A tattoo of some sort, I'm guessing? A mark to show that you've become a Huntsman. I didn't get the sense that society was monarchical from Torchwick's exposition - an artefact of an earlier time.
You follow at an oblique angle, cutting through the trees to catch up to him at the river - even if this were real, you of all creatures have nothing to fear from straying from the path.
Solitude. Loneliness. Why is it bad to be alone? You were alone your whole life, however many days or millennia that may have been in human measures. You felt no need for companionship, no meaningless pang of need when you were the only creature in the forest for miles around. In any case, Jaune was in even greater pain when he was trapped in that abode with all the other humans. Alone is the superior feeling, you understand why he would choose it at least.
To the left stands a man, and his guise seems put together with far more craftsmanship than the Sea Witch's. He's dressed like a gentleman, like the kind of man that Torchwick would associate with. A well-cut vest with gold buttons, the thin chalk pinstripes accentuating his height and physique. The rolled-up sleeves of his dress shirt cling tightly to the hard-won ropes of brawn strung up and down his arms. His slacks are perfectly creased, his shoes handmade from Arcadian leather - very hard to come by these days - and the gold watch-chain looping from his breast pocket glitters in the cold light of the icy palace. His head is shaven bald, practically gleaming like the watch chain, and his eyes are hidden behind a pair of round black spectacles. You look a little closer, a little longer, and idly re-evaluate whether there is anything behind those spectacles at all. By contrast, his mask is restricted to the lower half of his face, primarily tracing the hard lines of his strong jaw like a beard of flanged bone, tattooed in blue scrollwork. You know his name without being told, either. He is the Groom, the pleasant face that hides the monster, the mirror-bright smile that charms women to their dooms. You have a great deal in common.
Ah, yes. Bluebeard, or Mr Fox, or the Robber Bridegroom. Good stuff. Interesting that the Grimm can understand the concept of seduction - not surprising given what we've seen, but interesting. It appears we may have more options for romantic advice then I expected. PS: Let's never take romantic advice from the Groom.
Also, Arcadia - I'm curious about it now. What were the causes? What were the results? How does one conduct warfare in Remnant? And what's left of it? Guess that's one of the things we'll be learning at school.
"Words words words," the Groom interjects with a dazzling smile. Without eyes to reach it's nothing but cold, exposing far too many gleaming white teeth for a single mouth. When he moves he does so with a kind of jerky smoothness, shifting between pre-planned poses rather than anything more fluid. His every action learned and rehearsed. His every point of charm an affectation. "Men, women, both are weak to confidence above anything else. Humans are naturally inclined to be led, when-"
Also, no reference to a mask. The tiara is not referred to as being part of one except obliquely, when it's referenced that it may have grown out, like bone. This establishes the Snow Queen as a very different category of creature to all the Grimm we have so far encountered.
Further points to this being Winter - proper terminology, like handlers and briefings. Those are relatively complex concepts - not the kind of thing you'd expect to be used so casually by the Grimm.
[X] A way to hide. Your ability to move without being seen is extremely diminished by your corporeal body, and striking from the shadows was always your greatest tactic.
Tenfold had a good argument for this. Though I do kind of want to know what weapon we could get from The Snow Queen. Alas, sneaky times tempt me.
Further points to this being Winter - proper terminology, like handlers and briefings. Those are relatively complex concepts - not the kind of thing you'd expect to be used so casually by the Grimm.
"Before I consumed the Hunter-to-be I was formless," you reply. "I was one with the shadows, and that was my greatest asset. Now I am, if not trapped, then certainly confined by his shape - although I am sure I will adapt, my queen." The title is as natural as breathing, it simply slips past your lips. She is your queen and is owed your respect. "What I need most is the ability to hide like I used to. Observe my targets safely before I strike."
The Snow Queen tilts her head slightly, considering your reply. Her gaze never leaves yours. Her eyes never blink. "Agreed. Ask, and you shall receive."
She raises her hand.
