#cherie tinker

[cloudbattrolls]

ullane is actually only three inches taller than tink, but let’s just say they’re sitting or something.

meanwhile I had no idea how to draw the rest of riccin’s pose. fucking size differences.

[cloudbattrolls]

and before I go to bed: meta!

@anontrolls

ullane’s current thread with Tink is really fun for me, because it puts ullane’s understandable if also kind of horrid prejudices front and center. ullane hates the undead! she doesn’t view them as people, she views them as predators waiting to eat or trick trolls. and largely, she’s not wrong! there are plenty of non-sentient undead on Alternia who fit that bill perfectly.

but Ullane has known sentient undead before Tink; Amityville is full of them, zombies, ghosts and drinkers up the wazoo, and even stranger things. most of them were also terrible people. hence while ullane knows, technically, that undead have the capacity for higher brain functions, it’s so much easier to believe they don’t; they’re dangerous monsters who are best put to use studied, because dying makes you not a person.

she doesn’t see her views as wrong, because she applies them to herself! she doesn’t want to come back from death; she would prefer her body be burned, and she doesn’t want to be a ghost.

Tink meanwhile throws a wrench into all of that. Ullane keeps desperately grasping for a reason that Tink isn’t really sapient, or that their sapience is just the result of being fed; it can be controlled, and a real person’s sapience can’t be turned on and off.

(ironically, ullane does consider helms people).

Tink’s feelings are just grabs for her sympathy so they can get her to let her guard down and eat her! so she thinks. the unfortunate thing is, even if she accepted Tink as a person, she...wouldn’t feel she’s done the wrong thing? Tink is still a fascinating study subject; getting samples from them was a great idea. 

But should she have asked? Does feeling this way make her a worse scientist, or a better person? Or both? Does it matter because being a lowblood doesn’t mean you get a choice in what horrible things you do or not to further your career, because you don’t have that many options? Tink is cerulean; how could they understand? They wouldn’t care, so why should she?

the thread itself will probably touch on most of these as it progresses, but there’s so many layers to it I find it helpful to write them out for my own reference, haha.

[cloudbattrolls]

JM: explosives

RR:

JM: boom

RR: i was going to say that it is a shame that the revenant professional has the less useful suggestion but i have changed my mind 

RR: and additionally believe that ullane may be plotting my murder 

RR: and there have been a greater amount of revenants as of late but we make a living as a travel stop in a place where there is nowhere else to go 

RR: so moving would be detrimental 

RR: also i think my ashmate might actually perish from anxiety if he had to deal with more than one or two people a night

RR: he's like that ;/

JM: but if I eat you afterward it's okay

[anontrolls]

> Tink: Homecoming.

It’s noon, when you finally come back.

You timed it carefully - you’ve been gone for nearly a perigee, a little bit more patience isn’t much to ask from yourself. It’s the day after one of the only two nights of the week you can count on Izzy having actual customers, and the sun is at its zenith. You fish the key out from behind the loose stone in the arch of Izzy’s entry way.

Your fingers are so clumsy that you can’t fit the key into the lock properly the first three times, and on the fourth, you tip forward when the door opens in front of you anyways.

Izzy catches you by the arm, narrowly avoiding getting impaled by your horns. You look up, and you can tell even through the filmy quality that your vision has taken on that there’s bags under his eyes. He isn’t even pretending that he’s been sleeping properly.

Isn’t even pretending that he knows how to talk properly, either, given the way he’s jawing at air like a damn goldfish. You wait for the first half-concocted syllable to crack out of his throat before you interrupt, squinting up at him accusingly.

“You smell fucking amazing,” you inform him, “Like four courses with dessert,” and, shit. That is not what you meant to say. You were thinking it, yes, but you weren’t supposed to say that.

“I - I don’t - I can pre-pretend you didn’t,” Izzy offers, and you thump your head against his chest. Drat. You weren’t supposed to say that either. You fucking hate trying to think through the Messiahs-damned hunger fogging over your brain.

It’s even harder when you’re supposed to be trying to move. Everything is shifting, and you can’t quite decipher which way it’s going until everything tips completely sideways and you realize Izzy’s flopped you down onto the couch. The front door is closing, lock clicking, and it feels like it only takes the span of one blink before you’re getting hefted up again, head lolling against Izzy’s shoulder.

Mm. It’s nice to move without having to move, you decide.

Izzy huffs a laugh that sounds more than a little bit hysterical, and you’re too tired to move your arms, so you gnaw at his shoulder in revenge instead. He’s not wearing his over-vest, though, and you belatedly realize that this was a terrible idea because you’re not sure you want to let go.

