Jan 30, 2019
(I decided to colour some of the sketches I have so that every character at least has a portrait until I do proper promo art for everyone. Here’s Eric’s.)
seen from Germany
seen from Belarus
seen from Malaysia
seen from Russia
seen from Germany
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Finland
seen from Canada
seen from Russia
seen from Canada
seen from Canada
seen from Canada
seen from Canada
seen from Türkiye
seen from Germany
seen from Hong Kong SAR China
seen from Russia
(I decided to colour some of the sketches I have so that every character at least has a portrait until I do proper promo art for everyone. Here’s Eric’s.)
I finally threw together a rough concept of Balor, Eric’s eldritch form.
((HMmmm...."fly on the wall" with Eric Nye? Possibly Victorian verse?)) -FS
“He’s a danger to no one, and you know that.”
Mike thumbed the hilt of his sword but made no move to draw it. Perhaps the familiar weight of it, the shape of it in his hand, helped to gather his scattered thoughts. To remind him of his responsibility, of its burden on him. “But ‘e is scared, an' people lash out when they’re scared. It only takes a nip—”
“I’m aware of that !” Eric snapped at him. “I have, in fact, worked with werewolves before, which you seem to have forgotten along with your manners. Good grief, after all the things we’ve been through, now you decide that you’re concerned for my safety?“
He spoke too harshly, and regretted it at once. A friend’s concern was not something to be taken lightly, or for granted, no matter the time or cause. And Mike... had been burned before, when he was younger, kinder, and showed compassion to something that had no intention of returning it. Eric heaved a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose, and continued, calmer, “he needs help, and I’m the only person in any position to give it.”
That seemed to convince him, because Mike nodded, and his hand fell away from the sword and onto his knee. “Ye’ll be needin’ more mandrakes, then.”
He could be so brash that it often slipped Eric’s mind how much he actually listened. His heart ached for the loss of his mandrake glasshouse, but he would worry about that later—it wouldn’t be the first time he lost the lot of them to fire, and likely not the last. “If it’s no trouble. I’ll pay you for your efforts.”
Mike made a face. “I’ll take a drink instead.”
As Eric went to the liquor cabinet to pour him a single malt, he spied movement in the crack of the sitting room door out of the corner of his eye. It seemed they had an eavesdropper. Well... he could only hope that his guest understood Mike’s hesitation.
😈 Mike
SEND 😈 TO TURN MY MUSE INTO AN EVIL CHARACTER FOR A DAY
It was no secret that Mike was prone to moody bouts of reclusiveness. But it had been almost twenty four hours now, and he had yet to so much as appear in the doorway to swear at the sun. That in itself wasn’t terribly out of character, either, but something about this felt… wrong.
Eric frowned. Was he hung over? Sick? Or was he just brooding? Uneasy now, he went to rap his knuckles on the front door—it creaked open under his touch. He could see no lights on through the crack, or hear any movement from within. “Mike? Are you there?” He nudged open the door, and the squeal of it on its hinges told him of an unnatural silence, one that was familiar, that lurked in the darkness of abandoned spaces... his footsteps echoed to him from the walls as he took the stairs at the end of the hallway. His instincts told him that he should not be so brazen. That he should be muffling the sound of his presence. That whatever left those horrible scratches all over the walls was still here, and he would be next.
Nonsense. Mike wouldn’t hurt him now, he’d made a promise to Ash. And those were promises he never broke.
He found him in the living room, where the scratches were at their worst, layered and layered upon each other until there was little of the wall left. The pen of a wild animal. He sat on the couch in the very darkest corner, the material ripped to shreds and upholstery foam scattered over the floorboards. Admittedly, that wasn’t out of character either. But he didn’t look up at his approach. In fact, he seemed to be preoccupied with his hands. “Y’know... I never stopped to think about...” His fingers balled into a fist, and cruel, jagged blades of dark metal slid out from his knuckles. “... How cool this is.”
Oh. Oh no. Eric stumbled backwards for the door, but Mike was faster. The burning agony of metal slicing into his gut, the warm gush of blood, it brought him almost to his knees, but the blades dug into him and dragged him onto his feet. Held him there, like a pig on a hook.
“Been doin’ a lot of thinkin’ today. About what you did to me.” A rough hand around his neck forced him to meet merciless eyes. He knew that red glint in the pupils was a sign of... its influence, but that was definitely Mike looking back at him. But something was wrong, like a fundamental part of him was missing. Like his heart had been torn out, and the shell of the man left behind was here, eviscerating him onto the living room floor, devoid of the soul that held onto that promise he once made. “About what you did to him. About what a lot of people did. I’ve got a lot of scores to settle. And it seems like there’s no one 'bout to do owt about it but me.”
