AHHHHH OH MY GOD. this is like. genuinely the best portrayal of my oc of all time. the atmosphere is so perfect and the details UGH thank you so so much!!
the goat is agata. goats are associated the devil and the occult- in c!mim’s eyes, agata is responsible for the suffering of the village. she was intelligent, yes, but she was violent. if you looked into her eyes, really looked, you would see no light, no glimmer. they were dark and flat like ink on a page. as the head of the council, she rejected c!mim’s studies for years, always with snideness and a laugh. she revelled in the cruelty of it. towards the end, when everything began to truly unravel, she disappeared. the day before it all ended, she was found, cowering in a dark room and unrecognisable. she had contracted the plague and it was destroying her alive.
2
the boar is cassie. boars represent ferocity. they are opportunistic feeders and take what they can. a hunter and a friend to c!mim, he was bold and dangerous with the crossbow, but her smile was contagious and her personality inescapably friendly. He and c!mim were friends, but not close enough for him to fully understand what c!mim was attempting. In the end, when the fire raged through the village and a corpse burned in the lab, she was filled with spite she had never felt. chasing c!mim to the edges of the village where the treeline started, he raised his crossbow and aimed. the flames in his eyes- was that a reflection? or was it hate? she made a decision there, and spun around to run back into the blaze. if he could save anybody, that would be worth more than revenge. either way, the injuries on mim’s body would probably kill them regardless. he hoped they would.
The woods were peaceful on that day- fog, having no motivation to move or disappear, hung between the trees. In the middle of the woods, a Witch awaited a visitor.
This Witch was one of the last. He was older than the woods themselves- he had lived in this place long before the first tree had sprung. He nurtured the woods from birth, and the woods were kind to him in return. It was the trees who told him that day, through the rustles of their leaves and the creak of their boughs, that someone was coming to visit him. His name is Egbert Woolton, the trees whispered to the Witch, he seeks power.
The trees were never wrong. There were three knocks at the door, which the Witch opened to reveal a grim-looking man.
“Excuse my intrusion,” the man said stiffly, striding into the room without a response. Ah, thought the Witch, disappointed. He was familiar with men of this calibre. Still, company was company, and he gestured for the man to take a seat.
“What brings you here, Egbert?” The Witch settled into his own chair.
The man scowled. “I should’ve known you’d predict my arrival. So it’s true, then? You are a sorcerer?”
“If that’s what you would like to call it, yes. Why have you sought me out?”
Egbert shifted in his seat, pulling from his coat a canvas pouch. “I’d like you to cast a spell for me.” The Witch sighed at this, leaning towards Egbert to examine his face. The man flinched.
“What do you need?” The Witch asked, plucking the pouch from Egbert’s outstretched fingers and opening it, amused by the glint of coins from within. Egbert pulled his hands back sharply.
“Well, you see,” he said curtly, “I’ve been the subject of some distasteful hearsay as of the past month or so. My father passed recently, and I’ve been accused of patricide.” Egbert spat the last word, mouth twisting into a snarl. “Now the townspeople want my inheritance to be instead passed onto my younger brothers.”
“You want to ensure your inheritance? Even without your father’s money, I’m sure you understand your wealth is not lacking.”
“I’ve heard of spells that could do the trick. Things that could teach the fools a lesson for disrespecting me.” Egbert’s eyes burned with spite, “That would have them revere me.”
From outside, the trees were stirring. A murderer, they hissed, branches groaning, the boy killed his father for money, and now he lies.
“Perhaps I’ll do you one better. How would you like to cast the spell yourself?”
Egbert straightened in his seat, interested. The Witch continued: “Of course, the gift of Witchcraft is very dangerous to those with ill intent,” he said, “I’ll need you to agree-”
“Get on with it, old man! I assure you, my intentions are-”
“Do you swear on it?”
“I swear, I sw-”
The Witch tapped Egbert’s forehead, and cast unto him the power of Witchcraft. It was a painful process- the Witch knew from experience. Flooding a human brain with unmeasurable knowledge of the extraordinary seldom ended well.
Egbert collapsed. “What are you doing to me?” he shrieked.
“You are being judged.”
His bloodshot eyes bulged- full of fear, and realisation. “Please, I’m sorry, I lied, make it stop-” but it was too late: the judgement had been made. Light filled the room, and once it was gone all that was left of Egbert Woolton was a pile of dust on the carpet.
