#malefikant

[yellowfingcr]

What does her rage look like? What triggers her rage?

// bad! ridiculous! baffling! dreadful to look at! turn your stare! gods! heysel would probably say something along these words. out of all the emotions a human being can feel, rage remains the most unwieldy, downright uncomfortable one for her to experience; she doesn’t know what to do with it, it’s such a cumbersome thing. she’s not really an angry person! murderous, yes, gratuitously violent, but not angry. there is not a whole lot to be angry about, to her, and plenty that might boil into that shape can be just laughed off, really.

which is why when anger does happen she’s… well, not having a good time for sure! if it rises from personal hurt- something aimed so very precisely at her person and her person only- then you simply do not get the privilege of witnessing the spectacle of her reaction as well. a stiffening of her posture, a tightening of her hands into fists, the clenching of her jaw, maybe the first hint of a bitter tear, and she’s already gone to hide somewhere and tend to her wounds in peace. you best never expect a frontal explosion in such situations. you will receive nothing. 

once alone, of course, is where the burst can and does happen, with sobs and screams and the occasional throwing of something hers and breakable. she may propel herself into situations in which hurting others and especially herself is guaranteed. it feels ugly. it looks awful. she feels awful. wholly useless fury.

in situations that involve hurt aimed at beloved others, on the other side, is where you get to see the fire. it depends on the degree of the offense, of course. she will threaten, flashing teeth and low voice and perhaps grasping fingers at your collar, if she believes you smart enough to understand that the looming possibility of the actuation of any of her words is very real and very close and only leashed by her good will; if not, then your only source of understanding must be action, and gladly she will spend her fury by beating you senseless. all too many do things with the certainty that no repercussions will ever happen- well, you should do no thing to whoever she cares about with that assumption, because heysel loves to teach by punishment. all cases in which rage is still controlled, you might have noticed! it’s very hard for her to be brought to points in which it isn’t. you’d have to push her to certain precipices to press her into a situation in which rage just expels itself like that, unbidden. you’d have to use such specific words and specific actions. you’d have to do something she cannot forgive at all. then perhaps you’d get all I’ve said above but uncorked and outpouring without method. just shouts and tears and hands around your throat, squeezing. 

ultimately anger doesn’t feel good. she doesn’t think it ever will. it leaves her incredulous that some people seem to delight in steeping themselves into their own rage. why! it’s terrible and it makes you feel so hollow after! it truly burns you! bad. ridiculous and baffling.

[amberedcorpse]

@malefikant brought wine!

"To live for eternety. All the things you can do! The opportunity! To learn. To understand. To get answers…" Grating behavior. His for him and vice versa. Who appreciated being talked to so aggravatingly and who enjoyed being bothered when having a bad day? The truth was, Alexander did not mean to be the fuel for negative emotions (although well knowing that his presence alone had them growing, regrettably). Intentions were meant-well. Felix' state of existing was a curious conundrum he merely wanted to understand. "Why are dwarves so short but carve their tunnels so tall? Do you think if anything is possible, it is still possible for anything to be impossible?" Grating, surely. That seemingly ever-present hint of a smile that had his mouth subtly crescend, faintly curved. Meant genuinely as it could be meant to mock, to tease. Perhaps. Maybe. "I will help", he hums. "What can one catch that is not thrown?" A pause, then a soft laugh. "A cold! See? A day lived, an answer learned. It is not so bad, is it?" and as if to offer peace and ask forgiveness for his playful deceit (he really was just teasing. or was he?) pulled forth from underneath the thin leathery fabric of his overcoat a corked wine bottle. His smile widened. "To your health."

Learn what knowledge? Answers to which questions? 

A twinge broke through the anger like a knife thrust through both of his temples. He could’ve sworn the blade was real then and not another one of his symptoms, slicing his gray matter into a wet pulp. Both hands quickly clawed the sides of his head to wrench the specter from his skull, but found nothing more than his hair and his flesh still intact. 

And still he listened to their incessant babbling, forced to by the very clarity of his blessing, too conscious even if he were on the verge of bleeding out. No hope for escape, not even the relief of a coma. But if looks could kill this mortal wouldn’t be saved. 

His dearest shadow, the god nestled inside and out of him, let out a boisterous laugh. A low roll, the rush of sound before an earthquake, answered by the yowling of a dozen cats in the distance. They loved a good joke at his expense. He was their fool on strings, set on the stage to perform a mockery of life and be justly ridiculed in turn. Yet as the witch pulled out the dark bottle of wine both of them reared at attention. All of his muscles tensed. 