A shard of ice sprouts from your chest where your heart should be.
You didn't see it materialise. You didn't see its flight. You can only stare down in mute surprise at the foot-long spear of sky-blue ice protruding from your ribs. There's no pain and yet absolute agony, the numbness of all-consuming frost and a feeling like acid spreading through your veins. You choke, gasping, sucking at the air as if through a straw, digging your nails into the slippery surface of the table for some measure of stability. Your breath huffs and mists before you, each cloud growing fainter and colder until they completely vanish from view. You're pinned to the back of your chair. You can't even move.
"I am not unkind," the Snow Queen goes on, the ghost of a sardonic smile flickering across her lips. "Serve me well, and when we next meet I may honour you further."
The ice is dissolving. Not melting but breaking down, collapsing in on itself. Propagating inside you in sheets of flowing frost. She's deconstructing you. Breaking down your borrowed guise, ingrained too deeply to simply abandon. Dissolving it into a cold, winter mist.
"Now go!" she commands, and the world rushes away from you. Everything becomes riotous smears of colour, of sound, of sensation. Whipping past, blistering, blinding. You're falling and tumbling and suffocating and dying and freezing and for just a moment you cease to think at all.
And then you land. Which is the wrong term because you fall straight off your stool a second after and land flat on your back on the floor of Orsgof, staring up at the ceiling. You lie there, stunned and shivering, eyes wide and staring. Gasping for air. Your breath still mists before your eyes much too long for comfort.
That three-legged gait approaches, and soon enough Torchwick looms high above you. Bending down a little to inspect your spreadeagled form.
"Can't hold your uh... nothing?"
You frantically search through all the words Jaune and the detective know to describe the sheer, oppressive, unfiltered fear that wracked your body in the Snow Queen's presence.
"I just had a meeting with my boss," you blurt out.
"Shit, say no more kid." Torchwick swaps cane-hands and offers his right. You clasp it firmly and he hauls you back to your feet with a soft grunt of effort, standing you upright and dusting off your shoulders. "Good news is, Uncle Torchwick has just the thing. One of my jobs is helping teach ya how humans act, and y'know what humans do when they just got off the horn with their shitty boss?"
"What do humans do when they just got off-" you start to ask obediently.
Torchwick whirls and raps the head of his cane on the bartop hard, making the bartender jump.
Your grasp of time can be spotty at best, but it appears humans enjoy making theirs even worse recreationally. At some point you blinked, and when you open your eyes you aren't in the bar with Torchwick knocking back many small glasses of foul-tasting liquid all in a row. You are, in fact, arm-in-arm with him and tracing a very ragged zig-zag path down the street and singing with him at the top of your lungs. You carefully extricate yourself from his grip and stumble away, still muttering and slurring vaguely in time with the song because Torchwick's doing it. He has his cane to lean on, so of course he is cheating.
"Sssooo..." he says slowly and carefully, turning to face you and trying to spin his cane. He drops it with a soft "(aw, shit)" and has to stoop to pick it back up again. He acts like it didn't happen and you feign ignorance. "You ate uhhh..." he clicks his fingers repeatedly "tip of my tonnggue"
"Jjjjjjjaune," you answer, rolling the 'j' just a tad longer than you're supposed to. You like the funny vibrations it makes.
"Shaun, thatsssit!" Torchwick exclaims, pointing at you. "So, so, so, so what else d'you, kinda things d'you eat?"
"Ppssshhhhhhhhlootsofstuff," you reply sagely. Your brow furrows. You can actually still feel most of the alcohol sitting in your stomach refusing to digest, but you're still being affected like this. Does the intoxicant itself still work on you just because of your human guise?
... well evidently but in your drunk you are incredibly defence.
"LIiiiiiike?" Torchwick urges you, clumsily skipping along the cobblestones. Just for the sake of it he does a pirouette and slams his cane into the side of a lamppost as he passes. There's a sizeable cane-shaped dent in it when he passes. He giggles to himself at his immensely funny prank.