The trees outside rustled, pleased. The Witch sighed, and got to sweeping.
when he makes it to the ancient city - years too late, postponed as long as he can - there's a recognition he cannot escape.
[a consideration of wardens, the ancient city, and grief.]
[alternate title: @l0stmyfr0g's c!mim fuckikngf possessed me for an hour.]
It's not like the town. Not exactly. Not quite.
But it's.. it's similar. Something warped, not quite past the point of recognition: distorted. She feels almost as if she is looking at it through fire, waves of heat cutting into crumbling stone.
There was nothing left but ash of their town, and yet here it is, buried in the underworld - buildings he cannot help but know, twisted and malformed and irrevocably corrupted.
She is perhaps overcareful in her exploration. Sneaks over the springy violet skulk as if she knows it firsthand.
He wonders if her friends notice that the way she climbs the towers is muscle memory. That she is at home between these streets, navigating blind as if he'd known it all his life.
(...maybe 'at home' is a strong way to put it. This town nor its muse was never a home; still, it's nauseatingly mundane.)
They can see, if they squint, flags and banners hanging from corrupted stone windows. Hear the shouts of men in the street, of markets and of taverns and of existence, and--.
...it is best not to dwell on the past.
He has to keep reminding himself of that.
She doesn't miss the town. Doesn't know how - had done his mourning many years ago. Ironically, he had thought that the memories of the town were fading; that they had done so already, corrupted by time and delusion and violet-hot fire,
and yet.
and yet.
...
He sees the people without meaning to. Can't stop picturing children, weaving through the streets.
Turns left and hears the shrieking of skulk near a chest, and almost cries out at its intimacy, something panicked and pained, thick with grief and something indescribable.
She tries sort of desperately to hear it as it is, but there are voices in that sound that she cannot ignore. Cannot comprehend the howling as anything but a dying city and its people, suffocating under fire from its executioners' hand.
And, listen, maybe it's not that. Maybe denial, sweet and kind, will come somewhere in the future; maybe he will be able to convince himself that memory had warped the sound. That she's being stupid; that this isn't howling, isn't screaming. (That the skulk had always existed and just had not been found.) That it's just a noise. Something meaningless. Something simple.
One day, denial will come. It always does: they have gotten pretty good at ignoring the guilt, after all. Had to get good at it. Could not have survived otherwise.
Still, that's only in the future, when the ringing does not echo in his ears, juttering through her body like a piercing song of prayer. When the light (thin as it was) flickers, the darkness only looks like smoke. He was sure he had forgotten this all, and yet...
...and yet.
They make it through, somehow. Make it to caverns that are all but untouched, shriekers far enough to consciously ignore, and the howling of their song will not yet leave his ears but he ignores it pretty well, all things considered.
(They're slower. Feel themselves lagging behind, a little, overcautious on the still-soft ground, trembling even if the air of the caves is hot.)
(...so hot.)
(Unbearably so.)
And good things cannot last, obviously. Never. Not for Mim.
(He does not deserve such overwhelming mercy. Does not deserve any at all.)
So the warden digs itself out of the ground, and their friends scramble away, half desperate, half worried, and time
stops.
and the warden
is the worst thing he has ever seen.
something corrupted, something warped. Something awful. He is not a religious man, but were sin to exist, it would be this given form: tall and lumbering, impossibly dark, an ivory heart pulsating in the core of its chest, ticking and hollow in the streets in the city.
...it is in time with hers.
...yeah. that's the worst part, he thinks, or maybe doesn't. Existence is murky. Crude. Sluggish.
He has heard of wardens: has heard of this being, towering over players. Has heard stories of its shriek: always something otherworldly. Indescribable.
The warden is silent.
It does not need to mourn.
Not here; not now.
Mim isn't scared. Can't bring himself to be. This is something past fight or flight response; something deeper. Symbiotic. Primal, almost, in an animalistic way.
Like calls to like, she thinks, the only thought they can bring themself to have, and a desperate giggle lodges itself in the hollow of his throat.
It does not escape. Cannot. This inhuman silence can't be broken; distantly, they know their friends are calling for them, but it it is not sound. Is not real in any way that matters.
In front of him is damnation entire. It is cruel, and twisted, and inhuman, and primal, and it feels like looking in a mirror, and she cannot bring herself to hate it, and even though later he will realise how odd that was, it is not a thought that comes to mind now.