“Give me that!sweet and pretty creature, sweet kisses for you.” Felix pushed forward and snatched the wine from their trickster’s grasp, savagely wrestling the cork with his teeth. Then after a moment of fruitless struggle, he sneered and let out a rough, feline cry. 

“Ugh! Do you have a corkscrew hidden in there as well?Do you enjoy torturing him?” 

[blixtrandetorst]

Starter for: @malefikant

Peculiar in how the scent, or rather a feeling presented itself. Moving through human veins with full force of glaciers behind it, as if the frost wasn’t invading the viscera. Spiking in geometric shapes the very tubes that bore it. Ice as if impregnated with blood that stained throughout its marbling. It gave him a chill that stopped him immediately. Were those veins black with its bite? Those around him shuffling in, about, and around him, gave him no mind. Off to this stall and the next, chattering about that mug and this tchotchke. All as he stood motionless. Unblinkingly, over his fur collared shoulder, to find the source. In its gratuitous warmth the place had in its plethora of warm bodies to radiate heat. He scoured by instinct to find the cold pocket’s source. Even the lighting seemed to take a colder tone around him from the honey shade they normally had. The inviting nature of these nighttime shops was cooled in his wake.

Body heat is around ninety-eight degrees, give or take for the individual. Blood, by extension, about the same. By extension, those fed on warmed the drinker. It’s what helped it stay so fragrant for beings like Dieter. A biological invitation of sanguine health. But this one smothered the heat. No, rather, pushed it out. Expelled it from itself. Heat had no home with him. No home indeed within the black haired man he spied stopped at a stall. The rest of the crowd melted away into their shared heat. The mass’s undulating mirage slowed in time with the folk music. The blurred together as dieter’s senses fixed. An anomaly. Anomalies he loved. Anomalies were to him as exotic animals to trophy hunters.

He thought better of hunting this one though. He was already cold himself. It’d do no good as he wouldn’t spoil as normal dead things do. That would’ve happened ages ago. Long gone into the soil Rittmeister Bergström of Jasta ten. Like many a good flier before him. Now he was here, decades later, in a winter night-market, watching a man who should be frozen solid buy trinkets from a vendor who probably couldn’t even tell. Clever man taking advantage of the cold outside. Gloves shielding the closest contact between others. Would the old shopkeeper’s hands instantly freeze without them as he gave back change? How far did that glacial air extend? Could Dieter get closer?

[cursedfortune]

Can you list a few words that have the vibe of Mortem? It can be objects, phrases, descriptors, metaphors. I gotta know the symbolism you got in your head for her

@malefikant

To be honest, it gets summed up in Witch. And that's really just specific to my canon and what witches are in it. Despite some grounding similarities people have with witches, I've learned over the years it's very personally perceived what that word means and how it takes shape. I have two friends with witches, them and I all have a lot of similarities and agreements on what it means. But we also have differences in the presentation. Whether that's due to different narratives or different perspectives.

So everything about Mortem is just summed up in Witch. It encapsulates her species, her purpose/duties, her beliefs, her everything.

But because I feel like that's kind of a lame or vague answer, since it means more to me and is hard to explain my perspective on. I'll just like, list some stuff I've drawn in relation to her specifically. Or repeatedly draw attention to.

Readmore because long and an unpleasant mention of things.

Objects/Descriptors?

A shattered sword, kept in a box and regularly taken out to meticulously clean. Only to be sealed back up and rarely see the light of day.

A bag of holding. A shade of blue like the night, with an ever-changing embroidery so none can ever give a description of it.

A lock of dirty blonde hair, tied off in the middle with a black ribbon. From her mother. It sits high in a box atop her kitchen cabinets, along with other personal mementos that belonged to her. As if to watch over this homestead when Mortem is there and especially when she isn't.

An unusual wand from an unusual and broken fae. She never uses it, but she carries it until the day he feels well enough to reclaim it.

The beautifully embroidered tunic of a boy she saw become a king, only to be slain before his prime.

A full set of armor. Fixed up as well as it could be but still it bears the markings of fire. Faintly some claw and sword marks, as well.

Potion bottles hand crafted in the desert she called home for a little while, made by her dear friend at the time. A fellow witch and alchemist.

While it is not in her possession, she remembers still the weight of a golden crown. It wasn't cursed by magic, but by duty. From the first elf to the last of the true elves. She recalls staring into the infant eyes of dragons seated within the crown, like gemstones. It was meant to honor but it instead became a burden upon the one who'd reshape the world as all knew it.

