Morgan: I think my muse was drunk last night.
Chuchiru: (burps)
Morgan: Fortunately, so was my block.
Chuchiru: Don't--(hic) don't be hatin'.
Morgan: Anyway, this was the result. I don't own Dungeons and Dragons, or any of the kingdoms/worlds/people/whatever that appear therein. If I did, the movie would've been a lot better and I'd be living in a custom-made castle somewhere far enough from civilization to remain in blissful, delusional ecstasy.
Chuchiru: (yarks on Morgan's shoe)
Morgan: YAAAAAAAAAARGH! What have you done!?
Chuchiru: I just accomplished one more of my goals than you have.
Morgan: Grrr-- (eyes glow green, summons energy blade Kagato-style) Kamae na za Shinigami, Wakusei Assaiki Doragon Hougeki!
Chuchiru: Meep!
* * *
He was a goth.
There was no mistaking it: black dungarees, black gauze shirt that cut off just above his taut stomach muscles, black unconnected sleeves from biceps to wrist, black boots covered with metal plates. His hair, too, was jet black, although it was naturally so rather than dyed like that of many people who fell into the same fashion category. Around his neck was a midnight leather collar studded with shiny steel spikes; around his left wrist was a matching bracelet. His right earlobe sported a small, red jewel in a silver setting.
Most of the eyes in the school lobby initially turned to him because of his clothing, which seemed almost to absorb the pale morning late streaming through the glass front doors of the facility. Anyone who looked, however, held their gaze on him for several reasons that had nothing whatsoever to do with his taste in garments:
The first was his tail.
It descended from the base of his spine through a hole cut below the waistband of his dungarees, perhaps four feet long and ending a large bone barb like an arrowhead. It lashed nervously behind him as he walked across the large, open lobby toward the school office, causing him to grow a rather self-conscious look.
He was also pale--dreadfully pale. It wasn't the normal lack of color one found in those who went outside very little so much as a total lack of any hue. He was as white as bleached bone, which only caused his dark hair, eyebrows, and long lashes to stand out even more. His eyes, too, were conspicuous: the irises were the red of fresh blood, split by pupils that were shaped like six-pointed stars. The eyes glanced neither left nor right, but stayed fixed on his goal, the office door. When he reached it, a chalky hand darted out, twisted the handle--and he was inside, leaning with his back on the door, breathing out heavily.
He had known that it would be like this. He had told his mother and father it would happen if he went to a new school. Every time he walked down the hallway, or into the cafeteria, or to his seat in a classroom, the other students would stare at him like he was an exotic animal that had gotten loose from its cage. Indeed, he had certainly felt on display, with all those stares on him like he was a mad dust mephit that had finally broken out of its cage and made good its escape before its wizard master had gotten home.
It had been like that at his original school, too, although it hadn't been as bad as he knew it was going to be here. In his first years among other students, when they were all young children who would accept each others' differences as merely 'cool,' he had been popular. He would entertain his friends by arm-wrestling with his tail, hanging upside down from the ceiling, or winning a five-on-one game of hoopball by throwing the ball across the court to himself. By his middle years, though, prejudice had started to develop amongst former playmates, as always seemed to happen when children reached their adolescent years. Instead of being 'cool,' he became 'weird,' and was in effect gradually ostracized from all but a small group of close friends. Little social groups started to form, and since his friends remained with them because they shared his general outlook and ideas, they naturally ended up in the same clique. They dressed in black and chains--some even wore black makeup here and there, or got tattoos--and grew into what everyone else called 'gothics.'
Since they all knew him at that school, however, even the ones who made fun of him for his appearance or insulted him because he was planetouched accepted his presence at some level. Growing up with a person makes you ignore all sorts of characteristics you might otherwise criticize- -even after you turn around and start being horrible to them for no better reason than you've found new friends. Changing educational facilities, though, would drop him in the midst of a crowd of teenagers who were going through 'that stage,' most of whom had never even seen a tiefling like him. They wouldn't readily accept him as they might a normal human, or even a more common deviant like a half-elf. They would gasp, stare, and point. Some would laugh. Some would say things. At least one would throw something. He would be the perfect target for bullies looking for fresh meat, unpopular at lunch and break times, the one that was automatically suspected when a prank was pulled or a fight was started.
