#the book that taught me what a half adder is

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, MALIN! You’ve been accepted for the role of DEATH with the faclaim of ZOE KRAVITZ. Death’s hunger is one of my favorite aspects about their character -- but it can be easily overstated or understated in contrast to their humanity. You struck the perfect chord, and the song you wrote for me with Death was so well-written it made me weep. Zoya has the real potential to be a power-player, as you’ve shown, but her history and humanity gets in the way, and there’s so something undeniably poetic about it. The lore you sketched out for me at the start merely set the stage for a wonderful application that I enjoyed to no end (fantasy Lasik!). I’m fully prepared to serve Zoya a seven-course meal.

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ooc.

NAME: Malin PRONOUNS: she/hers & they/them AGE: 25 TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: GMT+1. Currently, I’m at about a 6-7 out of 10, I would say? I’m hoping for my own sake that I somehow nab a new job during summer sometime, which might push that activity down some – but I will still be here! ANYTHING ELSE? 1. i invented some in-game folklore. as a little treat. 2. listen, I gave a bitch haunted Lasik. 3. i did some MORE fuckshit regarding her body regenerating freakishly quick for a while after her resurrection (it has since gone away.) ALL OF THESE ARE DEFINITELY NEGOTIABLE if you feel it’s too much! but if you DON’T feel it’s Too Much though and you like it? ……………… let me do some fuckshit. 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀

in character.

SKELETON: Death

NAME: Zoya Nathair, daughter of Duke Nathair, the Duke of Serpents – thus giving her the title of lady while at court. The hefty mouthful you’ll find on legal documents has her down as Zoya Casimira Lucem Zilvinas Nathair. Informal names given through the years include the moniker Prince of Snakes, as given to her by the people of Lowtown – an insult turned pet name with time, if you will – and the Gaunter of Hightown, a ghost story she accidentally caused in her youth.

FACECLAIM: Zoë Kravitz, Jessica Parker Kennedy, Crystal Reed, Keira Knightley, Jodie Comer  (would want to change the age depending on the backup FC!)

AGE: 31-32

DETAILS: Zoya is a collection of contradictions: she died once, yet she lives; she’s Hightown-born and yet has her hands in Lowtown dealings – and the face she puts on and whom most know is a mask.

Calculating, impulsive; ruthless, caring; selfish, loyal. She crafted a lie she could live, and now she’s caught in it – and yet she finds herself both relishing and resisting that lie. Her outspoken nature among the upper echelon began as a game, Zoya courting consequence for her own amusement – but the longer it’s gone on for, the truer it rings. But Koldam has been razed, and if there ever was a time to kill a king, it’s now.

At the start of the game, she is a woman considering all the choices that have led her to where she is, and she will need to reconcile the gnawing hunger within herself – the parts of her she sees as self-serving and ignoble – with the parts that recognize the injustice being done, the same parts she’s spent years drowning out.

CHARACTER DEATH: Yes, I’m comfortable with it! As a woman who has already died once, she knows it’s coming – just not how, or when. Considering she’s also out here being vocal about TREASON, it’s uhhhh [will wright voice] pretty likely, innit. I think her dying could be interesting, though I’d like it to have the right weight, storywise, and to have a hand in it myself, should it come down to it!

CONTENT WARNING – brief mentions of self-harm in the section “skins shed; lives lost, lives given”!

biography.

THE WOLF WHO BECAME DUKE OF SERPENTS.

A wolf saves an adder from the claws of a hawk; its snarling, hungry teeth scaring away the kestrel. With the hawk gone, the wolf advances on the adder, slobbering spit from its maw. “Do not eat me,” hisses the adder, “for I am little more to you than a morsel. Let me instead return the debt I owe you.”

Intrigued, the wolf agrees – for the snake is right; its sullen, sorry skin will hardly feed the wolf. And perhaps wolves are hungry creatures, and perhaps hunger is an ancient feeling – but there are more things in this world to be hungry for than meat, and wolves themselves are ancient.

And so it is that the two of them venture into the gleaming halls of the Serpent Queen, far below the earth. Her den of snakes have hollowed out the primordial passages, which coil and twist through stone and bedrock. Rivers of emerald and sapphire greet them as they enter her labyrinth; the air is suffused with the rich scent of loam and ferns that grow in the dark. It is there, in a cavern bled through with silver, that the Serpent Queen sits upon her throne, her glittering scales carved from obsidian and lapis lazuli, quartz and tiger's eye.

