( parade/mingling - a ) The pack has played hell at getting Ghoul to cooperate with the idea of costumes and floats. There were a couple of minor bite injuries at some point during the negotiation process, but Joseph Leake, bless his weird taxidermy-loving heart, had really settled Ghoul down with his vision. His float ends up being something he actually likes; it's a rolling piece of macabre art, decorated with skeletal animals in various dancing poses and a few ghoulish-looking patchwork creatures. It's a hell of an opportunity for Joseph to showcase his work, and Ghoul doesn't mind a damn bit because he gets to ride around on a float covered in dead shit.
The costume is also... acceptable. Ghoul is practically buried under layers of inky black furs and bleach-white bones, with the only pop of color on his person being the jagged bars of red paint that start around his eyes and taper down his face and neck. The whole get-up is, apparently, some kind of representation of a mythical death-wolf with a tongue-twisting name. Everything looks a little spooky, and is supposed to provoke a sense of dread and doom in the other competitors- or some shit like that. The other werewolves know more about it than he does, so he simply directs any questions about the artistic choices to the nearest pack member.
There's no one to save him from his latest guest, though. It's a child, evidently unaffected by all the creepy things and asking Ghoul about the pitch-black sclera contacts he's got in. "No, you can't touch my fucking eye," is what starts a chain of soft-pitched why?s and so?s. After a few rounds of Quality answers such as because it's attached to my face and your hands are dirty, he eventually gives up and flags down the closest adult. "Can you take this somewhere?" He means the kid, obviously.
( mingling - b ) A good competitor would probably stay close to their float and chat with folks. Drum up interest in themselves, convince people to bet on them, so on and so forth.
Ghoul isn't a good anything, so after shedding off a few pieces of his costume he slips away from his float, leaving the spectators and the rest of his pack with a mound of fur and bones and no Ghoul.
He keeps the fuzzy vest, though, and happily pulls the hood over his head as he makes his way around the pitch, checking out the different floats between making incredible offers to random strangers- like, "I'll let you pet my fur if you gimme your drink."
Or he can be found standing in place long enough to scrape glitter-dust off himself and smear it on to the nearest unsuspecting body. He could be anywhere, really, but no matter where he ends up, he's probably doing something dumb.
no subject
The pack has played hell at getting Ghoul to cooperate with the idea of costumes and floats. There were a couple of minor bite injuries at some point during the negotiation process, but Joseph Leake, bless his weird taxidermy-loving heart, had really settled Ghoul down with his vision. His float ends up being something he actually likes; it's a rolling piece of macabre art, decorated with skeletal animals in various dancing poses and a few ghoulish-looking patchwork creatures. It's a hell of an opportunity for Joseph to showcase his work, and Ghoul doesn't mind a damn bit because he gets to ride around on a float covered in dead shit.
The costume is also... acceptable. Ghoul is practically buried under layers of inky black furs and bleach-white bones, with the only pop of color on his person being the jagged bars of red paint that start around his eyes and taper down his face and neck. The whole get-up is, apparently, some kind of representation of a mythical death-wolf with a tongue-twisting name. Everything looks a little spooky, and is supposed to provoke a sense of dread and doom in the other competitors- or some shit like that. The other werewolves know more about it than he does, so he simply directs any questions about the artistic choices to the nearest pack member.
There's no one to save him from his latest guest, though. It's a child, evidently unaffected by all the creepy things and asking Ghoul about the pitch-black sclera contacts he's got in. "No, you can't touch my fucking eye," is what starts a chain of soft-pitched why?s and so?s. After a few rounds of Quality answers such as because it's attached to my face and your hands are dirty, he eventually gives up and flags down the closest adult. "Can you take this somewhere?" He means the kid, obviously.
( mingling - b )
A good competitor would probably stay close to their float and chat with folks. Drum up interest in themselves, convince people to bet on them, so on and so forth.
Ghoul isn't a good anything, so after shedding off a few pieces of his costume he slips away from his float, leaving the spectators and the rest of his pack with a mound of fur and bones and no Ghoul.
He keeps the fuzzy vest, though, and happily pulls the hood over his head as he makes his way around the pitch, checking out the different floats between making incredible offers to random strangers- like, "I'll let you pet my fur if you gimme your drink."
Or he can be found standing in place long enough to scrape glitter-dust off himself and smear it on to the nearest unsuspecting body. He could be anywhere, really, but no matter where he ends up, he's probably doing something dumb.