There lay another problem. He winced as he realized that someone would eventually try to fight with him. Young people his age were struggling through that dominant phase that made them do that, for whatever reason, and since he was especially different, someone would test his abilities simply because they thought they could pick on a freak like him without worry of retribution.
His face--a handsome one despite all his abnormal features--hardened into a determined expression. He would deal with that when it came, as it surely would. Until then, he would steel himself, endure the abuse, pass his classes with his usual flying colors--he smiled at this, which would certainly put some of them in their place when it was pointed out to them in the face of their own inadequacies in those areas--and hope he made a friend or two.
He walked further into the office, notifying the gaping receptionist-- ye gods, the faculty would be the same as the student body--that he was signing in for the first day.
"Er-- Name?" the human woman asked tentatively. She adjusted her stylish spectacles and pulled a stylus from behind her ear.
"Ashnod Ephyon Darkling," he supplied, switching the books he held under one arm.
She dutifully put that down, handed him his list of assigned classes-- art being the only one of which he had actually requested--and bade him good morning. He sighed, tensing himself for the first trip to class, and exited the room.
* * *
As the young tiefling made his miles-long journey across the lobby to the hallway that provided access to the first-floor classrooms, everyone broke off what they were doing to watch again. He ignored them regally and swept down the corridor, not looking back.
Conversations buzzed with whisper after whisper as soon as he darted into one of the rooms, and only a few minds there were thinking anything that wasn't spiteful. In fact, on a note that entirely surprised the owner of one mind, there was actually a small stir of attraction at the sight of the slim body, muscular like a cat and as graceful. The person sternly grasped those feelings, inspected them, warned them against doing anything stupid, and stuffed them away for later perusal. The bell rang, and that person, along with two others, suddenly realized that they all had the same first-period class as the tiefling.
Things in art would be interesting.
Chuchiru: (burps)
Morgan: Fortunately, so was my block.
Chuchiru: Don't--(hic) don't be hatin'.
Morgan: Anyway, this was the result. I don't own Dungeons and Dragons, or any of the kingdoms/worlds/people/whatever that appear therein. If I did, the movie would've been a lot better and I'd be living in a custom-made castle somewhere far enough from civilization to remain in blissful, delusional ecstasy.
Chuchiru: (yarks on Morgan's shoe)
Morgan: YAAAAAAAAAARGH! What have you done!?
Chuchiru: I just accomplished one more of my goals than you have.
Morgan: Grrr-- (eyes glow green, summons energy blade Kagato-style) Kamae na za Shinigami, Wakusei Assaiki Doragon Hougeki!
Chuchiru: Meep!
* * *
He was a goth.
There was no mistaking it: black dungarees, black gauze shirt that cut off just above his taut stomach muscles, black unconnected sleeves from biceps to wrist, black boots covered with metal plates. His hair, too, was jet black, although it was naturally so rather than dyed like that of many people who fell into the same fashion category. Around his neck was a midnight leather collar studded with shiny steel spikes; around his left wrist was a matching bracelet. His right earlobe sported a small, red jewel in a silver setting.
Most of the eyes in the school lobby initially turned to him because of his clothing, which seemed almost to absorb the pale morning late streaming through the glass front doors of the facility. Anyone who looked, however, held their gaze on him for several reasons that had nothing whatsoever to do with his taste in garments:
The first was his tail.
It descended from the base of his spine through a hole cut below the waistband of his dungarees, perhaps four feet long and ending a large bone barb like an arrowhead. It lashed nervously behind him as he walked across the large, open lobby toward the school office, causing him to grow a rather self-conscious look.
