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@stanley-xiv
STANLEY XIV. ask — submit
RP blog for Stanley Hihat Trinidad XIV from Okage: Shadow King
at a glance this blog is: semi-selective and multiverse. Crossovers encouraged, OC and female muse-friendly ✗ Canon compliant with strong headcanon influences ✗ 18+ only ✗ Slow or sporadic activity ✗ Beloved by Giffie (she/her, 21+, PDT) ✗ EST. 11/26/23
Uses Beta Editor + XKit Rewritten
Follows from @litteris
rules — muse — verses — tags — tracker ( headcanoned visage )
To-cat-ata in B by sympawnies
Huge bugs. Great. Fantastic. Nothing she can't sneak past, but Shovel was really hoping that the critters down there were more reasonably-sized, in case something goes awry and she will need to defend herself. The warning does, however, lend credit to the goblin's claim about the gem actually being down there, being at least a small show of goodwill that she wouldn't expect from someone trying to screw them over.
"They don't scare me; I's the master of arse-watching. You'll see." And she's gone, slipping down the rope with the confidence of a seasoned professional. The slap of feet against shallow puddles tells the onlookers above that her descent went without problems, and it did; the gem retrieval, on the other hand, turns out to be a wholly different story.
By the time the pitter-patter of quasit feet is heard again, the few birds brave enough to take up residence near the rotting ruins of Moonhaven have begun to sing, and a lone marten, now wide awake and searching for breakfast, skitters past the well before darting up a nearby tree.
"Master! Master!" Gasping, wide-eyed, like a fish out of water, Shovel grabs the rope dangling from the well with her free hand. In the other, pressed against her chest, she holds the purple gem, its whispers of sinister temptations little more than white noise to her. "The rope... Lift Shovel? Please. So tired. Too tired. Spiders and two-legged thingies with lots of eyes everywhere!"
At some point during the long night, Stan had gone from standing propped against the edge of the well to slumped over it; forearm draped across the cold stone with his chin held in his free hand, one ankle crossed over the other, and the tip of his boot resting in the dirt. Currently, distrust and willpower are the two only things keeping him awake.
Because there, ever present in his peripheral vision to the left, is the head of their co-conspirator, seated on the steps leading up. Supporting her own chin on the top of the book (which she continues to hug to her chest with an ironclad grip), the sorcerer can't tell whether she's still conscious from their perspective angles, but she has been awfully quiet for a goblin.
Whatever the case, for the past twenty minutes or so, half-lidded yellow eyes have been watching a praying mantis sitting motionless on the other side of the stone wall— this is until a little voice calls out from the bottom of the pit. Immediately pushing himself back upright, Stanley leans over the side, any traces of exhaustion temporarily wiped from his features as he mercifully doesn't delay starting to pull the familiar up using the rope. "Did you find it?"
"I was jus' restin' my eyes, I wasn't—" Lurching forward with a snort, the goblin looks around for a moment before, "Oh." She stands, finding her way back over to the blonde's side. "Tell me we're in business, 'ere."
"Ugh. 'Course it is." Presuming that the task of retrieving it falls to her, being a familiar and all, Shovel leaps onto the crumbling stone structure and, peering into the depths, gives the rope an experimental tug. It should hold her weight no problem; either way, being immortal, should she fall or otherwise become critically injured, all Stan will need to do is re-summon her, and she will be reappear beside him like nothing happened.
"Master stays. Alright?" To keep him safe, yes, but mostly to have him prevent the goblin from doing anything stupid while she is gone. Shovel doesn't trust her as far as she could throw her, and the sentiment is likely mutual. "Shovel knows the gem by smell. Won't take long."
Whether there is anything dangerous down there is not a concern, so the quasit doesn't think to ask, having already decided that she is going to spend her pent-up energy, both magical and physical, on turning invisible and sprinting through the tunnels. Best get this over with fast.
Frowning between the quasit and the goblin, it's not a hard choice deciding who Stan trusts more at this particular juncture— although, make no mistake, if he wasn't privy to all of this being orchestrated, he'd be raising a bigger stink than he is right now. He would have never handed over the book or agreed to let somebody else get their mitts on it first (and gods help them both if there's a double scheme against him here). Fortunately, their grubby little guide doesn't know this about him, so when his gaze ultimately settles on the familiar, he's still tight-lipped when he nods.
