aeneia: (Default)
a e n e i a . ([personal profile] aeneia) wrote in [community profile] nonsuch2015-12-18 01:01 pm

& open gen post iii.

OPEN POST ( III. )
↠ lyrics, images, prompts, take your pick






2leftfeet: (Default)

4 corvo

[personal profile] 2leftfeet 2015-12-19 06:03 pm (UTC)(link)



There are eight hundred Alliance marines scattered throughout London. It's not actually a big number, not even on paper - not during war and not during a last desperate push against a force that is by and large literally too big to fight from the ground. For those eight hundred marines they have maybe a handful of ground to air ships at their disposal, so a bulk of their force is basically useless as anything by covering fire - cannon fodder. While not exactly pleasant, there's no denying the necessity either. Hell, with the crapshoot of a plan they have rigged up to get to the beam, a few hundred grunts taking fire is as key as the whole damn turian fleet overhead.

Not that it's comforting, but at this point she's not really counting. Right now, the most she can do is get her own shit together and hope for the best. Beyond that, it's a matter of hurry up and wait - the one universal constant in any combat situation. Which is more or less how they come to be at the same last line of defense outpost in the ruins of South London alongside the bulk of what remains of the Alliance's forces and a few hundred members of the Council race's men, women and other. There's a meeting with Anderson in twenty minutes. She has exactly enough time to go hunting for her husband - who, rumor has it, is commanding on the goddamn turret wall - before she makes her way through the gutted buildings to talk strategy.
vindictam: (pic#9835571)

[personal profile] vindictam 2015-12-20 08:31 am (UTC)(link)
It's the way of military camps, that they talk more than gossip magazines do ( or, used to, no wait, still do - he sees those vids coming back from her, half a galaxy away, he's seen every damn one of them in a back log he plays too often to himself in the relative dark and privacy that could be afforded ). Run on those things because it's something to talk about that isn't - isn't everything else that they look at when they open their eyes. No one can really blame them for it, when there's a fallen city to live in, and a ruined planet to watch fall apart.

But also it means that the minute she lands, after advisers, commanders, the council, the higher ups get notice on the long list of people that need the information, he's the first to know. No it's not some call or message passed down, it's by way of grapevine, the same one that found out they were married in the first place ( wore his ring, the same cheap metal from years and years ago, and it's been bent out of shape and rebent back into, like the shape this marriage has always been, and by and large, eventually it got asked about. Some muttered conversation he probably should have thought through but didn't. Some remark of 'sir, is your partner still alive?' a glance down at it, dull shine of metal 'I should hope so, she's supposed to be saving us all.' naturally, it was everywhere the next morning. ). Of one hissed message into the ear of another, and eventually he's the only other person to tell worth noting, apparently. One breathless private that yanks him away from the wall he has stood on - and keeps standing on day in day out now, wave after wave, holds it and holds it and holds it. He still never wanted a command of his own.

But she'd be coming, and she'd need good men on the ground, a port to work from. That's all it came down to, in the end. To buy the time.

A tug, and he's got his only bad habit left ( except her, she is the worst of them ) by way of a cigarette held in the corner of his life. Never smoked much, old habit from something far too long ago now, that he barely bothered with before. Until the collectors, until after she - had to do something with his hands, at the best of times now. Being away from the wall was the only time it was safe to do so.

Pinches it between finger, exhales smoke through his nose from the deep breath in as the man babbles out the words. Tells the private not to bother because, he knows, of course he knows. He knows her, and he knows what she is, and of course she was here - because one day, she always would be.

That and, as he nods over the shoulder of the soldier in front of him, there she is. He steps past the messenger and all too slow, normal -- like they'd done this a hundred times and maybe they have, lived this life over and over again -- makes her way towards her.

"Commander." Tugs the half smoked cigarette free, stubs it out on the ground under his boot heel and his hands go back to resting on the rifle strapped across his chest, same way as the rest of them were. "Took your time."

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brokentoaster: (Default)

It's been 100 years

[personal profile] brokentoaster 2015-12-23 02:39 am (UTC)(link)



[ ...or ten. A decade that perhaps felt like one hundred, with countless worlds visited and countless worlds destroyed. Dozens of contracts broken, filled, and dozens more ended prematurely. Immeasurable years of drifting through endless stars, endless void, adapting and readapting to the ever-changing rules of the company, but some things have remained the same.

Teams and their colors and the tasks they are expected to carry out. The hum of fluorescent lights that line the long metal halls of the destroyer vessel. The sterile smell in the sleeping quarters, the artificial aftertaste of each scheduled meal, and the unit number Corvo Attano has been assigned since day one. Been there so long there are rumors it's haunted, that he's not a man but the ghost of fourteen.

It may be true, that fourteen is haunted. Almost ten years to the day he left, another of the bunk's original occupants knocks. Returned, though he has no memory of the place. Why would he? New recruits usually don't, but his cuff scans him through like it has so many times years before. ]


Hello? Anyone here?

