MyCatGinger

Let's Gush!

@Mateotis

Writing partner turned friend, then turned boyfriend of the last three years and some. The guild really does find ways for people meant to be together to be together. :) We live/d so far away and have swapped places now in physical country-status, mostly. I love this man more than anything in the whole world. He is an amazing writer. I hope you can RP with him someday because he's got some serious spunk! Action-packed scenes and character dialogue are his favourite.
...and he is mine.

Let's Gush!

Hi!

Once upon a time, there was a time after which I could no longer RolePlay. However, that in itself did not stop me from coming back to the Guild every now and again, and fawning idly over all the RPs I've ever been in past. I've had the absolute pleasure to Roleplay with some of the most talented writers I feel like the world has to offer—people that spout magic from their fingertips when they collide with keyboard. I could tag all of them forever, from artists, 1x1 partners, to GMs, to group-RP fellow cast; but I'm not going to. There is simply not enough time and not enough words I could use to describe all the love in my heart for all these many, many, amazing people.
...and of course, the rest of you reading this, who I have unfortunately still not met yet. :) I wish you wonderfully well, and hope that your year only looks better, and gets better. I wish you all the happinesses in the world, because all of you here are artists. You create poetry, be it effortlessly or otherwise. You are all indescribably amazing.
Thank you for letting me come back time and again to the Guild, and always catching myself smiling when I'm on my way to leave again.

I love all of you so much. Thank you for making this place somewhere wonderful to be. <3

Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!)

@BrokenPromise

You're so cool, boss~! Keep at it everyone. :) You're in the endgame now. Congratulations on so many wonderful years of this amazing RP!

(PS I have no idea what's happening but heard through Mate up until the Noel bit so what's up lmao I'm just here for emotional support)

Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!)

The Jew Has Risen

Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!)

“Killing game? Last...game? Side-effect?” the redhead felt her trembling hand not on the elevator’s cool steel move to her aching head, pressing into her temple. It was enough that the world was still spinning, but half of what the man before her said was all lost in one, large, incoherent string of words. She blinked down at him and he finally came into better focus.
Did he have blue hair?

“Please,” she began, shaking her head dismissively, “Stop...speaking.”
Realising she may have come off as cold, she quickly added, “So fast, I mean. I...cannot keep up.” It would be wise to process what this person, this small Infinite Forensic Biologist human who knew much more about the game than she, was saying, if only for future use.

And suddenly, she felt her hand pulled away from the elevator, and instinctively it shot back right out of the Biologist’s hands and protectively into the Horologist’s own chest. If it reeled in any faster, she probably would have punched herself in the chest with it. ...movement was still largely difficult to control, it seemed. Her heart still beating in her ears, she took a deep breath and in attempt to relax herself, continued speaking, if only briefly. Her hands dropped nonconfrontationally to her sides.
“Hello, Noah.” she offered a small, apologetic smile, though it only made the corners of her mouth turn up a little, as if every other muscle that made up a proper smile refused to contribute, “You know my name. Forgive me, you startled me.” Her sentences initially came in short, slow bursts, but as she continued speaking, it was as if the muscles in her face and throat were warming up, “My body feels stiff. It is difficult to move. Thank you for the estimated time; I will keep it in mind. But you sound like you know what is happening here.” She paused to recall what he was saying before he went for her hand, “Who are the nurses here? Do you know who Dr Killgood, the bear that was on the screen, is?”

Even if he was someone that meant her harm, Juliette would take her chances. He didn’t exactly seem the most harmful, being shorter than her in her heels and with a bit of a baby-face still. She caught herself wondering how old this boy was, studying the creases of his face for any indication of age. She gathered, in a matter of a minute or two, that he was not particularly as young as he looked. But this was just one person, who arrived from right beside her. The sounds of footsteps she heard belonged to others. Were those the Infinites that were on the screen prior, or the nurses?
Did Monokuma Killgood hire a battalion of nurses to take care of anyone feeling even slightly out of it? But Noah said this was a killing game…

And slowly, the Infinites began to file into the large space in front of the elevators from which Juliette and Noah exited. She had meant to ask if his elevator also possessed bloody writing, but would have to get to that matter later.

More music to keep the trend up! :)

The first to walk by was a very short young man, who Juliette discerned to be a teenager. More blue hair. Though the announcements in the elevator did include visual evidence of which Infinite was which, most of that was lost on Miss Bourbon, who was still battling her own sleep-inertia. Still, the very least she could do is put first names to faces. She may not have remembered all the infinite talents, but names to faces she could do.
This young man was Thomas.

The woman to follow a notable distance behind him (not necessarily following him, but also not necessarily not following him) was much larger, and was ample in both departments, front and back. She almost seemed toweringly huge because of her assets, but something about the way she walked was forced, it appeared. She also had blue hair. Why was everyone so inexplicably melancholy, though...?
This was Emily.

