devlog #35, [white-knuckling the sink] I'm back, baby!

Sorry! You caught me at the inauguration of Caligul-- sorryy-- never mind. That's too much credit, right? Right? Let's all breathe, yes? Ok. Hugs all around. Let's go.

At any point in time during my recent days, there is at least five hundred and eleventyfive pressing things on my to-do list. I'm fighting for my life with lawyers and the way they are gouging, no, blazing holes in my credit, but simultaneously they are gracing my life with their hard work because it. is. SUCH a shitstorm that involves harassment, forged documents, and my dads car being stolen in some real weird circumstances. The police are involved, and it might lead to trial if I press on. I can't give all the deets, but just know that this separation has turned into one of those freak fire-tornadoes. Ugh. I don't want to talk about it, honestly.
I have another dentist appointment that is looming over my wallet like a gleeful Cheshire cat, too. My wisdom teeth need out immediately, apparently (girl, me too), because they are choking my other teeth to death. I have furniture to find, buy and collect and God Have Mercy, I am running all over town transporting chairs and tables on public transport with one (1) unemployed friend while nana lives the opulent life of too-many-treats at my parents house, leaving me with a sweet doagy with gurgling, dooming gastro distress (read: diarrhea. so , so, so, much 5 am-fucking-running-down-the-stairs-with-a-farting-dog diarrhea. FUCK.). And while i'm not being rudely farted awoken from my princess dreams, I'm for some reason hell-bent on getting into the best shape of my life because if I don't, I've found it too easy to turn to the bottle so... Yeah. LETS BREATHE TOGETHER, YES?!
I'm sorry I'm not eloquent in every devlog, but you get me as I am when I sit down to write it. Sometimes it's the wistful, bursting-with-hope Lou, other times it will be the frazzled bitch that's desperately trying to get her life together. Hi! That's me!

Today was my first day back to do my uni courses, this time it's pedagogy though, thank god, buuuuuut I am seriously considering to halt and push forward my timeline on that, just to have some time to truly work on ouro. (And, to be honest, to also work a normal honest-to-god job as a sub just to get some money in because the student funding has been giving me a hard time until i'm in a properly registered program)-- I was completely saturated with Studying Tasks the second that first lecture was over, and I have only gotten a little bit into remaking the ouro demo. And I have another class starting next week. I am completely at a loss at what to do, honestly. It needs some thinking over.

Whooooooooosaaaa. Let's just move on. It stinks in here.

Last week I ported ouros old demo onto cogdemos, link found here: https://cogdemos.ink/play/louroth/ouroboros

and I have attached the id101 file down below if any of you would like to read it as it is not currently slotted into the timeline of the old demo, but will be a part of it once I code out the placement! If you decide to read it, never hesitate to contact me if it is too dense on coding or if the formatting is shot. I'm uploading the choicescript file as is, and I don't know how that looks if you are reading it in any other way than through a coding IDE. I fix for you. Just give me a shout if it is troublesome, yeah?

Further on ouro, I have been writing diligently to add to the new version. While I haven't had a chance to look just yet, as it plonked into my inbox as I was typing this up, the final version (barring any bugs I need ironed) of ouro's UI is FINISHED! And ready to work in! I'm going to dive into the code the minute I can-- tomorrow morning there are handymen coming to the apartment to work on some stuff (my oven is broken. among other things, like my sink, my tile backsplash-- ugh. grumble grumble they fucked something up between the showing and when I moved in buuut. anyway.) and I am going to be home for that, so I am hoping I can do some good ouro-work during those hours.

Back to ouro writing: at this time it has been a pitiful 100-1500 on-a-good-day words, per day, and varying wildly in quality, but it is slooowly chugging forward. I am currently writing one of the side-stories you unlock as you progress. Do you remember, in the demo, you have the option to say "Oh I know this weirdo?" when meeting Sene/Selene?