Phrases/Metaphors?

The Love Song by J. Alfred Prurock I draw a lot of inspiration from over the years. I got attached to it as a kid. Some parts of it fits some other stories in this same shared universe as Mortem, but there is a consistent theme of this one passage that affects everyone in my story:

Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

Mortem is one of the main background characters. You actually don't see a lot of her. In the arc of the story that takes place on her world, she's nearly mute and intentionally doesn't draw attention to herself until it's forcibly found out. Which is when she's convicted of treason and exiled. If you want to look for messages in her character, her role would be: Find purpose in life because time won't slow down for you. She has only her purpose, and when everyone else rejects her for it and she's left in isolation for 40k years roughly, she still has to continue and be unyielding to that. The story she is a part of doesn't need to be analyzed as having a message or assigning such roles. I intended for it to just be a story that can be enjoyed as it is. But the concept that started it came from the various forms of suicide ideation and the overarching villain and main protagonist both embody that. Which makes Mortem stand in opposition of both of them and why she tends to be aggressive towards Nestor (protag). The potential of life, life prospering to its fullest, life eventually returning to the cycle of death and whatever comes for them after is her whole deal. The overarching villain feels like a concept she can't understand fully and Nestor has so much fine potential but sets her off repeatedly lmao

When it comes to phrases and metaphors, I just kind of take in things like cycles, spirals, duality, unending forest, feet submerged in shallow water upon the beach - staring out into the ocean, threads and storms (and other natural events) into account. They have a lot of meaning for Mortem and in general, within a lot of history. Even if that's history that's lost on her by the time of her birth. Flowers are also very important. Funnily enough, not lavender. I mentioned it once on the blog as a scent she likes but it seems a lot of people associate her purple hair with it. Mort is just SIGHING. I love it though, I feel like it's a running gag now.

Beyond that, I take in a lot of inspiration from music I associate with her. Which... I need to update her list lmao. So I'll just link the posts I can find of her main jams. I also have the /tunes zone where I send them to, to rot.

Here. Here. Here.

I hope this answer suffices on what you were asking for. It's always nightmare mode to try to explain this even when I see it clearly all the associations I have with her. Thanks for inquiring, tho. <3

[cantuscorvi]

What is something Raum takes pride in? How does he express that pride?

@malefikant

Oh, everything. Raum is a man who lives and dies by his pride, no matter the occasion. A side effect — or even a cause of — his narcissism, it bleeds into everything he does.

Raum takes pride in himself, as a whole. That is expressed in his utter self-centredness. Every thought and action he takes is measured against what benefit it has to him.

His thought process is always beating along to his own drum — Me, me, me!

On one hand, this makes him seem brilliant. He has charisma and confidence, he projects authority, energy and self-discipline. Like he can hold the world in his palm. It draws people in.

On the other, it makes him stubborn and dominant, arrogant, ruthless. He won’t give you an inch, and he doesn’t care how it affects you. It creates a wall, and it pushes people away.

A few examples —

Raum takes pride in his confidence and his strength of character. He expresses that liberally. He has a commanding, authoritative nature. He has a tendency to steamroll people who are timid or struggle to express themselves. He is intense. If he is not careful, he rubs people the wrong way.

He takes pride in his rationality, his drive, his determination. He is optimistic, and ambitious. He believes he can achieve anything he sets his mind to, even if it hurts, he doesn’t give up. He holds himself to an impossibly high standard, and it can be perfectionistic, to his detriment.

Raum takes pride in his appearance and status. He expresses that by indulging himself with fine things, nothing is ‘too good’ for him to experience or to own. He doesn’t know the meaning of too rich for one’s blood. He believes he deserves the best. It makes him look pretentious, picky or snobbish.

He takes pride in his intelligence and willpower. His ability to plan ahead and solve problems. Combined with his relentless self interest, it makes him secretive and manipulative. He is a liar and a pretender.

[meadowlarksabove]

What if he was drunk. Like, really drunk. Drunk enough that his legs are unable to properly carry him, let alone hold his weight. What would you do? Help him up, help him stand? Mock him his his silent weeping, those soundless cries over a broken heart? Be there, just be there, for him? Or not letting it slip through your fingers, this almost-too-easy opportunity at slicing a throat? What will it be? How would you use that power?

