#bloodtwin.

[grief-worn]

been wanting to properly draw puck beyond the One (1) meme image ... the fucked up little guy.

puck darlington belongs to @bloodtwin

[saturnmused-a]

@bloodtwin // cameron & puck // starter call.

❝ you know, despite everything we're facing . . . ❞ ever the optimist, cameron has to put in his two cents. yes, they've faced a lot up until this point, and yes, they're yet to face a tremendous amount more. but even through it all, the prince has an inkling that everything is going to be okay. he trusts his teammates, more than he's ever trusted anyone. and that counts for puck, who should maybe scare cameron ― but cameron's never felt that way for other, not even a little bit. ❝ i think we're going to be just fine, in the end. ❞ sometimes he feels like the only thing they can really do is hope; everything else seems so wildly out of control. ❝ what do you think you'll do, once it's all over ? ❞

[grief-worn]

*looks around mischievously* *bends down to kiss her on her little nose* :3

Rare was the opportunity to catch Shadowheart off-guard. She's normally so steadfast. Alert. Rigid, and shielding the softer parts of herself from those who wished to unfurl her. But Puck has proven himself a nasty influence time and time again. He often disarmed her. His presence enough to shed the hard chitin and reveal things she had thought she'd lost a long time ago.

Humor. Whimsy. Admiration. Affection.

She stood beside him, torn between a vial of powdered mandrake and a pouch of aged oleander. Quite the stubborn decision, for she only had such limited coin on hand. And even more limited time to wrap up this errand within Rivington's apothecary.

"We've had our hands full with quite a number of undead. Oleander would find its use one way or another. But then again …" Her voice hushed out, like the late summer's breeze. She never used to voice her thoughts out loud before she met Puck. She never used to do a lot of things.

"No, you're right, it'd be prudent to buy the flower." Puck hadn't said a word. "You're always right, of course." No he wasn't.

"That settles it. We'll go with the—"

She's not allowed another word. Not before tallied lips found its mark upon her skin. It took her breath away, even more so than a punch to her chest. Yet it felt so much softer.

One finger was brought up to touch her nose, reaffirming its memory in her heart.

"You know, there are more polite ways to tell me I'm rambling again." A smile, just faintly. "Best be careful, Puck. Everyone will think you're courting a Sharran."

With that, Shadowheart paused. Dusky eyebrows wove together, met with a crease. The cleric shook her head, strands of white falling over her cheek.

"No, I suppose that's not what I am anymore. Who I am. It's strange how so much has changed, and yet so often I feel like the same person I was before all this began." Gripping her arm, she brushed a thumb pad across her elbow, throat closing around a sigh.

"… we should get going. I'm sure they're all waiting on us."

[grief-worn]

@bloodtwin sent: he doesn't usually go out of his way to talk to other kids his age. it would end badly, he thinks. no, he knows. all of his interactions are the same in the end. but this time he can't help himself. curiosity gets the better of him as he hops down from the tree he'd been perched in. he likes to people watch from up there. sometimes watching becomes hunting. an excitable energy in his every step, he approaches the dark-haired girl that had caught his eye- or rather, the dark-haired girl that had drawn what really caught his eye. he points at the wall she'd marked up. "is that a skull & crossbones? it looks cool."

It’s very macabre, she thinks to herself. Grim and hauntingly visceral. The kind of imagery that breeds terror and pales the skin. Good. A proper reflection of her soul, of her inner torment.

Her fingers are red, a brighter shade than what flows in veins. She grips a splintered brush in her right hand, haphazardly dunking it into the pot of tempera at her feet. Stolen, but important for her mission. The artist she had nicked it from would’ve wasted its potential. He would’ve spit out some saccharine rubbish, like a sunset vista, or another ugly portrait of some blighted nobleman. Nothing like true art, nothing that captures the grotesque and monstrous realities of life.

With a broad, confident stroke, she adds the finishing touches. Absolutely perfect. Adrenaline courses through her, and she wipes sweat off her crinkled brow. A vast improvement over dull and lifeless brick. This will make an impression. The drooling masses of Baldur’s Gate will witness this and find enlightenment!

Bending to a crouch, she tucks the brush inside the pot, eager to locate her next canvas. Time is not on her side, and she must be quick. Mother will punish her if she show up late to evening mass again. The girl turns, poised to flee the scene of the crime, but someone is standing in her way.

A person. A boy? A something. A creature unfledged. Young-faced, with puzzling features. A little dirty. A lot unwanted.

“Cool? Are you stupid?” A good start to the conversation. “It is not supposed to be cool. It is supposed to be terrifying.” Her voice rises to a squeak, too offended to mediate her temper. “A picture of death … the remains of a corpse. Not cool, but a dark omen of what is to come.”

It’s a skull and crossbones. A very cartoonishly ugly skull and crossbones.

She shifts, resting the pot against her hip. Inky hair, long and hastily braided, frames her jaw with its tendrils. Her face scrunches into a pucker, deliberately glaring at him, up and down.

“What are you, some sort of mutated dog boy? I’ve never met anyone with a tail, well, no one who wasn’t devil-born.” Her best friend is a boy with a tail, but tieflings are not fuzzy. “Get out of my way. Probably have rabies or diseases …”

[grief-worn]

@bloodtwin larian called. they said it's canon.

[grief-worn]

"so no mcdonnavan's? ):"

"Will you two drop this nonsense? Are you really such useless layabouts that you can't be bothered to cook yourself a simple meal?"

Out of all the souls she might hope to stake her life on, she's stuck with the stray mutt and the hag-cursed sewing loom.

[saturnmused-a]

@bloodtwin asked: you are not unlovable. there is always something to love.

other's sentiment is unexpectedly sweet, and suspicion grows on the rogue's end, habitual and familiar. it's easy to hide behind when such a statement threatens to unravel him, to bring to the forefront just how damaged he actually is. nhalin doesn't remember much, but he's getting more memories every day, and the more he remembers, the more he realizes that he's never been told something akin to puck's statement before. brows furrow and gaze turns to the other, wariness obvious on features.

the exhaustion is present too; he feels so tired, needs place to rest but has no safe space to land. ❝ unlike some others, i don't predicate my existence on being . . . lovable. ❞ tone drips with what sounds like disgust, but there's an unhappy curl of lips, like he doesn't quite believe what he's saying. ❝ you'd be better preoccupied with telling that to one of the others in our camp ― like shadowheart, or gale. they seem the type to need it. ❞ and of course, it's said like an insult.

[grief-worn]

now you're hurt, and it's all my fault.

Serves her right for trusting again. Serves her right for trying. Happy endings aren't real, and even if they are, they're certainly not meant for people like her.

"Gods, there's so much blood —" She lacks all feeling. Outrage, betrayal, despair; nothing comes even close. Everything is numb. Everything except for her shoulder. The shoulder currently missing a chunk of its flesh.

One moment they're melting in a fit of passion, the next he's ripping into her like a man starved.

She tries her best to clot the bleeding. Right hand is firmly pressed against the wound, still leaking through minute gaps between her fingers. Shadowheart is half-dressed, too petrified to care for dignity or modesty.

"What — what were you thinking?" He wasn't thinking. He wasn't even here when it happened. Something else stared out behind his eyes. Something else wanted her dead. "Biting my Gods damned arm off. You — get the Hells out of my tent. Get out of my sight."

It might hurt less if she had sounded angry. But there's no fury to be found. Her voice is choked on a wail, on the brink of sobbing. She sounds broken. And it is not the wound that stings most of all.

She needs him gone. She needs to fix this fucking gash in her arm, and she needs to forget that any of this ever happened.

Him most of all.