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Independent Multimuse blog written by TwistyTwine. Featuring comedic adventure OCs, Shriek from the Ori & The Will Of The Wisps, and Yarny from Unraveled.

[yarn-stone-and-bottles]

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[yarn-stone-and-bottles]

“If anybody sits on my lap? Guess what? I’ll fucking strangle you!”

[rxdhairxdsirxns]

@yarn-stone-and-bottles​ ANSWERED [ X ]

—– HER head had turned back towards her car again, silently pondering over the location of the house and the distant city. Though she’d never been here, it certainly reminded her of places he used to talk about living in. She clutched a bit tighter to her furred coat, suddenly realizing the door still hadn’t been answered through her bittersweet reminiscing. She turned and prepared to ring again, but before she could raise her hand, the door swung open.

It took a moment for both of them to reach that recognition, but he wasn’t the only one with wide eyes. Unfortunately for Taryn, she was fighting off the sting of tears that threatened to form. Tears of both anger and joy.

“ jeroмe… “

Her tone was somewhere between relief and melancholy, her mind and heart racing with emotions and memories she had shared with the man before her. She wasn’t particularly bothered by his brief struggle for her name. She’d gotten over that long ago, after she finally settled with the fact that he’d run off. Now, she was struggling to keep down different feelings.

Painted lips parted, ready to same something, but they closed again as she tilted her head upwards towards the door frame. She was settling herself. She’d just appeared out of nowhere on the man’s doorstep and didn’t want to make a scene.

She closed her eyes and sighed before looking back to her friend from long ago.

“ ѕo, тнιѕ ιѕ wнere yoυ ran oғғ тo. all тнeѕe yearѕ, and yoυ coυldn'т even poѕт мe a leттer jυѕт тo leт мe ĸnow yoυ were alιve. “

[yarn-stone-and-bottles]

Aaaaaaand there it was. Guilt. Of course everybody had to give him guilt -- did nobody understand the utter pain he went through to get this far? To have made a friend, and then have the chance to finally, once chance, for once moment in his life, relive a memory of his golden days?

Are you an idiot? Of course she knows nothing about your agony! You ghosted her right after the competition and now you expect her to just...

“.... Right,” was what he managed to say, at least. “You’re right, you’re right, and-- and I mean it.” He gestured nervously, arms and hands doing dances on the arms of his wheelchair. “Sorry. I mean it. I suppose I just-- got too caught up, in...”

Jerome cleared his throat. Well. What an uncomfortably awkward situation.

“... I hope you’re at least happy to see my face?” he tried. “And also, how in the hell did you find me here?”

[yarn-stone-and-bottles]

// So here’s the thing with Jerome; there’s nothing wrong whatsoever with being disabled, but from the society he’s in, Jerome unfortunately views himself as being a failure due to his paralysis. So if he describes his disability negatively, using words like “broken” and “horrid” -- that’s not me speaking. That’s Jerome, to fit his character from the movie. And I’m hoping in the future, in threads, he’ll actually change his point of view. //

[yarn-stone-and-bottles]

This was the address. She parked directly in front of the house, thinking over how large the place was and how that would /so/ be like him to buy a large house in America. Her heels clicked up the steps, pausing at the front door to look over her shoulder as if questioning herself. With a sigh she turned and rang the doorbell. If the rumors were false and Jerome wasn't here, people were usually forgiving towards a pretty redhead.

As Taryn’d parked her car in front of the house, Jerome had been sitting rather emptily in the middle of the large home, fingers glazing over a vile, precious silver medal, intertwined in his fingertips. His mind and body were silent, so much to the point where he didn’t even hear the growling of a car just outside. But, fortunately, he did hear the doorbell. 

It’d been forever since he actually answered a door. Usually, whenever a visitor came, he just escaped to hide within the depths of a little room, feeling shame from just imagining a scenario of someone recognizing his broken form. But his heart rushed. Could it be Vincent? Possibly, well... on some act of luck, forgot something in the home, and now was going to say a proper goodbye to him? To give him just a little bit of will?

Jerome went over to the front door. Without even thinking, he whipped open the door -- and found himself looking up at a woman with skin so pale, eyes so blue, and especially hair so red, and he -- what?

His eyes became the size of stars. It was like he’d been hit with whiplash. It took a moment for her name to properly return to his tongue, but when he said it, it came with both confusion and shock.

“T-- Taryn??”

[yarn-stone-and-bottles]

“b”

What was that, Clone?

“ybgsyg”

Oh, cool. 

[yarn-stone-and-bottles]

“What do you mean there’s no such thing as a perfect human?

“Look at me and what I was about to become.”

[yarn-stone-and-bottles]

SUSURRONE:

“What?”