"Y'know, ssstufff?" you reply insightfully. Counting off your fingers. "Birds, fish, dogs, cats, wolves, bears, gennnnenerral carrion, other Grimmssswait how many fingers'm I holding up?"
You hold up your hand. Torchwick squints at it.
"Eight?"
You pause. "... an' how many's a person meant to have?"
"Five?"
"Ohhhh..." You cradle your wrist and look down at the palm of your eight-fingered hand. "Ohhhhhthatssstoomany." You look back up at him. "I'mmmnotvery good at this. An' if I do bad she might kill me. M'not used to being scared people'll kill me."
"Hey, hey." Torchwick staggers over to you and jabs you in the sternum with his cane. "Kid I, I can see these things, and what I see is a young cannibal with a lot of... of..."
"M'not- not cannibal," you reply, holding up one finger. "Cannibal would be a hhhhyooman eating another one. M'Grimm. S'just how it'sssssmeant to be."
"Pfffwhhaatever!" Torchwick retorts. "Potentshul! Thassit! Ssooo much potenshul in fact..."
He just sort of trails off, his eye flicking past you as he completely loses his train of thought. He pulls his cane back and points it at something behind you.
"... would'ja eat that dead cat?" he asks.
You turn around, albeit the action is more like swinging your upper body around while your arms stay limp as noodles. Torchwick is, in fact, pointing his cane at a dead cat in the gutter.
"You wan- you want I should do it?" you ask thickly, lurching back to look at him.
"Yeahyeahyeah I wanna see you eat a guy! Cat! Whatever!"
You nod enthusiastically and swing yourself around again, staggering over to the aforementioned deceased feline. Certainly no real objection presents itself - it's downright nostalgic to be eating carrion at this point. Not that you really know what a 'nostalgic' is but the nice thing about being drunk is not having to think about questions like that. You simply scoop it up and... devour it whole. Your jaw unhinges, your face splits in two, and down the gullet it goes. Torchwick whoops excitedly, clapping all the while. You hold up one finger to silence him and wait for it to digest.
"Hhhe. Didn't have a name," you explain, the memories slotting in almost breathtakingly easily compared to the absolute tornado that is trying to absorb a human. "Feral tomcat. Son of another one. Liked being here to scavange off-cuts. Someone... shot him. For mating. With a female someone owned."
"Young love!" Torchwick laughs. "Can ya do that with everything you eat?"
"Prrrettymuch yeah?"
"Great!" He turns and whips his cane straight through a shopfront window like a spear. The glass comes down with an almost thunderous crash, and immediately the ear-splitting chatter of an alarm-bell springs to life. You look up the street, down the street, and everywhere in the general vicinity as Torchwick just boldly clambers through the window of 'Kavanah's Kebabs' to retrieve his cane. He nearly topples over, but he saves it at the last second.
"You sshhhhure we won't get in trouble?" you ask, already shambling over.
"Hoooonest mistaaaake!" he replies innocently. "Was waaalking alooong, miiiiinding my own business when whoops-" he swings his cane "-dropped it straight through the window! Clumsy me!"
"Meant more the alarm."
"Pshhhhhhhhh. Like anybody's gonna come check out an alarm at night in Vale," he laughs. "S'pecially not past level four. Now eat all this mystery-meat, I wanna know what actual-meat it is!"
And that's where your evening ends up. Shambling the perimeter of a kebab shop, letting Torchwick 'strategically' shatter the display glass so you can reach in and sift through the broken shards for a piece to sample. None of it actually tastes of anything but then again most of your body is numb so that's not too worrying.
"Beef. Lamb. Chicken. Weasel. Horse. Cat. Dog."
"Nooo surprise there!"
You take one last bite, and pause. You pause for such a long time that Torchwick freezes midway through his next cane-swing, staring at you.
"What, what, what is it?" he asks.
Your brow furrows. You chew a little bit more.