The hiss of her court is silenced as she speaks, her voice the whisper of wind through grass.  “What do you wish for?” she asks the wolf, and the wolf answers that he would like the comfort of a rich man’s life. “No more would I need to starve through winter,” he says. “No more would I need to roam the woods for meagre prey.”

“So it shall be,” the Serpent Queen says, and so it is. She grants him a name, for he has none; a title, for he does not have that either; enough wealth that he may buy land wherever he pleases. Finally, she grants him his new form: she teaches him the secret of snakes, how to shed his fur for skin – but once it is done, you may never go back.

And so it is that the wolves of House Nathair never again ran on all fours through the Volkan woods; rising instead on two to walk among men. That first wolf was named Zilvinas, and so they would all take the name in his honor. Their head of house is forever known as the Duke of Serpents, for it is to that scaled queen below the earth they owe their riches and land.

† † †

It’s a strange story, even among the varied gentry of Tyrholm; an odd fairytale from a long-gone era. As a child, she spent much time contemplating the skin and the claws and the fangs that were shed. Now, in her cups, she does much the same. Sober, she pretends she doesn’t. The crest of her family – a wolf’s head circled by a snake eating its own tail – is more entrenched in her mind than she wants to admit. But let her brothers be the wolves: she has shed her skin more than once, and she will do it again, and again, and again.

THE GAUNTER OF HIGHTOWN.

In Hightown, there is a certain manor. Its stonework is decked in reliefs of beasts ready to spring to life: wolves chase stags through marble woodlands, beautiful serpents hide in the leaves. Amidst well-lit streets and manicured gardens, it is easy to forget the ghosts that haunt Tyrholm – but as the saying goes, not all corpses sink in the Tear. No apparitions are ever gone for long. As servants from neighboring homes passed through the ginnels and alleyways near it, they would often feel as though they were being watched… and at odd hours of the day, they would look up and see a gaunt face staring back at them from the manor tower, before fading into darkness once more.

At dawn, one might catch her from the east, staring from between the hallway curtains, and some even said they saw her gazing down at them from the parapets after midnight – her bony hands curved across the stone, pin-prick eyes boring holes into them. The Gaunter, they called it, the strange creature that watched and waited.

They say if you aren't careful, the Gaunter will catch you - wrap its spider-fingers around your neck, and squeeze until you're as gaunt as it is. They say it caught a chambermaid, once, after dark. They found her by the bridge leading to the Isle of the Dead, her brown hair gone grey overnight, her cheeks hollowed out.

† † †

From birth, Zoya was an ill child – prone to spells of sickness that would leave her bedridden and housebound for weeks, even months, at a time. Tonics and ointments and even the occasional visit from a Vitalus got her back on her feet, for a while – but nothing ever healed her; not truly. From the windows, she would observe the world passing her by, and the sight of her sickly face peering out gave rise to a considerable number of ghost stories among gentry and servants alike.

Tenth-born and the only daughter; half-dead from her first breath – easily forgotten, among her pack of older brothers, too young and frail and fragile to be heard in all the noise. Another girl might have been cowed by her circumstances – but that girl was not Zoya. Forget the blood in her mouth and the way her limbs threatened to give out when she pushed herself too hard, too fast, too much – she was stubborn; clung to life like she had since birth.

She was tutored in much the same way as her brothers before her, but where they were strong enough in body to wield a sword, and healthy enough to leave the manor,  Zoya was decidedly not. It meant she was left to her own devices, and she divided those hours between books and the staff of servants, making friends with the scullery maids and stable hands. They told her stories and tall tales and gossip, explained the intricacies of Lowtown to her, taught her card games, how to spot a cheater and how to hide your nature as one – and if they ever pitied her, they had the good sense not to show it. (For that, she was forever grateful.)

When her health confined her to her room, she would read – voraciously so, head lost in tales of Faerûn’s fall and the glory of Hypatos, stories from beyond the Sahrnian Sea describing horror and wonder alike. And when she could, she would sneak out from her chambers to roam the hallways like a spectre. Under cover of darkness, she would make her way out and up, peering down at the Hightown streets; wondering what it might look like, should she ever get there.

The world continued passing her by, and though she grew older, she never got well. The year she turned fifteen, her health sharply declined for the worse. As spring began, Zoya was sent to the Nathair estate in the countryside to live out her last months – no doubt both because it would be a finer place to die, but also because she’s certain her parents wouldn’t want the stench of death to taint their Hightown manor.