[ A familiar voice, but different. Changed somewhat, matured. Footsteps fall heavy as he enters, making himself known. The smell of leather catches his attention first, stand-out against the rest of the ship. Old, familiar, not so sterile clean. The lights aren't all on, but there is a presence in the cramped quarters, and his eyes adjust quickly enough to the hunched figure there. The man, ghost, of room fourteen. ]

You must be Mr. Attano? I'm your new bunkmate. Jasper Khezek.
vindictam: (pic#8341978)

[personal profile] vindictam 2015-12-24 12:39 pm (UTC)(link)
[ He is exceptionally good at what he does, after all. Infiltration, moving like shadows and leaving nothing behind, except when they need him too. He follows and does everything he is told to with a single minded focus. Or rather maybe that is the point, as the years progress and he remains where others don't, all he can do, is focus. Everything else, to the chaos of lives past that still do not die in his head, he must examine only the way forward, else he risks drowning in his own memories. Because he does that enough already. Talks to them at length, often, even. When he steps in and out one world and another, death is only so permanent when his every action, every thought is dictated by it.

Shaped wholly in the ashes.

So when enough time later, he is asked what he might like as a reward, he asks only that he might keep the rover. Just as it as, yes there might be better tech, now. He will adapt where he needs to be efficient but what matters most is keeping the ghosts in place, even as they say he becomes one. They do not understand, he is mad, because he does not know how to live as himself. But they do, those that he lost, so he must keep them to keep himself. The floor has been ripped out from under his feet too often now, that he must make up his own and force it to be real. He has places for them all, careful maintained as he moves through it. Terra's brightly coloured scarves that hang over her bunk, he always tells apologizes to where she sleeps, when he needs to wash them. The bottles of drink under deadpool's bunk, where he tells him to shove over where a mission is bad and he wants to waste some time drowning in the burn. The calm instruction to Jasper to straighten up his boots by foot of the bed, each morning then sighs, and does it himself. The goodbye he says to the empty air, the good morning as he readies himself for whatever his orders are.

( Others too, of course. Where Shepard was gone in a shatter of stardust, he sets two glasses out at the small table, and makes a toast to and they're all dead. Aeryn, the spot lent on the kitchen counter as he washed dishes, and he tells her of the anatomy of rats, the disease in their bite, the most effective way to deploy them in combat. Fiona, in the drivers seat, singing along with him. Sometimes, teaches her slow steps to dances when he was a younger man. Tess, with her head next to him on the pillow, and tsking quietly when he doesn't tend wounds properly, fingers skittering on damaged nerve endings. )

( and if he is a ghost, dead as could be to a shell of a man, it is alright, there's another heartbeat, another soul in its place. So long now, he has spent hours in argument with her, once he had nothing else left to lose, until they had beaten themselves hoarse, till there were no more words for them both, and she sighs quiet in his ears, the melancholy of a contemplated eternity they share now. Speaking he finds exhausting outside of the flow back and forth between them. )

He is fifty, and he is a ghost, and there was a thousand choices to be made, that were not, and he knows there are a thousand lives, they all could have lived, but didn't. So it is not so much to imagine Jasper would know him, but not. Come back but never remember. Not that he read the orders the right way, though Jessamine did for him, the way she always had. She sighed quiet, into the rattle of his bones. ( he is coming back grown, beloved and it was not your fate to ruin him, he seeks it all himself. )

Forgets how he seems, if he ever cared anymore, when he sees not a boy, anymore, the man that once, he'd promised Jasper he would always become. Rises one step in front of the other. Mouth a flat inexperessive line. Eyes dark and there's not much to say at all, except everything that hasn't been remembered. Stepped out for shadows, to peer at the boy he had known that has molded as all young men are.
]

Corvo. You never liked titles before. Call me Corvo. [ because whilst he might understand, it's too hard sometimes, to pick apart the then, and the now, and the could have been. A jumbled up thought. ]
Edited 2015-12-24 22:39 (UTC)

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scinlae: (among the trees)

some would sing and some would scream.

[personal profile] scinlae 2016-01-10 09:18 am (UTC)(link)



don't you ever t a m e your d e m o n s,
always k e e p them on a l e a s h.
vindictam: (pic#8250696)

[personal profile] vindictam 2016-01-10 11:37 am (UTC)(link)
[ He comes to her with a knife.

He comes to her with an offering of blood on his hands. He comes to her with rich men screams embedded under his nails. There is seawater rinsed in the back of his tongue, salt-dry where he had washed his mouth out of the copper tang.

He comes to her on his knees because he knows he was always better on them. With promises of fealty that come only because in his saner moments knows it is because she is no fool and knows that he will not stop and whatever stands in his way will not be spared. He doesn't know subtle anymore.

What he knows is limited to this. Pendleton had slighted her, and he was going to kill the man anyway, for poisoning them both. But he takes a care, to keep the blade that he had done it with. Slick still with blood, dried now, save for the coating that was over him. He is death and rot, and he wears it well. They are his sincerest gifts, as makes his way up the steps to her. Emily is back now, wrapped up safe with Callista. But he had promised he would come back to her. He is nothing, nothing but a man of his word. Fools, when they burned him, made him beg and scream - that he was nothing but his word. Nothing but his devotion and his promises.

So of course he comes back to her, he said he would, of course he comes back to her awash in the muck of this city he has gutted his way through - because he said he would, and that is, if he was ever to be feared, it is not for his magic, his ruthlessness, it is because he is a man absolute to his word.