😈😈😈😈

The profligate was heavier than he’d anticipated, but Gabban preferred to carry them than let them stumble over their own legs with every fumbled step. He could afford to turn a few heads as he struggled toward the elevator, clicking his tongue impatiently as it slowly bounded back to the lobby, and opened with a curious, but otherwise discreet, white-glove member. One of Mortimer’s rats, fortunately. The frumentarius quickly leaned against the back of the lift, thighs tensing as he adjusted the drunk in his arms and gruffly called out the number of his floor. 

Soft words spilled out by the side of his face, a tipped glass over a table, clumsy as can be, as if they’d been willed back to consciousness by the sheer volume of his voice. Yet as soon as he made out the words, soaked with wine and other regrets, they were gone again. Drawn back into the shadows where none could follow, not even the cunning hunter. Gabban thought of the knife in his pocket then, how he’d held it to their throat the moment he caught them in the midst of their stupor, pressed it against the base of their jaw a hair’s away from splitting flesh. But couldn’t- wouldn’t- realizing they were blind even to the approach of death. He’d kept this game up for so long, risked his position at the Strip for the electric thrill of this chase, and the chance of them remembering who he was. Could he actually cut it all short in a single night? Without so much as a clear sign of recognition? Without their gaze duly focused on him? 

Their head had only swayed, eyes wandering unsure of who’d even pinned them to the wall, and Gabban lost the motivation to kill. This wasn’t what he wanted. The prize wasn’t as sweet if they weren’t in their right mind. –At least that’s what he told himself after his own moment of weakness, his brow furrowed by the weight of too many emotions. If only they were as much a stranger to him as he was to them… 

The doors slid open with a gentle ring and he labored the rest of the way to the suite. He didn’t bother with turning on the lights once inside, but rushed to the bed to finally release himself of the burden that was this man and their forgetfulness. His joints sounded as he stretched and the corners of his lips twitched with the simple relief of being freed, pressure vanishing from his back. Yet he hadn’t stopped moving, already searching beneath the bed for his suitcase and everything that laid within. Gabban pulled out the rope after a brief pause, hand gliding over his tools before it clutched the length of twine. Then, he took control of the other again, flipping them onto their stomach and keeping them flush against the mattress with the force of his knee. It’d been a while since he last used this method on anyone, even a beast, but he remembered well how to hogtie a rowdy creature until it was left writhing with animal fear. Entirely restrained, something sparked again in the gray haze of that stare and it fought against him just a moment too late. 

He stood back and watched as instinct urged them against the binds of their new prison, shifting with envigored strength but nonetheless awkward. The bed creaked, their breath chuffed, and suddenly they were alive. Perhaps not as conscious as he wanted them to be, but this was close enough. They turned painfully onto their side and as soon as they locked eyes, he smiled. 

“If you can manage to untie yourself, I’ll give you every ounce of that love you so desperately want. I’ll make you happy.” 

Gabban crossed his arms, “I’m sure you can do it.”

[pupil-of-law]

"Can you open a wine bottle without using a corkscrew?"

@malefikant

'Yes,' Sebastian reported, after he had glanced at the bottle he'd been holding by the neck, swung it at a nearby wall, and shaken the dripping liquid from his fingers that its detonation had caused.

[hisgrief]

@malefikant sent “ don’t ever let anyone make you feel ashamed of who you are . ”

his  attempts  to  befriend  the  other  patrons  have  been  unsuccessful.  woefully  so.  it  seems  everyone  is  running  from  something,  but  only  he's  the  type  to  seek  out  company.  sue  him  for  needing  that  connection.  even  a  quicky  against  a  dirty  bathroom  wall  would  be  better  than  him wallowing  in  the  cruelty  of  his  thoughts.  he's  on  the  prowl  for  something  careless.  something  blunt  and  harmful.  something  to  replace  the  pain  with  a  new  ache.  he  has  pills  in  his  pocket  and  a  metaphorical  clock  ticking  down  to  the  next  full  moon.  if  he  can't  find  comfort  here,  he'll  find  it  elsewhere. 

he's  nursing  wounded  pride  and  a  double  shot  of  liquor,  having  once  again  been  told  to  fuck  off,  when  the  bloke  he's  been  avoiding  all  night  says  something  that  gives  him  pause.  don't  be  ashamed,  eh?  the  grunt  of  laughter  he  chokes  out  lacks  humour.  he  doesn't  want  to  be  a  prick.  sober  him  is  always  so  embarrassed  by  how  he  acts  when  he's  drunk.  he's  not  the  gaz  that  claire  fell  in  love  with.  he's  some  disgusting,  broken  imitation. 

