In a lake of fire stands a half-finished god, a colossus that towers over you in soul-wrenching splendor. This is your god, the true god, and you approach him with an offering of fresh, blue, dripping meat. In his gaping chest sits a beating heart, blue and breathtakingly radiant in its divinity, kintsugi craftsmanship filling the cracks that spderweb across its surface and down into its heart with pure, shining gold. The organ has a halo unto itself, almost blinding. Like a flock of celestial attendants, dozens of hands reach around it, beckoning you.
He might be poifect, but he still needs you. He needs you to complete him. You want that more than anything, right? To complete him?
The offering you've brought him is pure, stripped of anything unnecessary. You always put the utmost care, the utmost devotion into your work, for Inspekta doesn't deserve anything less. He deserves only the finest offerings, and you know he'll use it to make things right.
But it's not enough. It's never enough. You've never been enough.
As you step forward, the hands reach past the offering, grasping at you, grappling at you, pulling you in as you find yourself being drawn into his chest along with his magnificent heart. It's warm, it's hot, it's burning as you find yourself pressing against his full glory. There's a deafening sizzle, like meat on the grill; it's you.
There's a strange haziness as Capochin attempts to recall arriving to this place. But that's normal, he thinks. This isn't his first rodeo divine miracle.
Round, dark eyes with thick eyelashes and bags underneath look up, gazing upon the colossus. It almost feels unfair, he thinks, that he should be allowed to witness such a thing. His heart is blue and broken. Just like mine. How he must have suffered, at the hands of those other cruel gods who scorned him. The gold that seals the cracks, it can only be love. The love the two of them share, secret and just for them. The golden halo, Inspekta's holiness radiating out from him. He is beautiful. He is perfect. He is everything. Nothing else matters. The sight of him brings tears to Capochin's eyes.
The Lillipuchin stumbles forward, meager offering dripping in his hands. This, he thinks, is the sacrifice that Inspekta made to make the world new for them. Their plan succeeded, and his god's body was the cost. But he can be remade. His faithful acolyte, his right hand, his one and only, will do it willingly. Dedication. Determination. Worship. Devotion. Capochin is an endless well of these things.
These hands. He knows these hands. So many times they have held him, caressed him, doted on him. Bent him, broken him, pried him open. Praised and punished. These are safe hands. Loved hands. His pitiable offering is ignored. Of course it wasn't enough. How foolish to think that it would be. They grab at his body instead, and it won't be long before he, too, drips blue.
For you, anything.
Capochin does not struggle. Even as fear and despair crawl their way up his throat with clawed hands, he does not let them escape his teeth as a scream. Even as tears rush to his eyes. Even as his unworthy flesh sears against the sublime heat of a god's heart.
He burns in terrible ecstasy, in that tomb of hungry flesh. Skin blisters and boils form and veins sprout from open wounds, lashing him all the tighter to the heart as his blood is drawn from him, beat by rhythmic beat, while his melting fat pools as bubbling, sizzling grease around his feet. He can taste his own blood in his mouth, hot and bitter and, oddly, sweet. The pressure inside his head and without threatens to render his eyes destroyed, and eventually it does just that. Blindness gives way to searing light, and the pounding in his head gives way to a feeling like his skull has split. Then, everything is consumed in glory.
You are in a field. The sun is warm, just the right kind of warm, bathing everything in a covetable light. Atop a hill sits a tree, a van... and a familiar place.
Inspekta waits there, in all his glory. Inspekta waits, radiant, and you, too, are radiant.
Your body. His body. One flesh. Given, consumed, restored, reclaimed. You don't need to think too much about it, but you know that you and he are here in the same way, somehow. Like the hole in his chest was a rift that changed you.
Perhaps you'll have more time to take in your transfigured body. But first, Inspekta seems to have words for you.
Practically with the glowing warmth of the sun that hangs overhead, Inspekta beams, disembodied hands open in a bid for closeness.
There is an evenness in this place, not unlike that of equal mortal footing, but it is so much more than that--- even the liveliest, brightest spaces pale in comparison to this one. The air is electric in a way none of the deities' personal corners in God Grove had ever been before.
Of course it would be, though. Followers and their devotion are exceptional, of course, but when is the last time two gods shared a domain?
And what would Leadership be without Loyalty?
"I was wonderin' when yew would get here! It felt like I must'a spent ages waitin'!" Even with the playful lament, he shows no signs of anything other than sheer, unabashed excitement. Even the joking pout that he puts on is short-lived in the wake of all that joy. "C'mon! It's about time yew took this seat o' yewrs right beside me, ain't it?"
Capochin looks up in wonder. He doesn't understand how he got here. he could swear he was just dying a moment ago...
He knows this place. He stood here twice before. Once when Hector became Inspekta, and once when...
Was that a dream?
"Me?" Capochin flounders, looking around nervously. He suddenly feels overwhelmed. This isn't like when it happened to Hector, someone who deserved it. Who had earned it. He feels small, like he's doing something wrong, breaking some rule. "I-I ain't done nothin' to---"
Haven't you? You've always thought of yourself as something so small, but look at yourself now. Look at what you've become. Can you deny this divinity, this new form bestowed upon you? Can you deny that you've maybe given more of yourself than you thought, to the people you care about the most?
"Yew kiddin'? C'mon, yew made it all this way and yewr gettin' cold feets now?"
Inspekta interrupts, but it's all good-natured. He leans forward, bending and stretching his form, a curling, endless spiral, should he choose for it to be; one loop, then two, curl around Capochin, and those hands of his snare those of his loyalest loyalist.
There's a playful spin, pulling Capochin out of each of those loops, before he's pulled up that grassy knoll, closer to that wide, bright sky that sprawls above it.
"Trust me, yew deserve it just as much as anybuddy! But yew'll get settlied in no time, don't yew worry. How're yew feelin'? It's a doozy at first, ain't it?"
A sinking feeling. This can't be right. His stomach drops as he's pulled aloft, and his head swims. All he can think is why? Why, why? What is this?
Capochin cannot place why this fear chews at him so. He wracks his brain and finds only more questions. What happened to King?When did he get voted in? What if he doesn't want to be immortal? Did Inspekta pull strings to make this happen? What if he isn't any good? What if he isn't worthy? What if he doesn't deserve this? What if he hurts someone? What if they hurt someone? Two broken people like Hector and Capochin, given godhood--- what if they hurt people? What if they hurt everyone?
And how dare someone like Capochin even consider standing on equal footing with Inspekta?
