*Since no one's here, let me properly intro my Bayou bumkin.*
thump. Thump. THUMP. THUMP. CRUNCH. Blood sprays the forest floor as a massive, rusted and dulled cleaver comes down on the neck of a criminal, they attempt to block with their hands, but the blade crushes them along with the criminal's windpipe, blood spilling out of their mouth as they are knocked to the ground. Their Nightmare companion is paralyzed with a foreign feeling, FEAR. They attempt to get back up, but are continuously knocked to the ground until they aren't return to their feet at all, their eyes fill with that same fear as they attempt to curse their assailant, but they only succeed in choking on their own blood.
Their assailant wears a bag over their face, hiding all their features except for their piercing green eyes, the mountain of a man wielding the giant cleaver drags it against the ground as he approaches them, leaving a small ditch with the weight of the blade. They're tall and broad shouldered, built up all over with muscles, both his blade and himself speckled with the blood of people like the person they're currently killing. Where their skin can be seen, its green, dark green, with scars along their body that stretch far and cut deep into their flesh. Bandages are loosely tied around the hilt of the blade, which has warped to perfectly fit their fingers where they holds it, so worn and covered in damage it just has been used for years without repairs. They bring up the blade over them as they place their foot on the back of the criminal to stop them from running anymore. He swings down, and a sound rings out throughout the forest as the ground shakes from the blow.
A wet CRUNCH. And then silence.
*If anyone wants this at some point I should move it now.*
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Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
"We're been spurned by light! Holy burning fire! Whisper dirty lies! Cast observers blind! I can't work that line, Now they know that I'm...
Will you mourn for me? What was sworn of me? Is it torture to see? Are you too torn up to grieve? How much more 'till you believe I was born to be..."
The rhythmic clonking of clogs fills the air as a masked strugel dances through the streets, his fluffy tail swishing behind him as he sings in his high-pitched, melodic voice. Through his mask, it sounds almost like birdsong, echoing off the rotting buildings and dying trees. Human blood drips from his leather gloves and pockets, and he holds a large, lidded clay jug which sloshes slightly with his movements.
He's dressed in buckskin, rags, and a long-nosed mask resembling a fat, distorted, grinning child's face. The only thing identifying him as a strugel is his tail.
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Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
May each word that I speak be backed by each of my teeth.
"We're been spurned by light! Holy burning fire! Whisper dirty lies! Cast observers blind! I can't work that line, Now they know that I'm...
Will you mourn for me? What was sworn of me? Is it torture to see? Are you too torn up to grieve? How much more 'till you believe I was born to be..."
The rhythmic clonking of clogs fills the air as a masked strugel dances through the streets, his fluffy tail swishing behind him as he sings in his high-pitched, melodic voice. Through his mask, it sounds almost like birdsong, echoing off the rotting buildings and dying trees. Human blood drips from his leather gloves and pockets, and he holds a large, lidded clay jug which sloshes slightly with his movements.
He's dressed in buckskin, rags, and a long-nosed mask resembling a fat, distorted, grinning child's face. The only thing identifying him as a strugel is his tail.
They encounter the bumpkin, sitting on the side of the road, his cleaver sitting in his lap as he attempts to put some kind of doll back together, his massive, bloody, weathered hands making it difficult to do so. His eyes go off of the doll for a moment as he looks to them, his emerald eyes softly staring down at them. He smells as much of blood as they do.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
The rhythmic clonking of clogs fills the air as a masked strugel dances through the streets, his fluffy tail swishing behind him as he sings in his high-pitched, melodic voice. Through his mask, it sounds almost like birdsong, echoing off the rotting buildings and dying trees. Human blood drips from his leather gloves and pockets, and he holds a large, lidded clay jug which sloshes slightly with his movements.
He's dressed in buckskin, rags, and a long-nosed mask resembling a fat, distorted, grinning child's face. The only thing identifying him as a strugel is his tail.
They encounter the bumpkin, sitting on the side of the road, his cleaver sitting in his lap as he attempts to put some kind of doll back together, his massive, bloody, weathered hands making it difficult to do so. His eyes go off of the doll for a moment as he looks to them, his emerald eyes softly staring down at them. He smells as much of blood as they do.
The little man dashes over. He shuffles around in his big burlap sack (much like the one the bumpkin wears) and pulls out three items: a mostly used-up tube of glue, a golden needle, and a spool of black thread. He quickly repairs the doll before the bumpkin can even respond, taking mere seconds to do so and resisting any attempt to move him.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
May each word that I speak be backed by each of my teeth.
He is lightly red when she gets back.
He nods, kissing her again before laying down next to her.
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
She sits back down next to them, "Ah, still blushing?"
She holds them close to her, shes grown quite a bit of chum since a few weeks ago. She nuzzles into them.
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
*gtg to lunch*
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
*Back now*
He nods, staring at his lap.
He wraps his arms around her.
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
"You aren't a boy with a crush, you're a man with a girlfriend, use your words." She begins feeding them.
She kisses their neck, closing her eyes "I love every part of you, my dear husband."
*Welcome back.*
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
*If anyone wants this at some point I should move it now.*
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
He gets even more flustered.
"I love you too dear."
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
She rolls her eyes, leaving a bit of food on their cheek to lick off herself, smirking.
"I'm so tired these days, I cant wait to this baby's out of me."
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
He practically melts, getting redder
"I know hun, i know.."
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
She boops them on the nose, "Now, get eat up."
"It's only going to be a little bit longer, I hope."
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
He nods, eating some more.
"Me too."
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
"We're been spurned by light!
Holy burning fire!
Whisper dirty lies!
Cast observers blind!
I can't work that line,
Now they know that I'm...
Will you mourn for me?
What was sworn of me?
Is it torture to see?
Are you too torn up to grieve?
How much more 'till you believe
I was born to be..."
The rhythmic clonking of clogs fills the air as a masked strugel dances through the streets, his fluffy tail swishing behind him as he sings in his high-pitched, melodic voice. Through his mask, it sounds almost like birdsong, echoing off the rotting buildings and dying trees. Human blood drips from his leather gloves and pockets, and he holds a large, lidded clay jug which sloshes slightly with his movements.
He's dressed in buckskin, rags, and a long-nosed mask resembling a fat, distorted, grinning child's face. The only thing identifying him as a strugel is his tail.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
May each word that I speak be backed by each of my teeth.
After shes done with the food, she puts the tray away "Now sleep."
She closes her eyes, falling asleep.
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
He nods, laying back down and curling up
He holds her while she sleeps, overthinking a lot
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
They encounter the bumpkin, sitting on the side of the road, his cleaver sitting in his lap as he attempts to put some kind of doll back together, his massive, bloody, weathered hands making it difficult to do so. His eyes go off of the doll for a moment as he looks to them, his emerald eyes softly staring down at them. He smells as much of blood as they do.
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
She lies down in the bed with them, looking into their eyes,
She wakes up several hours later, stirring from sleep.
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
He wraps his arms around her, nuzzling into her shoulder
"Hi sleepy head."
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
She warms up just enough to be comforting, "Sleep, my sweet, handsome man."
She looks at Leo, smiling "Hello my beloved, fiery husband."
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
The little man dashes over. He shuffles around in his big burlap sack (much like the one the bumpkin wears) and pulls out three items: a mostly used-up tube of glue, a golden needle, and a spool of black thread. He quickly repairs the doll before the bumpkin can even respond, taking mere seconds to do so and resisting any attempt to move him.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
May each word that I speak be backed by each of my teeth.
"Will do..." he says with a yawn
"Howd you sleep?"
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.