kyeugh
onion witch
- Pronoun
- she/her
Prim only got an fisheyed glimpse of the bisharp's precipitous cranium before her viscera went weightless and her world became a sea of waltzing stars on a field of black. She distantly felt herself bowling through the other patrons' drinks as she skidded across the bar, but rather than lifting herself back to her feet could only muster a deep sense of lethargy—the stench of whiskey and the disgruntled jeers of peeved customers were faraway disturbances, like a parent coaxing her gently from a deep sleep.
It took her a few seconds to come back to herself, and a few seconds more to process the words she had heard without hearing:
The petilil did not respond at first. She lifted herself quietly, all manner of spirits dripping off her fleshy-leaf body, and rubbed idly at her forehead. That had better not welt. After a couple bleary blinks, she closed her eyes for a second and willed a minor vacuum emanation from her body—all the drink she'd been soaked in beaded off her skin and hovered an inch off her body for a moment before splashing back onto the bar with an audible splash. She punctuated it with a glob of spit streaked with honey-brown. The musky-sweet terpenes of plant ichor lingered on her tongue.
Finally she shot the bisharp a glare as she considered her options. She was still angry, but the mind-clouding fury was gone from her and had left her psychically shriveled. Part of her still longed to try again—hit him with another attack, grab his hand like he asked and leechlife the soul out of his body, show him that she's not a sapling to be beaten into submission—but with a huff and a downward glance, she decided against it.
After all, she needed to save her strength. Surely she had been brought into this world to contend with evils greater than some macho asswipe with an alcohol addiction.
"I'm not shaking your fucking hand. You don't have fingers anyway," she grumbled. "Sorry about the mess, Nina. Maybe your generous guest can take care of it."
The saloon doors she teetered to were just high enough that she could pass under without having to open them. She could only chuckle subvocally at that. It was one way to put an exclamation mark on this infantilizing catastrophe, wasn't it. Fuck it.
She knew Ferry would have fought harder. He would have stood again and again until his fur was crusted maroon, until his eyes were too swollen to throw another punch. She respected that about him. To accept your smallness, your weakness, was the place of the wastrel. It was better to be crushed into pulp than it was to live a life to completion having challenged nothing.
Prim did not walk that road. She accepted nothing. But she had no use for nihilistic abandon. Certainty took its place.
Certainty that she had been brought here for a purpose. Certainty that she would grow strong again, stronger than ever before.
When that day came, she would kill that bisharp dead.
<><><>
It took her a few seconds to come back to herself, and a few seconds more to process the words she had heard without hearing:
"This is how it is done in Tsainan," he declared, reaching for another saké. He found Nina's stern glare instead.
"No fighting in my bar," she told him, gesturing with a tip of the head to a sign.
"There is no fighting," countered the Bisharp, evenly. "I am just here to drink. If the sapling will get up and shake my hand, all will be well and you will receive more of my gold. How does this please you, Madam?"
The Girafarig stared him down for a moment, then glanced at Prim. It seemed how she reacted would determine the bartender's response.
The petilil did not respond at first. She lifted herself quietly, all manner of spirits dripping off her fleshy-leaf body, and rubbed idly at her forehead. That had better not welt. After a couple bleary blinks, she closed her eyes for a second and willed a minor vacuum emanation from her body—all the drink she'd been soaked in beaded off her skin and hovered an inch off her body for a moment before splashing back onto the bar with an audible splash. She punctuated it with a glob of spit streaked with honey-brown. The musky-sweet terpenes of plant ichor lingered on her tongue.
Finally she shot the bisharp a glare as she considered her options. She was still angry, but the mind-clouding fury was gone from her and had left her psychically shriveled. Part of her still longed to try again—hit him with another attack, grab his hand like he asked and leechlife the soul out of his body, show him that she's not a sapling to be beaten into submission—but with a huff and a downward glance, she decided against it.
After all, she needed to save her strength. Surely she had been brought into this world to contend with evils greater than some macho asswipe with an alcohol addiction.
"I'm not shaking your fucking hand. You don't have fingers anyway," she grumbled. "Sorry about the mess, Nina. Maybe your generous guest can take care of it."
The saloon doors she teetered to were just high enough that she could pass under without having to open them. She could only chuckle subvocally at that. It was one way to put an exclamation mark on this infantilizing catastrophe, wasn't it. Fuck it.
She knew Ferry would have fought harder. He would have stood again and again until his fur was crusted maroon, until his eyes were too swollen to throw another punch. She respected that about him. To accept your smallness, your weakness, was the place of the wastrel. It was better to be crushed into pulp than it was to live a life to completion having challenged nothing.
Prim did not walk that road. She accepted nothing. But she had no use for nihilistic abandon. Certainty took its place.
Certainty that she had been brought here for a purpose. Certainty that she would grow strong again, stronger than ever before.
When that day came, she would kill that bisharp dead.
<><><>
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