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roughentumble · 2 years

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i wrote a little ficlet! geralt gets himself sick on too many potions, and doesnt have any white honey to fix it, so he has to purge his system. jaskier takes care of him afterwords.

@hale-of-stiles-heart just because i feel like she'd like being tagged

cw: emetophobia

now on ao3

~*~*~

the air is damp and earthy. it surrounds geralt, thought not in a way that he registers.

geralt is a conciousness floating in space.

he gasps for breath, lungs burning, air fogging white in front of his lips, but he can't feel any of that yet. a beast lays before him, slain, blood sluggishly draining out into the dirt below, creating mud as black as pitch. if he is injured, he cannot feel it, but his leg doesnt respond correctly when he takes a jerky step forward. that doesnt matter-- he doesnt register his legs. he pushes forward, trophy knife in hand, and grabs at the creature. already partially decapitated from his killing blow, all he has to do is finish sawing away at the skin and flesh and connective tissue left behind. his body does this automatically. he doesnt need to feel his hands for this.

once the head is seperated, though, his fingers refuse to close properly around the fur, he cannot lift it. his hands-- when did he start having hands again?-- shake. numb, they tremble and refuse to clasp. he'll have to come back for it in the morning, loathe as he is to leave evidence of his hunt behind.

he'd brought white honey, for after. but as he reaches down for it, the past comes back to him in flashes-- falling. the sound of glass. liquid, but not the rain-- he'd fallen on his hip during the fight and shattered all the vials strapped to him. he'd taken all the others already, but the white honey is gone, and his body is overcome with toxicity. tremors wrack his frame, a dull ache creeping into his conciousness, and in lieu of another potion to ease the symptoms, he has to purge himself of the poisons before he succumbs to them.

his fingers taste like dirt and metal as he shoves them against the back of his throat. there is the faint ringing of pain, and his knees will regret the way he collapsed onto them in the morning, but he has no presence of mind to be gentle, nor the coordination to acheive it. he has to swallow air along with his fingers' efforts, as he's never had much of a gag reflex, and it makes the whole endeavor that much more painful, debasing. he clings to the nausea, though, forcing his body to listen.

it burns. it burns like fire, like acid, burns worse than it did going down. it isnt just bile, it's every toxic, caustic poison in his stomach, scraping its way past a torn-raw throat. it isnt the color of vomit, but he hardly expected it to be, and once it starts it's as though it never ends. some bodily instincts even witchers cannot be trained out of, and he chokes and coughs and gags as more and more is pushed out of his system. his system panics and his throat slams shut, swallowing more air in the process and starting the cycle anew, until nothing remains at all. his mouth, his nose, his throat down to his stomach, all are alight with pure pounding seering pain as he gags for the last time, stomach concave from the spasms and the emptiness.

he stays there as he remembers how to breathe. slowly his body is remembering pain, but only in fits and starts.

he hasnt made a mistake this bad in... a very long time.

he sits back on his feet and tilts his head to the sky, lets little pinpricks of sharp coldness remind him of his face, it's shape, waking up his skin. it's been drizzling for a while, and now the beast is dead, the sound brings with it a gentle calm, pattering against treetops and grounding him in his body. his hip aches, his leg throbs, his fingers still wont close, but his world is too fuzzy to catalogue the whys of any of these pains. perhaps its toxicity-- perhaps something else. worst of all is the throbbing in his skull, the fire in his respiratory system.

he cleans his blades with slow, deliberate strokes. he only cuts himself once, despite the continued tremors, and as he watches red well up it doesnt seem to be overly deep, which he counts as a positive.

it must be an hour still before he makes it back to camp once more, gait uneven and eyes unfocused. he's better than this-- he's supposed to be better than this. as good as dead in his shambling, and so vulnerable. still it rains on, and the sound against the tarp they'd set up before he left is sharper than it is against any of the natural features of the woods. he follows it like a beacon, to find the fire long snuffed, and jaskier dozing in relative dryness.

he rouses when geralt stumbles into a nearby tree.

the moon is high and bright despite the patchy cloud covering, and jaskier squints through the dark as he snuffles awake, examining geralt's form. "oh, you're back! that's good, that's good, i... are you alright? it's just, you seem a bit hunched there. it's-- what is that on your face?" geralt reaches up, wipes away bile with the back of his hand. any joviality drains out of jaskier as he takes in geralt's state.

he scrambles to his feet, and only hesitates for a moment before running his hands over geralt's heaving chest, his trembling limbs. he must have flinched at the sound, or else jaskier is truly just that scared for him, because he doesnt say much else as he takes in the sight of his ragged witcher.