Through the cacophony of questions, Capochin reaches his hand into the miasma and pulls one out to ask it.
"Yew forgot yewr own elected title? I can't say nothin', mine had me just as stressed n' scatterbrained!"
Inspekta doesn't seem terribly perturbed by the question, though his idle, content swaying slows at last, to something more focused.
"Yew're the God of Loyalty, remember? People lookin' to forge their re-lay-shun-ships and find their place wif other people come to yew!" The answer is given merrily, before a wry little smile is offered Capochin's way. "And, after all, what's Leadership without Loyalty, huh? Yew earned this spot here! Now, c'mon! What'cha draggin' yewr feet for?"
Of course, how could he have forgotten? How silly.
Inspekta is right. He's always right. The shadows of other gods dance in the golden light of the rift. All that's left is a leap of faith.
Capochin puts a hand in one of Inspekta's, and lets his feet leave the ground. The light consumes him. What a joy it is, to be consumed.To follow Inspekta, his light, his love, his god, his everything, into that all-consuming maw of divinity. And within it, he is reborn. Remade. Body becomes malleable, and he is sculpted into the God of Loyalty.
What emerges is... something awful, actually.
Thick and broad, a blocky body clad in a heavy trenchcoat in dark teal. Squat and wide compared to Inspekta's long and tall. From his neck hangs a tie patterned to look like chain links, tucked into a vest. But what is beneath the vest is not a shirt. Rather, it is an exposed ribcage filled to the brim with what appears to be blue meat that presses at the edges of the bones and threatens to burst through it. No heart. Just meat.
A vintage fedora to match the coat is on top of his head, and a blindfold covers his eyes.
The Flesh is miraculous. It binds kin to kin and serves to build the divine body. It is sweet, it is sumptuous, it is a fitting offering for a sweet and noble Lord. Lay down your flesh, lay it down again and again upon the altar, so that our beautiful Lord, our sweet King, our tender Everything might be vindicated. For he has been betrayed by the powers that be, and all must be made to see the cruelty behind the curtain of this selfish, indolent world.
What you have become is a miracle beyond measure. Rejoice, for you have been chosen as a guide and an example for those others who might feel inspired to serve.
"There he is! My number one, right where he's supposed'ta be."
There's a jubilant air to the greeting on the other side of the Rift, but it's... dark. Quiet. None of the blustering winds, teeming with energy, none of the crackling life that roared at the intersection of the mortal world and the heavens. The heavens are cold, brimming with static that makes the silence anything but still.
Inspekta's disembodied hands reach from that darkness, and the rest of him coils out of it, a vibrant snake of reds and golds and blues emerging from a thicket, slowly encroaching on the newest addition to the pantheon. His hands find that trench coat, and in some semblance of affection, too betrayed by a firmly-curling fingers into fabric, he latches on, as though he drags himself further on Capotain's hold alone. As if, should he let go, he'd be pulled back into that endless dark.
"Now there's sum-buddy I can trust up here. Someone who I can count on, when the goin' gets tough," Inspekta speaks, that ever-playful, twee voice wavering. His attention is locked onto his now-godly counterpart, and at a distance, it seems wild, hungry. Now that he's pulled himself closer, however, none of those shadows are cast so heavily upon him.
Unfortunately for Inspekta, Capotain can't see any of this.
Well, that's not entirely true. There is some part of him that can. Whether it's some sort of newfound godly sight, or it's some kind of psychic ability that allows him to sense his environment without seeing it, or it is simply a part of Capochin's unconscious mind that is in third person to all of this, he is capable of perceiving these events. But fundamentally, Capotain cannot see through his blindfold, blinded by he is by his own loyalty.
"Whaddaya mean, ain't right?" The question comes with an edge of mania, a disconcerting excitement. "Everything is poifect, boss. Jus' you n' me against the woild, right? I'm finally exactly what you needed me to be. I finally fit. I finally have a purpose. I can give ya everything you need. I'll never get old, never get tired, you'll never need to replace me! I'm perfect! I can finally give you all the devotion you deserve---"
His thick-fingered hands, with razor-like claws, lift to where the pulsating meat threatens to bulge out of the gaps in his exposed ribs, and begins to rip strips of it out. The gaps are precisely the width of each finger, and so he digs in with both hands to scoop hunks of flesh from each gap in mighty fistfuls. More quickly replaces it, pushing up against the confines of the ribs and leaving him just as full to bursting as before. He overs his shed strips of meat in open, bloody palms up to Inspekta, fingers trembling---
No matter how many times you cut away the flesh, it grows back, stronger than ever. Such a bounty could sustain even the needs of a god, a god whose strength needs to be tempered and reinforced before striking down the False Gods.
The call is something older than music, beckoning the newly-made divine to swim in a blazing sea, to orbit unquestioning the subject of their devotion. The world is wrong. You will put a star into its mouth to kill it.
Sweet beloved, tender beloved, do you not see that you are the god that the people need most? Why would you hesitate, when the moment of our glory, the moment of our vindication, is so close at hand?
Holy flesh pushed forth, handed to him, a sacrifice on an alter of dutiful hands. Fuel to raise Inspekta ever-further to the glory that he claws towards viciously. Victory feels a mere breath away. Empty heavens? Hardly. The Rift can get rid of all of those gods besides them, a matched set. Fit to rule the world, to shape it as they so please.
Why does the thought terrify him, all of a sudden?
Why does this perfect reality put him so incredibly on edge?
The empty world bends and warps. He cannot understand what shapes it takes. He does not need to. Unbidden, against the panicked mind that tries to will him to pull away, Inspekta takes the flesh pulled from that still-living chest, sharp teeth shredding it into nothingness. Hands emerge from his coat to snare the strips, while the two on that coat desperately pull Capotain closer, closer, closer, a fit of desperation to be kept close while everything feels so incredibly far away.
Fingers of additional hands lock into that rib cage, forced between the bones and grasping them. Facing that infinite flesh, the fullness that will never succeed in curing Inspekta of his emptiness. He would crawl inside that space if he could.
"Something's wrong," Inspekta repeats, more urgently. His voice ebbs, changes. It drops it's cutesy brightness for something lower, more familiar. More human. "This isn't right. It's not right. I'm not---"
The train of thought cannot continue. It's sacrilege. He cannot speak it.