As spring became summer, her family joined her for her living wake; Zoya’s body still warm, but not for long. Soon after, a flash flood rendered the nearby roads unusable, and the threat of summer storms meant travelers had to be wary. It wasn’t a surprise, then, that someone came knocking, invoking the law of hospitality – but their two missing fingers certainly were. A necromancer had come calling, and her father let them in.

† † †

Perhaps it was pity, or guilt, that made her parents leave her to her roaming. She’s certain that had they known where she went, they would have stopped her – but they didn’t.

She spent the fragile remainder of that summer in the furthest corner of the rose garden, and her company was largely silent, yet magnetically present. The necromancer would rarely speak, unless it was pressing, but they never chased her away. For hours, the two of them would sit there, one near death and the other beyond it, the roses slowly wilting. The sweet scent of rot permeated the air, fragrant and earthen, and it remains a strange, hazy memory on the periphery of her consciousness, even now.

Slowly – and then quick as a slap – she began to wilt, too.

The night she died is a haze, but she thinks she remembers the necromancer’s strange, quiet voice as they spoke to her father: “You have shown me kindness. Let me offer you mine.” She remembers the last breath she drew. She does not remember the face of her resurrector, but she swears she feels the touch of their hands, on occasion, phantom traces of memory.

It was as if she had been woken from the longest slumber. Her saviour was gone, like a ghost fleeing the dawn; had left right before sunrise. Already, she felt it – life. She had been a desert, and now she was a river: not until she could feel strength in her limbs for the first time did she understand just how parched she’d been.

She hobbled to the garden, and found a wasteland in its stead. The rosarium was rotting, that scent rising from the ruin left behind. And then, of course, there was the matter of her right eye.

Before, they had both been the shade of burnt umber, a lovely rich brown – but after she rose, her right eye was yellow as amber; her pupil no longer round, but a serpentine slit. It distressed her parents greatly: undeath is holy, but the flesh is weak. Her strange eye seemed fit as proof of some inner flaw, no matter the blessing bestowed. A sacrilege of a holy gift. It did not help matters that she began to see things, out of the corner of her eye – shadows and silhouettes, strange motes of light. Sometimes, she even swore she heard them whisper. Necromancy may be holy, but not all magic is, and whatever had been left behind in her – or woken up – was decidedly not holy. The eye drops were a compromise: her father wanted to have a Vitalus heal her eye, in the hopes that it might banish whatever ill fortune had befallen her, and Zoya staunchly refused. It was her mark, her scar, she would do with it as she pleased. But she could not deny that the strange visions bothered her, and in time, took to covering it with cloth. It made her realize that simply removing the sight from her right eye seemed to stem the problem – and so she agreed to her father’s solution. He commissioned eye drops brewed from belladonna and other strange components, and she has kept a vial of it on her at all times ever since.

† † †

SKINS SHED; LIVES LOST, LIVES GIVEN.

It was as if whatever force had eluded her in her first life had begun pouring out of her in her second. She took to fencing, took to the city, took to anything and everything she could get her hands on: I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive. It echoed in her, a fervor unlike anything else she’d ever felt. She could tell it almost frightened her family: it must have been uncanny, she knows, to see her spend fifteen years half-dead, only to lie there a corpse and then be brought back. To see her right eye become something else, something not-her, to see her be so viciously alive after what had transpired.

And so, when she scratched herself on the thorns of a bramble in their Hightown garden, and found the scar knitting itself together, she kept it from them.

For weeks, she tested the limits of her resurrection – with thorns and knives, even a red-hot poker. If they were simple cuts, they would heal within the day. But if she exceeded her body’s strange, nebulous limit, they would often be bloodless – like a desiccated body, despite the glow in her cheeks and the fact that she was conscious. That fervor – that hunger – began to scare Zoya, too. But she had always been stubborn, and she would be damned if she let go then, after years of clinging to a half-life. So, like always, she pushed forward. If she hungered, she would have it – she needn’t think about that nagging thought in the back of her head, so long as she kept going.