"right." he says firmly and he turns around to rummage through roach's saddlebags. what it is he's gathering, geralt doesnt know-- his pupils expand and contract as his body fights to purge the potions in his veins, and it makes his vision waver in and out, darkness expanding and receeding. he closes his eyes against it.

after a moment, geralt feels a gentle hand in his, and opens his eyes to see jaskier's slung a bag over his shoulder. "c'mon now, let's go get you cleaned up." he speaks in low, gentle tones, though no attempt at gentleness hides the seriousness, the concern beneath it. geralt blinks at his tugging hand, mind slower than it ought to be, before finally pushing off from the tree to follow where jaskier leads.

he's patient, allowing geralt to limp and stagger as he needs. they arrive at a creek, not far from camp, that geralt had shown him the way to earlier that day. it's surreal, seeing it at night, being the one led to it instead of the other way around. the slick rocks glint wet and dark and alien in the moonlight.

jaskier's hands are unpracticed with geralt's armor, he's watched it be removed but he's never paid attention. geralt allows him his fumblings, though, still in the process of returning to his body. still in the process of trying to breathe how he ought to. if he had the presence of mind for it, he would wish that his damned hands would still. as it is, its just an unnamable base urge, a feeling tickling at the back of his mind.

jaskier gets geralt stripped down to his clothes, and then out of his clothes entirely, not a word or even suggestive wink the whole time. it's the kind of nudity that's born out of necessity, and jaskier treats it with the gravitas that its earned. geralt knows that he should fear being vulnerable, weak and exposed with no way to defend himself beyond pure, uncoordinated instinct... but he is being touched so gently. jaskier holds him so steady as the water is worked through his matted hair, as the burning bile is washed off his chin. it's... nice. to be taken care of. to be cared for. to trust.

trusting this much should feel like a shock, but instead it feels like a warm blanket on a cold night. like an embrace. it settles over him, and he sinks into it, the throbbing in his head easing just a bit as he lets jaskier take care of him.

geralt's eyes are unfocused, but he notices jaskier's trousers are soaked through past the knee, just stepped right into the water without a second thought. the drizzle has dampened his fringe too, and it sticks to his forehead. he doesnt say a word, though. just keeps rinsing away the worst of the grim that clings to geralt's skin.

he begins patting geralt down for injuries. geralt's still too potion-numb to react, so he doesnt come away with much, but his hands falter on geralt's hips-- specifically the left side, where the bottles had been. "there's-- there's something under the skin. i- i have to pull it out." he sounds a bit faint, but geralt just nods in understanding. whatever it is, it's big enough for jaskier to grasp with his fingers, and he only gags a bit as he pulls it down and out. he holds the bit up to his face, brows furrowed as he examines it. "is this glass?"

well. at least some of the white honey had gotten into his blood, even if it was only a few drops.

jaskier throws it away from them, onto the other side of the river. which isnt best practices, but geralt isnt well enough to say anything about it. "let's rinse your mouth out, now, darling." he says gently, bringing geralt's awareness back to the burning pain in his mouth. the water is cool and sweet as he brings it to his lips-- too sweet. it almost tastes honeyed, after the seering sour of his own bile. he does what he needs to-- sips, swishes, gargles and spits until the water comes back clear and the fire starts to ebb, and through it all jaskier holds back his hair.

still, fire rages between his eyes, and he presses his palm against the spot as he groans. "is it your nose?" jaskier asks, rubbing between his shoulder blades soothingly. "here, i brought something-- we'll need to scrub it very thoroughly afterwords, maybe just buy a whole new one in fact, but--" he digs through the bag and produces the little teapot that was part of his camping set. "i figure we could use this to... flush the area out." that definitely makes him look a bit green in the gills, but he fills it with cool water with determination.

it's a disgusting process. even geralt would admit that. he tilts his head back obligingly, though, offering himself up to jaskier's care.

it burns just as much as the vomiting had, and he coughs and splutters, lashing out blindly as he turns his head to the side. gagging, coughing, something moves inside him, and he chokes on air as he gags violently. finally, into the palm of his hand, he expels a lump of congealed phlegm, yellow and green and streaked with blood. he touches the side of his face. he's bleeding inside. jaskier gags when he sees it, desperately trying to keep himself together, but he gasps when he comes to the same realization geralt has.

