warhammer-fantasy-muses-archived

[warhammer-fantasy-muses-archived]

“After a dozen deaths, you learn not to care. After a hundred, you can’t even if you wanted to.”

― C.L. Werner, Dead Winter

Independent Ask and Roleplay blog for various Warhammer Fantasy muses

Canon Divergent and Headcanon-Based

Semi-Selective

OC Friendly

Multiverse Friendly

Mun and Muses are 21+

#promo #self promo #//it's a main blog now!

[warhammer-fantasy-muses-archived]

Blog Move complete!

Follow me here: https://warhammer-fantasy-muses.tumblr.com/

#ooc #blog move

[warhammer-fantasy-muses-archived]

//Blog move in progress, so I will rename this to be archived

#ooc

[warhammer-fantasy-muses-archived]

Hey guys! Heard that these types of posts tend to spread quick, so here's a small mobile promo post to spread if you'd be so kind!

Independent Ask/Roleplay Blog for Geralt of Rivia, from The Witcher

Canon-divergent and Semi-Selective

Crossover and Multiverse friendly

Mun and Muse are 21+

#promo #self promo

[warhammer-fantasy-muses-archived]

Fat Shark rules

#//love to see developers of warhammer games bashing down the radicals in their fandom #//they got the balls to call out their bad apples

[warhammer-fantasy-muses-archived]

shamanickeep​:

“ That so? I could aid with that. “

Mostly wanting to be seen as valuable and earn more praise from a large rat she hardly meant a speck to, the eldritch vessel began to wrap around him even tighter, leaning her head forwards to give him a slow and affectionate nuzzle. Her breathing evened into a content pattern, the purring still heavy with vibrations.

“ I am a mutant beast, nyet? It has been quite some time since I have trained. And we can…experiment. I have nothing left to lose. “

Hm? So she wanted to lend herself to his experiments? Well, that was an offer that Throt just couldn’t pass down, could he? A grin spread on his muzzle as he’d pet and rub along Betty’s head, just further inclining her to comply as he’d nod eagerly at her offer.

“Mmmm, yes-yes... dead-thing makes solid argument, yes. Then so be it-it! Dead-thing will join Throt in more-more experimenting and flesh-molding! Throt has many grand-great ideas for dead-thing and her true self, yes-yes~” he’d chitter and clamor on, now using his two remaining hands to pet and gently squish Betty’s cheeks together, treating her as an oversized, eldritch pet, almost.

#shamanickeep #throt the unclean

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scornvermin​:

“…”

     Oxyotls words rang true, in reality Skruen should have seen his betrayal coming sooner or later. There was no such thing as true loyalty amongst the Ratkin; everyone would be auctioned off sooner or later, a knife would be left in someones back, or they would be fed to the masses of slave skaven after a failure. Still, that did not change the burning hatred Skruen felt for his clan after how faithfully he had served them, and if anything it only hardened his heart.

     The only thing that got Skruen to snap out of his self-inspection was Oxyotl mentioning a hideout nearby. He didn’t have a place to go to after fleeing his clan, and while his regeneration and strength was intimidating, the idea of possibly making a new ally was appealing to the Stormvermin.

“Very well, show-lead the way. Just hope Oxyotl has enough food-things to keep Skruens stomach happy-pleased; otherwise Skruen tends to go a bit… Mad-Crazy.”

 “Oh, Oxyotl know of that very well, too. Me and my scouting parties have seen your kin eat their own when hunger strikes hard. Something called... ‘Black Hunger’, no?” but Oxyotl chose to leave it at that, as he would nod and lead the way for Skruen, as the two of them would dive deeper into the woods, the Skink leading the way as he’d duck and dip between fallen trees and branches, pushing aside brushes and hopping across logs. Finally, he’d reach a seemingly innocuous vine hanging from a treetop, as he would just nod for it and leap up, catching it as he began to climb. Turns out, the ‘vine’ was merely a sturdy rope camouflaged with leaves! It’d be sturdy to hold up even a Stormvermin of Skruen’s size.

Up top-side of the rope was a small, rickety, but functioning tree-house made for one person, but it could clearly house another just fine. Just a roof and three walls, no door or front wall. Oxyotl would just nod towards the hut for Skruen to enter, while he jumped over onto another set of branches on another tree, a crude pulley system being made there as he began to pull and heave on a rope, before eventually pulling up a trapped wild boar, which was still squealing and flailing. But a swift stab of the Skink’s ornate kukri he had on hand, and a slit of the throat, and the beast was quelled, as Oxyotl just left it to bleed out, the blood being sampled in bowls to not spill down on the ground below.

