I decided I was going to wear my "Get Milked" shirt today, and then I thought, "Milky Mondays", and then I decided I should do a quick drawing instead of waking up or whatever.

I think I finally nailed her down, even figured out a name, behold Althaea. I don't know why but I just picture her being made of marshmallow for some reason, maybe giants are cooked into existence in her world.

Return to Beastiary Beas MEGATHREAD here
Read on AO3 Here
Read Stories a Month Early on Subscribestar

When Monsters come into existence, there is a certain hierarchy of references that are understood to be observed when deciding its form. It’s from folklore, nature, fairy tales, rumours, conspiracies, fictions that have lived for so long they contain no discernable owner under capitalism. It’s like a veto process for the machinations of the universe, only things and ideas which have survived through multiple cultural filters can serve as a blueprint for the very nature of Monsters.

But what of things so desperate to exist, that they care not for the value of the idea that gives them the context to claw their way into the physical? Things which seek out the daydreams, the scribbles and doodles, the misseen blurs under the street lights? What of stories, which only exist on the tongue, the only evidence of ever being told rests slowly on those who may have heard it through happenstance. Over the campfire, a long journey perhaps? Or tales spun collaboratively through dice and statistics? Oh yes, there have been many of those, haven’t there? Tragic heroes whose stories remain in stasis at the mercy of timetables, shifting abodes or the causality of an irreparable friendship. Where do these ideas go? Where do the reflections, they oft are a product of, go to die? And if a weary soul could make use of these unfinished sonnets, should they not do so?

―We used to have those on the Atrocity Exhibition, you know. A voice rings out amidst the ocean. Like the games, the communal storytelling. We had these little wood carvings we doodled on with the charcoal and that, we carved out our own icosahedron, personalised it and everything. Me and Tilly would match our characters, like we’d of been one night stands meeting up again by happenstance on our daring adventure. It was couples role playing but we made it everyone’s problem, especially when Quash’s character started trying to enter a polycule with us, life imitating art and that.
The Captain sighs, as much as you can when your lungs are filled with the seawater which surrounds you.
―To think I was no more real than our little PCs. Tilly, Barry, Grub, Quash, Finx, Teal… Little Eugene… Oh and Scales, so much effort to find you again and it was all for naught… Funny at a time like this, I can’t help but even be nostalgic for our strife, your highness.
―You speak as if there is no longer any value in our time together little fish. Speaks a voice, a sovereign, a god, a bitch, that has commanded oceans and waves the very moment moisture had begun to form on this rock.
―I mean, is there any value in fairy tales? Make believe?
―More than you know, mortal, they give us direction, inspiration, they chronicle our understanding of our reality and that which dwells within, gods can only be sustained by comprehension of lore and legend.
―Is that some sweet parting words? Letting us know we were gods the entire time as I drift into the shadows?
―Well let’s not sing our praises with a choir, when a lone bard will simply do, little fish. But simply that creatures even of separating planes have this in common.
―But do you have any idea why I might remain still? If there is no hope of my song being sung?
―There is a place, a place where your personal canon can still be of use. Where Monsters struggle to be born with no context to call their own. You may be the design that helps them step into the world of the living.
―So I’d be possessed? As someone else slowly takes my life?
―I would assert it more the other way round, little fish. Something undeniably alive, but craves relation to understand its own place in this world. You can be the first read words in a book, the sounds of a mother in the womb. There is no point contemporising this lost soul, as you are the context, there is no sharing, you are already everything this life is. It still however needs your hands to drag itself across the seas of consciousness.
―Do these things that would give me existence have a name?
―These people are known as Fictives in that world, as you will be too.
―But no one else would follow? Not even you, your highness? It sounds so hollow.
―Powerful stories have a way of dragging their entire lore with them to that place. Even if as a memory I would ask you to think of me once in a while, recount me in prose, it’s all I can hope for now. But it is more than I could pray for.
Anything resembling a chance, is better than not to gamble at all. Isn’t that what carried him all across the Cobalt Sea, the faintest chance to once again see his love again? Lesser prizes have convinced him to sacrifice so much more after all…

❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦❦

More salt water than Strawberry even knew the Human body could keep inside, flees from his stomach for what feels like an hour, until oxygen is safe to pass through his lips again. An unpleasant start to consciousness, made worse with a backdrop of windy rain in the dead of night. Strawberry finds himself hunched over a wooden boardwalk of some kind, gazing into the sea. He recalls his own visage, tanned from head to toe, the only evidence of the previous tropical world he hails from. A Captain’s hat with a chipped skull ornament, covers his thick orange hair which travels down to the huge beard on his face of the same colour. A scared right eye, an injury from his escapes and adventures, which also explain the hook he has in place of a left hand. His open Haori, covered in prints of waves, exposes his abdomen in which he wears a dolphin shaped scar on his chest. He looks down to see his denim shorts, cut to as short as possible, as well as his big black heeled boots.

It all helps him recall his name, his title and the fact he is a gigantic little gay slut: Captain Strawberry. Though the title doesn’t exactly equate to anything presently.