There is something buried deep at the core of what used to be Capochin Bastone that desperately wants to agree. This is wrong. This is all wrong. But that part of him suffocated and died the moment he became Capotain. Now, all he knows is blind, unflinching loyalty. It is his nature. It is all that he is. His eyes are bound, his ears pound with blood and the voice that bids him to kill the world for his beloved Everything, and his mouth knows only exaltation. For even as this new thing he has become, a fellow god, he knows only devotion. In fact, it has intensified. After all, he is now the God of Loyalty and Devotion, an endless font of divine energy all funneled into this glorious obsession.
You are the god that the people need most.
Yes.
In this perfect reality, with the heavens empty aside from the Mighty, All-Powerful Inspekta and his Divine Servant Capotain, there is nothing the people need more than to learn to show proper fealty to their perfect and uncontested leader.
His hands find Inspekta's "shoulders," closing that gap of distance and pulling him closer. It almost feels like a threat. "I'm perfect. You're perfect. This is perfect." Capotain chuckles eagerly, pulling Inspekta closer. He'd pull him inside himself, if he could. Keep him sheltered and well fed for all of time. "The only thing that's wrong is the rest of the world. We have to--- we have to go and kill it. We have to pull it to shreds, choke it out, hold it down until every last livin' soul is loyal enough to bleed for you. We have to pick out everything that ain't useful, everything tasteless, everything imperfect, 'till everyone's singin' your name. Don't you understand, Spek? This is what I was made for."
Inspekta has never truly been threatened before, never faced with blind zeal that rivals his own in his mission to inscribe his name in history. His head, a disjointed, floating thing above his collar, reels away from Capotain's blinded face, large eyes wide with alarm and fear the likes of which he's never felt before.
He's never wanted to kill the world, has he?
He's never wanted to tear it into pieces, seeking that which is only valuable, force everything into a mold to his satisfaction, has he?
The look on his face speaks volumes; he cannot answer that. Even as his face reels back, however, he can't pull himself away from where he hooks desperately onto Capotain. The vicious tangle of urgency and closeness is swayed for nothing, even if he wants to wrench himself away, to pull Capotain with him, to push him and flee. He is a snake eaten and a constrictor swallowing prey. Trapped and trapping another.
He doesn't know. But he does know that this isn't right.
Smooth, shining red fabric bunches as Inspekta tries to free himself. Like a snake caught in the beak of a bird, he winds his long form around the arms that hold him, around the new form of his loyal-est loyalist, shaken and desperate but not knowing what to do. The world feels more and more wrong - he can practically feel the hands on it, twisting and turning it into just the correct shapes. It makes him sick.
"Cappy, this ain't right," Inspekta insists--- but with each word, it's no longer Inspekta's voice, is it? Hardly. Even despite his terror, the voice that leaves his mouth is unmistakably Hector's. "You weren't made for this, we--- we gotta---"
Get out of here? He doesn't know how. These empty heavens are theirs, after all. No Rift to be seen, to both offer doom and freedom in equal measure.
Desperate to try to make him understand, one of those many hands, clinging and grasping and holding on for dear life, moves to try to wrench that blindfold free. Blind faith leading blind desperation cannot get them anywhere, it can only lead them in hungry circles until they collapse in on themselves and one-another.
"Ain't right? Spek, this is all there is! We built this together! These are our heavens now. The other useless gods are dead! All that's left is to rebuild what's left in your image--- just like ya wanted," Capotain says fervently, too lost in his zeal to register the hands grabbing for his blindfold.
It does come off. But Inspekta will not like what he finds underneath.
Two eyelids sewn shut with rough hewn black thread, stitches uneven as if they were installed by hand--- by Capotain himself. The eyelids themselves are concave, indicating that there is nothing behind them but empty sockets. Blue blood crusts the seam, looking like tears.
"Inspekta." His voice grows low, heady, intense. "I love you. I'm gonna make you so happy. Ain't you happy? Ain't you proud of me?"
Perhaps unnervingly, perhaps blessedly, the ever-worsening nightmare is at this point interrupted as the heavens shiver and part in a tangle of swaying, writhing appendages. It’s as if an unseen passage in the sky turns inside out, and from it emerges a rippling incandescent ash cloud, a pyroclastic anemone, and at the center of this disturbance blooms the form of an Unbroken Elf.
She descends towards them, swimming gracefully on updrafts of dream-stuff, while the whole world comes alive with the smell of flowers and ash and sweet-smelling sores and freshly-seared steak.
Do they remember the womer from the town? Does that life exist for them at all right now, in this place where all went horrifically according to plan? Or is this some intruder god, come to tear away a beautiful perfection?
It's early afternoon when the front door of Capochin and Hector's home, the newest iteration of the Bizzyboy's headquarters, jingles as Basira returns from her job. It was an easy enough affair, helping an older dwarvish woman lift flower bins, and it's right around lunch. The bosses made it clear that Bizzyboys can linger around and have their lunch at headquarters if they so chose, and she thought to bring it with her for once, so what harm is there in taking a break and resting her shoulders after a few hours of heavy lifting?
Hector seems to be out, likely for work, so as she passes by Capochin's office after grabbing her personal bag, she gives a short wave, casual as ever. "Ms. Bayldona's job is done. She sent some food to share, I left some in the fridge for you and anyone else who wants it. I'm taking lunch before the next one, if there's nothing else that needs anything right away."
"Nope," Capochin replies, not looking up from his paperwork. "You're all good, Basira, good work as usual. I'll getcha another one once you get some food in ya. Help yourself to some'a them meatballs I made, too, if ya want. There's some penne to go with 'em in that covered bowl."
"Thought it smelled good in here. I might take something home, thanks," Basira says, taking a chair out in the common area. It's easy enough to talk to him without having to interrupt what he's working on. A decent amount of personal bubble in a workspace, largely out of habit. "Anything come in while I was out?"
She's prone to this, sticking to talking about work when she's in. A little bit distant, but not in a cold way - at worst, focused and impersonal. Such is the way of things.
"Ehhh, nothin' crazy. This one's prob'ly gonna be for Daisuke. Pickin' up cupcakes for a kid's birthday party over at Autumn Leaves," Capo muses, then looks up.
"Why ya so damn far away? C'mere! I ain't gonna bite ya. What, do I smell bad?"
"Oh. I... assumed you'd want space to work, that's all."
There's a moment of shuffling, tucking a sandwich freshly-bitten-into back into her bag, before she's properly in Capochin's office, taking one of the chairs. Bag back to the floor, food back out, albeit uncertainly. (Since when did she get so bad at being chummy in the office? Probably some time during the apocalypse, or in the Lonely-operated Institute. She's got to brush back up on her workplace pleasantries.)