"... his name was Paul-"
"I FUCKING KNEW IT!" Torchwick howls at the top of his lungs, snapping his fingers and pointing straight at your nose. Then he whips his cane out and smashes the last display just because it seemed lonely being the only unbroken one. "Hey, hey, hey help me find some paint. Gonna scrawl 'I KNOW' all over everything tennnnn-foot high then roll in and jack up the protection fee. Hah, man, you are just... just the best, y'know kid?"
"Iiii'm the beeeest," you agree.
***
You're the worst.
You wake up again and everything hurts. You got back to Jaune's room somehow after all - maybe Torchwick took you - and you know for certain you didn't set that alarm that's ringing in your ear. In fact you didn't know what an alarm was until its sound triggered a flood of post-traumatic stress from Jaune's fragile little mind. But say what you will about him, he had the foresight to set the alarm long before going to bed, and gave himself plenty of time to spare getting ready.
But he did not plan on being hung over. In fact he had never been hung over in his life so this experience must be brand-spanking new and all for you. You groan softly. You know exactly what the plan is today because Jaune spent hours and hours obsessing and stressing over it, so now that is flooding your head too. You have to move, now, or everything will be over before it even began. With a heroic effort of will you peel yourself out of the moist (why is it moist?) bed and shamble to the shower.
You stand in the cubicle and stare dumbly at the faucets. It takes you a few tries pawing at the bleached white tiles to actually catch hold of one. Staring speculatively up at the showerhead, you give it a brisk turn left. The stream of water jets directly into your face and eyes - you recoil with a hiss, shielding your face and baring your fangs.
But in the end, while the flesh may be weak and paying the price for extreme intoxication, the will is strong. You head out the instant you have all of Jaune's luggage gathered - you make good time, Jaune had a very large comfort-breakfast planned that you skip - and make your way to the docks with the help of the map he already pre-traced his travel plan on. Vale is both an altogether different beast in the daylight and barely changed at all. The sun still has such a difficult time reaching through the various layers, and everywhere it does the narrow shafts of light are almost always taken up by a small tree or other such plant. Perhaps an attempt to brighten the mood, remind the denizens of the sight of nature. It's still early, the city's still waking up and the dregs are still going to bed, but you still see all sorts of people going about their business on the way to the docks. Well-dressed gentlemen strolling hither and thither, closely shadowed by horned or animal-eared porters. Shopkeepers opening their doors to the public. A man in uniform - the detective says they're called 'beat cops', or just 'idiots' - at nearly every street corner, their coats a vibrant autumnal rust-orange, collapsible batons and holstered firearms at their hips. Even closer to the docks you start seeing workers milling about or going to and fro with cargo, dressed far more simply, usually tanned a few shades darker than their fellows. More of the horned/animal-eared people mixed in with this crowd again, albeit the crowd is certainly biased towards the more physically imposing animals like bulls or boars. Alone you're certain you'd never make it in time, but all you have to do is follow the big helpful line with an arrow at the end Jaune drew on the map on a stop-start, exhaustively checked and re-checked path to the private berth at the far end of the north skydock.
The airships come in all shapes and sizes, you can't help but see that as you carefully count your way down to the right one. More are coming in or departing already, some slim and sleek, some bulky and ponderous, for the most part teardrop-shaped and winged. But the wings aren't right, you've eaten enough birds to know that. They don't even flap, just slowly shift about on their articulated arms, the undersides radiating what looks like a shimmering heat-haze- ah. No, it's Dust, now that you concentrate you can smell it on the wind. It is the wind. Air-aspected power making the entire contraption light enough to float like a feather, and when the craft turn to depart you see nozzles of their rear thrusters burn orange with the fire-aspect.
You wonder what it will be like to fly. You've never really tried it before, not to that extent. Venturing above the canopy and into the unfiltered sunlight would have been madness. But you suppose this purpose involves doing a great deal of mad things. Right now you're mostly being distracted by the consequences of the last mad thing you did, and how it feels like someone is tenderly driving an icepick past your left eye and straight out the other side of your skull. Jaune's. Whatever.
