrained, it'd take a bit more.
There really was only one way to find out.
Moving over to the wall, they examined the chain's anchor to the wall for any signs of wear. The blade upstairs seemed perfectly pristine, but they'd hoped the basement's conditions would've age the metal faster. They take hold, giving it a hefty tug.
Oz would hear them long before they ever saw them, despite the air not carrying sound the same way the water suspended it, despite the relative small number of them. There was only perhaps ten or so, not counting the spot of pink moving amongst them, a singular body in a verifiable rat king of sinuous shapes, but the sound that preceded them couldn't have been made by a hundred landfolk. Their voices were legion, refusing to betray their numbers, a singular voice splitting into many before merging back into one again, their singing interweaving over each other, becoming a mass as complex as it was impenetrable.
It was one thing to hear Miri speak underwater, held in the boughs of her castle, amplified tenfold. It was another to hear an actual group of merfolk and the song they spoke. It was unearthly in the sense that there was no other sound like it on this earth nor beyond, something like a whale song and yet more, a dozen currents of song and melody interweaving and flowing above and beneath each other, compounding off each other, forming new sounds and new meanings the more they moved and shifted. It seeped into the air, into the ground, infected breath and heartbeat alike, alien in some indecipherable manner that left even the rudimentary knowledge Oz had far behind. Occasionally, at best Oz would catch a snippet of a word that they knew, a grammar rule that they would recognize, but then they were swarmed over again, shifted, folded back into the beat to become a swarm of information so great that it would have flowed into their mind, if they understood the whole of it.
They were mostly silver, a dull blue the same shade as schooling ocean fish, lighter on their bellies and around their fins. One was brown and barred like a grouper, larger than the others. They were nudging and nestling against one bright yellow at the tail but purple at the head, decorated with faint stripes where the transition happened, longer and more slender than those before — a pattern and a color scheme that was repeated with the rest of the group. All of them were larger and thicker than Miranda, muscle and fat and bone, and all pressed in and over each other, not a moment passing where they were not in contact with another.
Miri, to what credit she was owed, flicked her fins up to attention and tried to stop when she reached Oz, to stand before them like she had so many times before.
Her company did not.
When Miranda stopped, they kept going, leaning up and around Oz, sitting up shakily on their back legs, hands and claws and heads immediately coming to touch Oz. Their eyes were massive, fins lifting up and moving back down and turning and tilting one way and then the next, staring at them, asking questions amongst themselves and sharing sentiments that Oz only caught glimpses of between the barrier of language.
They did not seem violent. They did not seem aggressive, touching Oz the same way that they touched each other and had touched Miranda already. The issue was that the delicate nature with which Miranda touched everything wasn't shared by them, so unfamiliar with what Oz was and what they were looking at. Their claws were long, duller than Miranda's but saw far more use, and the pads of their hands which were smooth on Miranda were coarse and rougher than sandpaper, seemingly coated in thousands of knife-shaped scales designed to catch and to hold. Their grip was strong, and, unafraid and unrelenting, they held Oz like they would hold each other, hard enough to bruise on someone with no scales or osteoderms to cover them.
"Oh, ah-" Miri stumbled over herself, her fins taking on a rosy hue, her pupils large and eclipsing the blue, "Do not- Do not mind them, this is their first time inland, please-"
There was always a bit of a difference in Oz's demeanor around this time of year, even if it was similarly the stretch of time they'd be seen the least. They'd grow a bit more assured, a bit more willing to take the extra step where they'd typically falter.
It was admittedly not much when observed in a vacuum, but they were delighted all the same. The phobias similarly were in brighter moods, though they suspected that was more likely due to the holiday surplus in sugary snacks rather than meager strides in their personal goals.
Ears, a bit more pronounced than usual, perked at the almost orchestral chatter. Understanding passed them by in fleeting bursts, the fragments far too scattered to piece together the wider conversation. Hands, with fingers more akin to claws in shape, idled in the bag of chocolates as they stared. Several eyes blinked in muted surprise while the flurry of merfolk descended upon the amalgam.
There was that reflexive spike of uneasiness at the crowding, though it slowly settled as they registered Miranda's own reaction. A soft laugh escaped as they allowed the poking and prodding to continue, not so concerned with the roughness. For each would-be bruise, the imprint of the offending mer's hands lingered in their gelatinous makeup before it popped back into shape.
Their ears rose and fell occasionally in reaction to the movement of fins, slower and clumsy but nonetheless making an effort to mirror.
The phobias happily drank up the attention of the crowd, popping up closer to the surrounding mers to wave and make idle soft chatter only audible to those of fine hearing.
At last the words finally leave them, eyes shutting contently in lieu of a smile.
"Oh, It's alright..! We don't mind, really— also, hi!"
"H-Hello? Is someone there?"
She had sworn she'd finally heard that door creak open, after.. how long has it been? It's hard to tell down here, after all, but it's surely been quite some time. Hopeful, if hesitant, tone making her voice border a near whimper despite it's friendly cadence. The slight stir of chain on stone as she sat there and awaited some form of response.
