Writing/AU RP blog for characters from the "Mystery Skulls Animated" music video series/universe. -Activity will be slow (you can always get ahold of me on Discord! See the Mun or Rules links for more details) -I'm mostly on mobile. -This blog doesn't do greeting posts, please message me to start a thread! -Please specify what muse/muses you want to reply to a submitted starter/ask. Thank you in advance! Magic anon(s): none (always accepting!)
Life is particularly crazy rn, but I did manage to write a fun little merfolk-based drabble...that I then failed to complete it before Mermay. Oof. So now it’s ready for Pride month, huzzah!
It’s posted up on my AO3, you can read it...
here.
Anyway, hope y’all have been well, and as always if you want to reach me I’m easiest to get ahold of via discord, DM me and we’ll get in touch over there.
Other than that, have a happy Pride and I shall see you around. Goose out.))
Any sense of body horror aside a voice sounds out from within Mallews confines, 'first time?'
The voice at first strikes him as yet another of the many strange beings that came to haunt him, but after a moment (and some contemplation of his most recent round of awful wretching), he lifts his head, staring about in a state of dazed confusion.
His senses, obfuscated by pain and exhaustion, take some time to finally track down and react to the presence, recognizing it as...something else.
"...y-yea," he manages to blurt out, focusing on the presence as his senses swim, finishing his thought before returning his attention to the expulsions of his flesh and blood, "any advice you care to give, stranger?"
Mallew watched the stranger with slowly-focusing eyes, the ghoul watching them appear from the shadows and speak to him so plainly, lips curling in front of sharp fangs, walking amongst his halls so casually, as if they had been long-time friends.
Had he meet this stranger somewhere before? Or, perhaps, they simply looked like someone he had seen once? Perhaps somewhere when he was alive, he thought. Those times were to him so blurry, so indistinct and murky...
Years had passed, well over five now, he wagered, though time did have a tendency to slip away from him.
For this stranger to call him "new," to treat him as a novice in the realm of the supernatural, joking or not, was a smidge intimidating.
Them destroying objects with a simple touch didn't help this fear, either: this place, his home, this mansion out amongst the weeds and barren earth and gnarled trees...it was all his doing. A manifestation, as real as life yet held together only by his psyche, his will, his vengeance. It was an illusion, made real, tangible by him...
And they dismantled it so easily.
He threw up again, groaning: perhaps he shouldn't have been so welcoming to this one. It seems they could do some damage.
He didn't mind the assistance they gave, however. It seemed, in some way, that they amused him, or, perhaps, more accurately, they were humoring him, assisting with his request out of some sense of bemusement, curiosity, or perhaps even pity...
Not that he'd had much luck doing anything else, however: it was worth a shot, trying their advice.
"...so I...have to hold it, then let it go?"
Their advice was, to him, a mix of both the literal and physical, and not easily parsed out in his pain-adled mind. Not one at the moment for thinking things through, his attempt at implementing their advice was as straightforward as it was ill-conceived.
Feeling another upwelling of ectoplasm creeping up his throat, he pushed himself up into an upright stance with a nearby chair, clawed hands shaking as he leaned his weight against it, body shuddering, the ghoul quickly moving his hands into position as he-
"AUGH!"
Regurgitated another wad of ectoplasm, this time plopping directly onto his outstretched hands.
Coughing, splattering small flecks of ectoplasm about, he brought his head close, took a deep breath, and-
"OW!"
Immediately dropped the wad, which, upon him going to blow it away as the stranger had done, merely caught the glob on fire. Normally, this wouldn't harm him in the slightest, given his own flames couldn't harm him, but this was...
Different.
The magenta flames that had formed on the surface of the ectoplasm wad glimmered pale, an almost silvery color as the surface crackled, the ectoplasm evaporating away rapidly revealing two long, black feathers, Mallew looking at his hands again, noticing a pair of still dully-aching indentions in his ectoplasmic flesh, two feather-shaped burn marks that quickly faded away as the feathers flew up into the air, drifting towards the flow of the mansion's draft, Mallew left alone again with his thoughts, a look of concern and frustration on his face, and his guest.
