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Iman dan kematian - faith and death
a minor headcanon I’ve had that I’ve never used in rp is that psi can be part of body language. when Riccin stole Ria, I imagine this is part of how they got them to come with them; one telekinetic signaling they’re dominant to another, because while Ria is also a strong telekinetic, Riccin is slightly more powerful.
[LOG] Videle: Discuss Differences in Culinary Customs
-- obstructedAntiquity [OA] began pestering xenophobicArchetype [XA] at 19:50 --
[07:50] OA: sO, I'VE BEEN THINKING, SISTER, AND IF YOU GIVE A MOUSE A COOKIE, WHAT THE FUCK does IT Do?
CHILOA: meet your castemate.
When Riccin mentioned this was their platonic best beloved of your fine hue, you were surprised when they said they weren’t Mirthful. Your eyebrows raised and your fingers bridged, skeptical.
But it’s clear when you hop out of your taxi; no paint nor decoration adorns this motherfucker’s face, he is as blank as the day the messiahs made him. You’ve no grudge against faithless indigos, but you know Riccin has an itch for the scripture and that the blood of a troll without it is less appealing, so where does the appeal lie?
His face is handsome enough, but without whimsy; there’s no lines where the darts and capers of laughter are marked. His horns are fine, and his build is even stronger than yours, and yet you glance at his arms and arise with one answer and many questions. You’re not so rude, though, and your eyes dart back up like they ought.
“Why, little cousin, you brought me company besides your ruffian behind.” You chuckle fondly, hands in your pockets. You’re wearing an actual shirt for once, and pants that actually have pockets, instead of clothing that dries easily when wet; you need it, living next to the beach as you do. Riccin mentioned it was a trip to somewhere that actually required slightly formal wear, and who are you to balk?
“Didn’t realize this was a group field trip.” You remark, but with no bite, just the fang flash of an easy grin, before turning your gaze to the purple a head shorter. “Name’s Chiloa, what’s yours?”
When You Know the Chorus
Gliese Benral || 8.1 sweeps
“Ricciiiiiiin.” you whine, sprawled over the edge of their couch. “Stop plucking at your stupid ancient guitar, I’m RIGHT HERE.”
They turn their head, braid waving, to look at you with their heavy-lidded eyes, the curl of a sneer on their lips as usual.
“Why, sister, don’t you appreciate my melodies? Have you no sense of culture? Shit, what am I saying; you wouldn’t know culture if it bit you in your tiny, wretched ass.”
You struggle, fall onto the cushions, launch yourself off and go for their leg - only to have them use one arm to grab you by the horns. You bite at their hand but they lift you up, putting the lyre down.
“Little blue, you ain’t so important as my next performance.” They drawl. “Are you paying me for my music? I didn’t think so.”
“I’m gonna rip all the strings off that and beat you with it!”
“Then you’re gonna have to pay for it, you little shit, don’t think you wouldn’t.” They say, waving a finger at you. “That lyre is a lot sweeter sounding than your wretch of a seedflap.”
“Then play me something!”
“Why, sister, all you had to do was ask. Your spade is the finest player in all of Temasek. Hell, all the region, and don’t let Orpheo tell you otherwise, the dour fucker.”
“Shut up and play.”
They drop you unceremoniously on the couch and you bounce into a sitting position, legs splayed, ears perked up. Your hair is ruffled, your civilian clothes stretched, but you hardly care; you’re staring intently at the giant lowblood.
They start plucking at the strings and it’s...surprisingly nice. It reminds you of distant places and strange trolls, ancient tombs like the ones they like to raid, and for a moment you stare at the play of light over their pale face, their lips pursed in concentration.
“You look stupid.” You rattle off cheerfully.
“Sister, if I looked half as witless as your candy ass, then I’d be worried. Now shut the fuck up.”
For once, you do.
and once again, Cloud wound up with too many trolls going to the ball.
Cennef’s going with Gallie
Ullane is going with Weeds
Gliese is going with Riccin
Indrid is going with Nemmon
Matari will not be rped but will be hanging out in the background with Sipara and CC.