Finds where she is sitting high in the tower, and he drops the blade at her feet. Listening to it clatter on the ground, watching it from behind his mask. It too, is worn better than his skin. Ragged like he had dragged himself up out of the riverbed itself to be here now. Sodden with the storm. Aching in every limb. As he stands there swaying on his feet, he is more himself than he has been in months.

Waiting, waiting for her benediction, her blessing, he has know faith - how can any man when he has stared into the face of his God and knows that he does not care.

He doesn't need any of that.

What he has is better than black eyed princes and empty pitiless void. That whisper of rats and screams echoed back from under the depths.

He has her, and in her, he is complete.
]
Edited 2016-01-10 11:46 (UTC)

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dustup: (pic#9676352)

[personal profile] dustup 2016-01-10 10:45 am (UTC)(link)



continued from here.



[ Keener blades could not cut as deep, as swiftly, as her words did. Each breathe, soft word, damning his soul deep. Not even Evie could deliver a harsher blow and she knows the best places to and her strikes. Jacob stills, muscles coiling, fingers trembling in the fists he did not register forming.

He is not cruel, he has never been cruel, yet here he stands before her in her fancy new home. A woman wed, a woman beyond his reach, a gentle and sweet creature he has no right to adore. ]


Not to you, love. [ Feet move, the distance between them seems so far but he crosses it fast. Hand uncoiling to take hold of her arm, a grip oddly gentle in it's firmness. ] Never to you.

[ With his free hand Jacob takes hold of her chin, angles her head - he should leave, pull himself away from the softness of her skin, gentle warmth of her body. He should leave before he does something stupid like take her lips with his own in a kiss neither gentle nor harsh, but a sad sort of in between.

Turn around, leave, go.

But how can he when he holds her so close with both hands and lips? ]
circumspector: (xxii »  its safe in cages)

[personal profile] circumspector 2016-01-10 11:06 am (UTC)(link)
[ It's all so - so - a list of things for women who haven't done the things she has. Haven't been forced to watch and accept the world for what it was before she understood almost anything else. It's cliche, it's poetry for knights and ladies, and he's a killer and she's at best, traitor, dishonorable woman. Neither of them deserve getting what they want even for a moment, in a way that isn't just some encroaching self pity. It's the surety: this will end in blood and hurt for both of them. Neither of them are coming out from this in one piece.

But she doesn't need to tell him that. He knows, he must know, he's reckless and dangerous but no fool. Or maybe they were worse, because here they were - doing it all anyway. Because it's not a question that he would be cruel, and it's not a question that she would let him. That in the second he's reaching for her, she's stepping into it. The second to know - know there's going to be only pain that follows every moment spent like this - and it disregard it for the sharp inhalation of breath as her hands loosen their grip at her throat, and shift to his shoulders. Taking hold in his jacket, and parting her lips against him in something that is firm in return. That is at odds that the softest, softest noise she makes in the back of her throat, because no, it had not been her loneliness embellishing. It feels more than just good, yes, yes it hurts, because that's better. It's something more than she's ever had and it doesn't loosen her hold on him.

He won't let her go and she doesn't know how to let him. So maybe it's all - fair, in it's way.
]

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soltimm: (pic#9904476)

[personal profile] soltimm 2016-01-10 11:29 am (UTC)(link)



"MARRY ME" HE SAYS AND SHE SMILES, "NO"

continued from here.



Not even for all the gold our sun-brother cannot see.

[ Coolness of her voice is bitter, the cold sea winds come to rip the warmth from the bones of men and replace it all with a chill instead. Let it in sink deep, gnaw upon bone just like her have waves sharpen his land for so long.

As they have danced, clashed, come together time and time again. It shall never end, this most vicious courtship, but she will take joy from it all the same. Take all she can from him, greedy, grasping, reaching deep into his chest, through muscle and bone and take until there is nothing left. ]


Not for all the jewels hidden deep within the earth, nor all the bounty your domain provides. None of it will come close to sating me.

[ Storms rage underneath her skin, a blacker than black darkness shudders in her bones. She looks forward to this, she always has. All he offers, all he does to lure her close, hold her here for as long as he is able. She looks forward to it as much as she looks forward to slipping through his fingers, crisp laughter bubbling upon her lips. ]
Edited 2016-01-10 11:30 (UTC)
firehawks: (Default)

the sweetest misery that's taking me ( mordecai )

[personal profile] firehawks 2016-01-21 11:36 am (UTC)(link)


vault hunters should never do holidays.

[ She's starting to think they're cursed.

That has to be it, right? They're cursed. Doomed. Fucked in more ways than a skag wandering into a nest of varkids. There is just... no other way to explain why each time they even try to do something nice - relax for a minute or two - it blows up in their faces. Every god damn time.

