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Recent Statuses

3 mos ago
Current I aim to misbehave
5 mos ago
All I want is to drink fruit smoothies forever, is that too much to ask?
6 mos ago
I've been sucked back into persona 5 with no regrets.
1 like
6 mos ago
Never wear white at all 🤷🏼‍♀️
6 mos ago
Got a full page ad as well 🫠😭


Resident Trash Goblin

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'What,' the thought trailed off while a fresh wave of pain pulsed through the back of her skull. It lingered in lazy loops around her eyes. The world around her was dusted with a haze while she blinked away the ache that plagued her eyes. She felt dry, sore, and mildly numb. Confusion laid thick on her while she listened to the stranger drone on in her ears. How'd she get here? Why was she on the floor? Adrenaline should have kicked in but at this point her body was prepared to just give up and let whatever was to happen, happen.

"W-We, we didn't mean to cause any disruption. I'll gladly pay you for uh, food and drink." Another voice had spoken up.

Imogen tilted her head towards him, taking him in with a judgmental squint. 'Pay? We?' She scoffed slightly before finding the motivation to finally sit up-- at least partially. Who was this man to suggest that she pay. And for what? Being kidnapped? She propped her elbows against the wrinkled dark fabric of her pants, dropping her head into her cupped hands while her mind probed for the last coherent memories from the night prior.

"Pay? Pay with what, hm?" His words cracked with age, wheezing out with a horse whisper as if he had been ages since he had spoken.

Imogen's temper had slowly risen with the panic that had begun to swirl in her breast. She couldn't remember much, Swirls of a bright purple haze. A faint voice who's words and sound escaped her grasp. She couldn't place anything. "Don't mock us!" She winced at the sound of her voice. It wasn't like her to lose her temper, but what else could she do? Her brain puzzled at the missing pieces. Nothing made sense and the stranger's careless tone only further grated against her raw nerves.

"Don't lose yer' head with me, miss. I'm not the reason why you're here."

She looked up in time to watch him shrug his weathered shoulders before stepping back some.

Imogen Nichols

Height: 5'4
Weight:185 lb
Body Type: Soft, low muscle tone
Age: 26
Gender: Female
Occupation: Baker (back in her world)


Arcanist: (NOVICE)
After coming too in this world, Imogen has a very base level of understanding how native vegetation and minerals can be used and combined to create potions or pumices for those around her. This is a skill that derives from her home world's experience as novice baker. She's quick to grasp both measurements and chemical breakdowns after a short study of new raw material.

A bonus or perhaps a side effect stemming from her arcanist trait; Imogen has the rudimentary magical ability to heal or treat minor wounds. As her arcanist skills increase so will her knowledge of medicine deeper. Be it to her to treat or trick, I guess we'll just have to see.

Quiet, polite, and kind. Imogen is the poster child of blending in with the woodwork-- so to speak. She's often soft-spoken and chooses to keep to herself more than put herself out on display. That's not to say she isn't friendly when the need arises. In fact, she's rather genuinely charismatic and endearing when approached. She just rather, not. Armed with a well-drilled customer service smile and voice she's quick to soothe irate tempers and after years of being in customer service the experience has leant her some decent problem solving skills.

Savory dishes.
Floral scents.

Brash, hot-headed people.
Being rushed.
Being bossed around (Or hovered over)
The sound of a loud, unruly crowds.

Strangers :)
Large, open spaces.

Both weak in physical form and immune system.
General anxiety.

𝕮𝖎𝖙𝖞 𝖔𝖋 𝕰𝖛𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖍𝖊

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper."
—W.B Yeats

Wake up . . .
A voice calls out from behind the heavy darkness that seals your eyes shut. It echoes something familiar; the memory grazing your fingertips before slipping back beneath the murky fog inside your brain. Every limb feels heavy as if filled with lead. Unknown scents swirl in the cool, misty air that laps around across your face. Moving seems like a chore. One you intend to give up on before even attempting when something hard strikes across your hip.
I know you heard me the first time,the stranger's voice is tinged with annoyance. You can't just stay on my floor. The pair of ya have to move.

Pair? You struggle to grasp the strangers meaning while forcing your eyes to open. Soft lights fill your vision. Their warm, buttery glow calling forth a dull ache from the back of your skull. The world around you is bathed in a blur. Shapes and colors meld together until your stomach clenches with something sour that threatens to come up. Forcing yourself to turn your head you gaze upon another body laying beside you. As you squint you start to make out it's shape. Whoever is strewn out on the ground in the same fashion you are; looking back at your with a confused look. Between the two of you someone looms. You presume this figure is the owner of the voice. He's tall— well, from your current perspective he looks to be. The light shines off a polished balding dome. Deep creases furrow across his wide forehead. Greying, bushy brows are drawn up while he looks down at you both with an expectant glare. In his meaty grasp the man holds a well-worn looking rod.

"Come on now. We'll get ya some food and ale to help steady ya." His voice sounded loud, crisp, as if he were speaking directly into your ears. But with a cold feeling growing in the base of your spine you realize the man's lips didn't move. Panic begins to flood, giving life to your previously useless limbs. Allowing you to push up off the hard stone floor beneath you.


