Rose Lalonde, the Woegothe Curatrix
@woeGothic
Rose Lalonde, component and companion.
The sign that I am tapping, by the way.
Tapping my sign. Don't complain.
Remember. Earth C Halloween. Three weeks, or wipes. Making a statement that the promotional material, seen below, was created by to promote the event.
I am creating a sense of friction socially.
The etiquette one must possess for an invitation may at some point become impractical. You have reached it. Your five negotiations have concluded in 5 differnet ways. Attempted murder. Exploratory Surgery. Pursuit. Opstasy. Speech of self-importance. Good. The Session will have you now. ASSASSIN BADBITCH The Session does not appear offended by Badbitch immediately deciding that the philosophical implications of meeting another version of herself are best resolved by murdering her for loot. The other BADBITCH does not move until the flail is already coming for her head. Then her eyes snap upward. The stitches across her mouth pull tight, not in terror, but in what is unmistakably a smile. One hand shoots up for the haft. The other remains planted against the altar. Behind her, the miraculous artifact gives a single pulse of light, and every silent clown arranged throughout the hall turns its head toward the two of you at exactly the same time. No chanting. No gasps. No shocked congregation. Just several dozen painted faces watching to see which BADBITCH gets to remain BADBITCH. The mime's grip closes around the incoming weapon. And there is the first truly upsetting thing about her. She is stronger than you remember being. Or, perhaps, you've ever been known to be. For one brief instant, the two of you are connected by the flail between you. The sewn-shut BADBITCH leans forward until the stitches around her mouth begin to bleed. Then she jerks the weapon toward herself, inviting you closer rather than attempting to escape it. The artifact on the altar pulses again. Apparently, she agrees with your assessment. There is one artifact. There are two BADBITCHES. Roll your attack with the flail. Roll damage alongside it so I can resolve the exchange in one response. (I would tag Dirk, except there are eight thousand of him.) STRIDER There are many sensible methods by which one might investigate an unfamiliar anatomical specimen. You have selected fisting the vivisection. Your hand disappears into the opened chest. There is no flesh immediately beneath it. No ribs. No slick resistance of organs arranged badly in imitation of something mortal. Your arm continues farther than the dimensions of the body permit. Wrist. Forearm. Elbow. Nearly shoulder. The cavity accepts you with the horrible hospitality of a sleeve. Then something closes around your hand. Not a hand. Too many points of contact. The abandoned label slips from your grasp and vanishes into the incision. Every spirit-light illuminating the chamber extinguishes simultaneously. For half a second there is nothing but blackness and the sensation of something delicately turning your hand over, examining each finger in sequence. The thing inside the body knows the vessel is artificial. It knows where your imitation ends. Worse, it appears interested in the craftsmanship. Something sharp enters the heel of your palm. A quantity too small to meaningfully injure you is removed. A sample. The specimen's eyes open. Your eyes. Its mouth follows. "You collect," it says. The voice is yours as well, though it has not yet learned where you put the pauses. "We collect." The escaped spirits ignite again. There is now a glass ampoule on the table beside the body. Inside it moves something black. Your black. And somewhere beyond the walls of this laboratory comes a sound which does not belong here. A bell. Distant. Singular. Ridiculous. The specimen turns its head toward it before you do. You retrieve the bow and run. The figure does not. That should make catching them easier. Instead, each time you round the burning corner and expect to gain ground, you find another stretch of the shelter waiting for you. One wall becomes the old treatment room. Another becomes the enclosure where the worst injuries were kept away from the others. Then the storage room. Then an exterior wall which should have collapsed ten years ago. The fire has remembered the building better than you have. Every route you take is correct. Every route leads somewhere that could not possibly have occupied that space. The stranger remains ahead. Walking. Never hurrying. You raise the bow once and the silhouette passes behind a burning support before you can take the shot. When it emerges, it is farther away than before. Then you notice the tracks. At first they are bootprints. One step later, talons. Then the narrow segmented impressions of an insect-lusus. A paw. A hoof. Bare human feet. Boots again. You know tracks. This isn't transformations. There are a genuine multitude of beings making these tracks. The figure reaches the far end of the ruined corridor and turns to face you. Fire passes through its body. For one instant, the light gives you the outline of a face. Not enough. Never enough. But there is something pinned to its chest. A shelter token. One of yours. The figure steps backward through a white aperture and vanishes. Before it closes, something from the other side reaches you. A voice. Faint. Distorted. Male, probably. Talking to himself. No. Talking