You had put back the mask, carefully, and with no screaming, and then you'd backtracked to the recuperacoon, and hid your face.
You just touched tanned and dried troll skin. You're going to catch all the diseases, and die.
To distract yourself, you go through your sylladex. Opening up the wardrobe inventory is easy, now that you're not drunk, and you look at the face in the mirror unhappily.
Your hair is a mess. There's twists missing, where you chewed them off in a fit of anxiety yesterday, and the rest of them are in various states of unravelling. And the plastic beads that you used, while they look nice enough in the bright lights of the day, just look cheap and terrible in the dim light.
Combined with the fact you lost your contacts yesterday and your bottle green, sopor-laden clothes, you look terrible.
There's nothing you can do about your hair, unfortunately, without making it look worse, and your clothes are a lost cause. But you do keep spare eyecovers in your wardrobe, catalogued in a pair of sneakers you've never worn, and once you've put them in and normal, yolk-yellow eyes are blinking back at you in the mirror, you feel a little better.
When you've got your glasses on over them, your hair tied back and up, and a cheap cloak over the hot mess that is your outfit, you feel almost normal.
It's sheer luck that's when Hinnom pops back up. You hear the high, reedy voice calling your name, and you have just enough time to close your sylladex before the grub pops into sight.
"Hello there," you say weakly. They're tiny, adorable, and saved your hide, and you really should be grateful for that. You should say thank you, or something nice and pleasant --
no subject
You just touched tanned and dried troll skin. You're going to catch all the diseases, and die.
To distract yourself, you go through your sylladex. Opening up the wardrobe inventory is easy, now that you're not drunk, and you look at the face in the mirror unhappily.
Your hair is a mess. There's twists missing, where you chewed them off in a fit of anxiety yesterday, and the rest of them are in various states of unravelling. And the plastic beads that you used, while they look nice enough in the bright lights of the day, just look cheap and terrible in the dim light.
Combined with the fact you lost your contacts yesterday and your bottle green, sopor-laden clothes, you look terrible.
There's nothing you can do about your hair, unfortunately, without making it look worse, and your clothes are a lost cause. But you do keep spare eyecovers in your wardrobe, catalogued in a pair of sneakers you've never worn, and once you've put them in and normal, yolk-yellow eyes are blinking back at you in the mirror, you feel a little better.
When you've got your glasses on over them, your hair tied back and up, and a cheap cloak over the hot mess that is your outfit, you feel almost normal.
It's sheer luck that's when Hinnom pops back up. You hear the high, reedy voice calling your name, and you have just enough time to close your sylladex before the grub pops into sight.
"Hello there," you say weakly. They're tiny, adorable, and saved your hide, and you really should be grateful for that. You should say thank you, or something nice and pleasant --
"I like your decorating."
Damn it.