they repeat the process until the water comes out clean. his face aches, his throat feels like someone's taken a battering ram to it, and his nose won't stop running(but it's clear instead of vaguely pink like it had been a minute ago, which is reassuring). somewhere along the way, though, the burning had stopped. whatever residual potions trapped in his system have been cleared out, no longer burning a hole through him, and his breathing begins to even out. jaskier murmurs reassurances, though none of them register, exhaustion dogging geralt's mind.

he's moved once more. a towel dries him as much as possible, and then is secured around his waist by gentle hands. his feet are coaxed into shoes of some kind, though they arent his boots. somehow jaskier carries geralt and his gear back to camp, though geralt's in and out for the few minute long journey.

the rain's stopped, he thinks as he tilts his head back and stares at the empty sky.

jaskier putters around camp when they return, and geralt leans against a tree as he waits. he's coaxed over to his bedroll, and then into clean clothes. his feet are removed from the shoes, and put in clean socks. jaskier gets up to do something, and geralt stares at the shoes.

theyre nice. fancy. they're... jaskier's. something he wears to events. a little stretched out, now geralt's used them. he gave up his fancy shoes, so geralt could keep his feet clean on the walk back to camp. a complicated swell of emotions rises in geralt's chest as he examines the intricate beadwork on the shoes jaskier might never wear again, green and metallic against spring green fabric and a soft cream color inside, and--

jaskier moves them out of geralt's sightline as he tidies up. "really, geralt, what would you have done without me?" he says.

collapse down into his bedroll and pass out, is the answer. and he wouldve been fine, in the morning, more cognizant and able to fix his pains then.

but it wouldve hurt more. it wouldnt come with gentle fingers brushing his hair out of his face. it wouldn't come with love and trust like a warm, warm blanket. he lets out a shuddering sigh.

"let's get some food in you, then you can sleep." jaskier presses some dry rations into geralt's hand, and the heel of a bread loaf. geralt eats them slowly, methodically, coming back to himself in pieces as his aching, spasming stomach is filled just enough to fend off the worst of the aches. a sip from the waterskin to wash it all down, and jaskier helps him lay down.

shuffling sounds fill the lean-to, and jaskier moves his own bedroll next to geralt's. gods help him, the silly little bard puts his own roll between geralt and the entrance, as geralt does when jaskier is ill, as if jaskier has any hope of defending him. he puts the beds so close the edges touch, and curls his fingers around geralt's arm as he lays down, hugging him close.

"sleep well, my dear." he says softly, and for the first time in a long time, as unconciousness slowly claims him, geralt feels nothing but peace.

#witcher tag #ogc tag #whew! it's been a while since i wrote something but i just got the bug w/ this idea. idk.#hope yall like it!#warnings that its perhaps a bit grosser than my usual fare tho i do think i couldve gotten more involved w/ my descriptions #witcher #geraskier #witcher fanfiction

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quirofiliac · 1 year

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“snii stop making jjba ocs--” okay. “--....... nononononNO WAIT THAT DOESN’T MEAN MAKE OCS FOR BLEACH--” you have got to be more clear in ur instructions smh

full name is andrej pelagia southers, but quite honestly no one’s gonna know that. a few lucky (or maybe unlucky, who knows oooo--) people might’ve known them as “father southers” once upon a time, however. they regard this name as something of a “dead name”, no longer perceiving it as belonging to them. so, tbh, if you tried to Government Name™️ them, they simply would not. ❤️ good try, though... they think it’s rather charming!

their new name, as of current times, is lamb. no, they will not elaborate. that’s up to u to make up ur very own, personalized interpretation!

polish mixed with german! and maybe with some bits and pieces of other miscellaneous european descents depending on who you ask. their mother was a polish woman while their father was full-blooded german. they met under rather mundane circumstances, honestly-- priest has blasphemous relations with a nun, etcetera... super boring, y’know? /s

no one really knows their actual age, but a lot of people would probably wager somewhere in the early twenties to mid-twenties range. they have a somewhat... ethereal look about them, somewhat doll-like in appearance. they’d look almost... hmm... i’d honestly say they look almost photoshopped! like, they look very touched up. somewhat perfect in terms of not a blemish in sight, their pores seem nonexistent, their complexion is impeccable, etcetc... so it’s considerably hard to actually gauge their age! they’re several thousand years old but mind your business.

