Gelatinous Cube
"How do you want to do this?"
BIGGEST CRAVING: Heaven Official's Blessing / Tiān Guān Cì Fú.
ABOUT
» Thirty-two years old.
» I've read Tiān Guān Cì Fú all the way through several times, along with the manhua. Also seen the donghua. I love each and every one of them. ; ;
» Open to one-shots and long-term.
» I'll consider cross-overs, but I prefer canon.
» Thread, PM, and Discord-friendly (will consider other sites, too).
» Group or 1 x 1. I'm fine either way.
» Not interested in post length (I'm more interested in character and plot development), but no one-liners unless we're doing chat-based (which I do!).
» Know the basics of grammar, punctuation, etc.
» I'm old and busy and can't post all the time, so I don't expect you to, either. Right now I’m managing posts the day-of or every other day, but there’s no guarantee this will hold. It only becomes a problem when I’m waiting for a post once a month consecutively.
» Ghosting sucks, but what can you do?
» I don't care if the setting is AU, past, present, or future.
» I love chatting with my partners, but it's not a requirement.
CONTACT
PM or Discord. PM me to exchange Discord plugs.
CHARACTERS I PLAY
Xie Lian*, Hua Cheng*, Qi Rong, Jun Wu
Il Fado de Rie*, Misyr Rex*, Solitus, Ignis Carbunculus, Noah
SAMPLES
These are examples of my writing variances. Long, short, everything in-between.
Had he the energy, Aeron might have spun where he sat to snarl at the unexpected voice. His spine stiffened and his hackles rose, nostrils flaring as he tried to get a good sniff of the stranger until he remembered his useless, humanoid nose. Immediately he fixed a hard gaze down at the waves, head ducked so his eyes couldn’t be seen and give him away.
Somehow he hadn’t seen the male and now he’d been caught as easily as a pup. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
From the corner of his vision he saw the flask and suspicion flared. Here he’d only just arrived outside of winter lands, a hunted prey for years, and the universe expected him to believe after all this time a random stranger had decided to display an act of kindness?
Poison.
Irritation licked at the corner of his low thoughts. Sincere or not, couldn’t the male see he wanted to be left alone in his own miserable, pathetic self-pity? He deserved that, at least--but his utter lack of concern and surety of his future forced his hand to reach out and take the offered drink, anyway.
“What is it?” he asked, his gravelly voice unfamiliar, unused and dusty. After a moment’s hesitation, he sniffed the lip of it and put the tip of his tongue to it for a testing taste.
Somehow he hadn’t seen the male and now he’d been caught as easily as a pup. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
From the corner of his vision he saw the flask and suspicion flared. Here he’d only just arrived outside of winter lands, a hunted prey for years, and the universe expected him to believe after all this time a random stranger had decided to display an act of kindness?
Poison.
Irritation licked at the corner of his low thoughts. Sincere or not, couldn’t the male see he wanted to be left alone in his own miserable, pathetic self-pity? He deserved that, at least--but his utter lack of concern and surety of his future forced his hand to reach out and take the offered drink, anyway.
“What is it?” he asked, his gravelly voice unfamiliar, unused and dusty. After a moment’s hesitation, he sniffed the lip of it and put the tip of his tongue to it for a testing taste.
All of Bran’s children had the highest education. They were trained in combat as well as intellectual pursuits. None were left wanting, no matter their hold to the throne. They learned math and politics, and on rare occasions Bran personally saw to their learning to smooth the jagged edges with his experience.
Cleon had attained it all, and the first intellectual words from his mouth, in the face of the one who had granted it, were I wanted to be outside.
Bran stared, deadpan.
Had he neglected this one somehow?
Several seconds passed. Then, with a sigh so heavy the world tilted, “Is that really the best you could give me? Even your younger sister made some attempt when she went against my orders. Now--” his expression hardened, for how would this one survive in the world as royalty when so apparently soft, without some harshness? “--as you’re unable to follow simple direction, I see it’s in our best interest to find you a nursemaid to attend you as you once had as a kit.”
