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miracleandplagueau · 1 year ago

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MIRACLE AND PLAGUE -- ALL LINEUPS + DESIGN NOTES

Good luck to anyone reading this, I spent good 1.5 hour on writing this out instead of studing LMAO

JIAYI DUPAIN-CHENG -- WONDERBUG

- She designed the jacket herself. There's a clover logo on the back with a hidden signature.

- One of the bracelets (the ribbon one) is a matching gift from Alya. She has a similar one.

- The red fade is a side-effect of the Wonder

- In her hero form, her irises or pupils aren't visible

- The symbol on her belt is the chinese symbol of luck

- She has two yoyos in the pockets on her sides - one is a spare one

- Her capette is supposed to resemble Tikki's "wings"

- She has small metal guards on the top of her hands/gloves

- The anthennas are tied into her hair

ADRIEN AGRESTE -- CHAT NOIR

- His hair fade is dark brown. I chose a softer shade because black-black did not look nice

- Adrien is wearing clothes from his father's brand. It's most evident because of the butterfly logo on the front of the sweater

- Cat ears and tail real

- The tail has a little ball on the very end. It's in order to imitate Plagg's tail and It gives some personality to the design.

- He has three sticks attached to his belt

- The whiskers are barely visible but they're there!

GABRIEL AGRESTE -- MONARCH

- He's wearing darker clothes to reflect on his gloomy personality and in order not to stand out as he's trying to avoid attention outside of his home

- The coat was designed himself - similarly to Jiayi's jacket that she designer on her own

- His hair color is light purple and most of the time comes off as silver which is definitely to his advantage

- The hero form has little antennas that usually bend along his hair

- Transformation is definitely more combat-based despite the power being suiter for long-distance

- The back material resemble butterfly wings and allow him to fall slower If needed

- The additional set of eyes serve a purpose of supporting his eyesight as glasses don't appear in his hero form

ALYA CESAIRE -- RENA ROGUE

- The ribbon on her wrist is matching with Jiayi

- She wears a beret sometimes

- The shirt is a reference to a video game character she's a fan of

- The sleeves of the jacket are made out of leather

- The mask resembles a fox with spiky parts under her eyes. It also has a white part running down from her forehead

- The brown shoulder parts are actually short fur. So are the side cuts on the pants, they're also fluffy

- While the tail takes a form very similar to the Wonder itself, it still functions as a regular tail

- Her ears are very pointy and long

- Mismatched socks

CHLOE BOUGREOIS -- QUEEN BEE

- She technically shouldn't be walking around with open shoulders, but she uses her father's influence to avoid following the dress code.

- The scrunchie she's wearing to make her bun has little strings that are meant to look a little like antennas

- All three of her designs have yellow-dark stripes, in hero form's case It's yellow-red.

- In her second design, she's wearing Wonderbug merch

- She has little fluffy cuffs on her wrists that are similar to Pollen's fluff

- Her boots are meant to look very similar to Pollen's legs, even with the weird "extension" at the back

- The "wings" have little hanging jewlers at the endings, making them look more decorative than functional yet It continues to serve a similar purpose to Monarch's wings

- The anthennas are a bit thicker at the end in comparison to Monarch's

NINO

- I don't have much about Nino yet, I still need to design his hero form

- I gave him a little braid on the side with colorful marbles at the very end

- He always gave me the skaterboy vibe so I went along with it and gave him knee guards (mismatched like Alya's socks :p)

- Ripped sleeve from an old fall

- Big headphones replaced with earbuds and a red hat to add more red

SABRINA RAINCOMPLIX

- Her first design is very similar to her original

- She's wearing a semi-formal attire with elements from the school's uniform

- Her second design is very opposite to Chloe's usual style/style that she chose to hold on to while in Chloe's presence

- It's a mix of everything, but motifs like mushrooms, suns, space. There's also a ton of accessories (like bracelets and moon-themed jewlery on the glasses) and things that let her personalize everything a bit more like patches on the pants.

- She's wearing a headband with a blue flower

JULEKA COUFFAINE

- I gave her a slight tweak to the outfit, but nothing very big so I'll pass on design notes

- She's wearing a matching necklace with Rose

LILA ROSSI

- Lila's hair is braided into a long braid with front hair being stylized after fox's tails

- She's seen wearing parts of her school's uniform - most notably the red jacket

- Her eyes are green with yellow tints at the lower part

- Volpina's form might not look that far off, but there's a few very important parts to mention

- As Monarch's power isn't strong enough to actually make a form fully resembling a fox holder, Volpina looks more like a Jackal. Jackals from afar are generally similar to a fox with the exception of longer ears and muted colors. Her flatter tail, ears are supposed to look like that

- The shorts are simliar to the ones from the canon design

LUKA COUFFAINE

- Luka's style was revamped completely, giving him a more individual, indie-rock kind of style.

- The ripped jeans are matching with his sister :D

- He's got snake bites now

- I left the blue jacket from the canon, just making it bigger and worn only for colder weather

- Luka has freckles on his shoulders

NATHANIEL KURTZBERG

- A bunch of changes made but I don't have too much notes about it

- He usually has his hair down whereas it looks very similar to canon, but occassionally the hair is tied up

MARC ANCIEL

- Half-star on the shoes

- Two chains pinned to the shorts: one is a regular chain, second is the thin, longer one

- Colors present on the T-shirt: purple, magenta, pink, yellow-y, muddy green + the star

ALIX KUBDEL -- BUNNIX

- Her hair is a little shorter than in canon

- The hoodie is cropped while the shirt underneath is just plain

- Fingerless gloves that also act as hand guards for rollerblading are often seen

- She has a scar under her right knee

- Unlike the usual fade, Bunnix has a light/blue strike in her hair

- That round, fluffy, cloud-like motif is present along the entire hero form

- The mask has three freckles on each side

NATALIE SANCOEUR

- A Gabriel-brand broch

TIKKI

Dark shade fading from her lower limbs

Four arms

Little wings on the back - she can fly without them anyway

Long "eyelashes"

PLAGG

Much more fluffier

The tail has this off spiky part at the very end

Long long whiskers

NOOROO

Fluff at the chest and the ends of lower limbs

Similar fade as tikki, but a lighter shade instead

Also long "eyelashes"

TRIXX

Fluffy

POLLEN

4 Anthennas

Thin limb endings unlike other insect-like Kwamis

The wings are very thin

Points of bending (limbs) are bend backwards (see lower limbs)

DUUSU

Bird-like legs

Pattern on the tail are actually additional eyes

The chest is made out of colorful, small feathers

WAYZZ

Hard to touch

Shell on the back is brown with green moss-like spots

TUZIN (RABBIT WONDER)

Cloud-like theme present

Extremely soft to touch

Ears are deformed, they are naturally stylized and are supposed to look unrealistic

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shizukateal · 4 years ago

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The Holy Quintet: The BEST DRESSED Magical Girl Team EVER. Part 2: Characters made of symbols and shapes.

Part 1 here.

Mami Tomoe

Mami Tomoe’s outfit is a work of genius that really humbles me as an aspiring character designer. Watching the perfection in its simplicity only boggles my mind trying to reverse engineer the thought process behind it. Even if they already had decided on the huntress theme before they finished her, how did Ume Aoki came up with cutting the sleeves like that? Or with the perfect skirt shape that allows the corset to show all of her curves while puffing at just the right height to not make the hipline transition awkward and giving the shape of a flower? How long did it take her to find this particular color scheme? Did she immediately know where to put the purple to balance the outfit without feeling artificial? How did she realize that the stripes on the socks would add the ideal touch to the whole setup? Or the perfect way to turn the soulgem into a hair accessory? I would have gone the easy way and put it in the chest ribbon like the amateur I am! Did she have doubts about it while she was figuring out the exact design of the boots?!

This outfit does everything. It’s sexy without being unnecessarily tasteless, it’s girly and fancy but battle-ready, it even passes the silhouette test, it’s nuanced, almost realistic. Even Mami’s hairstyle, which in a lesser design would look too childish, is perfect for her. Mami’s whole theme is that she’s a little girl desperately trying to convince herself that she’s an adult. Her low drill-tails are doll-like, which is to say a little girl’s idea of what a fancy adult woman looks like. The side-swept bangs also give a youthful roundness to her face while being elegant, and the way the hat and hairpin complements the whole thing is just * cheff’s kiss *.

Kyouko Sakura

Kyouko is a fire gal, and as such her shape is a triangle, so her outfit is a halter top coat that widens into the frilled overskirt. Her ponytail also feeds into this theme, with hair bits sticking wildly on the top like the fire sparks of a candle, and the ribbon is just scrappy but cute enough to compliment her personality. Haha, ponytail, get it? Like a horse? Or in her case a de-horned unicorn, ergo her spear. Her look also gives us the impression of an outlaw with her pirate/rider boots, long coat and gloves, fitting her lifestyle, and her soulgem is on her chest, indicating her more emotional nature. I think the boldest decision was to leave her hands ungloved, or at least I know I wouldn’t have done that, but that’s why I’m glad I wasn’t in Ume Aoki’s position when Madoka was in production. The white details on her undershirt and boots also put an elegant touch of complexity that completes the whole thing. What I’m trying to say here is that Kyoko has the ““easiest”” design of the other puellas, but it’s still top notch.

