Icon by @ThatSpookyAgent. Call me Tir or Julian. 37. He/They. Queer. Twitter: @tirlaeyn. ao3: tirlaeyn. 18+ Only. Star Trek. The X-Files. Sandman. IwtV. OMFD. Definitionless in this Strict Atmosphere.
You’re an enchanted suit of armor, completely hollow on the inside. After gaining sentience, you left your haunted keep & began to adventure. As you gain notoriety across the land, making friends & connections, it gets harder to keep it a secret that there’s nothing behind your visor.
There’s only so far you can get with telling your friends that you have burn scars or whatnot that make you self-conscious about being seen. They’ll kindly give you privacy to eat meals alone. But you have to hide that food somewhere. And no one teaches enchanted suits of armor about how fast an egg salad sandwich starts to stink. (Plus it kind of slorps around when you walk.)
Well, that’s what pets are for. An animal to eat some of it, a plant to have more, and a mimic for the rest.
Now there’s some forward thinking! The question is just what kind of hungry little omnivore is best suited to the task. Bonus points if it talks.
With a soft hiss of steel sliding on steel, the suit of armour shifted. “Ah… food. I had to find a solution for that.” it said.
From somewhere inside the suit’s chest a small muffled voice said, “Oh so now I’m a solution? I feel so valued.”
The armour sighed and pushed its visor open. With a scrabble and some huffing, a possum climbed up and peeked out.
“Please ta’ meetcha,” it said, fanning its face. “Woo. Fresh air at last.”
Then as I watched in fascination, it clambered out and sat on the shoulders of the armour.
“My boy here, he’s a good guy, the best, but lemme tell you, you do not want to be inside when he’s standing in direct sunshine, you know? I mean if you smell toast, I’m telling you now it’s not a stroke - I live on grilled cheese. But if you smell roast possum, pour some ice in there, I’ll thank you later” the possum said, rolling its eyes.
“I wish you would be a little more circumspect,” said the haunted armour. “I do believe it is a little suspicious how much bread and butter and processed cheese we progress through in any given week.”
The possum reached up and slapped its little black paw on the top of the helmet; “You can fit so many grilled cheeses inside this bad boy.”
