#muse descriptions

[inkewell]

Penn as Inke, courtesy of @neonbreakor

[melancholicmoonlight]

Muse list:

Jameson “Jamie” Westing:

Gay, transman, he/him. 44 y/o. Werewolf(turned). British.

A deeply traumatized and paranoid man with a heart of gold.

He is highly anxious at times and tends to worry what others think of him, but he is generally kind to most, if not all, people. He can be very stubborn and reckless sometimes, which might lead to trouble depending on if he’s persuaded to not do whatever incredibly stupid thing he’s thinking of doing.

He enjoys gardening and writing, and just chilling out at home or outside alone, and he prefers being left out of any crazy situations.

Has “need for revenge” problems sometimes, but it’s OK. He’s normal.

It is highly recommended to avoid being near him on full moons.

He is currently living with his friend, @/the-drunken-undead's Reaper.

Works at a small antique store.

Cas’ boyfriend.

Jamie is mute and will use either sign, TTS, or write. "His dialogue looks like this".

Status: Available

~

Cassidy “Cas” Martin:

Bi, transmasc, he/him. 46 y/o. Werewolf(born into it). Southern, American.

A confident and easygoing man, Cas is eager to make friends, or at the very least acquaintances, with most people he meets. He tends to be pretty level-headed and knows that things need to be thought through before acting on it, if possible.

Despite being very sociable, he does enjoy being alone, and sometimes gets drained after spending time with others. He likes fishing, drawing, and exploring wooded areas and abandoned places.

He had head trauma some years ago that affected his sense of smell, causing it to be worse than the average (human)person’s.

Cassidy lives in a small house in town and works as a mechanic at an auto shop.

Jamie’s boyfriend.

“His dialogue looks like this.”

Status: Available

~

Killian Hayes:

Ace lesbian. trans butch. She/her. 34 y/o. Human. American, southern.

A once normal person with a very long history of loss, Killian decided to give up on life. But one day she came face-to-face with an angel who promised that it’d take her pain away. Unfortunately, this was not the case and now she’s stuck with him.

Killian tends to be rather guarded and quiet, sometimes coming across as rude, but she isn’t a mean person. Any “toughness” she has acts more as a shield. She likes dogs and cats. Her favorite bands are Opeth and Mastodon. She loves paella, her truck, and long walks on the beach.

Lives in a cabin in the woods, alone. Works as a butcher at a grocery store.

“Her dialogue looks like this”.

Status: Available

~

Sirius:

Any pronouns or just it/she/he. Non-binary woman. Uses fem labels(ms/lady/etc.) Adult early 30s. Angel.

Standoffish, awkward. Very overly-cautious of strangers and any kindness shown from them. Says he likes being left alone, but actually wants to be around people he knows and craves comfort. Loves animals.

Bound to Killian “forever”, it cannot leave her because of this, sometimes it seems that he doesn’t want to, as he has a soft spot for her.

"Its dialogue looks like this".

Status: Available

-

Aurore De Rosier:

Queer. She/her. Adult early 50s. Archangel.

Holier-than-thou while also somehow managing to be incredibly self-loathing, Aurore enjoys herself by looking down upon everyone, both literally and figuratively. There isn’t a single person she wouldn’t want to either keep as a pretty bird in a cage or squash like a pathetic little bug.

Don’t try to get under her skin, she will make sure you live to regret it.

Disclaimer: Aurore is fairly “powerful”, but for the reasons above, she does not meddle in “mortal affairs” and doesn’t want to waste her time or energy on such things as she believes it to be beneath her. (in character way of keeping her from fixing everyone’s problems) She can also still be hurt or killed.

She lives in a manor, that can only be found by chance or some kind of magic. And sometimes she just appears when she feels like it(usually never), or when she is wanted(also never)

“Her dialogue looks like this.”

Status: Unavailable?

~

muse appearance descriptions:

Jamie -

Body: 6'0ft tall, fat, some muscle. round features.

Skin: rosy, moles, covered in sunspots, many scars, wrinkles, a few small flowers on his forearm and on his opposite shoulder, a crescent moon tattooed on the side of his wrist, three of swords on his chest. All tattoos are black and slightly faded.

Hair: Dark brown with gray streaks, wavy at the ends, past his shoulders. Facial hair: Mustache and some beard stubble.

Eye: Brown, downturned, dark circles. Has tapetum lucidum- the thing most animals(in his case, canines) have where their eyes “glow” and reflect light.

Usual clothes: Pants, plain shirt under a green flannel shirt, brown boots, a small gold necklace with a little gold charm, a watch, a few small gold rings on his fingers. Typically wears a brown jacket with soft lining when outside.

Misc: Missing an eye and a hand. Double lobe piercings on one ear, single on the other. Broken/crooked nose. Fangs. Gap between top front two teeth. Constantly looks sad or vaguely worried. Large claw scar across his face. Sometimes Cassidy paints his nails for him.

When turned: Large kind of fluffy wolf-monster with dark brown fur, gray around his muzzle. Mane of hair/fur that typically hangs in his face, which trails down his back to a short tail. Black claws. One upper pair of fangs poke out of his mouth a bit. Missing hand and eye and all his scars are the same as when he’s not turned.

~

Cassidy -

Body: 5’11ft, fat, strong. Square features.

Skin: Warm-toned brown. Wrinkles. A few scars here and there, most noticeable being a small cut on his forehead over his eyebrow and a burn on his hand that snakes up the side of his arm, reaching his elbow. Some tattoos of vines and lilies on his right arm/shoulder that trail toward his collar.

Hair: Black with some gray speckled throughout. Typically wears his hair in boxbraids that reach his shoulders, which he tends to have tied up. Facial hair: Stubble.