Sayaka Miki

Sayaka’s outfit is a balancing act, trying to keep it’s knight aesthetic clear without relying on heavy armor to do so and thus allowing Sayaka’s more romantic, femenine side to show, not to mention her water + music/mermaid theme. Her whole getup is very ingenious. Her short hair allows the cape to flow without seeming excessive and heavy or an inconvenience, her hairpin prevents the cut from being bland, but still keeping a somewhat tomboyish look, and her skirt has a distinct asymmetrical cut that, with its white outline, gives the idea of a wave. Her boots are short, comfy, practical, and their shade is just different enough that they avoid the look from feeling kinda boring within its color pallet, without straying away from it. I’m honestly amazed at how well they pulled of her belly-button soulgem as well, especially without taking away from the knight theme, hell they even used that in their favor! That is ingenuity. It was also a genius idea to hold the cape on a choker to make it all fit better with a sweetheart neckline.

Homura Akemi

As I mentioned before when I talked about Senjougahara, Homura is a rhombus, not just in her soul gem but in the rest of her body: she is pointy, slim, and long. She is the tallest and lankiest amongst the Holy Quintet, her outfit primarily highlighting her legs and her hair ending in jagged points. What impresses me the most about it is that the shirt is very weirdly cut for a concept as straightforward as “school uniform”, but it works. I can imagine a much easier version of it without the undersleeves or the collar. Speaking of which, the shape of them draws attention to her soul gem on her hand, which is placed there to symbolize how she’s the most “hands on” magical girl. Her time motif is present in her back ribbon, which looks like clock hands, same with Moemura’s braids, and in her shield, which is small and attached to her wrist and also is actually a sand clock. That shield is a really neat, concise, and smart way to tie up the entirety of her wish, huh? Speaking of Moemura, it’s really interesting to see the conflict between the two versions of this character in their differences. First we have the hair, of course, then the red glasses. I sense that there’s more to those than what I’m interpreting here, but the best I can do is conclude that aside that Homura tosses them out because they represent her weakness the fact that they’re red means they also represent her emotionality, which Madoka returns to her when she gives her her red ribbons (which also represent the string of fate, of course, and also confidence in oneself). But the part that interests me the most is her heels. Moemura doesn’t fit them, she trips on them constantly, but for Homura they are a symbol of her maturity and composure. Naturally, the first time we see Homura break down after narrowly killing Kyubey before they could do a contract with Madoka, she trips on them.

@leafbladie also pointed out to me that the reason it looks like a school uniform might be because school is the only place where she could make genuine human connections.

Madoka Kaname

Kyouko is a triangle, Homura is a rhombus, and Madoka is, fittingly, a Star, aka. a cluster of points shooting out from a center, which also blends well as a flower motif. Or to put it even more eloquently, she’s the flower from the ground that will eventually become the star in the sky. It’s in her skirt, gloves, socks and ponytails. And the rest of her? Is a deception in its simplicity. After all, this is what you expect from the leader of a magical girl team, right? Pink! Ribbons! Frills! Come on, you’ve seen this outfit before, it’s practically the same as Cure Peach’s! But Madoka is aiming for something more specific: she is both a fairy AND a witch, the two faces of the Magical Girl, creatures of fairytales often related to either nature or to the stars, and it works precisely because she uses that shape. Madoka is a balance of roundness and pointiness, it’s just that those points are softened by the pastel coloring. Her balance in ribbons and frills is excellent as well. I should probably write a separate post on how those 2 elements work in general, but suffice to say that we all know way too many magical girls that just put those things everywhere. Two on her ponytails to highlight them, one behind her neck, two on her hips to smooth the hipline transition, two behind her shoes. Huh, speaking of those, Madoka has surprisingly tall heels, right? Taller than Mami’s and only matched by Homura’s. Really tells you who the 2 most emotionally resilient members are in the team.

The last piece I’d like to highlight is her weapon, which I’m jealous of because I did that concept for an OC of mine and now if I do it everyone is going to think that I got it from her. But in any case, yeah combining a druidic staff into an also druidic bow whose arrows are also shooting star analogues is the perfect choice for this particular character, the Goddess of Magical Girls.

And this, everyone, has been my reasoning and analysis of the genius of the Holy Quintet’s character designs. Follow me if you want more magical girl outfit analysis.

#puella magi madoka magica #magical girl fashion #madoka kaname #kyoko sakura #homura akemi #sayaka miki #tomoe mami

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chuckling-chemist · 5 years ago

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Everybody Needs Somebody

((They say a picture’s worth 1000 words so I wrote 3750 because I can’t draw and then rushed the gag itself. Also probably the only thing I’ve really written of all this that I’m posting, be it here or anywhere, since my interpretation of the ball being at a swanky hotel was incorrect, but also everything else is only like....debatably relevant? All 1.5 other pieces, that is. idk, might another short piece or two but this one was certainly a vanity project written in the early hours of the morning in post-Stardew Valley Christmas hazes that is only getting posted to make myself feel better, for some sense of “welp did the thing I said I was going to write 6 months ago and here it is” type of thing.

Anyway there’s a lot of silly references in here so kudos if you pick them all out))

Joilet tapped his foot impatiently from behind their practice room. He hadn’t meandered much around the crowd of the ball -- ignoring the current charges against him, high class crowds weren’t his scene -- but current security was still enough to make him worry. Brownblood host or not, he knew enough have true highbloods stalking around as guards. Bouncers who Joilet’s certain were watching him and recognized him the last time he did a sweep of the temporary hivestem. After their performance, Joilet and Akroid were going to have to peel out immediately.

At least they were paid upfront this time upon meeting him in person the night prior. In cash.

Though, to be fair, the Blue Brothers shouldn’t have been paid. A friend of theirs in similar line of work, a brownblood named Elliah Fagane, performed last sweep and she was slated to perform again. She was perfect for the job, a good little songbird who kept complaints she had about anything to herself and was the perfect paragon of elegance and grace -- lowblood or not. The Blue Brothers, meanwhile, were two midbloods (Joilet was a stocky cobaltblood while Akroid was a lanky tealblood) who both had a penchant for getting into trouble. Under normal circumstances, the two of them alone -- much less the whole band -- would ever be asked to perform for a traditional socialite of any caste. But, they needed the money and so Joilet was able to pull a quick favor from her to have her drop her spot while simultaneously recommending them as adequate replacements. He accepted, playing as if he knew who the two of them were the whole time. He told them how much of a fan he was of their “country and western band”, how Elliah “just wasn’t the sound he wanted”, and how excited he was to get some “representation of their own people’s music, in a more palatable fashion” in the setist.

He was partly right: once they performed a cover of Stand By Your Rail at a dive bar, pretending to be an actual western band. He’s pretty sure this guy wasn’t aware of that, but an attempt was made. At least.

Their tight, uniform appearance also helped matters. Despite the different castes and heights, Joilet and Akroid looked the part of a two person midblood group with a backup lowblood band. Same black sunglasses that cover up half their face, same black fedora hooked onto their respective short horn (Joilet’s left horn, Akroid’s right), same unruly hair covered up by said hat, same black suit and skinny black tie. Sure, Joilet’s other horn broke off during his stint in prison while Akroid’s just hooked off again and Joilet’s sideburns were unkempt, but otherwise? Perfectly uniform. If the host had any questions of their legitimacy, they were quickly quelled after seeing the two of them in person the other night and, to Joilet, that spoke just as much as their actual skill level.

Joilet glanced over to Akroid. Damn teal looked as unflappable as ever behind those dark sunglasses. It was him who got them in this whole situation in the first place. Akroid, the idiot who picked him up from the big hive at the start of the perigee with a pipe dream of getting the band back together. The idiot who resisted arrest for public intoxication from the drones all because he was a former felon himself, starting them on this stupid honkbird chase in a desparate bid for cash. Akroid, the idiot who helped get his ass out of prison in the first place, all due to whatever strange desire for the other’s companionship they developed over the sweeps.

Fuck him.

Akroid must have caught his gaze because he gave a short smile and a thumbs up. “We’re doing good,” he said. “Remember, we’re on a mission from God.”

Right. The mission from God. Joilet found himself relaxing almost instantly. He distinctly remembered the out of body experience he had upon visiting one of those criminal infested freeports before departing; where, if he hadn’t talked to the God (Joilet didn’t believe the clowns held any sort of stranglehold on the concept of godhood), he certainly talked to a god. If nothing else, they made it this far without a single hiccup they couldn’t solve in their plans. It’s hard to believe someone’s not looking out for you when you escape a chase by driving through a busy mall and still make it out on top. Without their current employer hearing any of it.

“And what if God lets y’all get caught again?” their saxophonist, Marini, asked. He was a skinnier rustblood, long curly hair that went down to his mid back and oddly pointy teeth for such a red caste. “Leavin’ us high and dry again like when Joilet got hit.”

“We’ll be fine,” Akroid said. He shifted the sleeve of his suit, pausing in his speech to check the time on his watch. “Just follow our lead and look like nothin’s wrong.”

The rustblood let out a huff with a brief shake of his head, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he asked, “How much longer do we have anyway?”

