♥

Yes ♥

I'm here.

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Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh ♥

Wait a second....how did I not notice this before?? That's got to be Cheshire in that top doodle isn't it! o:

"Are those crayons"

The black dots roll along Vrasa's motion under the scrunched skin of his eyes. The squint intensifies. They dart from the drawing to the stranger, then back to the drawing. Hooves that formed fists are still keeping him supported as he leans in over the paper, letting Clove get a closer look at the child.

It's a child. Not only is it a child, it has -crayons-. With a whiff in her direction his face gets crumpled beyond identification. Spending a lifetime in Burger King, his sense of smell has deteriorated in his homeworld, but in this strange, heaven-like Forest it all came back around to him, heightened, even. On occasions like this, he makes good use of it.
She's coated in Forest scents, but the flesh is alien.

Another look to the drawing, another attempt to process that piece of information. The doodle is a naive portrayal of his self. Only the curvature of his mouth seems foreign. He can't make sense of it - and the constant wrinkling of his eyebrows make that obvious. Seeing the rest of the drawing though, he has to give credit to the kid. She draws better than he does.

"Cool"

He exclaims firmly. The end of that word curved upwards a bit in tone, but that rather went towards the origin of the crayons. Human objects.

"Where are those from?"

He raises a hoof-hand, prodding in the direction of the crayon box.

As he sees the crayons get spat onto the ground, his mouth form the words "crayons" vaguely, soaking the sight of the object in.

Listening to the child, he didn't get the answer he wanted. No location, no origin. Just names he can't even comprehend. Not enough brainpower to go down that route, he moves on.

As he is officially granted the art piece, he touches it with a black finger. The paper crinkles - an exotic sound in the Forest - silently shooting through the cries of the insects and flashing into silence as quick as it came. Artificial. His ear twitches.

His left antler forms a hook and picking it up, he pierces it through the paper(the background part) and lets it hang above his forehead.

"I'm not grumpy," He snarls, pausing for a time. Thinking. He was never good with children.

"Give me a crayon." He reaches out with a foreleg, human palm open.

Something struck him as the kid stared at him with amazement. Some sort of... pride? The squinting didn't let up, it only stayed as he was now peering into the distance. He was still taking his time indulging in being awed. Shutting his lids, he tilted his chin up a tad. "Yes," He saw a brief future in being a living art gallery for this young talent.

The black crayon rolled and bumped into Clove's leg. He grabbed it and eyed the paper that was passed over along with the color. He held it in front of his face, feeling the empowerment of creation.
The piece of paper didn't make him feel that.

So he side-eyed.

He helped himself up, getting hold of the crayon in his mouth and walking on fours towards the statue of the Twin Gods.
And began the unimaginable. He started scribbling on the very stone of the Gods. The black slid along with ease on the sacred luminous white stone. He began tagging it as it was nothing, not a flinch of fear, or rather, respect on his face.

(OOC: If anyone sees this IC, and perhaps wants to get involved in any way, feel free. :} )

After finishing his hooligan texts, (the rest of the tags were more obscene) he turns to see what vrasa is up to in the meanwhile. The crayon drops from his mouth.
"Yo yo yo yo kid, hold up."

He lowers to the girl's level.
Squinting at the endless number of dots and curves, he nods slowly. "I respect your energy, kid. But where I come from, this is a form of art."
A hoof molds into a small hand and reaches for his crayon, drawing black strokes in her area.
"Express your variety."

Glancing at his own tags then and again, he just watched the youthful energy vrasa was working with. And the more he stared, the more vulnerable he found himself to the danger that only his subconscious dared to name, "thinking". So he ruffled his spiky fur up.

"So anyways, you got any idea what the hell this is?" He motioned to the whole being of the statue, his head tilting. His gaze ran along all the intricate grooves etched in the stone, the cracks, the color. And the ethereal yet still somehow earthly material. It wasn't the urban concrete he was used to when doing casual throw ups.

"I've seen them move around and throw these crazy-ass parties when the weather was colder. I thought I ate something and it got me tripping on shit, and I -still- don't know if it was real or it was just all in my head."

While he was inspecting the details of the statue, he couldn't help but get tangled up in Vrasa's eyebrow game on the statues. They were all over, and each one had him surprised with their newer and newer placements on the face. Eventually he nodded, There's talent,

To her question he turned to her with confusion, but quickly remembered that her origins were ambiguous. Despite the concept of parties being common knowledge, he had a hard time putting them into words. And not communicating with others on the regular sure didn't make it easier.
"Uuhh, you know, parties are when we... Have fun. We go wild, there's hella music, dancin', movin' and- All that."
He cut himself off. So far in this encounter with the child it only occasionally popped into his head that this here was in fact a child, and now was one of those moments. It kept his tongue from going on about drugs and other adult activities.

Her second question had him facing the Gods again. "Nah, statues are statues. They're not alive."

He turned his cheek to the Twins, his two dots of a gaze sticking on, staring. His words had a certain meaning but it left his mouth in a dubious tone. He was sure the festivals held by the "statues" he'd experienced before were real. Telling the girl he was uncertain about them was more of a pretend-common sense.

Clove turned his gaze towards the child. The way anything could spark wonder in her eyes loosened his wrinkles somewhat, smoothing his expression. Her innocent simplicity was a refreshing sight compared to his own half-sane mirrored self in the pond that he spent his waking hours with.