 “No need to worry about food! Traps are set all around perimeter to catch prey!” he chuckles, as he seemed to have come prepared at least. A very organized hunter, indeed. He’d then join Skruen as he’d just look at him, eyes still darting about. “So, if you don’t mind Oxyotl asking... but you seem different. You take this betrayal... personally. Not seen a lot of Skaven take it so harshly before. Seen them react with shock and fear, sure. But never hatred, or hurt, like you. Why is that?”

#scornvermin #oxyotl

[warhammer-fantasy-muses-archived]

savior-of-humanity​:​

For a good moment or two, Y’shua had simply just stood there, chest heaving with every breath he took, taking in the utter carnage and bodily destruction that lay at his feet.

He would have started to move on from his brutal handiwork and to God-knows-where in this wretched wasteland, were it not for the noise of something very quiet whistling through the air and impacting against the back of his neck-guard with a distinct ping.

Almost immediately the Doom Slayer turned around in a frighteningly quick reaction - but there was no cause in sight. Only more corpses that stained the earth beneath his feet with blood and ichor. And a single dart lying on the ground, primitive yet clearly made by professional hands.

The rocket launcher dissipating in his hands and being replaced with his super shotgun, Y’shua began to walk in the general direction of where the dart had apparently come from. He had a gut feeling that whatever had just tried to shoot him with a blowdart was not of demonic origin, whether it be of the ones he was familiar with, or the new ones that he had just encountered.

Having heard his dart almost harmlessly ping off of this strange being’s hide made Oxyotl a tad surly that his target was this armored, but it also informed him that its armor was tough. And as he’d peek over the mound of corpses, he’d manage to barely see the silhouette of the Doomslayer walking towards his previous location. He was going to be spotted if he stayed, but he did not have many new hiding spots around to hide behind...

So, might as well show that he was not a threat, no? So, with a sharp breath and a prayer to the Old Ones, Oxyotl would embrace his inevitable fate as he’d then stand upright and hop out from behind the carcass pile, his roughly 4′5 crouched shape emerging in front of Y’shua, chameleon eyes flickering and bounding all around until they honed in on the Doomslayer.

Tongue flicking in and out of his mouth, even dabbing one of his lidless eyes occasionally, he’d slowly begin to speak, in a seemingly broken accent, but at least spoke with words that Y’shua could understand; “You... kill daemons?” he asks, gesturing towards the corpses around them.

#savior-of-humanity #oxyotl

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scornvermin​:

     There’d be a snort from the Skaven at Oxyotls confirmation of his suspicion, and eventually there’d be a laugh from Skruen. If only the Skink knew how much he had went through- although if his words were true, Skruen could only imagine how much the other had survived as well. The Skinks words would lead to a nod of recognition from the Stormvermin, who still kept his gaze trained on the other in case of a surprise attack, but he’d entertain the conversation for now.

“Skruen sees. Skruen has been told-informed of your actions, back when in clan-home, you are infamous amongst ratkin.” He’d speak with a venom clinging to his voice as he mentioned his old clan. Fists balled for a moment, but Oxyotl would be able to tell the anger was not directed at him as Skruen turned away and spat. 

“Skruen was sold to Clan Moulder by Leader-Patriarch of Clan Skryre. They experimented-tortured Skruen, put many disgusting-nasty things into Stormvermin. Skruen can heal-recover the way he can because of it, but specifics would have to be inquired-asked of Clan Moulder.”

     His voice was deadly low as he spoke about his torture, Skruens entire being trembling with a barely contained rage before the Skaven composed himself with a deep, rattling breath while turning his gaze back to the Skink.

“Skruen has no love for Ratkin anymore.”

The Skink was observant, his large eyes flickering at each syllable uttered by Skruen, and observing his body language as well as the tone of his voice. He was clearly being angry at something else. His former clan? Yes, seemed like that. So this ratkin had a bit of an identity crisis, or something similar to it? With the way he was talking, and clearly hating his origins and just being out here trying to be... something else.

 “I see, I see... well, must be terrible to not have love for your kind.” he speaks, but quickly adds on; “But it is understandable! Why you have no love for them, that is. But is this not... normal for your kin? To always cheat and betray each other? I mean no ill by saying it, but it is what we have seen among your kin!”

