#emarra

[sasster]

Emarra what have you been up to lately?

"Can't get into anything fun without the chance that the amazing incredible elastic Lycaon might snitch to Daddy Marauder about it."

>Somewhere in the dark of Emarra's trailer you hear Termia cackle, followed by a "Don't call him that!"

[roetrolls]

long awaited sequel to the original villains as texts from my mom post

[ema-rra]

[sasster]

Where in the world is Termia?

"Look. Up."

>Should you follow the Ringleader's instruction you will find the noodle in question, dangling upside down from a trapeze. We waves down at you!

[sasster]

Hi Termia your nephew kidnapped an almost god

"Nephew, nephew.. Hmm.."

>The Bogeyman is, of course, walking hand over hand across Emarra's tightrope. He pauses at the center to think about this. Nephew. Sure, he knows a thing or two about other races and their familial relationships.

"That would be... A siblings kid? Right? So.. Nan's....Descendant?"

>Down below Emarra scoffs, likely rolls his eyes, and says "Persep, probably" as he walks by.

"Ah! Oh. That sounds fun. What's he doing with 'em? Did he use a butterfly net or a salt ring?"

>He laughs a bit to himself and continues his travel across the tightrope.

[sasster]

Performances

I’m doing this thing where I’m trying to write things for my friends for their birthdays. So here’s my second attempt at that! Happy early birthday to Roe!! I was a little bit silly and couldn’t sit on it for another two days.

TW: Mutilation and blood, but the details don’t get too too graphic

[doc]

—

Stage lights have a horrible way of announcing themselves as they turn on. A horrible crack fills the air as impossibly bright light floods the previously darkened stage. At the center of that stage, Bigby stands holding a hand up to his face in a futile bid to block some of it out. At least long enough for his eyes to adjust. Hundreds of featureless faces, save for leering eyes, surround him and watch his every move, that much he can tell without even having to get his bearings.

A ball of lead makes a home in his stomach as his gaze sweeps wildly around his surroundings.

The tight rope hangs high above his head, settling at such heights that it appears to be swaying from where he stands. Behind him the tiger cages sit exactly where he remembers leaving them, the big cats inside stare back at him with what must be remorse. Bigby screws his eyes shut, having taken up the challenge of not letting the fear that settles around his throat show, though the little hairs that stand all around his body quickly betray him.

He swallows around the constricting of his throat and tosses a glance to his right and finds a gaggle of mutant circus performers staring back at him. There is a range of emotions scattered from horror to amused, more facial expressions than he can count.

Before he gets to try, movement from stage left catches his attention.

That movement also gets the attention of whoever mans the lighting, because suddenly all of the spotlights are angled in that direction.

Now illuminated from all available angles, the Ringleader steps out and onto the stage with all of the flair and mirth needed to command an audience. He fixes his stupid bowtie while hundreds of unseen faces erupt in cheers for his mere presence.

Bigby wastes no time in making a break for it, he runs in the direction of the group of ogling mutants while Emarra addresses his adoring fans. The escape is short lived, and he did know better, when a familiar coldness wraps around both ankles and drags him back to the center of the stage. He looks down to see thick coils of shadow wrapped around him and slowly writhing upward.

Sweat coats the base of his neck, but still he swallows his fear.

Finally, Emarra crosses to the center of the stage behind him and rests his hands on his shoulders.

Very suddenly his voice is in Bigby’s ear, cooing with hardly contained enthusiasm.

“Just in time for the main act,” he practically sing-songs the declaration. “You’re going to love it.”

That promise makes Bigby shrug fruitlessly against him. The clown only gives his shoulders a squeeze.

He opens his mouth to speak, to curse him out for the audacity, anything, but all that comes out is the sound of a wet choke and it becomes clear that a third tendril has wrapped itself around his throat.

“You know you don’t get a speaking part in this act.” Emarra warns with a firm pat on the back.

Then he crosses to stand in front of Bigby, speaking directly to the crowd again.

“How should he die?”

A hundred different voices shout a thousand different ways to die.

Asphyxiation. Flaying. Limb removal.

“Bleed him out!” One intrepid voice shouts above the rest.

Emarra shakes his head, exhaling a humored sigh as he leans in to listen to more suggestions.

Bigby is no stranger to the cruel options being hurled out, but something in his stomach turns and he feels the desperate need to cry.

Split him in two. Slice him up from the guts. Drown him!

“Throwing knives!” Another lone voice shouts.

“I like the way you think!” Emarra calls back, his approval palpable. “Throwing knives it is!”

The audience erupts again, their excitement rocks him to his core.