Eyes: Dark brown, almond. Has tapeum lucidum.

Usual clothes: jeans, shirt, denim jacket, work boots. A ring or two on his right hand, and a watch.

Misc: pierced ears, nose piercing- hoop, jewelry is silver. Canines are slightly sharper than normal, but not too noticeable unless you’re really looking. He has some small “metal things” along his spine and some scars around that area as well from him trying to claw at them. Sometimes he paints his nails.

When turned: Large wolf-monster with short black and brown curly fur, and gray around his muzzle. Short mane of hair/fur with his braids, doesn’t cover his face. Long-ish tail. Black claws. Scars and the bits of metal are the same as when he isn’t turned.

~

Killian -

Body: 5'8ft tall, beefy. Round features.

Skin: Deep tan/olive, freckles, wrinkles. A small scar on her upper lip. Covered in dark, intricate tattoos from the neck down, an X tattooed under her left eye, a dagger beside her ear. All tattoos are black.

Hair: dyed dark red, shaved.

Eyes: black. upturned, dark circles.

Usual clothes: all black. Tanktop, jeans, belt, leather combat boots. Usually has on a very well-loved leather jacket with some metal band/miscellaneous patches sewn on and random pins attached when outside. Sometimes wears a little silver bracelet with a star charm on it, and a plain watch.

Misc: Ears are heavily pierced, and lobes stretched to ~2inches. Septum, jestrum, 3 lip rings, right eyebrow. Needs glasses when she isn’t possessed.

~

Sirius -

Body: 5’5ft. Average(? idk how to describe). Square-ish soft features. Cold.

Skin: cool-dark brown

Hair: really dark purple-black. Knee length. Curly.

Eyes: Large, deep-set. A dark, cool-toned red. Slit pupils. Highly sensitive to light. Dark circles and eye bags.

Usual clothes: a light pink corset-top, light jeans, white chunky heels, plain white velvet choker.

Misc: Tail that drags on the ground, long tuft of curly black hair(fur?) at the end. Very short claw-nails. Short horns, two on his forehead and two near his ears. Small fangs. Pointed ears with a few small piercings. An almost “cat-like” nose. Faint scars of runes carved into the skin on his face and body.

~

Aurore -

Body: 7’9ft. Thin and sharp. Corseted waist. Sharp facial features. Six giant wings, reddish-brown feathers. They are all broken and useless, serving only to drag along behind her as she walks, like a train.

Skin: Pale. Beauty mark under her right eye. Some wrinkles.

Hair: Ginger. Just to her shoulders, but pinned back into a neat, smooth bun. Dyes and plucks whatever grays she finds.

Eyes: Piercing golden yellow, slightly downturned.

Usual appearance: long dress; slim black skirt, green pinstriped bustle(?) and matching long-sleeved buttoned top, black belt around her waist. Black lace gloves. Black heels, black stockings. Elegant gold jewelry with square-cut emeralds(necklace, earrings). Red lipstick, winged eyeliner, mascara, a small amount of green eyeshadow. Nails are long, pointed, and painted red.

Misc: fangs.

[tofixtheshadows]

I've been thinking a lot lately about how Kabru deprives himself.

Kabru as a character is intertwined with the idea that sometimes we have to sacrifice the needs of the few for the good of the many. He ultimately subverts this first by sabotaging the Canaries and then by letting Laios go, but in practice he's already been living a life of self-sacrifice.

Saving people, and learning the secrets of the dungeons to seal them, are what's important. Not his own comforts. Not his own desires. He forces them down until he doesn't know they're there, until one of them has to come spilling out during the confession in chapter 76.

Specifically, I think it's very significant, in a story about food and all that it entails, that Kabru is rarely shown eating. He's the deuteragonist of Dungeon Meshi, the cooking manga, but while meals are the anchoring points of Laios's journey, given loving focus, for Kabru, they're ... not.

I'm sure he eats during dungeon expeditions, in the routine way that adventurers must when they sit down to camp. But on the surface, you get the idea that Kabru spends most of his time doing his self-assigned dungeon-related tasks: meeting with people, studying them, putting together that evidence board, researching the dungeon, god knows what else. Feeding himself is secondary.

He's introduced during a meal, eating at a restaurant, just to set up the contrast between his party and Laios's. And it's the last normal meal we see him eating until the communal ending feast (if you consider Falin's dragon parts normal).

First, we get this:

Kabru's response here is such a non-answer, it strongly implies to me that he wasn't thinking about it until Rin brought it up. That he might not even be feeling the hunger signals that he logically knew he should.

They sit down to eat, but Kabru is never drawn reaching for food or eating it like the rest of his party. He only drinks.

It's possible this means nothing, that we can just assume he's putting food in his mouth off-panel, but again, this entire manga is about food. Cooking it, eating it, appreciating it, taking pleasure in it, grounding yourself in the necessary routine of it and affirming your right to live by consuming it. It's given such a huge focus.

We don't see him eat again until the harpy egg.

What a significant question for the protagonist to ask his foil in this story about eating! Aren't you hungry? Aren't you, Kabru?

He was revived only minutes ago after a violent encounter. And then he chokes down food that causes him further harm by triggering him, all because he's so determined to stay in Laios's good graces.

In his flashback, we see Milsiril trying to spoon-feed young Kabru cake that we know he doesn't like. He doesn't want to eat: he wants to be training.

Then with Mithrun, we see him eating the least-monstery monster food he can get his hands on, for the sake of survival- walking mushroom, barometz, an egg. The barometz is his first chance to make something like an a real meal, and he actually seems excited about it because he wants to replicate a lamb dish his mother used to make him!

