OwO

Magic in the Park

ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｒａｇｅ　ｏｆ　ａ　ｍａｇｅ

Macaron followed as the razor-like strings returned to her skin. It was probably a bad idea to follow strangers, but she did so anyways.

With each word from the werewolf woman, Macaron's face became more and more distorted. It was anger that had quickly boiled over. She was only moments away from interrupting and screaming at the werewolf. Then, the object of her ire had ran off. Before Macaron could begin cussing at her, gunshots echoed throughout the empty streets.

"What's much is the fact that you won't just fucking say what happened." Macaron yelled at the woman as she ran off. Of course, Macaron chased after the werewolf woman--whether it was to rabbit punch her or deal with whatever conflict was ahead, she hadn't decided yet.

It didn't take much to figure out what was going on on the other side. A bunch of mages wielding guns. A beast raising its haunches. Macaron's form was already distorting with magic. Her fingers became distended, nails becoming sharp claws. Her mouth and jaw warped, twisting to a more lupine form with dagger-like teeth exposed from her snarls. Her muscles bulged and swelled, her coat doing what it could to not rip and tear more than it already had.

The young, brown-haired mage advised them all to listen. Macaron was beyond that. No, at this time, the only language she spoke was violence. As the spikes from the blonde mage erupted, Macaron had bounded across the street in a feral leap at the beast. Her ceaseless rage--one built over the smallest inconvenience--would only stop when enough violence had been extolled.

SPIRITUM

Justice

For once, everything came up Justice. In spite of her comrades' best efforts, there was no critical failure that would have given her a conniption. She put her papers back in her pocket and waved to the guards outside the city.

To the Dunbarton Bier Fest it was. Rather than the screams of disaster and chaos, it was the screams of revelry and men being tossed through doorways for getting handsy. It was a vile place. One that assaulted the senses and sickened every part of her. But she'd live. It was better than going from fight to fight just trying to get from point A to point B, at least.

All that they needed was to hand off the princess. Just that. Then they could go back to their regularly scheduled itinerary of whatever city it was.

"I think I need a drink." She said to nobody in particular with an exhale. "But after we get the princess to whoever. We'd probably lose her if we started to celebrate early."

Magic in the Park

ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｓｗｅｌｔｅｒｉｎｇ　ｇｒｕｄｇｅ　ｂｕｉｌｄｉｎｇ　ｉｎｓｉｄｅ

The can of soda did its job. While she would have enjoyed the woman in front of her being pelted by a can, the sticky alternative of hours-long discomfort was good enough for Macaron.

"Yea. We're even. Even Stevens." She said with a shrug. Though, in her mind, they were very much not Even Stevens. But Macaron could wait to get even. She had a whole lifetime ahead of her to settle her newfound grudge--probably.

Surprisingly, the comment of Macaron shirking her lineage didn't bother her. Most of it was her not giving a shit about her lineage. To her, her blood was what it was. A nuisance she was born with and learned to live with. And it wasn't like she was awful at magecraft--that good little girl made sure to carve her body with some semblance of mastery of her family's craft even if unstable. One that wouldn't decay, no matter how much she languished and wasted away.

"I wonder." She said as she brought her hands together. A faint hint of magecraft--transformative in nature--warmed the pale air of the Dark City as Macaron moved her hands apart. Threads of skin stretched between her hands in a childish pattern. A game that Macaron quickly began playing alone, the skin-threads looping around her fingers as she gestured to form different shapes. The snake-like woman would have a feeling that if she tried to partake in the fun, her fingertips would be sliced off in thin sheets.

"And it's not a competition. We can both be little children. Goo goo gaa gaa."

She paused.

"And elaborate on shit--because most people have the common sense to not send letters unless you're a fed or sending it to Santa."

Seemingly, a brief moment of lucidity came over her.

"Especially letters to me."

Magic in the Park

title card subtexts are my favourite part of writing posts

Magic in the Park

ａｎｄ　ａｎ　ａｒｍ　ｃｈａｍｂｅｒｅｄ　ｉｎ　６．６２ｘ１２．３ｃｍ

It was fortunate that Macaron had been so preoccupied with the mix of macaroni and murder. Usually, she would have made a greater mess whenever someone told her to clean.