“Ten minutes,” Joilet answered. “We got ten minutes.”

“Well good.” He removed his saxophone off the neckstrap and set it on the stand. “I drank way too much Faygo. Gotta piss.”

“Then go piss!” Akroid’s stone face cracked into a distinct scowl. “Geeze, you don’t gotta announce everything. Just get back before we perform.”

Their drummer, another rustblood by the name of Barkay, stood up as well. He looked about the same age as Joilet, with curly hair partially that was obscured by his dark green visor. Barkay looked about as respectable as anyone of his caste could, with a dark red dress shirt and black tie.

“I’m goin’ with him.”

Joilet blinked harshly behind his sunglasses. “Okay? It’s the damn ablutionblock. Do what you need to.”

They apparently didn’t need to be told twice. The two trolls were out the door before Joilet had a chance to add anything else.

“You’d think his bulge was on fire,” Joilet finally said. His gaze swept around the rest of the band rapidly. They were quiet. Somber. Hell, if he didn’t know any better he’d have mistaken the lot of them going off to war, not performing for big money at some fancy gala-thing. “You think he’s gonna bail?”

“Marini? Nah. He was the only guy we didn’t have to pester who was workin’ at that diner. Been itchin’ to rip on that sax.” Akroid smirked wryly. “And doin’ it here? In front of all those rich pricks? I’d worry more ‘bout yourself. You gonna choke?”

Joilet snorted. “ ‘Course not. We’re in too deep.”

“Didn’t seem like that a few minutes ago.”

“Yeah well….” Joilet trailed off. Akroid wasn’t wrong. Joilet had panicked. It seemed like every jackass out to get them were outside waiting for them. And Akroid, bastard he was, simply reminding him that those jackasses hadn’t got them during the rest of the sweep brought him back.

Not like he’d admit it out loud.

“Had a moment of panic’s all. Then I remembered this kid’s probably being a nervous wiggler about staffing with his first year. Nothin’ else.”

“Uh-huh.” Akroid’s smirk widened a bit, giving Joilet the sudden urge to punch it right off his face. But not now. They were too close to their goal.

They stood in comfortable silence for a few more minutes before a new figure came out from the curtain, an indigoblood with short, cropped hair in a suit matching his caste walking next to Manini and Barkay. That was the guy who’d be ushering them on, sure, but he’s almost certain it hadn’t been ten minutes. Did something happen?

He glanced back over to Akroid, who just shrugged. Figures.

“Are you ready?” the indigoblood asked. He had some smile plastered on his face in some attempt to be friendly, but it didn’t look friendly. The offset, sharp teeth broken off at odd angles gave off a distinct predatory vibe.

“I dunno, did they get their break?” Joilet said.

Barkay grinned, giving the two trolls a thumbs up as he walked seat. “I got what needed done. No worries.”

The indigoblood’s face split wider, if that were even possible. He beckoned Joilet and Akroid with an open hand, unmoving until the two of them actually started following him through the narrow hallway. “Excellent. Let’s get moving then. Your stage is set, guests are waiting...you wouldn’t want to disappoint such eager crowds I’m sure. They could get aggressive.”

Joilet refrained from mentioning he passed time in prison by performing old classics, and just how dangerous some of those trolls were. Hell, he even learned a few new songs thanks to an actual country musician of a brownblood involving being stuck in prison. Aggressive wasn’t a problem. It was authority.

“Got it.”

“Good.” He stopped in front of a door, giving them a nod. “You can go ahead and enter through the door. Hopefully you don’t need any final warmups?”

“We’ll be fine,” Joilet said.

The indigoblood nodded. “If you’re certain. I shall return at the end of your set.” He opened up the door. “Best of luck.”

The two of them exchanged a look. “We don’t need luck,” Akroid said before disappearing through the door.

Joilet followed suit, giving the inidgoblood a curt nod of acknowledgement before adding, “We’re on a mission from God.”

As he walked through the door, he was immediately greeted with a dark blue curtain in front of them with a short opening to the left of them where he could catch the smallest glimpse of the piano on a raised platform. Nothing else. The piano obscured most of the view of the crowd beyond them. He imagined it was exactly the same on the other side.

It was a small exit. But it would be perfect for escaping out.

He wondered if Akroid was thinking the same thing. Probably. There was no way to tell, no way to properly read his expressionless face their last moment of respite before their performance and subsequent frantic escape before anyone did a serious background check about who they were. Still, there was a twinge in his gut that his partner in crime agreed.

When they exchanged one final nod in solitude and took their places in front of two microphones, Joilet had a feeling he was right.

As soon as he made it, he did another quick scan of the room. It was blue. Blue tablecloths covered the guest and dessert tables. Blue curtains shuttered the ball off from the outside world. Blue lights in the punch bowl made the ice snowflake sculpture inside look blue. And if it wasn’t blue, it was white. White tree sculptures adorned with white lights twisted around each marble pillar. Vases of white flowers topped every table. A white rug ran down the center of the ballroom. Small, white lights dotted an otherwise dark ceiling to give the loose impression of stars or snowflakes down onto the dance floor.

Even the trolls did nothing to break it up. If the dress didn’t match the owner’s blood color, it was a distinct blue or white with sparkles or shimmers. White lacing and white boas perfectly match the white boots and white dresses. The flashes of gray due to the high cut of many of the dress slits managed to break up the coloration more than anyone matching caste color.

Thankfully, the heavy blue-white combination made the distinct pinks, purples and blacks of those on their tail easy to spot. And oh boy, were they available -- even more so than earlier. Joilet wouldn’t be surprised if their host figured out about them at some point, but not early enough to cancel and reschedule so he let these brutes in instead. Burly indigo and purplebloods in suits stood along the edges, away from the crowds with their arms crossed in rapt concentration of the two of them. Standing next to the dessert table were a series of inidgobloods all dressed in formalized cowboy outfits, complete with stetsons, glaring at them -- the very same western group the Blue Brothers once impersonated. A few particularly annoying “seadweller master race” types in colorful gowns and military pinks stood in the back next to cobalts in military regalia, quite possibly from some local, non-drone law enforcement they managed to pick up to defend themselves. On the other side of the cobalts were a few subjuggalators who definitely were full into the “highblooded landdweller supremacy” in full face paint and religious purple clown robes. Both were groups the Blue Brothers have antagonized, whether it be intentionally with the seadwellers (they deserved it), or accidentally (turns out subjuggalators don’t like lower castes hearing the voice of their god, whatever god answered Joilet and Akroid notwithstanding). It was, however, the first time Joilet’s ever seen the two work together for a common goal. Traditionally the two groups go at it worse than a bad kismesis. He was almost proud that they were able to perform such a feat, though he wasn’t sure if the pride was directed at the supremacy groups or himself for bringing them together.

He let out a slow breath. Only one thing to do at this point. Start.

“One. Two. One, two, three, four.”

The band kicked off with the sound of upbeat horns while the two trolls gave a short dance around the mics for a few bars. After which, while the intro kept repeating, Akroid grabbed his micrphone and said, “We’re so happy to see so many of you lovely trolls here tonight. We would especially like to welcome the esteemed members of Kilran’s hired law enforcement who have chosen to join us at the 12th Perigee Ball here tonight. We hope you all enjoy the show and hope you remember that no matter who you are and what you do to live to try and survive, there’s still some things that make us all the same. You, me, them--” Akroid looked directly toward the back of the room toward the cobaltbloods assisting the supremacists with a disappointed shrug “--everybody. Everybody.”

And from there, it was Joilet’s turn. With the second mic in hand he started singing their opener, Everybody Needs Somebody to Love. It was a speedy tune, possibly a little too fast for what their host was intending, but they sounded perfect and that’s all that mattered. The band’s hits fell right within the pauses in Joilet’s vocals, and Akroid knew exactly when to come in to accent with his deep baritone. Each transition into the next part of the song was smooth, from pointing to various people in the crowd at the you, you, you, to Akroid seamlessly whipping out his harmonica to accent Joilet’s singing the pre-chorus.

There were a few scattered cheers of appreciation, but for the most part these people weren’t dancing. Only one way to change that.

As they gave a pause in vocals to allow for a harmonica solo, Joilet started through a complicated dance twisting around the band members, ducking and weaving through saxophones and trombones while he turned this way and that. It was finished with a cartwheel across the front end of the stage, landing him right in front of the microphone for the next verse.

It was the opening some of the trolls -- lower castes mostly, but he caught flashes of higherbloods in the mix -- needed. The dance floor segment had all sorts of trolls, be it single or paired off in some fashion, dancing in whichever way they fancied. Akroid must have led them into a rhythmic clap too, judging by the trolls unwilling to dance instead clapping and even chanting at every repeat of you, you, you. He caught the leader giving them a death glare. Joilet ignored it.

At the next verse, Joilet swung on his heel back toward the band. He pushed his outstretched arms down toward the floor in an overemphasized quiet down for the crowd, and every instrument dipped off except for a cymbal hat to keep time and the grooving bass guitar.