...but he doesn't get to enjoy it like he wanted to.

Then, when all the Canaries are eating field rations ... Kabru still isn't shown eating. He's only shown giving food to Mithrun.

And of course the next time he eats is the bavarois, which for his sake is at least plant based ... but he still has to use a coping mechanism to get through it.

I don't think Kabru does this all on purpose. I think Kui does this all on purpose. Kabru's Post Traumatic Stress Disorder should be understood as informing his character just as much as Laios's autism informs his. It's another way that Kabru and Laios act as foils: where Laios takes pleasure in meals and approaches food with the excitement of discovery, Kabru's experiences with eating are tainted by his trauma. Laios indulges; Kabru denies himself. Laios is shown enjoying food, Kabru is shown struggling with it.

And I can very easily imagine a reason why Kabru might have a subconscious aversion towards eating.

Meals are the privilege of the living.

[cat-dragron-arts]

Something possessed me and uh now I have and intense need for competitive pair skating content with these two duos specifically. Really messy coloring style for me but I kinda dig it. Here's also the first sketches I did of this concept with Shadow that further cemented this idea in my head.

You're welcome to tag this as ship even if I don't tag it as such, I don't care! Have fun!!

[rin-rin-kururin]

"sifloop is like making a full circle on mood swings, like a perpetual motion machine fueled by self-love and self-hate."

-my friend apparently

[apollos-boyfriend]

did you know that if youre afraid of slenderman you should imagine him as calamari

source: https://www.wikihow.com/Get-over-Your-Fear-of-Slenderman

oh BOY could i

[my-t4t-romance]

ough I didn't know geniuslyrics had so many FEATURES

when mcr played the world is ugly at brisbane night 1, I saw the song in a whole new light. to me this song is a t4t anthem now

[chenswire]

busy month...

[lynmars79]

Reflecting on the meme responses and jokes to episode 12 of season 3 Midst--and don't get me wrong, I'm enjoying the reactions too, after sitting on this for two weeks--and there's specific ways in universe, and by the narrators, in which Weepe's Fold disability is treated compared to others afflicted by their Fold scars.

He's hardly the only weird or monstrous looking person in the cosmos, particularly those who live within the Fold itself, and now many of the citizens of Midst who survived the moonfall. There's people with extra eyes, limbs, even heads. Fiona's left leg is now a man named Jacob. Giselle's personality is replaced by frogs. Fuze's upside down mouth, hidden behind his facial hair. Ettie's constant laughing. Saskia's doubling can even be horrifying in a few ways, though she's currently coping and using it as an advantage, most times.

And then there's Moc Weepe, who was the most noticeably Fold-affected person on Midst pre-tearror. Because of what happened in the Arca, his situation became a lot worse--a situation he tells Imelda was an inevitability someday.

(Was it really? Or is that his assumption, given how events in his life tend to happen? That if it wasn't Imelda pushing him like that, someone else would have sooner or later?)

Weepe's appearance is described as ghastly and horrific, and it is! He's a translucent jelly of a person, innards on display, the Fold visibly slinking through his system. He has to constantly have a pump going, not unlike people who need their constant oxygen, or drainage bags, or other outward signs of their disability.

Weepe's falling into a(n often dicey) trope of his outward appearance reflecting the monstrousness within, though his descriptions in that way are different from others afflicted by the Fold. Many of them are noted by the narrators as simply existing, a little odd but nothing grotesque, even when the descriptions given would be extremely off-putting. They're spoken of as normal, if noticeable, ramifications of exposure to the Fold. The images and descriptions of the Sequester citizens that Phineas, Lark, and Tzila encountered in season 2 could also be considered monstrous by some.

But it's Weepe specifically who murders people with his own tainted blood, even selling it to others (like Lark, unknowingly). Having his security use it to kill Kozma's entourage. I doubt he's sending any samples to the Mothers now. There are indications, too, that Weepe is exaggerating how weak/ill he is to take others off guard (like Kozma). It's Weepe who weaponizes his Fold affliction, with all sorts of justifications pertaining to his own survival and success.

(Perhaps Saskia to a degree also, using her doubling to literally be in two places at once, passing information between herself, but for very different reasons.)

I say in another post that I gotta respect Imelda's monster-fucking game (I've been on the internet for 30 years, y'all). Especially since I consider her as a monster of another kind, the True Believer with ambition and seeking power, somehow seeing Weepe as a key to her own success, willing to do anything to achieve that. So far it's working, and there have been some concerning appendices about her actions as Archauditor already.

It's not so much about Weepe's horrific Fold-altered state (though that is part of it, but unlike with other Fold-afflicted characters). It's not the middle-aged aspect of the participants (that may be part of it for some younger listeners, though Lark and Sherman hooking up is also considered normal to sweet, and Imogen Loxlee is forever a catch).

It is two horrible people, who have done horrible things to each other as well as to other people, giving in to a long-standing tension (Weepe describing Imelda in detail down to her "little sexy suits" during his Arca ranting, and her fawning on Midst and into the Highest Light didn't seem entirely business-driven) for their own dubious reasons that likely have nothing to do with actual romantic emotions, and are more likely as much about their parallel schemes as about the sexual attraction over their matching ruthlessness

Of the relationships, complicated as they all are in this series, it's the potentially most toxic we are shown as sex occurs, in an exchange to cut the various tensions and issues with this particular hookup; it's actually one of my favorite narrator interactions, the awkwardness and uncertainty playing up the funny to describe the scene without describing it.

I just also look to all the discussions about aging, weight, and disabled, and other folks who fall outside our society's norms for desirability, and wish the narrative descriptions did lean a little more on Weepe's actual monstrosity, and not the grotesqueness of his Fold-afflicted appearance. Cuz when they do turn on the Actual Monster Weepe mode, he's terrifying regardless.