Well, now, if you pick that option, a sidestory/flashback unlocks for you. Similar things happen with the other RO's, but it is not always a flashback. Sometimes it's a pov, or an additional scene entirely. (like the id101!)
Here's a taste of Sene's pop-up (Selene's is just like it, I just always default to writing the male versions first, as you know.) It is from before the release-apocalypse, with variations for your origin. This is straight up copypastad from my working file, so excuse the choppy, waspish, wip-nature of it. When I write, it truly is a gnarly fight between me and the document sometimes. It'll be ironed out, don't worry. At first, it just has to be blurted out onto the page to get the vibes down.

And, hey. I'm breathing. Are you breathing too, somewhere in the distance? I am doing everything I can to make this happen, you know this. I wouldn't even try, if it wasn't for you. I can't say that enough. It's you, it's you, it's you. Thank you, for everything. For believing in me.
I hope that one day, all your patience will pay off in the way you hope it will. Okay. We're breathing.

I'll see you soon. xx

~S' moodboard, if you hadn't seen it!~

It jogs your memory. 

[That night was one to remember. ]

Your earrings/cufflinks catch the light as you adjust them in the mirror. You twist, and the sparkling stuff sparkles— you almost snort, indignantly, but something stops you, that feeling swerving, plummeting into the ditch that is your truest, most shameful desire. This— this— is exactly what you need. A moment of peace. Of glamour. Of grotesque opulence: some counterweight to the grime you still carry beneath your fingernails, no matter how hard you have scrubbed. You're tired. You've spent months in the field, blood, smoke and steel the only constants. Remind me to never ask Leith to take me on a mission again. That smug face— ugh.

So you scowl, staring out the window over the city that is sparkling, too. Your face embossed over the imagery, the feeling oozing out of you like a dense, heavy smoke, melding together with the smog several stories below. Is it as naked as you feel?
Tonight, nestled between the high rise towers of Oakwerth, you will get to be someone. Someone who wears silk and delicate jewelry instead of a uniform. Your reflection, and the stark reality; the context— it wars. No mud. No blood.

An esteemed guest.

You.

[What a laugh.]

<The dress> Soft as the moonlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the dress slips effortlessly over your body, cool as fluid. It is a shimmering, iridescent thing, a warm champagne that clings to your frame and highlights the strong, angular lines of your shoulders. Your hair* is pulled back into an elegant up-do, two strands swinging like pendulums over your collarbones, There's something almost familiar about it, the luxury of it all, the silk against your skin; the glimmering reflection in the mirror. You try a smile, and have to steady yourself against the back of your chair.

[What the fuck.]

There's a sound; a soft, whirring noise out in the hallway. You hear the door open to the suite, the distinct clinking of gears meshing together, of wheels rolling over the thresholds. The soft hiss of a hydraulics system releasing pressure. It arrives into the bedroom where you stand, bathed in artificial light. It tilts its head in your direction, a bottle of champagne, smoking from being freshly opened, and a tall-stemmed flute beside it, filled halfway with sparkling liquid.

"Lastname," it intones, the voice emanating from behind a crackled porcelain mask, mended with gold. "You look positively marvelous. A drink?"

You drop your hands and smooth the dress/ tug on the sleeves to the suit instinctively.

>choice

    >My face adapts a sneer far too easily. "You can see?"

        The automaton chuckles low, a rolling wave in whatever it is it has for a throat. "I am of mechanical nature, although I contain a soul, and eyes." It sniffs. "And manners."

        You try hard to keep the chock off your face, and instead, accept the glass of champagne.

    >My lips seal tight and I give a rough nod. A drink would be nice.

        The automaton rolls up to you with an ease of an aristocrat doing a practiced waltz. The platter is presented, and you take the glass. You take a sip, relishing the fizz as it makes it way down your throat. There could be worse ways to spend your evening.

With a whirl the automaton deposits the ice-bucket and champagne, and reaches out to hand you a letter, a creme scroll with a lavender-pink seal. You raise your brow. "The details of my guard duty?"

"Negative, lastname. You will accompany Dr Lillion tonight as sehis escort."