"If I didn't want people in here, I'd'a closed the door," Capochin reasons, picking at his own lunch. He's got a serving of the aforementioned pasta and meatballs at his own desk that he's picking at. "Sometimes you act like you ain't used to people wantin' you around."
"Last couple of places I worked at kept people fairly spread out, save for partners on the job," Basira says, giving a short shrug. "Definitely didn't have much to show from anyone in admin that being around more than necessary was something anyone wanted. So there's some adjusting, working here."
Mid bite, Capochin's brow raises a bit. "Y'know, you keep sayin' these vague, kinda ominous things about where you used to work, but you ain't ever told me much about it. What kinda place was it that you came from?"
Well, it was a conversation that was bound to come up eventually, but it doesn't make it feel any more like a good idea to inundate her small, silly bosses with horrors beyond comprehension. Can't exactly keep dodging around it if he's asking directly, though.
"Not exactly good. Similar to here, but worse," Basira starts to explain. "It's a long story. A lot of gory details in a very literal sense. But if you want to know, I can get into it. It's just not the sort of thing that's a good idea to drop into polite conversation."
Basira eyes him for a moment, considering how deeply to get into everything. He's asking, though, so... might as well.
"...Alright," she concedes at last, leaning back in her seat and trying to recount details as clearly as possible. "For context, the world I come from had these sort of--- I don't know what they were, exactly, beyond them being outside of our dimension, influencing it, and feeding on fear. Fourteen of them, embodying something people are afraid of, and making monsters to cause that kind of fear. Sometimes people could get turned into something that feeds off fear, too, and gets a little bit of power in return. But the big ones we were working with were..."
Setting her sandwich aside, she counts them out on her fingers while she explains.
One. "The Eye. Fear of being watched, having your secrets exposed, judgement. Literal eyes, sometimes. My last job turned out to be dedicated to it, taking statements of people's traumatic experiences to feed it. Nasty work."
Two. "The Hunt. Fear of being prey, being pursued, being turned on by your people. My partner's a Hunter. Daisy Tonner, if you've met her. Gets a little bit... werewolf-ey, if I'm being honest. It's one of the more straightforward ones."
Three. "The Buried. Fear of small spaces, being crushed, and... buried alive. Few different shapes of that, too. Crushed by water or dirt counts, or trapped under something, but more metaphorical things, too. Inescapable situations, poverty, crushing expectations. That sort of thing."
Four. "The Corruption. Fear of disease, filth, bugs, rot... unhealthy boundaries and toxic relationships, too. It's a pretty common one."
Five. "The Web. Covers spiders, which you'd think would be in the last one, but some of them sort of bleed together. Web's more about control and manipulation, though. Getting caught in someone else's game. Addictions, contracts, anything that keeps you doing something against your will."
Six. "The Stranger. Fear of the unknown, unfamiliar people, sort of uncanny valley type stuff. Clowns, mannequins, wax figures, taxidermy, all that sort of stuff that manages to feel not-quite-right. Had a run-in with a circus of them, trying to end the world in their own special way. We'll get into that later."
Seven. "The Vast. Falling, heights in general. Endlessness as a whole, I think. Read something at work once involving someone losing their minds from the prairies in one part of the world, and I think that ties into it. Things bigger than the mind's meant to comprehend."
Eight. "The Lonely. Fear of isolation, being cut off from society, faceless people, empty fog, that sort of thing. The idea that no one will ever understand you, and it's safer to be on your own. It's not one you really see working, because it just... makes people disappear."
Nine. "The End. Death itself. Fairly cut and dried. The fear that you, and everyone you know, someday, will die, and you can't get out of it. Usually shows up as bones, or in dreams, I've heard. Doesn't need to do too much, though."
Ten. "The Desolation. Senseless pain and destruction, destroyed potential. Think... house fires. Flash floods. Random acts of violence bleed into it a little bit, but that's more..."
Fingers curl back up, the count begins fresh. Eleven. "The Slaughter. Fear of random acts of violence without motive. Gets a lot out of war, but random serial-killings count, too. You'd think it'd be close to the Hunt, but I've always felt like they're pretty different. Hunt's got direction, cause, even if that cause is just causing that slow build-up of fear. Slaughter's not like that. Anyone it hurts, it's to make the people around it worry about the same thing happen to them."
Twelve. "The Spiral. The feeling of... you can't trust your own mind, your own senses, that someone, or even the world, is lying to you. Unreality is a word for it."
Thirteen. "The Dark. Probably the most classic one anyone can think of. It's the fear of what you can't see, and just... you know. The dark itself. What might be in it."
Fourteen. "And... last one, and the most recent, I've heard, is the Flesh. The fear of being meat for someone else's plate. Sometimes shows up as dissatisfaction with your body. A lot of fears come from animals, and this one supposedly got its own name when factory farming turned into a thing, if that explains it."
She hems and haws for a moment, before counting out an extra finger. "Some people were theorizing about a fifteenth one, the Extinction. Fear of the end of the world, or what comes after humanity undoes itself. Apocalypse sort of thing. Not sure how that one played out."
At last, she puts her hands back down. "I was in the police for a few years before I got put on the force that deals with the monsters, after seeing something I shouldn't have. That's where I met Daisy. We both wound up signed on to work at the Magnus Institute, the last job I mentioned. It was a mess, to be honest. Other monsters attacking the Institute, sometimes for revenge in the meddling done in their own things, sometimes just to throw a brake on what the Institute was doing. Which... wound up being apocalypse, by the way. Ended the world. The monsters, people, and monster-people following the Fears were trying to get the world to end in a way that reshaped it in one of the other ones, and the Eye got it first. I made it through a little bit of that before something caught me off guard, and I wound up here. Glossing over that a little bit, but it was... a lot. To put it lightly."
Capochin sits and he listens. Meets her eye, when she allows it. Nods along and takes in every detail, even as the descriptions of the Buried, the Corruption, and the Lonely knot his stomach in ways he's not fond of. The Extinction, as well, but more out of guilt than anything else. He can see why that might be up there with the rest of them.
"Yeah," he answers. "M'followin'. You're right, sounds like a lot. Can't say I lived through an apocalypse, but I came damn near close, so... I can empathize a lil' bit."
"Sorry to hear you even got close enough to a near-miss. It's not something anybody should deal with," Basira says, pausing for a short moment. "...Don't suppose you want to get into yours at all? I won't be offended if not. But it's not every day you run into somebody who gets it."