The Doll stopped crying. She did not find the joke funny. The tears had stopped because she was so confused by this man and his desperate endeavors to assist her. Why? Why did he care so for her well-being, and, more importantly, why did she feel anything but joy at its manifestation? Was this not what she wanted, to be cared for, to be loved? He was allowing her to stay, but, more importantly, it was decorous of her to comprehend what had been told to her.

“Bare…. foot? A bear with no socks has… bare feet…?” she repeated. She wiped the stray tears from her porcelain cheeks; they fell to the ground in shimmering precious stones not dissimilar to diamonds. “A bear with no socks, he has bear feet…”

She blinked. She blinked again. Suddenly, she giggled, lifting a hand to cover her mouth as she did. Why, why was her body reacting in this way? Was it good? Was it impolite?

***

YARN-STONE-AND-BOTTLES:

He was convinced that it’d worked! Because laughter always meant happiness, deep inside -- even when the deep inside he was referring to was anything but. As a reflex, he laughed along with her, if only to accompany her in the disorienting loneliness that she was currently experiencing.

“Yeah?” Arthur commented. “I have another one. This: how come bees always neglect their families? Because they’re so bee-sy with work!” 

His head floating off to an area of hopeless admiration, he added, “Or, this one I really like: a dad comes home from work and asks his wife how easy it was to cut the vegetables with the knife he bought her. And, and, and she replied, ‘I don’t know, why don’t you ask our son?’”

Blissfully ignorant to how messed up that joke was, he kept his grin, blind for a moment... and then he remembered; oh, right. She came out of his closet and he had no idea where she came from. Arthur’s smile faded, and he sat down on the edge of the bed, looking up at her. He guessed her name made sense with her appearance. She really did look like a doll. A pretty one.

“...” He tried to come up with something to say, but he didn’t know where to start. There wasn’t a hole behind his closet. How’d she sneak into the apartment in the first place?

“Is your name really... uh. ‘The Doll’?” he asked, a shallow curiosity behind his tired eyes. “It sounds like a performer’s name. Do you work at parties? For kids? Be a wind up doll?” He made silly robotic motions with his arms, neglecting the logic of her magically appearing in his closet in the first place.

[yarn-stone-and-bottles]

SUSURRONE:

“No,” said the Doll, “I am no clothing hanger. So I suppose I should not come from a closet. I know not how I got there, only that I was… sent away from the place where I belong. I cannot return there.”

Something welled up within her. Warm fluid came from her glass eyes, hardened and dripped to the floor: little crystals, precious stones formed from tears. Was this grief? Was this sadness? Was this the way humans felt when they lost someone they loved? Was this the way humans felt when they themselves were no longer loved? When they were lost? When they were afraid? What was she afraid of? Everything. Part of her wished Flora would rip her consciousness from this corporeal form. Then she’d not be forlorn.

She lifted a hand partially-covered in frilly pink and wiped away the tears from her face with a few fingers.

“Where am I meant to go now, good human? What is it you desire?”

***

YARN-STONE-AND-BOTTLES:

No, no, no, don’t start crying--! Arthur visibly cringed as tears began to fall from her odd non-fleshy eyes. One of the things that pained him most was seeing someone else, who didn’t deserve it, so upset. What could he do to cheer her up? Well, he didn’t really... know actually. Surely, a few magic tricks wouldn’t work. She wasn’t a child.

“U-um--” He looked out the hallway, making sure his mom wasn’t around. Then he carefully and quietly shut the door, sitting down on the bed and looking up at the distraught Doll. “--I don’t really, ‘desire’ anything, I guess.” Besides not feeling so fucking shitty every day of his life. “You can... stay here? I guess?” She spoke so poetically -- and he was at a loss for any sense of rhythm.

Arthur thought for a moment before lighting up. “Hey, how about a joke? Um...” A not-dark-one, for sure. “... what do you call a bear with no socks on? Bearfoot. Get it?”

It was a bit of a dumb one that he always used for kids, but... sometimes simple worked.

[yarn-stone-and-bottles]

@theotherrookie taken from here

THEOTHERROOKIE:

“You stand partially correct. However, I’m not an android. I’m a self-adaptive artificial intelligence specialized in behavioral analysis, far superior to a mere android.”

She paused, inspecting one of her cybernetic hands. “As for this body, as charming as it may be, it is unfortunately far from being perfect. That being said, do you require my assistance?”

***

YARN-STONE-AND-BOTTLES:

Well, bloody hell. He hadn’t approached an android, nor some cyborg -- no, he approached a figment of artificial intelligence!! Wow, his luck. And he thought here that it was merely impossible. Some part of him, deep down, grew envious; artificiality never meant perfection, but that at least meant an AI wouldn’t care at all about what the whole world expected out of them, correct?