He suddenly begins to look around. The forests around them begin to echo with noises around them. Wild noises. Things that growl, and snarl, and thump along the forest floor. “Not safe here right now. Night soon approaching. Do you wish to follow me to my hideout? Got one set up here, right in the forest! We’ll be safe there, away from wild animals!” not that he was doubting Skruen’s fighting capabilities, of course! But it’d be a lot easier to keep talking if they were uninterrupted!

#scornvermin #oxyotl

[warhammer-fantasy-muses-archived]

savior-of-humanity​:

They are rage, brutal, without mercy.

But you?

You will be worse.

Rip and tear, until it is done.

–

Y’shua Blazkowicz, the one being that virtually all of demonkind loathed and feared deeply, the one that they called The Unchained Predator, had no clue where the hell he was. He didn’t exactly know how he had gotten here, either, only that this landscape was eerily reminiscent of Hell, but… distinctly different. No, very different.

Before the Slayer laid a twisted landscape, foul and infernal much like the Hell he was used to, but instead of the realm being composed of gothic architecture and brimstone, it was of a mix of almost mind-warping structure and pestilent, living flesh, in a way that was hard to describe. The very environment was at war with itself through these two different elements, of plague and arcane sorcery. Perhaps the border for two different territories.

The other, more interesting thing of note was the two warring armies of creatures that fought brutally below from the cliff he stood on top of. They too matched their surrounding environment, to a degree; one consisted of monstrosities who seemed to be the physical incarnation of death and rot and disease, lead by a towering, bloated beast that could rival a Cyberdemon in height. The other army were twisted and warped, of bright colors and feathers that hurled magic and sorcery like bullets; they too were spearheaded by their own great beast of a leader, a bird-like creature with purple and blue feathers, dressed in elaborate garb.

The Doom Slayer may not have known where he was, how he got here, why he was here… but he knew demons when he saw them.

Neither of the two warring groups would realize what was happening until it was too late. Those of plague and rot - Daemons of Nurgle - would find a force, built like a man but striking with the force and fury of the Great Vortex, mowing through their ranks from the rear. But he did not use blades, magic, or even the gunpowder-fueled handcannons and rifles that Men and Dwarves used. No, his weapons were similar to the latter - but far, far more deadly.

For it was a single shot from a double-barreled shotgun that turned a Chaos Warrior’s head, helmet and all, into a spray of fetid mist, gore, and bits of metal and bone. By the time that the Daemons of Tzeentch and the Lord of Change that led them was aware of the Slayer’s presence, said man was already upon the unfortunate Great Unclean One and exposing his fetid, rancid bowels to the air above. By now he had switched from his shotgun to an entirely new gun, pulling it from thin air. It wouldn’t be one that the Daemons would recognize, but he knew it all too well; the glorious chaingun, destroyer of hordes of lesser beasts and undead alike. And oh, how divine was the sound of a hail of bullets mowing down his hated enemy by the dozen.

The Lord of Change gave a furious roar, swinging its staff to unleash a hail of terrible magic upon the armored foe - but much to it’s surprise (and horror) the man moved with an unnatural, incredible speed, as though the very winds were giving him such agility. He swapped to another weapon, the ferocious chaingun dissipating from his hands and being replaced with a tube of metal. The Greater Daemon had no clue what the hell it was looking at until its face was promptly vaporized by a funny little bundle of metal called a self-propelled, heat-seeking missile.

For a moment, all was silent, the Slayer standing over the corpses of what must have been well over a hundred demons - but the Great Unclean One, much to his chagrin, wasn’t as dead as he would have liked it to be. It suddenly rose from where it had seemed to die with a gurgling roar, fetid fluids and maggots flowing from its maw. Another rocket, then another, then another, rendered the beast’s face and the rest of its body into a fine, gory slurry.

Somewhere, in the place where the Ruinous Powers lurked, the Chaos Gods were in a uproar. Khorne was intrigued by the sheer firepower and brutality of this stranger, Slaanesh was curious as to what could crack through their seemingly impenetrable shell of both body and mind, Nurgle was somewhat miffed by the fact a perfectly good Great Unclean One hadn’t the chance to spread any of it’s “delightful” poxes, and Tzeentch… was furious. For this was a factor that not even the all-knowing Sorcerer could have foreseen, a wrench thrown into the delicate and ever-changing set of gears that was the Great Game. Nothing had prepared him for the arrival of the Slayer, and quite frankly, many of his plans were thrown into disarray by his mere presence alone.