Cleon had attained it all, and the first intellectual words from his mouth, in the face of the one who had granted it, were I wanted to be outside.
Bran stared, deadpan.
Had he neglected this one somehow?
Several seconds passed. Then, with a sigh so heavy the world tilted, “Is that really the best you could give me? Even your younger sister made some attempt when she went against my orders. Now--” his expression hardened, for how would this one survive in the world as royalty when so apparently soft, without some harshness? “--as you’re unable to follow simple direction, I see it’s in our best interest to find you a nursemaid to attend you as you once had as a kit.”
Zevran heard what Cole said even as he focused on this new man. So far he hadn’t shown signs of attacking save for the ill-intent behind his narrowed eyes, but that could change all too quickly.
“I often ask myself that very question,” Zevran said, still conversational. He allowed a pause, then, “Wait, why are you asking, exactly? If it is because I'm wandering down a dark, criminal-infested alleyway with a man who fancies legs and says you can’t save this woman, then yes. Very much so.”
His fingers curved inward to brush the trigger of the push dagger in his sleeve, ready. Already his mind sorted through their possible options—the most prudent would be to attack and run. He wasn’t on the job with a mark tonight, and Cole would no doubt only get in the way.
Would Cole run with him?
The man looked momentarily dumbfounded before his face scrunched up in irritation. “You are crazy. You looking to get yourself killed?”
Keep his guard down. Don’t antagonize. It was sheer instinct at this point to give one of his soft, charming smiles. “Not particularly, as I rather like living.”
A snort. A step forward with purpose. Confidence. The man thought him an easy target all while he had his daggers ready. “Empty your pockets.”
“Ah, that is a problem,” Zevran said, shaking his head as if disappointed in himself. “Neither of us brought any of our vast riches tonight, I'm afraid. A shame, really, to lead you on so. Why not ask that other man who has been following us for the last ten minutes? I am sure he will have something if you only ask.”
At the mention of another person, the man’s gaze flickered in the other direction before alighting back on Zevran. He smirked, not inclined to turning his back even on someone he considered simple—though Zevran couldn’t imagine where he’d first come under that impression after having heard the things coming from Cole’s mouth. “Your fancy armor will do.”
“But I like my armor! I need it for walking down criminal-infested alleys, you see.” But the man didn’t budge, or smile back. “I don't suppose you will just let a crazy man go?”
Of course he wouldn’t. Even as the man reached for his blade, Zevran had planned three steps ahead. His daggers appeared in his hands as if by magic and he struck out—once, twice, three times. With a grunt of surprise the man stumbled back as blood pooled from his shoulder.
It was time enough for Zevran to twist around and grab Cole’s arm, yanking him down the alleyway.
Why hadn’t he just killed him?
It’s all you’re good for, after all.
“This way,” he said, hoping the other would listen.
“I often ask myself that very question,” Zevran said, still conversational. He allowed a pause, then, “Wait, why are you asking, exactly? If it is because I'm wandering down a dark, criminal-infested alleyway with a man who fancies legs and says you can’t save this woman, then yes. Very much so.”
His fingers curved inward to brush the trigger of the push dagger in his sleeve, ready. Already his mind sorted through their possible options—the most prudent would be to attack and run. He wasn’t on the job with a mark tonight, and Cole would no doubt only get in the way.
Would Cole run with him?
The man looked momentarily dumbfounded before his face scrunched up in irritation. “You are crazy. You looking to get yourself killed?”
Keep his guard down. Don’t antagonize. It was sheer instinct at this point to give one of his soft, charming smiles. “Not particularly, as I rather like living.”
A snort. A step forward with purpose. Confidence. The man thought him an easy target all while he had his daggers ready. “Empty your pockets.”