This? Just one more botched attempt at a holiday, at some rest and relaxation, at something that didn't involve bandits or psychos or skag vomit coating her shoes. Only there is no skag vomit on her shoes this time but blood, lots and lots of blood, way too much for it to be healthy. Problem is they ran out of hypos about thirty minutes ago, just before Lilith grabbed hold of Mordecai and phased them away from the group of blood thirsty mercenaries trying to kill them. Not the usual sort of mercenaries either, better equipped than the last ones and appeared in greater numbers. Thus the last second decision to bail before one, or both of them, were gunned down by way too many trigger happy assholes. Not the wisest idea but hey at least she didn't phase them both directly into a wall, or a bandit stronghold, or a pack of threshers.

No, they get a cave - or what was left of some dead guy's hide out before he was likely eaten by the wildlife. That or the locals. But it's cozy? That's sure to get her some points... right? ]
redmists: (» and a lot more drinking)

[personal profile] redmists 2016-01-21 11:55 am (UTC)(link)
[ Ah hell, and he hadn't even gotten three drinks in.

He'd agree with her too, in that way he knew before he even arrived on this shit hole of a planet, that the universe was too fucked to give more than five minutes to themselves. Owed something, he doesn't remember when he wasn't. This is all some proof of the proverbial truth of existence. Somewhere between anything that can go wrong will go wrong and bad things happen to bad people.

And it's not the first time he's been dragged through one of her phasewalks. Fought next to her how long now? Then there had been sanctuary. Just, all of the sanctuary. Which is another thing, it doesn't exactly get better with time. His mouth tastes like eridium and stomach bile, his eyes are burning even behind his goggles and his stomach is somewhere up the back of his throat.

Or maybe that's the god awful taste of rakk-ale. Who knows but he has to shake his head to be free of that left over purple tinged nausea of things human bodies weren't meant to do. Flicks his tongue over the flat line of his mouth. Hand steadying on the wall.

He really, really could use that fourth drink right about now. But he'd settle for gripping her hand back where it held him because when she goes and -- does that, she becomes the only solid thing worth trusting. The pair of them blood splattered and riddled with half healed bullet wounds, courtesy of the blood thristy mc blood clan of some hovel he had forgotten ever going into let alone leaving so many people hating them yet again.

That's a lesson in and of itself. The blood lathered on hands means his fingers slip easy on her wrist where the callous and worn rough and then smooth again by sand skin, is almost gentle as he takes a deep breath.
]

Shit, Lil. Give a guy some warning, would ya? [ And the breath is let go. ] Damn I don't think that was even a day, that a new record or something?

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a_7: (pic#9768911)

Lakshmi pls

[personal profile] a_7 2016-01-30 03:22 am (UTC)(link)




Survive one lightning strike, and half the world will think you're immortal. Will think you're a Knight,
or some other miraculous monster from Heaven or from Hell. Minho is none of these things, but he's
certainly sick and tired of being hunted, cornered, sought after, known. Apparently (unfortunately)
it wasn't enough to leave home - however temporary a home it was. Now he's in a city he barely knows,
but all it has given him are less places to hide and less people to turn to. This trail of rumor attached to
him like a leech makes it hard to do any kind of covert work. Never mind that some of the burns he
sustained still haven't healed, but they're all hidden under his clothes, more a hassle than an actual threat.
Still. There are shipments to track and to sabotage, "people" to expose for what they are, if all goes as
planned. But not if he can't even risk finding a safehouse without bringing a threat along.
shri: (» and we don't mind the flames)

[personal profile] shri 2016-02-02 01:46 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Live long enough, and you'll see almost everything, at least once, in one form or another. She has yet to gather the dust that comes with the centuries the Knights of the Order have. But she is harder to catch the interest on trivial things, anymore. Her body is old, her mind had aged older still. So she takes everything she ears with a grain of salt. Devi and Finley bring her things, whispers, gossips, where they are in the places she is not. In turn she directs them from there. Almost, she thought to dismiss it until she heard the particular turn of it - struck twice by lightning. It peaks her interest. There is plenty miraculous in the world outside even the Blackwater. Not something she acts on immediately, but something she keeps an ear to the ground of - which is how the word reaches her, of solid work, that had rumor attached to it. Almost as much as she did. ( Tiger-hearted woman, blood drenched queen, fire fueled rebel ).

So she doesn't so much intercept, as puts herself to be in the way of. Devi is close by, hidden, as are the few others she trusts when she finds - not a legend about a boy with lightning skin, but someone running hard, and running fast. maybe not scared, but too early to know that.

There were after all, only so many things worth truly running from in London, and she met them all with blade in hand most days. So she waits until he turns a corner, too far into whitechapel, all blockades and dead ends unless someone knew where they going. Someone like her for instance that in the moment, he runs into that dead end, there she is, stepped out of the shadows.
]

Lost, boy?

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ofgoldenlake: (pic#9981057)

orrrr i can leave my own starter LMK

[personal profile] ofgoldenlake 2016-02-19 12:13 am (UTC)(link)



spymasters: (01)

gimme dat au I demand it

[personal profile] spymasters 2016-02-23 01:38 am (UTC)(link)


[The window in Garrett's quarters is open by the time Corvo passes his chambers, night air blowing the curtains softly back and forth in the empty room. There's been no word as of yet of the Royal Spymaster missing, but anyone who knows him knows that he hates standing still- especially when there are things he can still do.