“I don’t understand,” he exhaled, slumping against the chair with a look of bewilderment and pain, “I’m...not sure what I’m doing wrong. Quite a few things, I’d guess...”
He adjusted himself a bit more securely against the chair, turning to his guest with a growing air of hesitancy, guardedness:
Any sense of body horror aside a voice sounds out from within Mallews confines, 'first time?'
The voice at first strikes him as yet another of the many strange beings that came to haunt him, but after a moment (and some contemplation of his most recent round of awful wretching), he lifts his head, staring about in a state of dazed confusion.
His senses, obfuscated by pain and exhaustion, take some time to finally track down and react to the presence, recognizing it as...something else.
"...y-yea," he manages to blurt out, focusing on the presence as his senses swim, finishing his thought before returning his attention to the expulsions of his flesh and blood, "any advice you care to give, stranger?"
oh fuck, what's going on man? * picks up feathers with a sticky hand *
The ghoul just shakes his head, resting his body as best he can back against the kitchen cabinets as he sits, slumped onto the floor.
He couldn't tell you: a curse? Some godawful new form trying to emerge from him? Perhaps his Wrath throwing a tantrum now that he's told it "no" a few times now? Him finally fading away?
He doesn't know, and, frankly, he's in a bit too much pain to worry about reasons why, for now.
Chalk it up to being a ghost and not being emotionally stable, he guesses: not like there's much of a reason to be worried, really.
Other people did things with their lives andafterlife, after all: he just holed himself up, took care of his cats, and brooded. No great loss if he gets stuck like this, he supposes.
Your in good hands mallew, I'll do my best to help you feel better
-pats muchly-
The pats are willingly accepted, with Mallew allowing the touches with little resistance...although with each pat, a small smudge of black ectoplasm comes off on her hand. While for lesser beings this substance would be boiling hot, corrosive, and corruptive, it was no danger to the mun, being as she was both a celestial entity of near god-like status, as well as someone Mallew knew well, and, whether he admitted it or not, felt comfort around.
Not even in the greatest throes of his Wrath would he dare raise a hand against her, and, following suit, it seemed, his ectoplasm wasn't intent on doing so either.
"ACK!"
That being said, the feathers that came out him were not so pleasant: as he coughed up a few more and they drifted in the air past the mun, it was clear that these were different.
A frightening, piercing heat radiated from them, akin to the sensation of a burn with none of the numbing that came with cauterization. The feathers were hot, weightless, and seemed to blow away just as quickly as they came, quickly replaced by another batch as Mallew clearly struggled with the pain.
If Wrath was a slow, creeping burn, stewing like lightless magma deep within some dark, deep, bottomless cave, then these feathers were piercing, like bright light without a hint of illumination, glittering slightly as they floated away, without a hint of worry towards such things as gravity or life.
Pleading eyes looked up at Micool, gently asking her, plaintive and defeated:
Although there was no answer as to who (or what) Mallew's assailant was, the hug was indeed certain, as was his response.
"HRK-!" Mallew gasped at the sudden contact, the sudden pressure, a glob of gold-streaked ectoplasm dribbling down his face as the hug pushed against him, the ghoul instinctively pushing the one embracing him weakly away, fearful both of this sudden embrace, and for their own safety in response to him dribbling ectoplasm, a substance he knew was both boiling hot and not pleasant to be in contact with.
Upon feeling himself be held, however, and the feeling of familiarity that came with it, he recognized the person that was giving it...
He gave in, immediately slumping into the celestial entity's embrace, groaning, low, montone, and matter-of-factly:
"Micool...madre..."
It was all the comfort he needed to finally slump forward against the mun, accept the embrace and let himself be supported for a time: he was in good hands, after all.
I dont know man, thats why im asking you, why the feathers???? what do they mean???
The question doesn't seem to register at first, the ghoul lifting his head only for it to again slump down, a low groan escaping him, followed by a quiet, near inaudible noise...
It was a sob, barely strong enough to be made with what energy he had left, with what scorched vocal chords his mishmashed form could muster, followed immediately by a small series of quickly-evaporating, ectoplasmic tears.