Rivali is going with Siluri.
Epsilo is going with Truour.
this is my life, these are my choices.
what I’m going to do, I think, is reply to the two threads I currently owe and then put everything on hold to start ball threads early so I can actually get them all in. |D
RIA: get stolen by Riccin.
The spray bottle’s out again, and your hair’s not nearly moisturized thoroughly.
You look up to ask Plaske for a new one, but they’re not here. You stretch and put it on the daytable, slide off the edge of your recuperacoon and peek around the edge of the tent flap.
There, by Agnizo’s ticket booth. You stride over, posture straight as always, arms spread out behind you with hands splayed and your chin up.
There’s someone new. Taller than Plaske, with curling horns, helm eyes. Plaske greets the tall, calling them a name. So they’re a Riccin. You’ve never seen a Riccin before.
“Plaske, where’s keeping the spray?” You say. They finally take notice of you, like you haven’t been standing here a solid ten seconds.
“Patience, Ria.” They reply, waving a frond. You’re not sure why they’re reminding you patience exists. You count every second of it. They continue, like the spray isn’t important at all. What’s wrong with them?
“We have a guest. Be courteous to Riccin; they’re of the faith, if a different and most intriguing sect.”
“Oh, hm.” You say, looking them up and down. “More hair than me.” You wonder if they’re any good in the helm, but Plaske has told you to not say such things out loud. You’re not sure why. It doesn’t stop you thinking them. But you swing your arms forward and don’t say a thing as you follow the purple and the Riccin back to Plaske’s tent.
and now you may go the fuck to sleep, Mar, happy birthday.
I’ve drawn a bunch of Pheres lately and I love Pheres, but let us not forget who I love most, the giant trashclown.
Preach
@activatingaggro / @obstructedantiquity
“And they said that in their worst timelines, the apostate would find their way back into The Faith. And they said that in his Mirthful Glory, The Messiah would welcome them with arms wide open and claws at the ready. Delivering them from their visceral suffering as they bent the knee one last time to their One True King. PREACH MOTHERFUCKERS.”
“PREACH”
You stand up, tall and proud with your towering 6′5′’. Amongst the purples, you look like an average wiggler that hasn’t yet met his height peak but your face paint, your devotion, and your rallying cries are more than enough for you to take the mantle. You scream as loudly as the rest as Ombre beckon the lot of you clowns to preach, and you preach, god do you preach with all of what your pumper is made of. You do not believe, you do not care, but the euphoria, the thrill pumping through your veins is real. Not because you’re scared of being found out, you’ve been going to Ombres’ church for sweeps and he hasn’t noticed. Mainly because you never talked, secondly because you fit the deal. You’ve brought a decent amount of lowbloods for the mural paintings and you’ve branded the wall as well with some painting of your own. You’re not as creative as the rest but you’re generally liked and you managed to keep out of bloody troubles that would have revealed your true identity.
“And you know what you motherfucker! They also said that those who stayed true, those who carried on the will of our Messiah, only those will find solace in the paradise he thought for us! So GO THE MOTHERFUCK ON my brothers! Go and spread your mirth, let your rage never be quelled, have your faith carry your dancing feet to the next aeon! Be the clown your messiah wants you to be! Share and bleed for your brothers! PREACH MOTHERFUCKERS!”
“PREACH!”
You scream again, in perfect unison with your brothers before turning to the troll on your left so you can shove each other. After that, the circus is all up in flames with clowns clowning around, jugglers juggling and acrobats doing their acrobatics. You participate for a while, doing some pretty nice tightrope walking and trapeze, but once you have given your fair share and exchanged the traditional end of mass Faygo, you’re out there like a flash, ready to retrieve your bayou and potentially wipe that disgusting, caking up paint from your face.
You did not expect to be stopped by a stranger, let alone a ...lowblood, on your way out.
“Mind telling me what the motherfuck you think you’re doing, bitch?”