“i'd  have  to  fist  fight  meself  for that  before  anyone  else,  mate.”  he  chugs  back  the  rest  of  his  drink,  shakes  off  the  burn,  and  squints  at  his  company.  fuckin'  pretty  boy.  gaz  is  bitterly  surprised  that  he's  deigned  to  acknowledge  him  at  all.  all  put  together  and  shit.  in  contrast,  gaz  is  unkempt and  developing  an  tangled scruff  along  his  jaw. 

maybe  that's  why  no  one  wants  him.  claire  had  always  preferred  him  to  be  clean-shaven  too. 

"cheers for the advice, though. it's not like bein' lectured by a bloody model at all."

[distortedkilling]

Humans may be members of the class Mammalia and may belong to the animal phylum known as chordates because we have a backbone, yet... That does not mean you can just. Keep one as a pet, you know?

@malefikant

"..."

Processing. Processing. Processing. He understood where this one was coming from but...

"Oh! You're trying to tell me what to do?"

"I get it. You either find what I'm doing distasteful or... you're jealous and want to be a human pet, too?" The problem here was, if it was the prior he'd antagonize the situation more. And if it was the latter? He'd do the exact same. The only solution for this really was to drag the man by the throat deep into the sewers.

The curse perked up, clapping together his hands but once as he decided upon what to do. "You're putting human limitations and rules on me. I'll just show you why that's stupid to do~!"

[dernarrleid]

TELEGRAM FROM @malefikant READS: How does Wolfgang deal with loneliness? Has he ever felt completely alone before? Does he act differently when there is no one around to see him?

Depends on how old he is. Wolfgang currently deals with loneliness well! He's not especially wanting for a companion, but he keeps himself sane practicing daily interaction with kindness. When he was a child and put through the Kinderheim program it was by design a place for which he could find no solace. Some of his only memories involved another boy he was friends with, but after a few years of brainwashing and strict authoritarian discipline, he never sought to make anymore. It was mostly about how useful he was to the organization (and by extension the government).

Around early 20's, late 30's he had a family and a child, but wasn't necessarily attached to them in the moment. They were apart of his job and a large role he had was to make everything as convincing as possible so he wasn't snuffed out. He has a huge complex surrounding his emotions and whether or not he's exhibiting proper social cues because he's capable or if he's still employing the same tactics of his past self. Wolfgang doesn't act all that differently when he's by himself either! He's been pushed to his Steiner persona a few times after his unofficial retirement, however it's nearly impossible to do so alone without any variables. He is quite alert when he's found a place to lodge for a length of time; those heightened senses will likely never go away.

[yellowfingcr]

What is the worst thing Heysel has ever done with magic?

// Sometimes you’re a darkwalker knighted by the onyx lord who taught you in first place how to pull and weave magic to access the interstices between realities, in-betweens in which lies just an endless nothing less than nothing fundamentally averse to the concept of you existing in any manner and so being, and so having things like a body, or a mind, or time, or history, or any shred no matter how small of proof that in fact could provide an answer to the question who are you, all in the name (at its most basic use) of traversing long spaces very very quick. Sometimes the crux of the entire spell is less about cutting the skin of the world to access this horrible place and far more about cloaking yourself in spell so that preservation of information can happen, even when it shouldn’t, and so permitting to darkwalk, and be like an astronaut who walks past the event horizon’s edge and emerges unscathed. Sometimes you know that so this is about the possibility for conversation, not certainty of successful persuasion. The void might yet try to argue you are never to leave this place for you are not a thing that is real. But at least you have made yourself a fine padding of math and sorcery and all the resources a darkwalker like yourself has, and so you might yet state that you are real, and you wish to go. 

Sometimes you know that to excise that armor component from the spell means that the astronaut goes past the event horizon and the black hole swallows them without ifs or buts to be raised. Enter the portal naked of magic like that and no conversation will happen at all, and you won’t happen again. And sometimes you may think about the spectacular cruelty of it. Every layer of you just pointed at and told no and no and no, no to your flesh, no to the atomic bonds of you, no to your history, and no to you. Just a final last no, total and indifferent to your pleas and proof. Then silence. 

But sometimes you think that someone deserves this, and you grasp them bodily like wounded deer and drag them towards the portal open and sighing with magic, and blood draws a steady path along their passage like an inverse carpet for kings, unrolling not in welcome but for leaving. They are Tarnished, aren’t they? They will come back by divine want. But does the voice of god reach where not one thing exists? Does anyone yet know?