( Am I alive, or am I a corpse? She would slip her hands into leather gloves, and tell no one why; would steal her mother’s perfume and fasten flowers to her lapel in the hopes that it might cover up the rot she was so certain she could smell. )

These days, all scars stay, whatever errant magical remnants the necromancer left in her long-gone. She wears the first scar that stuck with pride – a nasty gash in her left thigh, an anchor to remind her that she’s a living, breathing person. ( But sometimes, it’s hard to remember. )

SKINS SHED; LIVES LOST, LIVES TAKEN.

At 25, Zoya won the Rosewood Maiden in a game of cards, and the previous owner has sorely regretted it since. Already, she had been entrenched in certain Lowtown dealings, but it was the Maiden that would truly cinch her presence there. It became her way in, after a handful of years spent on the periphery, slowly working her way in. It would be easy, to say she wanted power – but the truth of it is that in her mind, power goes hand in hand with freedom. (Funny, then, that she has tied herself so strongly to a place, despite her childhood dreams of seeing what lay beyond her windowsill. –– But she did spend those fifteen years dreaming of simply seeing Tyrholm, and while she’s still curious about the rest of the world, Tyrholm is hers.)

Her “purchase” of the brothel marked a turning point: no longer was she an outsider, peering at the commonfolk from her ivory tower – no, she was one of them, now, with real stakes in Lowtown dealings. It made it easier for them to accept her, and her nickname, once spoken as an insult, became something else. She was theirs, now, and she enjoyed the idea of it – belonging. A pack of her own.

She snuck her metaphorical hand into the metaphorical pockets of the upper echelon, and used that gold to fund an expansion of her business – and in time, someone wrote a little ditty, one she hums if only to unnerve when the occasion calls for it:

Duke of Serpents; Prince of Snakes, king of liars, thieves and rakes– ruby, diamond, pearl and stone: rob you blind of blood and bone.

The nobles can say whatever they like. She’ll take what she wants in due time.

miscellaneous.

The Rosewood Maiden Architecture and design Rather than two, I headcanon that the Rosewood Maiden has three official floors and one hidden one - the top floor, which hosts Zoya's office as well as some sundry guest rooms for hire and storage space; the entry level, which hosts the tavern proper; the brothel quarter below; and underneath the brothel, a cavernous passage into an old smuggler's route.

The tavern and brothel are lavishly decorated with carved serpents and roses - and the occasional wolf and unicorn stag.

Faith She keeps a shrine to the Undying, as well as a scattering of more "heathen" ones - the Serpent Queen among them, and I imagine what deities would pass for good luck, fortune, and thieves in this world.

Sight & eyedrops After she was raised from the dead, her right eye became serpentine: a physical mark of her resurrection. She keeps two small bottles of an alchemical solution at all times: one to cloud the eye over, leaving only the faintest trace of yellow right at the edge of her iris, and another to undo the first. I think she gets these from Wyrmwood's, primarily, but I think seeing her approach the Moon for it could be neat! something akin to the historical drops of belladonna used to enlargen pupils, but [tyra banks vc] make it fantasy.

In addition to the uncanny appearance of her eye, there is also the issue of what she sees with it. When left "untreated", whether by eye drops or eye patch, Zoya sees shadowy figures and strange lights - traces of something else, beyond mortal ken. I headcanon that it's maybe a mix of the sheer cost of resurrecting her for the necromancer – an especially noticeable chunk of magic was infused/intertwined with Zoya – and maybe there's a touch of something latent within her? Who Can Say. I enjoy leaving it ambiguous!

Underdogs She has a soft spot for underdogs and unlikely victors - she tells herself it's mostly narcissistic, as it's a simple fact that they mirror her – but truth is there's empathy involved, though she often elects to ignore it. (It’s easier, that way.)

Delusion As a result of her resurrection, and the curious circumstances surrounding it, Zoya has struggled with the occasional delusion / compulsive thought that she is dead – a walking, talking corpse. It's gotten better over the years, but she will wear gloves for comfort when it's at its worst, and is always wearing perfume - a light touch on good days, and a heavier layer on bad ones.

She has a love/hate relationship with the scent of rot: it can set her off, especially meat that's gone bad.

Scent & flowers Both as a result of her delusion, and simply because she likes it, Zoya has an extensive collection of perfume oils to wear - florals, amber, spice; scents that tickle and intrigue.

In addition, she always keeps a large amount of flower arrangements wherever she is staying, whether it's in the Rosewood Maiden, or her home. Again, it serves many purposes - she likes flowers; she feels the scent masks her own when she struggles with thinking that she's dead; she associates them with the necromancer that brought her back, and she feels it keeps other necromancers "at bay" – the flowers will wilt before she does, essentially. They serve as a measuring tool, in that sense, as well as passive lifeforce for the eventual necromancer.