“I don’t know what your assistance involves,” Jerome replied, scrunching his nose a bit. Honestly, he didn’t find anything charming at all about her body. She just looked like an incredibly decorative human being. Flashy, perhaps. “Unless you could, well, un-paralyze me or turn back time, then you have no business to tend to.”

[yarn-stone-and-bottles]

Like this post for an ask from Jerome in your inbox? 

(If you’d like another muse, please reply with one!)

[yarn-stone-and-bottles]

“Oh, boo-hoo -- it appears that instead of attempting to start more interactions on this blog, Mx. Mun over here has added another muse.

“It’s meeeee. Who’s up for a drinking game where we see how fast we can poison our livers?”

[yarn-stone-and-bottles]

Hilda has brought Yarnie a ball of yarn. "You're lost like me, huh?" she muses, "that why you stuck around and waited for me, little guy?" (-Hilda, onennian)

@onennian

Absolutely, Yarny first thinks to himself! He’s seen this girl walk around in confusion, packing and unpacking some stuff from that bag of hers. The bag is way too big for him to even imagine climbing onto, but this yarn of ball isn’t.

The little red yarn creature, who’s own red string has worn his body out, magically ties some of the yarn from the ball into his form. He’s as good as new. He looks up at Hilda and waves his arms as a sign of graciousness, and his white eyes turn upwards into a vertical crescent.

[yarn-stone-and-bottles]

Status: Arthur

“I honestly keep forgetting, that, that I need money to even survive-- but it’s already so fun being a clown, you know? It doesn’t actually... help me, but... it means a lot to at least make some kids happy.”

[yarn-stone-and-bottles]

SUSURRONE:

“It’s not the slightest bit boring,” the Observer disagrees, shaking his head. “Quite the contrary. You come to find people are alike all over, be they on this planet or one millions of miles away, and now or a thousand years ago.”

Old Man Wake is not, however, incorrect. The Observer is not what meets the eye.

“Suppose one could say the same of yourself. You aren’t just an old man. I’m not just an Observer. We’ll call it even.”

YARN-STONE-AND-BOTTLES:

“Aye, agreeable,” comes the old man’s answer. Over the cliff, his eyes trace along the town. He can barely see the figures there in the light; usually, if it were to be nighttime, he’d see just fine. But he supposes things are just different from the lighthouse.

“Ye know, I-- I always wond’r where me origins tracin’ back te,” Old Man Wake says. “I remember havin’ a family off from these sands and beaches -- cross them bushes n’ the forest. Had a wife. Some kids. Kids’r’all grown up now. But I feel as if I’ve only seen me wife in polaroid pictures and that’s all there is to be.”

Old Man Wake gives the Observer a look. “Ye remember anythin’ bout yer past life? Do ye even have one?”

[yarn-stone-and-bottles]

taken from here @susurrone

SUSURRONE:

The two beings are on a seaside cliff. It’s said that native Americans used to believe these cliffs were dormant giants asleep near the ocean. Now, however, now they’re little more than pretty window-dressing on the island, rarely given much consideration. Because here, the so-called historic Gay Head Lighthouse of one Martha’s Vineyard looms in the distance. Tourists bustle about in the summer sun, taking photographs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The Observer watches.

“At times, I simply watch and wait. At times, I intervene, at times I punish, and at times I help.”

The Observer puffs his cigarette.

“For the record, you, Old Man Wake– not humanity, not their schemes, not their downfalls, not their trials, you– might just be the biggest enigma of all.”

YARN-STONE-AND-BOTTLES:

And in reply to the Observer, Old Man Wake lets out a long wheeze, teeth like cockle shells jabbed into his gums, nasty and yellow. Like a storm comes apart those smoke clouds from his lips, joining the puffs exiting that of the man beside him. 

“Aye, more than an enigma poor Ol’ Wake be,” he says. “But me will n’ spirit be no more than what lurks out in me living space. O sea god Poseidon be greater than me, thy Hades be scorchin’ bout these sands we stand on right now -- but somethin’ tells me that yer more than to meets the eye... aye?”

Simply watching and waiting seems too boring for a man like him, and he briefly wonders what patience the Observer has to not lash out when observing the cruelest of men get their ways. Old Wake would rather sleep in bed all day and get his rest for the energy of the night, where his ol’ wickie would be sure to complain about his poor treatment of them.

“Ye don’t get bored doin’ all this?” he asks. “Can’t ye just rest elsewhere? Pop open a nice bottle o’ rum, even get despr’te ‘nuff to handle some kerosene -- ye relax?”

[yarn-stone-and-bottles]

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