“Ah, that is a problem,” Zevran said, shaking his head as if disappointed in himself. “Neither of us brought any of our vast riches tonight, I'm afraid. A shame, really, to lead you on so. Why not ask that other man who has been following us for the last ten minutes? I am sure he will have something if you only ask.”
At the mention of another person, the man’s gaze flickered in the other direction before alighting back on Zevran. He smirked, not inclined to turning his back even on someone he considered simple—though Zevran couldn’t imagine where he’d first come under that impression after having heard the things coming from Cole’s mouth. “Your fancy armor will do.”
“But I like my armor! I need it for walking down criminal-infested alleys, you see.” But the man didn’t budge, or smile back. “I don't suppose you will just let a crazy man go?”
Of course he wouldn’t. Even as the man reached for his blade, Zevran had planned three steps ahead. His daggers appeared in his hands as if by magic and he struck out—once, twice, three times. With a grunt of surprise the man stumbled back as blood pooled from his shoulder.
It was time enough for Zevran to twist around and grab Cole’s arm, yanking him down the alleyway.
Why hadn’t he just killed him?
It’s all you’re good for, after all.
“This way,” he said, hoping the other would listen.
”The specifics of what I’m having you do should be kept secret,” Mithos said, hoping Jack was smart enough to hear the underlying warning lacing his tone. ”But seeing as how you’ll be using my credit and getting my assistance, it would be hard to hide that forever. At least from anyone smart enough to put two and two together.”
Though he didn’t particularly care one way or the other about the boy’s prospects, the fact that this endeavor might be mutually beneficial would make it a better incentive for Jack to do as he was told. If he had the promise of extending his reach in BIOS by helping with this project, why shouldn’t Jack want to take it?
These thoughts, however, evaporated as Jack continued to talk, insolent words dribbling carelessly from his mouth.
Jack spoke as if Mithos had never had to grapple for every scrap of food as hunger raked at his stomach with vicious claws, as if every day hadn’t been a struggle just to keep above water while from all sides came hatred black and filthy as the junk piled around them. Jack had a home, had a means of advancing without any barriers except for the concern of money, could walk the streets without fear of ridicule or death when Mithos had had to tear his way there and lose everything that mattered in the process.
And the mongrel whined to Mithos as if he had a terrible life, oh, how sad it is to be me.
It was no less than Jack, a human, deserved.
There wasn’t a lot of thought put into what he did next, just force of habit, instinct garnered over thousands of years of demanding, assuming respect from those around him. The magic left his hands, a solid flash meant to knock the boy to his knees where he belonged. His incessant whimper still hummed annoyingly in his ears—and all he could think about was Martel, bloodied and dead, because of the greed of humans.
”I’ve been patient enough with your cheek so far,” he said with contempt. ”If you have such an issue with me and the board in general, say it now and I can leave because I won’t tolerate this prattle the entire time we’re working together.”
Though he didn’t particularly care one way or the other about the boy’s prospects, the fact that this endeavor might be mutually beneficial would make it a better incentive for Jack to do as he was told. If he had the promise of extending his reach in BIOS by helping with this project, why shouldn’t Jack want to take it?
These thoughts, however, evaporated as Jack continued to talk, insolent words dribbling carelessly from his mouth.
Jack spoke as if Mithos had never had to grapple for every scrap of food as hunger raked at his stomach with vicious claws, as if every day hadn’t been a struggle just to keep above water while from all sides came hatred black and filthy as the junk piled around them. Jack had a home, had a means of advancing without any barriers except for the concern of money, could walk the streets without fear of ridicule or death when Mithos had had to tear his way there and lose everything that mattered in the process.
And the mongrel whined to Mithos as if he had a terrible life, oh, how sad it is to be me.
It was no less than Jack, a human, deserved.
There wasn’t a lot of thought put into what he did next, just force of habit, instinct garnered over thousands of years of demanding, assuming respect from those around him. The magic left his hands, a solid flash meant to knock the boy to his knees where he belonged. His incessant whimper still hummed annoyingly in his ears—and all he could think about was Martel, bloodied and dead, because of the greed of humans.
