Character Development Anon! What Are Anatoly's Three Favorite Types Of Flowers?

character development anon! what are anatoly's three favorite types of flowers?

Anatoly has never really been a flower guy, believe it or not!

Anatoly focuses himself on herbs & edible plants as a whole, which by all means encompasses flowers, but the focus is the food of it, not the flower itself. He sees the rose for the tea, not its petals, in a sense. Though, he’s not completely ignorant to the aesthetic beauty of flowers, he simply prefers other kinds, such as the golden fields of wheat, the bright red shine of lingonberries, or the sturdy cultivation of thick stems from sugar beets all lined in fields.

If he did have to pick, however, he’d probably pick the carpathian snowbell, erysimum hungaricum, and the bird's-eye primrose. He is very fond of buttercups, angel’s trumpets, dandelions and as well bluebells however.

━━━ MISC LOKI HEADCANONS.

━ Loki has a tendency to hoard food more than actually eat. It’s not uncommon for him to hide stashes of containers of food around places he considers a home, or at least he considers safe, at times even putting illusions on them to ensure they’d go undiscovered. it’s not difficult to snare his wrath if you were to steal from him. its unclear why he does this & why he’s so possessive of it, but given he’s been in prisons for much of his life which often don’t give up a buffet if they can help it ( some, if not most he’s been within, bordering on starvation tactics, yet another thing he’s become incredibly accustomed to ) is likely the cause, or at least a reason.

━ As a soothing mechanism when faced with restraining his temper, he’ll tongue over his teeth & molars. it tends to act as a sense of intimidation, be that intended or not. Then again, one should always fear an angry god.

━ He’s always been keen for blades, in and out of battle. Obviously his weapon of choice is the dagger if available, but his use of knives aren’t limited to just that. He used to aid his Father & Thor in preparing game, including skinning and de-boning game. Cattle, swine, poultry, fish. Tying to this, he simply enjoys the act of properly working with his hands that comes with using a knife and cooking, even if its rare to find him in a kitchen without being poked and prodded.

━ He’s surprisingly easy to bruise, something he was often embarrassed by in his youth. the marks heal easily, as one might suspect, but they appear much too often for his liking.

━ He’s always had a hard time crying, regardless of if its on cue or genuine. He’d suppressed the impulse & want so long and so vehemently that it’s incredibly difficult, often forcing him to rely upon illusions when using alligator tears to his advantage. On the few occasions he does cry, it often leads to full-on sobbing. He’s not beautiful when he weeps, but then again, no one is.

𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃  &  𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄    (a  series  of  nonverbal  prompts .    ‘ my ’ muse  belongs  to  the  one who  posted  the  meme  -  send   “ + REVERSE ”   to  reverse  the  prompts .)

→     𝐈 .    GENERAL

❛   hush .   raise  a  finger  in  a  gesture  to  silence  my  muse . ❛   sit .  gesture  for  my  muse  to  sit  down . ❛   door .   hold  a  door  open  for  my  muse . ❛   tap .   tap  my  muse  on  the  shoulder  to  garner  their  attention . ❛   hunger .   give  my  muse  something  to  eat  /  drink . ❛   cook .   present  my  muse  with  home - cooked  food . ❛   brush .   work  a  brush  /  comb  through  my  muse’s  hair . ❛   read .   silently  read  a  book  alongside  my  muse . ❛   hand .   hold  out  a  hand  for  my  muse  to  take . ❛   dressed .   help  my  muse  put  on  an  article  of  clothing . ❛   note .   give  my  muse  a  note  saying :   [ content ] . ❛   amplify .   turn  up  the  music  in  the  car .