It was Akroid’s time again. He moved right toward center stage, mic in hand and announced, “You know people when you do find those special trolls for any quadrant, you gotta hold that ‘rail, hold that ‘sprit, love him, squeeze him, love her, please her. Signify your feelings with every gentle caress or angry glare. Because it’s so important to have that special somebody! To hold. To kiss. To miss! To please and squeeze!”

Akroid dropped into a kneel on the stage, as if enraptured with his statement, as Joilet finished out with the chorus. He didn’t stand back up until the harmonica came back in. He rejoined Joilet in the back for the end, and the two mimicked each other dancing on the balls of their feet as the band played out.

When the last note struck, the two of them landed simultaneously on one knee, head down with their hand holding the brim of their hats.

Two songs left. Then they bolt. They could do this.

Their performance of Soul Man was just as energetic. This song was pretty much entirely Joilet’s, so he let Akroid dance around the stage now. He could catch the other troll jumping up and down, legs moving so loosely and briskly they may as well be jelly. He only cut in for parts of the chorus, letting that deep baritone accent Joilet’s raspy vocals.

In only a few short minutes Soul Man ended and their final song, Sweet Home Gusthollow opened with swift guitar licks in a short solo. As the rest of the band kicked in and Joilet sang out the first few bars, Akroid raised his hands up to lead those listening in a clap. Barkay joined in as well. He raised his own drumsticks high above his head, tapping off the beats until those in the crowd kept time on their own.

As the first verse ended, Akroid took hold of Joilet’s mic. “Six and three is nine. Nine and nine is eighteen. Look there pupa partner and see what I’ve seen.” He nudged Joilet and pointed toward the cobalt in the back standing between the supremacists. Shit. Another look and Joilet realized he knew that troll. He was one of the wardens of the prison he was released from. But he also noticed at his angle, with the growing crowd of dancers and listeners, they might be able to slip away. After all, the stage wasn’t raised. The only reason he could still see the warden was thanks to the gaps down the main walkway.

The two of them waved confidently at him as they continued through the chorus. Even with the distance, he noticed the cobaltblood drag a thumb across his neck.

It struck Joilet numb for a few seconds. Good to know where he stands, he supposes.

The two finished out the chorus with a flourish, letting the band take over. Joilet turned over to Akroid, offering out his hands to dance. The other troll accepted, and the two pranced right off the stage and into the crowd, swinging around as Marini moved center stage to crank out a solo. With the focus off them, they were able to swing right back onto the stage and through the small opening to the area behind the stage. He could still hear the band, but it was muffled.

“You think that creep’s waitin’ for us back here?” Akroid asked.

“I sure fucking hope not. Could do without running from his slimy ass too.”

Joilet whipped open the door, ready to run from whoever Kilrun left to deal with them back here. What they were greeted with instead was a troll leaning on the nearby wall wearing a tight, long sleeved red dress that pooled onto the floor. Yellow and orange flowers, though Joilet wasn’t sure what kind, outlined her skirt. A large, black wide brimmed hat wrapped outlined in string lights covered her whole face. When the door closed, they looked up, revealing a noticeable pair of fins and tyrian pink eyes.

A fuschiablood.

“So...you must be the two trolls I was informed of.” She gave the two a grin filled with those sharp seadweller teeth, just as predatory as the indigoblood earlier, but for some reason it didn’t feel directed toward either of them. “Ran into your two bandmates earlier. He gave me a heads up you might be headed back this way before you run off.”

“Who the hell’re you?” Joilet asked.

“Call me Mayola. You two pissed off those buncha entitled rich fucks who think they’re better than everyone else right?”

Joilet and Akroid glanced at each other in silence. “What about it?”

“I’d like to bring you and your band on for Sandyhorn’s next festival. You two would make a great fit.” She pulled a thick envelope, quite obviously stuffed thick with cash, out of seemingly nowhere and handed it to Joilet. “Consider this a down payment. You’ll get the rest when I see ya there.”

Joilet thumbed through the money, eyeing her. This was a lot. More than he they could’ve gotten from this gig alone. “Yeah sure. Sounds like a deal.”

“Hey, just one problem.” Akroid jutted his thumb out toward the direction of the ball beyond them. “All those goons seem to have caught on our tail and we can’t perform unless we get outta here without goin’ to prison.”

Her face brightened. “Oh well that’s an easy one. Here, follow me.” She pushed herself off the wall and sauntered toward the door, that red dress almost appearing to shimmer in the dim lighting. With a quick motion of her wrist, she opened the door into the back of the stage. Only a few further steps in, and she leaned down and pulled at a small hitch in the floor. A trapdoor immediately popped up without a sound. “Found this out the other day when I couldn’t sleep. Should lead outside without a hitch, though you might have to go through some sewers.”

She looked up at them, eyes wild and filled with pride, catching the two troll’s equally bewildered and ecstatic expressions. “You’re brilliant!” Akroid exclaimed. “Amazing! Fantastic! Wonder--”

She held up a hand. “Save your praises for later. For now...just think of me as today’s savior.”

#my writing #fanfiction #should i tag any characters?#the only regular one only has a few lines #....eh tagging barely works on tumblr anyway

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shootwinterfest · 6 years ago

Text

we only have this moment

Shoot Secret Santa by @youre-lacking-vitamin-me!

Despite their day jobs (or maybe because of them), Root and Shaw manage to hit all the “normal” relationship milestones. In their own way, of course.

-------------------------

LOVE LETTERS

(the way to a girl’s heart is long and winding, especially if it’s her digestive tract)

The postcard sticks out like a sore thumb.

Probably because it’s in-between six hundred kilos of cocaine, John thinks, not bothering to put on gloves as he reaches for the glossy paper. It’s probably fine: there are fingerprints on everything from the steering wheel to the tiny plastic baggies in the dealers’ coat pockets – they probably won’t need some horribly kitschy postcard with a generic beach background and a WordArt ‘Havana!’ on it for evidence.

It’s the kind of thing that diplomatically-minded people – people like Finch – would gently suggest exchanging for a different one, maybe one that looks less dated? Slightly less tactful individuals, not to mention names but – okay, Shaw – on the other hand, would probably set it on fire.

John sighs and turns it around to look for an address or maybe a name or any identi – oh God.

The back – if at all possible – is worse: it’s literally covered in those pointy S’s he vaguely remembers sketching on his notebooks back in middle school. Hundreds of iterations of the same letter, in various sizes, are littered across the surface. It looks like a high school desk; or worse, one of those rappers nowadays with all the facial tattoos.

He tucks it into his jacket pocket, shuddering at the thought of having to choose between paperwork and Shaw’s wrath. But there’s no escaping it, so he trudges down the alley that will seal his fate.

---------------

Back at the subway station, he drops The Abomination™ as he passes by Shaw. It flutters – turns in the air – catches on a breeze that smacks it into the wall – floats lazily down to land just left of her foot. She doesn’t even glance at it.

“Pick up your trash,” is what he gets instead.

“It’s not trash,” is all John gets out before he remembers that yes, yes it is; it is absolute garbage and why do they even keep picking them up? He motions to an alcove where four other sheets of pointy S-adorned paper – a scrunched-up note, an advertisement flyer, some high schooler’s art project, a torn bit of newspaper – hang menacingly. “It’s another one of those.”

---------------

Three weeks, seven papers and two rolls of masking tape later, a form begins to take shape.

“It’s a heart,” Harold remarks, and it’s the absolute wrong thing to say, judging by the way Shaw is reaching for the gun on her thigh. “I mean! It… is? But who would –”

“Three guesses, Finch,” Shaw grinds out.

John adds, “And the first two don’t count.”

---------------

“Don’t you think it’s romantic?”

“It’s creepy.”

“But it’s how everyone in middle school used to get a date!”

“Like that didn’t just prove ‘creepy’,” John mutters.

Shaw doesn’t pay him any attention, “You’re taking dating advice from how fourteen year-olds ask each other out? Twenty years ago?!”

“Worked back then,” Root shrugs, mildly offended that her masterpiece isn’t being appreciated. Fourteen hundred and six pointy S’s – the initials of Sameen Shaw – and counting. It looks beautiful up on the subway wall – could use a little more lighting, and the last piece, of course… and apparently more masking tape, considering Sameen just ripped the whole thing down the middle.

“This,” Shaw shakes the offending swathe of paper and launches it onto the subway tracks, “is not how you get someone to go out on a date with you,” she spits out, marching off with John and Harold limping after her.

---------------

That’s what she says… until the last piece arrives as a large stuffed-crust pizza decorated with a pointy S made of pepperoni slices. With Root in full pizza delivery girl getup.

She tips her cap, “How about now, Sam?”

Shaw’s cheeks are bursting, her eyes roving up and down the red uniform. “… only if there’s more pizza involved.”

-------------------------

SLEEPING TOGETHER

(love may not mean letting them walk all over you, but it does mean being a mattress once in a while)

Sameen can barely blink herself awake before she hears the stressed, “Don’t move, Miss Shaw,” from six feet to her left.

“Finch, wha-”

“Don’t. Move.”

Something kicks into overdrive. She’s been in this situation before. Given, only a handful of times, and she’d been lucky to have expert bomb defusers near her the first two and Cole the last time around, but she’s survived stepping on pressure plates and triggering trip wires – now’s no different.

