bombero

[mercybutton]

Anyone who has encountered Frisk as of late will have noted they seem awfully angry. Perhaps their temper had been like this before October, or maybe it was their transformation that amplified it--but either way, they have been stalking through the castle and the woods, the strike of their hooves creating sparks and smoke, their hollow eyes emanating a dry heat.

They're a cervitaur like last year, but something is off. Their antlers look more like branches burned to charcoal, curved like horns. Their fur is dark and gray, and the patterns on them seem to be little more than white ash with the peek of red embers underneath. Their hooked staff is of black iron and ravenous red fire. Their hands are coated with soot. Their teeth, fanged, numerous, carnivorous, are shaped to always be bared. Blood and ash and bones.

Also, they're missing a hand, black ash at the end like a cigarette stub.

They radiate heat. Their scowl seems etched on their face. Frisk has been irritable for seemingly no apparent reason--maybe something's wrong? Someone should investigate before they burn something down.

Comments

[mercybutton]

They'll get a fine look at them in the middle of one of their tempers either way. Far ahead in a hall perpendicular to the wolfish Frisk's, the fiery one is preceded by a rolling wave of heat that moves in down the hall like a fog, hitting them before they even come into view.

And when they do, it's quite the sight, with black smoke floating like ribbons from their mouth and nostrils and eyes, their broken hand dripping red embers. Their antlers have cracks of light running through them, as if they were on fire inside. They lift their staff and strike it at the ground with a great grating sound of metal and stone and fire for seemingly no reason. Their attack on the castle floor leaves a crescent of scorch. A new wave of heat passes through the halls.

Then they pause. Their ears flick; their nose stops smoking. Is someone here? Their lanternlight doesn't reach far enough for them to tell.

[dustless]

The crawling heat's a contrast for their outside-chill-acclimated skin.

They're mad. They're attacking the castle. They're...giving off a familiar feeling.

...are they looking for something to FIGHT?

Frisk start to shiver, and they can't stop. The smoke punches down into their lungs, ruining the slightest chances of not being discovered with awful hacking that echoes far beyond this hall, even after they shove their hands over their entire face.

[mercybutton]

Someone is here. Who? Who?

They hunch low, a starving fire burning low in their chest as they creep down the hall in Frisk's vague direction, their lantern held out in front of them. Whoever it is that is here, their blind anger filters every possibility to enemies, to people who want to contest with them, to people who aren't here for any random chance or goodwill.

"Who are you? Who's here?" they say lowly, their tone laced with malicious suspicion.

suicide ideation tw i suppose

[dustless]

It takes a few moments for an answer, strangled inhaling taking up precious moments to speak. Sick on top of being a terrible werewolf, isn't that nice.

Hell. They're so tired. They've been wondering--if they lie down somewhere after they change, don't get anything to eat, will they die? Maybe that'd be worth it for a break.

No, no, no, everything is okay. Okay enough. They can deal with this. This encounter especially.

"Frisk," they say...but find they still can't step forward. They smell like blood and dirt and sweat and something magic. "'M here."

[mercybutton]

Maybe under normal circumstances, the name would give them pause--would make them hesitate, because what kind of person would they be to be malicious towards themself?

These are not normal circumstances.

They only become more guarded. They bare their teeth in a snarl, gripping their staff, a new wave of the smell of woodsmoke rolling off of them. "What do you want?"

[dustless]

Ones with self-hatred problems, or ones that have a better idea of how separate other selves can be--not that it matters. This one could be more upset, remembering those files, but as things are now, they don't remember that at all.

Frisk wants to go somewhere to rest, and this other Frisk's just in the way. Stupid thing to say now, though.

They're still shaking--it's ridiculous. Why is it so hard to keep a lid on their emotions? They used to be able to do that, back when it wasn't so important.

"Jus'...walking," they say weakly. Giving in to a strange urge, they bend their knees so they're crouching--still humanlike, balancing carefully on their feet, still giving the feeling that they're small. See, they're not bad right now! "Sorry." For being in the way. Not so much for what they did--one little 'sorry' isn't enough.

[mercybutton]

They hear the submissiveness in their other's voice, which, admittedly, does a little to soothe the flame, but not as much as might have been preferable. They straighten their back and strike the floor with the butt of their staff to hold it upright, the lantern clattering as it swings from the hook.

"Hmph. Fine, then. But you better stay out of my way before I hurt you. And tell your friends that, too."

[dustless]

That makes their shoulders stiffen. They smother a swelling of rage in their chest as quickly as they can. If Frisk wants to hurt them...well. They're not a fan of revenge, but at least they could understand that.

"My friends? Did they hurt you, too?" they ask slowly.