#grymm.starter

[4ccismus]

✧･ﾟ— where: ⌜the transitionary space between the d.o.a.a.'s main lobby and the great halls⌟ ✧･ﾟ— when: ⌜shortly after the great ravens have passed around the challenge letters to all grymm⌟ ✧･ﾟ— status: ⌜open⌟

Osprey stood with her back to the Great Halls, her body held taut like a bowstring with her arms crossed over her chest. The slender fingers of her right hand rhythmically tapping on the edges of a slightly crumpled manila folder clutched tightly in her grip. Her eyebrows were furrowed in irritation, lips pursed in a pout as her eyes darted to and fro. Her gaze momentarily pausing on one of the hundreds of people milling around the common area before darting to the next. Her large wings were tucked closely to her back but an occasional involuntary twitch shifted the giant mass of browns like waves, making her feathers stand on end before they settled again. She let out a deep sigh still searching the crowd before here eyes came to a complete stop. She squinted before recognition and a bright smile broke out on her face; the attempt at friendliness immediately clashing with the almost wolfish look in her eyes. Unfurling her wings slightly, Osprey forcefully created space between herself and the sea of people moving around the Great Halls. A handful of shades shot her dirty looks as they begrudgingly walked around her but she paid them no mind as she stalked forward. “Oh my gosh, hi!” She said with a high inflection on the final word. “Wow! It’s so funny running into you here!” The smile from before was pinched tightly as she continued to step closer. Her wings opening wider to create a small alcove in the crowd around herself and the other person. “Anyway, since you are here I figure you either signed up for the challenge or declined the invitation—and that’s wonderful! Great even. Way to go for making a decision!” She said, pumping a celebratory fist up in the air, the motion slightly stiff. “That’s so cool! But, anyway, I have a slightly weird request. Well, not weird—just, uh, since you got all that,” She waved her hand in the general direction of the D.O.A.A. reception desk, “dealt with, you probably don’t need the letter anymore, right?” Taking another step she tucked the folder still in her hands under one of her arms before grasping her hands together, the smile growing thin-lipped. “Sooooo, do you think I could maybe have it instead?”

[kestrell]

where: the department of afterlife affairs, collections office when: shortly after the events of the prologue status: closed [cap - 3/3.] anger is the most prominent emotion romeo feels as he parses the letter, once, twice, a third time, just to be fucking sure that its contents are laying out the insulting proposition he thinks they are. it's almost as if he is instantly transported to the moment of the failed reaping, to looking into that abnormal individual's eyes and feeling their soul slip neatly and promptly through his fingers. upon unwillingly revisiting that memory, he finds that the immediate stab of his first failure in the after is, unfortunately, no less sickening the second time around. for strategic reasons, he makes a concerted effort to calm the storm in his mind, to appear interested but unbothered. his eyes are too intense in their focus, even as the glide of them along the mass of departing ravens is slow, lazy. "well, well, well," he drawls. "hear that? it's the sound of hundreds of desperate little sycophants fluttering their way to the registration desk. part of me thinks this is some ploy to weed out the weak and overeager."

[radianxce]

𝐖𝐇𝐎? open , capping at 1/3 . 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄? collections office . 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓? prologue : quoth the raven .

she is not a woman accustomed to waiting , and if her patience isn't already running thin , the faint hum of conversation and the bright fluorescent lights in the large office are enough to drive anyone mad . she sits stiffly — posture perfect — on a cracked leather chair that squeaks every time she so much as shifts her weight . the antique tones of the collections office — the grays and beiges in marble are simply abhorrent , as is the particular wood they've used everywhere — make her eager to retreat to her bardo as soon as this is done . her lips curl into an irritated sneer , as if the indignity of waiting is enough to disgust her . the echo of footsteps catches her attention , cutting through the cacophony of the typewriters clicking , and when her eyes flick toward the source , a familiar figure steps into the room . recognition flashes sharp and immediate — she knows this grymm , knows their feathers , knows their name , knows why they're here . sunisa automatically adjusts — back impossibly straighter , chin tilted up , sneer dropping to a neutral expression . " fancy seeing you here , " she croons , voice a smooth , practiced melody with just enough coolness to border on condescension . she nods to the shimmering black paper in her lap , psyche's photo resting atop it . " so . . . decided to join the circus ? "

[sunnyraider]

The pause was heavy. The pause was eating at him. As he stood by the ledge, what was once amusing lost its shine. It wasn't antagonism but rather something worse- intrigue. The type of intrigue for a present that you will never receive. The type that eats at you after watching unsolved mysteries. But except of being the spectator, you are the one still attached. Psyche, appartitions, even for a seasoned professional he was upset. Still he would say as much. There was a sigh before he peered up at the terracotta sky

"You think today we'll finally get a sign?" He asked cryptically, forcing the joy out of his words.

[domestxcas]

—✦ open!

✦ setting: department of afterlife affairs, collections office, mission lobby. ✦ timeframe: quoth the raven. ✦ content warnings: references to anxiety.

FEATHERS   WHIP   UP   IN   A   FRENZY.   a   day-to-day   occurrence   for   many,   made   most   peculiar   by   the   sheer   frequency   and   volume,   bridging   the   gap   from   the   mundane   to   the   extreme   in   the   always   industrious   sector   of   the   department   of   afterlife   affairs.   maira   — pigeon   —   spits   out   fine   down   from   her   pursed   lips.   she   should   un-mind   the   limitless   line   snaking   around   and   around   the   collections   offices'   mission   lobby,   as   counting   the   heads   of   the   potential   contenders   in   the   hunt   will   most   likely   trigger   another   fit   of   labored,   exhausted   breaths,   and   she   doesn't   delight   in   inhaling   another   grymm's   filoplumes   ...

...   but   her   lungs   seize   up   in   panic   when   the   letter   plummets   from   her   sweat-slippery   fingers,   and   slides   a   good   distance   away   from   the   line.   there   is   no   grace   for   maira,   as   eyes   around   her   orbit   to   her   invitation   on   the   ground,   fluttering   and   threatening   to   depart   with   an   updraft,   to   her   creased   and   tormented   face.   the   woman   wrings   her   hands   and   after   a   spine-curving   sigh   to   the   ground,   quickly   paces   to   the   envelope,   snatches   it   up,   and   turns—

—to   see   her   spot   swallowed   up   by   the   tide   of   bodies.   color   drains   from   her   face,   the   only   tint   a   rouge   on   her   cheeks   painted by   surefire   embarrassment.   her   wings,   drab   gray   and   banded,   shackled   at   the   ends,   appear   hang   heavier   on   the   woman's   poor   back.   after   some   fretting   of   her   lips,   the   berry-rose   lipstick   smearing   on   her   teeth   during   the   fit,   maira   takes   a   plain   step   forward,   a   little   clack   on   her   heel,   a   weak   introduction   to   what   follows.

“   ᵉʳᵐ,   hello...   i   don't   know   if   you   saw,   but   i   was   in   line   ʲᵘˢᵗ   ᵃ   ˡᶦᵗᵗˡᵉ   while   ago…   in   front   of   you,   ᶦ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵏ,   and   if   you   could   see   it   in,   ᵉʳᵐ,   ᵗʰᵉ   ᵏᶦⁿᵈⁿᵉˢˢ   ᵒᶠ   ʸᵒᵘʳ   ʰᵉᵃʳᵗ,   ᶜ-ᶜᵒᵘˡᵈ   ʸᵒᵘ…   may   i   step   back   ᶦⁿ?   ᵖˡᵉᵃˢᵉ?   ”