Except it is. A cursory glance around shows her she’s still in the subway, there is no call to panic stations, and nobody is ordering her to stand on the edge of her foot for the foreseeable future – probably because she’s lying down.

Until she sees who is next to her in the makeshift bed. And groans. Because of course she’s here now, after weeks of radio silence and general wondering where the hell the other woman had pissed off to next.

Sameen doesn’t realise it now – won’t realise it until it’s much, much too late – but somehow, Root is everywhere: hidden amongst the computer junk and too-big clothes flung left, right and centre across their – the, not their – apartment, collected as notes and pictures in-between the pages her copy of Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám… and possibly in whatever remains of her heart.

And now she’s also tucked into Shaw’s side, clutching a fistful of tank top and drooling on have-seen-better-days blue sheets. Also hogging all the blankets.

“Really, Finch?”

“Shh sh sh sh shhhh!!!!!” he motions wildly with his arms and touches a finger to his mouth in what she assumes is supposed to be a placating gesture. Shaw flops down none too gently, but it does the trick, and he continues, “Miss Groves returned yesterday evening after a run-in with some of Samaritan’s agents – her friends, Mister Casey and Mister Daizo – were able to apprehend them before they could do any real damage… other than that to themselves.” He turns a little green at the thought of Samaritan’s lunatics offing themselves, but composes himself. “She’s busy sleeping off whatever drug cocktail they injected her with, although judging by her recent sleep patterns, it might be a while before she wakes up.”

Shaw only raises an eyebrow.

Finch swallows, clears his throat. “Miss Groves needs this sleep, Miss Shaw, so if you could find it within yourself to stay still for a few more hours…” his gaze drifts off to the mess of brown curls spread across the pillows, “… it would be much appreciated.”

Shaw rolls her eyes, tries to shift so Root is lying less on her arm and more on her own. It doesn’t work. Not exactly the way she planned on spending her Thursday morning, but –

“What about Mister…” Food. Something about food. Pasta? Couscous? “… our current target?”

“Ah, yes! As luck would have it, Mister Reese has already apprehended Mister Rice, the gentleman you were following yesterday, and we haven’t received another number yet.”

The mark’s name has Shaw’s stomach growling; a corner of Finch’s mouth ticks up.

“Is there anything I can get you that could help during these… trying times?” he asks, doing his best not to piss Shaw off any more, but still not willing to quite give up on the teasing tone.

“Burrito… s. And Bear.” She glances at the cocoon Root has managed to tangle herself up into. “… and another blanket.”

“Right away, Miss Shaw,” he motions for Bear to come, asks him to zit, Bear! Mooie hond! En ga maar slapen – blif hier, grabs his hat and the last bedspread on the table, offers it to the angry assassin before taking his leave.

Harold pretends not to notice Sameen tucking the blankets more securely around Root as he closes the door behind him.

-------------------------

MEETING THE PARENTS

(a mother always knows)

“Sameen?” Root startles, and instantly knows she’s screwed up.

The woman in front of her stands ramrod still, using oh-so familiar eyes to rove over her leather jacket and the laptop in her free hand and the way she shifts to adjust her falling bra strap. They linger on the visible portion of her cochlear implant (Root wants to curl her fingers up to her ear and push her hair back over the offending instrument, but she’s terrified that a single move will send the lady running, and she can’t have that – not yet) before meeting her eyes; beautiful, but so, so guarded.

The accent is obvious, and the grammar isn’t perfect, but the words shake something deep in her core anyway, “I am sorry, but afraid I am not my daughter.”

And Root knows that – because Shaw is three thousand miles away, pulling herself through an air vent while shouting profanities loudly enough that she might as well be right next to her; Root’s arm, along with the phone, falls to her side, the still-connected call forgotten.

It’s like looking twenty years into the future, wondering if she’ll ever get the opportunity to see the real thing. Nothing and no-one is safe, as the hundreds of scars between them prove time and time again, but right now, she’s looking into an older woman’s eyes and finds some part of Sameen staring right back.

Until she isn’t. The tinny sound of Sameen’s voice yelling “Root! Where the fuck did you go? Oi, Root!” forces those eyes to the phone in Root’s hand, and she shouldn’t be able to see the screen lighting up with Sam scrawled all over it, but for whatever reason, she’s smiling anyway. It’s almost like she knows –

A mother always knows, Sam, Root hears her own mother say to a girl who no longer exists.

Brown eyes lift back up, twinkling in amusement. “She has always had terrible potty mouth, that one.” The woman turns to leave, but gives Root a once-over, calculating, appraising. There’s a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Take good care of her, Miss Root,” she murmurs, and then she’s gone as quickly as she appeared.

Four minutes and fifty-three seconds too late, a young woman standing just outside of Houston’s city centre whispers, “Yes, Mrs Shaw,” to no-one but herself.

-------------------------

HAVING CHILDREN

(or, well, you know; dealing with the one that actually matters)

“You know, when you said that you’d be ‘coming around sometime this week’, I kind of expected it to be for a ‘haven’t seen you in three years; how’ve you been?’ reason rather than a ‘one of your classmates is next in line to be head of the Bartonelli crime syndicate but their half-whatever wants them dead so here I am to save the day’ reason.”

Shaw blinks at Gen over the rim of her milkshake. Wonders whom she has to sleep with around here to have her drink Irished up so she doesn’t need to have this conversation. Then she remembers that she’s in a McDonalds and that alcohol consumption is frowned upon at eleven in the morning and that Root is the Machine-only-knows-where, so there goes that plan.

Gen doesn’t give up, “Where’re John and Mr Finch?”

“Unavailable.”

“So why are you here?”

“Lovely question.” She slurps at the milkshake

Gen leans to the left, trying to get a glimpse of whatever is down the aisle. Her eyebrows shoot up into her hairline at whatever she sees, “Why’s Miss Davenport here?”

“Who?”

“Dee eye-thea teasha,” Gen supplies through a mouthful of burger. Some swallowing later, she repeats, “The IT teacher. Well, one of them. She’s new – all the boys and even some of the girls are madly in love with her because she’s got gorgeous brown hair and wears really tight jeans.” She gnaws on her lip and contemplates her burger before continuing, “And if rumours are to be believed, she hacked her way into the county test score database and gave everybody forty-two percent.”

“She sounds familiar.”

“She’s also walking towards us.”

Shaw turns around just as someone – Miss Davenport? – appears at her shoulder and bends down to push a straw into what’s left of her melting milkshake. A manicured hand wraps around the glass, displacing the condensation, and Shaw follows it to a pale arm to the sleeve of a black blouse to –

“Hi, Sameen,” Root hums, and presses a kiss to Shaw’s cheek.

---------------

“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Sam?”

Root looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Shaw wants a drink with an alcohol content of at least 40 percent. Gen is… still gaping.

“Shut your trap – the flies are coming in.”

She does – and promptly bites her tongue. Sameen sighs and pushes her now more milk than shake in Gen’s direction; she moves to begin picking at her now-lukewarm fries, but has to swat away a hand before she can pull the box closer, away from the fry-snatcher (more like try-snatcher) slouching in the booth opposite with her too-tight jeans and gorgeous hair. Shaw would throw a chip at it to ruin in, but the idea of wasted food makes her decide to pop it in her mouth instead.

Root’s still looking at her expectantly, saccharine smile never wavering.

There’s a huge chunk of burger in her mouth, so Shaw just nods her head in Gen’s direction, “Djenn,” before kicking the hacker under the table, introducing her as, “Woot.” She swallows and glares, picking at her teeth. “Don’t discuss. Some of us are still eating.”

They don’t. They start talking about her instead.

Which is infinitely worse.

---------------

“Why Regina Bartonelli, anyway?” huffs Gen as she trudges up the stairs to her dormitory, playing with her keys to find the right one.

“Why not Regina Bartonelli?” Root counters, smirking, like she knows where this is going. Shaw doesn’t, but she motions at a door, imploring the girl between them to unlock it so she can enjoy the scotch stashed in one of Finch’s computer tower skeletons.

Gen has to think about that. “I… she… it always seems like she’s at the centre of everything. Nicest art project, so everyone crowds around. Her house is apparently so huge it’s bigger than the school!” She tugs the door open. “And, well. She’s pretty much the prettiest girl in our grade…”

Ah.

“And you’ve noticed, have you?” Shaw teases. Gen – outraged and burning red to her ears – slams the door in their faces.

Root swoons dramatically before throwing herself into Shaw’s arms, crocodile tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “Oh!” she sniffs less-than-delicately, “they grow up so fast, don’t they?” and Sameen bursts out laughing.

-------------------------

MEETING THE PARENTS (REPRISE)

(just because the dead can’t hear you, doesn’t mean you didn’t say anything)

“Your daughter’s in love with a sociopath,” Shaw greets the headstone in front of her, and wonders what in seven hells she’s doing.

Although, to be fair, it isn’t like she can have this conversation with anyone else.

Fusco would offer her a confused nod, a pat on the back, and a platitude he’d remembered from whatever book he’s currently skimming over. And maybe a donut he still has left from lunch. Finch would clap his hands over his ears two words into the first sentence. The Machine would use anything she said as information for the next sorry sucker that needs advice. Zoe would tell her to put a ring on it.