"Rough night, huh?"
You double-take, blinking blearily. There's a woman standing next to you, perhaps a hair shorter than you - and she has it to spare. A thick, curly, lustrous mane of hair that isn't simply blonde like Jaune's, but so golden that it genuinely seems to be spun from the metal itself. The ridged, coal-black horns that curl from her forehead and corkscrew back into the golden mass are almost completely swallowed up - if she bothered to style it even slightly you never would've noticed them. Her canted lilac eyes meet yours, and she flashes you a smile.
"Been there."
She fishes around in her coat pocket for something. The coat itself seems to be cut specifically to show off her physique, clinging close to the thickened ropes of muscle in her arms, tight across her broad shoulders, splitting off past her waist into twin tails of leather that flap freely in the breeze. Her boots are flats, that's definitely all her own height - wait, why would humans buy tall footwear just to lie about their height? The thought distracts you long enough that you're surprised all over again when the woman hands you a shrivelled orange root.
"Red ginseng. Takes the edge off, saved my life I swear," she explains.
You reach for it. She flicks her wrist up to bring it back out of range.
"But this ain't a miracle cure," she goes on. "Remember - the morning after, drink big and eat big. Y'have breakfast?"
You shake your head. She clicks her tongue, sucking air in through her teeth.
"Rookie move, bud. Rookie move. If you're lucky there'll be food on the ship, if not... I dunno lock yourself in the bathroom and suck on the tap until you're good to go."
You nod. She presents the ginseng again, and this time she lets you take it. You watch her go as you chew on the root, carrying luggage for two over to a much smaller girl in red and black who appears extremely elated by this. The airship you'll be taking to Beacon with the others is already docked, secured to its berth by several iron clamps and a few hooked wires. It's quite a bit smaller than the others you saw on the way here. Must only be built for a handful of people. You drop your luggage in the designated loading zone, but obey the 'NO WEAPON CASES' sign added to it and keep Jaune's. It's a long rectangular thing, probably close to his height if you stand it on its thin edge, secured by metal clasps. You have half a mind to open it just to see what it is, but you think better of it. It would be extremely strange for the Hunter in training to have to double-check what the weapon he brought from home actually is. No, you just keep chewing your ginseng and cast one final look back at the dock.
You immediately spit out a mouthful of masticated root and choke on what's left.
There's a woman making a beeline straight for the ship, a gaggle of porters trailing behind her of the animal-aspected and ordinary variety, struggling to bear the sheer mass of her luggage. Some fighting not to spill armfuls of light pieces, some sweating and swearing softly as they bow beneath the weight of heavier pieces, all of them emblazoned with the sign of a snowflake. She wears a fine, double-breasted white leather coat with black trim and buttons over a white dress or skirt, warding off the worst of the chill wind that sweeps near-constantly through the skydock. From her right hip hangs a slender scabbard, the protruding hilt carrying the smell of Dust in its multicoloured, revolving cylinders. The woman herself is on the small and slight side, but walks with imposing strides that belie her stature. You know the look in her pale blue eyes, the look of someone that will go where she wants and get what she wants even if a mountain stands in her way. Those eyes are too familiar, the snow-coloured ponytail is too familiar, her face itself is too familiar.
Your heart seized in the icy grip of primal panic, you turn and sprint into the ship to escape the spitting image of the Snow Queen.
Things are slightly better when you're on-board. The common area reminds you a lot of the hotel, pleasantly-carpeted and well-furnished, light fixtures on the walls and ceilings lying dormant as more than enough sunlight spills through the angled floor-to-ceiling observation windows. Including you there are a dozen people (well, 'people') there when the docking clamps disengage and the airship pulls away from its berth, and almost all of them are glued to the windows to catch a glimpse of Vale from above. You, on the other hand, are taking the horned woman's advice and availing yourself of the breakfast buffet provided. She told you to 'eat big' so eat big is what you shall do, piling your plate high with eggs and bacon and sausages and toast and beans and
Under two minutes later finds you hunched over a bin in the corner of the room, shuddering and trying to beg for death between violent retches. It feels like you're purging the contents of Jaune's stomach so deeply that you'll begin vomiting familiars in a minute.