It seemed the question (and its lack of answer) was causing him a deep, emotional fear:
aw fuck yeah my witch approved glass tupperware is going to work for this shit * brings out comically large air tight tupperware and goes to scooping up all the goop * do you need these feathers?
There's a loud, deep wretch from the ghoul in response, him slumping against the sink even more, practically slumped on top of it, when the audible plop and wet slap of another upchucked wad of ectoplasm hits the sink's bottom.
Mallew slumped this time all the way to the floor, shaking and weak as the ectoplasm again quickly evaporated, a few small, down-like feathers poofing up into the air, one of which landed near the anon's form.
Just being within inches of it, the air feels dizzyingly warm, and if they were to bring their appendages towards it, well...
To call it absolutely, flesh-meltingly hot would be an understatement.
Mallew can only muster a weak nod as he sits, slumped in a chair in the kitchen, not even realizing he's speaking to a stranger and not one of his underlings.
His back pressed against the wall, claws gripping the sides of the chair to prevent himself from collapsing/falling from his seat, head dangling down, his body wavering from side-to-side...both physically as if he were dizzy, and in a strange, overlaying effect, similar to the effect one might use to make a 2d image appear 3d.
His voice is low, gasping, and monotone, as if he lacks the energy to put any intonation into it, eeking out a question between deep, clearly pained breaths:
Cue Mallew, who is currently slumped against the kitchen sink wretching loudly, waving his hand shakily towards the trail of goop behind him and dribbling down the cabinets from where he's touched them.
He doesn't want it and isn't using it, as one might guess.
It is, however, clearly reactive with oxygen (or, alternately, has a low boiling point), based on the fact that's it's quickly evaporating as it sits there. Might want to use an air-sealed container.
((ngl I’m really happy with how this most recent plotpost turned out and the symbology and fun stuff I’ve worked into it/the wider plot for Mallew’s character going forward.
[Cw: blood, vomiting, mentions of abuse, death, murder. Reader discretion is advised]
The fall always brought with it the worst of agonies.
It was, unequivocally, the worst time of year for him.
The time of year when old wounds were freshest, when the sway of the dead and shriveled trees outside rattled and scraped like so many funeral bells, and when his urges rose to their worst, most self-indulgent and violent peaks.
Defining the power that death holds over a spirit is laughable at best, insulting at a middling stage, and, at worst, an immediate, violence-inducing mockery.
A spirit's death was, to them, the center of all gravity.
The axis upon which the moon and sun spun.
The borders and parameters of their form, their emotions, their very state of being.
It was both a genesis and an end, a death of one life and the start of another, a threshold that once stepped across was nothing but a single truth, the single unerring, unforgettable moment amongst a sea of agony, rage, regret, and so many other emotions, swimming in their veins in lieu of blood...
Why, then, did Mallew not feel it at all?
Rocking back and forth atop a rickety rocking chair on his porch, the quiet patter of rain filled both his ears and the ever colder, ever more bitter and gusty autumn air. It wouldn't be long now before the last of the leaves would fall, the rest of them already rotting amongst the underbrush, makeshift shelter and food to so many worms and skittering beasts.
"...hmm."
He wondered if his own body had met a similar fate by now: he hadn't been at his own funeral, after all. He didn't even know where he was buried.
They must have carted his body off to the morgue, to stitch up the gaping wounds and wipe away the blood, dress his up to ship him in a fancy box to a fancy church he hadn't gone to in years, to be cried over by family who had never truly loved him, and to be mockingly "mourned" by the very people who had conspired against and done him in.
"..."
He drank deeply of his mug of hot chocolate, seasoned with a dash of nutmeg, a sprinkle of cinnamon, and topped with a mountain of whipped cream.
It had been years since he had been able able taste so clearly, let alone care about such mundane things like fancy drinks and the warmth they gave, but here he was, enjoying his own culinary work as if it were natural for him to do so.
But that wasn't what was on his mind, at least not at the moment.
"...hmmm. Weird."
It was odd, wasn't it?
He hadn't thought about the moments surrounding his death in years: even the barest brush with their memory, their vague concept would've been enough in earlier days to send him into a rampage, burning acres of forest to the ground, bellowing into the night sky, crushing his domain underfoot in a wild expression of the true monstrosity he was...