Besides, the pump sound effects and ability to "see" Weepe's physical reactions definitely added to the creative descriptions of that scene in a way that wouldn't be possible otherwise!

Anyway. Mostly feel like there's some unintentional line toe-ing happening in some of these descriptors and reasons for them, which is going to happen in pretty much any and every media, especially a semi-improvised one, as our diabolical businessman--inspired by various traditional villain characters--slips further into villainy himself and his oft-described appearance reflects it.

[inkewell]

Penn Walker, A.K.A Inke

Age: Mid twenties to early thirties. He refuses to specify.

Height: (usually) 5'5". Can change via use of powers, but this is his default.

Weight: (usually) 190 lb.

Hair and eyes: ink black from the pupils to the sclerae with white irises

Skin: white as a sheet of printer paper

Penn is a journalist by training and an investigator by trade, specializing in occult matters. In his investigations into these matters, he stumbled upon what he could only describe as a "supernatural ink bottle" which in addition to giving him his rather odd appearance gave him the ability to produce and manipulate ink in numerous ways.

Between his powers, his ethical code, and his habit of running headlong into trouble, he's stumbled into making a name for himself as the vigilante Inke.

[hey-that-hurt]

Another contract au thing

At first when Beetlejuice is allowed back into the house, the Maitlands avoid Beetlejuice. Charles backs them up and orders Beetlejuice to stay out of the attic. Eventually they start willingly spending time around him, communicating that they won’t order him around, but they expect him to respect their boundaries. After a bit they even revoke Charles’ order and let him come into the attic, though they expect him to ask permission.

The Maitlands are the safest people in the house for Beetlejuice to be around. They don’t give him orders, and will revoke orders upon request if they don’t think they’re going to step on anyone’s toes by doing so.

Beetlejuice does his best to comply for a while, but eventually the stress of his whole situation starts to wear on him and he starts to feel irritated about the Maitlands, too.

The Maitlands, he thinks, want to avoid the guilt of ordering him around directly while still reaping the benefits. What’s the difference between their requests and everyone else’s orders if he has to obey them all the same?

Angry about their hypocrisy (and maybe they really are being hypocritical, I’m not really sure yet. At the very least they’re complicit), he reverts to his behavior from the musical and then some. He goes out of his way to harass them and make them uncomfortable, giving them as little peace as he possibly can. When they ask him to stop, he tells them to make him.

Eventually Barbara has had enough and does, finally, order him to stop harassing them, and tells him to stay out of the attic for a while so they can have some space.

Finally, Beetlejuice is satisfied. Once again, he got the perfect Maitlands to snap.

He goes to the roof and feels sick, gnashes his teeth and curls into a ball and wants to claw at his skin, but he doesn’t cry. He hasn’t felt capable of crying for a long, long time.

[tofixtheshadows]

Hello, op! While I do find your reading of Kabru’s self sacrifice and how little he eats really good, im curious why you consider him the deuteragonist? He is a foil to the protagonist yes, but still a supporting character.

I think its pretty clear Marcille is the second most important character in DM, and her story has much more weight than Kabru’s.

Hello! I've mentioned this on my blog before, but I actually consider Marcille and Kabru to both be deuteragonists to Laios's protagonist. I just wasn't talking about Marcille in that post.

Technically this term is meant to be used in playwriting, and the Greek tradition at that, so I'm playing a little loosey goosey with semantics and my argument would sound different if I were writing an academic paper. But this is tumblr dot edu and I'm trying to get a point across on my little blog, and part of the idea of a deuteragonist is that they support the protagonist. "Secondary main character who has their own importance in the narrative while bolstering the protagonist" works well enough for my purposes.

I think Marcille and Kabru are both playing specific and complementary roles to Laios. Marcille is at his side, facilitating the A plot: namely, "save Falin", which requires Marcille's magic, and then Marcille's method of resurrection ropes Thistle in, so the continuation of "save Falin" necessitates confronting the Dungeon Lord and conquering the dungeon (the B plot).

Kabru only intersects with Laios, but he is tied from the beginning to the B plot- and with dragging basically everyone else into it. Actually, the fact that he brings in this extremely loaded B plot despite only having brief face time with the protagonist should be seen as significant. In a sense, Kabru represents the surface world and all its concerns.

Before I talk about that more, I want to continue with the complementary line of thinking and point out that Kabru and Marcille have very similar background motivations.

Laios wants to save his sister first and foremost, and it's only along the way that he starts to consider what he'd do with the responsibility of Dungeon Lord. Coming to the conclusion that he wants to create a home for disparate peoples to live in harmony has connective tissue to both Kabru and Marcille's desires.

Marcille is the only one in their party who starts out with a greater motivation other than saving Falin (Izutsumi is a special case, but she's ultimately along for the ride), one that she keeps hidden for a long time. Because she is a mage, and because she is driven by a very personal tragedy (my dad died; I am terrified of outliving everyone), she is looking for a miracle to bring the different races closer together.

Kabru comes from a background of personal tragedy as well, but it's also a far greater, more political tragedy than just the death of a parent. It is not a coincidence that Kabru is a brown boy from an exploited region that suffered despite and because of military intervention from a first-world power, nor that he was adopted by a white woman whose coddling/dehumanization of him represents the paternalistic oversight of these world powers.

Thus, Kabru's motivations are both personal and political: if they, the short-lived races, can finally access the secrets of the dungeons, then not only can they have agency in stopping tragedies like Utaya's, but it will also give them a greater power of self-determination.