6′6′’ exact. they don’t look it, though, because they always tend to present somewhat... hmm! somewhat... demure. they stand as proper as can be but, on the same hand, they don’t exactly wish to be seen as “bigger” or anything of the sort. they tend to look small up until you’re actually close (usually kneeling before them because that’s prim and proper. their preference, of course. <3) enough to see the difference. they do not bother in trying to appear “larger” than how they really are, because it’s in both that they view that as “overcompensating” and simply do not understand why it’s necessary to do so. they’d rather let their actions speak for themselves than create all of this unnecessary hype. ugh... their mind...

i honestly wanna say that they, personally, do not identify with any sort of label. if pressed, though, i’d concede that agender fits them the best! they prefer they/them and will only respond to such. using any other kind of pronouns is rude behavior. don’t be rude. you’ll regret it later. no one likes rude people v_v their sexuality is also somewhat convoluted, if only because it’s more-so on the mental backburner. it doesn’t really concern them (though they’re not opposed to the idea.), but they tend to lean towards the more masculine variety. so we’ll just say androsexual (basically, attracted to masculinity but, since they do not identify as a “man”, they do not feel inclined to say that they are homosexual for the uninformed!) for now.

wardrobe consists mainly of a mishmash of various religious attires (it’s predominant in catholicism, however, in terms of general aesthetic.) that intertwine both masculine -- priests and their vestments -- and feminine -- nuns and their habits -- with juuust a touch of unwarranted horny. i’m currently using this (change around the palette a bit, though, with the black cloths an off-white and the garters and tights a soft, pastel pink.) as inspiration for their general aesthetic! their preferred palette consists mostly of pinks and whites, with a wee dash of black. they also really like “covering” their face-- in terms of it’s still visible but somewhat obscured. their hats usually sport a long, sheer veil (think of the wedding variety, meant for brides.) flowing from its rim.

they... do not dress for function. :~) they prefer form over function because it’s more fun that way. potentially a weakness, yes, but... hey, they look great.

they’re a sternritter! they’ve claimed the epithet of c for “the crucifixion” to, depending on the verse and also what i wanna go with because i’m indecisive lmao 💔, either take over in case of pernida’s death (aha!) andor simply in terms of just... i dunno, multiple epithets or what-have-you. honestly kitty and i are going to keep brainstorming that bit but, like............. ALSO i just do not fuckin like pernida. so im a biased party anyway 😭

so! in terms of personality, they come off as a very calm person. it’s to the point that, at first glance and... probably, like... many other glances after that, it feels like they simply lack a personality. they lack any real conviction, at least from a generalized sort of sense. they are polite but to an, admittedly, overwhelming extent. they value manners and “proper etiquette” the most, viewing anyone who does not meet their standards as improper at best and, at worst, rude. they look down upon “rudeness”, but their idea of “rude” isn’t what most would normally view it as. they leave it up to jurisdiction of the public, never outwardly stating their own opinion of the matter but, regardless, they host very strong opinions in regards to it.

their perspective is warped, distorted, and borderline toxic. they do not try and force it upon others-- rather, they expect others to adhere. if they do not? that’s alright! because, as human nature dictates, all things can be learned.

they talk in gentle, soft tones. their voice is undebatably masculine but still retains bits and pieces of femininity. it’s calm and soothing, hardly demanding respect yet they speak with confidence and authority. again, it is not a matter of forcing nor swaying others to view them how they see fit, it is expected. they prefer softness, fragility, and the overall idea of tenderness. it’s a concept that lingers, appealing to them through their very core. so, as such, they allow for this preference to reflect in how they present their self and, generally speaking, how they choose to act.

going back to the whole “rude” bit, though... they do not necessarily choose to make enemies of anyone that is rude but, rather, it allows for the person in mind to climb their little, mental list. they prioritize targeting those that require further learning, further education. rudeness lies in the way of “improper etiquette”; it’s a lack of respect, a lack of manners, a lack of compliance. they view those that are “rude” with a certain... disdain. while they’re emotionless (externally, anyway!) and retain a serene exterior, they do have a specific way in how they treat the “rude”. it is not with a kind smile but, instead, a wry smile. they do not see potential but, rather, waste.

basically, once you’re rude to them (or in their presence, honestly.), it’s all downhill from there.

they have a sort of, uhhh... passion <3 for the arts! they dabble a bit in sculpture, if you, uh, wanna call it that. it’s not in the traditional sense, their sculpting. rather, they use preexisting material and, hmm!! i ain’t gonna beat around the bush anymore tbh. it’s their victims. they use the corpses of their victims for their art, posing them by use of their schrift and through the careful preserving methods that they’ve learned throughout the years. they care a lot about their art pieces, viewing them with the utmost adoration and softness. they regard them, still, as “people” but not of the same level as them and their still alive “brethren”. rather, “people” in this sense is used in the same vein as “canvas”. they do take very good care of them, though :D you will be hard pressed to spot even a speck of dust of any one of em!