She wasn't supposed to be here, was she? That's a prevailing thought in her head, for whatever reason. Something was.. different, but that's less pressing than a visitor.
"Ah! Sorry, I sort of got turned around and this was the only real building for miles and-"
Oz came to a complete halt, sentence and all, once they spotted the princess. Their eyes were immediately drawn to the heavy chain binding her wrist to the far wall, a million questions flooding them at once. Why was she chained down here? How long had she been in here? Why had a dagger been sitting on the table just before the basement entrance?
Setting their queries all aside for now, the amalgam did their best to play off their reaction by clearing their throat. Starting from the top, they spoke again.
"Sorry, I'd come in here for directions but-.. are you alright?"
"I can't ignore it— I won't."
Despite the way their shape trembles, struggling to maintain itself beneath the mountain of pressure the path before them held, the typical uncertainty in their voice faded at the declaration.
"I'm staying right here."
The fear emanating off the princess enveloped them thickly, drawn to them in a way. Attempting to worm its way into every crevice, to drag their attention from the task at hand. Taking a breath, Oz abandoned the search of the room proper to their their focus towards the door.
Shutting it for a moment, their finger morphed into a ornate key-shape before sliding into place. When they opened the door again, the hall replaced with a familiar monochromatic spire, their arm stretched into the space and split to branch into various unseen halls.
"I'm just going to get something for the blood— to help patch you up, okay?"
Their arm finally began to retract after a moment, the various branches it'd split into holding various supplies typical of a first aid kit— along with various cloths for soaking up the blood.
Oz made no move to approach her, no move to touch her, they simply set out each item in plain view. Bandages, saline, and gauze tape was carefully placed down. Lifting one of the cloth rags, they spoke.
"I want to start with wiping up some of the blood when you're ready— I'll be right here until then, however long it takes."
"Oz—" The single word takes so much from her. She has to use so much of her lips, her mouth, feel the movement and the smack and the roll of her tongue pressing against her ivory teeth, the smaller two down at the bottom of her throat, and it comes wet and slick and foul. Her mouth is so filled with the fluids of speech that she can feel the waves they make, feel the filamentous strands they leave against the tender flap of skin connecting her tongue to the bottom of her mouth, feel them drip back down her throat. Everything flaps and everything moves and she can feel all of it at once, muscle going limp and coming animate and boneless, slimy intent that is at once hers and not hers.
She continues speaking, not out of will, but because there's nothing else she knows to do, nothing else she can become. There's a mistake here, a mistake that needs to be corrected, and if she doesn't, then they'll charge on ahead, not knowing what's been written before they ever entered the scene.
"Oz, you are agreeing to something you do not know the terms to."
She's not really registering their words, of course. She is, but she isn't. They belong to someone new now, someone who cannot be approached for comment, but someone who all the same sends back commands to her drooling mouth and her slug-trail throat and she forces air back up and through the creeping blood stringing her together and she speaks.
Her body fails her, again. More exertion sends more blood painting carnations on her proper attire, the clothes that she was addressed specifically to wear to this junction. The red and the darker dyes absorb some, but everywhere else poppies bloom up and out of the fabric weave, the red tide rolling in and smothering her under her own weight. She'll choke either way. It's just more fitting, like this.
Oz is moving, again. Already Princess Miranda has decided that she doesn't like that. It irritates something in her brain, still not looking at them and yet catching the flitting out of the corner of her eyes, agitating the membranes and making the grey tissue grow red with inflammation. She doesn't like it. She can't stand it. She can't, won't, move her eyes to look at them again and yet she sees it, sees the flutter and the flick and something about it presses in on every corner in her vision, makes them all grow narrower and narrower and thinner and thinner, movement clouding her in, pushing her down.
There's still blood crawling down her throat, trying to seep into her stomach. The blood over her eyes, trying to crust them over, further gives her more movement, movement detached from the floor and from the walls. Movement that crawls under her skin and scales, twitching legs rolling against her embedded osteoderms, sticking down into every joint and vertebrae so that they catch and rip when she moves, more pressing in, until the end of every bone is shrouded in a fine coat of furred arthropod legs.
There was a point to all of this, right? There was a point to her being here, to doing this, to being so hollow and so full and everything moving inside of her and outside of her, growing thick and heavy and poisoning her with nitrogenous waste that sticks to her scales and holds her down against the silt? There was a reason she had been brought here, had been laid low, had been demanded as sacrifice? Why was she the perfect victim to hollow, made in just the correct shape to void her of all she might've been?
Oz sets something down in front of her, and her stomach clamps. She feels it in her throat, bobbing like a buoy tossed in the waves, like an old child's toy, one of the little floaters that they would pull along on strings. It fights against the roiling currents, fights against the great upswell with its tiny, flimsy filaments, and then it breaks, and the wave rises up instead.