He was also pale--dreadfully pale. It wasn't the normal lack of color one found in those who went outside very little so much as a total lack of any hue. He was as white as bleached bone, which only caused his dark hair, eyebrows, and long lashes to stand out even more. His eyes, too, were conspicuous: the irises were the red of fresh blood, split by pupils that were shaped like six-pointed stars. The eyes glanced neither left nor right, but stayed fixed on his goal, the office door. When he reached it, a chalky hand darted out, twisted the handle--and he was inside, leaning with his back on the door, breathing out heavily.
He had known that it would be like this. He had told his mother and father it would happen if he went to a new school. Every time he walked down the hallway, or into the cafeteria, or to his seat in a classroom, the other students would stare at him like he was an exotic animal that had gotten loose from its cage. Indeed, he had certainly felt on display, with all those stares on him like he was a mad dust mephit that had finally broken out of its cage and made good its escape before its wizard master had gotten home.
It had been like that at his original school, too, although it hadn't been as bad as he knew it was going to be here. In his first years among other students, when they were all young children who would accept each others' differences as merely 'cool,' he had been popular. He would entertain his friends by arm-wrestling with his tail, hanging upside down from the ceiling, or winning a five-on-one game of hoopball by throwing the ball across the court to himself. By his middle years, though, prejudice had started to develop amongst former playmates, as always seemed to happen when children reached their adolescent years. Instead of being 'cool,' he became 'weird,' and was in effect gradually ostracized from all but a small group of close friends. Little social groups started to form, and since his friends remained with them because they shared his general outlook and ideas, they naturally ended up in the same clique. They dressed in black and chains--some even wore black makeup here and there, or got tattoos--and grew into what everyone else called 'gothics.'
Since they all knew him at that school, however, even the ones who made fun of him for his appearance or insulted him because he was planetouched accepted his presence at some level. Growing up with a person makes you ignore all sorts of characteristics you might otherwise criticize- -even after you turn around and start being horrible to them for no better reason than you've found new friends. Changing educational facilities, though, would drop him in the midst of a crowd of teenagers who were going through 'that stage,' most of whom had never even seen a tiefling like him. They wouldn't readily accept him as they might a normal human, or even a more common deviant like a half-elf. They would gasp, stare, and point. Some would laugh. Some would say things. At least one would throw something. He would be the perfect target for bullies looking for fresh meat, unpopular at lunch and break times, the one that was automatically suspected when a prank was pulled or a fight was started.
There lay another problem. He winced as he realized that someone would eventually try to fight with him. Young people his age were struggling through that dominant phase that made them do that, for whatever reason, and since he was especially different, someone would test his abilities simply because they thought they could pick on a freak like him without worry of retribution.
His face--a handsome one despite all his abnormal features--hardened into a determined expression. He would deal with that when it came, as it surely would. Until then, he would steel himself, endure the abuse, pass his classes with his usual flying colors--he smiled at this, which would certainly put some of them in their place when it was pointed out to them in the face of their own inadequacies in those areas--and hope he made a friend or two.
He walked further into the office, notifying the gaping receptionist-- ye gods, the faculty would be the same as the student body--that he was signing in for the first day.
"Er-- Name?" the human woman asked tentatively. She adjusted her stylish spectacles and pulled a stylus from behind her ear.
"Ashnod Ephyon Darkling," he supplied, switching the books he held under one arm.
She dutifully put that down, handed him his list of assigned classes-- art being the only one of which he had actually requested--and bade him good morning. He sighed, tensing himself for the first trip to class, and exited the room.
* * *
As the young tiefling made his miles-long journey across the lobby to the hallway that provided access to the first-floor classrooms, everyone broke off what they were doing to watch again. He ignored them regally and swept down the corridor, not looking back.
Conversations buzzed with whisper after whisper as soon as he darted into one of the rooms, and only a few minds there were thinking anything that wasn't spiteful. In fact, on a note that entirely surprised the owner of one mind, there was actually a small stir of attraction at the sight of the slim body, muscular like a cat and as graceful. The person sternly grasped those feelings, inspected them, warned them against doing anything stupid, and stuffed them away for later perusal. The bell rang, and that person, along with two others, suddenly realized that they all had the same first-period class as the tiefling.
Things in art would be interesting.