wisteria (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
teratophilia) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
peckenpaugh2020-03-17 12:47 pm
teratophilia) wrote in peckenpaugh2020-03-17 12:47 pm
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Who: Armani! (& Open to observers/reactions.)
When: March 17, around lunch time.
Where: Near the lake.
What: Armani tries to sulk beautifully but accidentally turns into a squonk.
Warnings: Stupid.
Had he ever really known heartbreak before now? The child he had loved and raised as his own had been taken-- no-- stolen from his arms to be locked away in a dark room with its siblings, deprived of touch, of the tenderness they need to survive. ("Please don't cry… you can sign up again next year, Armani.") And now his own parents had come and gone and left him behind. ("Please don't cry! We'll try to come back later in the week!")
Truly, he was suffering.
Though beautifully, of course, perched by the water's edge. If he was to have a good, healing crying session, it was best done somewhere scenic. Human vulnerability displayed against a beautiful backdrop was the subject of many great paintings. If only Waterhouse could see him now, harrowed and perfectly disheveled, draped in flowing fabric. A steely lavender. More visually interesting than black.
Armani closed his eyes, hand splayed over his heart as he let out a little sob. He felt so small in this world. And getting smaller. And-- actually, wait, no, he was definitely getting smaller. The drape of fabric obscured his new form and he struggled for a few moments, rooting around to find his way out. Finally freed, he stepped closer to the bank to peer at himself in the water's reflection.
Roughly the size of a Sharpei but covered in warts over ten times the wrinkles, with putrid oil festering beneath his folds. And, oh, how he wept at the sight. Snot bubbled from his nostrils as that horrible grease oozed and dripped and ran into the stream until he had dissolved entirely to form an oil slick at the water's surface. The current, equal parts cruel and merciful, carried him off the short distance toward the lake, leaving only his lavender drapery behind on the bank.
Armani, somehow conscious in his formlessness, stared up at the sky. Oh, Mitski, this was not the Liquid Smooth he wanted.
When: March 17, around lunch time.
Where: Near the lake.
What: Armani tries to sulk beautifully but accidentally turns into a squonk.
Warnings: Stupid.
Had he ever really known heartbreak before now? The child he had loved and raised as his own had been taken-- no-- stolen from his arms to be locked away in a dark room with its siblings, deprived of touch, of the tenderness they need to survive. ("Please don't cry… you can sign up again next year, Armani.") And now his own parents had come and gone and left him behind. ("Please don't cry! We'll try to come back later in the week!")
Truly, he was suffering.
Though beautifully, of course, perched by the water's edge. If he was to have a good, healing crying session, it was best done somewhere scenic. Human vulnerability displayed against a beautiful backdrop was the subject of many great paintings. If only Waterhouse could see him now, harrowed and perfectly disheveled, draped in flowing fabric. A steely lavender. More visually interesting than black.
Armani closed his eyes, hand splayed over his heart as he let out a little sob. He felt so small in this world. And getting smaller. And-- actually, wait, no, he was definitely getting smaller. The drape of fabric obscured his new form and he struggled for a few moments, rooting around to find his way out. Finally freed, he stepped closer to the bank to peer at himself in the water's reflection.
Roughly the size of a Sharpei but covered in warts over ten times the wrinkles, with putrid oil festering beneath his folds. And, oh, how he wept at the sight. Snot bubbled from his nostrils as that horrible grease oozed and dripped and ran into the stream until he had dissolved entirely to form an oil slick at the water's surface. The current, equal parts cruel and merciful, carried him off the short distance toward the lake, leaving only his lavender drapery behind on the bank.
Armani, somehow conscious in his formlessness, stared up at the sky. Oh, Mitski, this was not the Liquid Smooth he wanted.
REACTIONS
Re: REACTIONS
Even an oil slick is ethereal. Sorta.
Re: REACTIONS
When he sees his sister, he makes a beeline for her. She's the only one allowed to see him in this awful state. "I wanted to be an alchemist instead!!" he cries at her, standing a socially polite five feet away. He smells like rotten meat and algae and he knows it.
Re: REACTIONS
PLAYER CHATTER
Re: PLAYER CHATTER
Re: PLAYER CHATTER
Re: PLAYER CHATTER