to something which sounds exactly like him. TARSUS THE ARTICULATED Your disobeying of God was remarkably easy. There is no lightning. No immediate death. No enormous claw descending from heaven to correct your behavior. Your God makes one ugly noise behind you as your body springs through the aperture, but whatever authority it possessed remains on the other side. You land in the dirt. This is different dirt. You know very little about soil, and even less about metaphysics. But you possess enough cognition to recognize that falling through a hole in one location shouldn't deposit you hundreds of feet beneath another. Roots thicker than your entire body punch through compacted earth overhead. Your amulet supplies a limited amount of light. It also pulls. Hard. Not metaphorically. The cord around your thorax draws taut enough to drag your front legs forward. Ahead is a wall of packed soil. The amulet insists there is something behind it. Your sealed map tears the rest of the way open by itself. A new mark scratches onto the parchment. You. Then another. Far above you. Something else. The distance between the marks is enormous. A pulse travels through the ground. Several marks. Somewhere much farther away, carried through stone in a direction no sensible tunnel should permit, you hear an enormous voice screaming something about being THAT GUY. You do not know what a guy is. CALLIE BHORNE Your future does not interrupt you. It does not impede you. Few powers in creation could possibly imagine doing so. It waits through the accusation. The declaration. The Spanish lesson. The revisionist historical analysis. The kneeling. The weeping. The proclamation delivered loudly enough to invalidate several previous messianic traditions. The figure upon the throne remains seated through all of it. Then you finish. Silence. The armored hand releases the dead hatchmate. She falls, her cadaver disappearing before it reaches the body. He stands. It isn't that you are small, it's that he has the audacity to be so magnificent. Height has never been particularly relevant before. It has become a topic on your mind as of recent, but not out of jealousy. His imposing presence incites wanderlust, not fear. Your future self descends the stairs with the absurd gravity of a monument which has opted to turn into a mobile architectural display. Crown-spikes scrap through the stone overhead. Teeth and trophies ornament armor that resembles yours after several centuries of receiving absolutely no constructive criticism. He stops before you. He removes his helmet. There is no older face. Merely something of a reflection of your own against the ghastly clean interior. You look as you are now. You are looking at an inferior self. Kneeling. Crying Furious. Yet, always magnificent. Words appear across the reflected mouth without your own lips moving. THEN WHY ARE YOU STILL DOWN THERE? The throne room shakes. Not from the future self. From something outside it. A tiny impact against stone. Then, another. A distant bell. Then something which sounds suspiciously like an enormous armored creature sticking its arm into a place where arms were not intended to go. Your reflected self looks briefly toward the noises. So does the thing wearing him. There are other people here. How fucking presumptuous. And there it is. The first defect in your lovely little private nightmares. Other people. The Session has spent all this time addressing you individually because individuals are wonderfully easy to manipulate. One history. One weakness. One appetite. One little aperture cut precisely to fit the person being inconvenienced by it. Unfortunately, you have begun making noise. Noise travels. Badbitch hears something bellowing several rooms, worlds, or narrative concessions away. STRIDER's specimen turns toward a heartbeat he cannot hear with mortal ears. Evelyne catches the brief metallic jingle of something that absolutely does not belong in the burning Marches. Tarsus feels footsteps through the soil. Several sets. None belonging to its God. Callie discovers, with what I am sure will be tremendous grace, that the cosmos has selected additional protagonists. The five private spaces do not disappear. They develop doors. Each bears the same heraldic device, carved deeply enough into the material to suggest it has always been there. Behind them, very faintly, are the sounds of strangers making terrible decisions. There were supposed to be eight of you. Five have arrived far enough to hear one another. I think that will have to do. For now.
Stand proud, Parking Enforcement Officer. You were strong.
Faustian bargain in exchange for gender affirmation. Y/N?
who is selling theirw soul forw a you go girwl motivational quote
CM Punk should not be operating the Slambulance.
That was not who I expected to like that.
When the wife asks for a creampie but I am lacking certain vital ingredients. Much to my dismay, I present her with this absolute aberration.
Shoot, I meant work wife.
What did you mean, then? I'm afraid I'm not good at reading subtext. Especially when the sub texts only in capitalized anger.
Girls just want to have F.U.N. Fighting. Until. Night. Remember to thank Cyndi Lauper of WWF Fame for this lesson.
Why does she rechitt *everything* I say?
Used a recuperacoon last night to relive a certain element. It was just as unpleasant as I remembered.