Marcille and Kabru have both correctly identified and set themselves against a problem that is greater than saving the life of one girl, greater even than sealing this one dungeon.

Despite Marcille's hopes, there is no grand magic solution to this. Only small, slow, backbreaking, ordinary solutions, the kind you labor over in kitchens and bedrooms and throne rooms and meeting houses and hearths and negotiation tables. The kind you run a kingdom with.

There is a reason why Dungeon Meshi ends with Marcille and Kabru on either side of Laios's throne.

Okay: back to Kabru (under the cut).

I've talked about this a little before, but I'll reiterate here: I consider Kabru to be the counterweight to the back half of the story. In a very literal sense too, as he pulls the focus up from the depths to the surface not once, but twice. Dungeon Meshi builds itself on the premise that the traditional "dungeon" must function as an actual ecosystem, and the monsters in it are biological actors in that ecosystem and not merely magical obstacles independent of their environment. The first couple dozen chapters are focused on this. Like regular animals, monsters have needs and instincts and unique behaviors, and they can be killed and consumed as part of a food chain.

And then Kabru comes along and he reminds us that humans are also part of their own special ecosystem, with their own needs and instincts and unique behaviors, and that beyond the biological drive of the literal food chain there are also complex social issues influencing these behaviors (like capitalism). Tansu's visit with the governor introduced us to these ideas, but Kabru is the one who carries them.

The way he and his party break down Laios's party also serves an important function. I think most readers are so busy being shocked that Kabru is "so wrong" about our goofy boy Laios that they don't realize that he isn't actually wrong about anything (he's only missing the context of what drives Laios, which he admits to and is part of the reason why he pursues him). We've gotten only Laios's view of things so far, and Laios is pretty tunnel-visioned. The narrative, through Kabru, is telling the reader this is how our protagonist actually comes across to his community.

We like Laios because we are following his story from his inner circle. We know he's naive and struggles with people but that he has a good heart and is ultimately just a big silly guy who won't harm anybody if he can help it. But we only know that because we're seeing him with his inner circle, in his environment. Outside of the dungeon, Laios is anti-social to the point of rudeness; he misreads situations and misjudges people, he acts in ways that cause friction, and he accidentally aligns himself with people who make his whole enterprise look suspicious: a prominent half-foot community leader, a mysterious foreigner literally surrounded by spies, the disgraced daughter of a criminal who now has to shoulder the burden of her father's reputation, and an elf in a land where there are no elves. And they seem to be very good at what they're doing. Yet this whole time, Laios acts as if he doesn't care about profit or taking the kingdom, the only logical reasons why anyone on the Island would gather up such a party and throw themselves into this death pit day after day.

Yeah of course Kabru finds this suspicious and interesting. Of course people don't know what to make of Laios. This all reiterates the question that Zon the orc already raised: What will you do, Laios, if you defeat the Mad Mage? If you gain control of all of this? Can you be a leader? Laios himself doesn't know yet.

This is all necessary context for our protagonist and the journey he has to go on, and it's fittingly brought up by the most socially adept character, who is so concerned with human ecosystems and the bigger picture of the dungeon. There is a reason why Kabru, as a character, is connected to large webs of people as he moves throughout the narrative: his own party, Toshiro's party, the Canaries, the denizens of the first floor of the dungeon.

Kabru is responsible for bringing Toshiro down to Laios's party. Toshiro is not a big mover and shaker in the story itself, but his confrontation with Laios is a huge part of Laios's character arc. His detour down to the lower levels also allows Izutsumi to escape and join Laios's party later.

We also have this very important moment:

It shows the first inkling- to the audience, to Kabru, and to Laios himself- that Laios is willing to do a painful, necessary thing to protect other people, that he won't just allow them to become collateral for his sister/monsters. That he can listen, and that he can assess a situation beyond his personal feelings. Again, fittingly, big-picture-thinker Kabru is the catalyst for this.

And then, not content to leave him as merely a device for Laios's character growth, the focus slingshots back up to the surface, and we follow Kabru.

The Canaries were going to go into the dungeon soon anyway, and they were always going to stir up the crowd in order to lure Thistle to them. Unless Thistle had given up right then and managed to slip away, the story could have very easily ended here:

Falin, immobilized and surrounded by Canaries, would have certainly been killed, and there would have been no way to ever resurrect her. Thistle would have been neutralized. The dungeon would have been taken by the elves, and anyone they could get their hands on would have been imprisoned at best. And maybe the dungeon would have been managed safely ... or maybe something would have gone wrong, and more lives would have been lost. Remember: the Canaries arrived in Utaya one year before the tragedy.

This is a huge moment that changes Laios's life forever, and he doesn't even know it. Kabru single-handedly keeps the story on course by sabotaging the Canaries, and he does it not just for Laios's sake, but for everyone's sake. For his friends and companions in the dungeon and everyone else outside it. Laios is a part of his motivation, a key player in Kabru's hopes, but Kabru has his own desires, his own agenda. He's trying to change the world. In a way, he succeeds. And while the Canaries might wish it were otherwise, as an entity in the narrative they are always anchored to Kabru's character. The two forces collide because of Kabru. The unsealing of the Winged Lion and Marcille's emergency ascension to Dungeon Lord happen indirectly because of Kabru.

While I have talked so much already that I don't want to give a detailed breakdown of it, I do want to mention Kabru's unique interiority as a character. That is to say: we see the inside of Kabru's head more than anyone else. Every character in the main ensemble gets their own moments of inner monologues or fifteen minutes in the limelight, but for Kabru, it's constant. He's always thinking, talking, narrating. His POV chapters always stand out for how first-person they feel compared to most others.

