“Everything. We’re taking everything that’s up for auction.”
“Are you scared, Uvogin?”
“Kill them. Kill every person who interferes.”
from the color palette & ost (esp when the music stops) to the script and uvogin’s voice literally trembling from excitement, just everything about this scene is so badass and so well done
me arriving from the pits of chrollo brainrot hell to bring you this content:
real talk though, this is where i’ll be posting all my original chrollo edits, screenshots, and thoughts (4 chrollo thots) from now on. I’ve been posting from @howobnoctis but want a more dedicated feed for chrollo content.
I have like 700 screenshots of him from the anime, and video recordings of his every scene in the yorknew arc — so, feel free to send requests! all that content needs to be shared with the world ✝️ (aka all the hours I spent meticulously recording and screenshotting every scene must go to use lmfao)
if something is edited, please credit/tag before reposting or using. if it’s a plain screenshot or unedited recording, feel free to use! I’d love a tag tho bc I’m all eyes and ears for any new chrollo content also, once I have enough posts up, I’ll start building masterlists for easy reference for whatever image of chrollo you need for your projects.
anyway, i’m off to reblog all the chrollo posts from @howobnoctis back to here! feel free to hmu or send screenshot/recording requests!
Warning: Very Dark Themes. No shipping or fluff at all.
Author Note: Originally a Prologue for a series I imagined but I ended up dropped it as its poetic language was hard to keep up in later chapters.
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An Outsider.
From the moment you were born that is all you knew.
That you were an outsider.
Your mother was a Kurta. One of the few that did not hold the famous Scarlet eyes of her clan. But that never seemed to matter to her. At least not at the time it did.
Not until they showed up.
The spiders. Or “Those wretched disgusting thieves” as your mother used to call them.
As her clanmates got tortured and slaughtered one by one in the night. As the spiders one by one plucked out the pairs of scarlet eyes of Kurta adults and children alike. Your mother didn’t understand why she was left alive.
Why their leader kept heralive.
She had no scarlet eyes—No treasure for the thieves to steal—But to him, he liked her for a different reason.
“I wondered if it would be better to be born with those scarlet eyes…” You remember hearing your mother ramble one day. You were only 7 ½ at the time, and by then on your 7th birthday in the summertime, your mother had started to lose her mind. No reason for the hestirary to occur but no solution to help solve it either. “I wonder if he would have slaughtered me like the rest of them. Instead of bedding me instead. So softly and gentle. …It hauntsme.”
You wondered if she even knew you were there. Knew that you could hear every mutter and murmur of her words through the thin walls of your little cottage home. Knew of every horror she went through in the months she spent with him and every scream of nightmare that awoke her at night.
Him. He. That’s all you knew of your father.
He. Thief. Bastard. The leader of the phantom troupe. The list went on and on.
Yet, never his name. Though you wonder if he ever gave it to her in the first place. Or if she remembered it. You would never blame your mother if she didn’t.
An outsider in many ways you were.
Even though you were only half Kurtan and your mother didn’t have them, you were cursed to be born with the Scarlet Eyes. The last and only of your clan to have them as far as you knew.
“Stay out of sight.” “Be careful not to get angry.” “Whatever you do, don’t get caught.”
Like a drill sergeant, your mother told you that every morning. No matter if you were 3 or even 10, it was a ritual. Just like how one would always brush their teeth or tie their shoes a certain way; like clockwork you would hear a version of those words.
“Of course, Mother.”
It was easy not to mess up. To not show your bloody red eyes, or… any emotion in general…
Perhaps that’s why the other kids did not talk to you. Perhaps that’s why the other parents whispered about you being a Sociopath. Perhaps you were one in the end.
Though to you such things did not matter. The words did not matter. The stares did not matter. Eventually you got used to them and they all blended into the background. You carried on with your day to day business as always.
Even to your mother, you were an Outsider.
For all that you could remember, your mother always had her back turned towards you. Never to look you in the eyes. Never to greet or talk to you. And never, ever, did she hug, kiss or smile at you.
The only thing you knew of your mother was her voice and her hair. Her golden blonde hair, hung in many braids, that flowed down to her mid back. Never to see what color her eyes were. Never to see if she had a button or perhaps arched nose. Never.
And it wasn’t like you could guess from the features you had on your face anyways. The many comments and shock from the villagers when you said who your mother was told you that much. You really held no resemblance to her, was the most popular comment you heard.
Perhaps that’s why your mother always had her back turned to you. Because you remind her too much of your father.
Black inky hair. Cold Grey eyes. Broad shoulders and lanky limbs.
You bet you were a little carbon copy of him.
And you bet it didn’t help that when you were 10 a kid put a piece of gum in your long hair and you were forced to cut it really short. The glass plate crashing to the ground when your mother caught sight of your appearance in the reflection of the window when you came home told you that much.
To your mother you were a reminder of what she feared the most. The horrors and torture she experienced. That is why you were an outsider in your very own home.
You understood why you were an outsider.
You understood that only on your 11th birthday did you finally see your mother’s face … when she had hung herself in the living room. That only then you saw how you looked nothing like her.
You understood that this house was never truly your home, only a dollhouse that your mother used to play pretend. Her safe haven to hide from the world and truth she never wanted to look at. To never look at you, the demon spawn she created. You understood this and left.
You understood why the adults called you a sociopath and the children called you strange. Never wanting to play or be near you. That it was much too easy for you, a child, to kill that couple you came across in the alleyway of a city. You understood this as you took their brand new wedding bands to a pawn shop and took the money the person behind the counter gave you, like it was nothing.
You understood your mother. You understood your classmates. The parents. The teachers. The birds. The cats. The dogs. The priest. The nuns. The farmers. The store owners. The wives. The husbands. The elderly. The babies.
You understood… that you were an outsider to them. To everyone.
Perhaps that is why when you took the hunter exam and met that blonde hair boy—the same color blonde as your mother…and the same cursed eyes as you—that you approached him.
That you showed him your same scarlet eyes,
Told him about your mother’s unfortunate sucicide,
And what you knew about what happened to the Kurta Clan.
All while not telling him a word about your father.
Perhaps… just perhaps… you would not be an outsider this time.