Of course, Y’shua was completely unaware to the bemoaning of the Ruinous Powers, and if he was, he wouldn’t have given a single shit about them. Right now, he was focused on taking a breather; deep shuddering breaths making his chest heave (thank god for the suit’s built-in filters), body spattered with blood and ichor and God-knows-what. The cacophony of noise from the battle that had been ended in mere minutes would have surely been heard for quite a distance, from the roar of his guns alone.

@warhammer-fantasy-muses​

The incredible symphony of gunshots, daemonic wails of panic and torment, and sizzling of magic was indeed echoed all across the plains that played the stage of the border between Tzeentch and Nurgle. And it spread far and wide, to the point where the lonesome, diligent Oxyotl could no longer ignore it. He was hearing the daemons in the distance at first, but he was out of munitions for the day, and so sought to focus on his meal being cooked slowly over the now smoldering coals. But the noises were troubling him, especially when it all just went... silent.

Oxyotl would slowly get up from his position, reaching for his blowgun and quickly grabbing a small satchel of darts to tie onto his waistband. He’d then begin to scuttle off towards the location of the noises from earlier, but what he was met by was something he had never, ever believed to have seen... neither here in the Realm of Chaos, nor back in Lustria.

It was.... a man? Seemingly, at least? A man-like figure, covered from head to toe in a weird, alien metal suit. This was unlike anything the Skink had encountered before, but he was not to be intimidated by it. He had stared worse things in the face, and walked away to tell the tale. The grip on his blowgun tightened, as the brave Skink warrior would skulk closer towards him, quietly drawing a dart from his satchel, loading it--

*P-THOOM*

He’d blow it straight at the back of the neck of the weird human-thing, and as quickly as he had fired it, he’d roll to duck behind a big-enough pile of corpses to conceal himself, loading up another dart.

@savior-of-humanity​

#savior-of-humanity #oxyotl #//oh he is definitely the lizardman equivalent of doom guy lol #//and in such a small package! xD #//but then again when it comes to the huge-ass daemons #//size is a liability :3c

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@savior-of-humanity

The winds howl upon the Realm of Chaos. Dark whispers of ruinous powers and chaotic entities carried upon the dark breeze of this calamitous wasteland. It had always been so. Ever since Oxyotl first appeared here. How many years? He could scarcely count them all on his own. It felt like decades. Centuries. Maybe even millennia.

But he had to keep strong. He had to survive. Just for the chance... the narrow, slight possibility, of returning to Lustria. So, he survived. Nay, he thrived. The Chaos Wastes were HIS hunting grounds, eventually. And daemons of all four Ruinous Powers began to whisper of HIS name.

He would make the Chaos Gods themselves fear him.

But for now, Oxyotl was merely doing his best to relax at one of his many temporary camps set up within the wastes, on the lands bordering between the realms of the Sorcerer, and the Plague Lord. Tzeentch, and Nurgle. His campfire lightly flickering with flame, as the Skink warrior would unload a huge satchel from his back, the content spilling forth in the form of killed Nurglings.

He’d set himself near his campfire, immediately skewering one of the small round beasties, wincing and sneering as pus-like blood squirted out of its body, before he’d place it upon the fireplace, flames licking and burning away disease and rot from the flesh slowly, but surely. He’d work on another one, pulling out a knife to meticulously carve and cut at the pustules and wounds of another, draining them of their fluids and collecting them in wooden bowls for later.

#savior-of-humanity #oxyotl

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shamanickeep​:

The purr only crescendoes, digits digging deep into the dirt with a small mewl of content, practically melting into his touch. Fangs cautiously rub against his claws, her face now rotating to push itself into the skaven’s stomach with what sounded like a bizarre laugh that could be felt all throughout his body.

“ Da, da! You’re too good to me, my darling Lionheart. I am so glad you are here. I have missed you terribly at the Keep… “

A tighter squeeze, burrowing herself more into him,

“ You never visit… “

He kept tracing along her fangs, just checking every single bit of her anatomy whilst she droned on, barely listening in on most of it, but appreciating that she was being cordial and cooperative, so he could keep on his studies. Now he really needed to know what made her tick--

Uh-oh. So she was going to bring that up? Well, she had a point. He hadn’t been visiting her often... mostly out of fear of being tricked into awkwardly becoming a whelp-sitter again. But he could not say that out loud! So, what then? He’d sigh, going with the easiest option;

“-- Ah. Yes-yes, Throt knows. Throt has been busy-occupied deep down in Hell Pits, working on more-more beasts and mutants for Clan Moulder! Moulder always busy with their work-work, yes-yes!” he’d awkwardly scritch his claws a bit against Betty’s hair, hoping it’d work to soothe her. “Throt just prefer to be close to his work-work!”

