Darlin Dearie

1 month ago

megid00med

has a clear and 0bvi0us type.

@gullibleColumnist[GC]

READ ALL ABOUT IT — [ RING RING RI- A palm shot out from the green thick sopor in the bowels of a recuperacoon, latched onto the edge -- whatever's under the surface pulled itself up from the depths. Within a few seconds, the head of a rustblood surfaces from the goop, the most identifiable feature is her red curls running through grey hair. running through the mid part of her damp hair. A deep breath, a deeper sigh. Her gaze followed the floor up to the alarm clock positioned next to the cocoon. She pulled herself out, her body wrapped in bandaging like a mummy. Her name is DARLIN DEARIE. Darlin rose from her cocoon much like a rainbowdrinker would from a corpse box, a stinging pain persisting within the crevices of her head. Being a consumer of vices, the rustblood concludes that the aggravation within her thinkpan is derived from a hangover, a very nasty one; one bad enough she doesn't quite remember what happened the day before. Darlin shambled around her respiteblock, feet pulled forward with effort and exhaustion, the bags beneath her eyes drooped much like an older barkbeast. First thing first, Darlin would go to put on her clothes. Her respiteblock is a mess. On one side of the room is a corkboard, with photos and articles linked together with red string. She hadn't talked about this with anyone, but that was something she was working on. On the other side is her commerical typewriter, stacks of paper strewn about in a frenzy. Not that she didn't care— she just worked best in disorganization. The moonlight was cast in excellent beautiful beams through glass, parts of her room highlighted enough for her to work without the real lights on. Drawers gather dust, filled with personal photos and moments of life kept to herself. Other than that, on the wall by her recuperacoon is The Typewriter -- the design is heavy and unwieldly; guaranteed to give those who wield it wrong strained wrists. -- it's pristine with a small glint on the edge. It is a work of art, possibly the most expensive thing the rustblood owned. It hadn't been used for direct violence in a while, but that wouldn't stop it from clicking away. Drafting scripts and ending stories with a pull of a trigger. We return to our rustblood, whom had been dressing herself slowly and quietly. She slid on leather gloves, tight against her hands, that material creaking and groaning with every movement. She always enjoyed the feeling of leather on her hands. Or the feeling of leather in general. It was just an additional benefit that it kept her fingertips secret and kept her hands from getting bloody. Her body was covered in bandages, treatment she had to adminster herself after the night she had. On her back were the initials N.L. clawed into the skin. That was probably the most annoying scar of them all. The next were her baggy pants, made of cotton and flexible to her ever-moving attitude. And after that—- she slides on a comfortable turtleneck. This was her favorite outfit. Her only real one. Darlin checked her pockets for her box of cigarettes, yet didn't find anything. Then she scrounged around for her favorite zippo lighter, a custom designed comission from a metalworker she knew. Nothing. Annoyance settles in before she pats down a piece of paper, crumpled in her clothing and coming from last night, it seemed to be a note. A lead on her missing lighter!"Meet me at Eridan Week." It was written neatly. "I think I have something you want. 0v0" This wasn't a great help. She gritted her teeth, then put the note back into her pocket. The last place she remembered being at was the wonderful bar at Eridan Week. Guess the Outglut Observer is on hiatus for a while, she collected the rest of her items. She knows exactly who she's looking for. #eridanweek #leijonwriting #yuri #hangover #lostitem #part1 #mentionsofcycle5 #nsfw #gore ]