RE: The Big Damn Fight- Multiverse's Got Talent!
07-06-2016, 02:24 AM
"Ah've always been a real free spirit, y'gotta be when destiny's resurfin' it's barbdiest quills fer yeh."
Peppi grinned wide enough to filter-feed on crawdads. The cameras, after all, are watching. Peppi had no damn clue what, exactly, a camera was, but rest assured they were eating her up. She lounged in the interview chair with utmost confidence, partway propped up by the ever-shifting cut of her cloak. The capital-P producer but-let's-not-shit-this-up-just-yet-not-like-a-the-Producer-producer, whoever they were supposed to be in the grand scheme of things, had given it the same polite interest he accorded for every other would-be star's garish routine prop.
It had thrown the producer fuck it let's call him Call-me-Cadel Cadel, it had thrown Call-me-Cadel for a loop when he asked if that was her talent and Peppi frankly looked insulted, like ugh no this Preyshit cursecloth was not what she had to offer the primetime'd masses. His aides had gently taken her aside from the waiting room to figure out if her brand of show-up-unannounced-and-holler warranted screentime or security. The "ah'm here on some like glad-yatorial gulemuck care a right ugly slug went by Margot" angle could definitely be played up, though they would've rather heard from the Battle in question's organisers beforehand.
And now, here she was, gallantly unaware of and symbiotic with the cameras glued onto her like a ray with its remorae. She drawled a richly-accented and probably-fictitious tale of kidnapping and bested gods and lesbian romance, and Call-me-Cadel prayed to Serisque (patron deity of reality TV around these parts) that this hick-frog would survive the prelims and let him work this narrative gold into a behind-the-scenes content.
The audition-centre Host (species: Host) arched its salacious spine and smiled its winningest smile, its blink-and-it's-a-microphone limb jabbing quickly between Peppi's deluge of ancedotes.
"So, your majesty," asked Host, "We're wrapping this segment up for now, would you care to give anyone a shout-out?"
"Y'passin on missives fer me? Righteous. Uuuuuuuuuuuuuh I reckon thanks to y'all fineries of Multiversers Gott-Talent fer takin' me in, does a harangued little royal like meself good to find some proper civility. Speaknawhich, All-Souls Willim. If yeh's in the market fer more talent than even I can wrangle, there's a legger'd provide right nicely."
Peppi beamed, actually at the camera this time with pointed direction courtesy of Host. She leered at the teleprompter a moment, managing to pass it off as a confident smirk.
"Thank yehs, annnnnnd God Bless.... Mmmerica!"
Peppi grinned wide enough to filter-feed on crawdads. The cameras, after all, are watching. Peppi had no damn clue what, exactly, a camera was, but rest assured they were eating her up. She lounged in the interview chair with utmost confidence, partway propped up by the ever-shifting cut of her cloak. The capital-P producer but-let's-not-shit-this-up-just-yet-not-like-a-the-Producer-producer, whoever they were supposed to be in the grand scheme of things, had given it the same polite interest he accorded for every other would-be star's garish routine prop.
It had thrown the producer fuck it let's call him Call-me-Cadel Cadel, it had thrown Call-me-Cadel for a loop when he asked if that was her talent and Peppi frankly looked insulted, like ugh no this Preyshit cursecloth was not what she had to offer the primetime'd masses. His aides had gently taken her aside from the waiting room to figure out if her brand of show-up-unannounced-and-holler warranted screentime or security. The "ah'm here on some like glad-yatorial gulemuck care a right ugly slug went by Margot" angle could definitely be played up, though they would've rather heard from the Battle in question's organisers beforehand.
And now, here she was, gallantly unaware of and symbiotic with the cameras glued onto her like a ray with its remorae. She drawled a richly-accented and probably-fictitious tale of kidnapping and bested gods and lesbian romance, and Call-me-Cadel prayed to Serisque (patron deity of reality TV around these parts) that this hick-frog would survive the prelims and let him work this narrative gold into a behind-the-scenes content.
The audition-centre Host (species: Host) arched its salacious spine and smiled its winningest smile, its blink-and-it's-a-microphone limb jabbing quickly between Peppi's deluge of ancedotes.
"So, your majesty," asked Host, "We're wrapping this segment up for now, would you care to give anyone a shout-out?"
"Y'passin on missives fer me? Righteous. Uuuuuuuuuuuuuh I reckon thanks to y'all fineries of Multiversers Gott-Talent fer takin' me in, does a harangued little royal like meself good to find some proper civility. Speaknawhich, All-Souls Willim. If yeh's in the market fer more talent than even I can wrangle, there's a legger'd provide right nicely."
Peppi beamed, actually at the camera this time with pointed direction courtesy of Host. She leered at the teleprompter a moment, managing to pass it off as a confident smirk.
"Thank yehs, annnnnnd God Bless.... Mmmerica!"
peace to the unsung peace to the martyrs | i'm johnny rotten appleseed
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow