being clever never sweats you

@Olive's declaration of courtship with Amaroq was enough to plague him for a good short while. True, it was not the first time he had to stomach the knowledge of a female bestie giving herself to a sucky man. How much more of this would he have to endure, really? If he was a true Frei, he might have drawn upon his Kingly masculinity and forbidden her!

Yet, Violarum knows women well enough to know they cannot be stopped. Ever. If anything, it would be he that was stopped - forever! Though, he had taken instead to the ceasefire of thought, diverting his path along the road Colby had once taken him - to the Marula trees. Yes. The ones that dropped a bright yellow, stinky fruit that made everything better.

He was drunk again. Turns out being drunk alone was kind of fun too, though certainly not entirely the same. Olive liked fun. He didn't know where she was, and his breath stunk so foully of fermenting fruit he couldn't smell her either. So, in his wibble-wobble state, he was digging a hole quite literally over her den-site (or so he thought), huffing and snickering to himself all the while.

"Marula, marula - m-my fruityness. A deep... deeeeep hole for you. An Olive hole. No. An Olive tree... in a hole" he giggled at himself delightedly, "The holiest of trees in holes."

when forever has no end

_{art by yumpy —}

in truth, olive had been certain that this day would come – but in a distant future that would see his mane peppered, skin wrinkled, and muscles diminished with disuse. but as the great king slurs his nonsense above the quiet drone of rain, olive is forced to acknowledge a devastating truth:

today were the day @Violarum would come to lose what little remained of his mind — or so her naivety were wont to believe.

midnight strolling finds her den devoid of life, but the rustle of tilled soil lures her back to its vicinity with hastened step. there is a level of concern exemplified by the knit of brows and frantic sweeping of her gaze as she moves to approach the strange scene: tentative now with equal parts curiosity, equal parts dread. and though he is diligent in his attempts to unearth her from the den’s interior – bypassing an accessible entrance to demolish its roof, instead – olive is struck silent from her distant vantage point. there is only a slow blink offered in bewilderment as she observes his erratic behavior, oblivious to the reason for his altered state of conscious – or of the very presence of the culprit, discarded now at his side.

without forethought or much of a plan, she glides to him as his giggles subside, steps careful so as not to disturb. “hey there, buddy, what’ve we got here?” she chirps, tones patronizing as the concern for vio’s wellbeing seeps through. and though olive has little experience with the senile, she supposes it were a task best-handled with a gentle touch she often lacked – and one very reminiscent of ghyslaine. oh! ghyslaine: her knight in shining armor, and olive’s one-way ticket out of assuming custody for their broken, fried friend. “why don’t we get you to ghyslaine’s for the night, yeah? wouldn’t that be so fun?”

code & art

being clever never sweats you

As soft clouds grew heavier and eventually met the clay male with a gentle twilight sprinkle, he thinks inwardly that it was perfect. For though he would soon be all wet and bedraggled, so too would his olive-tree. For a man who smiled so little in his right state of mind, he sure enjoyed being stupidly happy when under the influence of intoxication.

So slow to register, Violarum's ruby gaze blinks at @Olive, struggling to grasp her words as he eventually comes to focus on his friend. His lovely, lovely friend. "Oliveee. You're like," his head cocks a little as his eyes shift in out of focus, "A flower in the grass." It was getting rather dark of course, so her dainty form might have disappeared amidst the savanna if the moonlight didn't peek through the clouds here and there; shrouding her in blinks of silver as the sky continued to spit.

"Marula. For you!" he tries to exclaim, staggering a little as he sought to rediscover where he'd left that last remaining fruit. Eventually, it squashes under a paw, and the King chirps upwards happily. "We plant it, and it grows," a pause, "An Olive tree." His words were slurred and his posture uneasy. "Because you!" but Olive's proposition of Ghyslaine is met with an attempted paw to his Sovereign's face, laced with the juice of alcoholic fruit, "Shhhhhh. Tonight-" and his wobbly head would flop in an attempt to stare her right in her orange gaze, rather unsuccessfully, "Is for you."

when forever has no end

_{art by yumpy —}

through the lens of her naivety, is a somber shroud cast upon his eccentric behavior: tainting lighthearted fun with grave misunderstanding. but even the dull ache of her concern is carefully-concealed behind a smiling facade — impenetrable, if not for the gleam of uncertainty made apparent through rounding eyes. and as @Violarum phases out from the task at hand – abandoning his ruinous handiwork to consider her through the slow flutter of lashes – olive cannot help but question her own grip on reality. perhaps this were only some bizarre dream, spun from waking worries of losing the sense of normalcy they’d only just now started to regain.