“Hello there. You must be new here. Are you also Infinites?”

The first man to speak was one who came after this couple. He was tall and slender and delicate, and had hair and a smile reminiscent of a lamb. Though his clothing was...was it from this era? It took Juliette back to medieval times, almost. There was something carefree and blank about his expression, and it definitely struck Juliette as odd, compared to the former two that passed by. She was about to reply to his polite question and warm introduction before—

"Jesus Christ, of course they are."

Two other people had arrived, all young gentlemen, but the latter on the scene was the one who cut Juliette's reply short. She bit her tongue, nervously squeezing her hand into a little fist as the air suddenly became a lot more crowded. ...did everyone here know what was going on except her? It was also an increasingly large crowd, and the Horologist immediately felt her cheeks go warm. It was...stuffy. There were many questions. everyone was talking at her at the same time...
She shot an almost helpless look at the first person she met, Noah, beside her, hoping he could take some of the heat. Unconsciously, even though he was much smaller, she shuffled closer to him as if it would be of any use in protecting herself. If anyone had noticed her uncomfortableness, they would have backed off immediately, or at least kept a fair distance from the Infinite Horologist and now the Infinite Forensic Biologist too.

Another deep breath preceded her next words. She would introduce herself first and foremost, and see where things would roll from there. To the small group and nobody in particular, she tilted her head slightly with a forced easy-smile and introduced herself.
“My name is Juliette Bourbon. I believe I’m the Infinite Horologist.”
She took down faces and names. The man who asked if they were new here was Daimyon. The bespectacled man who introduced himself was Cyrus Brandon, as he had shared his full name. The young man who seemed irritable was Calvin.

The last person to arrive was the most striking. He looked like he hadn't gotten sleep in a week, and his police uniform was a good tool to distinguish him from the rest of the people on the scene. This was Max, and as expected from his attire, he questioned the new duo immediately. Even though it wasn't supposed to feel like an interrogation...it kind of did.

“I don’t know why I’m here. I woke up in that elevator,” she gestured with an open hand behind her here, and if anyone would have cared to observe her pale palm, red crescents where her perfect nails anxiously pressed into it stood out against the surrounding skin.

“I am happy to meet you all. It is an honour to meet other Infinites, I think.” she drew her hand back again and offered the small gathering a genuine smile. It really was an honour. “If you know what is going on, I would be very grateful if you could fill me in.”

Sum up your week in roleplaying in just 3 words

guess who's back

Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!)

BGM that Inspired the Atmosphere

A lone woman sat up, conscious, inside an elevator that only seconds after she had huddled herself up against the wall had come to a defiant, heaving stop. She had her arms wrapped around her knees that were pulled close to her chest, leaving her slender frame a small, delicate slump against the very back wall of the seemingly shrinking chamber. Her vision still hazy, she rubbed her eyes once and then twice, feeling her heart beating in her ears. The rhythm brought her some form of peace. She closed her eyes, and counted alongside the soothing metronome.
In her mind, small white sheep jumped a fence in clockwork synchrony, harmonious with her heartbeat. One-two-three-four-two-two-three-four...
The announcement droned on around her, introducing Infinites new and old, dead and alive, but all having been in this particular murder game at Axis Mundi. She was another statistic. She would be one of them. Each lasted a grand total of thirty seconds, even those that were now dead.
If people were dying in this place, then would all that is left of her be a thirty second long description of who she was in this lifetime?
How...despairful.

Her melancholic, tired blue eyes flickered open again, and she finally hauled herself up with what seemed like great difficulty. On shaky legs and gripping the elevator's railing, her vision settled upon the unsettling sign painted across the doors.
ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE.

...despairful.

And as if wishing for that nightmare to be over, and that small space to stop feeling like it was beating down on her and was soon to crush her, the elevator doors crept open like a delayed and staggering breath of fresh air. The redhead in the elevator took one step forward, immediately gasping at her knee buckling, as if from disuse. Just how long had she been unconscious? Or was she awake for very long before that? The psychomotor retardation kicking in was like a consuming blackness. But if anything, she would get herself out of this elevator first.
Her steps grew stronger and more certain, from one to two to four and then to ten, carrying Juliette Bourbon right out of the cramped elevator space and into the fluorescent lights illuminating the hospital hallway before her. Her eyes took a little while to adjust before her tired head lolled to the side. She had to shake it to right it again, and continued observing her surroundings. They were, for the most part, unassuming. It didn't even look like a hospital anymore, but a very bright white cellar. Was she transported somewhere? The last place she remembered falling asleep was Axis Mundi, but even though the area looked vaguely familiar...there were no windows and there was no natural light. If anyone had seen her, the colour of her skin would have appeared a three times paler pallor.