#shamanickeep #throt the unclean

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scornvermin​:

     Skruen hit the ground about as eloquently as a brick, the wind being knocked out of him for but a brief moment. Rage roared in his chest, and fingers dug into the ground as he’d pull himself up, ignoring the small fetters of pain that came from his tail as it would continue to grow and mend itself back to being… Well, mostly normal.

     If Oxyotl looked closely he’d be able to see strange, particular growths on the Skavens tail, irregularities caused by the uneven regeneration as the ratkin barely struggled to keep himself some semblance of calm. Losing himself wouldn’t be good against this opponent- they were smart, intelligent, and a berserker rage would only get himself killed.

“Skilled-strong enough to tear apart most things that would dare try to murder-kill Skruen.” He would respond, watching carefully for the Chameleon Skinks next movements as his muscles stood tense, ready to spring into movement any second at the slightest sign of an attack or opening. “I have not heard of your name-title directly, but I have heard-listened to tales of lizardfolk who gave Daemons trouble-strife. Is that you?”

Oxyotl’s gaze had indeed caught sight of the now regrown tail of the Skaven, watching it flick about and grow back to being, with a whole lot of irregular growths along it that seemed tumorous in nature. His tongue flicked out of his mouth briefly, as if to show a bit of disgust, but nothing too much. Just a quick, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flick in and out, before he’d center his bulbous gaze on Skruen again.

 “Aaah, so you are survivor, like me! That is good! World needs more survivors like us, makes life less dull... makes each day, a day worth fighting to live for!” he clearly had the mentality of someone who had seen death in the face for quite a series of days, if Skruen could even analyze that through Oxyotl’s sentence.

 “Yes, indeed. It is I whom Great Unclean Ones tell stories about to little Nurglings who misbehave~ I am the one who hunts the hunters! The one who kills the butchers of Khorne! Who outwits the schemes of Tzeentch! Who quells even the most deprived desires of Slaanesh!”

“That is I, and I am Oxyotl~” suddenly, his stance laxed a bit, as he’d stand slightly more upright, blowgun twirled to slam into the ground as he’d use it as a staff to lean onto. “Do not worry, ratling. Your end is not today. I was merely testing you~ And you passed... barely. I must say... you intrigue me. How is your tail able to grow back after being ripped off? Do you share the blood of my kin?”

#scornvermin #oxyotl

[warhammer-fantasy-muses-archived]

scornvermin​:

     Skruen did something surprising then, that next dart fast enough to actually catch him by surprise. His tail moved up then, taking the blowdart directly in the center of it, but before he could even give the poison a chance to spread would the Skaven grab his tail firmly in both hands… Then he’d rip half of it off, sinew, muscle, and flesh parting way underneath the Stormvermins strength.

     Taking care of the threat for now would he come face-to-face with his attacker, clinging the end of his tail as he’d dig his claws into it. Blood dripped from the stump that was left of his appendage, although if the other were to look closely the tail was seemingly regenerating…

“You are quick-fast, but Skruen is faster.”

    He’d then throw the bloodied end of his tail straight at the Chameleon Skink, following it up afterwards with a pounce as he’d scream in anger!

The Skink would just tilt his head a bit at the fact that this rat-man was willing to rip his own tail off rather than let his poison take effect. It was a very efficient move though! If he had let the poison spread and take effect, then he’d go numb within a matter of minutes. He’s seen it work on even the toughest of Daemons of the Wastes. But not this one. This one had brains to back up his brawn. A deadly combo.

The tail was flung straight at him, but the Skink would just start to swing and use his tail as leverage to pull himself up onto the branch he was latched onto, landing and then leaping backwards into a flip, vaulting over the lunging rat-man, and thrusting the butt of his blowgun into the Skaven’s back to try and both gain leverage to polevault off of him, and to push him crashing into the ground.

He’d land several feet away from Skruen, skidding to a landing on the dirt-floor of the forest, a smirk tugging his reptilian lips. “Fast indeed, but you lack skill. Must give credit, though; you’re determined. That is good.”