but the pungent odor that accompanies his words — no. that were very, very real – and very, very unfortunate.

her upper lip lifts reflexively in a sign of disgust, and simultaneously, does the sprite rock back upon her heels with dramatic recoil. whatever sympathy she’d harbored for the wellbeing of her friend, quickly rushes out the door as the strange scent settles between them, choking her with its potency. “fuck’s sake—eugh,” she struggles, tones caught someplace between exasperation and amusement as a forepaw lifts to wave away what stink she could. she pins him with an accusatory glare, then, withholding her giggles as he likens her to a flower in his impaired state-of-mind. “mhm…” she hums, falsely considerate of his judgment with a sage nod. “and you’re like… a warthog,” she asserts at long last, very assuredly. a sly smirk inches across her features before she seeks to jab at his chest with the once-fanning paw. “a stinky, stinky warthog.” they (read: no one) do not call her the queen of wit for nothing, after all.

the brevity of her concern, now reduced to a thing of the past, her gaze soon drops from his dazed features and to the squished fruit underfoot. slowly, she begins to piece together strewn puzzle pieces as he spews his nonsense of… growing… her?, recalling vague memories of the drunken lagoon queen from ages-past. “is th–” but a stray forepaw to the face silences her, and she blinks slowly as he proclaims the night her own. her smirk deepens at the notion before she seeks to duck beneath his raised arm, peering up at him with glimmering mischief. “you ate that?” she seeks confirmation of her suspicions with a pointing chin, grasping at the fruit’s flesh with greedy, curious hands. “share?” the request is almost childlike as she searches for his approval. “then—we dig.” if she must concede with his ingenious cloning plans, so be it; she were more than inclined to get in on his fun while she could. and vio – as far as she could tell – had more than enough fun to go around.

code & art

being clever never sweats you

True, the very smell of his breath could likely intoxicate; but he holds himself shamelessly close to her, any judgement of personal space he might have had (if any) had surely been entirely drowned by his state. His mind, all woozy and clouded, is entirely happy to be called a warthog - "Stinky and strong," he would beam as the lioness aimed a prod at his chest, filling his lungs with air and curling his elbows outwards in a manly flex and drunken snarl.

@Olive ducked beneath his face-palm and left the burly King to tumble unsteadily back to all fours, peering down at her sweet little face with some sense of dim-witted satisfaction, his maw curled up in a one-sided smile as he nodded affirmatively, "Is good." It wasn't really. The fruit was more of an acquired taste, but definitely worth the shits and giggles.

"Eat it," Violarum rumbles gleefully, trying to stride backwards for better access to the whole situation, only to end up flopping gracelessly to his backside. An oversize paw would chase the fruit where she held it, trying to guide it rather forcefully to her mouth as though she needed it. Impatient. Then, he would gaze with drunken instability upon her dark face, entirely intending to watch her struggles. But! He remembered there was more around here somewhere, so though his vision is well-trained to the feminine roundness that was her olive-head, a paw is searching rather blindly across the grass - or her little squishy toes or something - patting mindlessly.

when forever has no end

_{art by yumpy —}

if he wished to find the silver lining in her insult (or, rather, create it himself), olive would not dare stand in the way. on the contrary, she plays in to his display of masculinity with ogling eyes and girlish giggles, offering rapt attention through batted lashes as he poses in the limelight of the moon. “what a hunk,” she whistles, lips curling in a wayward smirk. “two warthogs,” is the quick correction she makes. “one right there and one right there–” a pointed toe trails to either of his biceps, then, before she succumbs to her own humors with a soft chuckle. exaggerated though her compliments were – and theatrical though her performance – olive were not blind, and @Violarum were more than deserving of praise she’d not often dish out. and in the absence of his wife, does olive understand the importance of being there — even to stoke the flames of his questionable ego with such mindless flattery.