And suddenly, in all the quiet whiteness, there was noise.
Somewhere, the whirring of gears. Juliette swore she could hear it. The rolling of gears and the familiar grinding. But it wasn't a quiet, satisfying sound; rather a screech that signalled something coming to a very abrupt, very sudden stop.

And then there were footsteps. Some quick, and some slow. Some dragged their feet, and some may as well have been dragged themselves. Some walked in unison, and others walked off-beat. There were too many footsteps to discern how many people they belonged to, but if the Infinite Horologist had to guess, definitely more than ten. Fifteen maybe? Twenty? Were those many people even in this location at one time?

Still, her voice was quiet as she called out into the emptiness from where the sound came, “Hello...? Who is there?”
This was accompanied by banging on the steel elevator doors beside her to emphasise her words. If the sound of her voice couldn't reach anyone, the sound of the metal definitely would. It was definitely difficult to muster up the strength. The one thing that made her continue?
The image of a maliciously grinning black and white bear in the back of her mind, taunting her with a voice that was so unassuming it sounded like nails on a chalkboard because of what came out of its mouth. She banged on the door harder.
“Please, if anyone is there…! Please, I need to know...what day is it? What time is it? And just where am I?”

Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!)

Juliette Bourbon

𝗡𝗮𝗺𝗲:

Juliette Claire-Ora Bourbon

𝗔𝗴𝗲:

25

𝗧𝗮𝗹𝗲𝗻𝘁:

Infinite Horologist - Being the daughter of an esteemed clockmaker, Juliette's fascination with time was almost guaranteed. It wasn't until later in her teenage years, when she drew away from helping her father make timekeeping apparatus, that she really became interested in time as a concept. That being said, she fills out the title she wears perfectly, being both skilled in the creation of the aforementioned timekeeping apparatuses, whether it be makeshift or otherwise, but also doggedly pursuing the secrets behind time itself. May believe furiously in time travel and have a major crush on the late Stephen Hawking.

𝗔𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲:

(It's Makise Kurisu guys!!11!)
5'7", very pale skin, long naturally copper hair and clear grey-blue eyes. Wears contacts now, but formerly black rimmed glasses! Heeled boots for three inches of added height. Yes, the labcoat, tie and sexy short denim shorts are still present. Also wears a small open-work wristwatch, the type in which you can see the different gears moving. Currently sporting dark circles and small under-eye bags because she has not received much sleep.

𝗔𝗳𝗳𝗹𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻:

A series of worsening and uncontrollable migraines.

𝗣𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆:

Juliette is not the most chatty human being. You'd much rather call her a metronome with feelings. That being said, she does speak, but tries (often failing, sadly) to keep her comments concise and to the point. She is mathematically minded and more calculating than flitting around the point wherever she can help it. Being the Infinite Horologist, she studies time of all kinds, and so has a body clock attuned to the cycles of the sun—meaning she wakes, or at least sleeps lighter, when the sun rises, but also that she begins to feel drowsy and lethargic when the sun sets. Being at Axis Mundi has messed with her more than its worth, leaving her disoriented most if not all of the time, and heavily relying on any indicators of time. Since, however, there are none in the facility, she relies on other ways to tell time: relativity. Events that are in relation to other events, and potential times taken in between.

As a person, she is easily flustered and awkward, but currently trying her best to be warm and approachable. It doesn't come as natural talent for her to be soothing or to put people at ease, but if anything, she hopes she can be trustworthy as she values honesty and the truth wherever applicable. She likes to smile, mostly, and in her mind bonds theoretical science and nature, studying time as not just a vector quantity (it's a vector, and she hates to break it to you) in physics, but also witnessing and studying its biological effects. That being said, she's a sci-fi geek and easily excited when geeking out with other like-minded individuals.

She may come off as cold from time to time, but she assures you that it's hardly intentional, and she would much rather make friends and not foes when given the opportunity. Still, she enjoys working alone, and so any socialisation on top of this is a pure extra, but not a necessity. But when it's a necessity, she's damn well ready to deliver.

𝗧𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗮:

guys it's Makise Kurisu

• Carries around an additional pocket-watch that is currently suspiciously broken. Her wrist-watch is stopped too.
• Got bullied in school for being a redhead.
• Gets tongue-tied around pretty women.
• Is an animal-lover, and a sucker for cute fluffy ones.
• Is not easily squeamish around bodily fluids (for some reason?)
• Her favourite colour and flower are both lavender.
• Though she won't say it, has self-esteem issues where her body is concerned. Being underweight is no fun too!
• Plays? The? Drums??? Additionally, has very good reflexes. Or had, before having bad sleep at Axis Mundi.
• Is the only girl in a household with two other older brothers. Thus, developed to be quieter and more timid than them.
• Guilty of still carrying a lavender flip-phone with a cute strap featuring a little white rabbit.

Colour code: b06500

Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!)

Have a character!