”I’ve been patient enough with your cheek so far,” he said with contempt. ”If you have such an issue with me and the board in general, say it now and I can leave because I won’t tolerate this prattle the entire time we’re working together.”
Once or twice that morning, Dacey woke to an empty room, lost in a familiar haze of exhaustion. There was a vague sense of understanding that he knew this place, knew the loud ceiling and walls, that the absence of another body meant something, but too quickly the hand of sleep captured him. Next, he woke to a rather unpleasant jab to his side. Too tired to investigate the pain--who could be bothered?--he waited until consciousness fed him facts one by one.
He was in Tanya’s room. He knew the smell by now without having to open his eyes.
That, and Tanya was mad at him.
Boy, I wonder what woke me? he thought wryly. But opening his eyes, acknowledging the day had come, meant talking. It meant uncomfortable things, and hurt feelings, it meant remembering he hadn’t found Luka and all he had lost with her. Dacey kept his eyes shut and fell back into sleep before Tanya had closed the door behind her.
He dreamed of shapeless creatures, bouncing about just out of reach, and if he could just catch them something amazing would happen. All his problems fixed, his life restored. He chased them across Tir’a’Nog, across the world, his hands outstretched. One was so close he could smell its flowery, soap-y fur. He reached for its furry black head, his hope so intense it ached in his chest…
SCREE
The creature attacked. With a shout of panic and a heavy thud, Dacey fell, half-asleep, in a tangle of limbs and heavy blankets to the floor. He struggled with the invisible force--how had it restrained him so quickly--before the last cobwebs of sleep were swept away and he found himself face-to-face with plush carpet.
“How nice of you to finally join the living, Dacey dearest.”
Tanya.
Oh, gods. Could he go back to fighting blobs?
In his best, practiced fashion which was belied by where he was and what he had just done, Dacey pretended not to hear her and let out a massive snore.
He was in Tanya’s room. He knew the smell by now without having to open his eyes.
That, and Tanya was mad at him.
Boy, I wonder what woke me? he thought wryly. But opening his eyes, acknowledging the day had come, meant talking. It meant uncomfortable things, and hurt feelings, it meant remembering he hadn’t found Luka and all he had lost with her. Dacey kept his eyes shut and fell back into sleep before Tanya had closed the door behind her.
He dreamed of shapeless creatures, bouncing about just out of reach, and if he could just catch them something amazing would happen. All his problems fixed, his life restored. He chased them across Tir’a’Nog, across the world, his hands outstretched. One was so close he could smell its flowery, soap-y fur. He reached for its furry black head, his hope so intense it ached in his chest…
SCREE
The creature attacked. With a shout of panic and a heavy thud, Dacey fell, half-asleep, in a tangle of limbs and heavy blankets to the floor. He struggled with the invisible force--how had it restrained him so quickly--before the last cobwebs of sleep were swept away and he found himself face-to-face with plush carpet.
“How nice of you to finally join the living, Dacey dearest.”
Tanya.
Oh, gods. Could he go back to fighting blobs?
In his best, practiced fashion which was belied by where he was and what he had just done, Dacey pretended not to hear her and let out a massive snore.
There she is: the whore of the evening.
Grell leaned casually against one of the high, pointed turrets on the roof of the Angelic Threads boutique, her arms folded and eyes cast down on the street. Her lip curled in disgust. Below her, oblivious to her seething red shadow, her quarry sauntered through the dwindling crowd of shoppers.
That damn demon had baited the woman out of mild curiosity, no doubt. Boredom, like Grell as a long-lived being constantly suffered, but she still gritted her teeth at the attention he’d given the sleaze who had so openly flirted with him.
It was boredom that had led her to observe Sebastian during his working hours in the first place, and it was boredom that now had her tailing his sordid customer—but through Grell's observations, this woman was no more interesting than any other.