at last, the drunkard surrenders his magic fruit (lol) with an enthused nod, and olive seizes the opportunity with covetous hands and wolfish grins. but as her forepaw stretches to the object of desire – suspended just barely out of reach – so too does vio abruptly recline, scooping up the marula in one fell swoop, laden with generous intent. intent. “vio? ow–” she manages, voice muffled as he clumsily knocks the fruit against her jaw. taking care to shoot daggers beneath a furrowed brow, she snatches up her prize, hesitant as its juices trickle past her lips. she winces: horrified. but if vio can do it, so can she — and with a silent nod, does the blissfully unaware sink her teeth in.

expression morphs a mile a minute as her joy fades to disbelief, to anger, to utmost disgust, to sorrow. “ith naw good,” she whispers with tightly-clenched lids, too defeated now to reprimand vio for his misleading. despite its sour, acrid taste, she forces the fruit down between dramatic heaves, uncertain as to why anyone would ever touch it in the first place. and as the final bite slides down her throat, she finds all her suffering for naught. “i don’t…” she frowns, squinting to their surroundings as if anticipating a grand shift in reality. but nothing were different; she were still olive, and he were still vio, and she did not feel silly. “is this some kind of joke?” her features darken with the accusation, but there is no hiding the twinge of pride gleaming within her level stare. had he gotten the getter?

code & art

being clever never sweats you

@Olive played a dangerous game, for pleased as he was Violarum is never satisfied; her mention of warthogs and batting eyes causing the man to perk up his ears so high on his skull they might have touched, crimson gaze as wide as his happy beam. A delighted chuckle tapers into promises, "I have more!" Muscles everywhere. Muscles in his pecs, muscles in his thighs. "Lots of warthogs in... lots of places," so many warthogs.

Luckily his altered state of mind is enough to distract him from what could have been an endless flexing display, as his chin tucked down to show her his chest he realized it was covered in hair anyway. And so he resumed the ultimate goal of getting Olive on his level, snickering as he sent the squishy fruit square into her jaw. She does eat it soon enough, and though his paw is searching for the next one his eyes are alight on her face, his pleased expression growing beneath the contortions of her displeasure.

"Shh," he says again amidst a snicker, the paw that had been searching for the other fruit he managed to bring eventually finding it somewhere nearby. "More," the clay lion persuades the Queen, as though she were a princess in need of his influence, lifting his paw where his talons had pierced the soggy fruit and once again trying to stuff it into her mouth. "I'm going to teach you..." a groggy pause all faded to seriousness, "How to have fun." That in itself is as hilarious as the notion Violarum might have managed a joke, when she herself were obviously the local fun-loving prankster.

Did he have every intention of making her drunk? Yes. Was that so wrong? Nah? "Come on," and he would seek to raise to his wobbly limbs and curl around to her side, attempting to sling an arm across her dainty umber shoulders so as to usher her onwards with friendly, innocent guidance, "Let's go somewhere." Where? He didn't care. He just wanted to walk with his friend.

when forever has no end

_{art by yumpy —}

if this were a test of maturity, olive would surely fail. but the fault of a dirty mind reaps no penalty here; and thus, does the imp openly wear her amusement at his mention of other hogs in other places. “gross,” she asserts, shaking her head with feigned, exaggerated dismay. and though the implication were likely innocuous from her very-impaired friend, she were quick to pin him with a sly, accusatory stare and crooked grin. “men.”

@Violarum neither denies nor confirms of her suspicions, but the roguish smirk etched upon his features skews her perception to unfavorable territory. in the absence of viable proof, however, olive can only glower up at him as the bitter aftertaste curdles upon her tongue and settles in her gut, warming her from the inside-out. it is a foreign sensation (and an exhilarating, welcomed one, at that) that lends a fragment of trust back to her sadistic friend; but still, she is hesitant as he commands further gorging. not that what she wanted were taken very far into consideration, for it is then that her gaze drops with the repeated, scooping motion of his forepaw. “vio, i have–” paws, she’d intended to inform him. again, intended. but the marula finds the gape in her jaws with his unnecessary assistance anyway, and with a degree of stubborn reluctance, does she comply with his demand as she gnashes the fruit to a pulp.

his voiced intentions do disrupt her attempts to swallow, however, and she chokes through his audacity in all her unrefined glory. “huh?” she shrieks, eyes bulging with extreme incredulity as the last remnants of fruit clear her gullet. by now, she radiates with the internal heat of the sun — a faint fog creeping up upon her mind as the first fruit’s effects begin to take reign of all senses. “let’s not forget who taught you to skate,” she snaps: stiff and seething. but violarum is on to the next adventure in a moment’s time, and olive is given whiplash as he ushers her with a forelimb, slung carelessly across her shoulders. “hey, wait–” she protests, but her feet are more than willing to comply.

