I don't think I've seen anyone go into what physical symptoms Sonic experienced as a werehog. Have I posted abt that before I feel like I might've done that
Anyway here's a list of the symptoms of Sonic's werehog form, since I don't see many hcs abt that
Faster fur, quill, and nail growth
Increased body temperature
Increased appetite and intense cravings (not specifically for meat, but for foods he enjoys)
Sensitivity to light, sounds, and smells (easily overstimulated)
Chronic headaches
Joint and back pain due to changed bone structure
Toothaches, also due to changed bone structure
Muscle tears from transforming
Sore throat from vocal chords changing
Blood turned green (like Dark Gaia's blood)
Most of these don't fully go away when he turns back. During Unleashed, the pains lingered post-transformation and made it hard to get up in the morning a lot
Post-Unleashed, Sonic still deals with his fur, quills, and nails growing much faster than average. His bone structure in normal form is slightly different now too. His joints still hurt a bit because of it, especially his knees. Also his teeth are a lot sharper (not just fangs, all of his teeth)
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The 3rd and final 3D Virtual Live just finished streaming and yay, we got to hear the final new track from Zombie Land Saga FranChouChou The Best Revenge, which releases on September the 28th! Hosting this week were No. 5 and No. 6 along with No. 0 because she’s legendary.
There was a lot of cute banter including mentions of doing radio calisthenics, the girls going fishing, No. 6 making ink illustrations of the fish that were caught, and after the final song the rest of the group dropped by (via wire, which No. 4 did not enjoy) to announce that Franchouchou will be doing a proper on-stage live next month (23rd of October) at Makuhari Messe (and yes, it will be streamed as well). The live will combine 3D animation with the real Franchouchou’s performance, which sounds cool!
I’m pretty exhausted so I won’t go into too much detail. Songs this live were Mezame Returner, Oikaze Travelers, and the new song, We Are Fran Chou Chou!
“We Are Fran Chou Chou!” ups what we had last month with Ai penning the lyrics to “Beginning” by having the girls introduce one another with lyrics they’d penned and music they seem to have directed (it’ll be interesting to see Tatsumi’s score for this song). So No. 6 opens by singing about No. 1, No. 1 follows by singing about No. 2, etc. No. 0′s part (which features a very “We Will Rock You” beat , A+) featured a nice little dance from everyone’s legendary fave.
Apparently No. 5 wrote about 70 pages re: No. 6 and even though they weren’t exactly great for lyrics, No.6 treasures them. They have such an adorable sisterly relationship ;o;
No 6. also makes mention of their producer secretly filming them and saying, “This is what you’re like right now, keep it up” but also telling them to shut up which is... yeah, that’s him.
I’ll sidetrack a little here but as we saw in the 2nd season, the girls are absolutely preparing for a life without Tatsumi whether they realise it or not. Ai writing “Beginning” for last month was a big flag, but now “We Are FranChouChou” that they all collaborated on? The songs were about the only thing they weren’t doing themselves by the end of s2 (makeup being mediocre aside)... and the whole thing about him filming them... yeaaaaah.
I’ll be interested to see if we get more movie info at the live next month, anyway. These streaming virtual lives weren’t the best things ever but they were cute, fun ways to see the characters and hear the music again so I enjoyed them quite a bit. I can’t wait to get my copy of the album so I can listen to “Beginning” on repeat!
(I smiled when I saw Oobari Masami tweeting about his love for the series. He should definitely go to Saga!)
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19 for the worldbuilding prompts + Torr?
the profound quiet of a small settlement at night
North Eastmarch is freezing cold all over, but it wears different outside the city than within.
Torr would never call Windhelm warm – not even in summer months, no matter how used to it they are – but what little heat it has it clings to with great determination. The walls huddle together, trapping the air so that it’s either still and muggy or a howling wind, like each close-knit house is breathing in tandem. The heat of the people run up and down its streets, blood through its knotted stone veins. The city is alive, an ecosystem unto itself; its snow, dark with footprints, runs sludgy down the roads; a fireplace is always burning somewhere.
Outside of the walls, surrounded by nothing but empty air and snow-laden trees, a slow-moving stream running with barely a burble – it feels dead, in contrast. Silent. Branches reach needle-sharp across the blue-black sky, the ground is gleaming white and undisturbed by anyone else’s footprints, and the nearest fire is the barely visible gleam of the Kynesgrove mining camp, up the hill and through the sporadic spindles of the trees. The breeze ghosts past Torr’s neck and whips the mud-stained snow into a flurry.
In the city, Torr’s comfortable sleeping almost anywhere – as comfortable as they ever get, anyway. Some of the buildings have great gaps under the porch where the snow can’t reach and no-one ever finds them; there’s places in the nooks of the walls, and sheds built into the side of the house that people don’t lock, and Torr knows a few people besides who don’t mind him kipping on their floor every now and again, as long as he doesn’t ask too often. The outside isn’t like that. There’s not many places to go. He’s lurking around Kynesgrove tonight – on his way back from a quick venture out to get some things done that pay better than running errands around the markets – and there aren’t many options. The inn, which he can’t afford – the mine, which would be warm but is very guarded – the miner’s encampment or someone’s house, both of which would most likely result in being chased off. Besides, there’s a performative element to meeting people, especially adults, in strange places, and Torr’s not in the mood to play to strangers. So much of his being is caught up in Windhelm’s grimy alleys, tangled in the hair and fingers of its discarded children; he doesn’t know how to be himself away from it all.