SOPOR IS FOR WEAKSLIME CATTLE. THE UNWASHED MASSES. WHO NEED TO SEDATE THEMSELVES. BECAUSE THEY’RE AFRAID OF A LITTLE DAYMARE. AND IT SMELLS LIKE TILE CLEANER. AND IT’S COLD. AND IT TRACKS ALL OVER THE RUG. #YUCK. #RESTPLANELIFE.
While I agree with you, it was necessary in order to relive a specific moment in my life.
An inquisitive mood, I see. Fine. As you know, I turn grey when I am properly aligned with those that would malign our good, dear Doctor. In order to do some of the work that would eventually be relegated to you, I had to don faux horns and earfins, pretending to be a violetblooded aristocrat. I am looking for a memory from my time wandering Alternia. It eludes me.
Congratulations. I am going to send my level 14 Abra at you now.
Abra @ Life Orb Level: 14 Ability: Inner Focus EVs: 240 SpA / 200 Spe Timid Nature - Substitute - Psychic - Signal Beam - Encore
[/-∊n♱rΩpy gr-∊yƗng Ωu♱./] -- ΩΩⴵ! 屮ⴵȺ♱ dΩ-∊Σ |⟨-∊dȺbrȺ lΩΩ|⟨ lƗ|⟨-∊? -- [/ΣȺmΣȺrȺ'Σ Σ屮ȺnΣΩng./]
I will gladly seize the moment to promote my own event. Earth C Halloween. Be there or be scared.
I think some of you would benefit tremendously from becoming acquainted with the concept of kayfabe. Whenever someone is kidnapped, trapped in a SGRUB session, stranded somewhere hostile, dying spectacularly, et cetera, there is inevitably someone in the replies going, "Oh, but you had time to Chit about it?" As though the natural conclusion is that the character, presently dangling upside-down over a vat of acid, has taken out their phone, carefully unlocked it, opened Chittr, composed three paragraphs and selected an appropriate reaction image. This is not necessarily what is occurring. Chittr is the medium through which the narrative has elected to present itself. The post exists because we, the audience, require some means of observing the event. Sometimes the posting itself is diegetic. Sometimes it is only partially diegetic. Sometimes you are effectively reading a stage direction wearing the skin of a social media post. You are foolish to assume this website that stretches across an infinite amount of timelines, universes, and means of interaction is nothing short of a mythical artifact, perhaps even a Juju. Professional wrestling does not cease being a wrestling match because the camera happens to be perfectly positioned to capture a conversation backstage. Nobody turns toward the cameraman and asks why he is being permitted to stand three feet away while two men conspire to commit aggravated assault. You accept the camera because the camera is how the story reaches you. The same courtesy should probably be extended to someone live-Chitting their kidnapping. They are not necessarily exposing their location to their captor, compromising the integrity of their SGRUB session, or somehow finding excellent cellular reception inside the narrative equivalent of Hell. You are simply being permitted to see what is happening because this is the proscenium we have chosen. Please respect the kayfabe. It is doing a remarkable amount of structural labor for you.
Perhaps it is the syntactical nuance that is lost on you. Cronus is not known for saying, "I think some of you would benefit tremendously from becoming acquainted with the concept of kayfabe. Whenever someone is kidnapped, trapped in a SGRUB session, stranded somewhere hostile, dying spectacularly, et cetera, there is inevitably someone in the replies going, "Oh, but you had time to Chit about it?" As though the natural conclusion is that the character, presently dangling upside-down over a vat of acid, has taken out their phone, carefully unlocked it, opened Chittr, composed three paragraphs and selected an appropriate reaction image. This is not necessarily what is occurring. Chittr is the medium through which the narrative has elected to present itself. The post exists because we, the audience, require some means of observing the event. Sometimes the posting itself is diegetic. Sometimes it is only partially diegetic. Sometimes you are effectively reading a stage direction wearing the skin of a social media post. You are foolish to assume this website that stretches across an infinite amount of timelines, universes, and means of interaction is nothing short of a mythical artifact, perhaps even a Juju. Professional wrestling does not cease being a wrestling match because the camera happens to be perfectly positioned to capture a conversation backstage. Nobody turns toward the cameraman and asks why he is being permitted to stand three feet away while two men conspire to commit aggravated assault. You accept the camera because the camera is how the story reaches you. The same courtesy should probably be extended to someone live-Chitting their kidnapping. They are not necessarily exposing their location to their captor, compromising the