Juliette Bourbon

𝗡𝗮𝗺𝗲:

Juliette Claire-Ora Bourbon

𝗔𝗴𝗲:

25

𝗧𝗮𝗹𝗲𝗻𝘁:

Infinite Horologist - Being the daughter of an esteemed clockmaker, Juliette's fascination with time was almost guaranteed. It wasn't until later in her teenage years, when she drew away from helping her father make timekeeping apparatus, that she really became interested in time as a concept. That being said, she fills out the title she wears perfectly, being both skilled in the creation of the aforementioned timekeeping apparatuses, whether it be makeshift or otherwise, but also doggedly pursuing the secrets behind time itself. May believe furiously in time travel and have a major crush on the late Stephen Hawking.

𝗔𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲:

(It's Makise Kurisu guys!!11!)
5'7", very pale skin, long naturally copper hair and clear grey-blue eyes. Wears contacts now, but formerly black rimmed glasses! Heeled boots for three inches of added height. Yes, the labcoat, tie and sexy short denim shorts are still present. Also wears a small open-work wristwatch, the type in which you can see the different gears moving. Currently sporting dark circles and small under-eye bags because she has not received much sleep.

𝗔𝗳𝗳𝗹𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻:

A series of worsening and uncontrollable migraines.

𝗣𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆:

Juliette is not the most chatty human being. You'd much rather call her a metronome with feelings. That being said, she does speak, but tries (often failing, sadly) to keep her comments concise and to the point. She is mathematically minded and more calculating than flitting around the point wherever she can help it. Being the Infinite Horologist, she studies time of all kinds, and so has a body clock attuned to the cycles of the sun—meaning she wakes, or at least sleeps lighter, when the sun rises, but also that she begins to feel drowsy and lethargic when the sun sets. Being at Axis Mundi has messed with her more than its worth, leaving her disoriented most if not all of the time, and heavily relying on any indicators of time. Since, however, there are none in the facility, she relies on other ways to tell time: relativity. Events that are in relation to other events, and potential times taken in between.

As a person, she is easily flustered and awkward, but currently trying her best to be warm and approachable. It doesn't come as natural talent for her to be soothing or to put people at ease, but if anything, she hopes she can be trustworthy as she values honesty and the truth wherever applicable. She likes to smile, mostly, and in her mind bonds theoretical science and nature, studying time as not just a vector quantity (it's a vector, and she hates to break it to you) in physics, but also witnessing and studying its biological effects. That being said, she's a sci-fi geek and easily excited when geeking out with other like-minded individuals.

She may come off as cold from time to time, but she assures you that it's hardly intentional, and she would much rather make friends and not foes when given the opportunity. Still, she enjoys working alone, and so any socialisation on top of this is a pure extra, but not a necessity. But when it's a necessity, she's damn well ready to deliver.

𝗧𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗮:

guys it's Makise Kurisu

• Carries around an additional pocket-watch that is currently suspiciously broken. Her wrist-watch is stopped too.
• Got bullied in school for being a redhead.
• Gets tongue-tied around pretty women.
• Is an animal-lover, and a sucker for cute fluffy ones.
• Is not easily squeamish around bodily fluids (for some reason?)
• Her favourite colour and flower are both lavender.
• Though she won't say it, has self-esteem issues where her body is concerned. Being underweight is no fun too!
• Plays? The? Drums??? Additionally, has very good reflexes. Or had, before having bad sleep at Axis Mundi.
• Is the only girl in a household with two other older brothers. Thus, developed to be quieter and more timid than them.
• Guilty of still carrying a lavender flip-phone with a cute strap featuring a little white rabbit.

Colour code: b06500

Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!)

Daimyon Londe wasted little time in seeking out Marianne Roche's room on the second floor. He walked up the stairs with a stride in his step, yet when he was finally standing at her door, his resolve seemed to evaporate. He balled his hands into a fist—was he afraid of the truth? Perhaps he was. Yet he knew he could not live with himself if he did not do everything in his power to seek it out. The late herbalist's e-handbook in hand, he opened up the door and stepped inside.

It was dark inside, the menacing kind of dark. Daimyon breathed a sigh of relief when nothing gruesome met his eyes when he flipped on the lights. In fact, the room was spotless. It did not take long for his eyes to wander to the desk that was rather similar to his own—and the stack of notes quietly sitting on it. Another sigh escaped his lips, this time one of anticipation and, perhaps, trepidation.

He sat down at the table and took the first paper into hand.

XX+3/XX/20XX

Sec 2 entry 2+7mixture used. Effect: drowsiness. Could work faster. Try new addition. Delicious to see writhe. Revisit the hardware ‘shop’.
D physically unable to write? Parfait! :) Return is harmless. Or…?

---

“Are you feeling quite alright, Daimyon?” the herbalist chuckles to herself, stood alone in the poet’s room with his body slumped back in a chair ominously situated in its centre. “You appear a little...how do they say, listless?”