He turns around to lay on his back, to which he gets a look at the two faces peering down on him. One seems to resemble a dog with a sagging face, while the other has reflective polyhedron eyes like a fly or something. These Monsters a foreign sight to Strawberry, but not too much of a deviation from the Kobolds and Gnomes from his homeland. Still a little disoriented he can’t do much but let it happen, when the fly gets behind his head and places a knife against his throat.

―Whoa whoa, easy mates! Strawberry requests. I’m having the harshest displacement hangover here, give a fella a few mins aye?
―Check if we got a Human here will ya? The Fly requests to The Dog.
The dog runs his snout up and down the Captain before raising their head and making a verdict.
―He smells of sweat, salt, testerone and booze. Like someone who has known the soft embrace of love, but cannot bear to endure the loss of it. Someone who is lost. He ain’t Human. The Dog announces.
To someone who has despised their Human heritage in their homeland, this verdict was profoundly validating, if not confusing.
―What do you mean I’m not Human? Strawberry asks.
―Oh dear, he doesn’t know what he is. The Fly remarks.
―Well Humanity, it’s the absence of identity and life, and you’ve clearly lived a life my friend. The Dog explains. You're something, which makes you as far from Human as possible. It’s likely you’re a Fictive. Do you know what that is, sir?
The name rings familiar, he was told this was the form he would take in this world.
―Oh good, so all of that wasn’t a dream? Strawberry contemplates. Cool, yeah I’m aware I’m a made-up whatever.

He staggers to get up, eventually finding the strength in his own legs to support himself. He is surprised by his own weight, it seems some of his gear has survived the metatextual trip into existence.
―Wait wait wait. The Dog exclaims, as he snatches Strawberries pistol from his holster. No firearms in the UK I’m afraid, universal policy.
Strawberry is somewhat taken aback by this sudden snatching of his things, but gathers enough composure to absorb the name of this new place: UK, was it? He looks down at himself before gesturing to his cutlass.
―No, no, that’s fine. Swords and physical weapons are fine. Spells and innate arcana are good too. Just no guns. The Dog explains. It’s a cultural thing you know? You’ll get used to it.
―We just think when it comes to violence, you have to earn it a little you know? The Fly elaborates.
―We have your accommodation sorted out and you're free to use it as your home for as long as you like! But it is kind of small so, we recommend you get sorted with the MCP as soon as poss, so you can apply for like, real housing, you know?

The Dog gestures upwards, as Strawberries gaze follows. Above seems to be rows and rows of little shacks, being held up by wooden boardwalks attached to the side of a cliff face, though not the highest one admittedly. Strawberry ascertains he must be on a shoreline, perhaps further up is a beach of some kind?
―Oh and before we forget!
The Fly puts a device around Strawberries wrist, it looks like a watch, but it’s completely black with a square face. The numbers of “1000” appear on the glass in red, as if to indicate something.
―That’s your registration done and dusted, you have a grace period of being entitled to 1000 Corona a day as your UBI.
―Corona is your Gold Pieces here? Strawberry inquires.
―Exactly, tho no Silver or Copper equivalent to speak of, and it’s all digitally assigned to your person. I do not have the bandwidth to explain what digitally means, or bandwidth for that matter. The number tells you what you don’t have and by midnight the next day no matter how much you have left, it’ll default to 1000 Corona the next day. If you have either 999 or 1, it’ll go back to 1k.
―And I just get this money for nothing? It’s an allowance?
―Well you’re a being who’s aware of its fictionality that’s been forced kicking and screaming into reality, which the MCP respects is a disorienting experience. So you got a week before you’re expected to make yourself useful and get a job, super heroism is something of a career path if you must follow your Fictive siblings. The Dog relays.
―Makes it a lot more difficult to plunder anything of value that does. Strawberry comments.
―Yeah I uuhh, I think that’s the entire point cuz. The Fly remarks

The two Monsters escort the Captain to his new quarters, a little hut, actually quite like a beach hut honestly. A couch-bed thing, a little table and some cupboards and a heater, no bigger then two closets taped together, however. But it seems secure enough for now. The Monster hands over a long soap shaped black tablet or slap of some kind and asks that Strawberry “Figures that one out on his own.” Perhaps it’s a conduit for some kind of spell? The two Monsters turn to leave Strawberry to it for the night, but as they are about to leave his eyeshot they turn around for one last gesture.
―Oh and welcome to Brighton & Hove. The Dog says.
―This being more the Brighton bit, more or less! The Fly explains. Good night!
Well whoever was in here last was nice enough to stock the place with a kettle, tea, as well some bread and spreadables. Strawberry huddles over his black tea and peanut butter toastie as he lays down on the sofa-bed-thing, looking outward to the ocean through the little windows on the door. This is the first night he’s ever spent somewhere he’s called home, without Tilly by his side in what has to be a decade. To even wonder about him feels defeating; he never was after all. A hollow life to live indeed.

| Next Story >>