But now, he could walk himself through the scenario in his mind's eye without the faintest flicker of a rising flame, without the sound of his gnarled claws tearing into stone, wood, or flesh, without the ached shrieking of his heart, corroded and ailing, carving a new fracture through its long-languishing metal.
"..."
He took another sip.
He wondered if his mother cried at his funeral, or if his father told her beforehand not to, and she'd obeyed.
He wondered if Vivi brought the dog, and how loudly she had mourned in front of the crowd. He wondered how if, in that moment, she regretted her part in his demise, even just a little.
And then he thought of Arthur.
"..."
Amber eyes glaring down into the casket.
Frail, lithe body enrobed in the only clothes he owned that could be considered "fancy," placing his hand onto the casket, and without saying a word...
Leaving.
That was the only way he could imagine him mourning, really.
"...hmph."
The air around him bumped up in temperature, the raindrops that fell near him popping in a violent sizzle, evaporating even as the air hung low with rain, and the cold crept in at every corner.
"Murderer."
The word wasn't directed at anyone in particular, Mallew clanking the ceramic surface of his mug against his teeth, so much less fang-like now, the ghoul seemingly lost in thought, looking for something to do with his mouth, with his hands.
Thankfully, this time, it didn't seem to be murder.
"...hmph."
He wondered what Lewis might have thought of him.
How would his younger self, still so naïve, so trusting, so hopelessly in love, might have responded to seeing this thing he'd become: alone, angry and afraid, carving out its place alone in the woods, waiting for revenge, stewing in anger and keeping company with death.
What would he have said to him?
'I don't believe you,' maybe?
'You have to be stopped,' perhaps?
Would he be disgusted with the monster before him, murderer a thousand times over of plant, animal, man and beast?
What would Luis have said? His even younger self, still living under his father's thumb, afraid to say "yes, sir" too quiet or too loud, strong enough to knock the man that kept him in constant fear out with a single blow, but so broken, his anger and fear so forcefully pointed inward onto himself by his own parents that he knew nothing of his own worth, his own strength?
"..."
How much of that had followed him to now?
How much did the spectre of Luis cling to him like a frightened child, preaching caution when he had nothing to fear?
How strongly did Lewis pull back upon his shoulders like a restraining bolt, demanding he stop hurting people, shouting that Arthur was no murderer, that Vivi was no conspirator, that everything under that dingy apartment's roof was fine, that he was fine, that nothing had ever been amiss?
And how much did he believe them?
"..."
Mallew watched a worm in the garden beyond the porch squirm out from underneath a leaf.
He saw the raindrops pool and then slide down the wilting stems of his flowers, long since done for the season, ready to fade and dig their roots down, to spring up again in the spring.
He closed his eyes and listened to the creak of the mansion's old, rotted wood, battered by so many seasons now of solitude, out amongst the twisting trees and dirt roads...
Was it possible for ghosts to be haunted?
"Ugh,"
he groaned, standing up to go back inside and-
*swshhh-THUNK*
Oh, yea, he'd forgotten about that.
Where once he sat, his back leaned against the chair, a smattering of cloying, quickly burning-away splotches of tacky ectoplasm lay.
Grumbling, he pulled a well-worn handtowel from his belt, swiping away at the hot, evaporating ooze with a look of mild disgust.
He'd been "sick" for months now, if that even was what this was. He'd been physically exhausted, prone to long stretches of sleep, followed by bursts of activity, days spent awake on end, mostly passed by eating and tending to his home, his cats, and his underlings, then back to sleep.
His form was equally as unstable as his sleep schedule: the constant shedding of ectoplasm and embers, like dandruff and seeping boils, into the space around him, combined with the constant headaches, strange dreams and continuing bouts of mental clarity had been, slowly but surely, weighing upon him.
His form had continued to change against his will as well, even as his health deteriorated and his mind shifted into ever more crystal-clear clarity.
He'd noticed his skin becoming more opaque as well, his eyes becoming less like pits with glowing irises and more like actual eyes...though they still didn't pass as anything near human. His propensity to levitate had been largely replaced with steps, sometimes shambling and tripping, sometimes sure along the cool mansion floors...