Daimyon does not consider himself entirely listless—he is merely missing several entries on the list, some of which would distress the average person if they lost them. The poet, however, does not feel average either. In fact he barely even feels anything: his senses are dull and his mind slow. Only Marianne's words pierce this fog, and the only things he finds himself capable of giving back are a lazy nod and a few slurred words:
“Mm...listless. Rather...confused, actually. What's going on?”

“Ah, chéri! I recommend you sit back and relax. Take a deep breath. It will be better that way.” her voice continues as she lithely slips behind the chair, and in what seems like experience from practice, binds Daimyon’s wrists together with a thick but short length of rope—just enough to absolutely restrict movement beyond struggling, but also to keep the man before her very much fastened to the chair. “Look! You don’t even have to worry about moving now. You can just relax…!”
A glint passes over her eyes as she stands before him again, her hands on his shoulders and her face hovering so close to his that he can feel her warm breaths on his cheeks.
“I don’t know if you will remember this, my beloved Daimyon. But in a way, I pray that you do not. For both our sakes...”
Another chuckle follows, bordering on manic, as a kiss is forced upon the man’s parted, panting lips.

“Ah!”
The sudden feel of the woman's lips on his gives him a jolt even the rope tightening around his wrists could not. The moment's clarity is enough only to discern his helpless situation and struggle vainly against his bonds before the overbearing numbness takes hold again.

“Oh, Daimyon…” she coos, trailing one of her hands down his chest before moving away entirely. “I think I want to go and fetch something, but do not worry, I will return shortly. Don’t go anywhere!”

And with a last, almost innocent giggle, the dark haired woman disappears through the front door of Daimyon Londe’s room—with both her and his handbooks neatly tucked away into the folds of her dress.

When she returns, the door clicks silently shut behind her, and she spreads a selection of unassuming, easily transportable tools from the Mono Shoppe on the poet’s writing desk. The shimmering metal of a wood file catches the room’s final lights.

---

XX+4/XX/20XX

Thrill! Realised today cannot control mind. But can affect body? Excited to see me! Why…? Mixed feelings.

---

Daimyon hums a familiar tune to himself as the water washes over him in the shower. He lets it run colder than usual this morning—he has been waking up tired these recent days and hopes that a refreshing stream of chilly water is what he needs to get back into the groove. There is much work on his table: mostly in the form of one Ryoshi Membook, taunting him every day with its mysterious passages and torn pages. It is a crusade he is not planning to lose, yet one that has also been taking a great toll on his physique. He plans to take a break today, perhaps take a stroll in the resort and mingle with a couple other Infinites.

As the, admittedly somewhat vain, poet takes a long look at himself in the mirror, he realises he might need to reconsider his daily plans. He spots a concerning number of thin scars running through the length of his chest. They do not bleed and seem to have mostly closed already. Evidently, he is in no mortal danger and still, he stands in front of the mirror with a look of shock and confusion on his face. Numerous questions flash in his mind all at once: where, when, how and why did he acquire this rather impressive set of wounds? Wracking his brain yields no answer which only adds to the mounting feeling of dread in his gut. He is a poet, a profession largely free of physical risk. Sure, papercuts and the like happen, but if he was not juggling a stack of papers on his bare chest the night before, then there is no explanation for his injuries. And for the naysayers: he does not drink. Not often anyway. So what is going on?

The quick-thinking man he is, Daimyon already has a plan formulated by the time he is out of the bathroom and dressed. He and his fellow poor Infinites are locked in a hospital—which, for the first time since their imprisonment, might just come in handy. According to the e-handbook, there are numerous treatment facilities available to the patients; one of them ought to be able to find out the causes of the mysterious scars. Not to mention they also have a physician among them, someone who must be rather skilled to have earned an Infinite title: Mercy Evergreen.

Grabbing his two notebooks and thoroughly ignoring the Membook, he heads out of his room. He has no clue where Mercy spends the morning, so he is going to try the break room first. The corridor is not empty, however: someone wanders it seemingly aimlessly. One Marianne Roche. She is not empty-handed, either, and appears to be carrying in both hands what seems like a (thoroughly processed) blueberry muffin—the kind only discernible because it flakes off in pieces into the tissues swaddled around its base.

Her eyes notice the poet and she lights up immediately, closing the distance quickly between the two with a welcoming smile, accentuated with a splatter of crumbs. “Bonjour, Daimyon!” she chirrups, swallowing down the mouthful and wiping at her lips daintily with the back of her hand, “Are you going to get something to eat…?”

As her words reach the poet's ear, his heart skips a beat—and resumes its rhythm a little quicker than before, pumping that extra blood into his cheeks.
“M-mari! Good aft—morning!” He waves a short wave at her after fumbling the introduction, her warm smile clouding his head. “I wish it was that simple! I'm looking for Ms Evergreen, have you seen her around?”