Magpie She has certain magpie tendencies – she enjoys the spoils of wealth, the security of it, to be sure, but she has an eye for the strange. A favorite are supposedly enchanted or cursed objects – she still remembers the stories she read as a child, and she feels a certain kinship to them, in an odd way. (She, too, is a cursed thing.)

extras.

† character tag † playlist † pinterest

plot ideas.

connections.

THE CHARIOT Her relationship with the Chariot is two-fold: on one hand, she very much enjoys the little deal they’ve struck, though she’s well-aware she may need a contingency plan should they try to back out. On the other, she roots for underdogs, much as it pains her.

There is a part of her that sees herself mirrored in them – and perhaps the Chariot is nobler, or at least better at acting the part of someone with morals, but they are both of them still tied to that nebulous nothing, and she wonders what they would do if put on the throne.

I would like to see a certain tension, maybe a twisted understanding, between the two of them! She enjoys the idea of what she could do if only they #let her in, and I think she could provide an interesting counter to their more tragi-heroic energy.

THE LOVERS While Zoya spends a lot (a lot) of time adding to her tapestry of reputation at court, she can be both charming and kind in turns – when she wants to be. I think the Lovers maybe remind her of her childhood friendships, in a strange sense. I think she’s curious about their standing and relationship to the World, but there remains a simplicity to the kindness she displays around them, regardless – she isn’t only using them, but the cogs still turn in her head. I think this relationship could be a good fostering for a side of Zoya that few get to see, which excites me! I also very much enjoy the potential of the Lovers talking to her about their thoughts re: the king.

THE MOON Again, she enjoys the relative power she has over them – and I think a more cruel part of her maybe enjoys toying with them. They owe her a debt, and she won’t let them forget it: they have a little foothold in the castle, now, and one day, she might have use for it.

I think the intersection between Zoya, Armel and the Moon could be really fun, that’s it that’s the pitch. JK. I also have some #thoughts on her maybe commissioning them for eye drops, which could provide an interesting back-and-forth between Zoya and the Moon, especially if they feel that it levels the playing field some.

STRENGTH Strength is absolutely someone she enjoys toying with – and they make it so easy that it almost isn’t fun. (But only almost.)

I would like to expand upon their possible past dealings, concerning Strength’s mercenary company, and also I’m a sucker for the bear & wolf imagery, NGL.

THE TOWER She wonders deeply what exactly hides beneath the Tower’s exterior. The part of her that simply likes stoking chaos to see how far she can push it finds itself circling the Tower – as does the part of her that might in fact like to see justice done to the king.

I headcanon that depending on the timeline, she may not have been present for the Tower’s Incident at Court, but I think she’s definitely heard about it – most likely from one of her brothers. It’s fascinating to her – morbidly so – that the Tower now works for the king, despite what they’ve been through. Yet again, she wants to prod, as is her nature.

suggested connections.

THE STAR He is talented, and she appreciates as much - and he is utterly wasted on the court, who no more respect him than they appreciate him. WE LOVE A BARD JULIE. WE LOVE HIM. dark mirror to Armel re: stories!

wanted connections.

NECROMANCER the necromancer who brought her back Yolo

FENCING TUTOR idfk seems sensible

COMPATRIOTS Her little host of underbelly compatriots! Criminals who help her with her dealings, people loyal to her.

future plots.

CRIMINAL EXPANSION.

I have some headcanons about the Rosewood Maiden, and I also have some suggestions for future ventures for the good ol' Prince of Snakes - namely, fighting pits, betting rings, and potentially an underground tributary river and an old smugglers' cove right beneath the Rosewood Maiden.

– i just want criminal shit and could also see this working in the favour of the rebellion – smugglers route used to ferry supplies and people in and out of Tyrholm? hell yeah baby

– masquerade balls and Events. zoya got CASH she’s gonna host PARTIES and talk about KILLING THE KING (maybe)

– the initial focus is DEFFO on the rebellion but like listen i………. am simply a sucker for fantasy crime.

CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT.