Which meant not at all.
Had Sebastian promised her anything? He only offered such services to a human when he needed something from her. Surely this woman had nothing Grell couldn’t get for him. The idea of anything to the contrary had jealousy coiling around her heart like a great black snake. Her grip on her folded arms tightened. No—just another ugly cow not worth her weight in red. A waste of time.
Still, it was boredom—and only boredom!—that had her leaping from the roof to land squarely in the woman’s path. With a skeptical brow cocked and a small pop of her hip, she pointed at her. “And just what were you doing in Phuntom Antiquities, hm?” she asked, frowning heavily. “As if a woman like you would have any real interest in books. There are plenty of magical shops elsewhere.”
Grell leaned casually against one of the high, pointed turrets on the roof of the Angelic Threads boutique, her arms folded and eyes cast down on the street. Her lip curled in disgust. Below her, oblivious to her seething red shadow, her quarry sauntered through the dwindling crowd of shoppers.
That damn demon had baited the woman out of mild curiosity, no doubt. Boredom, like Grell as a long-lived being constantly suffered, but she still gritted her teeth at the attention he’d given the sleaze who had so openly flirted with him.
It was boredom that had led her to observe Sebastian during his working hours in the first place, and it was boredom that now had her tailing his sordid customer—but through Grell's observations, this woman was no more interesting than any other.
Which meant not at all.
Had Sebastian promised her anything? He only offered such services to a human when he needed something from her. Surely this woman had nothing Grell couldn’t get for him. The idea of anything to the contrary had jealousy coiling around her heart like a great black snake. Her grip on her folded arms tightened. No—just another ugly cow not worth her weight in red. A waste of time.
Still, it was boredom—and only boredom!—that had her leaping from the roof to land squarely in the woman’s path. With a skeptical brow cocked and a small pop of her hip, she pointed at her. “And just what were you doing in Phuntom Antiquities, hm?” she asked, frowning heavily. “As if a woman like you would have any real interest in books. There are plenty of magical shops elsewhere.”
While his last two attempts with Solas to combine mana and—what did Solas keep calling it? The Fade?— to get home had resulted each time in minor explosions that altogether upended several trees, two buildings, and sent four cats yowling into the wilderness with their tails trailing tendrils of smoke, Mithos refused to quit. They would find the right combination; perhaps a little more Fade and a lot less mana the next time?
The mana hummed forcefully in Elestis, a powerful resonance Mithos felt deep in his bones, unlike the faint cadence of life energy in Aselia which sang softly throughout his body. Tentatively, he would tug on the strands of magic with mental fingers, and power pulsed and undulated outward in the form of bioluminescence—seen then in the rippling, colorful trees and shrubs of the Darkwood Forest around him. They lit the way as he walked.
This wood, or so Mithos had heard, housed little creatures known as fairies. Elusive, flitting creatures with a magic all their own. Similar, he supposed, to the fairy-like monsters of his world, at least in appearance, though those he found of no use whatever. These, however, might be of some use in one way or another, or so he and Solas speculated. If he could find them, that was.
With practiced feet he wandered silently, moss absorbing the sound of his footsteps, eyes scanning the dark places between the bright branches for signs of living light. Something in him wanted to find these fairies, if not for the sake of getting home, then to please Solas, who thus far had proven—after their settled misunderstanding—fascinating company. The way he spoke, he might have known as much about varying things as Kratos—but never more.
No one knew more than Kratos, he was sure.
Critters crept out of sight, creaking, cracking, chittering. He heard them, thought he heard the woods breathe as one great sigh periodically, and once, not too far off, the thundering roar of a fallen tree that hushed all else. He’d been warned of the dangers before entering the woods and had his sword ready just in case. He was prepared for hairy beasts, fanged monsters, snakes and—
“Wha—“
The sound of running, almost deafening in the wooded silence. He spun around, hand reaching for his sword—
As a force slammed into him with the might of an avalanche and he tumbled heels over head backwards along the ground. His sword clattered against something hard as it slipped from his hands. For an inestimable amount of time they rolled, nothing but pain and a swirl of color. When the spinning stopped, a blessed relief, Mithos groaned and peered up at his attacker, who wasted no time in spilling over him a barrage of an indecipherable, slick, sliding language, the undertones harsh. He reeked of blood.