“P-please don’t eat me,” comes from somewhere above you and a little to the left. You blink slowly, lean your head back, and shove your own wrist into your mouth instead. Doesn’t taste nearly as good, but counter-intuitively is probably less likely to lead to your eventual death. 

You blink again, and you’re staring at the ceiling with Izzy dragging your hand out of your mouth as you moan in protest. He’s stronger than you at the moment, though, and when you squeeze your teeth in harder he just jabs you in the side, right under where your mushrooms start, and it’s enough to make you gasp plaintively - coincidentally enough for him to get your hand out. You mull that over for a second. Clever. You can’t muster up the strength to get your hand back up from where it’s flopped, but you can at least glare at it.

You turn your head to do so, and promptly change your mind to glare at Izzy instead. He’s just - bustling around, like you’re not laying here on this - what are you laying on? It feels like a seating platform, and the carving knife on the side table informs you that it’s probably Izzy’s block. You could stab him with that. Then you could eat him.

You’re too tired to do that, though, because, like you were thinking earlier, you are laying here wasting away while Izzy just clomps around the room like a particularly graceless and passive-aggressive giraffe. What right’s he got to be passive-aggressive? You’re the one starving to your second death. Besides, you’re better at it.

The thought of eating Izzy keeps trailing its tantalizing way back across your mind, and you let yourself nightdream (daydream, you suppose, given it’s the afternoon) for a few glorious moments. You’re just about in the middle of the bit where you bite into his arm (he has a lot of muscles in his arms, you think, which would be particularly delicious) when something yanks at your feet and you yelp in distress.

“Iz- Izzy!” you call for help, and - no, that’s him doing the pulling. You squint, confused, and he waves one of your boots at you. Great. That wasn’t worth actually stuttering at him over. You’re the one that’s good at talking. And he’s still close enough that you can smell him. It’s not fair.

“Izzy,” you complain, and blink in surprise when you’re yanked at again. Right. Two feet. Two boots. Yes. That makes sense. “Izzy, I’m hungry.”

“I - I don’t have anything right - right now,” he hedges, edging over to your side. His stupid hair is covering his blue eye. Why’ve you always got to be staring at the Mal-colored purple one?

Regardless, the reply is unacceptable. You grope weakly at him and get a handful of pants fabric. Tugging at it is like trying to pull at a damn tree. You should know, you’d gone all the way to the jungle treeline while you were gone. It was horrid and wet.

“I’m hungry,” you repeat, “And you smell like you come from somewhere with five stars to its name, which - which is absolutely not fair, because you look like a two at best. But you don’t need all your bits, okay? Listen - listen, this is important. You don’t need all your parts.”

He wraps a hand around your wrist, and you don’t quite hold back the whimper. He’s warm, and he smells mouth-watering, and you can practically feel the blood pulsing beneath his skin, hot and-

“I’ll go to-tomorrow,” he assures you, brows furrowed, “When - when the sun sets. I - I promise, Tink, I - I just - I didn’t know when you’d be back - I don’t have anything for you n-now.”

He just peels your fingers off of his pants, and presses you back into the reclining platform by your shoulders. The pressure is burning handprints into your skin, cloak and scarf be damned. Actually be damned, you realize belatedly, because you’re not wearing them anymore, just a loose undershirt that’s light enough to barely even brush against your mushrooms.

“You’re a selfish bastard,” you groan, “Fuckin’. Feral cullbait. Asshole. I hate you. Why are you so awful?”

He winces, and you lift your lips back into a snarl when you see the way he’s cringing into his collar. Hasn’t got his vest on, though, so he can’t hide practically his whole face. Loser. He doesn’t even have to hide his face, and he still does it. Meanwhile you’re stuck with a veil for the rest of your damn life. Unlife. Whatever.

“S-sorry,” he mumbles, and you want to say something back, something terrible, something that’ll make him go away and stop touching you and being all warm and filled with blood right next to you and torturing you -

You blink, though, and the next time you open your eyes, he’s gotten away from you. Somewhat, anyways - he’s passed out in a wooden chair on the other side of the room, facing you but much too far to reach.

“Fff- fuck,” you snarl, and twist yourself off the platform anyways - your shoulder hits the edge of the side table when your arm remains pulled across to the seat-back of the platform, trapped by a handcuff wrapped around your wrist, though, and the delicate frills of a mushroom split like a wound. You make a wordless sound, sharp and mournful, and claw at your wrist desperately, twisting away from the offending furniture.

