03-28-2016, 03:59 PM
It’s like this.
You’re born, your parents love you—but things change. Things start falling apart. It’s not your fault. It’s never been your fault. They weren’t ready, they didn’t really love each other—they don’t know, how could they know?—and you play the witness to countless clashes that get bloodier and more violent with each tick. They’re time bombs. Tick, tick, tick; it’s a matter of time before another one of them goes off again. Tick, tick, tick. They get so predictable after a while, as the years drag on, they start to tick like Doomsday clocks—tick, tick, tick. There’s nothing you can do for them now, but you get to watch; you get to watch them go off and everything go down. You get to watch, and learn, and absorb all of that shit until you’re just like them.
‘Tick, tick, tick....’
She isn’t here to make nice.
Nice is for the ones that want to find a happy home with a happy man and have a bunch of happy, healthy babies that grow up and make even more happy, healthy babies; nice is for the ones that keep things going, nice is for the normal—the everyday, the dredges that keep all of the cogs turning. Nice keeps everything orderly, running smooth and oiled. She isn’t nice. She’s gasoline to the fire, she’s walking barefoot across broken glass; she’s got about much hope in her as someone having a massive heart attack. A wet match on a dark night, a jammed gun in the middle of a firefight.
She is Juju.
Bad Juju.
And it’s the middle of the night when she arrives.
The white of her coat stands out starkly against the black, practically glowing under the pale moon light; she slips between the trees, heading towards the sound of running water and the promise that she might find a better life around the next bend; the water rushes over the colorful, smooth stones, and salmon shoot up out of the water one after the other as they fight their way further upstream. She notices the cool sheen of their scales as she lowers her head to drink and pays them no mind after a while.
It’s something normal, after all.
She kind of missed normal.
Never one to quit while she’s ahead, Juju crosses the river and presses on well into the night; she follows the lights—pretty, pretty lights that twinkle and giggle and bolt ahead when she gets too close. Others might have ran the other way, terrified—but not Juju! Oh no, never Juju. Juju’s too brave for that. Too smart. And that’s exactly how she gets led into the clusterfuck that is The Field, where the faeries abandon her and then fly off back to resume their actual duties. Dawn is fast approaching, but she doesn’t need much light to see that something is amiss here; there’s horses with wings, horses with horns, horses with scales, horses shifting sizes and shape and horses of every color you can possibly imagine and then some. And without missing a beat, without pausing, without drawing much more than a breath to speak, Juju mutters in her ever-eloquent way: “What in the fuck kind of freakshow is this?”
[ooc: She's new, I'm sorry.]
You’re born, your parents love you—but things change. Things start falling apart. It’s not your fault. It’s never been your fault. They weren’t ready, they didn’t really love each other—they don’t know, how could they know?—and you play the witness to countless clashes that get bloodier and more violent with each tick. They’re time bombs. Tick, tick, tick; it’s a matter of time before another one of them goes off again. Tick, tick, tick. They get so predictable after a while, as the years drag on, they start to tick like Doomsday clocks—tick, tick, tick. There’s nothing you can do for them now, but you get to watch; you get to watch them go off and everything go down. You get to watch, and learn, and absorb all of that shit until you’re just like them.
‘Tick, tick, tick....’
She isn’t here to make nice.
Nice is for the ones that want to find a happy home with a happy man and have a bunch of happy, healthy babies that grow up and make even more happy, healthy babies; nice is for the ones that keep things going, nice is for the normal—the everyday, the dredges that keep all of the cogs turning. Nice keeps everything orderly, running smooth and oiled. She isn’t nice. She’s gasoline to the fire, she’s walking barefoot across broken glass; she’s got about much hope in her as someone having a massive heart attack. A wet match on a dark night, a jammed gun in the middle of a firefight.
She is Juju.
Bad Juju.
And it’s the middle of the night when she arrives.
The white of her coat stands out starkly against the black, practically glowing under the pale moon light; she slips between the trees, heading towards the sound of running water and the promise that she might find a better life around the next bend; the water rushes over the colorful, smooth stones, and salmon shoot up out of the water one after the other as they fight their way further upstream. She notices the cool sheen of their scales as she lowers her head to drink and pays them no mind after a while.
It’s something normal, after all.
She kind of missed normal.
Never one to quit while she’s ahead, Juju crosses the river and presses on well into the night; she follows the lights—pretty, pretty lights that twinkle and giggle and bolt ahead when she gets too close. Others might have ran the other way, terrified—but not Juju! Oh no, never Juju. Juju’s too brave for that. Too smart. And that’s exactly how she gets led into the clusterfuck that is The Field, where the faeries abandon her and then fly off back to resume their actual duties. Dawn is fast approaching, but she doesn’t need much light to see that something is amiss here; there’s horses with wings, horses with horns, horses with scales, horses shifting sizes and shape and horses of every color you can possibly imagine and then some. And without missing a beat, without pausing, without drawing much more than a breath to speak, Juju mutters in her ever-eloquent way: “What in the fuck kind of freakshow is this?”
[ooc: She's new, I'm sorry.]