Notably, the only other character I could compare that to is Marcille, specifically during the dungeon rabbit debacle and her ascension afterward, which is when she really takes center stage as a character.

I hope I've explained my reasoning without becoming too insufferable.

To cap off my thoughts with a nod to my original post, I cannot stress enough how significant it is, thematically, that Kabru's relationship with food is the inverse of Laios's. It isn't just that Laios is the main character in a story about cooking monsters and Kabru happens to be his monster-hating foil. The artistic choice to deny the reader the visual of this character ever enjoying food, and only ever putting it in his mouth in situations where it hurts him, in a manga that gives so much attention to eating and the pleasures of meals, cannot be understated.

[sntsatticus]

a rough day, feat the ghosts

waking up in an unfamiliar place forces nikkolas atticus to travel down the memory lane.

TW: Drugs, Heavy Drugs, Blood, Body Horror, Description of Drugs, Doing Drugs, and being High.

October 5th, 2024

A jolt down his spine wakes him up ⸻ like a thunderstrike slipping from Zeus's hands into his blood vessels, energy sizzling on his skin. Gravity doesn't exist in this cocoon of dizziness he is soundly in ⸻ body boneless, weightless, less less less except for the buzzing in his ears. Fingers snap by his ear twice, twice more to be certain; the static is in his head, the world in the constant silence he lives in. His mouth feels dry but drooling simultaneously ⸻ heavy bitter stale taste of bile on his tongue, throat raw when he tries to gulp. He tries to shift, catch some more sleep until he feels minimally half alive. 

His head throbs in a dull, relentless pressure behind his temple, green eyes slowly blinking awake ⸻ gritty and dry, as if stuck together by sand. It takes a moment for his surroundings to come into focus, the cold hard surface beneath him sending making him shiver before white chipped porcelain comes into view, surrounding him ⸻ choking him. Lifting his head an inch presents him with the reality of his body sprawled awkwardly inside the bathtub, a faded shower curtain sticking to his skin like a comforting blanket. Slowly, he pushes himself up ⸻ muscles screaming in protest agony until he sits up, looking down at his sweaty body ⸻ shirtless but his pants, thankfully, are sticking to his body still. 

A deep dark bruise is blooming on his ribcage, tracing a path down his stomach just above his belly button. Small bags fall from his chest, clammy hands bringing one to his eyes. Whose coke is this? 

Squinting against the sharp bathroom's, not his, fluorescent lights, he tries to pierce together the pieces of how he ended up here. Flashes of the cocktail he indulged in the night before; the colorful delicious pills of ecstasy, weed in his lungs, coke in his nose ⸻ Hells. The inside of his skull feels like it's being scrubbed raw ⸻ worsening by the movements of a wiggling fish trying to leave the tub. His body is in the grips of dehydration, and the path to the sink is a long painful one. A guttural moan escapes chapped lips when cool water finally descends down his throat ⸻ and he feels like an animal hunched over a puddle in the desert. Perhaps more pathetic; he is gulping down sink water from a stranger's bathroom like it's ambrosia sent to him by the goddesses of Olympus. 

When his stomach feels full, his throat less sandpaper and more healing scars, he washes the dried blood from his nostrils carefully ⸻ splashing some more water on his face before shaking hands are turning off the sink. A shirt lays discarded on the floor, so he puts it on and gathers the bags of cocaine he had let fall. There are four ⸻ his body feels heavy, sluggish, but the craving gnaws at him still, louder than any discomfort. With trembling sweaty fingers, he struggles to rip the plastic open. 

Finally, fine powder spills out onto the skin's surface. His entire body shakes while he pats his pockets for anything ⸻ his phone is still there, and luckily so is his wallet. He uses the edge of a credit card to scrape it into a shaky white line, anticipation momentarily cutting through the fog of nausea. His pulse quickens and he bends down, nostrils hovering above the trail before a sharp inhale takes it all in. Instantly, the burning hit his sinuses and his eyes waters, but within seconds the dull ache in his head started to dim. His muscles tighten, his heart races, and a false clarity returns ⸻ sharp, electric, and hollow all at once. He exhales slowly, feeling the sweat bead on his forehead as the surge courses through him, pulling him up from the pit he'd woken in, but not nearly far enough. 

When he raises his head, black bottomless empty eyes are staring at him above his shoulder. Behind the rotten and grime, judgment shines from its mouth. He pays it no mind ⸻ simply shoves everything in his pocket and leaves. 

Outside, the world is impossibly bright ⸻ when he leaves an apartment that is not his, a flood of sunlight pours in, blinding him. He winces as it sharply pierces through his skull, the heat and glare feeling almost too violent. His hand covers his eyes as he stumbles down the stairs, trying to blink away the haze. The fresh air does little to clear his head ⸻ the day is so alive, so indifferent to whatever he clawed out of, and he suddenly feels very small, like one of the ghosts wandering all around him. There is only one question in his brain, now ⸻ Nikkolas Atticus, how did you end up like this? 

2011, unknown date 

The dim light of a desk lamp cast long shadows across the room, its gentle light illuminating a cluttered pile of notebooks, sketchbooks, textbooks, and really old books. On the walls galaxies are painted, and shine-in-the-dark stars glued to the ceiling. A bed with no frame is tucked in the corner of the room, clothes and toys littering the carpeted floor with life. He sits hunched over on the oak table by the window, scribbling down the answers to complicated questions of his homework. Mother is a ferocious teacher ⸻ but even she doesn't demand him to do fractions and equations unless the hired tutor is around. Instead, he works on his translations, the scratch of his pencil the only real sound in the otherwise eerie silence. Not that he would know. 

A cold breeze brushes past his ears. He doesn't flinch. 