Izzy scuffles behind you, thumping across the floor until he’s looming behind you and you cringe into the platform.

“Don’t touch me,” you sob, pulling at your arm, “Don’t fuckin’ - don’t - I hate you - should never’ve come back - you’re just locking me up again, you stupid - you - I’m not some animal -”

Hands wrap around your waist like iron bars and you screech as Izzy lifts you back onto the platform. You try to thrash, but all you manage is to punt him in the knee - not a particularly effective attack when you’re wearing just socks.

Izzy backs away as soon as he puts you down, making some sort of weird hissing noise - you can’t tell if he’s trying to talk or signalling for you to shut up, so you narrow your eyes at him and hiss back, louder and rattling.

He flinches, full-bodied, and stumbles back towards the door.

“It’s - I’ll go - you tried to b-bite me,” he trips over excuses, “I’m - I’m going to go - get you food, Tink, it’s - it’s fine, it’ll be f-fine-”

He’s still stuttering when he shuts the door behind him, lock clicking, leaving you chained to the stupid couch like a dog he’s left in a kennel.

You make like a dog and howl into the pillows until you’re too exhausted to stay awake.

[anontrolls]

Judgement Meme

Been wanting to do one of these for a while, so reblog with one or two trolls to get judged by an incredibly condescending blueblood.

ETA: I’m answering these rn but no more, please! ^_^

[anontrolls]

I want it on record that @activatingaggro makes the absolute best and most beautiful sprites ever, because: oh my god, look at these. I need to find a reason to use them immediately. And look at the veils! I did not design those, Mar is just amazing. qnq

[anontrolls]

10 for tink, 22 for lal, 14 for iz?

10: How do they deal with strangers?

TINK | By doing their best to make them not-strangers! Which essentially means figuring out what they want, how much power they hold over Tink, and what weaknesses Tink can abuse should they need to. Because Tink is a jerk.

22: If given a million dollars, what would your OC do?

LALEDY | Oh god, ahaha, um. Cry in a closet? Before going out to eat a decent meal for the first time since he bluffed Cennef into a pitch chicken date, buying some actual clothes that make him feel like an actual troll instead of a homeless kid with two shirts and one pair of jeans to his name, and then desperately trying to figure out how long the money will last him after taking out what he feels he owes Taylor and Cateex and Asmani and anybody else that’s ever done anything for him.

14: Pet peeves. Tell us what would really tick them off. Do they have a Berserk Button?

IZZY | Izzy doesn’t have a berserk button, unless you mean accidentally hurting someone trying to get away from them if he thinks anything related to mind control or voodoos is happening to him, but that’s more of a terror button. He gets mildly silently irritated at people chewing with their mouth open or doing other things that are rude according to common etiquette, though, because he always tries so hard to stick to what Mal taught him of it so he doesn’t look like he’s half-feral cullbait.

[anontrolls]

> Pheres: Bump into a familiar stranger.

@refiningspacetime

You haven’t been shopping in ages. Literally - you think the last time you were in a jewelry shop, it was genuinely a near-sweep ago.

It was also with Mal, who had a stipend large enough to actually be able to afford anything in the place. Now, with Izzy’s earnings - well. He’s off trying to sell his own work for a reason.

It’s not as though any sort of shop you’d find in a town this small and warmblooded is going to have the same quality of work, anyways, or so you tell yourself - which doesn’t really stop your attention from being very thoroughly caught when you see a veil. You’ve never seen something like this before (granted, you didn’t generally have reason to - Mal was usually the one gilding you), but you’re fairly certain that you could wear it over what you have on now without it looking odd. It’s a series of fine, interconnected chains, sewn into a fine fabric along with a patterning of very small gems in an embroidered, abstract pattern.

You can’t quite stop yourself from picking up the cloth box it’s displayed on. It hasn’t got a price tag on it - you don’t know if the owner of this store is liable towards oversight or if they’re just trying to be cutesy, but this is at the very least a small enough shop that you can turn around and hunt them down for assistance.

Or you would, if you didn’t promptly bump into someone upon turning.

“Oh!” You manage to tamp down the moue of distaste your lips want to quirk into, but don’t quite stifle the surprised sound. You’ve bumped into the unholy offspring of a hipster and a Hot Topic expy. You take a step back. “My apologies. I’m afraid I wasn’t looking were I was going - all my fault, of course, I shouldn’t have missed...” Are his nails painted white? “You,” you finish.

Honestly, you can’t decide if you’re jealous of this troll’s sense of style or if you’re just mournful that the maroon accents of your current cloak don’t give you much stance from which to make a more amusing remark than that.