I tried to sketch Ymir again but I think I did it wrong...
Do you know how many failed Ymir sketches I have. Do you.
The clock ticks to the beat she raps out with broken, bloodied nails.
Normally, Ymir can’t hear that damn clock over the sounds of Ilse’s tapping at her laptop and quiet mumbling. Or over Christa’s bubbly giggles and soft questions. Or even through the paper-thin walls the screams and crashing from the Wahls’ apartment next door covered up the ticking well enough to render it invisible.
But Ilse’s gone, Christa’s /gone/, and Mrs. Wahls finally threw that cheating bastard out. Without their noise, it’s disgustingly quiet.
Ymir rolls her head back against the leather chair and threads her still hand through the tangled mess she calls hair. It hasn’t been washed since Christa last stopped by, a full five days ago, and it’s become of sponge of city scents and oil and the faintest hints of honeysuckle. It hangs, shaggy and so disgusting Ymir’s got half a mind to take a knife to it. All of it. Get rid of every reminder.
Or maybe she could just… wash it.
Ymir instead snakes shaking fingers around a bottle of whiskey and pours the liquid into a chipped glass before she pours it down her throat.
The chink in the rim catches on her lip and covers her tongue in blood and liquor. It runs a dirty red streak down her chin, drips into her lap - it stings and the alcohol makes it sting even more. She doesn’t bother to wipe it off for a good long while, lets it sit there before she brushes at her mouth with the back of her hand.
The clock is still ticking. Half-past 8 and Ilse’s not back and it’s still so damn loud.
Ymir kneads her fingers deep, deep into that tangled mess of hair until strands start to break and jagged nails dig a little too far into her scalp. The sob that’s been building in her throat bubbles up in a low whine; she drags those same nails across her face to stop it. It comes out anyway, low and broken, until Ymir’s curled up around the arm of the chair with her face buried wishing it would swallow her.
It’s then the door clicks open and a quiet “Ymir?” sounds.
Ymir flings up her walls, shoves herself back into a sitting position and grips the leather hard, staring at the doorway through narrowed eyes until Ilse’s little dark curls peer around it and Ymir can breathe.
“I - uh,” Ilse sticks her head out fully and raises the plastic bag clutched in her hand, white with a yellow smiley face. Alright there’s the smell of soy sauce and spices and Ymir flings herself up from the comfort of her chair to snatch up the bag and fling it on the counter, already sifting and sorting before Ilse’s even fully in the room.
“Ymir…” Ymir drops her hand on the first thing she sees - the chopsticks - and crams the package between her teeth so she can only speak in random moans at random intervals - her life, summarized. She knows Ilse’s going to ask that question and she has no answer, so instead she pretends like she can only hear the sound of crinkling plastic and not the soft “Are you okay?”
She lifts her tray out with one hand and takes the other to Ilse’s hair. Ruffles it hard until she feels like it’s been drilled in deep enough (like the red eyes and the zombie walk aren’t clues enough), before handing the other tray over and walking away, tossing a muffled “Hmph” over her shoulder.
I'd like to try out for Ilse Langnar but I'm not quite sure what her voice would be like since the only moment she has is in the OVA. Have any ideas?
Well you could always put your own stylish twist to the character. Though there isn’t much described about her in the OVA, check her Wiki profile, search up headcanons or make up your own! Put an interesting backstory or quirk that you believe she would have. Anything to catch the audiences attention. -Gav