"Suits me," the goblin chimes in again. "I ain't got no complaints 'bout somebody else doin' all the work, but 'fore ya go, I s'pose that I should warn you 'bout the creepy crawlers; they're big. Real big. Watch yer arse down there, little fiend." Luckily, it's information that is willingly given. Since she can't be too disappointed about ruining the surprise now that she wants that gem for herself, she can still be amused by the mere idea of somebody, or something, stumbling into an especially gnarly web in the dark.
As they walk, Shovel keeps an eye out for more unpleasant surprises, her head swiveling from side to side in search of more goblins. This better not be an ambush, but in the unfortunate (for the goblins, mind) case that it is, she is more than happy to to assert her and High-Hat's superiority by fang and flame.
"Is it far?" The curiosity in her tone is as genuine as can be, having no guess as to the gem's whereabouts. It would have to have been deliberately removed from the book, but for what reason, and by who? Illy loved that dusty old thing more than most mortals love their crotch-spawn, so perhaps it had something to do with his apparent disappearance.
Stan follows a couple of steps behind, having smothered the campfire and grabbed his bag. The distance allows him time enough to steal a curious glance toward the vigilant familiar, sizing her up a little less openly. Yet unsure what to make of the creature, he'll admit they'd been thinking along the same lines; fast partners in crime. He supposes he'll consider this a test of loyalty, and depending on the outcome, they'd go from there.
"Nah, it ain't far— not from up top, anyways." This last bit is mumbled, although the goblin's gruff tone is still loud enough to be easily heard above the prevailing crickets. She isn't trying to hide anything now. And maybe she's a little bummed that she has to tell them what to look out for, but if what the smaller bugger said is true, then she'll have them both dead in no time. And if it isn't? Well, maybe the spiders will get them after all.
Regardless, true to her word, it's only a matter of minutes before she stops their uneventful trek in front of a well, looking to be in about as much disrepair as the rest of the once-town. Turning to face them, her arms still wrapped protectively around the book, she uses her head to gesture toward it.
"Ya want it, s'down there."
( I've done it, I've united Stanley and Shovel.
Also, I almost marked this as a ware before I read the description. That's her rock, it has to be. And I'd love to know what she does with it.
BONUS: Stan can't get any respect no matter what universe he's in. )
nobodys paying attention to me so im going to microwave forks and knives
Wicked that she is, having at least some understanding of what the book contains, it only takes a moment for Shovel to hatch a plan that should result in the gem landing in their possession while also having one less goblin to worry about. With no time to discuss it with Stanley, she nudges him twice with her elbow, hoping that he understands the gesture for what it is: reassurance that she has things under control, and that this plan is... well... unlikely, at least, to backfire.
"How about this? You take book. We come with. Find gem. You read book first, before Master does, so you know we don't cheat. Ever wanted to read minds? Make others dance and piss themselves and jump from bridges without a word? Learn from book. Then, Master reads it, too. We share! Everyone learns!"
It's not all lies, technically, but what she doesn't mention is that anyone unprepared for the tome's mind-bending contents will have their soul smothered like a candlelight between two spit-slick fingers.
At the nudges, Stan peers down. Fortunately, this coincides with the familiar voicing her suggestion, which grants the impression of the master merely being attentive to the servant since, thanks to those nudges, the sorcerer does indeed recognize that the sly creature has hatched a plan. A plan that he can't quite yet fathom, so honestly, he has to assume that a future stabbing is in order. Fine by him.
So, looking up, he feigns even greater annoyance, arms folding despite the book in his hand. "Fine. If that's what it takes."
"Friends, I'd say ya got yerselves a deal." Practically salivating at the concept of all that power, the goblin steps forward, thrusting her hands up for the tome, which Stanley begrudgingly (an honest emotion, here) passes between them.
Immediately clutching the item to her chest, she turns with an all-too-pleased chuckle and quickly heads off. "Right this way, folks." And to think, here she was, ready to drive a hard bargain and relish watching them die horrible deaths to the arachnids later, but now she actually wants them to find the damn gem. By the Nine Hells, are those two hapless dolts stupid.
Even Shovel, distracted that she is by their conversation, does not scent the unfamiliar smell or hear the approaching footsteps until the eavesdropper reveals herself to be standing right next to them. The suddenness of it all prompts a sputtering hiss of surprise from the quasit, who scrambles to her feet, eyes narrowed to sharply-angled slits, her tail twitching like that of a vexed feline.