there’s some hidden depths to them, however! while they remain as calm as ever even in the face of battle, they have a sense of humor. they vocalize their laugh (it’s usually a light, “ahaha!”) whenever they think to express joy and the like. they are passionate, admiring purity and the like. i’d say, honestly, a major theme to them would be purity but in the sense of deconstructing it. it’s the idea of defiling purity, watching it slowly turn darker and darker until it has no choice but to shed, peeling off to reveal yet another layer of purity only for that, too, to become tainted. rinse and repeat. ... indefinitely.

they’re capable of expressing emotion but, simply put, haven’t found a need to do so yet! and that’s okay.JPG

they were, technically, a “man” of god-- a priest, basically. but, in spite of that, they did not necessarily believe in god. they’re more-so an atheist but saw appeal in the idea of people wishing to cleanse their selves before a higher power. they thought it was completely and utterly fascinating and had no issue in playing the part of “messenger” and then, soon after, “escort” to their cleansing. if you were to try and debate with them of anything dealing with this subject, they would only smile kindly at you and instead ask a question of their own: isn’t this sort of thing... boring?

in a weird sort of way, their victims also represent their own ideologies. they do not die with faces contorted in agony but, rather, relaxed and almost... as if, in peace. this was, of course, manipulated by them and their schrift but the thought is nice at least (:

their parents were well-adjusted and, overall, their childhood was largely uneventful. for all intents and purposes, they could be considered a “bastard child” due to their father being a priest and their mother a nun. i wanna say that, as a rough guesstimate, they were born somewhere in the 1600′s. their parents married and, by default, also had sex in secret. the family puts up a ruse, saying that lamb was adopted after being found in poverty. it’s a lie that confuses them, but they don’t say anything. it does bother them, though. it’s eventually found out by their “church” at the time and, to sum it up, their father was hung. their mother managed to escape with her child in her arms, having no choice but to fend for the two of them by herself for several years to come. over time, lamb essentially outgrows being the child and soon takes over as caregiver. and to their mother’s defense, she was not at all abusive and it seemed to be that this rubbed off on her child. they were kind, gentle, and, of course, polite.

sometime, along the way, when lamb was in their early teens that they decided to follow in their father’s footsteps to become a priest. there wasn’t exactly any sort of innate desire other than because, well, it seemed to be the next best step. they didn’t have a goal other than to, at this point, blend in and adapt to human society once again. their mother built up a steady connection, befriending another priest that seemed “abnormal” in terms of his beliefs-- he did not view her as a heretic or blasphemous in spite of the rumors and gossip that surely followed her. he and lamb got along... decently. lamb thought of him as somewhat “lacking”. they viewed him as a bit rude, especially in how he regarded his mother (it was little things. sometimes he got a little too close, laughed a little too loud, called her by her first name a few too many times...) but she didn’t seem to mind. so, basically, lamb didn’t wish to say much of it. whenever he was around, lamb simply kept to them self and was on their best behavior in spite of their genuine opinion saying otherwise.

whilst “interning” as a priest, they happen to come home at a time later than normal one night. they find their mother dead, her neck showing black, blue, and purple bruises all around. they actually just kind of... stare at her body for a while before actually trying to do much of anything. their mother’s expression looked awful-- pained and ugly. it bothered them. they drag her out and bury her body in silence. they don’t say anything of it to anyone the next day; they just resume their priestly duties. word, of course, does eventually come out. they manage to manipulate the way the news is spilled, though. the priest from earlier? he’s the one to spill the beans (because, spoiler: he killed her.) but lamb turns it around, basically stating that their mother committed suicide. they fake a mourning child quite well. their community is compassionate and kind, unexpected of the times, but it works out in their favor. pisses the priest off but hey. what can ya do lmao :~)

over time, they eventually earn priesthood. they’re well-liked in their community, with a lot of people personally “requesting” for their presence over some others. this doesn’t really bother the other priests because it gives them some time to do their other priestly duties. and lamb doesn’t mind at all. they find it interesting and a fun, little time waster. it’s a win-win honestly!

in-between all of this, lamb learns that they can wield a spirit weapon. this is kept in secret because, oh boy... that’s probably, most definitely blasphemous. not even the nicest, most tolerant of communities would find that cool and, instead, would probably scream WITCH. so, y’know, they keep it as good a secret as they can. they try and hone it, attempting to become more proficient with it as time passes.

