three.
[Internal Monologue]
I fucking hate the Mirador, always have, always will; I ain't gonna lie about that, as if there was ever even any point to it in the first place. Full of fucking mikkary, full of ghouls, full of hocuses, there ain't nothing good about it. Except maybe how it keeps the rest of Mélusine running, but that can be just as much of a kick in the balls as it can be a favor.
But I think-- after spending a few decads here-- the worst was the whole doing plum nothing. You know, I'd wake up, eat breakfast I hadn't paid for, wander around with Felix like I was connected to him and I was the bad half, eat more food I ain't worked to get, go to bed. And sometimes I'd wander around and go and get ignored at soirees and sometimes I'd help Felix with his fucking magic, but ain't none of that was work. It was just sitting pretty-- sitting ugly-- while I let other stupid motherfuckers decide my business by not making any damn decisions at all. I wasn't choosing nothing. What the fuck was wrong with me?
Well, I fucking know what, but it was still fucking stupid.
Still, that don't mean I gotta be even fucking stupider to prove a point. Doing work for no reason? I didn't even know the guy.
But I don't... I don't wanna just sit around and eat and sleep and not think about Ginevra and Cardenio and Kee- Kholkis and Felix and all his goddamn problems. I wanna fucking do something. Maybe I can even go straight-- no money means no dogs, right? But how d'you work in a place that ain't got no money?
You work for free, Milly-fox, you dumb little thug.
Between a cold-blooded thief and the hot boiling ocean, lemme tell you.
[/Internal Monologue]
[ooc/nb The internal monologue is unhackable unless your character is like psychic or something, and even then, drop me a note first so we can discuss it. The above little rant is something I'm going to try-- in canon, Mildmay is a narrator, so it's weird to play him without him occasionally narrating his thoughts. However, above is the culmulation of several days of stream-of-conciousness bantering, so phychic characters might not get that, word-for-word exactly. Suffice to say it is not technically ICly on his journal, I am just putting it here OOCly to keep track.]
[Video Post | Accidental]
[We see a man with long red hair held back in a loose braid and a scar running down the left side of his face. He's bent over a makeshift card table, poking at a sewing machine. He turns it on. He turns it off. He turns it on again, and slips a piece of fabric under the needle, and nods-- clearly impressed-- when the sewing machine does its job.]
[This goes on for a while, quite boring, actually.]
[Then he puts his fingers too close to the needle and-- it isn't quite clear what he's done, but by the string of curses he's letting out, he doesn't seem to have enjoyed it.]
Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit fucker--
[Some time later, it becomes evident that he's managed to sew two of his fingers together-- or at least stab himself repeatedly with a needle and thread-- and is bleeding profusely from his hand. He's talking to someone off screen.]
Don't need a doctor. Couldn't pay for it, anyway. [A pause.] Still don't need a fucking doctor.
[ooc threadlinks: kay, anne, poland, amelia, jack, jilly, bones, ian.]
I fucking hate the Mirador, always have, always will; I ain't gonna lie about that, as if there was ever even any point to it in the first place. Full of fucking mikkary, full of ghouls, full of hocuses, there ain't nothing good about it. Except maybe how it keeps the rest of Mélusine running, but that can be just as much of a kick in the balls as it can be a favor.
But I think-- after spending a few decads here-- the worst was the whole doing plum nothing. You know, I'd wake up, eat breakfast I hadn't paid for, wander around with Felix like I was connected to him and I was the bad half, eat more food I ain't worked to get, go to bed. And sometimes I'd wander around and go and get ignored at soirees and sometimes I'd help Felix with his fucking magic, but ain't none of that was work. It was just sitting pretty-- sitting ugly-- while I let other stupid motherfuckers decide my business by not making any damn decisions at all. I wasn't choosing nothing. What the fuck was wrong with me?
Well, I fucking know what, but it was still fucking stupid.
Still, that don't mean I gotta be even fucking stupider to prove a point. Doing work for no reason? I didn't even know the guy.
But I don't... I don't wanna just sit around and eat and sleep and not think about Ginevra and Cardenio and Kee- Kholkis and Felix and all his goddamn problems. I wanna fucking do something. Maybe I can even go straight-- no money means no dogs, right? But how d'you work in a place that ain't got no money?
You work for free, Milly-fox, you dumb little thug.
Between a cold-blooded thief and the hot boiling ocean, lemme tell you.
[/Internal Monologue]
[ooc/nb The internal monologue is unhackable unless your character is like psychic or something, and even then, drop me a note first so we can discuss it. The above little rant is something I'm going to try-- in canon, Mildmay is a narrator, so it's weird to play him without him occasionally narrating his thoughts. However, above is the culmulation of several days of stream-of-conciousness bantering, so phychic characters might not get that, word-for-word exactly. Suffice to say it is not technically ICly on his journal, I am just putting it here OOCly to keep track.]
[Video Post | Accidental]
[We see a man with long red hair held back in a loose braid and a scar running down the left side of his face. He's bent over a makeshift card table, poking at a sewing machine. He turns it on. He turns it off. He turns it on again, and slips a piece of fabric under the needle, and nods-- clearly impressed-- when the sewing machine does its job.]
[This goes on for a while, quite boring, actually.]
[Then he puts his fingers too close to the needle and-- it isn't quite clear what he's done, but by the string of curses he's letting out, he doesn't seem to have enjoyed it.]
Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit fucker--
[Some time later, it becomes evident that he's managed to sew two of his fingers together-- or at least stab himself repeatedly with a needle and thread-- and is bleeding profusely from his hand. He's talking to someone off screen.]
Don't need a doctor. Couldn't pay for it, anyway. [A pause.] Still don't need a fucking doctor.
[ooc threadlinks: kay, anne, poland, amelia, jack, jilly, bones, ian.]