[Moving to a different place had always been an idea that terrified Basil- he had plenty of plants and gardening supplies at home, moving them would be a logistic nightmare. He knew his parents loved traveling, it was the main reason Basil barely had any memory of them since he was a child and barely remembered their voice, but moving from Faraway wasn't for him.
That being said... he had no choice but to adjust to a new, different enviorment now that he was... dead.
Afterlife was not as he imagined it would be, not as the local preacher told everyone it would look like- no fire and brimstone, merely houses, a rather weird place and technology that felt right out of an old book. And, speaking of the current level of technology- it was the main reason he left his current place, He couldn't understand how to use the washing machine. At all. And if he was to find work as a farmer, he couldn't just wear the same dirty clothes everywhere, right?]
Come on, Basil...
[He hesitated in front of the door, one hand raised to knock. This was a place of people who could 'help with anything', right? Even... basic lessons on how to use stuff around his house? Basil bit his lips before hesitantly hitting the wooden surface. He only had 100 brass to his name and, considering he still had to adjust himself to the new currency, he had no clue if that was enough or not.]
[ The man who answers the door is an unusual sort. Likely not even as tall as Basil himself, the Bizzyboy HQ greets him with a short-statured, teal-furred monkey-person with a long tail curling up and over his head. Big round eyes meet Basil's, expression morphing from neutral to surprise. ]
Hey, kiddo, you need somethin'? If you're lookin' for a Bizzyboy, yer in the right place."
[Someone could make a joke about Basil being finally the taller one, considering he had never been gifted with long legs or anything, but all the 'kid' does is adjusting his satchel and nod his head. This... man? The appearance is surprising (His mind says 'weird', even, but it's rude and Basil tries to silence that voice.) but he does his best not to be stopped by that.]
Ah. Uhm... greetings. I am, indeed, seeking help. I don't have a lot of Brass to my name but I'd like to be taught a few things if that's possible.
I've been told this is the perfect place for this kind of issues...
[ Oh jeez. A kid with no idea how to do anything, hurled into a strange situation, and he's got no damn money. There's few things in this world that a Drainer understands better than that. ]
You're darn right, this is the perfect place! We're da Bizzyboys! Helpin' is what we do. And you're in luck--- we got a newcomer's special. Today only, first job's on da house. Consider it a free sample.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
A Dream (Late Februrary) [cw: burning, body horror, self-mutilation]
Date: 2025-02-24 04:35 am (UTC)meat. In his gaping chest sits a beating heart, blue and breathtakingly radiant in its divinity, kintsugi craftsmanship filling the cracks that spderweb across its surface and down into its heart with pure, shining gold. The organ has a halo unto itself, almost blinding. Like a flock of celestial attendants, dozens of hands reach around it, beckoning you.He might be poifect, but he still needs you. He needs you to complete him. You want that more than anything, right? To complete him?
The offering you've brought him is pure, stripped of anything unnecessary. You always put the utmost care, the utmost devotion into your work, for
Inspektadoesn't deserve anything less. He deserves only the finest offerings, and you know he'll use it to make things right.But it's not enough. It's never enough.
You've never been enough.As you step forward, the hands reach past the offering, grasping at you, grappling at you, pulling you in as you find yourself being drawn into his chest along with his magnificent heart. It's warm, it's hot, it's burning as you find yourself pressing against his full glory. There's a deafening sizzle, like meat on the grill; it's you.
no subject
Date: 2025-03-03 03:12 am (UTC)rodeodivine miracle.Round, dark eyes with thick eyelashes and bags underneath look up, gazing upon the colossus. It almost feels unfair, he thinks, that he should be allowed to witness such a thing. His heart is blue and broken. Just like mine. How he must have suffered, at the hands of those other cruel gods who scorned him. The gold that seals the cracks, it can only be love. The love the two of them share, secret and just for them. The golden halo, Inspekta's holiness radiating out from him. He is beautiful. He is perfect. He is everything. Nothing else matters. The sight of him brings tears to Capochin's eyes.
The Lillipuchin stumbles forward, meager offering dripping in his hands. This, he thinks, is the sacrifice that Inspekta made to make the world new for them. Their plan succeeded, and his god's body was the cost. But he can be remade. His faithful acolyte, his right hand, his one and only, will do it willingly. Dedication. Determination. Worship. Devotion. Capochin is an endless well of these things.
These hands. He knows these hands. So many times they have held him, caressed him, doted on him. Bent him, broken him, pried him open. Praised and punished. These are safe hands. Loved hands. His pitiable offering is ignored. Of course it wasn't enough. How foolish to think that it would be. They grab at his body instead, and it won't be long before he, too, drips blue.
For you, anything.
Capochin does not struggle. Even as fear and despair crawl their way up his throat with clawed hands, he does not let them escape his teeth as a scream. Even as tears rush to his eyes. Even as his unworthy flesh sears against the sublime heat of a god's heart.
He is beautiful.
He is beautiful.
He is beautiful.
Finally, a place where I belong.
M A K E I T F I T.
cw: body horror continues, burning alive
Date: 2025-03-12 12:44 am (UTC)You are in a field. The sun is warm, just the right kind of warm, bathing everything in a covetable light. Atop a hill sits a tree, a van... and a familiar place.
Inspekta waits there, in all his glory. Inspekta waits, radiant, and you, too, are radiant.
Your body. His body. One flesh. Given, consumed, restored, reclaimed. You don't need to think too much about it, but you know that you and he are here in the same way, somehow. Like the hole in his chest was a rift that changed you.
Perhaps you'll have more time to take in your transfigured body. But first, Inspekta seems to have words for you.
no subject
Date: 2025-03-12 01:34 am (UTC)Practically with the glowing warmth of the sun that hangs overhead, Inspekta beams, disembodied hands open in a bid for closeness.
There is an evenness in this place, not unlike that of equal mortal footing, but it is so much more than that--- even the liveliest, brightest spaces pale in comparison to this one. The air is electric in a way none of the deities' personal corners in God Grove had ever been before.
Of course it would be, though. Followers and their devotion are exceptional, of course, but when is the last time two gods shared a domain?
And what would Leadership be without Loyalty?