At last, as if it had been waiting for something, the warden makes its song. It is a softer version of the shrieking; a requiem, keening and purposeful, to a town reduced to ash. a thousand voices in imperfect harmony.
It's beautiful. It is terrible.
It is this that will haunt their dreams. This that he will wake up to, ringing in his ears; a melody she had not deserved to hear.
(deserved. Maybe, after all, they had deserved this life, aching as it is; maybe this is immortality, soft lamentation, 'life' in its loosest possible form.)
(he does not think on it longer.)
He is still frozen in place by the weight of its gaze, and finally it blinks, so very awfully slowly, violet glowing eyes soft in quiet pain.
It makes one last sound; a thin warble, one voice only.
It sounds like emyr. Sounds like farewell.
And it buries itself in the ground between one blink and the next, absent of the grating sound it had emerged with, the light its horns had cast gently faded from the cave.
The trance does not break, just falters. Mim's head turns mechanically to the exit, and--. oh.
It's not dark.
Had the sky always been right there?
Evening light scrapes its way down to the cave, ten or fifteen metres in front of them. Their friends' shadows slouch through the mouth of the cave. Suddenly, listlessly, they find themself exhausted, struggling to keep hold on strands of fading consciousness. There's an awful clarity that has struck her, somewhere in the cave, but that is to be explored later; realisation will come after sleep. after rest.
(It does.)
(It is every bit as awful as expected, but there is an understanding he can't quite shake.)
being a fan of a friend's ocs is actually so humiliating....... like yes my favourite character rn is tragically doomed and a pillar of humanity who i think is relevant to the current world. you can find information about them on discord dot com and sometimes in late-night conversations with this guy i know. what the fuck
up late at night thinking about a guy who exists to three people. such a desire to talk about him until my lungs give out and read every scrap of fanfiction on the internet and yet there is NOTHING!!!! and i have to pretend to be NORMAL about this. "oh yes your character is cool. have you considered writing more" meanwhile the wolves in my brain are tearing and biting
yeah thsi is my little oc haha yeah he’s super cute they have little horns and stuff ahahhhh look at the fluffy tail :333 he holds the balance of the world in his hands and crushes it between his fingers for the brief comfort of the warmth of its blood
so! first things first -- mim is the pngtuber model/brain guy of @l0stmyfr0g! i'm definitely biased, but i'd absolutely recommend giving them a watch if you ever get the chance - his streams are super calming and they're always a lovely vibe c:
before i start going off the deep end, i will say that all of this is the result of my brain going absolutely bonkers. take this all as headcanons! as much as i love theorizing for c!mim, i definitely don't want to overwrite the incredible lore that the creator has done already c:
cw: fungus, corruption, death
SO. OOOHHH BOY. okay. c!mim.. i am so so irregular about him. he is the most crinklable guy ever. absolute tinfoil of a dude. could get scrunched soo hard for real.
i don't want to spoil some of the stuff that mim's working on, so i'll go with the most basic version of mim's story! (i'll mention before i start that mim, both the character and the creator, go by any pronouns, so i'll be referring to him as he/she/they!)
all story excerpts are mine :]
the basic gist:
c!mim, long ago, created a machine that bought them back from death. it twisted them irrevocably into something more animal than human; more, mim has found himself immortal, unable to die by any means.
in the accident that caused mim's death and rebirth, a fire started, leveling the town to ash. and... look, fire's not unusual, but there's something... off. something acrid, twisted and unclean, as if the fire had burned hot enough to scorch a hole between worlds, and.
the fire leaves nothing. ash and dust and acrid blue smoke, thick enough that the fire has to splutter to survive. it doesn't spread far -- suffocated by its own smoke, it barely reaches the edge of the town. the treeline remains intact; the bark grows back off-colour, sure, but when he wakes it is dark and winter, and in that light it is barely noticeable. they do not stick around long enough to see differently.
it's stupidly poetic. he had not cared for its people, but there is record of neither town nor fire, and nobody left living thinks it anything but a forest. there are no graves for the dead. no crumbling buildings or mosaic stone pathing; just a forest, stained with ash, and a treeline slightly wrong. her town (her life) has become only kindling, and she -- its executioner -- is the only one who can repair it.
reparation feels like redemption. it is an honour he doesn't deserve.
