shipoftheseus (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shipoftheseus) wrote2018-02-19 11:29 pm
shipoftheseus) wrote2018-02-19 11:29 pm
Entry tags:
what am i doing (PSL)
[Samhain is in full swing, and Phosphophyllite has no idea what to make of it all.
The flickering torchlight catches brilliantly in their hair, shining bright and casting fractals of color across every nearby surface. They've made no attempt to hide it or disguise themself in any other way. It seems pointless, for one thing, as distinctive as they look. And it's not comfortable being covered up in all the fabric everyone else seems to love draping themselves in, even in this endless night where there's no hope of soaking up any sunlight.
(Also, maybe they just didn't really get the whole "costume" thing until actually seeing it all here. The masks and fantastical outfits that would have made Red Beryl shriek with delight, everyone reveling in the anonymity and temporary truce between the courts. It's nothing Phos has ever even imagined before in a long life of uniforms and simple quiet evenings.)
So they're left in their ordinary clothing, the short shorts and short sleeves they'd had to fight with the imps for and then haphazardly trim themself when they were still given an excess of material. The raw, fraying hems seem so shoddy compared to the absurd and opulent looks everyone else is sporting. But...well, they've been out of place since first waking up in this world. It's par for the course. And it's all still quite the experience regardless. The noise the humans and whatnot call "music" isn't unpleasant, and everyone seems to be having fun flailing around to the sound. It's an odd spectacle, but the novelty of it all is interesting in that completely alien sort of way. Sitting at the edge of the festivities, they feel incongruous but otherwise content to watch.
That is, up until they're being dragged into the thick of things by an enthusiastic local (or maybe a Shardbearer? Phos really can't tell the difference). They've got no idea what to do but awkwardly let themself be tugged along, ever conscious of damaging the squishy, fragile organic beings with too much struggling.
And then they're being shown how to flail about themself, and trying to mirror what they're being shown, and soon they're giving it their very best and moving in whatever ways feel right in the moment. It's an odd blend of trying to copy everyone around and just doing whatever, but no one seems to mind the lack of polish. The crowd is welcoming and high on the atmosphere. Who cares if a gem person doesn't really know how to dance?
Phos is eventually pretty caught up in it themself, enjoying the nonsense despite themself. It makes them less cautious, a little clumsier like they used to be. A swinging golden arm smacks a bystander, and it takes them a moment to remember to be concerned, abruptly aware again of their own hardness and weight and density compared to the soft organic-types. They halt mid-step, turning to look over their victim with a grimace.]
Sorry, sorry! I didn't damage you, did I...?
[It doesn't look like it, at least, but Phos won't claim to understand how human bodies work. They seem to be made of so many different parts, and their squishy exteriors seem horribly fragile even if they're more resistant to surface damage.]
The flickering torchlight catches brilliantly in their hair, shining bright and casting fractals of color across every nearby surface. They've made no attempt to hide it or disguise themself in any other way. It seems pointless, for one thing, as distinctive as they look. And it's not comfortable being covered up in all the fabric everyone else seems to love draping themselves in, even in this endless night where there's no hope of soaking up any sunlight.
(Also, maybe they just didn't really get the whole "costume" thing until actually seeing it all here. The masks and fantastical outfits that would have made Red Beryl shriek with delight, everyone reveling in the anonymity and temporary truce between the courts. It's nothing Phos has ever even imagined before in a long life of uniforms and simple quiet evenings.)
So they're left in their ordinary clothing, the short shorts and short sleeves they'd had to fight with the imps for and then haphazardly trim themself when they were still given an excess of material. The raw, fraying hems seem so shoddy compared to the absurd and opulent looks everyone else is sporting. But...well, they've been out of place since first waking up in this world. It's par for the course. And it's all still quite the experience regardless. The noise the humans and whatnot call "music" isn't unpleasant, and everyone seems to be having fun flailing around to the sound. It's an odd spectacle, but the novelty of it all is interesting in that completely alien sort of way. Sitting at the edge of the festivities, they feel incongruous but otherwise content to watch.
That is, up until they're being dragged into the thick of things by an enthusiastic local (or maybe a Shardbearer? Phos really can't tell the difference). They've got no idea what to do but awkwardly let themself be tugged along, ever conscious of damaging the squishy, fragile organic beings with too much struggling.
And then they're being shown how to flail about themself, and trying to mirror what they're being shown, and soon they're giving it their very best and moving in whatever ways feel right in the moment. It's an odd blend of trying to copy everyone around and just doing whatever, but no one seems to mind the lack of polish. The crowd is welcoming and high on the atmosphere. Who cares if a gem person doesn't really know how to dance?
Phos is eventually pretty caught up in it themself, enjoying the nonsense despite themself. It makes them less cautious, a little clumsier like they used to be. A swinging golden arm smacks a bystander, and it takes them a moment to remember to be concerned, abruptly aware again of their own hardness and weight and density compared to the soft organic-types. They halt mid-step, turning to look over their victim with a grimace.]
Sorry, sorry! I didn't damage you, did I...?
[It doesn't look like it, at least, but Phos won't claim to understand how human bodies work. They seem to be made of so many different parts, and their squishy exteriors seem horribly fragile even if they're more resistant to surface damage.]