The river waits like a held breath as Tipsy stands at its edge, bones slick with moss and the thin shimmer of decay. What remains of her has been bleached by sun and hunger—her skull tilted, her sockets catching the glint of still water. Around her, the jungle hums and seethes, every leaf swollen with damp life, every shadow whispering its hunger. The air presses close, heavy as breath, and she can feel it cling to what’s left of her.
Across the water, he waits.
Mysterious and storm-eyed, the maker who had loosed them here only to watch them die. The river between them mirrors him perfectly—smooth, silver, deceitful. Her antennae, thin as reeds, tremble in the silence he leaves behind his words. If you want to be whole again, just swim to me.
She steps forward. One bone, then another. The water licks up her legs, slow and cool and alive. It slides through her ribs, curls around her spine, tugs at her gently—like the jungle had found a new way to hold her. For a moment, she almost believes in the stillness, in the illusion of mercy. Then the river moves.
It doesn’t rage; it breathes. The current slips beneath her bones and draws her deeper, further, until the world above dims and hums. She walks because she must, and when she can no longer tell if she is rising or sinking, she lets go. The water folds her into itself. Something stirs and vines begin to reach for her chest, winding through her ribs, blooming soft and green where her heart used to be. Petals unfurl, delicate as sighs, until a crown of water lilies rests upon her breastbone. Their roots curl through the empty hollows of her form, knitting her together from the inside out. Her mane becomes a drift of riverweed, luminous and strange, and her eyes fill again—not with sight, but with reflection.
The pain is gentle this time, a soft ache of becoming. The current hums through her like a heartbeat. Her body remembers shape, color, skin and she feels herself remade from mud and water and ruin. When her hooves find the silt, she looks up through the shifting dark. Somewhere far above, Carnage’s voice echoes faintly, distorted by distance and the water’s weight. Tipsy only smiles as the lilies on her breast bloom wider. And then the world folds in, black as ink.
For a long while, she thinks she’s still beneath the water—the heaviness of it, the way sound feels slow and far away. Then the dark sharpens, gains edges, walls. The air is dry and it hurts. Tipsy wakes with a gasp that tastes of iron and rot. Her chest rises, stiff and new, her skin slick with the memory of the river. The lilies remain, pale blooms unfurling from the hollow between her shoulders, their roots threaded deep into her skin as if she has always been part of the river’s garden. They pulse faintly, matching the rhythm of a borrowed heartbeat. She blinks, and the world comes back in fragments. Stone walls, close and cold. The floor beneath her is damp, smelling of moss and metal. A slow drip echoes somewhere, patient and eternal.
Then the pain finds her.
It starts at her shoulder, sharp as lightning, the brand searing as though it’s being carved anew. She jerks, breath hissing through her teeth, and turns to look. There, it gleams in the dimness nestled upon her right shoulder, is an ornate beetle with its wings spread wide, the letter C tucked within the design on its abdomen. The flesh around it burns, angry and raw.
Tipsy stares for a long moment, the corner of her mouth twitching—not in fear, but in confusion, in awe. She knows the dark god's touch now.
“Well,” she murmurs softly, voice still touched with a kind of dazed wonder, “that’s new.” The lilies on her chest tremble, scattering droplets that glow faintly before sinking into the stone. She pushes herself upright, unsteady, her neon-tipped mane clinging damply to her neck.
There’s no door, no clear way out. Only a thin line of light ahead—faint, like the memory of the sun. She drifts toward it, drawn without thinking, until her face presses close to a set of narrow iron bars.
OOC: Tipsy now has a floral growth of water lilies blooming from her chest and a lil bug brand with the letter C on the beetle's abdomen
Across the water, he waits.
Mysterious and storm-eyed, the maker who had loosed them here only to watch them die. The river between them mirrors him perfectly—smooth, silver, deceitful. Her antennae, thin as reeds, tremble in the silence he leaves behind his words. If you want to be whole again, just swim to me.
She steps forward. One bone, then another. The water licks up her legs, slow and cool and alive. It slides through her ribs, curls around her spine, tugs at her gently—like the jungle had found a new way to hold her. For a moment, she almost believes in the stillness, in the illusion of mercy. Then the river moves.
It doesn’t rage; it breathes. The current slips beneath her bones and draws her deeper, further, until the world above dims and hums. She walks because she must, and when she can no longer tell if she is rising or sinking, she lets go. The water folds her into itself. Something stirs and vines begin to reach for her chest, winding through her ribs, blooming soft and green where her heart used to be. Petals unfurl, delicate as sighs, until a crown of water lilies rests upon her breastbone. Their roots curl through the empty hollows of her form, knitting her together from the inside out. Her mane becomes a drift of riverweed, luminous and strange, and her eyes fill again—not with sight, but with reflection.
The pain is gentle this time, a soft ache of becoming. The current hums through her like a heartbeat. Her body remembers shape, color, skin and she feels herself remade from mud and water and ruin. When her hooves find the silt, she looks up through the shifting dark. Somewhere far above, Carnage’s voice echoes faintly, distorted by distance and the water’s weight. Tipsy only smiles as the lilies on her breast bloom wider. And then the world folds in, black as ink.
For a long while, she thinks she’s still beneath the water—the heaviness of it, the way sound feels slow and far away. Then the dark sharpens, gains edges, walls. The air is dry and it hurts. Tipsy wakes with a gasp that tastes of iron and rot. Her chest rises, stiff and new, her skin slick with the memory of the river. The lilies remain, pale blooms unfurling from the hollow between her shoulders, their roots threaded deep into her skin as if she has always been part of the river’s garden. They pulse faintly, matching the rhythm of a borrowed heartbeat. She blinks, and the world comes back in fragments. Stone walls, close and cold. The floor beneath her is damp, smelling of moss and metal. A slow drip echoes somewhere, patient and eternal.
Then the pain finds her.
It starts at her shoulder, sharp as lightning, the brand searing as though it’s being carved anew. She jerks, breath hissing through her teeth, and turns to look. There, it gleams in the dimness nestled upon her right shoulder, is an ornate beetle with its wings spread wide, the letter C tucked within the design on its abdomen. The flesh around it burns, angry and raw.
Tipsy stares for a long moment, the corner of her mouth twitching—not in fear, but in confusion, in awe. She knows the dark god's touch now.
“Well,” she murmurs softly, voice still touched with a kind of dazed wonder, “that’s new.” The lilies on her chest tremble, scattering droplets that glow faintly before sinking into the stone. She pushes herself upright, unsteady, her neon-tipped mane clinging damply to her neck.
There’s no door, no clear way out. Only a thin line of light ahead—faint, like the memory of the sun. She drifts toward it, drawn without thinking, until her face presses close to a set of narrow iron bars.
OOC: Tipsy now has a floral growth of water lilies blooming from her chest and a lil bug brand with the letter C on the beetle's abdomen