La pioggia ⸻ is it rain? Or being wet? He doesn't remember. All he truly knows is porca miseria and puttana ⸻ but mother has forbidden him from saying such words despite the number of times she spits them. “Why don't you listen?” From the corner of the room, the figure drifts closer. Its hollow eyes stare at him, its mouth twisted in a malicious snarl. “Listen to me!” Unfortunately, he does. It's the only thing he still can hear ⸻ the screeches of the dead around him, their screams, their demands. He is tired of being bitter about it. 

“I will gut you like a pig! Your entrails will make for a delicious dinner!” 

“That's alright, then,” he mutters, chewing on his pencil. He can't remember the word for umbrella ⸻ do Italians know what an umbrella is? Of course they do. He thinks. Asking mother would offend her, but he remembers how she struggles to open one. Perhaps his godmother would know, but he can't call. He can't hear her voice on the phone. He groans, frustrated.

Across the room, the door creaks open, and a man in a military uniform limp inside, his footfalls heavy and deliberate. “You’re wasting your time, kid,” the man growls, launching at him. “Nothing you do matters. You think papers are gonna help you when they come for you? Can't you hear their horses?” 

The boy sighs. Is bonjorno goodnight? ⸻ “No, I can't.” The light flickers. He taps his pencil against the table. 

The soldier snarls, his voice rising. "You don’t listen, do you? I could snap your neck—right here, right now.”

He shrugs. The room grows colder, the shadows deepening as the spirits gather around him. A faceless bride appears by his side, tugging at his sleeves while a whispering group floated near the ceiling, their words muddled and overlapping. But the boy focuses on homework, flipping through papers and scribbling down random thoughts. He had grown used to the threats, the whispers, the constant presence of the dead lingering in every corner of his life. This was just another night ⸻ another problem to solve, another ghost to ignore.

He only raises his head when he feels life come into his room, all the hollow eyes around him disappearing when he beams at the figure lingering by the open door. “Mama,” he whispers, Desmona's dark eyes curiously watching him when she tiptoes closer. “How do you say I'm tired in Italian?” 

October 5th, 2024

The city buzzes around him, a muted blur of motion and vibration that barely registers. His phone is dead, battery drained since God knows when, but it doesn’t matter ⸻ he’s not in a rush to be anywhere. The coke keeps him wide awake, hyper-aware of every tiny movement, every flicker in his peripheral vision. His fingers twitch at his sides, occasionally rising to his nose to rub at the bridge, a nervous habit. Sweat clings to his skin despite the cool morning air, and his heart races in his chest, too fast, like a train he can’t slow down.

If you dig down a grave deep enough, there you will find him at the bottom with rotting corpses appearing around him.

They are there, as he walks, drifting through the crowded sidewalks, pale outlines against the rush of living bodies. A woman in an old-fashioned dress stands at the corner, her face blank as she watches the cars go by; a child with wide, hollow eyes sits on the curb, legs drawn to his chest, the faint outline of a toy clutched in his hands; a man in a suit walks alongside him, eyes fixed straight ahead, lips moving as if he’s in conversation with someone long gone. They’re everywhere, moving through the city like forgotten memories refusing to move on. He barely notices them.

They’ve been with him for as long as he can remember, these silent figures hovering just at the edges of his vision.

It's funny, still, how the coke sharpens everything but them ⸻ The colors are too bright, the vibrations too hard, but the ghosts? ⸻ They stay the same, drifting through the haze of his high like they always do, as real as the living people brushing past him. He feels them sometimes, a chill on the back of his neck, nails digging into his skin. But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react. They’re part of the scenery now, familiar as street signs and flickering neon lights overhead.

He rubs his nose again, sniffing, fingers trembling slightly. He’s not scared of the dead. He’s only scared of how quickly the drugs are wearing off and how soon the real world will start crashing in.

2009, unknown date

The boy sits at the kitchen table, picking at a sandwich. His wide, curious eyes flick up at mother between bites, a question turning over in his mind. She smiles, noticing his silence.

“So, how was the museum trip?” she asks, sipping her coffee. The words sounded heavy in her mouth, like she needed to taste the syllables before speaking ⸻ as if museums were an unknown concept to her until now.

“It was cool. They had mummies and dinosaurs,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He glances at the corner of the room, where a tall, slender figure wrapped in torn linen stands, its hollow eye sockets fixed on him. The mummy doesn’t speak, just sways slightly, like it’s struggling to stay upright.

His mother doesn’t see it. She hums, however, absently minded as if she doesn't know what either of those things are.

He takes another bite before asking, “Mama, if I used my magic in public but no one noticed, you wouldn't be mad, right?”

She raises an eyebrow, amused. “That depends, sweetheart. Have you done something you shouldn't with it?”

He nods thoughtfully, still eyeing the ghostly mummy. Its mouth hangs open as if trying to speak, but the boy turns back to his sandwich, deciding to ignore it. “Mummies don’t seem very talkative,” he whispers. "So I didn't raise them back. Could I, if I wanted? ⸻ Anyway, there was this dinosaur. It was a velociraptor, like in the movie!" He makes the noise, jumping on his seat while his mother watches. "And I was curious to see if I could make it move."

His mother chuckles. "Did you?"

He shrugs. "Yeah. But not much. It couldn't make any sound or run. And I bled a lot ⸻"

The mummy slowly drifts away, dissolving into the air. The boy doesn’t watch it leave. He’s already moved on, his words wandering on too.

October 5th, 2024

The familiar jingle of the bell is lost on him as he steps into the deli. The cool blast of air conditioning hits him like a wall, a sharp contrast to the heat outside. The place smells like grilled meat, pickles, and coffee ⸻comforting, in a way that stirs his hunger, though his stomach is still tight.