"Mm." Macaron blankly replied with macaroni in her mouth. In truth, Macaron couldn't fully remember what bitch Hideji was talking about. Some mixture of forgetfulness, tunnel vision, and common occurrence made her fuzzy on her recollection. It did sound like her, though. She probably did follow up on that--followed up pretty hard, by how things usually went with her.

Of course, she didn't really care when Hideji was going to go out on his own business, like how she didn't really care that he came by to make some noodles.

"Have fun with that." Macaron said in a tone that a teenage girl would say to their father.

-----

Macaron never really cared about how she moved between places. Whether it was the sticky, pollock-like seating of public transit or unlocked bicycle, it mattered not to her.

And she thought nothing as she approached the Dark City behind Jebby Tim's. She thought even less. Such dangers and risks weren't worth thinking about. She was about to kill a bitch. She didn't need to think about anything besides that.

Of course, the presumed target of her ire seemed to have the same idea as she was attacked from behind.

The expression on Macaron's face rapidly shifted. In an instant, her face contorted in rage and anger as she leapt out of the way. It only worsened as the faux-werewolf seemed to try to explain her actions.

Just as quickly as her anger appeared, it vanished and gave way to a friendly smile--one that was seconds away from laughter and campfire songs. One that was filled with nods and affirmation as she chanted cogito ergo sum.

"Cool cool. I'm cool. I'm cool. Cool."

The smile she had shifted to complete neutrality.

She wasn't cool at all.

In a flash of unemoted rage unbefitting for a mage--one who typically used Crafts to solve problems, her hand erupted from her jacket pocket with a purple can. It hurtled towards the shapeshifter's face with all the strength one acting without magic could muster--a tit-for-tat act of violence that the utterly deranged considered conversation. More importantly was the can of soda:

Value Purple Soda? What kind of brand was that? One that tasted like purple instead of grape, that's what it was. It wasn't even cold--lord knows how long it was in her jacket pocket.

SPIRITUM

Justice

For better or worse, the situation in Dunbarton seemed to be calm. That either meant things were fine or extremely bad. A small part of Justice wished for the chaos. It would have made it easier to sneak in, if anything else. But if nothing else, she'd get her wish of a brief moment of brevity and normalcy. At least until she did something absurd like stick her face in front of a barrel again.

Then Kalina was the first to speak to the border guards. The mere concept of which sent shivers down Justice's spine. Thankfully, Kalina kept it short, sweet, and honest. That was lucky. Though her habit to carry her gun on her was bit of a bother.

Justice was thankful Kalina didn't try to lie her way out. Unlike Justice who lied as easily as she breathed, Kalina fundamentally couldn't word good enough to support any sort of lie. Of course, that didn't mean Justice was about to concoct some elaborate ruse on the fly. She might have done that if she were alone. Unfortunately, her friend group wasn't exactly the best at subterfuge. Gerard would be off snickering, Kalina would probably be sweating like a human faucet--or perhaps a fountain statuette, it was a complete wildcard what Silje would follow up with, and Morden would probably just stand there bizarrely brick-faced. At least Val would be there to not shit things up.

"Surplus was the cheapest way to road trip, turns out." Justice said as she handed Kalina--and by extension, the city guard--their papers. "But with how our trip's been going? Had to ditch the clothes thanks to an infested motel. Now I'm wearing a gift shop. Should have sprung for an actual RV."

In all honesty, the sooner they got out of this line up, the better. Bad things usually happened in line ups.

Magic in the Park

I look away for a second and half y'all have posted

@Asuras

we call this positive harassment

force the gm to post more

Magic in the Park

ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｄｕｅｌ　ａｔ　ｈｉｇｈ　ｍｉｄｎｉｇｈｔ

"Please," Macaron said as she took the bowl in hand, "this place is worth as much as me. If they want to be little buzzards pecking around a corpse's corpse for the last drops of their precious grandpa's blood, then by all means.".