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue, as you say?” Marianne chides with a tiny smirk. “Mercy Evergreen? I do not recall. Perhaps I just missed her?” the woman takes another tentative bite of the muffin, as if in thought. When her attention is taken away from her muffin, it’s the poet’s deep sea-green eyes that seize it, and she takes a careful minute to study his blushing face. “If you do not mind my asking, what for? If I see her, I can then tell her that you are looking for her and the reason why!”

“Ah, most unfortunate...” He pulls at the neck of his shirt as anxiety takes over from the momentary delight. “It's...quite a delicate matter, you see.”

“Oh no! Chéri, is everything alright?” a look of worry takes over her face. Something about her concern seems...false? As if something else troubles her. Still, she closes the much smaller distance between them even more now, till she’s standing very well within earshot, “...you’re not dying of a horrible illness, are you? That would make for a grand twist in this little story.”

Daimyon draws back from her chilling words, yet finds himself leaning closer again after a brief contemplation, his voice lowered to a louder whisper:
“Nothing to that degree, fortunately. Merely a couple...ah, scars. Would like to see them treated, is all.”

“Oh, that’s all!” the herbalist exhales a breath she didn’t know she had been holding with an airy laugh. “For a second, I was truly worried! I know I’m no Mercy Evergreen, but I could help with the scars too, if you’d like? Where are they?” she looks up at him expectantly. Her grin is almost...smug?

“I would very much like to show them to you, miss, but alas, it might be too dazzling for the cameras around here.” He shrugs, a sly smile finding its way onto his previously worry-ridden face. The herbalist's offer of help relaxes him considerably as well. “Where would you wish to treat me?”

“I think I would like to see to them in your room, before you get any more publicly indecent ideas, Daimyon.” the herbalist’s eyebrow quirks and she shovels the rest of the muffin (crumbs and all) into her mouth, dusts her hands off and takes the poet’s, guiding him in the direction of his room—almost as if by muscle memory. “I promise I’ll fix you ri-ight up~!”

---

XX+5/XX/20XX

Other Infinites curious about whereabouts. D doesn’t leave room. Exhaustion they think. Know otherwise. Ryoshi Membook good enough excuse?

---

“You look so adorable like that, Daimyon! It’s irresistible…” Marianne coos. The aforementioned poet lay on the bed in his room, bound and immobile and still in a lingering haze. The woman herself nonchalantly sits, straddling him and dually serving the purpose of keeping him from struggling too hard, at his hips. Her attention is elsewhere, flicking her way through Daimyon’s notebook and the Ryomem periodically too. “I still cannot believe you won’t tell me about how you got here. I thought we were friends at this point.”

“H-huh? Oh yes! Good friends...” the poet slurs, his thoughts wandering into a faraway land as he lies blindfolded on the bed. He makes a weak attempt at sitting up before speaking again. “Mm. Doesn't really matter how I got here. What matters is that I'm here now, right, Mari baby?”

“Oh, of course there is no place I would rather you be, mon coeur.” his words make her cheeks go warm with childish delight and she takes a sip from a nearly empty teacup sitting on the poet’s bedside. She doesn’t swallow, instead leaning over and pressing her lips against Daimyon’s, and so, with his head tilted back, pouring the spiked contents down his throat. She lingers at his lips for a little longer before sitting upright again. “But, actually. I do have a more interesting idea in mind.”
Here, she kisses him again, enough to leave the poet breathless.
“You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you, Daimyon?”

“Anything?” He grins after receiving a kiss worthy of any drug. “Anything.”

“Good. Then I want to make you completely mine, chéri…and I trust you won’t have any objections.”

---

XX+6/XX/20XX

Enjoyment pleasure memories. Would want to do. More often? More likely? Pour longtemps?

---

“A...ahh!” Daimyon exclaims between long hisses through gritted teeth. He breathes quick and shallow breaths, his senses overwhelmed. His body thrashes forward as a single tear appears in his eye from the pain. “S-stop!”

“Do you really want me to?” grins the darker haired woman, stood before the restrained, bare-chested man with a little blade in her hands. The serrated end is crimson where it catches the room’s light, and a little bead of blood is left in its wake upon the man’s chest. “Are you sure? Oh, we’re having so much fun, mon coeur!”
Upon further revelation, the blade is not a traditional tool—in fact, it is one half of a set of sharpened gardening shears, having been taken apart in the middle at the crux of both individual blades.

“F-fun...” He looks up at his tormenter, the lovely Marianne, and in a moment's clarity wonders how they got this far. Nothing poetic comes into his mind to describe the situation: only pathetic winces and pleas. His mind screams for release, for the pain to stop, yet at the same time a wave of sick pleasure rattles his weak body. “Let...go....”

