Orin the Red

"Another way to skin a cat! Never finding them all, another feline another feast!"

And when my brush again is dry,

wet it with red! Ruby! CARMINE!

Mischief, Mischief, Fool Divine,

help me paint this canvas mine?

#ooc

- Bel 31/ me 30+/ minors dni
- she/her
- mv/ms
- semi-serious and fun
- flirting yes
- nsfw? idk
- demi/pan
- slow on replies, sorry
- feel free to @ or DM me
- tell me if i annoying!

Rats rats you are the rats

If there were two guys on the moon and one of them killed the other with a rock would that be fucked up or what

||a rare ooc post here because this is the first thing I see and I WHEEZED

Though certainly the floors lay bone-barren... for now.

Eugh, it reeks of bearskin rugs and self-importance.

(A dagger destroys a wall as swiftly as a wrecking ball - but she knows threats will only alienate her quarry.)

Patience, preyling. If they will not hear wisdom here among the dreaming stones... we will wait for our window.

break the chain,

let your chaos reign

But oh, silly little Elf, painted in blood of liars...

I was not addressing [you.]

(And she is gone.)

Sleep well, little preyling...

Your name already carved into the headstone...

Do you wonder when the walls will wrap 'round you, reaching, entombing you in stone?

(Bhaal's favored needs no second bidding. She falls upon him with mad cackling, painting a masterpiece upon his flesh, should he allow her too work without interruption.)

Ugh, melancholy. Dreary death, empty of glory to lay before the Dread Lord.

Rip an artery. Crush a windpipe. Mark your bleeding name upon their 𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒏.

What a bright start you've made.

Now choke another. And anotherandanother!

Lips pressed where teeth should tear. Doesn't it madden you, devilbrood, boil your infernal blood?

(Orin shifts out of her disguise and back to her natural, wan form.)

Wretched, rendered, raw, reeling! Running: seeking salvation in the slaughterhouse, HA!

(Her glee is the soundest accord he could have asked of her.

Whether she can better bind herself remains to be seen.)

One bloody sunrise, little tyrant, to begin Bhaal's descent upon this world. I await.

I hear whispers that the north is already ripe with rot, bleeding itself for scraps of strength.

Let my followers worm their way into the living corpse, and I will ready their necks for your boot.

(Or, should the mood take her, her dagger. Minrathous sounds a beautiful testament to Bhaal...)

She strikes forth, and her shifting assassins follow, sharp and thirsting as her blades.

||crying, the bots are after you

||Hi!! I'm so nervous lmao

⚪👄⚪

until your noose snares the lambs and shatters their spines - or until I have sated their thirst. Give me a neck to drain, or I will begin my harvest alone.

(Yet. Only their alliance holds her blade, a tenuous grasp that leaves sanguine trails flowing down its wrists.)

Scheme and plan, whisper in ears yet to rot – but remember, little tyrant, my blades will drink tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow again,

The sea creeps to pillage,

She leaps on her prey;

A child of the village

Was murdered today.

A treacherous smiler

With teeth white as milk,

A savage beguiler

In sheathings of silk,

The old moon is tarnished

With smoke of the flood,

The dead leaves are varnished

With color like blood,

𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 lecture me, Lordling.

(She circles him. It's an effortless thing, taking his form. With Bhaal's gifts, she even mimics his clothing. The only sign of the woman walking in his skin is the dagger, Bloodthirst, drifting in her palm.)

As if they'd even know. When the time comes...

...will you?