[ HEY, so remember how last time Neria was on this TDM she was ten years older and also an entirely different blonde person? Of course you don't. She's always been a tiny brunette lady in her late teens. Except for when she was a younger teen previous to that, and before that an actual child, and then--look. You get me.
Meanwhile, the rest of this remains true:
I. arrival
Given November's festival of doll fuckery and October's rivers of blood and eternal darkness, it's probably no big deal that you, dear reader (or you, your character, narrative isn't going to trample on your hypothetical address dreams), have just walked out of your house or place of business and run almost directly into a person who seems to be on fire.
..wait. Let's back that up a second.
There is, in fact, a person who seems to have burst into directly in front of you, but within a few seconds - unless you've already stop drop and rolled them, you responsible citizen you - it becomes apparent they're like, fine with this, or at least more cheerfully frustrated than, say, shrieking in agony. In fact, unless you're able to intervene more or less immediately, you will be saved great time and trouble by your new fiery friend's great prowess and ingenuity, and by that we mean hurling their miniature inferno of self right past you and into the nearest snowbank.
Silence falls.
...
Well. Silence and an almost comically onomatopoeic hissing noise. A metal plated glove plants itself over the edge of the dent this person made when they fell, and then a second. Then a third hand appears, followed by at least two more, what kind of monstrosity--no, just kidding. It's the normal number of hands. A normal number of hands which then reveal themselves to be attached to a tiny woman in armor, elfy ears just hanging out, being elfy, through what was probably once a no nonsense updo. She seems remarkably unharmed, for a person who was previously engulfed in flames; as if to confirm this when she starts feeling around to piece herself back together, the first thing she deals with is her hair. As she attempts to wrangle an unruly cloud of curls and spirals and tiny braids out of her face, you, the listener, may enjoy a lilty BBC accent: ]
That--
[ she informs you (unless despite all this narrative presumption there's no one there, in which case it wouldn't be the first time she's pep talked herself post ass kicking) ]
is not supposed to happen.
[ ....................hi! ]
II. Wildcard me something less ridiculous than this, please. Or more, if possible.
neria surana | dragon age origins: baby edition
Meanwhile, the rest of this remains true:
I. arrival
Given November's festival of doll fuckery and October's rivers of blood and eternal darkness, it's probably no big deal that you, dear reader (or you, your character, narrative isn't going to trample on your hypothetical address dreams), have just walked out of your house or place of business and run almost directly into a person who seems to be on fire.
..wait. Let's back that up a second.
There is, in fact, a person who seems to have burst into directly in front of you, but within a few seconds - unless you've already stop drop and rolled them, you responsible citizen you - it becomes apparent they're like, fine with this, or at least more cheerfully frustrated than, say, shrieking in agony. In fact, unless you're able to intervene more or less immediately, you will be saved great time and trouble by your new fiery friend's great prowess and ingenuity, and by that we mean hurling their miniature inferno of self right past you and into the nearest snowbank.
Silence falls.
...
Well. Silence and an almost comically onomatopoeic hissing noise. A metal plated glove plants itself over the edge of the dent this person made when they fell, and then a second. Then a third hand appears, followed by at least two more, what kind of monstrosity--no, just kidding. It's the normal number of hands. A normal number of hands which then reveal themselves to be attached to a tiny woman in armor, elfy ears just hanging out, being elfy, through what was probably once a no nonsense updo. She seems remarkably unharmed, for a person who was previously engulfed in flames; as if to confirm this when she starts feeling around to piece herself back together, the first thing she deals with is her hair. As she attempts to wrangle an unruly cloud of curls and spirals and tiny braids out of her face, you, the listener, may enjoy a lilty BBC accent: ]
That--
[ she informs you (unless despite all this narrative presumption there's no one there, in which case it wouldn't be the first time she's pep talked herself post ass kicking) ]
is not supposed to happen.
[ ....................hi! ]
II. Wildcard me something less ridiculous than this, please. Or more, if possible.