Said things aren't exactly what is expected or possibly even desired from royalty; stealing is among them. Habits are hard to break, especially when they're ones he enjoys, things that are few and far between enough as it is, being in his position, and constantly by Emily's side. It's up, away from prying eyes, gives him enough space to clear his thoughts of all the political ruin and corruption within the palace walls.

It's late by the time he comes back in through the window, but he's quiet in doing so. His feet lightly touch the floor as he slips in, eyes watching for the shadows in his room that sometimes he swears is the Outsider mocking him. It's not until he feels a pair of eyes on his back; Garrett stiffens, spending a second debating on whether to grab the throwing knife lodged in his belt as a warning.

Then, there's a split moment where he turns his head, and his shoulders relax.]


Corvo. [Quietly, almost too expectantly, at this point.] You need to stop doing that.
Edited 2016-02-23 01:39 (UTC)
vindictam: (pic#8693755)

[personal profile] vindictam 2016-02-23 02:49 am (UTC)(link)
[ Some call it a gift from the Outsider, other's just call it a father's intuition, that he knows his children so well. Feels them prickle when their positions get too much for them, other times. Whatever it is - and quite often to their chagrin, he knows them too well, worrying after them all like he does.

Has to, quick as they are all getting. Ezio is too much like himself, some days, but Garret and Emily, they are shades of their mother and more than happy to drag their elder brother into whatever they were up to. Mischievous, always into or at something. It is not the assassins that keep him on his toes, keep him trained, he would say if anyone asked him, it's his children.

Credit to them, that he trusts them to look after themselves for the most part these days. But it might just be pay back in the form of keeping them on their toes just as much.
]

I can't have you getting lax, Spymaster.

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manquee: (Default)

a gathering of war on the borders

[personal profile] manquee 2016-02-24 09:42 pm (UTC)(link)








It's winter, and the sea-spray is a cold whip against their faces as they look over the railing of the steamship towards the waiting crafts. He's the only one standing close enough to her to see that her hands are white-knuckling the iron, to see that her usual pallor is touched with anxious grey. Since the first reports of border violence on the Morley seas, she's had little sleep: it was an evil from her father's time, and now, mere months since his death--

Her eyes reflected the black of the sea, marbled with frothing foam as grey as the storm-heavy clouds overhead. In a spare few hours, they'd share a deck with the potential revolutionaries. Try to come to terms. She'd gone to great pains to hush the news of assault and capture of two navy frigates so that the public and Parliament wouldn't rush to calls for war. A wartime economy was a frenzy of sharks, and her positions was already so precarious, balanced between a firm hand and strong public presence, whispers of weakness and iniquity rising every time she turned her back or passed a shadow.

Behind her flagship trails a number of other military vessels, blue banners whipped by the wind to a dramatic attention. The captain removed his hat and bowed to the Empress and the Lord Protector.

"You may want to head indoors, your Majesty. Coming up alongside in such seas will be a bumpy proposition, and your insistence to personally attend has the Admiral in quite a state."

There wasn't a twitch, a shudder from her in acknowledgement. Not at first. The black ships blowing black smoke up into the grey like chainsmoking thugs 'round a bottle ate up her vision. And when at last she spoke, it was quiet and even. "Inform the Admiral that he can stand with us on the deck, if he prefers. I want to watch this, every moment. If this becomes the moment where we slide into damnation and catastrophe, I want it to be burned into my memory."
perroquet: (01 grin)

4 her highnee

[personal profile] perroquet 2016-03-04 05:40 am (UTC)(link)


Alright, so they've escaped an alien tiger monster... thing. But they're still stuck in some backwater world, and the weather is going to turn sour before they can make it back to the rendezvous point. There's an electricity building in the dense swamp air, he can smell it getting stronger. Perhaps if he could do a better job at leading, they would've made it back by now, but he can't be blamed. The smell of the impending storm is distracting him from identifying the right way back, and he might've taken a wrong turn at a tree or three. Or perhaps this is just what her highness gets for agreeing to follow a blind stranger through the muck.

Once he's found a relatively flat, somewhat clear and almost dry section of muck, Gildor stumbles out into the open of it, and plants his tall wooden staff in the dirt.

"Well... that's about as far as we're going to get today."

Declared like a British explorer claiming the land for himself. If Lakshmi has anything bad to say about his choice in campsite, she's welcome to tell him but... for as well as he can hear her trailing just behind, he probably won't listen. He's busy rolling up his garishly long, draping sleeves, and patting his pockets.
fylkir: (Default)

[personal profile] fylkir 2016-03-10 09:25 am (UTC)(link)




you were burned, you were about to burn
you’re still on fire.

shri: (» is all yours)

VIKINGS: 1886

[personal profile] shri 2016-03-10 10:05 am (UTC)(link)
[ She needs help, which is the grating part. But she isn't so hung up on her pride as to not be sensible about it. There's no ignoring it as she walks through the back streets of England, she didn't find soldiers. She found desperate mouths to feed, without the skills to fight these battles.

But she did find a people no better treated than her own, more than willing to fight. That was something she could not turn her back on.