Sometimes your name is Heysel, who was Goldfinch, and you excise that part of the spell, and throw the body inside the portal. 

[amberedcorpse]

Can the Sphinx wear a bumble bee cat costume pretty please? Equally she can also wear the blood of her enemies.

Outfit prompts! ( Open )

Impossible to make a simple collage to capture the greatness that is The Sphinx in a cute bee costume, so decided to sketch this really quick. Very much a fan...

[blixtrandetorst]

does your muse lean more toward “forgive and forget” or “resent and remember?”

Resent for sure. Even little things though in those cases it’s more fleeting. Giving a malicious side eye after being insulted, etc etc. Dieter wouldn’t sit and brood on it though but he does think there’s a certain level of respect he should be paid and when it’s not given he gets testy. Most times if he’s given a more interesting engagement to worry about Dieter will forget those.

More egregious transgressions will be remembered. Maybe fondly in some aspects. But he’ll want whoever it was to feel what he felt. In whatever way he feels fit for the next meeting. It’s usually like that. (Not that he doesn’t expect something done back to him. He knows with everything’s he’s done it’s bound to come back. Just a matter of when.)

[cursedfortune]

Feel free to delete this asks if you have already answered that question BUT I remember you mentioning that there was a time Mortem actually wore armor. What did it look like? What color? Any noticable detail that was distinctive to only her?

@malefikant

This was initially the first closest comparison, specifically for the elbows. For the High Queen's guard of her native country, the circular elbow guards (elbow cop) was distinct.

It was a light grey, full plate style armor. Covered front to back. A closed knight helm with the pointed tipped boots native to her homeland.

Her main weapon was a generic longsword. Her secondary weapon was an ahlspiess style pike due to the importance a thrust motion carried against the enemy horde. It's not a version of a polearm she uses as often these days, favoring cutting or winged spears more-so. But the weapons she utilized were of the desert nation to the west she had been living in during the first war/period when she'd don armor.

It was utilized for the final battle of the first war and severely damaged due to her fae patron setting her on fire for the second half of the battle (that lasted about forty minutes). Her armor suffered through the first half of the battle against large, brutal foes, followed by being set ablaze by fae fire, all before she had to rip the armor off herself whilst being on fire.

It has since been repaired as much as it could have been, though it still shows damages that couldn't be fully fixed. The armor of her homeland and the weapons of the desert nation she called a second home for centuries now stands, retired, within her cabin beside the fireplace.

Note: The longsword she used in battle is not the same one that was shattered by her enemy of that time. That sword sits in a locked box that she typically keeps in her bag of holding most of the time. It's also the same sword that's tattooed down her spine. (It was shattered by the enemy in the assault on the desert kingdom that came just before the final battle).

Someday I'll finish drawing her full set of armor, lmao. But yeah, she's a mashup of the two countries. Her homeland, where the majority of the war takes place, she wears her armor from. Her weapons come from the desert nation due to the Warden's fortress having taught her the majority of what she knows about combat. Both hold important meaning which she manifested into serving a tangible purpose - which only served to strengthen herself come battle. Until her fae patron arrived. Then the usual rules of war disappeared.

[cantuscorvi]

☕ ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿He heard Raf coffee and was summoned. Cheers from the far back. Such an incredible taste. What a gentleman. You go Raum.

@malefikant

Finally someone appreciates him and his culture exactly how they should.

[meadowlarksabove]

Does Gabban ever feel invisible or ignored? How does he react to these feelings? How does he respond to silence? Does he take comfort in soundlessness, or does he seek to fill the void with noise?

Questions! ( Always Open )

All the time, and glad of it.  It’s better to be ignored, remain a quiet fixture at the table of his master, than to stand out and be called for something- anything. He’s sick of Caesar and his peers. Even Vulpes makes him desperate for the quiet, sometimes, with their intense and wicked fealty. If he can pass unnoticed then he’s safe for another day, free of demands that would otherwise soil his heart. He’s already given everything away, any more and he’ll simply break apart.  But the truth is, he fears that everyone at the table can see his shame and abject wretchedness, like a taint on his person. That everything, once said and done, has left marks across his flesh they can all understand, like cracks on a vase or tears on a fine canvas. That his inhumanity is clear. Gabban knows that he is less than, like an unworthy mongrel, but that’s his burden to bear. Which is why he serves so diligently and makes himself useful, to make up for all that he lacks. He’s not simply avoiding them because he’s repulsed–  he’s hiding from their repulsion of him.