"Don't talk to Master like that!" The embarrassment at having been caught unawares by a goblin, of all creatures, only stokes the white-hot rage licking at the rungs of her ribs. Tempting though it may be to relieve the intruder of her fingers, Shovel is not so uncouth as to act without Stanley's explicit approval, so she remains where she is, glaring daggers at the unwelcome guest.
The goblin is near snickering about having startled the human so easily before his pet Quasit is on its feet in an instant, staring death, and tentatively, she raises her hands, taking a bit of a half-step back. "Alright, alright, I was just passin' through, I was. Couldn't help but over'ere. I know where yer rock is, but I ain't jus' handin' it over fer free. Thing must be pretty important— you magic-types ar' always messin' with shite ya shouldn't."
Stanley's initial upset is quickly replaced by annoyance as the man shifts the book to one hand before he, too, climbs to his feet to turn and face their uninvited meddler. Call him paranoid, but something didn't feel right about letting a goblin close to his eyeballs. But damned if she isn't right; it is important. With his other hand finding his hip, he squints. "And we trust you aren't lying because…?"
" 'Cause I want somethin' in return," she says, voice thick with an unspoken duh.
Having spent hells know how many years observing Illy try and fail to discern anything from its pages, the problem becomes apparent to her the second that desiccated face, eternally frozen in a grimace of terror, rises above the edge of Stanley's bag.
"The gem!" A delighted gasp. This, at least, she can help with. "Listen..." Inching close enough to him that their elbows are almost touching, she jabs a finger at the tome's yawning mouth, her gaze flitting back and forth between it and Stanley's face. "There used to be a gem stuck in its face-hole. Smooth, purple, about the size of a human heart. Dunno why it's not there any more. If Master didn't find it, maybe someone stole it." Which means achieving world domination will have to wait. Bummer.
"Without its gem, the book is sad. Won't open to anyone."
This time, it's Stan's turn for his expression to fall, those tightly-pressed lips curling at the edges in a clear-cut display of dissatisfaction. He's admitted to too many failings to already be presented with another— not that the apparent carelessness of the previous owner is his fault.
"Drat." At this, he leans back, keeping a two-handed hold on the tome as it's pulled into his lap. Drawing in another breath is about as far as he gets with speaking again before a much more guttural voice pipes up from beside them instead, causing the blonde to jolt.
"Oy! Did I 'ere ya two are lookin' for that weird shiny rock used to be 'round here?" Sure enough, there prowls one of those goblins that Stan had since stopped looking out for. A woman who already has a mischievous glint in her honey-colored eyes. "What's innit fer me if I was ta'help you?"
"Illy was obsessed with it. Tried to read it. Never finished it. Never will." Judging from her chipper tone, practically dripping with smug, malicious glee, this is not at all something that concerns her. "Strong magic inside, he said. Something about the dead. Shovel was never allowed to touch it. 'Can Shovel at least see what's inside?' I asked. Then he kicked me. Bastard."
Here comes that expression of utter adoration again, accompanied by a smile so wide that every single one of the quasit's needle-like fangs is unsheathed. Palms up, she extends her taloned hands, as though pleading High-Hat to surrender to the temptation that he surely must feel towards the mysterious tome. All he needs to take the plunge is a friendly little nudge from a friendly little familiar.
"But Master isn't Illy. Maybe open it? Become more powerful? Much more powerful."
Hesitating for one long moment, the Sorcerer thins his lips into a hard line before he leans over to free the anthropodermic novel from the bag. With the weighty item in both hands, he scoots conspiratorially nearer to the Quasit— achieving the most undignified of seated waddles. Obviously, interest has been piqued.
"Okay, look; I can't get it open, I tried. Both magically and physically. I get the feeling something is missing, but I don't know what." To emphasize this point, Stan forms a loose claw with his hand, fingertips all pointed toward each other, and hovers it just above the gaping mouth of the screaming, purple-eyed face embedded in its cover.
"I turned the room where I found it upside down and still didn't find anything else."
Even despite the enticing conversation, the mention of getting kicked doesn't slip Stan's notice. He believes in a firm hand, but frankly, that sounds like the mark of a flimsy master right there. Somebody who can't whip their servants into shape without literal whips.
A mere dabbler in fisting, then. Yawn, but at least he isn't a diplomacy-humping coward or, worse still, a healer. There is the possibility, too, that in time, he might become more ruthless, more cruel, faster to fry—with her assistance, of course. Something to consider, should the opportunity to be a horrible influence present itself.