Eric spat blood, and laughed around the agony. “You know you can’t kill me,” he said, clinging onto the hand that impaled him to keep himself from buckling, “not again.”
Mike’s familiar wolf grin flashed in the dark. “I know. That’s what’s going to make this so fun.”
Stowaway
Closed | @son-of-the-frost-hearted
Eric liked to think that he was a professional. And that he and Louise maintained a professional relationship. They each went about their business without conversation or eye contact, politely ignoring the frigid atmosphere which drove away all others when they stood within ten feet of each other. Machines, performing their assigned roles without question or feeling, just like the animatronics. They only spoke when the time came.
Now was one of those times.
“Did you hear that?” Eric spun, straining his ears over the clump of his shoes on dusty floorboards, the click and groan of his bad leg, the clatter of Louise aggressively sorting her toolbox. He wasn’t sure if she always did that, or only when he was present.
“Hear what?” Her voice was a hammer on steel—impatient. She didn’t even look up.
“Footsteps—stop that.”
She did. And she closed the lid slowly, to avoid any further noise. In the silence, that of forced stillness and held breath, they were easy to make out. Light, scuffing.
Their eyes met. Something—someone, was under the stage.
“Unless the bastards learned to sneak, that ain’t one of the bots.” Louise said, eyes narrowed. But she still took the sledgehammer, and the railroad spikes she drove through the animatronics’ feet when they’d been especially ill behaved. If there was one thing they learned in this line of work, it was caution.
She strode forward to take the lead and Eric let her. Not that he had any say in the matter—she had two good legs. Digging in his pocket for his miniature flashlight, he stumped after her and shone it into the hollow when she nudged open the stage access door. The sign—DANGER, TRAINED STAFF ONLY—caught the light, as did a staring plastic eye.
One of Those Days
Closed | @fivemorenightshere
"What do you mean it's not 'working'? How hard can it be to run a popcorn machine?"
The helpless girl shrank under Eric's disapproval, knowing full well that leaving her post at the concession stand was grounds for punishment—'sent to the brig', they liked to say. Eric couldn't understand that. He liked to think that his office was the least dank and oppressive part of the theatre, and certainly nothing like a jail! Then, he couldn't understand why they called him 'captain' or 'skipper' either. Young people—life's greatest mystery.
"Well?" He prompted, arching a brow.
"They're just... not." She flushed, refusing to meet his glare. "None of them are."
It seemed that it was just one of those days today. Garou was missing an ear and sullenly refusing to perform properly—not that he was in the habit of seeing those things as people, or conscious, or living, not one bit—Jaime had somehow smuggled a trampoline into the language room and started charging kids to jump on it, and now this? "Fine." Eric sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine. I'll do it myself."
"No, don't—"
But he'd already opened the staff door into the west foyer. A few stray balls of popcorn rolled through. Inside, chaos reigned supreme. Both machines popped out of control, adding to the buttery avalanche which had buried all trace of the concession stand, the queue lines, the cardboard cutout of Jack A. Lope waving visitors onwards to the snacks. It would take weeks to get the smell out of the carpet.
He shut it. "I think I'll retire to my office," he said, ignoring the tremble in his voice, "call me if something else goes wrong."
"Aye aye, captain."
Past the impromptu trampoline room, up the stairs, first door on the right. Eric didn't relax until it was shut behind him. But he couldn't afford to relax—the phone rang the moment he settled in his chair.
It was definitely one of those days.
Another sigh, another trail of his hand through already tousled hair. He snatched it off the hook. "What's wrong now?" He snapped, a moment before realising that was a call from outside.
... Oh.
“ It’s just a memory of something beautiful. You never give up something beautiful. ” - Tyr
Eric’s lips twisted at the words, a bitter taste he couldn’t swallow. Astute, for a child. His eyes strayed to the flash of pink hair on the stage, from where he could hear muffled swearing as Louise bent over Bouc’s bare leg to tinker with something in his... its, knee. It was always the left one.
Sometimes when he looked at her, and she looked back at him with those eyes full of loathing, it was hard to believe that she once cared. That they ever had something at all. But his memory never lied, never faded.
He never did give up on her.
“I’m... going to my office,” he muttered, and turned and limped away on his bad left leg.
❤❤❤ for Gael, ❤❤ for Eric, and a veeeery tentative ☰ for Mike. -FS
MUSE TRUST TEST!
Gael’s smile was smug as he tugged Michael into his side, like a prize he had fought for and won. “Hear that? Mikey trusts me the most~” The smile only widened when Eric rolled his eyes and returned to his book. But it was quick to falter when Mike flashed daggers at him and stormed from the room. Frowning, now, he snuggled into Michael’s side and rested his head on his shoulder, but couldn’t settle the uneasy feeling building in the pit of his stomach.
He didn’t want to hurt anyone. But he would, no matter what he chose.