"I was wonderin' when yew would get here! It felt like I must'a spent ages waitin'!" Even with the playful lament, he shows no signs of anything other than sheer, unabashed excitement. Even the joking pout that he puts on is short-lived in the wake of all that joy. "C'mon! It's about time yew took this seat o' yewrs right beside me, ain't it?"
no subject
Date: 2025-03-12 02:56 pm (UTC)Capochin looks up in wonder. He doesn't understand how he got here. he could swear he was just dying a moment ago...
He knows this place. He stood here twice before. Once when Hector became Inspekta, and once when...
Was that a dream?
"Me?" Capochin flounders, looking around nervously. He suddenly feels overwhelmed. This isn't like when it happened to Hector, someone who deserved it. Who had earned it. He feels small, like he's doing something wrong, breaking some rule. "I-I ain't done nothin' to---"
no subject
Date: 2025-03-12 11:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-03-16 06:10 am (UTC)Inspekta interrupts, but it's all good-natured. He leans forward, bending and stretching his form, a curling, endless spiral, should he choose for it to be; one loop, then two, curl around Capochin, and those hands of his snare those of his loyalest loyalist.
There's a playful spin, pulling Capochin out of each of those loops, before he's pulled up that grassy knoll, closer to that wide, bright sky that sprawls above it.
"Trust me, yew deserve it just as much as anybuddy! But yew'll get settlied in no time, don't yew worry. How're yew feelin'? It's a doozy at first, ain't it?"
no subject
Date: 2025-03-24 01:31 am (UTC)Capochin cannot place why this fear chews at him so. He wracks his brain and finds only more questions. What happened to King?When did he get voted in? What if he doesn't want to be immortal? Did Inspekta pull strings to make this happen? What if he isn't any good? What if he isn't worthy? What if he doesn't deserve this? What if he hurts someone? What if they hurt someone? Two broken people like Hector and Capochin, given godhood--- what if they hurt people? What if they hurt everyone?
And how dare someone like Capochin even consider standing on equal footing with Inspekta?
Through the cacophony of questions, Capochin reaches his hand into the miasma and pulls one out to ask it.
"What'd I get elected to be the god of?"
Pass
Date: 2025-03-24 02:03 am (UTC)Re: Pass
Date: 2025-04-25 02:50 am (UTC)Inspekta doesn't seem terribly perturbed by the question, though his idle, content swaying slows at last, to something more focused.
"Yew're the God of Loyalty, remember? People lookin' to forge their re-lay-shun-ships and find their place wif other people come to yew!" The answer is given merrily, before a wry little smile is offered Capochin's way. "And, after all, what's Leadership without Loyalty, huh? Yew earned this spot here! Now, c'mon! What'cha draggin' yewr feet for?"
no subject
Date: 2025-04-26 05:21 am (UTC)Of course, how could he have forgotten? How silly.
Inspekta is right. He's always right. The shadows of other gods dance in the golden light of the rift. All that's left is a leap of faith.
Capochin puts a hand in one of Inspekta's, and lets his feet leave the ground. The light consumes him. What a joy it is, to be consumed.To follow Inspekta, his light, his love, his god, his everything, into that all-consuming maw of divinity. And within it, he is reborn. Remade. Body becomes malleable, and he is sculpted into the God of Loyalty.
What emerges is... something awful, actually.
Thick and broad, a blocky body clad in a heavy trenchcoat in dark teal. Squat and wide compared to Inspekta's long and tall. From his neck hangs a tie patterned to look like chain links, tucked into a vest. But what is beneath the vest is not a shirt. Rather, it is an exposed ribcage filled to the brim with what appears to be blue meat that presses at the edges of the bones and threatens to burst through it. No heart. Just meat.
A vintage fedora to match the coat is on top of his head, and a blindfold covers his eyes.
Behold, Capotain, the God of Loyalty.
no subject
Date: 2025-04-26 04:30 pm (UTC)What you have become is a miracle beyond measure. Rejoice, for you have been chosen as a guide and an example for those others who might feel inspired to serve.
no subject
Date: 2025-04-27 04:23 am (UTC)There's a jubilant air to the greeting on the other side of the Rift, but it's... dark. Quiet. None of the blustering winds, teeming with energy, none of the crackling life that roared at the intersection of the mortal world and the heavens. The heavens are cold, brimming with static that makes the silence anything but still.
Inspekta's disembodied hands reach from that darkness, and the rest of him coils out of it, a vibrant snake of reds and golds and blues emerging from a thicket, slowly encroaching on the newest addition to the pantheon. His hands find that trench coat, and in some semblance of affection, too betrayed by a firmly-curling fingers into fabric, he latches on, as though he drags himself further on Capotain's hold alone. As if, should he let go, he'd be pulled back into that endless dark.
"Now there's sum-buddy I can trust up here. Someone who I can count on, when the goin' gets tough," Inspekta speaks, that ever-playful, twee voice wavering. His attention is locked onto his now-godly counterpart, and at a distance, it seems wild, hungry. Now that he's pulled himself closer, however, none of those shadows are cast so heavily upon him.
Now, he looks so very afraid.
"...Cappy, something ain't right."
cw: gore, cannibalism, supernatural self-harm
Date: 2025-04-27 05:02 am (UTC)Well, that's not entirely true. There is some part of him that can. Whether it's some sort of newfound godly sight, or it's some kind of psychic ability that allows him to sense his environment without seeing it, or it is simply a part of Capochin's unconscious mind that is in third person to all of this, he is capable of perceiving these events. But fundamentally, Capotain cannot see through his blindfold, blinded by he is by his own loyalty.
"Whaddaya mean, ain't right?" The question comes with an edge of mania, a disconcerting excitement. "Everything is poifect, boss. Jus' you n' me against the woild, right? I'm finally exactly what you needed me to be. I finally fit. I finally have a purpose. I can give ya everything you need. I'll never get old, never get tired, you'll never need to replace me! I'm perfect! I can finally give you all the devotion you deserve---"
His thick-fingered hands, with razor-like claws, lift to where the pulsating meat threatens to bulge out of the gaps in his exposed ribs, and begins to rip strips of it out. The gaps are precisely the width of each finger, and so he digs in with both hands to scoop hunks of flesh from each gap in mighty fistfuls. More quickly replaces it, pushing up against the confines of the ribs and leaving him just as full to bursting as before. He overs his shed strips of meat in open, bloody palms up to Inspekta, fingers trembling---
"---and never, ever run out."
cw: gore, cannibalism, supernatural self-harm
Date: 2025-04-27 06:00 am (UTC)The call is something older than music, beckoning the newly-made divine to swim in a blazing sea, to orbit unquestioning the subject of their devotion. The world is wrong. You will put a star into its mouth to kill it.