She was content to wallow in filth in her miserable existence. The care she had for her family was, at the very least, reciprocal--only her mother never pleaded with her to treat them well. No, the only thing she heard from her mother about her family was wounded apologies in the brief moments between the fevers and dreams. No matter how beloved that woman was, her mother's love could only outweigh the vestigial poison that was Hayao in a select few.

The letter she received was a peculiar one. Her first letter in such a long time, and it was some kind of callout? Though the aspects of the writing carried little meaning for her, what with the fact that she never read her own letters.

The expression on her face was difficult to read. It was a simple smile, but what it relayed was up for debate. Pure un adulterated joy? Raw undulating hatred? Really, she seemed at peace more than anything else. A grin. Closed eyes. The slightest blush as if it were a love letter that confirmed something unrequited.

"I'm going to kill this bitch."

The words that came out of her mouth didn't help resolve anything. Neither did the macaroni she shovelled into her mouth.

Magic in the Park

Do not let Macaron get access to a comically large magnifying glass.

Worst mistake of my life.

Magic in the Park

ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｐｒｉｃｅ　ｏｆ　ｈｕｍａｎ　ｌａｎｇｕｉｓｈｉｎｇ

It was a safehouse, but it certainly didn't feel safe.

And it was all in part to its vile occupant. Trash littered the floor. Though, the rats and flies seemed to stay away--a surprise for the gutterways that Macaron always resided in. Maybe it was the fact that Macaron never left food out. A craven image of a woman who devoured bone, pith, and seedling. Or those who knew her always had the brief thought that she ate the rats. Of course, that wasn't true in the slightest. But the thought always resided in the back of one's mind.

One's home was a reflection of one's self. Macaron's wasn't great. A swathe of animals formed her psyche. Beaver to dam any pathway of the house with a mixture of trash and knickknacks. Bear to mark the walls in territorial anger. Raccoon to wash everything in sight. Squirrel to hide things in the walls.

Her cabinets were filled with empty tin cans that she couldn't bear the thought of throwing out. It was too difficult to figure out whether she kept them from attachment, sloth, or a primitive desire to cut the sides of her mouth. Perhaps it was all three.

While she never used it, she always kept a mug in the cabinet--even if the bottom of the mug was anointed with circles of dull silver from years of stirring. One that she always washed, even if it was just because it hadn't been used.

She stared out the window, the destitute shade ensuring a one-way observation. People looked like small bugs from the fourth floor. Not quite ants--more like beetles. Perhaps that's why people liked penthouses so much. At least, that's what Macaron mused. They, like her, would find the joy in crushing and burning ants. It was juvenile joy that Macaron managed to acquire in adulthood, even if her languid self would never act it out beyond her thoughts.

And as she wasted away with petty and cruel delusions, a familiar face looked after her. One might find the humour in a thug wearing an apron. But the apron was a dull red--frayed fabric that seemed to be older than the man who wore it. Macaron had cut the cuter ones she had to ribbons. Something about the design angering her. And there he was, making some macaroni.

If she had good humour, she could suppose that it was fitting. She always lacked something to properly make macaroni. The "I" was the issue. The cheap noodles would always get stuck to the bottom--an impenetrable layer of starch within a pot that would sooner find itself embedded in drywall than being scraped out in a sink. Or sometimes the issue would be her impatience and carelessness--the willingness to choke down vaguely cheese-flavoured broth.

Well, what was macaroni without cheese?

From the refusal of eye contact, it seemed like cheese was something Hideji could do without. He was probably smart for that. There was no telling when her unprompted smile would turn into the grimace of a hannya mask.

The news of a letter was certainly unexpected. So much so that the only emotion that Macaron could feel was bewilderment. She never received letters. Not since her family's retained lawyer--the one that didn't die--gave her the pittance that carried her to adulthood. The few letters that came from the government were handled by either Hideji or--when she took care of her--Amaya.

"Why not?" Macaron replied as she approached to take it from his hands. "Maybe it'll have a lock of hair to curse me in it or something."

The thought of curses or danger didn't dissuade her.