He supposed all his years of sulking and self-loathing had finally caught up with him, and his form had followed suit...but there was one thing he could not deny:
He was sick.
Very sick.
And he didn't know from what.
He didn't feel like he was in danger, per se, but it weighed upon him. At first he wondered if it was a curse, but he hadn't picked a fight with a single exorcist or any passing stranger in all this time-
"Ha-CHOO!"
And now that he thought about it, he hadn't really killed anyone, either.
Murmuring to himself in quiet annoyance as he finished cleaning up the chair, he turned to go back into the house, taking one last glance towards the dampened garden when-
"HRK-!"
He doubled over, his body fritzing at the edges, claws digging into the patio deck beneath him with enough force to snap bone.
"AUGH, urghhh...g-get it over with..."
On top of all the dermal, mental, and sleep-related symptoms of his illness, there was one more that he'd grown to dread. Periodically, his body would upchuck a whole wad of ectoplasm, always a great amount, and always with a strange tint to it. Obviously, being already dead, he didn't fear it, but it hurt like Hell, and the various states it had emerged as only solidified his discomfort with his current state-
"AHHH! Urk..."
With a great, awful heave, he felt like his insides were on fire, a sensation that he, as a spirit of Wrath, knew all too well...but having it inside of himself, bubbling up, was never pleasant.
It lodged in his throat, burning and burning, feeling almost sharp, jagged this time.
"Wh-...wha-!"
He didn't have time to finish his question: with one final wretch, the offending substance was ejected from his throat, the ghoul left shaking, weak, his only stability being his limbs against the hardwood, and his mind remaining clear, even as his body rejected him.
Taking many deep, long breaths, the pain began began to dull, the spirit lifted his head to survey the damage.
"Ew," he intoned, looking at the mass in front of him: a pitch-black wad of ectoplasm, its surface shimmering with an almost silvery gleam, streaked with an unknown golden substance, the edges of it already beginning to evaporate and burn away when-
Something solid shifted around inside of it.
A subtle, slight jittering that made Mallew's skin crawl, another twitch as the lump of ectoplasm evaporated making him shudder again, turning his head away, resisting the urge to throw up again.
...but he had to know, didn't he?
What had been sitting around inside of him, so desperate to come out?
What had his body been hiding, shoved away where only months of sleep, rest, and illness could bring to the forefront, and only after all this time? What could possibly have come up from a being made of nothing but fire, hatred, bone, and his anchor?
Dead as he was, he felt dread, but with his mind clear and intent set, he scooped his claws through the dark, glistening murk, scrubbing and shoving the ectoplasm away to reveal-
Three long, black primary feathers, each twice as long as his hand, all of which gently twitched and then, without warning, blew away into the frigid, rainy air and out into the gnarled wood, leaving Mallew alone, knowing only one thing...
Mallew? Mihijo? Please, let me know your alright.
Let me take care you.
He's not going to resist that offer: he can tell he's not well, and, perhaps for the first time in his afterlife, he's scared enough by recent events, by all these unexplained changes to accept without much fuss.
He shakes his head, muttering a jumble of words between small gulps and looks of pain and discomfort:
"...n-not...alright...help?"
He's not going to fight it anymore: he needs someone's help...and, if he was being honest with himself, there weren't more capable hands than Micool's to trust in.
It takes a while for him to register, and then work towards an answer.
Slow to push and prop himself up onto his elbows, his cats shifting aside as he moves, he looks the anon in the eyes. His irises are burning low, black ectoplasm still dripping from the corners of his mouth, his entire body, even whilst being wrapped up in a bulky blanket, appearing oddly frail for a man his size, a shudder shaking him as he intones, a weak grin on his face:
"No."
Another round of coughing (though thankfully not as harsh this time) shakes through him, dislodging a smaller but still substantial amount of ectoplasm as he continues, meekly:
"I'm not sure what's wrong, really..."
His head sways slightly before, in one last heave, a final globule of ectoplasm emerges from his mouth, although, this time...
It's a dull, dark bronze color, complete with an almost metallic, iridescent glint.