Sweet beloved, tender beloved, do you not see that you are the god that the people need most? Why would you hesitate, when the moment of our glory, the moment of our vindication, is so close at hand?
CWs continue
Date: 2025-04-27 06:47 am (UTC)Why does the thought terrify him, all of a sudden?
Why does this perfect reality put him so incredibly on edge?
The empty world bends and warps. He cannot understand what shapes it takes. He does not need to. Unbidden, against the panicked mind that tries to will him to pull away, Inspekta takes the flesh pulled from that still-living chest, sharp teeth shredding it into nothingness. Hands emerge from his coat to snare the strips, while the two on that coat desperately pull Capotain closer, closer, closer, a fit of desperation to be kept close while everything feels so incredibly far away.
Fingers of additional hands lock into that rib cage, forced between the bones and grasping them. Facing that infinite flesh, the fullness that will never succeed in curing Inspekta of his emptiness. He would crawl inside that space if he could.
"Something's wrong," Inspekta repeats, more urgently. His voice ebbs, changes. It drops it's cutesy brightness for something lower, more familiar. More human. "This isn't right. It's not right. I'm not---"
The train of thought cannot continue. It's sacrilege. He cannot speak it.
"Can't yew feel it?"
Re: CWs continue
Date: 2025-04-27 07:25 am (UTC)You are the god that the people need most.
Yes.
In this perfect reality, with the heavens empty aside from the Mighty, All-Powerful Inspekta and his Divine Servant Capotain, there is nothing the people need more than to learn to show proper fealty to their perfect and uncontested leader.
His hands find Inspekta's "shoulders," closing that gap of distance and pulling him closer. It almost feels like a threat. "I'm perfect. You're perfect. This is perfect." Capotain chuckles eagerly, pulling Inspekta closer. He'd pull him inside himself, if he could. Keep him sheltered and well fed for all of time. "The only thing that's wrong is the rest of the world. We have to--- we have to go and kill it. We have to pull it to shreds, choke it out, hold it down until every last livin' soul is loyal enough to bleed for you. We have to pick out everything that ain't useful, everything tasteless, everything imperfect, 'till everyone's singin' your name. Don't you understand, Spek? This is what I was made for."
CWs continue
Date: 2025-04-27 03:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-05-16 03:05 am (UTC)He's never wanted to kill the world, has he?
He's never wanted to tear it into pieces, seeking that which is only valuable, force everything into a mold to his satisfaction, has he?
The look on his face speaks volumes; he cannot answer that. Even as his face reels back, however, he can't pull himself away from where he hooks desperately onto Capotain. The vicious tangle of urgency and closeness is swayed for nothing, even if he wants to wrench himself away, to pull Capotain with him, to push him and flee. He is a snake eaten and a constrictor swallowing prey. Trapped and trapping another.
He doesn't know. But he does know that this isn't right.
Smooth, shining red fabric bunches as Inspekta tries to free himself. Like a snake caught in the beak of a bird, he winds his long form around the arms that hold him, around the new form of his loyal-est loyalist, shaken and desperate but not knowing what to do. The world feels more and more wrong - he can practically feel the hands on it, twisting and turning it into just the correct shapes. It makes him sick.
"Cappy, this ain't right," Inspekta insists--- but with each word, it's no longer Inspekta's voice, is it? Hardly. Even despite his terror, the voice that leaves his mouth is unmistakably Hector's. "You weren't made for this, we--- we gotta---"
Get out of here? He doesn't know how. These empty heavens are theirs, after all. No Rift to be seen, to both offer doom and freedom in equal measure.
Desperate to try to make him understand, one of those many hands, clinging and grasping and holding on for dear life, moves to try to wrench that blindfold free. Blind faith leading blind desperation cannot get them anywhere, it can only lead them in hungry circles until they collapse in on themselves and one-another.
no subject
Date: 2025-05-17 05:39 pm (UTC)It does come off. But Inspekta will not like what he finds underneath.
Two eyelids sewn shut with rough hewn black thread, stitches uneven as if they were installed by hand--- by Capotain himself. The eyelids themselves are concave, indicating that there is nothing behind them but empty sockets. Blue blood crusts the seam, looking like tears.
"Inspekta." His voice grows low, heady, intense. "I love you. I'm gonna make you so happy. Ain't you happy? Ain't you proud of me?"
cw: infection, general body horror
Date: 2025-05-20 04:44 pm (UTC)She descends towards them, swimming gracefully on updrafts of dream-stuff, while the whole world comes alive with the smell of flowers and ash and sweet-smelling sores and freshly-seared steak.
Do they remember the womer from the town? Does that life exist for them at all right now, in this place where all went horrifically according to plan? Or is this some intruder god, come to tear away a beautiful perfection?
Any Old Day, Bizzness As Usual (Workplace Bonding!)
Date: 2025-03-30 03:26 am (UTC)Hector seems to be out, likely for work, so as she passes by Capochin's office after grabbing her personal bag, she gives a short wave, casual as ever. "Ms. Bayldona's job is done. She sent some food to share, I left some in the fridge for you and anyone else who wants it. I'm taking lunch before the next one, if there's nothing else that needs anything right away."
no subject
Date: 2025-03-30 04:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-03-30 04:31 am (UTC)She's prone to this, sticking to talking about work when she's in. A little bit distant, but not in a cold way - at worst, focused and impersonal. Such is the way of things.
no subject
Date: 2025-03-30 04:59 am (UTC)"Why ya so damn far away? C'mere! I ain't gonna bite ya. What, do I smell bad?"
no subject
Date: 2025-03-30 05:11 am (UTC)There's a moment of shuffling, tucking a sandwich freshly-bitten-into back into her bag, before she's properly in Capochin's office, taking one of the chairs. Bag back to the floor, food back out, albeit uncertainly. (Since when did she get so bad at being chummy in the office? Probably some time during the apocalypse, or in the Lonely-operated Institute. She's got to brush back up on her workplace pleasantries.)
no subject
Date: 2025-03-30 05:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-03-30 05:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-03-30 08:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-03-30 08:13 pm (UTC)"Not exactly good. Similar to here, but worse," Basira starts to explain. "It's a long story. A lot of gory details in a very literal sense. But if you want to know, I can get into it. It's just not the sort of thing that's a good idea to drop into polite conversation."
no subject
Date: 2025-04-06 03:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-04-24 01:07 am (UTC)"...Alright," she concedes at last, leaning back in her seat and trying to recount details as clearly as possible. "For context, the world I come from had these sort of--- I don't know what they were, exactly, beyond them being outside of our dimension, influencing it, and feeding on fear. Fourteen of them, embodying something people are afraid of, and making monsters to cause that kind of fear. Sometimes people could get turned into something that feeds off fear, too, and gets a little bit of power in return. But the big ones we were working with were..."