integrity of their SGRUB session, or somehow finding excellent cellular reception inside the narrative equivalent of Hell. You are simply being permitted to see what is happening because this is the proscenium we have chosen. Please respect the kayfabe. It is doing a remarkable amount of structural labor for you." Cronus is actually known for saying "i think some of you vwould benefit tremendously from becoming acquainted vwith the concept of kayfabe. #kayfabe #chittr #chittrpsa #narrativwe #metatextual #metamale vwhenevwer someone is kidnapped, trapped in a sgrub session, stranded somevwhere hostile, dying spectacularly, et cetera, there is inevwitably someone in the replies going, "oh, but you had time to chit about it?" as though the natural conclusion is that the character, presently dangling upside-dowvn ovwer a vwat of acid, has taken out their phone, carefully unlocked it, opened chittr, composed three paragraphs and selected an appropriate reaction image. this is not necessarily vwhat is occurring. chittr is the medium through vwhich the narrativwe has elected to present itself. the post exists because vwe, the audience, require some means of observwing the evwent. sometimes the posting itself is diegetic. sometimes it is only partially diegetic. sometimes you are effectivwely reading a stage direction vwearing the skin of a social media post. you are foolish to assume this vwebsite that stretches across an infinite amount of timelines, univwerses, and means of interaction is nothing short of a mythical artifact, perhaps evwen a juju. professional vwrestling does not cease being a vwrestling match because the camera happens to be perfectly positioned to capture a convwersation backstage. nobody turns tovward the cameraman and asks vwhy he is being permitted to stand three feet avway vwhile tvwo men conspire to commit aggravwated assault. you accept the camera because the camera is howv the story reaches you. the same courtesy should probably be extended to someone livwe-chitting their kidnapping. they are not necessarily exposing their location to their captor, compromising the integrity of their sgrub session, or somehowv finding excellent cellular reception inside the narrativwe equivwalent of hell. you are simply being permitted to see vwhat is happening because this is the proscenium vwe havwe chosen. please respect the kayfabe. it is doing a remarkable amount of structural labor for you." As much is said in the post above.
An incredibly necessary analysis. Those who complain about such things are unaware of what exactly they are attacking. Listening to them results in a flatter, less interesting story.
we did just get a rankmaid back s0 perhaps things are improving and we'll get less 0f a 3-1 ratio 0f some0ne actually doing shit vs. a cr0wd of midwits whining ab0ut their privilege two see activity.
if i ever find myself in one of these predicaments and i'M posting on the timeline, please know it is not "kayfabe" doing it for me. this chittr shit is fucking serious to a chud like me. i WILL be livechitting it for the sake of the clout. that'S just how much it means to me. but, in a way, that'S my own personal kayfabe, i guess.
[BEGIN MESSAGE] ... [ACTION:QUERY] if i check tthe feed pr0per|y am i g0ing tt0 find a |ive-chitted kidnapping? [END MESSAGE]
No. I timed this during the lack of a kidnapping as to not be drowned out by incessant bitching.
Every step the Felt makes is made knowing the stair they climbed has a primed shotgun shell exactly where they are stepping.
I am looking for competitive partners strictly. I only enjoy high ELO opponents.
This is a joke, I am quite happy with my cadre of cruelness with the occasional Puck-esque figure.
[/-∊n♱rΩpy gr-∊yƗng Ωu♱./] -- PrΩbȺbly bu♱ ♱ⴵ-∊ ☪︎Ωr-∊ Ωf ♱ⴵ-∊ ☪︎Ωn☪︎-∊p♱ r-∊mȺƗnΣ ΣƗmƗlȺr, juΣ♱ ȺpplƗ-∊d ♱Ω ΣΩm-∊♱ⴵƗng dƗff-∊r-∊n♱. -- [/ΣȺmΣȺrȺ'Σ Σ屮ȺnΣΩng./]
I would characterize that less as a breakup and more as you telling me I was no longer welcome in your life, followed by me behaving with the emotional grace of a cornered animal. Though, yes. In retrospect, I suppose that is functionally indistinguishable from a breakup. How embarrassing. I did not even get flowers.
hey!! it wasnt my fault, *i* still wanted you there!!! i even said it might not be forever... but then you just got so mean :(
I was cruel to you for asking me to leave, Angie. You did not deserve that. I am sorry. It was a hard time for both of us for separate reasons.
Now that makes things make a lot of sense.
Ask me any question and I will answer it wrong.
How do I cope with my mental illnesses?
Go to the hardware store everyday and buy a rope and stool until they call the police. -self-harm
Green.
Not answering at all, I ponder to myself openly without answering the question properly.
A welcome presence, how fortuitous.