The muscles of her abdomen contract, pull. They find their notches where they sit, tied down to her gastralia, and they heave ho, fluttering and pulling in towards her spine, making her stomach follow suit, leaving it concave for a precious moment against all of her fine clothes. Her body dips for a precarious moment between her ribcage and her waist, abdominal wall squeezing in on itself, tightening and tensing so that she's coiled up so tight and so tense that there's nowhere else for her to go, each muscle knotting together as a great void punches her in her stomach.
Her head dips, thrust towards the floor, jaws open as stomach acid is forced out, sharp and acrid and stinging in her throat, her nose, her gills. She is a merfolk, first of all, and an abyssal second. Both mean the acid of her stomach is strong, made to melt bone and render it down into something she can digest, but there is no bone that comes up now. It swirls with blood, with chunks of her own torn gills, and it'll damage the floor if she leaves it there. She shouldn't leave it there. There's nothing she can do but leave it there.
She coughs, chokes, spits up more of nothing but acid, dripping out of her gills with the same force that ejected it from her stomach, making her gasp loud and hacking. The heat burns through her, burns through the tender skin and membrane and open wound, stabs all the way up and through to her tongue, roiling in the agony and the hurt and the confusion, the overwhelming loss of everything that she is. This is what happens to discards. This is what happens to the leavings from the great hollowing, the parts of her that she didn't need, the parts of her that were not her and thus should have been removed long ago.
Princess Miranda's claws are digging into the cushion. She cannot remember doing so, but she's busy thinking about the sickness and the hurt and void that grows and grows and punches against her stomach to make her muscles flutter and twitch again so that she tries to cough up something she doesn't have. She's thinking about the feeling of hands beneath her skin, about the pain in her gills that drowns out everything else, she's thinking that she'll need to leave this outfit with her tailors again, to be repaired, and that they'll be upset with her in the wordless way of someone who can't say anything to the contrary.
Her head swims, bobbed along, punctuated only by retching that's now starting to die down. The wounds on her face have opened further, drip down angrily over her mouth to mix with her spittle. Every part of her feels vile. Every part of her hurts. Every part of her belongs to someone else, someone who has laid her out and partitioned off each and every one of her pieces.
It's too much. No one is made to handle this. Not even princesses.
Her mouth opens again, gapes. This time Princess Miranda doesn't spit, but makes a high whine so sharp and so loud that it stabs down into the heart with all the same burn. It comes again, repeated softly in a tiny pattern like beating wings, like the fluttering of her heart against her ribcage, like the pulse she can feel in her gills. She does not lift her head. She does not speak. She is laid low, laid beneath, whining and crying and making a distress call that has no translation and no word to name it, only a feeling of a hope so crushed and destroyed that there is nothing that can keep her safe anymore.
"If waiting to know the terms means I have to leave you like this- there's just no time to worry about it."
They could feel the pit forming where a stomach should be, internal panic twisting within as the out provided was declined once more. A sense of finality was creeping in, and it was terrifying. Still, the words left them without pause.
"Whatever it is, whatever I'll have to do... it can be something we figure out later, okay? It's the last thing that's important right now.."
With those words, the dread is packed away, shoved to the far corners of their mind to be picked through at a later date. It was necessary, there was simply no room for them to unravel.
Their grip tightens on the cloth a moment as they tense, eyes widening as the mostly stationary princess finally sets into motion. The acidic smell of bile fills the space, and it pushes Oz into motion in turn. They draw closer, skirting around the mess on the floor, before kneeling by the cushion.
Her wails only twist them up further inside, the palpable despair fulling the feeling of utter helplessness. They continue to push through, refusing to slow their momentum less the be consumed by a paralysis of their own design.
Their additional hands retreat to gather up additional supplies to deal with the acidic mess, wasting no time to get to work as Oz themself kept their focus solely on the princess.
"Don't worry..."
Their voice was soft, with as much reassurance as possible poured in. Carefully do they move to soak the cloth in their hand with saline, pausing before they grow any closer.
"I'm gonna take care of the floor, okay? You don't have to say anything, rest your voice.. just look at me when you're ready- and I'll clean up the vomit and blood on you.."
oz and the protag of slay the princess are in a venn diagram in my mind btw
"Ah- Back on the road already???"
BORN 2 RUMINATE
ANXIETY IS EVERYWHERE
I Am Worry Girl
420,069,000 CONCERNS
Did you think you were safe because I was gaming? Well, too bad.
Meep, your Oz is genuinely so lovely. You've made them into such an incredible little character that I absolutely adore interacting with any chance I get. One of those magical characters that have wholly replaced the Canon one for me. You've put so, so much thought and made Oz into something special; your very own character.
So as always Meep, absolutely adore Oz <3
WAUGH..
Thank you Mirth!! As always you're inescapable whenever that post comes around <3
It's a blast writing them with Amelia, quite literally one and the same in every instance they interact, but trust i WILL branch out to your wonderful gallery of other characters.. one million threads in your future 🫵