“Nope. I don’t want to. And by the looks of it…” she takes his face into her hands and gazes deeply into his eyes. Her own are the same teal as ever, but look wild with narrowed pupils and her unsettling grin never leaving her lips. She traces the tip of the blade down his neck, and his chest, all the way to his hips and the edge of his trousers. Here, she pauses. “...your body doesn’t want me to, either.”
A shrill laughter follows, and the poet draws a sharp breath at the feeling of the blade on his torso. Is she wrong?

He doesn't want to know.

---

XX+7/XX/20XX

Motive notes revealed. Interference? Does not seem. D came to see me today. Why? Maybe…

---

The poet stirs awake, waking from a dream he would forget in the next instant. His eyelids feel heavy and his mind sings a sleepy tune still—it must be rather early. There is complete silence in the room, no noise filtering in from outside and no sign of the morning announcement on the black screen. He takes a deep breath and wipes his forehead full of sweat. Did he have a fever dream? He cannot recall a moment of it, yet its sensation seems to envelop his entire body. It is a weird, tingly feeling—one that he has felt already. He even made a note about it, a startlingly similar experience that he went through yesterday: jolting awake in the early morning, visibly perturbed by an unknown dream that only left a persistent sensation on him.

He sits up on his bed with a new conviction: he is going to find the missing pieces here and now. He closes his eyes in focus and attempts to make sense of these feelings.
It is...dull, yet fiery, and ever-present. It is not meandering but focused. It's a draw, an impetus that wants to push him towards something. Something...or someone. Marianne…

It has to be her.

————

Knock knock.
Daimyon Londe adjusts his vest, pulling it together. He stands before a door he's used to seeing now. He waits for a moment, and then another one, his hands fidgeting behind his back.

The door soon opens and the herbalist stands inside, wondering who could want to see her.
“We have to talk,” he says curtly when the door opens.

“Good morning…?” Marianne asks, her long hair swept back in a single messy ponytail indicative of her having been half asleep. She gazes up at Daimyon with tired eyes, and after a moment of recognition her pupils narrow and she feels her fingers digging into the skin of her palms as she holds a fist balled at her side. “Daimyon? What time is it? ...is it morning already? It’s so quiet.”

“It is early; for that I apologise. But I have...an urgent matter to discuss. Can I come in?”
The poet makes an effort to appear dignified, even in the face of such confliction.

“Of course.” the herbalist attempts to keep her cool. She seems anxious? Still, she gestures towards the inside of her room and lets the poet in without much more hesitation. The whole time, her face scans his for any indication of the purpose of his visit.

Daimyon looks away from the woman for a couple long seconds, trying to collect his thoughts. There is an unsettled expression on his face when he turns back and looks her in the eye once again.
“Marianne...I've been feeling things. For several days now. An impulse, drawing me inexplicably towards you. I've thought long and hard about what it might be, but in the end, there is only one conclusion I can arrive at...”

“Yes…?”

“...I love you.”

The herbalist’s whole body quivers and droops in response. She has her arms wrapped around herself as if suddenly freezing, and with an almost terrified gaze she looks up at the poet again. “...excuse me?”

“I did not realise it myself for the longest time...but it has to be.” He steps up to the shocked woman and lays his hands on hers, gently pulling them away from her. “I love you, Marianne.”

“No...no.” her eyes widen more and she takes Daimyon’s face into her hands, tilting his head down so she can search it for any hint that this is a joke. “...you cannot, Daimyon. Please tell me this is a joke. ...please.”

Though the poet imagined many ways such a heavy confession can go, he did not expect the herbalist's reaction.
“You...don't share in the feeling, I presume?”

“It isn’t that. Oh, Daimyon…” Marianne runs her thumb over his cheek, and when she really cannot find malice or jest in his expression, her arms move to be wrapped around her again. “Not me. ...anybody but me. Why me? Oh, Dieu...why me?”

“Alas.” Daimyon allows himself a slight smile in the tense atmosphere. “Words I can command...but my heart, I cannot.”

“Still. It could have been anyone but me, Daimyon.” she refuses to meet his gaze, tightening her arms around herself before letting out a long sigh. When she looks back up at him again, it is with sadder eyes than he has seen her with yet. Wordlessly, she lets her arms reach up and around the taller man’s neck and gets on the tips of her toes to give him a kiss that is very different in nature from all hers prior.
“...I am sorry, Daimyon. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” she continues to murmur against his lips, though her grip on him is tighter still, almost as if she’s clutching onto him to escape from a bad dream. “...please, do not love someone like me. You cannot, and you must not. I’m so sorry…”

“Please, Marianne...don't be.” He gives her a small kiss on the cheek back. “What could you even feel sorry for...?”

