In Dire Straits

[Image: damaskesque___journal_divider_by_dreamiez-d77zxx8.png]

  She is not afraid of filth.

  Miasma was raised beneath a cannibal and killer, her home a cesspool, her siblings vicious. She bathed in the very same tar where they disposed of the dead, and now makes jewellry from corpses. Rot is not a scent unfamiliar to her. If she dies of some disease, well, that was her fault for not being strong enough to best it. Crow has never been sick-- as far as she knows.

  She does not shy from the sludge, and hasn't been told any better (heavens forbid pretty Sarissa see the dirtiest bits of her profession). If anything, this new substance seems to be an excellent source of pure, black dye.

  If only she could get the smell out.

The air around Franzi's face felt like it was getting hotter and hotter. Being told what to do was not her favorite thing in the world. But, there was a price to pay for such an accomodating home they had. Yeah, this pack is REAL fucking convenient for me. Soon as I get here, there's free sludge for all!! Ope, but try not to have a tendency to EAT FOOD, BITCH! NAW, just take yer comrade Comstock here and hunt down a food-thieving, toxic shit, nose hair singing demon!!! HAHAHAHAHA. Why the fuck do I even bother! One on hand, it seemed to be much easier to just walk away from it all and try her luck on her own again. But on the other hand, even though Franzi craved a comfortable life, she knew that good shit like that never came easy. It would be hard before it would get better.

She burst through shrubs and long grass, entering a clearing where the canopy parted and shed dim streaks of dusk light onto a dark figure lingering at the edge of the poison pools. It wasn't Corndog. Damn. Where was that bastard?

"Oi, what the fuck, man. Get dein Arsch away from that scheisse!! You crazy? We have a prey-stealing punk in our lands, ain't you heard?"

Her head comes up, dripping black from her maw and the pelt between her teeth. She drops it aside, and turns to face Franziska fully. There's something in her eyes, a reminder of the corrupted prey. It's in her blood, alright.

"No," she replies, a little put out and perfectly sane. Well. Sort of. "What are you talking about, the wolverines?" With one paw, already stained from this work, she holds down the scrap of fur she's testing, and the other massages in the inky ooze. Seconds after the girl's started, she stops, and looks over at the Page again. "Does it have something to do with the black? I've been using it for a bit; it seems to be fine." Although, so does Miasma.

Franzi's eyes trailed from the black stains on the woman's body to the material she held under her feet. Her nose wrinkled in disdain and a few teeth poked out from under her lips as she staggered backwards from the awful smell. She almost wanted to gag, but she managed to hold it in with a growl. What in the world was wrong with her? She supposed she shouldn't be surprised. It seems like just about everyone here have a few screws loose in their brains. It never bothered her before, she was surrounded by crazy her whole life, but right now it was really starting to interfere with her task at hand.

"Using it? What the..." Wolverines? She hadn't seen any, nor smelled them while intoxicated by the poison's pungent odor. It was possible that they could have been the culprit, but they were dim and easy to track. And there was just no way they could have been responsible by the liquid black plague that has engulfed Alteron's territory. Her attention was dragged back to the woman's mess of a face as they both seemed to just stare at each other in bewilderment.

"Fine? FINE??? WHO RAISED YOU?! Look at you, playing in this puddle of filth while the rest of us are running around like tsyplyata with their heads cut off. Aren't you HUNGRY? When's the last you ate? HUH? CUZ I CAN'T FUCKING REMEMBER WHEN I LAST ATE." She stood there seething, catching her breath for a moment, just glaring at her. Then, her jaw dropped and backed away even more as she shuddered. "Oh god.... please, do NOT fucking tell me you're going to eat that." Oh Alteron, classy as always.

  "WHO RAISED YOU?!"

  "A monster," she snipes back, voice too low for her face, for things she's already said. As Franziska continues, the dire turns to her, moves closer, slowly, dragging the ink along on the pads of her paws. She tips her head, one turquoise eye catching the low light from the west. Her voice pitches up again, but head doesn't. "Oh, you're hungry? I just stripped the pelt, the rest of it's over there."

  A flick of her tail indicates the meat of a wolverine, scent masked by the black. "You can have it, if you want. I just need the bones." She sits, then, working the muck from between her toes. "I'm on a diet, anyway." It's hard being a stress-eater with terrible metabolism. It's hard being her.

Miasma

DustyForgotten

Miasma

DustyForgotten

Miasma