The champagne catches in your throat, but you struggle through swallowing it down, like drinking sandpaper. Your voice is hoarse when you regain it, a hand to your chest in affront, and comfort. "Escort? I am not a paid whore—"

"Lastname!" The automaton sounds appalled as it whirls in place. "No such thing. This is a diplomatic mission, a chance for you to see—"

You roll your eyes. Of course. "This is an awful round-about way of saying I am not allowed my weapons. Insulting, too." You smirk/snarl at the thing, feeling the embers of something noble burning in your gut— ha! perhaps this game is for you, after all.

It is quiet for a beat, the automaton rolling back and forth, like a human would, when weighing on the balls of their feet. And then, a sniff from a raised nose. "Quite."

A rumble of a laugh counteracts the still abrasive champagne. Tongue pressing into your cheek, you give the automaton a once-over. "Do you have a name?"

"567-11, sir/maam. Eleven, for short."

"Eleven. What makes you think I am carrying weapons?" Your voice is so syrupy you can't blame the poor bot for getting its gears caught in it. It whirs up, computing loudly. You don't tear your gaze away as it works, blipping and wheezing.

It abrubtly stops.

"From my scan, you are carrying 14 hidden blades, a gun in your waistband and another seven poisoned needles along the seam behind your back. Correct?"

Whether it be the champagne causing your stomach to flutter, or the air of something new tickling your gut, you cant help it: you throw your head back in laughter. At the very least—

"And the compounds of another blade at the bottom of your shoe."

You stop laughing abrubtly, only to lift your lip at the bot, a showing of teeth. A sneer that cuts deep. "You—"

"I am doing my job, as instructed by Lillion. Please deposit your weapons here. They will be well guarded until such a time you collect them again."

The rest of your champagne slides down your throat as you gulp it down. You begin removing the weapons one by one while the bot, Eleven, refills your flute. Muttering under your breath, you finally step out of your shoe to remove your last-ditch weapon. Lucky that they can't make you remove your muscles, or teeth, or the—

"I will have to ask you to remove the pearl of poison behind your molar, as well."

Fucks sake.

"I can't have anything?"

"I assure you, lastname, that you will be perfectly safe in Lillions company. To wear any type of weaponry within the confines of The Olgiaf is a great affront. You, and everyone here, abides by the same rules. There are bots for this specific purpose, prowling the crowds at all times. If anyone is discovered to have a weapon, the punishment is death. Swift, and decisive. No matter your personal business, the Olgiaf is for pure entertainment, and goes to great lengths to assure it for our patrons. Now, if you please."

The bot holds out a porcelain hand, wired together with gears at the joints. You look between it, and its face, while your tongue works the little pearl loose. You spit it into its palm.

"There we are. I hope you enjoy your evening. In a quarter, Lillion will be awaiting you in the foyer," it stops by the door and bows its head at an angel, in perfect supplication to service. "I do hope you enjoy your evening in Oakwerth, lastname."

The door shuts. You swipe the contents of your flute to wash out the strange taste out of your mouth. [i]Eleven[/i].

What the fuck even is Oakwerth.

-----

The foyer of the hotel is an overwhelming sight, but less so now that you are not clad in mud and boots. Still, the weight of opulence feels like a noose around your neck. It’s too bright. Too loud. Too... polished. The white marble floor gleams beneath your feet, and everywhere you turn, men and women in extravagant clothing bustle around, offering smiles laced with both pleasure and calculation. Music spills from somewhere unseen, thick and full, swaddling you in a heady, overpowering blend of wealth and affluence. A shiver runs down your spine. This is— it can be far more dangerous than a blade, to be sure.

And there sehe is.

Sene Lillion stands near the entrance, by one of the reality-defying palmtrees, looking every bit the aristocrat you've been told that sehe is— perfectly tailored three-piece suit in a purple so deep it borders on black, sehis lean throat a shock of paleness as it emerges from a crsip black shirt. A pocketwatch with a chain so delicate and it merely gives the suggestion of sparkles as it catches the light from the overhead chandeliers. sehis platinum blonde hair glows under the light, falling in controlled sections around sehis protruding cheekbones, sehis features so impossibly sharp you wonder if they’ve been meticulously carved by the gods themselves with stone and chisel. sehe could cut a man’s throat with a glance.

