i. Waking [Upon waking, Larry can instantly tell things are Wrong. He sits bolt upright and checks himself, feeling at his limbs and hands.] Ah shit. Ah hell. Okay. Okay this is happening. Okay cool great cool okay. [His hands fly up to his mask, still securely in place. Then, hesitantly, they reach under it. His breath hitches for a moment.] coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcool.
[Larry jumps to his feet, promptly trips on his own limbs, and barely gets his hands up in time to keep himself from falling face first into the stone.] Good day. Great day. Loving this.
[Maybe he should just lie here. Face down. Wait for whatever madness that he's gotten roped into to settle down. That's how it always works, right? Do absolutely nothing and things just happen. Yeah. That's generally how it goes. Still lying face down, he reaches up and grips at his hood with trembling hands, his breath coming in shaky and fast through his teeth. It's temporary. All things pass. No exceptions. He'll lie here and wait for it to be done.]
ii. Sound and... [Larry paces back and forth next to the projector. He's sat and watched this strange, inconsistent little play a half dozen times. It freaks him out to watch, but not enough to stop watching, but it freaks him out nonetheless. He hates the way it makes his chest tighten and tears spring up without his permission. He takes the discomfort as a personal challenge.]
[Art is communication. It's one person's thoughts, emotions, feelings rendered into something tangible. This show is a message, one whose translation he can't quite piece together. And a message can be replied to.]
[Anyone watching the shadow theater will find the show suddenly distinctly interrupted as the lumpy shadow of a wolf edges in and eats the king, and mimes howling to the sky as armies rush in around it. Larry's not as used to making shadow puppets this way, but then again he's never cared about making his art exceptionally polished, either.]
iii. Nightmare [Larry had often felt as though he'd been born in the wrong genre--like he didn't exist on the same wavelength as everyone else around him. It was little comfort to know now that he could have been a far, far worse fit. Case in point.]
[An iron cage encircles the head of the monstrosity stepping through his ruined doorway, metal thorns pointing out in every direction and glowing white with sourceless heat. Despite the inability to make out any part of its face, Larry's stomach wrenches in recognition.]
NOPE.
[A discordant note echoes out from the shattered doorway. Then another, and another. Larry reels his spiked banjo back for another hit, but overbalances and staggers as the Manifestation lunges out at him--his body isn't moving right, and claws caked in viscous black liquid rip at his side. A yell strangles in his throat as he kicks his attacker in the gut, and scrambles for the door. It's not like Larry's never gone toe to toe with a shambling juggernaut before, but usually he can out-unstoppable-force it. Nothing about this thing, or even Larry right now, is as usual. He needs space, he needs to recalibrate, he needs backup--]
[Larry barely stops short of another individual fleeing their home. The realization of the scope of things only just starts to spark in his brain as their own Manifestation appears in the doorway.]
Oh sweet it's not just me. [He does his level best to sound blithely disinterested, even with his voice hitched with pain. His grip tightens on the neck of his banjo.] What's up, you do fighting?
iv. Wildcard [drop another prompt or hit me up at yunisverse if you got any thoughts/ideas/whatever! Overview is Larry is a funny little noodle man who's not used to having a body and likes to solve problems with violence and/or jam sessions. He's usually pretty chill vibes when he's not having body horror problems.]
Larry Samuel | Original Character
[Upon waking, Larry can instantly tell things are Wrong. He sits bolt upright and checks himself, feeling at his limbs and hands.] Ah shit. Ah hell. Okay. Okay this is happening. Okay cool great cool okay. [His hands fly up to his mask, still securely in place. Then, hesitantly, they reach under it. His breath hitches for a moment.] coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcool.
[Larry jumps to his feet, promptly trips on his own limbs, and barely gets his hands up in time to keep himself from falling face first into the stone.] Good day. Great day. Loving this.
[Maybe he should just lie here. Face down. Wait for whatever madness that he's gotten roped into to settle down. That's how it always works, right? Do absolutely nothing and things just happen. Yeah. That's generally how it goes. Still lying face down, he reaches up and grips at his hood with trembling hands, his breath coming in shaky and fast through his teeth. It's temporary. All things pass. No exceptions. He'll lie here and wait for it to be done.]
ii. Sound and...
[Larry paces back and forth next to the projector. He's sat and watched this strange, inconsistent little play a half dozen times. It freaks him out to watch, but not enough to stop watching, but it freaks him out nonetheless. He hates the way it makes his chest tighten and tears spring up without his permission. He takes the discomfort as a personal challenge.]
[Art is communication. It's one person's thoughts, emotions, feelings rendered into something tangible. This show is a message, one whose translation he can't quite piece together. And a message can be replied to.]
[Anyone watching the shadow theater will find the show suddenly distinctly interrupted as the lumpy shadow of a wolf edges in and eats the king, and mimes howling to the sky as armies rush in around it. Larry's not as used to making shadow puppets this way, but then again he's never cared about making his art exceptionally polished, either.]
iii. Nightmare
[Larry had often felt as though he'd been born in the wrong genre--like he didn't exist on the same wavelength as everyone else around him. It was little comfort to know now that he could have been a far, far worse fit. Case in point.]
[An iron cage encircles the head of the monstrosity stepping through his ruined doorway, metal thorns pointing out in every direction and glowing white with sourceless heat. Despite the inability to make out any part of its face, Larry's stomach wrenches in recognition.]
NOPE.
[A discordant note echoes out from the shattered doorway. Then another, and another. Larry reels his spiked banjo back for another hit, but overbalances and staggers as the Manifestation lunges out at him--his body isn't moving right, and claws caked in viscous black liquid rip at his side. A yell strangles in his throat as he kicks his attacker in the gut, and scrambles for the door. It's not like Larry's never gone toe to toe with a shambling juggernaut before, but usually he can out-unstoppable-force it. Nothing about this thing, or even Larry right now, is as usual. He needs space, he needs to recalibrate, he needs backup--]
[Larry barely stops short of another individual fleeing their home. The realization of the scope of things only just starts to spark in his brain as their own Manifestation appears in the doorway.]
Oh sweet it's not just me. [He does his level best to sound blithely disinterested, even with his voice hitched with pain. His grip tightens on the neck of his banjo.] What's up, you do fighting?
iv. Wildcard
[drop another prompt or hit me up at