It was however, an insurmountable task to do without help. The style of war she had trained for was not one for such closed spaces. She was trained for riding recklessly on horseback into the thick of it, she was made for bleeding out, all glorious stories, on cliff edges with swords in her hand and room enough to swing them. Oh, the British soldiers, she knew those, how to defeat those, but they would not be who she was fighting now. They would call for aid, and there was only one group of people they would turn to.

The knights would not stand for this sort of unrest on their shores and if she was going to be fighting them, she needed someone who had centuries of experience doing it.

Odd thing to be no more than a rumor, chasing another one. Stories like his hung around though he was hidden under the same muck she liked to cloak herself in. It makes it easier at least when she begins to ask questions, what it utter nonsense that is being said to throw off the track. Takes awhile to even find out where he was last to know where he is now. Once she finds it out, then there is nothing but a matter of waiting, organizing what meager forces she has. It's not like she doesn't have plenty to do. The vampires pray on many, and she and Devi work in tandem to defend those they can. She has an ear to the ground, always listening, waiting to hear the telltale signs. That when a ship pulls up into port, and a group of men arrive with it, all heavily armed mercenary types, she is quick to act on the information. She only has a short amount of time, and she needs this audience sooner, rather than later. She can't get any leeway, going the way she is.

In the slums, areas all have different allegiances, different gangs rules different areas. Not afraid, and not looking for a fight unless it gets her what she wants. But if she wanted his attention, apparently he didn't roll out of bed for nothing. Liked - a challenge, maybe. Things he hadn't seen before, was the other rumor.

She could give him that. Hopefully, it would do. Goes in alone, all glittering arrogance. It attracts stares, as much gold as she wears attracts stares on anyone whose hungry enough. Sets herself in a corner, and waits. He would come, she was rumor enough. Watching the whispers fan out from her corner around the room, and around like a shockwave blast. Enough to match him. Not being subtle, she only had so much time to waste to go chasing ghosts. He'd appear or he wouldn't.

Apparently, she would spare only so much pride.
]

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pushes him back into the ocean

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jokes on you he can swim!!!

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kicks him instead!!

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bring it!! he can take it!!

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fourthsaken: by <user name="batman"> (I would be free.)

for angel! because we need more of these terrible girls

[personal profile] fourthsaken 2016-03-28 03:01 am (UTC)(link)


circumspector: (( MINOTAUR ) » don't belong to no city)

[personal profile] circumspector 2016-05-14 03:35 am (UTC)(link)
[ It's cold, in the high room of her tower. This far into the forest where she had picked it, certainly may have been far away from Jack, but it meant that sunlight was only ever speckled at the high point of the day through a canopy of leaves.

But like that, Angel left the windows open, she let the sunlight pour in for whatever it was worth. For that short while, the room was warm and filled with brightness twice over. It bounced off her mirrored ceiling, threw beams about in the shift of a kaleidoscope. She liked to sit then, on the floor of her cluttered room. Books that Jade had brought her shoved into every corner with a loving want to keep all of them close at hand.

Angel likes it, it's pretty, all softened edges, she especially likes it for how it turns the grey Jade has become with her abilities a lighter colour. Tinted faintly as it caught on her hair. More life to them both that way as they sit sprawled on the floor, basking in the brief burst of warmth. As warm as their laughter that filled up the room.
]

No really, all of them did it. They set themselves on fire and threw themselves at the basketball hoop. Vault Hunters are the craziest people you've ever met.
Edited 2016-05-14 03:36 (UTC)

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this is so late, sorry!

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shhh I am also late <3

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unfavoured: (pic#8863102)

u know

[personal profile] unfavoured 2016-08-07 01:59 am (UTC)(link)




Edited 2016-08-07 02:00 (UTC)
circumspector: (( siren ) » do you feel like a young god)

i have regrets

[personal profile] circumspector 2016-08-07 10:26 am (UTC)(link)
[ It's 3am. Which is to say she probably shouldn't be here - but she is and it's 3am and Angel is banging on Parker's door loudly in a hurried sought of way.

She shouldn't be here, but Angel did a lot of things she shouldn't do. She shouldn't be in a skirt that was just this side of a belt, shouldn't be wearing a top that's just a stretch of lace, and she shouldn't be smelling like cheap 50c rose perfume and expensive champagne. She should probably take her shoes off too for that matter, teetering on them, but she's four inches closer to tripping over herself and she's a perfect mess of hot pink nails and dark red lips that are a mess and the one thing she shouldn't do for anyone's sake, is go home to Jack like this.

Which leads her here. Leaning against Parker's door with a burned out cigarette - she doesn't remember where she picked it up and she doesn't think she even links the taste enough but it's just one more thing she shouldn't be doing, and that made it - made it ambrosia. Almost half as good as being here.

She inhales, drops it - spoiled little girl that has lost the good manners she was bred with when about four glasses in - she stubs it out on the apartment corridor floor under one wasted too much money on, black stiletto heel.
]

Parker, come on, wake up. I'm cold. [ a second later - and she'll be whining her name louder and no doubt pissing off everyone else on the floor. They've got class in the morning, a paper due sometime after that, but she could spend her time caring about it, or she could be going out to some rubbish party with people she was too apparently smarter then, and drink too much instead.