"Oh! Oh! The book! The book!" Prior disappointments all but forgotten, Shovel jerks upright, her barbed tail curling in excitement at the sight of the all-too-familiar tome. Though she may be an expert at harboring grudges (of which she has an entire mental catalog), she is equally adept at living in the moment, which poses a chance to help both the sorcerer and, as fortune would have it, herself.
"Master took it, yes? From the cellar?" Which means that Illy is well and truly gone, because he would never give it away while still drawing breath. Good riddance.
Stanley is something of a grudge-holding connoisseur himself, so luckily, this unexpected little outcry serves as a welcome diversion for the both of them. Truth be told, this early into the relationship, he isn't yet sold on the idea of a minion that doesn't hang on his every word— or at least, that's how he had always envisioned familiars.
But just maybe, hearing that word repeatedly sprinkled into (more or less) everyday conversation works wonders as quite the balm for any bruised feelings he might be secretly nursing on the side.
Thus, thoughts redirected, Stan sits up a touch straighter himself with the exclamation, peering back toward the pack first before tossing a glance around their immediate, noxious surroundings. No eavesdropping goblins so far. It might be safe to assume that the current inhabitants don't care about some book, but he'd stolen it, fair and square, and he'd rather not risk it.
"That's right. You must know a great deal about it, yes? Tell me."
Happy 20th-
Her image stills upon the more aggressive note of the wolf. More-so when it seems to scurry back and whimper. An eyebrow lifted slightly at this strange behavior. Had it sensed something more primal about the woman? On the urge of growling back, though it doesn't quite come to fruition when the beastly thing widened the gap between them.
Something else was amiss. The cane in grip pushed towards the shallow shadow cast by faint nearby light. Moonlight, perhaps? A slow tilt of her head at this peculiar phenomenon stirring both a sense of curiosity, and caution for what might have just transpired. She seems entirely unconcerned outwardly, though by the noise her rook was making up in the tree, she suspected it may prove more troublesome.
There was little to do at the moment. Just wait and see if this wolf would think it wise to attack her, or would it recognize the risk of doing so and run off? Jezebel was, in all rights, an apex predator. She exuded a certain presence about her and while not something particularly noteworthy in her own world, here it might come across more dangerous to those who encounter her.
Particularly those of the wilds. Like this wolf that seemed conflicted on whether or not to make a move against her. And what of the anomaly of her being in this weird world? Would the gruesome reality she had come from, somehow impact this one?
With the last wisp of the strange bottle's contents seemingly emptying into the soil beneath the woman's feet, the creature watches her for another moment as if waiting for something to come from this unusual sight. When nothing else happens, teeth are bared, hackles are raised again, and eyes climb to lock onto hers.
Confusion turns back to unadulterated aggression. Clearly lacking the good sense to be concerned about its safety, the animal lunges without wasting more time.
At first, the spectacle is downright laughable; the beast couldn't have been more than two and a half feet standing erect, yet it commits itself to the hunt with the confidence of a much larger predator. However, humor quickly drains from the encounter when another whimper is wrenched from the canine— this one pained, accompanied by the sound of a snapping bone. Followed by another. And then another.
The lunge becomes a slog as the Lone Wolf's meager body is involuntarily pulled from one side to the other, suddenly fighting against violent spasms. Staggering, but still moving. Agony racks its joints as muscle and tissue stretch, working to reconfigure themselves into a considerably more giant, barely recognizable monstrosity of the wolf's former self.
In excruciating seconds, its frame goes from mid-thigh to heads above her, gait going from a menacing lope to a bloodthirsty sprint. And then, just as quickly, it closes the gap between them, lashing out with a clawed hand, attempting to dig into the interloper.
Its breaths are labored and snarling, its fur marred by bloody fissures from patches of newly torn flesh.
"But... you smell just like one." Ears drooping and shoulders hunching, she glances away, watching the flames dance for a moment while she considers taking a chunk out of High-Hat's face. Fake dragon or not, she is still bound to him, and even if she wasn't, any company beats no company, especially because the sorcerer seems to regard her as more than a mere tool, whereas Illy showed no interest in her beyond her capacity to assist him in his work.
"Hmph." Still pouting like a spurned child, Shovel turns her head ever so slightly, leering at Stanley over the crossed arms resting on her knees. "Are you at least a murderer, then?" He better be, or a bandit, or even a war criminal—anything but one of those boring shites that never kill anything because they cannot bear the sight of blood.
