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ID: uV+k975I/qst/6277309#6277357
7/20/2025, 12:57:27 AM
>>6277320
Stole roll six and on from your rolls, because they worked better for Miss(ter?) Britannia.
>>6277310
Your body shrinks. Or rather your body begins to take shape for the first time since everything went to darkness.
Oh dear it seems that the angel must have misgendered you.
As much as you may like a buxom young lass, you were very much not a buxom young lass when your string of misfortunes began to pile up on top of you. A buxom young lass in an outfit that harkens back to the good old days of the Empire. Aye, the skirt is shorter than the dresses worn by your granny, but the poofy shoulders of the blouse and the corset certainly match it. The stockings seem a bit short, leaving a bit of your thigh exposed before they meet your dress. The sleeves are actually quite similar, more like stockings for your arms that don't quite meet the actual sleeves of the blouse.
Odd, that. Almost as much as the decision to pair a lady's outfit with proper military boots that still somehow bring it all together. With that in mind, as if someone couldn't decide between good old British Musketeer and the fashionable outfits of a lady in the 19th century, a feathered beret now sits atop your hair, which is now as blonde as it was in your youth, yet also much longer, and put into curls.
"Oh no..." the angel, now revealed to be one of those wheels of eyes and fire, sounds quite panicked. "Oh no, no, no, no, no. I fucked up. I really fucked up!"
"What's wrong lass, I feel fine," you tell her. "Well, I do have a sudden and intense thirst for the tea of life, but I'm pretty sure that all red blooded Britons are like that! You know us and our love of tea. Though, hold on, there's something missing here, why do my hands feel empty...?"
With a swoosh, your sleeves open up a little, and a good old Winchester drops out of your garment and into your hand. It feels very right to hold, yet at the same time you know that no Briton should be holding a firearm without a proper license, something you've never sought! "Oh dear, terribly sorry, I've not a clue where this came from..."
The angel looks at the musket in your hand with naked fear - something surprising for a Yank, you thought they were all about guns. Don't they start shooting at one another at the tender age of three? She stammers out, "I... I should go. I have to go. Please don't go bringing about an apocalypse, I need to tell the others that there's another Dark Magical Girl out in the wilds now..."
"Oh, about that!" you call after the angel as she retreats into the void. "Could you undo the whole girl thing? Lovely as these pillows are, I don't think I'm modern enough to want them on my own chest..."
She does not respond save for a drawn out, "Sorry!"
Stole roll six and on from your rolls, because they worked better for Miss(ter?) Britannia.
>>6277310
Your body shrinks. Or rather your body begins to take shape for the first time since everything went to darkness.
Oh dear it seems that the angel must have misgendered you.
As much as you may like a buxom young lass, you were very much not a buxom young lass when your string of misfortunes began to pile up on top of you. A buxom young lass in an outfit that harkens back to the good old days of the Empire. Aye, the skirt is shorter than the dresses worn by your granny, but the poofy shoulders of the blouse and the corset certainly match it. The stockings seem a bit short, leaving a bit of your thigh exposed before they meet your dress. The sleeves are actually quite similar, more like stockings for your arms that don't quite meet the actual sleeves of the blouse.
Odd, that. Almost as much as the decision to pair a lady's outfit with proper military boots that still somehow bring it all together. With that in mind, as if someone couldn't decide between good old British Musketeer and the fashionable outfits of a lady in the 19th century, a feathered beret now sits atop your hair, which is now as blonde as it was in your youth, yet also much longer, and put into curls.
"Oh no..." the angel, now revealed to be one of those wheels of eyes and fire, sounds quite panicked. "Oh no, no, no, no, no. I fucked up. I really fucked up!"
"What's wrong lass, I feel fine," you tell her. "Well, I do have a sudden and intense thirst for the tea of life, but I'm pretty sure that all red blooded Britons are like that! You know us and our love of tea. Though, hold on, there's something missing here, why do my hands feel empty...?"
With a swoosh, your sleeves open up a little, and a good old Winchester drops out of your garment and into your hand. It feels very right to hold, yet at the same time you know that no Briton should be holding a firearm without a proper license, something you've never sought! "Oh dear, terribly sorry, I've not a clue where this came from..."
The angel looks at the musket in your hand with naked fear - something surprising for a Yank, you thought they were all about guns. Don't they start shooting at one another at the tender age of three? She stammers out, "I... I should go. I have to go. Please don't go bringing about an apocalypse, I need to tell the others that there's another Dark Magical Girl out in the wilds now..."
"Oh, about that!" you call after the angel as she retreats into the void. "Could you undo the whole girl thing? Lovely as these pillows are, I don't think I'm modern enough to want them on my own chest..."
She does not respond save for a drawn out, "Sorry!"
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