"Better out than in, buddy!" the golden-haired girl from earlier calls from the other end of the room.
"Ugh!" You don't recognise the voice, but you do hear the passing click of heels and see a flash of white out of the corner of your eye as someone storms out to find a different room with a lower vomit level to spend her time in. The convulsions mercifully seem to stop but you don't move, braced for the worst. Gasping for air, throat scorched and burning and filled with a horrible acrid taste. Is this how it always is for humans? Was it something you ate?
Yes. Now that you have time to be calm and think about it, yes it was. The sight of your 'vomit', nothing but masticated yet completely undigested food sauteed in saliva and alcohol, is a big clue. The human food didn't taste of anything, didn't nourish you, simply sat in the pit of Jaune's stomach and refused to shift. The attempt at breakfast was merely the last straw, overloading your faux-stomach and triggering the reaction. It only makes sense. You tried to sustain yourself with prey without a story and now you've paid the price.
You make a pitiful whining noise and blindly paw for one of the pitcher of water and glasses on the table, keeping one hand on the bin for support. At least water still works.
By the time you're strong enough to stand up again, you've missed the view that enraptured all the other Hunters-to-be so. You stagger over to the window only to see Vale off in the distance, nestled in the narrow end of the valley, a dense dirty-grey blob of buildings and artifice. The only break in the twin curtains of high mountains all around you is the bay, a relatively narrow inlet that abuts the south side of Vale, seabound ships just visible as little black dots in the blue. Everything else is mostly grassland or farmland, broken up by a few smaller settlements. You push yourself away from the glass and wince - at least the 'hangover' seems more subdued now.
You turn around and survey the others. This is it, no time for games. This is the first day of your mission. You have to insinuate yourself into this small group, learn their ways, earn their trust, all before winter comes. This does not make you 'nervous'. This does not make you feel fear. This is what you were born for. You are the Shadow, and you will act as such. Now, all that's left to decide for now is which group to insert yourself into first.
[ ] The strong golden-haired woman with horns and the smaller girl in red and black. The former seems to... 'like' you well enough already.
[ ] The other animal-person on the ship and the well-built young man she appears to be having a staring contest with. Her ears twitch every now and then in vague annoyance, and the man with slicked-back hair is rolling his jaw as he clearly searches for something to actually say.
[ ] The long-haired man with a pink streak in his hair sitting with his ginger friend. He's reading a book, and she appears to have been talking about something ever since you left the dock, without once having stopped for breath.
[ ] The woman with flame-red hair standing off by herself. Well, there is a young man with ratty clothes and a half-shaved head standing off to the side and clearly agonising over whether to approach her or not, but she seems to acknowledge him only with vague annoyance.
Adhoc vote count started by ZerbanDaGreat on Nov 30, 2017 at 2:42 AM, finished with 84 posts and 48 votes.
[X] The strong golden-haired woman with horns and the smaller girl in red and black. The former seems to... 'like' you well enough already.
[X] The other animal-person on the ship and the well-built young man she appears to be having a staring contest with. Her ears twitch every now and then in vague annoyance, and the man with slicked-back hair is rolling his jaw as he clearly searches for something to actually say.
[X] The long-haired man with a pink streak in his hair sitting with his ginger friend. He's reading a book, and she appears to have been talking about something ever since you left the dock, without once having stopped for breath.
[X] The woman with flame-red hair standing off by herself. Well, there is a young man with ratty clothes and a half-shaved head standing off to the side and clearly agonising over whether to approach her or not, but she seems to acknowledge him only with vague annoyance.
[X] The other animal-person on the ship and the well-built young man she appears to be having a staring contest with. Her ears twitch every now and then in vague annoyance, and the man with slicked-back hair is rolling his jaw as he clearly searches for something to actually say.