“...I wish I could tell you. But some things in this life are best left unsaid.” the herbalist replies in an uncharacteristically melancholy tone, holding Daimyon Londe tighter, and for a longer period of time. “...it is still so early. Can you...give me some more time to consider it, Daimyon? Maybe I shall sleep on it. It is so sudden, and…”

“Ah...yes. Naturally.” The poet lets her go, perhaps too suddenly. He cannot help but think that she is merely being courteous with him, and she does not share what he feels for her. “I shall find you tomorrow then. Goodbye.”

“...wait.”

“...hmm?”

“I…” the herbalist struggles for words. Still, she lets one of her hands linger at his, giving it a tiny squeeze, “...does it not bother you, loving someone, in a place like this, where life is so transient?”

“Life is transient anyway. Live in the moment—that's all you can do.”
He smiles a sorrowful smile at her before finally leaving her room.

---

XX+8/XX/20XX

D loves me…? C’est impossible. But this feeling of ‘unconditional’ as they say. It is nice to know someone who does not hold things against you. He came to see me yesterday. What does it mean? Does he enjoy this?
Shaun wants to talk in his room. Interference. Must continue to study D when return. Hope all will be well. Cannot wait; withdrawal is bad.
What is his motive note? Will it help get out?
...must keep D safe.

---

---

Daimyon sank low on the desk as he finished the last note. Saying he did not believe what he had just read would be a massive understatement. His hands were shaking as they desperately clutched the piece of paper, and a million feelings suddenly rose within him, all swirling around Marianne Roche. Denial lasted moments before fiery fury overtook it, that itself to be soon replaced by anguish. Worst of all, his heart was conflicted. Why was it so conflicted? The various emotions threw his mind's ship around like a stormy tide, and in the end he was too paralysed to even do anything.

Then, something caught his eye. Another paper, smaller than the rest and almost hidden away on the large table. He reached for it with a quivering arm—was there more?

A Letter

My dearest Daimyon,

Sometimes we do things we are not proud to face. I know that I will be unable to tell you the things we have done in person, so I hope this letter will suffice. I hope you can take my word for it when I say I am sorry for all I have done to you. Bad habits die hard, is that how it is said in English? If you are wondering of the scars you might find on your chest (and you can check after having read this letter) those are of my doing. To say you willingly went along with it is a blatant mistruth—a mixture of sedatives and aphrodisiacs may have aided me in getting what I want.

I don’t know if you will remember me or the times we spent together, good and bad. It is likely that very little was recorded in your notebook. But if it is of any solace, I do remember. I chose to give you this note today because things seemed quieter, and I had the opportunity to think over what you told me.

You told me you loved me, Daimyon Londe. Unconditionally, you loved somebody like me. It was not the aphrodisiacs speaking, but the man himself. Did you mean it? When I looked into your eyes, I felt that you did.
I’m sorry I could not give you a response there and then. You said something very peculiar to me then, that we must “live in the moment”.
Life in the day-to-day for you really...does consist of living in the moment, doesn’t it?
I hope it will not always be so. It is a difficult life to lead in here. I asked you if you could love, still, being trapped in here, for I thought it a strange notion.

In reflection upon my own feelings, I wonder what I feel for you. Perhaps it is an addiction. Perhaps it is more? Your kindness resonates with me.
I know this is a lengthy letter, but I have chosen to take your words to heart.

I love you, too, Daimyon Londe.

Whether we are in here, or we get to taste freedom, I want to try to become a better person, if only to give back the kindness you’ve given to me. I want to spend more time with you, and I want to get to know you further. But I am in love with the man I have already been able to spend a lot of time with.

It feels liberating to get this off my chest, even in a letter! When you have finished reading this, please come find me. I cannot wait to see you, and to be able to try to make something of this new chapter in our lives. Will you record it in your notebook, too? Do you think you will still love somebody, especially like me, after knowing these things?

I know that I will love you, and I will fill in all those gaps in your memory wherever I can.

Until then, mon trésor. Please, come see me soon!

Yours affectionately,
Marianne Roche

No. This, he could not take anymore. He pushed away the letter, raised his hands to his face and began sobbing.

All of a sudden, a voice sounded through the room. It was not Monokuma's.
‘Everyone, this is Cyrus. I want to meet everyone in the dining hall within fifteen minutes. This is an emergency. I repeat: This is an emergency, meet in the dining hall.’

An emergency? Perhaps this was the poet's chance to escape this despair.

With great effort, he pushed himself up from the table, wiping the tears from his cheeks. He could, however, not tear his eyes away from the pile of notes—so he picked and crumpled them all up, throwing them back onto the table. Marianne was dead, he told himself. It was time to leave the past in the past. Yet, betraying himself, he picked up the letter and took it with him, sliding it inbetween the first pages of his notebook.

He walked out of the room, and made sure it was locked. He vowed to never to enter the Infinite Herbalist's room again, and never let anyone else do it either. He would drop her e-handbook back at his own place, then head straight for the break room.

Her story might have been over. But his was not.