That's all it takes, to unravel a complex tapestry of blood, deceit, and copious amounts of ass kissing Eridan has been steadily weaving for the past six, long, miserable years. Just one person. One wrong person to see what he's thinking about doing next.
Is Edward Nygma — childhood idol, savior, and boogeyman all wrapped into one crisp green package — really worth that risk? Not really, Eridan answers mutely, and it's the truth. Not really. He knows what happened to the rebellion's riddling darling; swears he heard the screams a few times, though after a while all screams start to sound the same. Damaged goods. A man locked in a war with not only his oppressors, but himself. And logically, the sea dweller knows he should keep walking.
But he's what you might call a romantic. A roemantic, even. And his helleborus-tinted glasses don't lie. Eridan steps into the alley and gambles it all.
"My maker never wants me, my buyer never uses me, my user never sees me."
Eridan, tall and broad and always vaguely smelling of brine, blocks the view of passing pedestrians with his body. Even if they cared to look past him, he doesn't really think they'd interfere; by interacting first, by stepping in, the haggard and possibly delusional man in the alley has become his problem. They won't even pay attention unless given reason, and Eridan certainly hopes Eddie won't.
His accent is impeccable — crisp vs, with a strongly southern tang. It makes him unique and noticeable in a very mundane way kind of way, and that's all he can afford these days. His lean against the brick is an easy one.
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That's all it takes, to unravel a complex tapestry of blood, deceit, and copious amounts of ass kissing Eridan has been steadily weaving for the past six, long, miserable years. Just one person. One wrong person to see what he's thinking about doing next.
Is Edward Nygma — childhood idol, savior, and boogeyman all wrapped into one crisp green package — really worth that risk? Not really, Eridan answers mutely, and it's the truth. Not really. He knows what happened to the rebellion's riddling darling; swears he heard the screams a few times, though after a while all screams start to sound the same. Damaged goods. A man locked in a war with not only his oppressors, but himself. And logically, the sea dweller knows he should keep walking.
But he's what you might call a romantic. A roemantic, even. And his helleborus-tinted glasses don't lie. Eridan steps into the alley and gambles it all.
"My maker never wants me, my buyer never uses me, my user never sees me."
Eridan, tall and broad and always vaguely smelling of brine, blocks the view of passing pedestrians with his body. Even if they cared to look past him, he doesn't really think they'd interfere; by interacting first, by stepping in, the haggard and possibly delusional man in the alley has become his problem. They won't even pay attention unless given reason, and Eridan certainly hopes Eddie won't.
His accent is impeccable — crisp vs, with a strongly southern tang. It makes him unique and noticeable in a very mundane way kind of way, and that's all he can afford these days. His lean against the brick is an easy one.
"What am I?"