[X] The other animal-person on the ship and the well-built young man she appears to be having a staring contest with. Her ears twitch every now and then in vague annoyance, and the man with slicked-back hair is rolling his jaw as he clearly searches for something to actually say.
"I FUCKING KNEW IT!" Torchwick howls at the top of his lungs, snapping his fingers and pointing straight at your nose. Then he whips his cane out and smashes the last display just because it seemed lonely being the only unbroken one. "Hey, hey, hey help me find some paint. Gonna scrawl 'I KNOW' all over everything tennnnn-foot high then roll in and jack up the protection fee. Hah, man, you are just... just the best, y'know kid?"
Hmm, did we vomit up the Questionable Meats we ate? We were getting part of their stories so I'm curious on that part.
[X] The long-haired man with a pink streak in his hair sitting with his ginger friend. He's reading a book, and she appears to have been talking about something ever since you left the dock, without once having stopped for breath.
"I FUCKING KNEW IT!" Torchwick howls at the top of his lungs, snapping his fingers and pointing straight at your nose. Then he whips his cane out and smashes the last display just because it seemed lonely being the only unbroken one. "Hey, hey, hey help me find some paint. Gonna scrawl 'I KNOW' all over everything tennnnn-foot high then roll in and jack up the protection fee. Hah, man, you are just... just the best, y'know kid?"
I'm really only tagging this because I really like how it's worded. That and it's super fucking neat how Jaundice can't eat normal hooman food. Because that shit's boring and doesn't have a soul.
But more specifically I just really, really love how you're tying it back to how this setting's supposed to be kind of fairy-tale-powered.
As opposed to "Monty Oum read a book with red riding hood in it once and scribbled the notes on a napkin."
Anyway
[X] The strong golden-haired woman with horns and the smaller girl in red and black. The former seems to... 'like' you well enough already.
Might as well talk to her. She was there when we woke up, so it'd make a bit of sense to meet with her. it's totally not because she's swole what are you talking abou-
[X] The long-haired man with a pink streak in his hair sitting with his ginger friend. He's reading a book, and she appears to have been talking about something ever since you left the dock, without once having stopped for breath.
I'm really only tagging this because I really like how it's worded. That and it's super fucking neat how Jaundice can't eat normal hooman food. Because that shit's boring and doesn't have a soul.
Honestly I'm not sure why we were able to digest the cat, but not the kebabs. We were obviously getting bits of the animals stories, after all.
Also, food absolutely has stories- the bread made with loving care in the hearth of a single mother, meant to feed her children is entirely different from the bread mixed and stamped out by cruel and unfeeling machines, for example. Sorry Penny
[X] The long-haired man with a pink streak in his hair sitting with his ginger friend. He's reading a book, and she appears to have been talking about something ever since you left the dock, without once having stopped for breath.
Honestly I'm not sure why we were able to digest the cat, but not the kebabs. We were obviously getting bits of the animals stories, after all.
Also, food absolutely has stories- the bread made with loving care in the hearth of a single mother, meant to feed her children is entirely different from the bread mixed and stamped out by cruel and unfeeling machines, for example. Sorry Penny
Honestly I'm not sure why we were able to digest the cat, but not the kebabs. We were obviously getting bits of the animals stories, after all.
Also, food absolutely has stories- the bread made with loving care in the hearth of a single mother, meant to feed her children is entirely different from the bread mixed and stamped out by cruel and unfeeling machines, for example. Sorry Penny
Honestly I'm not sure why we were able to digest the cat, but not the kebabs. We were obviously getting bits of the animals stories, after all.
Also, food absolutely has stories- the bread made with loving care in the hearth of a single mother, meant to feed her children is entirely different from the bread mixed and stamped out by cruel and unfeeling machines, for example. Sorry Penny
[X] The long-haired man with a pink streak in his hair sitting withhis ginger friend. He's reading a book, and she appears to havebeen talking about something ever since you left the dock, without once having stopped for breath.