Setting her sandwich aside, she counts them out on her fingers while she explains.
One. "The Eye. Fear of being watched, having your secrets exposed, judgement. Literal eyes, sometimes. My last job turned out to be dedicated to it, taking statements of people's traumatic experiences to feed it. Nasty work."
Two. "The Hunt. Fear of being prey, being pursued, being turned on by your people. My partner's a Hunter. Daisy Tonner, if you've met her. Gets a little bit... werewolf-ey, if I'm being honest. It's one of the more straightforward ones."
Three. "The Buried. Fear of small spaces, being crushed, and... buried alive. Few different shapes of that, too. Crushed by water or dirt counts, or trapped under something, but more metaphorical things, too. Inescapable situations, poverty, crushing expectations. That sort of thing."
Four. "The Corruption. Fear of disease, filth, bugs, rot... unhealthy boundaries and toxic relationships, too. It's a pretty common one."
Five. "The Web. Covers spiders, which you'd think would be in the last one, but some of them sort of bleed together. Web's more about control and manipulation, though. Getting caught in someone else's game. Addictions, contracts, anything that keeps you doing something against your will."
Six. "The Stranger. Fear of the unknown, unfamiliar people, sort of uncanny valley type stuff. Clowns, mannequins, wax figures, taxidermy, all that sort of stuff that manages to feel not-quite-right. Had a run-in with a circus of them, trying to end the world in their own special way. We'll get into that later."
Seven. "The Vast. Falling, heights in general. Endlessness as a whole, I think. Read something at work once involving someone losing their minds from the prairies in one part of the world, and I think that ties into it. Things bigger than the mind's meant to comprehend."
Eight. "The Lonely. Fear of isolation, being cut off from society, faceless people, empty fog, that sort of thing. The idea that no one will ever understand you, and it's safer to be on your own. It's not one you really see working, because it just... makes people disappear."
Nine. "The End. Death itself. Fairly cut and dried. The fear that you, and everyone you know, someday, will die, and you can't get out of it. Usually shows up as bones, or in dreams, I've heard. Doesn't need to do too much, though."
Ten. "The Desolation. Senseless pain and destruction, destroyed potential. Think... house fires. Flash floods. Random acts of violence bleed into it a little bit, but that's more..."
Fingers curl back up, the count begins fresh. Eleven. "The Slaughter. Fear of random acts of violence without motive. Gets a lot out of war, but random serial-killings count, too. You'd think it'd be close to the Hunt, but I've always felt like they're pretty different. Hunt's got direction, cause, even if that cause is just causing that slow build-up of fear. Slaughter's not like that. Anyone it hurts, it's to make the people around it worry about the same thing happen to them."
Twelve. "The Spiral. The feeling of... you can't trust your own mind, your own senses, that someone, or even the world, is lying to you. Unreality is a word for it."
Thirteen. "The Dark. Probably the most classic one anyone can think of. It's the fear of what you can't see, and just... you know. The dark itself. What might be in it."
Fourteen. "And... last one, and the most recent, I've heard, is the Flesh. The fear of being meat for someone else's plate. Sometimes shows up as dissatisfaction with your body. A lot of fears come from animals, and this one supposedly got its own name when factory farming turned into a thing, if that explains it."
She hems and haws for a moment, before counting out an extra finger. "Some people were theorizing about a fifteenth one, the Extinction. Fear of the end of the world, or what comes after humanity undoes itself. Apocalypse sort of thing. Not sure how that one played out."
At last, she puts her hands back down. "I was in the police for a few years before I got put on the force that deals with the monsters, after seeing something I shouldn't have. That's where I met Daisy. We both wound up signed on to work at the Magnus Institute, the last job I mentioned. It was a mess, to be honest. Other monsters attacking the Institute, sometimes for revenge in the meddling done in their own things, sometimes just to throw a brake on what the Institute was doing. Which... wound up being apocalypse, by the way. Ended the world. The monsters, people, and monster-people following the Fears were trying to get the world to end in a way that reshaped it in one of the other ones, and the Eye got it first. I made it through a little bit of that before something caught me off guard, and I wound up here. Glossing over that a little bit, but it was... a lot. To put it lightly."
A beat, and she glances over, lifting a brow.
"Are you still with me in all of that?"
no subject
Date: 2025-04-24 02:11 am (UTC)"Yeah," he answers. "M'followin'. You're right, sounds like a lot. Can't say I lived through an apocalypse, but I came damn near close, so... I can empathize a lil' bit."
no subject
Date: 2025-04-27 03:52 am (UTC)Settling in - Late May
Date: 2025-05-28 04:24 pm (UTC)That being said... he had no choice but to adjust to a new, different enviorment now that he was... dead.
Afterlife was not as he imagined it would be, not as the local preacher told everyone it would look like- no fire and brimstone, merely houses, a rather weird place and technology that felt right out of an old book. And, speaking of the current level of technology- it was the main reason he left his current place, He couldn't understand how to use the washing machine. At all. And if he was to find work as a farmer, he couldn't just wear the same dirty clothes everywhere, right?]
Come on, Basil...
[He hesitated in front of the door, one hand raised to knock. This was a place of people who could 'help with anything', right? Even... basic lessons on how to use stuff around his house? Basil bit his lips before hesitantly hitting the wooden surface. He only had 100 brass to his name and, considering he still had to adjust himself to the new currency, he had no clue if that was enough or not.]
no subject
Date: 2025-06-16 01:47 am (UTC)Hey, kiddo, you need somethin'? If you're lookin' for a Bizzyboy, yer in the right place."
no subject
Date: 2025-06-27 03:35 pm (UTC)Ah. Uhm... greetings. I am, indeed, seeking help. I don't have a lot of Brass to my name but I'd like to be taught a few things if that's possible.
I've been told this is the perfect place for this kind of issues...
no subject
Date: 2025-07-02 03:47 pm (UTC)You're darn right, this is the perfect place! We're da Bizzyboys! Helpin' is what we do. And you're in luck--- we got a newcomer's special. Today only, first job's on da house. Consider it a free sample.