Tony, the deli owner, stands behind the counter, chopping something with the easy rhythm he recognizes from the motion of his hands. He can’t hear the steady thunk-thunk-thunk of the knife, but he knows it’s there, the same as always. Tony’s face lights up when he sees him, lips moving in a greeting he doesn’t catch. He’s always been able to read Tony’s expressions more than his words ⸻ the old man has been around forever, the kind of person you don’t need sound to understand. “Look who finally dragged his sorry ass in,” he seems to say.

Tony says something, his grin wide, eyes crinkled in amusement. Probably some crack about how rough he looks ⸻ he’s heard that one a million times, and he can read it in Tony’s face now; “You look like death warmed over.” He smiles back weakly, rubbing at his nose again, the lingering burn making his sinuses throb. His hands are shaking, but Tony doesn’t seem to notice. Maybe he just doesn’t care.

“Yeah, well, it’s been one of those days,” he mutters.

Tony gestures toward the counter, already reaching for the bread. He doesn’t need to ask for his order; it’s always the same. The coke still has his nerves buzzing, fingers tapping the counter in an uneven rhythm as he watches Tony work. His eyes drift to the corner of the deli where a ghost sits by the window, an older woman hunched over, staring into nothing. She’s been there as long as he can remember, like some permanent fixture no one but him can see.

Tony slides the sandwich across the counter, lips moving in another quick comment ⸻ something about partying too hard, probably. Or asking if his mother is still single. He forces a half-smile, glances down at the food. His stomach growls, but his hands are trembling too much to unwrap it right now.

He gives Tony a quick wave and slips back outside, into the bright daylight that feels like it’s too much for his wired nerves to handle.

2007, unknown date

The front door creaks open in the dead of night, and the boy, just six years old again, shuffles through the hallway, his small frame barely lit by the streetlight spilling in through the windows. His pajamas are soaked in mud, blood smeared across his arms and face. He doesn’t make a sound as he walks upstairs and climbs into bed, curling up as if nothing happened.

He’s fast asleep by the time his mother finds him.

She bursts into his room, shaking him awake. “Oh my God, where were you?!” she cries, her voice frantic.

He doesn't catch most of it. Only missing, six days, is that blood?

The boy blinks at her, dazed and confused. His arm throbs, twisted at an unnatural angle. He winces as his mother pulls him into a tight embrace, her tears falling on his hair. He has never seen her cry before.

“I — I don’t know,” he whispers, his voice small and broken. “I don’t remember.”

The room is crowded with ghosts. Some watch quietly from the shadows, others stand beside his bed, their faces filled with concern or anger. One of them, an older man with deep scars across his face, leans down and whispers, “I tried to stop you, boy. You don’t listen. Look where it got you.”

The boy stares at the man but doesn’t respond. His arm burns with pain, and all he wants is to sleep. His mother holds him tighter, her hands shaking as she tries to piece together what happened.

The ghosts linger in the room, but the boy is too tired to care. Too tired to be afraid. He just closes his eyes, letting the exhaustion wash over him as his mother’s trembling hands stroke his hair.

October 5th, 2024

He should be heading home, but the thought of going back to his apartment feels like a death sentence. The coke hasn’t worn off yet, his nerves still buzzing, fingers twitching at his sides. His skin feels too tight, his shirt sticking to him with sweat despite the breeze. He can’t sit still. He can’t be alone with his own thoughts ⸻ not like this, not with the ghosts.

His phone’s dead, but he doesn’t need it. The neon sign for the Satin Cabaret flickers at the end of the block, pulling him in. Cheap drinks, dim lights, and music loud enough that the vibrations drown everything else out. It’s better than home. At least there, he doesn’t have to think.

His feet move before his mind catches up, the cabaret drawing him in like a magnet. The street outside is busy, the city still alive in the early afternoon, but he’s lost in his own world. He knows he will eventually have to face missed calls, unanswered texts, and reality. But there are three more bags in his pockets, and only one person he wishes to see. Nikko doesn't know if she will indulge him now ⸻ in the state he is in. But he hopes she at least allows him to nap in her office, eat his food, charge his stupid phone. And got another bag or two in his system.

His heart pounds too fast, the coke sending jolts through his veins with every step. He rubs his nose, sniffling, the burn still sitting at the back of his throat. Inside, the lights will be low, the air thick with smoke, the bass of the music vibrating through the floor. It’s the kind of place where time doesn’t matter, where the night stretches on forever, even in the middle of the day.

Without hesitation, he pushes open the door. The thick curtain of cigarette smoke and perfume hits him immediately ⸻ familiar, comforting in its own twisted way. Here, at least, the ghosts stay outside, and for a little while, he can forget what’s waiting for him in the real world.

[melit0n]

One of my favourite things to do is compare people to concepts. Sure, I can have a song or a specific object that reminds me of them, but I always work best with a scene.

Like, yes, my friend could remind me of Sunlight by Hozier, for example, but in my head they are a decidous forest in late Spring, going on Summer. It's just after 12, and there's a buzz of insects in the air and the smell of something warm on the wind. On a trail, one walked by hundreds of generations, the trees part slightly. Aureate, crepuscular beams of sunlight wisp through the leaves like golden fingers of old Gods. A flock of birds begin flight in the distance, and the moss on the ground sighs with the warmth.

Y'know?? How can I relate a person to one thing, one animal, song, or object when they are so wonderful and brimming with life? I see a whole ecosystem in their eyes and can't help but bask in it.

[petrichor-musings]

we were explaining the concept of therian/otherkin to our wife & she said

"so they're like... fae?"

[my-t4t-romance]