Internal-- I think that Zoya's internal arc will largely be a battle of her dual drives: her greed/gluttony versus the parts of her that see injustice being done. It's a moral conflict that I think has seeped into every aspect of her life – the things she has done and the lengths she is willing to go to, versus the part of her that knows it's morally reprehensible and even fucked up. Duality & paradox is an abstract concept that I return to for Zoya – she is both calculating and impulsive, which means she has the potential to do stupid shit despite knowing how stupid it is.

I think I'd like to push her in a direction of having to fight with her impulse to use people while caring for them – because the two cannot coexist for long, IMO! And I think that that particular internal conflict can get Juicy

writing sample.

IN WINTER, DEAD THINGS FREEZE. She wrapped her coat tight around herself, the fur-lined collar warm against her neck. Fresh snow lined the cobblestone streets of Hightown like a fine dusting of powdered sugar, little candied houses on parade with cream-tiled roofs. Bells tolled the hour in the distance, their chorus echoing across Tyrholm, midnight, midnight, midnight–

Midnight was a witching hour, or so the stories said. What was strange became stranger, and in dark woods, a traveler might strike a bargain with a hag. But there were few hags to be found, in Tyrholm proper, at least of the magical variety. (None that wished to be found, at least. She'd looked.)

The air smelled pleasant: it was the scent of cold, brilliant and ruthless; strangely sweet.

Her hands clenched into fists, leather gloves creaking.

She breathed in – rough, eyes fixed on the nearest torch. She could picture it in her mind’s eye – the rosarium, rotting; sweet and acrid all at once. Her boot dug down into the fresh layer of snow, crunching it beneath her heel. In winter, rot and death all froze, just like the Tear. Alive, alive, alive.

She curled her mouth into a smile.

IN SPRING, DEAD THINGS THAW. Ilarion Nathair was, unlike his sister, not a frivolous creature. Once, he came close – though his close-cropped head of black curls and the noble set of his shoulders might certainly convince passersby that he had never so much as stumbled upon a mischievous thought in his entire life, let alone acted on it.

But Zoya knew better. Zoya knew him.

"Ilya," she said, and as though they were weights levied by the same pulley, his brows swept into a frown as she grinned, wide and incorrigible.

[purplesurveys]

667

Have you ever tried to walk on a moving vehicle and fallen over?: I’ve lost my balance while walking to an empty seat in jeepneys. Cos what usually happens is that the jeepney drivers resume driving as soon as you’re aboard the jeep, and so they don’t give a crap whether you’re already sitting or still on your way to a seat haha.

As for falling over, it’s probably happened to me as a kid when I still rode the school bus. We were always rowdy in the afternoon and would walk all over the bus, so I’m not ruling it out.

What is your favourite kind of bread? Is there any of that in your house?: BRIOCHE is the shit, yo.

Do you own any equipment to make cocktails, like jiggers or shakers?: Nah. My family – save for me lmao – isn’t big on drinking, so there’s never been a need for us to get equipment. We literally only have one bottle of Jack Daniel’s and like two bottles of wine in the house hahaha, a far cry from what I usually see in my friends’ houses.

How many times have you seriously injured yourself?: Can’t count them on one hand, that’s for sure. I’ve sprained my left foot from tripping in school (in front of an ongoing protest, to make things worse), had a toe or two caught in a bike’s pedal crank, a foot infection from the sea, scraped the skin from my palm when I had to use the bass drum in high school, shocked (also) my palm trying to plug something, and tripped multiple times as a kid and made my knee bleed.  

When was the last time you were a passenger in a car and sat in the back?: Sunday. My siblings and I were at the back, but it was also to drop my sister off at her dorm so the second half of the ride was just me and my brother.

Did you attend Sunday School as a child?: Bleck, no. Despite being forced to attend almost every single Sunday mass since I was 4, I’m glad my mom never made me attend anything beyond that.

What is the longest your hair has ever been?: It’s reached my hips many times - that’s the longest I let it be, because my hair tends to be dry and it’s not the prettiest sight when too much of it is happening lmao.

What about the shortest? (not including being a toddler or baby): When I was 4, 7, and 10 my mom had my hair cut all the way up to my ears because my hair is quite frizzy and she didn’t like that I didn’t have the tendency to tie my hair up in a ponytail. Naturally her response was to just have all my hair cut off lol, bt those three years were miserable as I hated the look and it made me feel like a boy. The third time she had it cut was the last one on my watch; I started tied my hair up in a ponytail every day if it meant she was hands off of my hair and how I wanted to look.