Bigby struggles against his confines as one of the freaks brings out a wheel to strap him to and a bucket filled with knives. The shadows, ignorant to his protests, walk him to the wheel and then affix him to it.

He wants to scream, he doesn’t want to give Emarra the satisfaction.

“Are we ready, Belbig?”

Bigby puffs his chest out and says nothing.

“We missed you.”

The wheel starts spinning, Emarra starts to throw his knives. Randomly at first, a couple of them don’t even make it close to his body, then he starts to pick up speed and precision.

One grazes his cheek, another cuts through his shirt but draws no blood, a third pierces him in the thigh.

Bigby swallows a cry, Emarra’s laugh is filled with mirth.

Mirth that makes his head spin opposite to the wheel.

The knives start to come in pairs, then in threes. They start to pierce him indiscriminately.

Thigh again, his stomach, one separates his middle finger from the rest of his hand, two into his shoulder with enough force that they dig into the wood behind him. His blood begins to paint the floor of the stage, slick and oozing, it shines under the lights.

Three more knives come his way. One pins his left ear to the board, the second severes the right one completely, but before the third makes contact between his eyes, the world fades to black.

Bigby wakes up gasping for air into a throat that feels raw, the red glow of the plugin night light on the other side of the room pulls his attention almost immediately and puts him back into his body.

That was stupid, he thinks, he wasn’t even scared.

Around him the outlines of the proof of his new life push the bad dream to the fringes of his memory. Shelves of knick knacks conjure up the image of Orfuse and Lucy excitedly shoving figures into his hands and babbling about what’s for dinner. The bookcase reminds him of the comic book he’d been meaning to read with Maelia.

He sighs, he doesn’t even remember what the dream was about.

Beside him, Tiger stares at him with her ears standing straight up. She broadcasts her concern directly into his mind with a sense of urgency that he can almost taste.

He hopes he didn’t yell too loudly, or at all for that matter.

Bigby takes a few minutes to lay there in his bed, absently petting her to soothe her nerves, before he finally decides that he must be awake for the evening and drags himself out of the bed.

His gaze lingers on a small wooden tiger that sits on his desk, the newest and most cherished acquisition from his employer. Peace settles in his chest and he heads down to the kitchen, savoring the cold of the ceramic tiling against his feet as he makes his way down the hall.

The coolness roots him to reality.

That was a really stupid dream.

A really really stupid dream.

When he gets to the kitchen he notices Zerkev, standing over a counter already brewing his evening coffee. Bigby doesn’t say anything as he takes the seat across from the newspaper that was already set out in the fuchsia’s usual spot.

His ears twitch before Zerkev even starts to speak.

“Evenin’, son.” He says, his normal drawl crowned by the sort of drowsiness that says he just woke up. “Sleep well?”

Bigby gives a non-committal “Mm,” in response and his ears continue to twitch.

“Me too. Thought I heard something, couldn’t get back to sleep afterward.” He continues with a shrug. “Happy for the company. Coffee?”

Bigby’s face scrunches up at the idea of coffee that isn’t the overly sweet kind he gets from the cafe by his job. He also couldn’t imagine asking Zerkev to make it that way.

Though he couldn’t possibly have seen the reaction, Zerkev moves to grab some juice from the fridge instead.

In the silence that settles around them, Bigby looks down at his hands and legs to check for damage that surely must be there as bits of the dream float around in his head.

More silence passes before both drinks are set on the table. A tall glass for Bigby and a mug for Zerkev.

Bigby loses himself to his reflection in the golden liquid.

Zerkev takes his seat and unfolds the paper, never one to force him into a conversation that he didn’t want to have.

The smaller troll puts both hands around the glass, still focusing on his reflection.

“What did you hear?” He asks bluntly, worry causing the hairs along his neck to stand.

What if he screamed out during the torture of his dream? He wasn’t even scared!

“Crashing?” Zerkev answers and it sounds more like a question. “Maelia knocking somethin’ over with his tail, no doubt.”

The lie comes from Zerkev’s mouth, but Bigby’s ears twitch in response as he adopts it as his version of reality too.

“Must’ve woke you, too.”

“Yeah.” He replies with what could be a little too much urgency.

Zerkev turns a page in the paper.

“Thanks for keepin’ me company, son.”

Across the table, Bigby sighs all of the tension into his cup and gives another non-committal “Mm.”

[sasster]

Emarra is so grumpy abt termia lmao

"He is a pest. A thorn in my side. A waste of space.

Do me a favor and deliver that message to Pravus, will you?"

[sasster]

So did Emarra give up trying to stop him, can't stop him, or is indisposed? -Trollplaying

"He's just going to do whatever he wants anyway."

>The Ringleader accepts a frozen marg from The Bogeyman