..he doesn't.
can't bring himself to, maybe, or just doesn't care.
and mim doesn't remember the fire (or, at the least, the memories are not something she thinks of) -- but the invention... it's gone. not destroyed in the fire - couldn't have been, since mim is still here. it's bought them back, and it's gone, and something has shifted in the universe. pulled back the curtain of reality ever-so-slightly, indigo blue and twinkling like a crude, mocking galaxy.
...mim hears of skulk, of course. shit, they don't know how long they were dead, but by the time they are bought back, warped and distorted, you cannot go into town without hearing of skulk.
and he doesn't experience it, not directly, but there are... stories. stories of creeping roots of dark and filth, and it's not.. it's not his invention. can't be. but there are enough similarities that-.
...well. it's not something he likes to dwell on.
[find my story of mim's exploration into the deep dark here!]
that was all pretty much canon, but i couldn't help but think. well . what would it look like, to be possessed by skulk? and i think. if c!mim was possessed by skulk - it's creator, accidentally or otherwise - it would be a symbiotic relationship, rather than parasitic.
it takes awhile to notice. but c!mim watches something die, holds someone in their arms as they drift into the afterlife, and as he places them down he notices skulk spread from beneath them. notices soft dust on her arms that looks like tiny stars
it is not corrupting her. no, it needs her too badly for that.
instead, it. waits. follows behind in their footsteps. takes over the shallow imprints of dirt. most of the time it dies immediately. is corroded by light and daytime, but sometimes--
sometimes, it finds something to latch on to.
sometimes, mim kills a mob and skulk spreads like tendrils from its decaying corpse, even with no skulk nearby. even with daylight, bright and burning, cutting into the dark, flesh-like roots.
and sure, it withers fairly quickly, but it survives beneath the dirt. digs down into stone and darkness and caves. (and eventually - eventually - it carves itself a home.)
that's all i've got right now, but. man. man. corruption is my favourite thing to play with .
+ tiny story i wrote about mim trying to use the machine on their childhood friend, emyr <3
He stumbles over her feet into the candlelit room, vision blurring with unbridled desperation, Emyr's body, so cold he cannot bear it, tumbling from their arms to the floor. Their shoulders are square, hunched with tense despondency, and she faces her invention, sharp and shadow-cut with the cold midnight evening.
"Save him!" she shouts, her wavering voice on the edge of breaking, so unbearably loud it echoes through her lab. "You-- I- I made you, so you'll save him! That's what you're here for!"
The invention does not answer. Cannot; sits in the darkest corner of the room and pulses. She crouches to the slate floor, nudges his body to the mechanical mouth of the machine, and stares through their eyelashes to its gaping silver mouth.
Slowly - too slowly, so slowly he cannot bear it - webs of mycelium creep towards the body, twisting and weaving over itself to form a breathing lilac blanket. They push themselves backward, watching it with wide eyes; prays for it to work in fierce, desolate murmurs.
He can only watch as it eats into Emyr's skin; overtakes his bruising body with aching determination, up the hollow of his chin and over his eyes.
and then it stops. and it does not move further.
"No," he gasps desperately, "no, nonono- you have to work."
The invention does not reply. Sinks into Emyr where the fungus had overtaken him, its unnatural purple hue tauntingly still, and there is no breath to follow as the corpse simply lays there, body overcome with mycelium rot.
...he lives in my brain .i am so mentally ill about him
i’ve developed a mild obsession with @kroatic’s oc that i stole for my lore. he’s such a little guy. i think they are so great. do i know anything about their lore? no not rlly. but i know that he is a little dude. they probably bake a bread and bring it to their neighbours. EVEN perhaps consider: he brings little a bread to c!mim’s lab. i just think they’re great
he dreams of the house he grew up in. he dreams of his family, his sister and his brother.
there is something hanging over them, a violent dread that clings onto their shoulders and tugs at their throat. she tries to tell them but her tongue can’t shape the warning. it sits sluggish and heavy in their mouth and spins their words into a muted gurgle.
he strains his lungs until they ache and he coughs up blood. their shriek emerges from their chest as nothing but a whistle, like wind working its way between a crack between stones, or the empty spaces between ribs long dried by the sand and bleached by the sun.
they dream of a fire. they see the melting of flesh and the charring of bone. she smells it in the air.
he wakes up wailing like a child. in the dark, he sees the flesh of his chest pulse and shift before falling still, invisible threads grasping their heart and forcing it to slow from its thudding.
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