i know it's just a number but you're the eighth wonder [ OPEN MINGLE ]

[postictal]

Who: Tim and EVERYBODY WHO WANTS IN ON THIS CAUSE IT A MINGLE
What: Nail-painting. Destressing. We have earned something Nice for ourselves.
When: February 12th
Where: Just outside the Storyteller's Temple
Warnings: Probably nothing of note? Will add if needed.



There's a man sitting cross-legged outside the Storyteller's Temple, general hub of interaction that it seems to be turning into. He still looks like shit, granted, his face a colorful patchwork of bruising and a fresh bandage slapped around his middle, but that hasn't stopped him from making the best of things. A few vials of some various colorful fluids might not be familiar to everyone here, but after everything? Screw it, thinks Tim. They've deserved a break. He deserves a break. The kids here, especially, deserve a break. It's time to celebrate the fact that they are no longer in danger of freezing in the dark and living out the remainder of their days in a bleak, sunless existence.

And he liked colors, as a kid. In the blank white walls of a hospital, where everything was drained of variation and bleached white and left bone-blank, the occasional bursts of color allowed in packages of crayons and colored pencils at art time were treasures. They stopped giving him crayons after he drew the man in his room one too many times, a tall black shadow in the back of every drawing that had the doctors exchanging looks with tightened jaws and the clearing of throats that too clearly spoke to their disapproval.

It dogged him, even once he stepped out of those empty walls, his wardrobe as consistently drab and dull and monochrome as his life. It dogged him with featureless rooms and

Fuck that.

Fuck that especially, because it means that kids like Ren grew up without colors in their lives, and it means that they've had precious few simple little pleasures in the past month, and it means that they are all owed a goddamn break. And if he's bound to be a freak no matter what he does, he may as well be one with a spot of color or two.

So today, to celebrate? We're painting nails.

Fuck it. We're painting nails.

It's safe to say that Tim's new at this, particularly when he only has one good hand at the moment, but he'll still seem quite open to sharing with whoever happens along - especially if you're a kid.

[ooc: yes this is a mingle for painting some nails feel free to top-level all over]

Comments

[postictal]

[I garden often, he says. I know, Tim almost says. It's easy to sort away the associations that don't belong to him; he hasn't met King Asgore Dreemurr before, not in any way besides the avenues of someone else's memory.]

[As it turns out, decoupling yourself from that is more complicated than it ought to be.]

Hey, neither've I. Figured it might be a nice, uh...distraction. Celebration. Something for people to do.

[journalname]

...it is very important to keep busy.

[His hand stills for a moment, like he's thinking of something else.]

And a peaceful group activity will be good for everyone, I am sure. It is a very good idea.

[postictal]

[Something's dogging him, possibly, or weighing on his mind very heavily. Or - that could just be what he knows of him already. There's no escaping the bias, or the knowledge that it exists, just by virtue of where he is, and how he got to be at that point.]

Asgore, right?

[It's reasonable for him to know his name, isn't it? Reasonable for him to presume as such, when there are only so many colossal goat monsters on this particular set of islands.]

[journalname]

...I am, yes. Though I'm afraid you have the advantage?

[He doesn't think it's too odd, at least. There's enough people around here who know him, and he's the only person here who meets his description. If anything, this just means that he's probably heard terrible things about him already; why is he coming to talk to him now?]

[postictal]

Yeah. 'S not a lotta monsters around here, I guess.

[There used to be a few more than there are now, but all were distinct in their own ways. And he has no reason to lie about his name, or his titling.]

[As long as he treads carefully, there's no reason to lie about anything, save for the obvious.]

[Still, it's polite to offer an equal exchange - so he does.]

Tim.

[journalname]

It is good to meet you, Tim.

[He smiles. Honestly, it's just sort of nice to have somebody to talk to, even if it's possible Tim just thinks of him as a murderer. Which, fair.]

Yes, there are few of us here. More than in the last world I was drawn to, though. It is...different.

[postictal]

Different how?

[So he’s from a different world too. Or - he’s traveled elsewhere before ending up here. A unique but ever-expanding category, these days. That complicates things. Significantly.]

[But he may as well fish for answers while he can.]

[journalname]

Ah...

[There's a second of hesitation, as if he's trying to determine what or how much to say. It seems inappropriate, really, to dump the entire murder hospital story on somebody he's just met.]

Well, there were thirty of us all trapped in the same building, there. Though there were fewer of us, it felt a great deal more crowded.

[postictal]

[How unfortunate is it that the “murder” part would throw him off way less than the “hospital”?]

That’s...a lot less than most places like these. People, I mean. It feels like there’d be more.