→     𝐈𝐈 .    ANGST

❛   patch .   help  my  muse  patch  up  a  wound . ❛   night terrors .   hold  my  muse  after  they  wake  up  from  a  nightmare . ❛   company .   silently  sit  with  my  muse  to  comfort  them. ❛   hospital .   my  muse  is  told  that  yours  is  in  the  hospital . ❛   revelation .   show  my  muse  evidence  of  a  lie  they  told . ❛   indulge .   find  my  muse  drinking  to  cope . ❛   downfall .   find  my  muse  collapsed  on  the  ground . ❛   console .   comfort  my  muse  as  they  cry . ❛   nurse .   give  my  muse  company  in  the  hospital .

→     𝐈𝐈𝐈 .    AFFECTIONATE

❛   wink .   wink  at  my  muse . ❛   wrap .   wrap  an  arm  around  my  muse’s  [ shoulders  /  waist ] . ❛   caress .   gently  caress  my  muse’s  face . ❛   tousle .   mess  playfully  with  my  muse’s  hair . ❛   chest .   place  your  head  on  my  muse’s  chest .   ❛   comb .   comb  fingers  through  my  muse’s  hair . ❛   grasp .   run  to  my  muse  &  jump  into  their  arms . ❛   lean .   lean  on  my  muse’s  shoulder . ❛   tender .   kiss  my  muse  on  the  [ forehead  /  cheek  /  nose ] . ❛   abrupt .   kiss  my  muse  out  of  the  blue . ❛   chaste .   chastely  kiss  my  muse . ❛   good morning .   kiss  my  muse  the  morning  after . ❛   volumes .   gaze  at  my  muse  in  a  way  that  silently  says  ‘i love you’ .

→    𝐈𝐕 .    VIOLENT

❛   strike .   [ slap / punch ]  my muse in the face . ❛   gun .   wield  a  gun  at  my  muse . ❛   twist .   twist  my  muse’s  arm  behind  their  back . ❛   throttle .   aggressively  wrap  your  hands  around  my  muse’s  throat . ❛   parch .   burn  my  muse  with  a  hot  object . ❛   take down .   forcefully  bring  my  muse  to  the  ground . ❛   gouge .   wield  a  sharp  object  at  my  muse . ❛  shunt .   shove  my  muse  backwards . ❛  stickup .   yell  at  my  muse  to  put  their  hands  in  the  air. ❛  shoot .   [ fatally  /  non-fatally ]   shoot  my  muse . ❛  stab .   stab  my  muse with a  [ knife / other object ].

🌪️ tornado - what is the biggest change you've ever made to them? how have they changed from their original version? // for elesa or andy the apple ?? :0

Due to the fact I don't think I've strayed an egregious amount for Elesa & Andy's changes just being more interesting, I'll expand on him!

The most notable change is that Andy is separate from Thomas, his creator possessing him, or more accurately simply embodying him since Andy at his core is by technicality simply code with no true body to inhabit, as long as your looking at it by technicality, of course.

And the second most notable change is that Andy doesn't know Thomas, he inherits little to none of his knowledge of what's truly happening here. Andy only knows that he loves his friends, until they're not his friends, and he can't place when or why they aren't anymore. Andy only knows that he loves the farm, until he feels drawn to dig his hands in something living, rip open meat or dirt to peel back what's underneath but he can never dig deep enough to rip at what something is telling him to peel off the walls, how it's not right. Andy knows the barn until its dark and it's not a barn its a maze and there's a man he doesn't know and he doesn't understand why they've locked him in with a stranger who feels so familiar and so foreign at the same time, a stranger who he doesn't know, a stranger who part of him says he does, a stranger that, for once, he can agree with whatever else keeps telling him otherwise when it says that the stranger scares him.

Andy is unaware as much as he is. Andy doesn't understand. Andy doesn't know if he wants to. Andy doesn't know about ghosts yet, but he's starting to learn. Andy never knew what that inhuman, ghastly fear was like until it rips out his bones and replaces it with something squirming. Andy hears those horrors in the sluggish sloshing of the water in the bottom of the lake and the forests clanging dead branches and the cracking of half-burnt wood under his work-boots that aren't his. Andy's never killed anyone, but he can't stop washing his hands like there's something to get off.