You follow that gaze at it floats, calm, collected; superior, over the crowd. Like a father, surveying his children. It travels over the masses with ease, and you follow it; every head, every corner. Every thing. Once across from you, and closer...closer...— then you meet it head on. A brow lifts, eyes honed; a leisured scan, up and down, before sehe straightens, sehis mouth lifting infinitesimally at the corners to bring forth a barely noticeable dimple. A smile, in parenthesis. Within it, a mouth that ought to be more than a footnote.

You raise a brow in return, confidence gained from the champagne. Hmmm, your heart hums. It swells with the intensity of everything, hungry for more.

[What the fuck.] [Just... Go with it.]

"Miss/Mr Lastname," sehis voice lilts with something that feels dangerously close to [i]amusement[/i] as he approaches. "What a pleasure to have you on my arm tonight."

You merely incline your head, ignoring the offer, your eyes narrowing. "Lillion."

"Please. Do call me Sene."

You accept a flute of champagne from a waiter walking past, and it feels like throwing your head out the window to breathe. It's violent, the relief from sehis gaze. When you return to the enclosed bubble of evaluation, you let your eyes fall over sehis features over the rim of your glass. The fizz is near frosty as you sip. It is sehis turn to narrow his eyes. The scrutiny is stifling.

>choice

    >"By all means. Call me firstname."

        A predatory smile spreads over sehis lips, plush and wet after sehe takes a elegant sip sehimself.

    >"Sene," you hum, drawing it out. "An unusual name."

        The slight isn't lost on sehim. Like a viper, his snarl is quick, loose, and swiftly stifled into a polite mask of cool detachment.

"You look... exquisite," sehe says after a moment of mutual surveying, sehis voice purring, heating the space once more. sehis eyes wander over every bit of exposed muscle, measuring, calculating. "It’s a pity I won't get to see you fight."

You bristle at the comment, but before you can snap back, the music swells, the doors open— and sene extends sehis arm, with an air of finality. Not threatening, not commanding—just the overly expecting, exasperated offer of a seman who expects sehis escort to fall in line.

You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes. "I don’t need to be armed," you reply, keeping your voice low and cool as you accept sehis offer far more casually than you'd expect yourself to. "I’m perfectly capable of protecting you, or myself, without pulling a blade."

"Then I’ll consider myself fortunate," sehe murmurs, glancing down at you with a smile that only widens at your whipping, sharp gaze. "And there are many ways to fight that don't involve violence."

You swallow and face forward. Tit, for tat. The game you had been warned of, the insidious ways of the aristocracy of Oakwerth, was on. The rules were set, and you were to follow them. For a bristling split-second, you take a steadying breath and slam your eyes closed. For Riven. Always for Riven. As your eyes flutter open, you find Sene already studying you, the bracketed smile of amusement firmly in place. "Don’t get too frightened, firstname— the only thing you'll be certain of once this is over— is how wrong you were."

You huff, but let yourself be steered into the throng, the masses vibrating, buzzing with conversation with laughter floating to the top like the bubbles in your flute. You look to sehim, and at at your apparent contempt, sehe tugs, leans close, and whispers an addendum into your ear, breath hot. "And if there is one thing I love above all, it is to prove people wrong."

"I'll remember that." Your voice is a dart, flying through the air between you, and hitting its mark without any other notice.

Sene chuckles, the sound low and rich, before sehis hold tightens ever so slightly on your arm, coaxing you forward towards a group of obviously autofellating elites. "Good."

[this continues, and I promise I will edit it LMAO, but I'm cutting it off here because yay, sexy cliffhanger instead of very unsexy cutoff in the middle of a new scene! I'll share the full version of Oakwerths-version-of-court-intrigue, once it is done. Mwah!]