stunned into silence, she moves under his guidance; and as her heart hammers at the influence of exertion, so too does the alcohol circulate faster, faster, and faster still through her bloodstream. and as the dizziness settles and her reservations begin to fade, she attempts to rip free of vio’s grasp. “better let me go or i–” she searches, uncertain. “or i–” stance widens to playfully stand her ground, and a devious grin curls her lip with the birth of an idea. “i’ll sicc my family on you. the dew-dong.” and who more threatening than the menacing bluffs lions, truly? it is only unfortunate that she were ill-equipped with the proper accent to really sell the story.

code & art

being clever never sweats you

There is something particularly good about the altered sanity alongside a close friend, and Violarum glues himself to her as if to feed addictively from the warm fuzzies her familiarity feeds his soul - his shoulder mindlessly seeking the warmth of her closeness and his brain so pleased the smile failed to depart from his maw; planted there firmly beneath the gentle crinkle of crimson eyes. Luckily the pair move on quickly from talk of men and warthogs, for there is a split moment of masculine delight that squirms across his face; raising a brow happily, so easily stoked by any suggestion of manliness - no matter what form.

"Somebody small... and silly," he recollects of his skating instructor, dusky chin turned towards the light of the full moon as they walked towards who knows where. "Oh heeeey," a pause, "That was you!" He hadn't really forgotten, but somewhere in the alter-ego of his drunken state he had found some locked-away ability to act poorly - or whatever that was. Still, impressed with himself he snickers, aiming a way-too-rough whack of his skull to her cheek, only to have her pull drastically away.

Staggering vaguely it took the male a good few seconds so truly follow @Olive's momentum of escape; gravitating towards her in some instinctive want for her warmness again, only to be pulled up short by her stammering promises for... drowning? Violarum laughed. Like a genuine belly laugh, and not the kind he was really used to have pouring out of him. His hefty behind even flopped back to account for the thrown unsteadiness of his heaving front-half.

"Dew-gong... ha," the laughter had faded to snickers, but Vio was sure his eyes still glistened with the hilarity of it all, struggling to regain himself. "You don't look like... a fat whale," a snort, ears cupping forward as his head tilted groggily to absorb his little tawny friend, "Why you so tiny anyway, I want to squash you." Like a cute little bug. A forepaw raised and his toes kneaded at the air, as if he were imagining squishing his little friend between them. Vio might have been basic but he definitely didn't believe pretty miss Olive was a relative of the elusive white Dugong of coastal sea-waters.

when forever has no end

_{art by yumpy —}

although she were not belligerent, olive finds little humor in his forgetfulness — however ingenuine it were. and while he erupts in a fit of giggles at her expense, she contrasts him quite perfectly: donning a childish pout as she glares up at him through blazing embers. but @Violarum is too far gone to read the room, and the knock of his bulky crown against her cheek serves as the final nail in his coffin. “yeah, remember?” she baits, combatting the urge to smirk with her impending dig. “it was after you lost to seneca. remember thaaat?” she presses, impish with feigned innocence. coolly, she watches him from her peripherals for any presumed sulkiness, smugly satisfied with her own retort. sucker.

be it the slowing effects of the marula or her own wiliness, she escapes his commanding grasp with little effort. “ha!” is the emphatic victory screech that follows as she wrenches free, tones amplified enough to cut over the patter of rain. and as a triumphant grin splits her features, her drunken haze becomes apparent: lids heavy, poise slack, and a stream of broken giggles hot on her tongue. vio’s sudden laughter – deep, genuine – only further tickles her despite a sudden lapse in her own memory, leaving her uncertain as to what they were laughing for in the first place.

you don’t look like a fat whale — and suddenly, she recoils. “w h a t?” she shrieks, practically pissing herself with amusement as she keels over. it is an unfortunate miscommunication only furthered by their impairment, and olive wheezes as she envisions the dieudonne horde setting up camp in the sea. “i’m–” she tries, breathless. “imma tell miss ‘maraaa you think she’s a fat, fat whay-yul,” she croons, pivoting towards the bluffs with a bluff of her own. maniacally, she snickers as she sets off, pace purposefully slowed to give violarum the chance to stop her. it would be in everyone’s best interests if amara did not get the message, after all.

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