“Skruen is your name? Unusual for ratling. Mine is Oxyotl; He That Hunts Unseen. Perhaps you heard of me~?”

#scornvermin #oxyotl

[warhammer-fantasy-muses-archived]

@scornvermin

The shadows of the brushes and canopies held no answer to his call-out, as all went silent around Skruen, except for the mild breeze of the woods themselves, bristling through fur and foliage alike and causing both to gently flutter in the air. Then, a more forceful rustle was heard from a set of brushes, set at 1 o’clock from Skruen’s current position-

*P-THOOM*

Another blowdart fired, this one aiming for the right side of his midsection, aiming right between the smallest of gaps in the Stormvermin’s armor. Naturally, Skruen would easily hear this as well and could deflect it if he wished to. But that seems to be when his assailant revealed himself;

As if appearing by magic, from thin air, a form started to take shape in a tree above him, hanging upside-down by a branch from a prehensile, curled tail, with big round eyes flickering in every angle before centering on Skruen. A Chameleon Skink, here? So far from the jungles of Lustria?

 “You parried well, ratling. But still not fast enough to impress me. I’ve seen Nurglings with better reflexes than you~”

#scornvermin #oxyotl

[warhammer-fantasy-muses-archived]

shamanickeep​:

A heavy purr began to vibrate against his large belly, her cheek squished up against it with a few loving nuzzles. Coiling closer for more touch starved attention, she allowed the rat to conduct his hands-on research, even going as far as to opening her mouth to reveal copious amounts of sharp, needle-like teeth complete with ginormous fangs. Her tongue was impossibly long, tumbling out from her pale lower jaw like unfolding a red carpet.

“ Da, this is I. The magic I use to shield my Keep is the same magic I use to facade my actual form. The Keep is basically a part of me — a powerhouse, if you will. If one barrier goes, the other dominoes as well. “

Leaning into his touch, Betty was careful not to accidentally prick him on anything.

“ Mmfh ~ . I knew you would love to see this. No one else respects it… “

The large rat still kept on stroking and examining Betty’s true form, his hands diligently tracing muscle tendons and feeling up bone structure, making it appear as gentle caresses to her body as he just kept furiously scribbling down mental notes in his mind. This could be what his next batch needed... how would he get such rigid and powerful, yet elastic muscles though? Maybe if he’d slaughter a small town of Lizard-things, or took down a roving pack of Ogres...

Her mouth opening wide caught him off-guard however, the sharp teeth and giant fangs making him grin wide, as he’d trail his fingers across them while she leaned into him.

His third hand still planted upon her head, stroking through her hair, Throt snickers wickedly. “Then they are fool-fools for not understanding true power! Power of body is much-much better than what foolish top-dwellers would consider ‘wisdom’. It is why Clan Moulder is biggest-bestest clan of all of Skaven clans! Hreh, yes-yes, hrehehehehe~!”

#shamanickeep #throt the unclean

[warhammer-fantasy-muses-archived]

shamanickeep​:

The observation didn’t go unnoticed. If anything, it made her let out a rumbled giggle of delight, the beast pleased with being accepted.

Coiling around the warlord, Bethanne rested her large head right over his belly, acting like nothing more than a loyal serpent rather than treacherous anomaly,

“ Oh, well I have just missed my most favorite skaven is all! Whelp Fang is doing just fine back at the Keep. I wanted to show you my actual self is all, da.

If you fancy, you may investigate and observe. I would not mind, I know you favor the macabre as I do. I am much more proficient and stronger like this. “

Despite her crimson eyes absent pupils, she still could see expertly well — and her intense gaze wouldn’t go unnoticed by the cowering passerby. One of which was a rather fat packmaster, gawking over her size and elasticity with widened eyes, his maw slightly agape as if mid-chew. Unsure to be frightened or curious.

Throt would only wince once as Betty’s sudden snake-like frame would begin to coil and swirl around his body, feeling her large head atop of his equally big belly, he’d huff a bit from the added pressure, but just kept staring at her with curious, and perhaps devilish intent. A small smirk was allowed to break free onto his face, as he’d reach a clawed hand forth, claws raking through scarlet hair with a few pats.

“Hrrmm... yes-yes, dead-thing is very interesting-looking right now. This is what dead-thing actually is-is? Interesting...” he mutters, still stroking along her hair with one hand, while another trails a couple of fingers along her face, trying to get a feel for her jaws, and teeth. They surely must be strong...

#shamanickeep #throt the unclean