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

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.