Andy's scared. He can't help you. He's sorry. He's so, so sorry.

[ rose ] for barkovitch... or stebbins.... or both

[ rose ] for a lovesick memory.

Barkovitch has never been the kind of kid that people got along with. always a little too snide, mistaking pride for honey, a little too rough around the edges, sharp like a dull blade digging into your side in the way there wasn’t the adrenaline of being cut, just the annoying digging in your side. He was like burning rubber ; loud enough to catch your attention, usually obnoxious, and usually made you sick by the smell. You could recognize him anywhere, and when you could avoid him, it was relief, and irritation & a headache when you couldn’t.

But every kid gets lonely, and almost every kid tricks themselves into thinking about things in ways they’re not.

Barkovitch was the kid sending store-bought Valentine’s cards that never led back to who sent it after one too many mocked him for it, one too many went looking and turned back when they found the answer, one too many. ━ so Barkovitch never writes his name, barely writes much at all, uses practiced handwriting to keep it up in the air, unrecognizable, but sweet. The kind of Valentine you’d always wonder about, the kind of Valentine that meant something, if only because you didn’t know who it was from.

One year, he went looking in places he shouldn’t, and he saw someone that burned a little too bright for him not to stare a little too long. He wasn’t stupid, even if you could argue otherwise, he knew the kind of kid he was, and he knew that who he was wasn’t the only issue. People aren’t meant to be like that, you know, at least that’s what he was told, and so its what he knew. kids only know what they’re told, so he looked, never touched, and one year he sent that lighter a Valentine come February 14th. He spent the rest of the year watching like being told staring at the sun makes you go blind makes you look longer, even if all it was was chlorine swimming pools & sitting alone at lunch & knowing him but never knowing him. For the rest of that year, he stared, and never got caught, and that Valentine laid untouched in that desk for the next 2 odd-years. Looked, never caught, and under a stop-light in a cold passenger seat of a beat up car on a young enough morning to still nip you in the throat, Barkovitch wonders if that hotshot ever thinks twice.

Probably not, he decides as it turns green, probably not.

A very long time ago, there was a storm. a storm worse than many others, one that whistled through the eaves of the Undergrounds, one who’s rains threatened to breach some parts of the mountain like a strange savior, an angel jabbing hail & rain like needles at the earth until something stuck deep enough in the stone to carve the way out : it was like something else entirely. ― that was the day Chara fell to the Dreemurrs. That was the day the monsters took the teeth & gums of the storm, and were handed a child instead, and called it an angel. For what was the difference, truly, if they were born of the storm as much as the womb? what was the difference, truly?

Some acknowledged that Chara was no savior, they had fallen during a hurricane, probably seeking shelter, and wound up trapped instead. Some did, but others didn’t. desperation & hope blended into a sense of divinity that was from a storm pushing cards in their favor as much as it didn’t. Monsters needed something to latch on; and the child was lucky enough to be their prince ― be their monarch. ― whether they intended it or not. Some intentions don’t go very far with a nations eyes prickling at your neck, crawling on your back. 

A very long time ago, there was a storm. a storm worse than many others. One that froze the Underground over, where even Hotland went cold, where the earth was barely a big enough blanket to keep the frost encroaching on territory like a grand hazy war they never had, and certainly never won. It was Gyftmas Eve when they found them, it was Gyftmas Eve when the blizzard wrought snow, it was Gyftmas Eve when the plan was set into motion the way it shouldn’t have ― and it shouldn’t have, but it was. That was the day they died, the Prince & the Human, the Child & the Monster, Chara & Asriel. That was the day they died, right before Gyftmas, right on Chara’s birthday. What a thing to behold, waiting in your garden, the day of ones birth ――― and, the day of one’s death. What a sight, to have the Underground wracked with the blizzard. it was like it knew ― but this time, this storm did not deal out cards. it only tore them in half.