Have you ever smoked a cigarette?: LMAO y’all are gonna be SO disappointed. I smoke socially now. It started in January when I was out with high school friends and at one point literally every one of them headed out to have a smoke break; and I didn’t like being left alone inside the bar so I went out with them. I figured I was getting all the health effects from the secondhand smoke anyway so I asked for a cigarette and asked them to teach me how to use it. The rest is disappointing history.

Are/were you in the school band, and if so, what instrument did you play?: No, definitely not musically inclined.

Who does the grocery shopping in your household?: My mom. Sometimes my dad would do it when he’s home, but even then my mom provides the list of which things to buy.

What is the best thing you’ve ever bought at a thrift shop?: Not sure if it counts as a thrift shop but I once found a newer edition of the WWE Encyclopedia in a bookstore that solely sells donated/used books. I never get to see wrestling merch in real life – much less in thrift stores – so I didn’t even need to think when it came to buying it. It ended up being super worth it; those books typically cost P1,500 to P2,000, and if I’m not mistaken I got it for like P450.

Have you ever ordered an unusual drink at a bar?: Nah, I have my usuals. There was only one time I bought an uncommon drink and it was in Makati Shang – I barely remember anything about it but I do remember that it was topped with egg whites lol. Think I bought it just to feel fancy for once, even though my usuals were also in the menu.

What is your favourite thing about summer?: The beach, mainly. I’d mention getting the chance to rest, but I’m on my last year of college and have literally run out of summer vacations at this point.

When was the last time you went to your local library?: Just a kind disclaimer that we acually don’t have public libraries, because the government could not care the fuck less. As for my college’s library, I last went maybe a month ago? to pick up a book that had a chapter in it that I needed to read for a class.

Do you have any friends who work in retail?: I don’t think so.

Can you do a proper cartwheel?: Nooooooo. But I tried so many times as a kid. I also nearly broke my arms so many times as a kid, so there’s that.

Have you ever been pulled aside by security at the airport?: Not me, but my mom. We were in Shanghai and both my mom and the guards couldn’t figure out what it was inside her bag that kept making the machine beep. While I’ve forgotten what the thing was when we did find out, I do remember that it was such a stupid, small issue and the guards were being unnecessary bitches throughout the whole thing.

Are you a fast-thinker or a slow-thinker?: More on fast. I hate mulling over on anything for too long.

Do you watch The Simpsons regularly?: No. I always watched Family Guy more often.

If you were to donate to charity today, what would you donate to?: PAWS! They’re an NGO focused on animal welfare. I’ve always wanted to volunteer but just never have the time to.

What is your favourite card game and when was the last time you played it?: I dunno what it’s called anymore but Angela taught us a card game where we toss cards onto the the table and when the last two cards add up to a certain number, we race to see who can slam their hand onto the pile of cards haha. I’ve always been a slow adder so I always lose, but it’s still a fun game.

Would you consider yourself to be good at spelling and grammar?: Relatively better than a lot of Filipinos, yeah.

Who was the last person you cuddled with?: Idk, I only ever do this with my girlfriend.

Have you ever spoken or performed on stage in front of a large audience?: I’ve done both.

Did you ever go to summer camp when you were younger?: Nah, I doubt my mom would’ve let me go anyway as a kid. I did go to a sports clinic – I did swimming when I was 9.

What is your favourite seasonal candy? (only available at certain times): Meh I’m not a big candy fan. I can give you seasonal menu items, though hahah. I love McDonald’s’ McSpicy and curly fries and KFC’s Double Down. They haven’t been bringing McSpicy back for a long time now though :/

Are there any television shows you own in entirety on DVD or VHS?: I have a bootleg collection of the 80s show Perfect Strangers.

How far away from your house is the nearest gas station?: I’d say 10 minutes, but this is because our house is situated at the very end of our village. If we lived near the main gate, it would probably take like three minutes to get to the first gas station nearby.

Do you know anyone who is fluent in a second tongue?: Virtually all Filipinos are bilingual, and those who are trilingual closely trail by. In the city, most if not all know English/Filipino, but there are so many others who know English, Filipino, and the local language of their province, e.g. Bikolano, Ilonggo, Ilokano, Cebuano. Language is kind of a big deal here that you’re considered boring if you only know English and Filipino hahaha.

When was the last time you had a bubble bath?: Maybe a year ago.

Have you ever been pressured into doing drugs? Did you say yes or no?: No. At least not yet, lmao.