That doesn’t really leave anyone. Except maybe John.

Wonderboy is interested, and sympathetic, but she doesn’t know how to explain to someone who has feelings that she’s not doing whatever-this-is with Root because of some weird outpouring of hormones and neurotransmitters and – you know what, she totally is. Why isn’t she having this conversation with John?

She’s halfway into getting up before she realises she drove two hundred miles out of her way to have this not-a-discussion with a dead woman. Back to squatting. Might as well have the talk now.

The wind comes up, tugging at her hair and clothes, throwing dust in the air. Even as she sits here, at the edge of the potter’s field on the outskirts of Bishop, Shaw doesn’t think she could ever understand how forlorn Root must have felt in this town.

Mrs Groves doesn’t say anything. Her name stares back up at Shaw from the small, grey headstone, and in that moment, means absolutely nothing. But this does:

“And, well…,” Sameen pauses, thinks of the words. “I… I think that, if – if I could love anyone… it’d be her.”

-------------------------

BEING A FAMILY

(this is love – in finale)

“Excellent food you have here,” Sameen comments before heartily biting into the pepper steak she’d snaffled from the pan. “Really top-notch. Almost like alcohol at parties without adult supervision.”

“Please don’t chew with your mouth full, Miss Shaw,” Harold reprimands reflexively as he puts down the second bowl of roast potatoes, smiling despite himself.

“Oh, never mind, mom is here,” she teases, moving to scoop another helping of spuds on her plate before John can get at them.

They’re supposed to be celebrating Christmas, because while we may not have a normal lifestyle, we shouldn’t shun the incorporation of at least some normalcy into our lives, some part of Finch’s speech creeps unbidden into her thoughts; even though Shaw doesn’t do Christmas, she does do food and alcohol and good company on the rare occasion such as this one, and it feels warm, comfortable, like home.

There’s some clinking in the background that draws her back to the present, where she hears, “… so if I may make a toast –” Harold invites them all to do as he does, lifts his glass… and says nothing. Despite his ten-minute speech yesterday about embracing the holiday spirit and ensuring we do not lose our moral fibre, he’s completely at a loss for words. Quiet tears begin slipping down his cheeks.

“Hear, hear,” John murmurs, pulling Harold back into his seat. She lifts her glass and tips it in the general direction of the table, turns to Root to do the same. But Root isn’t there.

Well, she is. But not really. She’s lost in the Christmas lights and cheer and atmosphere, looking around as if to capture it all, as if it will all be gone tomorrow. In one go-around, they catch each other’s eye: Root smiles shyly, and Shaw finds herself gazing directly at the insecure twelve year-old girl that’s usually simmering beneath the surface. Her eyes are almost glazed over in wonder at the mess of tinsel and fairy lights and assorted baubles that Bear dragged around the subway earlier this morning. If her mother ever had to see this place, she’d probably have a cadenza.

But right now: “It’s Christmas, Sameen,” she whispers, fingers grasping at Shaw’s hoodie as if to anchor herself back to the ground.

To help, Sameen shifts closer, presses her leg against Root’s thigh, and tucks their heads together conspiratorially. The now less-full glass is held up, daring Root to bring hers closer, to make sure this is real.

“Here’s to us,” she grins, and clinks their glasses together.

#shootsecretsanta #shootsecretsanta2018 #shoot #person of interest #youre-lacking-vitamin-me

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verrottweil · 6 years ago

Text

as snow to fire

intro to this wip multi-chap thing i’m writing. this piece in particular is gen.

inspired by and dedicated to the amazing artworks here. please check them out, you won’t regret it!

can also be read here

main characters: spearman & goblin slayer

They made it back to the Guild just in time. The storm's finally caught up; the rain rattles against the building, and the wind is a madman's howl through the streets. It's hard to tell whether it'll be over in a few minutes or will last the whole damn night. Spearman wipes the sweat and grime off his face with the back of his hand, wincing when he catches the gash on his cheek.The blue-dyed leather of his glove comes back blood-stained. Shit. Must've peeled the scab off. Witch tuts disapprovingly and rummages around in her pouch, then hands him a perfumed handkerchief. Her lips curl into a lazy smile. Indulgent.

During the trek back to town Spearman daydreamed about how he’d report back to Guild Girl and how cool he’d look, now he has to stand there at the counter with a hankie pressed to his cheek. Unless...

Turning to his companion with puppy dog eyes, Spearman wheedles, “You have one spell left. Can't you work some magic on me, for a job well done?”

Witch raises a brow and while pretending to mull over his request, she daintily crosses one leg over the other. The candlelight flickers over her features, her generous cleavage. With a tilt of the head, she regards him and answers unhurriedly, “If I were to. You would lose your mark of heroism. No?”

Catching Guild Girl shuffle through a stack of papers from his peripheral, Spearman deflates a little. Witch rolls her eyes and lights her pipe. Maybe Guild Girl would fuss over him for a change? He pokes his tongue to the inside of his cheek, pressing his palm harder to the cut. She always bends over backwards for Goblin Slayer when he gets back from a quest. Resentment rears its ugly head at the thought. Spearman doesn't have the energy to pretend he never noticed how badly she crushes on Goblin Slayer. The fight with those bandits took a lot more than he anticipated.

It would be nice to have Guild Girl smile at him like she means it though.

The massive wooden door opens with a shuddery creak. Spearman groans when he sees Goblin Slayer in the open doorway-- after five years, he recognizes the silhouette of that dirt cheap helmet immediately. A spray of rain gets blown into the hall. Goblin Slayer and his party file inside, striking a more pitiful sight than usual, soaked to the bone and stupid tired from their adventure. Speak of the devil. They shuffle over to the front desk, their shadows crooked on the floorboards.

With a huff, Spearman watches how Guild Girl perks up considerably. “I don't get it,” he whines, clenching his hands into fists. “What's so special about him?”

It was strictly rhetorical. So he certainly didn't expect his companion to reply: “You could try to find out… maybe? He is perhaps more, than he seems. At first glance.” When she notices she has his attention, Witch takes a puff of her pipe-- thin wisps of faint purple smoke float to the ceiling. She adds coyly, “Now is a good time, as any. Don't you agree?”

“Wanna bet there are just more goblins at second glance?” Spearman mutters derisively, shifting his weapon from shoulder. No response. He glances at the front desk.

Still, there's gotta be something worthwhile about the guy.

Guild Girl's dropped everything now Goblin Slayer's in front of her. Her hands are flat on the countertop as she listens captively to Goblin Slayer's report, no doubt standing on the tips of her toes to catch every word. Humming to himself, Spearman concedes Witch has a point. After all, for the entirety of Spearman's adventuring career Goblin Slayer has been this 'goblin-obsessed weirdo’ on the backdrop, and he never really bothered to get to know him better. Witch tips her head back and regards him with narrowed eyes. A long shadow falls over the slope of her throat.

Handing the bloodied handkerchief back, Spearman makes a face and says aloud, “Okay, okay, I guess you're right... Hey, you up for a drink?”

The corners of Witch's mouth curl into a smile. She rises languidly from her seat, with the grace of a cat stretching under the midday sun. Together they head over to the front desk. Goblin Slayer's party doesn't require much convincing; the prospect of drink, food and the tavern’s grand fireplace easily tides them over. Only Goblin Slayer himself remains hesitant. Spearman figures the guy had probably planned to get back to that farm right away.

“Gah you can't be serious, Orcbolg!” High Elf Archer exclaims loudly, hands on her hips and eyebrows furrowed.

Before she can berate him in earnest, Dwarf Shaman pitches in, “Come now, Beard-cutter. You've walked through the same storm as us. It's better to sit this one out. And you might as well fill your stomach while you're at it.”

Even Guild Girl nods in agreement at the dwarf's words. Cornered, Goblin Slayer tenses up, making this soft, confused sound that Spearman would've never heard if he hadn't been standing so close to him. The heavy rainfall drowns out most noise.

“I see,” Goblin Slayer murmurs. Water drips down the expanse of his chest piece, and the fur of his collar's wet, weighed down. Dried blood on the buckler around his arm. His leather boots caked with mud. Other adventurers always turn up their nose when they see him in his gear, but he's downright sorry-looking now.

Spearman snaps his gaze back to the visor of that cheap helmet when Goblin Slayer slowly says, “Alright.”

The tavern's awash with warmth. The padfoot waitress flits between tables on nimble feet, the skirt of her uniform bellowing around her legs. Rookie and veteran adventurers are clustered in groups of four or five. Chattering excitedly or raising their tankards in a festive toast. Spearman greets those he knows and leads the exhausted party to the table closest by the hearth. The firewood crackles pleasantly. Soot papering the stone foundation. Lizard Priest takes the head of the table. His hulking form cuts an impressive figure; the priestly garments he wears are wet-stuck to his scales, like a second skin. Dwarf Shaman and High Elf Archer settle down on each side.

“--And I'm telling you that it doesn't count, you stubborn dwarf!” She shrieks, shrill, while the dwarf bursts out laughing. Spearman wasn't really following their argument, about the merits of dwarven crossbows or something; most of his attention had been focused on Goblin Slayer and Priestess. It's oddly endearing, watching this girl hover around the guy like a tiny mother hen.

