[indent][b]T-5 to impact[/b] — the room was all noise, from pointless introduction to the Game Master’s pontificating, and she was the most insipid of all, and he didn’t even care. She came on a wind that reeked of Starbucks. A conversation rose and died — what were they talking about? Deja vu? — before she plunked herself down beside the fortuitous son that was himself and jabbered on and on. He hung onto every word she said. He couldn’t remember anything she said. But her name was Kiarra. 

She was the most whimsical thing about this meeting so far to the extent he first presumed the earthquake was himself, the light was her, until the angel melted into thin air. 

Soumer panicked for the briefest of seconds but it was not enough to compete with his overpowering sense of embarrassment. He thought back to those moments of listlessness, especially of the way he slurred his name. He must have been nodding dumbly, near-drooling like a dog. [i]It was actually the best case scenario to disapparate and die. Then he wouldn’t have to actually talk to her.[/i]
[right]...[/right]
Did Heaven sell draft or something? Soumer felt as if he were in a wind tunnel, and then he didn’t. Then it was just colors and cacophony again, underlying that the woody smell of beer, rich chocolate, warm cheese. He stared down at bony hands; then he didn’t know what to feel. Not pain, and that wasn’t panic rising again. There wasn’t even a bit of confusion, nor any immediate homesickness or dysmorphia because there wasn’t any realization yet. Maybe a [i]bit[/i] of nausea. It had all happened instantaneously, leaving no time for Soumer to do anything but— 

[color=#CBC7C5]“Excuse me-”[/color] He pushed away from the table, stumbling through a crowd that blurred into browns and faint clinks of glass and chortling laughter. 

[color=#CBC7C5]“Excuse me, excuse me,”[/color] he mumbled, towering over simulacrums of people, pushing his ways through rows between furniture he could barely perceive, then hulking through the vague impression of an open door that he had pursued as if his life depended on it.

Right— it had all happened so fast, Soumer had no time to do anything but hinge by his exposed pelvis bone and puke rivulets of gold onto the street. 

With that out of the way, he could at least acknowledge how beautiful it was outside in this middle of nowhere. 

He could lose himself in the open sky. But, apathetic to his mounting emotions and the inevitable epiphany, he felt a knock against his ribcage — pretty forward — and the stranger lowered the hood of their cowl. Four eyes, now exposed, ogle back accusingly.
[indent][indent][indent][img]https://i.imgur.com/bb6gQON.png[/img]
[b]This is Nerdinn, 
[i]Malevolent God of Hall Monitors, Backseat Driving, and All Other Instances of Entitled Nosiness[/i][/b][/indent][/indent][/indent]

[color=f7976a]“ᗪᗩᗰᑎᗩTIOᑎ! ᗯᕼO ᒪET YOᑌ OᑌT Oᖴ YOᑌᖇ ᕼOᒪE, TEᔕTIᑕᒪEᔕ?”[/color]
...the diety snarled. 

A ring rested in his pocket protector — Soumer was tempted to ask who the lucky lady was before he realized… well, he was barely heedful and certainly, relatively insane but this situation was all too familiar, some predetermination he played a part in writing, or some existing mythos he had prior thought himself too unimportant to be applied to. In his spare moment, he stared back helplessly into the tavern, desperate for any semblance of help, guidance, or martyr for blame, so as to feel less prescribed to this; Soumer whimpered, [color=#CBC7C5][i]“Craig…?”[/i][/color] and was gone.

Nerdinn thought the whole ordeal, swift as it was, to be pathetic, thereby humorous. His plethora of pupils rolled back into his head after a dramatic bout of laughter before the god retreated back under his cloak and into the bar for something to drink.[/indent]
[hr][right][sup][color=#D5C4C4]640[/color] words - ft. [b]Soumer Sault,[/b] Tenant of the Ring.[/sup][/right]