#shadowheart really thinks she's fucking doing something with that skull and crossbones

[grief-worn]

@bloodtwin sent: he doesn't usually go out of his way to talk to other kids his age. it would end badly, he thinks. no, he knows. all of his interactions are the same in the end. but this time he can't help himself. curiosity gets the better of him as he hops down from the tree he'd been perched in. he likes to people watch from up there. sometimes watching becomes hunting. an excitable energy in his every step, he approaches the dark-haired girl that had caught his eye- or rather, the dark-haired girl that had drawn what really caught his eye. he points at the wall she'd marked up. "is that a skull & crossbones? it looks cool."

It’s very macabre, she thinks to herself. Grim and hauntingly visceral. The kind of imagery that breeds terror and pales the skin. Good. A proper reflection of her soul, of her inner torment.

Her fingers are red, a brighter shade than what flows in veins. She grips a splintered brush in her right hand, haphazardly dunking it into the pot of tempera at her feet. Stolen, but important for her mission. The artist she had nicked it from would’ve wasted its potential. He would’ve spit out some saccharine rubbish, like a sunset vista, or another ugly portrait of some blighted nobleman. Nothing like true art, nothing that captures the grotesque and monstrous realities of life.

With a broad, confident stroke, she adds the finishing touches. Absolutely perfect. Adrenaline courses through her, and she wipes sweat off her crinkled brow. A vast improvement over dull and lifeless brick. This will make an impression. The drooling masses of Baldur’s Gate will witness this and find enlightenment!

Bending to a crouch, she tucks the brush inside the pot, eager to locate her next canvas. Time is not on her side, and she must be quick. Mother will punish her if she show up late to evening mass again. The girl turns, poised to flee the scene of the crime, but someone is standing in her way.

A person. A boy? A something. A creature unfledged. Young-faced, with puzzling features. A little dirty. A lot unwanted.

“Cool? Are you stupid?” A good start to the conversation. “It is not supposed to be cool. It is supposed to be terrifying.” Her voice rises to a squeak, too offended to mediate her temper. “A picture of death … the remains of a corpse. Not cool, but a dark omen of what is to come.”

It’s a skull and crossbones. A very cartoonishly ugly skull and crossbones.

She shifts, resting the pot against her hip. Inky hair, long and hastily braided, frames her jaw with its tendrils. Her face scrunches into a pucker, deliberately glaring at him, up and down.

“What are you, some sort of mutated dog boy? I’ve never met anyone with a tail, well, no one who wasn’t devil-born.” Her best friend is a boy with a tail, but tieflings are not fuzzy. “Get out of my way. Probably have rabies or diseases …”