Her sounding staff gleams with raindrops, firelit. She holds onto it tightly when she chastises him. “You shouldn't have flooded the outpost.”

“The river was close by,” Goblin Slayer replies, carefully unbuckling the worn leather clasp of his shield.

Priestess puffs out her cheeks. Some strands of honey blond hair are plastered to her face. “Can't you be a bit more considerate? You know she doesn't like it when you use fire, water or poison in fights… What if-- what if you altered the river's course?”

“Not by much,” he murmurs in response, placing the scabbard of his sword down in front of the fireplace. The glow of the flames washes over his back like an orange wave. “Give me your cloak,” he then says, holding out his hand.

“Ah, right!” Priestess exclaims, quickly shrugging off the oversized, coarse cloak. Goblin Slayer spreads it out to dry on the floorboards.

Spearman watches the exchange with a smile. He places his spear against the wall and turns to the table, intending to take the seat next to Witch. Their eyes meet, and she smirks, her eyes half-hooded. The tip of her pointy hat droops sideways when she props her elbow on the tabletop and rests her chin on her knuckles. Her gaze falls on Priestess, who blushes under its intensity. Huh, cute.

Witch addresses her directly. “Won't you come sit.” Here she pats the spot next to her. “I would like to hear. About your adventure. Would that be… alright? I am sure, you must have much to tell.” She remarks gently, her voice lilting like a lullaby.

“Yes!” Priestess stutters around the y, grabbing the skirts of her robes with two fistfuls. “I mean of course, that wouldn't be a problem at all.” The skin peeking above her thigh highs a bright red from the cold.

With a sigh, Spearman settles down onto the bench, leaving space for Goblin Slayer. The wood groans under his added weight.

They order soup with full wheat bread on the side, roast for supper with pears and wild cranberries, a platter of grilled winter vegetables for High Elf Archer, and an assortment of cheese for Lizard Priest. The padfoot waitress serves them tankards of rich grape wine. Spearman listens attentively to Dwarf Shaman’s and Priestess’ retelling of their adventure, interspersed by High Elf Archer’s indignant squawks whenever the dwarf makes a joke at her expense and by Goblin Slayer’s remarks. He hasn’t bothered removing his helmet. The torn red ribbon sticks flatly to the metal.

“So what did you guys do?!” High Elf Archer asks, pounding her tankard onto the tabletop -- Lizard Priest gingerly picks up his plate and shoots her a look. Always excited to hear about “real” adventures that one. Her cheeks flushed already.

Spearman takes a big gulp from his drink, wipes his chin and answers, “Cleared a bandit camp. On the mountain pass way up north.”

From the corner of his eye he gauges Goblin Slayer for a reaction. The guy remains impassive, giving no indication he’s heard him speak up in the first place, spooning mouthfuls of food through the slits of his faceguard.

Turning back to High Elf Archer, Spearman continues, “There must’ve been a dozen of ‘em, right. Burly. Tough. Armed to the teeth.”

“Tell us what happened!” She eggs him on loudly, grinning wide. Her companions nod in agreement; all eyes suddenly trained on him.

Basking in the attention, Spearman recounts the events of the day. How they trekked through the tall grass, the frozen ground like rock under their heels, and cautiously made their way to the encampment on the bluff overlooking the mountain pass. They smoked out the bandits. Set the wooden fortification ablaze with a simple fire spell. When he gets to the fight, Spearman becomes animated, gesturing wildly to emphasize certain parts, sometimes bumping into Goblin Slayer next to him. He took on ten bandits at the same time. Only one got to him, socked him in the face with a gauntleted fist.

Lizard Priest folds his paws together, eyes squinted half-shut, and offers, “I could heal that cut for you if you so pleased, milord Spearman.”

Spearman’s caught of guard for a moment. Witch flashes him a knowing look, and he declines casually, “Nah… Wouldn’t want to lose my battlescar.” He turns to Goblin Slayer and asks with a wink, “How else would people know I’m an adventurer, right?”

“You look like one,” Goblin Slayer deadpans in response. To Spearman’s surprise, the other members of the party start laughing, as if the guy just cracked a joke.

Unsure of how to react, Spearman tips back the rest of his wine. A bit too fast, because it clogs at the well of his throat, the taste sticking to his palate like honey. He swallows, curt. Tries not to acknowledge that Goblin Slayer is still watching him. His head angled to the side, the fire’s glow lining the back of his helmet with a streak of gold. Did he offend him or something? The tavern turns rowdy when two adventurers start an armwrestling competition at the bar. Spearman peers at the gathering crowd past Goblin Slayer.

High Elf Archer slams her tankard down on the table in cheer and hops off the bench. “Let's go watch!” She commands, half-drunk. Dwarf Shaman strokes his beard and slips out of his seat as well, keeping his cup of fire-wine in hand. Satisfied, the elf turns to Goblin Slayer and says, “Orcbolg, you too!”

“It stopped raining,” he says matter-of-fact.

Lizard Priest casts a glance over his shoulder, at the lead-stained window behind him and hums in acknowledgement. “Indeed it has, milord Goblin Slayer.” His paws are pressed together again, eyes scrunched shut, like a cat's when petted. “I believe you would prefer to take your leave then?”

It dawns on Spearman that Goblin Slayer had been looking past him, not at him. His lips press into a thin line.

“Oh,” Priestess exhales, almost inaudible over the pleasant crackling of the firewood and the shouting match near the counter. Her hair's dried, frazzled around the cheeks. In need of a good brush. She regards him intently when saying, “Please be careful on your way home.”

“I will,” Goblin Slayer promises, getting up from the bench under a barrage of complaints from High Elf Archer. Her voice crowding out the drunken struggle at the bar.

He drops a leather bag of coin onto the table and fetches his weapons.

Spearman crosses his arms in front of his chest, bouncing his leg impatiently. His expression pinches up when Witch bumps her foot against his ankle and levels him a look. Her eyes gleam under the brim of her hat, the smile on her face duplicitous. After years of fighting back to back, they learned to communicate by body language alone. With a tilt of the head Witch nudges him onwards. He heaves a sigh, surrenders. And then slams his fist onto the table, getting up.

High Elf Archer startles at the unexpected sound. Her lecture brought to an abrupt ending. Dwarf Shaman takes a gulp of fire-wine, peering up at him from underneath thick bristly eyebrows when he stands at full height.

Spearman sheepishly scratches his nose and announces, “I figured I'd come with... All this wine is getting to my head y'know, and I need some fresh air.” He jerks his head in Goblin Slayer's direction and asks, “You don't mind, do ya?”

Goblin Slayer bows his head, caught in the firelight, and mutters, “Do as you wish.”

The hollowed-out sound of his voice would scotch any attempt at accompanying him, but Spearman just grins. He then looks over at Witch and catches Priestess shaking her head helplessly next to her. When she notices him staring, she gives him a self-effacing smile, as if to say you get used to it. It serves to boost his confidence even further.

Taking his spear in hand, Spearman says brightly, “Right! Lead on, then.”

Thawed-out and wet, the muddy underground sucks at their boots; the wind whips mercilessly against his bare cheeks. The cut on his cheek throbs from the cold. Spearman wipes at his watery eyes and follows Goblin Slayer's shadowy form down the dirt road, both moons looming behind a slumber of clouds. In the first month of the new year, the weather always fluctuates between bitter frost, and cool and rainy. The candlelight from the lanterns around their hips sloshes unsteadily with every step. It spills over the mud like oil.

Spearman licks his dry-cracked lips. They haven't exchanged a single word since leaving the tavern, and the silence rings between his ears heavier than the wind around them. He'd wanted to breach the subject conversationally. Why goblins? Don't you care about anything else?

But the cold leaves him wrung-out, with the sound of his voice dying stillborn past his teeth.

After another few minutes of walking, Spearman wagers a gamble. He's the frontier's strongest, gods be damned, and he's faced worse than a talk with a fellow adventurer. Balling his hands into fists -- closed tighter than a padlock, he strides up to Goblin Slayer. His squelching footsteps echoing bravely in the dark.

“So,” Spearman begins, his breath a wet fog. “What's your deal, anyway? With goblins, I mean. You never wanna move on to bigger game?”

Goblin Slayer looks at him from over his shoulder, a courtesy for him, and replies curtly, “No.”

“Well why not?” Spearman presses on, courageous. “You could if you wanted to, y'know. Remember when we handled that sorcerer in his big white tower? Lil’ bit more practice and you'd be a great scout.”

“Not interested,” Goblin Slayer answers, pulling the threadbare cloak up to his chin, drawn tight over the span of his back.

The few trees near the road rustle their branches -- aspen, birches, a dried-out oak. A harrowing sound.

Spearman combs a gloved hand through his hair, exhales through his nose, loud like a bull. He makes another ditch effort. “You've got two cute girls in your party. Aren't you even a little bit interested in one of them? And with Guild Girl smiling at you like…” He trails off, swallows. Sounding too sour for his own ears. “And what about that farm girl? You went out on a limb for her farm, and okay, there were goblins too, but don't try and--”

“Not every farm gets saved.”

He snaps his head up, gives Goblin Slayer a surprised stare. The wind like a whiplash against his skin. Goblin Slayer's lantern lights up his belly, his chest, but leaves his helmet to the dark. Just a glint of metal.