Taking only enough time to register deep, manic red eyes, Mithos shot out a hand and pressed it hard to the man’s face, shoving, heart hammering--where was his sword? He needed his sword. Mana didn't work quickly enough here. “Get off of—“ He stopped. Words he actually understood rang in his ears, and he stared at the face squished under his hand in wary comprehension. "My hair?" he repeated, confused, uncertain. Was he...was he serious?
Was this not an attack? But why did he smell so much like blood? Irritation bubbled under his initial terror. His mouth opened again to insist that he get off, until his eyes snagged on the flickering, flittering creatures just behind his assailant, and instead he found himself asking, in both hope and surprise without moving his hand, “Are those fairies?” Some of them had already come to land, making perches of the man. Their brightness bathed his twisted face in a surrealistically pious, sputtering glow.
The mana hummed forcefully in Elestis, a powerful resonance Mithos felt deep in his bones, unlike the faint cadence of life energy in Aselia which sang softly throughout his body. Tentatively, he would tug on the strands of magic with mental fingers, and power pulsed and undulated outward in the form of bioluminescence—seen then in the rippling, colorful trees and shrubs of the Darkwood Forest around him. They lit the way as he walked.
This wood, or so Mithos had heard, housed little creatures known as fairies. Elusive, flitting creatures with a magic all their own. Similar, he supposed, to the fairy-like monsters of his world, at least in appearance, though those he found of no use whatever. These, however, might be of some use in one way or another, or so he and Solas speculated. If he could find them, that was.
With practiced feet he wandered silently, moss absorbing the sound of his footsteps, eyes scanning the dark places between the bright branches for signs of living light. Something in him wanted to find these fairies, if not for the sake of getting home, then to please Solas, who thus far had proven—after their settled misunderstanding—fascinating company. The way he spoke, he might have known as much about varying things as Kratos—but never more.
No one knew more than Kratos, he was sure.
Critters crept out of sight, creaking, cracking, chittering. He heard them, thought he heard the woods breathe as one great sigh periodically, and once, not too far off, the thundering roar of a fallen tree that hushed all else. He’d been warned of the dangers before entering the woods and had his sword ready just in case. He was prepared for hairy beasts, fanged monsters, snakes and—
“Wha—“
The sound of running, almost deafening in the wooded silence. He spun around, hand reaching for his sword—
As a force slammed into him with the might of an avalanche and he tumbled heels over head backwards along the ground. His sword clattered against something hard as it slipped from his hands. For an inestimable amount of time they rolled, nothing but pain and a swirl of color. When the spinning stopped, a blessed relief, Mithos groaned and peered up at his attacker, who wasted no time in spilling over him a barrage of an indecipherable, slick, sliding language, the undertones harsh. He reeked of blood.
Taking only enough time to register deep, manic red eyes, Mithos shot out a hand and pressed it hard to the man’s face, shoving, heart hammering--where was his sword? He needed his sword. Mana didn't work quickly enough here. “Get off of—“ He stopped. Words he actually understood rang in his ears, and he stared at the face squished under his hand in wary comprehension. "My hair?" he repeated, confused, uncertain. Was he...was he serious?
Was this not an attack? But why did he smell so much like blood? Irritation bubbled under his initial terror. His mouth opened again to insist that he get off, until his eyes snagged on the flickering, flittering creatures just behind his assailant, and instead he found himself asking, in both hope and surprise without moving his hand, “Are those fairies?” Some of them had already come to land, making perches of the man. Their brightness bathed his twisted face in a surrealistically pious, sputtering glow.
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