Her choice, at present, was fairly obvious.
]

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goodjob: tired . angry (Default)

[personal profile] goodjob 2016-09-22 07:45 pm (UTC)(link)



It's been years.

It's been years, and she hasn't seen them. Fiona doesn't know what they look like, doesn't remember their voices. Sometimes she forgets the shape of Liam's face. Instead, she memorizes their handwriting, and looks forward to every letter, running her fingers over each letter and privately memorizing all the words they use that she doesn't know the meaning of. It's a shock, then, when she gets a letter clearly done up on a typewriter. Where would any of them get one of those-

But it's not any of her siblings. It's one of the professors, the one Lip always complains about. She remembers his name, knows he looks down at her family, thinks they're trash. She reads the letter three times over, hears about how her brother is going to be expelled, the smartest one of them, the one she dared to brag about to Corvo. How he's going to rot behind bars in a filthy prison for years, and if he survives that, what then? He'll end up a drunk like his father, eking out a miserable existence on the wharf.

Fiona reads the letter, carefully folds it up, and begins to cry.

She has duties to attend to. The Lord Protector is out on one of his jaunts, and she doesn't have to, but she always tries to bring him some scrap of food and clean water for when he returns. It's a point of pride that she notices when he's gone, can guess where he'll return, from a lifetime of service. Most girls don't last as long as she does, don't notice the patterns. She's already set out the food, and is quietly waiting in one of his favorite parlors, she can't be crying. No one can see her cry.

She puts her head in her hands, takes a deep breath, and stills her nerves. Her face is wet, and she's sure her eyes are red, but at least she's no longer weeping.
vindictam: (pic#9835571)

[personal profile] vindictam 2016-09-23 03:47 am (UTC)(link)
In his way, he relies on her.

It's not something grand, it's not even necessarily even master to servant. It's the way that is more about having something familiar to come back to. Someone that knows him - not a Lord and not a Protector in life-time of service. But him, the man that has an old ache in his shoulder from a cut he got in his youth that pinches in the cold, or that sometimes these days after a long session in parliament with nothing to do but stand, he favours one side from a torture he does his best to never dwell on. That likes more pepper in his meals than most court nobles could stand and prefers to eat with someone, not for stand on ceremony, but just to listen to them talk about their day.

She knows those things, the scrap of a girl that Jessamine had fussed over once and he had remembered, that had found him, a hunkering shadow in the palace kitchens and in one fretful moment he had met her eyes and he - would hate to have to kill her, just a child then. Aged like Dunwall of that time aged everyone. Old woman's eyes looking out of a girl's frame. But - she didn't scream. Rather, she in shock whispered his name, and then motioned him to hide, hurry, there would be others of the staff coming - and like that, he was gone by the time she turned back to see if he was still there.

She was there when Emily was re-instated, and when his name was cleared. There had been no question of it then, at least to his mind about her loyalty, for one little act, when reassembling the household staff, she had been promoted from the kitchens to the upper household. An increased salary and a less laborious position than the imperial kitchens, he knew, would make things easier when she had so many family to look after. Because in the weight of someone he could trust in attendance to Emily and himself that understood discretion, he could never pay her enough. Though he suspected she'd be brittle if he offered to give her more. Working class often were if they thought it was charity.

So whenever she worked up to ask for anything, he granted it almost immediately. He'd seen to whatever he could she needed over the years when it came to the things she did ask for: a letter for her family here, or placement of her younger siblings in other fields of employment, gifts for birthdays and weddings as they came about. Favoured by him, most of the staff knew, something of another daughter, and shades of himself. Who he had been, what he had come from. That he could do for others that once upon a time had been done for him at times makes the stress of the position worth it. Knew he appreciated that she did so many small things that others couldn't quite match and most never understood. So far that alone: he does not like to see her upset, and - it's late, when he comes in. It always is, but he is not at all surprised to find her in his parlour ( one, once upon a time, he shared with Jessamine ). As much as he's told he's unpredictable frequently, she seems to have no problem doing so. Laughable, really, the infamous Lord Protector that spends his evening being bossed around by now a young woman that had been there much by his side over the last 12 years.

But when upset is what he finds when he comes back that night, he pauses. It had been nothing strenuous he'd been up to. Mostly digging around a lord's desk that thought he was being subtle in his opinions about royal affairs. Came to nothing, for the most part, merely talking and since Emily preferred liberty allowed in her subjects, it could be let alone. Not a hard's night work, tedious more than anything, and he is silent on his feet as he ever is when he sees her bent over the table.

He is perhaps not an emotional man at times, but he knows the shape of a weeping woman when he sees it too wonder if he ought to leave her alone. But - she was there. Rather than startle her, he steps more normally, to allow the floorboards to creak under his weight before he comes into the room further. Give her the moment to compose herself if she wished before he came up to her side.

The hand he settles to her shoulder is his own particular comfort before he tugs out a kerchief and settles it in front of her. The words are soft, murmured like he might have disturbed something: "What's happened?"

It's not often she's ever outwardly upset about anything, and he does not like to see her so.

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pigsfeet: (oh my god becky)

u kno

[personal profile] pigsfeet 2016-12-06 01:29 am (UTC)(link)














Merle's been gone for five weeks and Whitechapple's still a shithole.

