[The video displays one thing and one thing only: a labeled bottle of pills set on some handy bit of old furniture. The image is steady enough, but displays nothing of Davesprite, not even one orange finger.]
So I found this, and I'm wondering what the fuck because I can barely read the name on the label. Like Latin and a sci-fi novelist had a chemical baby that got raised by a smiling white woman in a commercial full of flowers and a billion side effects. Something like, flexamol, paralax, xenofeline, one of those jumbles of too many letters you just know some pharmaceutical asshole made to fuck with people and make the doctor's RX that much more illegible for us plebs.
Makes you wonder how much bullshit they're scribbling down in the first place. "Patient's got one godawful haircut, give him this so he stops hacking up lung chunks and can get his ass to the barber." "Dude smells like chutney, prescribing 50 baths over a two week period and some fucking deodorant." Or, like, legit nonsense, and then the drug guy just grabs whatever bottle looks most like that tangle of handwritten keysmash. Let's be real, it's probably that one.
Anyway if this is yours, hit me up.
[He moves the device a bit closer for a more legible view of the label, then clicks the video off.]
[One of the first orders of business when settling down somewhere is to check what's in the building. Supplies, interesting weird shit, stuff like that. Davesprite has split up from his travel partner of the day to go investigating—there's probably only so much staring at a neon orange bird dude a person can stand—when he finds the message on the wall. How long it's been here is hard to tell; carbon dating was never in his wheelhouse, no matter the actual carbon scratched onto the surface. The username signed at the bottom is one he doesn't know, but that matters less than the content of the message itself.]
[A way out. It should be a good thing, a way out of this snowy hell pit, but the idea leaves his gut churning with uncertainty. A way out to where? And then what?]
[But his travel partner might care, and it's that thought which pushes him to drift back through the structure to wherever it is they're presently located.]
Yo, I found this message on the wall, something about a way out? Thought you might want to see it.
[He motions over his shoulder, ready to turn and lead the way if asked.]
Davesprite | Homestuck
[The video displays one thing and one thing only: a labeled bottle of pills set on some handy bit of old furniture. The image is steady enough, but displays nothing of Davesprite, not even one orange finger.]
So I found this, and I'm wondering what the fuck because I can barely read the name on the label. Like Latin and a sci-fi novelist had a chemical baby that got raised by a smiling white woman in a commercial full of flowers and a billion side effects. Something like, flexamol, paralax, xenofeline, one of those jumbles of too many letters you just know some pharmaceutical asshole made to fuck with people and make the doctor's RX that much more illegible for us plebs.
Makes you wonder how much bullshit they're scribbling down in the first place. "Patient's got one godawful haircut, give him this so he stops hacking up lung chunks and can get his ass to the barber." "Dude smells like chutney, prescribing 50 baths over a two week period and some fucking deodorant." Or, like, legit nonsense, and then the drug guy just grabs whatever bottle looks most like that tangle of handwritten keysmash. Let's be real, it's probably that one.
Anyway if this is yours, hit me up.
[He moves the device a bit closer for a more legible view of the label, then clicks the video off.]
—
Three (Note: Davesprite has a tail instead of legs and moves by hovering a couple inches off the ground. This was okay'd over on the FAQ.)
[One of the first orders of business when settling down somewhere is to check what's in the building. Supplies, interesting weird shit, stuff like that. Davesprite has split up from his travel partner of the day to go investigating—there's probably only so much staring at a neon orange bird dude a person can stand—when he finds the message on the wall. How long it's been here is hard to tell; carbon dating was never in his wheelhouse, no matter the actual carbon scratched onto the surface. The username signed at the bottom is one he doesn't know, but that matters less than the content of the message itself.]
[A way out. It should be a good thing, a way out of this snowy hell pit, but the idea leaves his gut churning with uncertainty. A way out to where? And then what?]
[But his travel partner might care, and it's that thought which pushes him to drift back through the structure to wherever it is they're presently located.]
Yo, I found this message on the wall, something about a way out? Thought you might want to see it.
[He motions over his shoulder, ready to turn and lead the way if asked.]