Make your self’s useful distractions- Mhin had said with a sharp, hushed, bite. Meanwhile, Erith’s brain was on fire. He had been eying Kristo and his work for the last few minutes. The back of his brain itching while a whole new shape was being made from the soft, thin strands. It wasn’t magic but it might as well be. Thick fingers ran along the now ruined pattern—admiring the texture and the way they still hooked and looped together. Lovely . . .Wait, useful. Yes.

Erith snapped his head upwards letting his eyes roam from Mhin’s still untamed hair to the rest of the lot. There was a good chance between the handful of them. Though it would it have been easier if they could these God forsaken cuffs off. The feyling wasn’t sure how the others felt but his itched and burned from time to time. Not to mention the pure frustration of being able to feel his magic sit just beneath the surface but not be able to access it. It was enough to make him itch.

With a soft sound he cleared his throat. Eirth’s nose scrunching before he repeated it, but this time louder and more aggressive. With a woeful feeling he leapt to his feet; one hand tossing the ruined project back at Kristo. ”Oi, watch what you’re doing you large, blundering oaf!” His voice made him wonder a little—bouncing off the dense and dark walls. He had hopes that Kristo would take to the ruse and meet him in a game of theatrics. If not. Well, then the guard really would have a situation to handle. Erith strode forward slowly. Letting the tip of his warn shoes drag along the gritty floor before stopping just shy of a few inches to loom above the man.

”Just because you failed at something doesn’t give you the right o be tossing and making a mess. Ya hear?” He paused while his tail made its way to grab the fabric and toss it back onto the ground with a soft thud. Erith crouched down, arms propped on his knees while he tilted his head to the side. ”Now pick it up.”

Despite his words and the aggressive way his body took up the space before the man; Erith did his best to flash his meaning behind his eyes. He waggled his brows at Kristo in a comical way and let our a toothy grin for a split second before settling his features back into a stern look. Step one, play fight. Step two, get the fuck out of here. The faint taste of freedom came like a delicate breeze. Sweet, soft, and full of hope.


Very crowded cell.

Then Erith can braid everyone's hair!
Or maybe Erith instead of Mort in the 1st cell where the fight takes place, as he's more believable as the cause of a fight lol

Are you saying my sweet Erith would cause ruckus?!

Cause if so . . . You'd be absolutely correct he would love this idea.


’Clink.' 'Clink.' 'Scrap.’ The dining hall was filled with little sharp tings and scrapes of crude cutlery dragging against the dingy dishware they tried to pass for plates. Each sharp sound bit at Erith's brain, like dozens if razor sharp teeth gnawing away at his nerves. He couldn’t say he fully hated the mines. He liked the tedious work. Plus, rocks were fun. But the “cafeteria” was a whole different beast. His icy-blue eyes rolled and winced every few seconds with each new sound. Not only that—it was also filled with a myriad of unpleasant smells and bodies that slurped and devoured each meal. Though the gruel was something little better than what he could have dug out of the trash. But at least it was palatable—mostly. Sometimes he’d let his mind wander off to some of the best dishes he had eaten. But not today, today was filled with teeny annoyances that caused the feyling to bounce anxiously in his seat.

”Just chew. Chew. Chew. Chew.” His fevered brain yelled at him while mirroring his own hasty gnashing of teeth against the hard, tacky break. It was desperate to drown out the chaos that was building around him. It felt like little jolts of electricity were itching beneath his skin giving cause for his legs to bounce at a rapid pace. Unfortunately it was to no avail—eating and chewing just wasn’t enough to dispel the torrent of sensations rushing through him. ”Well, that’s enough of that,” he said under his breath, fingers gripping the plate while swinging his legs out from beneath the table. Dinnertime was over. Would he regret not finishing it? Probably. But that was future Erith’s problem. Current Erith needed something better to do to fill his time.

The feyling had made his way partly down the cafeteria before hushed voices cause his attention. ”I know that voice! His tail curled it’s way around his waist, the tip flitting back and forth excitedly. He could feel his shoulders slump away from his ears while relief flooded over him.

To say Erith made his way over towards the nearby table was an understatement. There was a noticeable bounce with each step as he more or less danced his way over; tray still in one hand. ”MHIN,” Erith shouted excitedly before sliding into an empty seat amidst the group. He shoved the plate away from himself before propping his head up on the table. A wide grin plastered across his face while he looked at the elf. Her fiery hair fell around her face with no real sense of direction. He had offered once to braid it for her. To which Mhin had very quickly, and harshly, shot him down. He tore his eyes away from her and glanced around the table. Maybe he was mistaken but if felt as if there was an uneasy air to the table. He noted the darkened and serious looks etched onto their faces. ’Well, Mhin’s face always looks like that . . .’ Erith’s brows knitted together in a moment of hesitation before brushing off the notion.

He lowered his head trying to make as much as eye contact as possible with each of them before whispering, ”Did I miss something?” His forehead wrinkling slightly as his brows drew up. This smelled like a mystery and if there was anything Erith liked it was adventure.

"Can I join?"

Let me know if I need to fix or change anything ^^;

@Zmija Sebastian

You, uh, okay there?
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