But they don’t have to, seeing as there’s the rickety old sawmill on the edge of a stream feeding into the harbour. It’s not bad, as shelter goes; no walls, so the wind rubs its fingers wraithlike down Torr’s cheeks and tangles them in his hair, but at least there’s a roof. It looks newly thatched, too, the floorboards free of rot, the water-wheel still chugging creakily along. There’s no wood to cut here, all the nearby surrounding trees too scraggy to be worth the bother. The only big ones are part of the grove up on the hill. There’s no point in keeping the mill running, but Torr is glad it is; he watches the distant firelight flickering through the scrub, and listens to the splashing of the wheel. It’s proof that people and the things they make do still exist – if not necessarily here.
It really feels dead, out in the cold, with the leafless trees and the wind that doesn’t even whisper. It always does. It’s a bit discomfiting, which is maybe why Torr doesn’t go on out-of-city endeavours as often as perhaps he could; but really, there’s not work out here enough to make it worth it. There’s always problems with bandits on the road, but Torr’s not a good enough fighter for bounty work; there’s collecting plants and things to sell Nurelion, but that’s easy enough to do on a day trip. (And, really, it’s more for Torr’s own enjoyment, besides. They never even venture far south enough to get to the sulphur pools, which is where the more interesting things grow.)
This trip, though, is an outlier. Unusually efficient. Just a quick job for Niranye, scouting a merchant’s cart on the road – almost definitely for something shady, but that’s not Torr’s business, and it was too much money too easy to turn down. And then – just earlier today, foraging out in the wilderness as best as Torr (a distinctly urban animal) knows how – they’d come across a giant’s corpse, stiff and white as the snow it lay in. Torr’s no master alchemist but they know the value of a cadaver when it comes to brewing alloys and admixtures, so they set to with their blunt-edged dagger and now they’ve got a sack full of what may as well be gold. (Long as it doesn’t start to rot before they can get Nurelion to preserve it, anyway.)
Torr’s going to be rolling in it when they get back to Windhelm. They could use that money for nearly anything – pay off a few things they borrowed, new warm things now that winter’s coming back strong, bedrolls, waterskins. Endless options – which, strangely, is more exciting than it is burdensome.
It’s all the sort of decision that would ordinarily feel life-or-death urgent but right now feels – not small. Not insignificant, not at all, but distant. A choice to be made at another time, by another person.
(Torr’s whole being belongs to Windhelm’s back streets. They’re someone else, away from it all.)
That’s the other thing about leaving the city, spending time in the discomfiting slow-paced ghost-world outside. It’s quiet. Torr sits surrounded by the wind in the trees, the lazy murmur of the stream, the creak of the water-wheel, and nothing else.
He’s been called a worrywart (mostly by Griss in a strop) but to tell the truth he doesn’t think that’s true. Torr doesn’t fuss for the sake of fussing, he just doesn’t like to leave things undone; can’t stop until he finds a solution. Out here, alone, in the empty cold, there are no solutions to find – same old problems back home, he knows, but no steps he can take at this time to right them. That’s never true while he’s in the city, so he can never stop thinking about it, every choice and action accompanied by a buzzing background chorus of everything else he really should be doing – that really should have been done by now – that should never have been left undone this long, what was he thinking? Everything is urgent when it’s doable. But here and now, there’s nothing to do.
So Torr sits hunched on the board floor of the ramshackle watermill, huddled among their heaps of bags and blankets, and thinks of nothing at all.
Not strictly true. They think of supper – haven’t eaten since an apple this morning, except for some snowberries they found around noon, and it’s been a long day. They nabbed some turnips from the garden of the Kynesgrove inn on their way to the mill. They’re fresh, if nothing else – also covered in dirt, so Torr rises reluctantly from their pile of stuff to crouch on the banks of the stream and dip the vegetables in to clean them off. It aches like hell, the frozen water turning their joints to ice – they almost drop the turnip they’re washing, so they scrub it as best they can with the frigid pad of their thumb and whip their hands out of the water soon as they’re able. They stick their fingers in their mouth to warm them back up.
Even after all that time spent warming up their hands, arraying all their belongings back around themself to conserve body heat, the turnips are still cold enough to hurt Torr’s teeth when he bites in. He eats them anyway, relishing a little in the unearthly silence and the aching of his lips and palms. They taste delicious.
With nothing else to do after, the gnawing of his stomach sated, he wraps himself in his shawl and stares up the hill at the camp’s fire until it goes out. The stars wink into brighter being. The wind whistles through the whip-thin branches of the trees. The water-wheel creaks.
Torr sleeps, but he feels like he hears it all – a silent observer, an echo, a beginning – until morning.
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