when they’re about... eighteen, i’ll say, that’s when the priest from earlier tries to kill them, too. it’s honestly quite anticlimactic. he tries to kill them during a confession, and lamb has had enough. they disapprove of such a loud display of rudeness, choosing to kill him with their spirit weapon right there and then. of course, though, this was in front of several others. they react with a mix of horror and confusion, unsure if what they saw was for real or not. lamb doesn’t say anything, only smiles slightly, and wrings their hands as if to say, “i’m in trouble, aren’t i?” without saying anything at all.

ngl this could’ve been grounds for them building a cult. there were budding signs of it, because they were so well-respected within their community. it very well could’ve spawned as them being seen as a “gift” from god but... well, honestly, they told their community to jail them. it was only right, forcing them to serve punishment for being so rude in the middle of public.

so they’re imprisoned! :D fun times!

tbh their next course of action would’ve been to let their fellows decide what to do with them. it was more or less seen as a fun, little experiment in lamb’s eyes-- they didn’t really have much to live for and couldn’t care less one way or another, after all. they’ve done all they could, and they did, at least, get rid of another asshole so. ya win some, ya lose some.

howEVER. as it goes in sternritter lore (sternlore? sternlore.), yhwach eventually finds them. not too sure if he’d slaughter their community -- though he probably would, in true horrible king fashion -- but he does recruit them one way or another. he offers them power and, in true lamb fashion, they accept if only because they were starting to grow bored in their silly little, makeshift prison. their relationship with yhwach, otherwise, is something of a... not exactly complicated matter but it’s something that can’t really be put into words, either. they respect him and understand his position, therefore he is technically “superior” over them and their fellow sternritter... howEVER x2, they do not view the hierarchy, as is, as appropriate. they would much rather he die should they be allowed to voice their opinion. it would make everything run so much more smoother, quite frankly. 💨 bUt ThEy’Re NoT THe ALmIgHtY So WhAtEVer

spirit weapon: quite literally, it’s a gun-- a colt buntline, to be exact. they don’t like using it because it shortens a lot of altercations otherwise. it functions like a normal gun, but the bullets travel far faster than what’s expected. their piercing power is stronger, too; they can penetrate with far less resistance. the power of reishi, babeyyy! they more-so intend to use their spirit weapon as a “mercy kill” than anything else. basically, if you’re writhing at their feet, barely clinging onto life, with no hope of being saved... they’re shooting you. goodnight and goodbye. <3

schrift: c for the crucifixion.

generally speaking, their schrift allows for easy, do-it-yourself crucifixions! and other fun, little things by circumstance! their powers revolve around the ability to “create” string from the tips of their fingers. this allows them to manipulate their opponents as a sort of... “fleshcrafting”. they are able to control their opponents’ reiatsu and use it as a sort of “base” in order to puppeteer them through their strings. they can perform all sorts of weird, fucked up little body horror through it, too. they can manipulate facial expressions, flesh, bones, and the overall positioning of their limbs. it cannot go any deeper than that-- so your vitals are safe. technically.

their schrift isn’t necessarily well-suited for pure offense but it makes up for being defensive-oriented. they’re best suited for incapacitating and rendering the other side useless, usually in preference of hoisting them up via their strings and posing them like they were strung up and nailed to a cross. it’s their own little form of entertainment (their gay football, if you will.) and, in a sense, their way of “purifying” them.

so, basically, lamb could theoretically starve someone simply because they could. and they would.

vollständig: eight angel wings in similar appearance of a seraphim’s, positioned at their lower back in the middle and scaling accordingly from there. they gain a halo similar to those you’d see in renaissance paintings (think of the big, solid white or yellow circles behind the holy’s heads.) and their schrift, essentially... becomes way more annoying. you ever see those impossibly stupid lookin’ laser fields guarding a prized object in spy movies? yeah, it’s like that. only with their strings. they can do that and have no problem in using that to their advantage.

at that point, it turns into a spiderweb minefield.

i wanna say that, because their fighting style relies so heavily on remaining ranged, they wouldn’t fare well in close range. they’re capable of defending their self but it’s... not advisable. they value greatly from remaining in the distance. because, once you get up-close, all they have is a gun and, well. it’s just a gun, so!

#:D!#its been a while since ive done one of these whew </3 #but oh well.#lamb!#tbd /#＊ 💥 摘発：out of character.

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