Sigh. As it turns out, Stan doesn't need to be able to see it to still hear it in Shovel's voice; disappointment. Oh well. An irksome yet trivial lapse in the overarching scheme of his splendor. He doesn't need her to believe some (admittedly very cool) misconception to garner any much-deserved respect from the potential familiar.
Taking care to store the scroll away safely, he's also just as careful to not allow the tome that had been hastily shoved inside earlier to see the light of— well, campfire in the process. It's an ominous, skinbound volume that he can't pry open for the life of him. So, for now, the Sorcerer would rather avoid any intrusive eyes and sticky fingers. Despite this effort, should she be looking, the Quasit might spy a corner of the fleshy book.
Regardless, turning back and resettling into his position, Stan clasps his hands together, elbows resting against his bent knees. "By broad definition, sure." And it doesn't sound like he has any remorse about it, either. "I wouldn't call myself a serial killer, but I've been known to fry a ne'er-do-well or two in my time."
"You know..." Extending her arms to her sides, Shovel flaps her arms up and down in a stiff and altogether comedic imitation of a dragon beating its wings. For dramatic effect, and because she is having an absolute blast channeling her favorite creature, she juts her chin high in the air and roars as best as her squeaky voice allows her to (which is... not at all).
"Shovel will polish Master's scales and sharpen your horns and claws every day. Promise!" Now close enough to reach out and touch Stanley, Shovel drops into a seated position, peering at the sorcerer sitting across from her with unequaled admiration and awe. If her eyes were any wider, they would eclipse the night sky itself.
Best master ever.
"Master will be so shiny, so scary, that mortals will see you flying above and shit straight through their trouser-holes before you scorch them to cinders."
Oh. Stan doesn't know how Shovel's able to discern it simply from smell alone, but she's referring to his draconic ancestors, then. While he does indeed bear the identifying scales like most, none of those are even visible right now. What a peculiar skill for the familiar to possess. And with the clarification offered, his lips can't seem to help but curl into something resembling amusement for all of a second— the expression there and gone as quickly as if it had been an involuntary twitch.
The Quasit has spunk, too. He likes that. Regardless, he's never been one to become too chummy too fast, so despite his body physically relaxing once Shovel takes a seat, there's just a little bit of emotional pulling back happening instead. Surprising, the speed of it. Forming attachments so easily isn't usually one of his exceedingly rare shortcomings.
Suddenly aware that he's still holding the creature's summoning scroll, Stan reaches for his previously discarded pack (stowed beneath a knee courtesy of a well-placed distrust of goblins), rolling the parchment up and stashing it away as he speaks. "Well, you do know that, while I may be exceptionally astonishing, my kind aren't actual dragons, right? Trust me, nobody wants all of those things more than me."
Honestly, looking away is an excuse, he knows, because he doesn't want to see the exact moment when all of that oh-so-desired admiration drains from her features.
Master High-Hat, then. Alright. Not a bad ring to it.
"But Shovel loves the smell!" she chirps, ears perking, her inquisitive ink-black eyes flashing in the flickering firelight. "Reminds me of bloodshed and burning corpses. Fat and bones—pop, snap, and crackle, like a big, beefy bonfire!" A wistful 'oh' escapes her as she imagines this is what became of the villagers before the goblins took over. They deserved it, every single one, for being dumb enough to fall for Illy's ruse over and over again.
"Master's true form must be terrifying to behold!" Giggling to herself at her incredible luck, the quasit slinks closer to Stanley, groveling in the presence of what she presumes to be a dragon in human guise. "So many teeth! Great for tearing! The best!"
The movement is so slight as to be nearly imperceptible, but as the Quasit ghosts in nearer to him, Stan finds himself mostly resisting the urge to lean back to maintain some of the distance between them. This compulsion isn't spawned from any outright fear (a Trinidad, frightened? Perish the thought) but more out of a self-interested drive to err on the side of caution.
Granted, talk of familiars lashing out isn't commonplace, at least not from what he's heard— never mind that he's never actually had one himself, but this one's particular enthusiasm toward disembowelment does perhaps cause the Sorcerer to briefly question the safety of his face. Not that the little creature isn't without her charms.
Still, despite the mental sidetrack, Stan keeps an ear on the conversation; he has to assume that "Shovel" is a name. He isn't sure what she means by "true form." And above all, the word "master" strikes a unique chord. Talk about something having a nice ring to it.
"Sorry, but what's this about a true form?"