"I'd teach you how to breakdance if I weren't stuck with four legs." Taking a look at his hooves, he taps around with them(somewhere, an ocarina sounds up), imitating the rhythm of Vrasa's swaying. Maybe the time has come to explore the opportunities of this four-legged physical form. So he went on with the tapping, trying to study patterns of movement, experimenting.

"So anyways, what's up with you being here all by yourself? Did your parents ditch you?" He asked, raising a brow towards the kid. Now and again he returned his eyes to his legs, but mostly letting his intuition control them, eyes off the two spiky sticks.

He grunts at the child's notion of breakdancing. The legs stop tapping and he takes a look at her twisted leg. He didn't notice it before.

A more serious wrinkle arrangement took over his face, seeing the deformity. With what seemed like worry - for a split second - he switched to see her face: she didn't seem to be bothered by it, so his wrinkles set themselves back into their regular place, yet thoughts still remained at the back of his head.

"You know breakdancing doesn't involve legit breaking. It's just a type o' dancing."

He nods at her next words. "Good. Just don't go around talkin' to everyone. People here might be dangerous." He stretches his legs out, groaning. He's not used to much movement.
"You can call me Clove, by the way. But you can stick with Mister Bleedy-Eyes too if you wanna."

~

gr

spunky y y !

hi cutie )):

I know the event is going on the toyhouse/discord, but since I don't use those and 'Young' would still very much like to interact with the cookies Vrasa, is it alright to rp here?

He'd registered these particular food smells earlier. He had been busy before, fighting inner demons by socializing until, unknown to him, the last day of the event. When he finally had the mind to deal with something new.

As 'Young' appeared at the "booth", its owner wasn't around. He smelled at, pushed the payment box a tad with his hoof, appraising its contents by its weight, but had no further interest in it.
Pushed each basket as well, while thinking-staring at the cookies, but that was just to be thorough.
Whether the concept of "cookies" was never on his mental map, or was too slow to surface, the kid already formed a theory that equally made sense (to him) and was a hopeful one.
Now all there was to do was wait for the adult who would 'explain this shi-', either proving or disproving it.

And so, he sat there, a somewhat strange, somewhat unclean, somewhat unhealthy, but at least, not a hungry-looking orphan. It was his greed for knowledge that was starving, really.
Out of a sense of camaraderie towards a fellow capitalist (just a hunch), the kid didn't take anything, but he sat with his front legs tucked in, anyway. Well aware that he was a born thief, and that old reflexes died hard. He began humming an off-key take on the forest tune, to pass the time.
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Aha, no problem. Thanks for welcoming it.
Sugar never really was on his diet. He never got past the bees.

The spotless body jolted in place like it hit a sleep pothole.

"I watched for thieves," 'Young' asserted in a business manner, slow-blinking and getting up. He turned to face the owner. With a nod. As though his nid-nodding a moment ago was but a natural part of guard duty.

At the mention of the edibles, he loomed over them, hunched and eyes narrowed, staring down at food like a dictator about to give a spiel. But his creaky voice carried an earnest enthusiasm,
"So I see!", further drawn out by Vrasa's feeling of pride he'd picked up on. Looking back up at the 'Bird-alien', "Where'd you find them?"

He caught the feather movement and stared, question marks starting to form and buzz around in his brain.
One thing at a time, though, one thing at a time.
He remembered well how people would scoot away when he went with his many questions.
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Like handing a 5yr old an electroscooter with no speed limiter.

He wished. To the first question, 'Young' shook his head no, though it had more roll than shake, his muscles nimble from the doze.

At the reveal, though, the fawn tensed up. Through his hunter-gatherer existence he had it ingrained that food was killed or found.
Either way, things just were until they weren't. Even magic (known) worked like that.
To suggest you could create edibles on a whim was.. Although, fawns are made, and some do eat fawns.. Still, it was..

True to his apparent age, 'Young's face showcased his thinking process, with the brows and the mouth animated while inevitably pulled towards the eyes, which just stared.
It'd almost settled on something of a mix of anger and fear but the kid composed himself, sort of, replying with a sure squint.

"No. That's cheating." Unless.. After a brief thought and to his likely impending embarassment, he added, tentatively, "Are you a god?"
Vrasa's line about decorating had just neatly landed on top of that culture shock.
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Life happens, no worries.

Kid knew there were other worlds, of course. While he'd rarely approached aliens before, much less to talk, he watched them and he took note.
And then he filled in the blanks.

Every other place was just like his home, he believed, only bizarre. In superficial ways.
So, food could perfectly grow from the soil or the sand, somewhere. (judging by the cookies' texture) It simply made sense.

What she was saying, though, also made sense to 'Young's loopy logic.
Those "hands", those hooves with excess appendages could definitely be used to make excess food and.. stuff?
He felt threatened.
Not personally, thanks to Vrasa's kind patience and to the cookies smelling good and not heretic evil.
But his 12-year worth of worldview was about to unravel.

The huge forehead furrowed in thought, the kid began answering with a wary, "I make holes.. in the ground."
Trying to remember more.
"We dress in colors and we sit on each other. It's called a Totempole. We dance in a line. It's a Deer Train," spoken with a tone like Why do you want to make things, we got things at home.
But that was it. His body was both the tool and the material. Making things out of things was a heresy. Unthinkable.

"How do you know what to put? How do you know what's right?" He saw a proverbial straw and he grabbed it, for defence.