This guy, Spearman thinks, why would he say something like that all of a sudden. Inarticulate, he manages, “What?”

“Not every farm, not every village gets saved,” Goblin Slayer says slowly. “Mine didn't.”

They stop walking. The hemline of that threadbare cloak bellows in the wind; Spearman can hardly differentiate the outline against the dark. He shifts his spear from shoulder. The weight of his weapon a comfort. He tries to peer between the grates of Goblin Slayer's visor, trying to glimpse his eyes. They were reddish, weren't they?--he remembers from that celebration at the Guild, when he took his helmet off and…

“We’re already far from town,” Goblin Slayer turns towards the frontier town, towards the lights in the distance. You should head back remains unsaid.

The dismissal stings, worse than his cheek does, but his curiosity grows voracious, threatening to pull the tell me out into the open. Spearman falters. Wants to do something outrageous like reach out to him, grab him by the shoulders and rattle him a little, shake the whole confession out of him. He blinks, owlish.

“Right,” he mutters lamely, forcing a grin. “Guess I should get going then… See ya!”

Goblin Slayer remains unmoved, holding onto the rusted handle of the lantern tied around his waist. The candle wobbles on its iron perch. “Yes,” Goblin Slayer says then, simply assessing him. "I will probably see you at the Guild."

Spearman rubs the back of his neck, takes a step backwards. Another one. His foot sinking into the mud. He awkwardly balances his spear against his shoulder, not wanting to dirty the weapon, and turns to the opposite direction. The red moon peeks through wisps of clouds overhead. He takes a steadying breath and treks homewards, feeling the wind beat against his back like children's fists. His stomach in knots.

For the first time, he's looking forward to seeing Goblin Slayer again.

#spearman #goblin slayer #my writing #fanfic #goblin slayer fanfic #priestess #high elf archer #dwarf shaman #witch #lizard priest #guild girl

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oc-review-shop · 7 years ago

Text

Puella Magi Madoka Magica OC: Luna Yuzuki

Submitted by: daniluni

Reviewed by: Mod Charle

Whe My first PMMM oc

Name: Luna Yuzuki Age at magical girl contract: 10 Time as a magical girl in main timeline: around 2 years Wish: To be a classical witch, with hexes, magic and curses. (She can only cause minor inconveniences though) Reasoning behind this wish: Because she wanted take revenge on her elder sister Selene’s bullies, who shunned,belittled and beat her up.

I feel like you need more reasoning behind her wish to become a classical witch. In this scenario with Luna’s sister being bullied, I would assume Luna would simply tell Kyubey “give me the power to protect my sister”. I don’t think her wish would be to “become a classical witch”. However, you can still incorporate the classical witch appearance into Luna’s magical girl form, if she read many fairy tale books as a child and such.

Weapon: a cat shaped broom, which can float and support her weight, shoot beams of light (which are more like distractions) and be used as a staff (her method of fighting).

I’m not gonna lie, I really dig this weapon. She was 10 years old at the time of her contract which would explain the cuteness of her weapon. It’s also really useful and reliable at the same time.

Appareance and uniform: She is a short magical girl, with freckles gray eyes and long bushy hair, she wears a lavender poofy shirt with poofy sleeves, a dark purple vest with a big pink ribbon located at the heart position with her red soul gem there , a dark purple bubble skirt (with frills!), pink and lavender stockings, dark purple shoes with ribbons, and a pointy dark purple hat with a ribbon

First of all, I don’t think you mentioned her hair color. Second of all, I feel like her outfit might need some tweaking. She does give off a Selena Grace vibe (I assume a lot of your OC was influenced by her) yet it doesn’t fit your idea of a witch. I think it would be better if her colors were a little more on the darker side. The ribbons are a good touch since they add to her innocence and young age, but her outfit in general should look more like a witch (pointed shoes, spiky-ish sleeves) but I do LOVE the bubble skirt.

Personality: Frank, Stubborn,Supportive, Efusive,Sees things in black and white, Friendly, Energetic

She may be a little contradicting in herself, but it could work out.

Pre Contract and encounter with Kyubey: Luna and her sister Selene lived in England with their mother Chandra who often told them fairy tale stories

I hope these are stories about witches and fairy tales

and their father Kosuke, their lives where quiet and happy since Luna and Selene lived basically all their lives there, but, alas, good things had to end, after Chandra died of heart failure and there was no way of contacting Chandra’s parent’s, they had to move to Japan and start anew, while Luna adapted rather quickly, making some friends and becoming mildly popular, Selene had a lot of trouble due to being a slow learner, having a stutter, and a more withdrawn personality, being a clumsy pushover which annoyed a certain group of girls (3 girls) who decided to pick up on her which hurt Selene’s already low self steem, and she started to develop a strong depression, starting to not care about anything.

Although the point of moving to Japan was to give Luna a chance to see Selene’s bullying, they didn’t necessarily have to move to Japan specifically. Japan doesn’t have any significant purpose in Luna’s story unless there is specific development in her character with one of the other present magical girls (although I do like it when OC’s keep their interactions and developments to themselves, especially in the PMMM world). There are magical girls all over the world, so London could have sufficed for the setting.

When Luna was taking care of Selene she spotted a catlike figure stealing something from her desk, and she ran to catch the thief , throwing things at them, and yelling angrily and through tears “You can’t have that! It’s from my sister and it makes her happy” the figure revealed itself to be Kyubey, who apologized and asked her for a contract… and she accepted.

Kyubey is a goddamn hoe

However, like I said, a more realistic wish for Luna would be for the ability to protect her older sister or something around that.

Despair: While things seemed to go better for Selene, her Bullies weren’t quite happy with that, because they had inconveniences over inconveniences, that often got them suspended (They tripped on their faces on P.E, broke their pens, got their uniforms splashed, arriving very late) they decided Selene was a jinx/bad luck bringer and decided to put the entire classroom against her, and Selene couldn’t take it anymore, when Luna went to the restroom, she found the dead body of her sister, with vomit stains and an emptied out bottle of floor cleaner on her hand, that scene broke poor Luna’s heart who just yelled “Why, Why?! ” Kyubey appeared just to answer it was her wish to be a witch, to attack Selene’s bullies and thats just what she did,Luna just started throwing things at kyubey, attacking furiously while her soul gem became darker and darker.

Man these bullies are MEAN. I really do wonder how Luna found Selene first before anyone else since she did commit suicide in a school bathroom. Kyubey is also a little bitch.

Witch name and description: Margaret The BullyHunter Witch: She has a protective nature, she cares for the powerless, the weak and the helpless, she cannot stand abusers and bullies, powerful on hot sun days, best time to fight her is in a cold and rainy night

You could probably change BullyHunter to something like the Chivalry Witch. It sounds a little more sophisticated. The witch’s personality and purpose do fit her very well, I have to admit.

Madoka’s reset: In Madoka’s reset she has a less black and white look of the world, and started to introduce Selene to her friends, being less vengeful and more supportive, and when time took its toll on her, Madoka took her away

I agree that this is a very good Madoka reset for Luna. However, I would like to know more about when exactly Luna was taken away by Madoka and how this happened.

Homura’s reset (yes im doing that too, lol) : While nothing much has changed and she still had to move to Japan, her father remarried, and Selene started to go to other school, with much nicer classmates, and Luna began practicing stage magic to surprise her friends, even though she wondered what would happen if Selene’s classmates weren’t nice

Stage magic is a good addition to Luna’s extracurriculars since it hints at her witch-like form as a magical girl. She seems VERY protective over Selene, and I would like to get more into the personalities and dynamics the two share.

Trivia: *Margaret (her witch name) is in reference of Margaret Hamilton, who was the iconic Wicked Witch of The West

NICE CONNECTION

*Her sister is 4 years older than her

If the age gap was 4 years, they wouldn’t be at the same school, which makes me wonder how Luna knew so much about Selene’s activities with the bullies. I would suggest making the age gap slightly closer. Also take into consideration grade levels. Luna would be in elementary school while Selene would be in middle school.

*She met Kyoko and Mami and fought alongside them, she thinks fondly of Mami, but doesn’t think highly of Kyoko, because she finds her rude, because of her black and white thinking

I don’t know if this has much of an effect on Luna’s story overall. I feel as if this is unnecessary and the plot would be fine if there wasn’t any interaction with the PMMM magical girls.

*She has a vivid imagination *Her mother was of mixed race (Punjabi-White) *her life in Homura’s reset is what would have happened if she met and interacted with Homura *Her witch form looks like a combination of common witch familiars (Crows, owls, cats, bats,frogs) while her familiars are cauldrons with broom legs.

I love her familiars.

Overall, Luna was a very good OC. I thought she was well written and well elaborated on. There are a few things you need to fix about her, but I think she is one of the better PMMM OCs I’ve seen (She’s not a Mary Sue!)

Thanks for reading, and I hope this helps! (^▽^)

*All OC credit goes to daniluni

~Mod Charle

#oc #ocreviewshop #ocreview #oc_review_shop #puella magi madoka magica #madoka magica #madoka #PMMM #daniluni #luna yuzuki #submission

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