Whitechapple's been a shithole for who knows how long. Never should've gotten on that damn boat in the first place. Go to England! Make your fortune! They love Americans there! Load of horseshit.

If Daryl knows one thing, it's how to shoot. If he knows two, it's how to find people who don't wanna be found. Word is Merle was last seen around with his favorite girl, which was news to Daryl until he realized the favorite girl was a whore. After that, it's easy to pick up the peices. Black Mary liked this tavern. Folks at the tavern remember her going with an American to this hotel. Folks at that hotel remember this. People over there remember that. Eventuall he finds her brothel.

People tell him not to go there, but he ignores them. He's got shit to do more important than bullshit rumors about an Indian queen. "Ain't gonna cow to no squaw," Daryl grumbles from his latest lead.

There's commotion going around the whorehouse when he gets there. People weaving in and out, some crying, others looking weary-eyed at the wall. Nobody's doing anything. Feels more like a funeral parlor than a brothel. Merle wouldn't have liked this. Something's wrong.

The barkeep comes over to shoo him away. "Closed for the day," he says, and Daryl nearly hisses at him. Everyone's an ass because of the bow slung over his shoulder, who'd have goddamn figured.

"Need to see Black Mary," Daryl says, ignoring the barkeep's words. He doesn't care if they're open. He's not here for whoring. But when they hear him say the whore's name, the girls nearest him at the bar just cry harder, and Daryl's an idiot, but he's not stupid. He can put two and two together.

He looks at the barkeep. "Black Mary's dead, ain't she."

The barkeep sighs, looking downright dejected. "Found her torn to shreds," he says, all sorrow. "Must be the Ripper."

Before now, Daryl'd thought it was a myth. It doesn't take much to murder whores in America; folks're just being prigs, here. Easily scared the second some fool takes out a knife. But Daryl'd be an idiot not to lend some credence to it now. And if there's any truth to it, Daryl really doesn't want to find Merle at the center of it. He bites his lip, trying to decide what to do next. Impertinence wins out in the end.

He smacks his hand on the bar. "Who's in charge here?"
shri: (» we said our dreams will carry us)

[personal profile] shri 2016-12-06 04:36 am (UTC)(link)
If there's one thing to still a room - to still this room, in particular, it's those words. The snap of tension that goes from the irritation of interrupted grief to something tight strung. The barkeep that looks up to a woman at the far back of the room. Another woman that moves from another corner who looks as pleasant as the gun strapped to her back, and another man that does the same.

All of them are red decked - the red that marked rebellions. Here at least, no one pretended who was whose side. There was only one sure-fire way to make sure you weren't going to get shot this far into barricaded streets of Whitechapel.

It started with not being friends to the crown and especially not to the United India Company.

The second was not getting in the rebellion's way.

Which he seemed bent on doing, at present. Marching into this brothel, in particular, and making demands. Though it was not in a serious matter, looking for a dead woman - or as sneered by the people's business it was supposed to be to protect these women and men - one more dead whore? Good for nothing that got what she deserved. It's something she will hear in the back rooms she sneaks about in on her better nights out. Gutted like a fish, that was the real crime, no gentleman could be capable of such. They are insulted that it might ever be insinuated as one of them.

Little did they know.

But she knew - and she knew no one asked about what happened to whores. No one that didn't have something else going on. But as to what, she couldn't work out from here, from just his brusque, demanding words. He didn't look like the newspapers or one of Commissioner Doyle's Dragnet doing a mockery of an investigation. No, - an American is whispered into her ear, the one that's been asking questions. Came over a few weeks ago, him and his brother. It had been noticed, and none of her business until he apparently marched in here, since he didn't seem to be chasing his good for nothing brother.

No, no, there was something else going on with him at least.

Devi and Finley move towards him and she lifts a hand from the table she is sat at, curls it in as a gesture. No, no, bring him here. The gold that glints like animal's watching eyes in the candle-lit dark of the room as her head turns to speak to the man at her side again. Waves her finger for him to clear the somewhat sensitive information off of the table and from his gaze.

It's then, she stands, hands planted on the low table in front of her. An exaggerated tired gesture as she leans forward, sure of her movements, and of what she is - not a queen in a brothel, but the worst thing in the room. Voice rises and falls in a clear cut sound that makes everyone else in the room fall silent. "She was found in two pieces this morning with her gut strung up as decoration for the first person to find her."

Devi makes herself apparent more directly. The threat she always was and never needed to exaggerate. The gun in its holster but a hand that grips it. This is their territory. The way that this far into the underworld, gangs divided up territory, this was clearly theirs. "You asked for me? But then, you've been asking a great deal of questions of late."

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gunah: (@ / tress)

Oh Fushia, you leave me breathing like a drowning man

[personal profile] gunah 2016-12-15 06:01 am (UTC)(link)

[ The seas have reached Nevada. Caesars Palace is submerged under wet sand and Fremont Street is nothing but faded and sunken roofs peeking out of the untouched shoreline. Nobody has been here in forever, and yet the place feels occupied somehow. If she closes her eyes, she thinks she can hear these people rushing about her. She can picture how they lived and laughed and wept as if she was here and it was yesterday.

And so, as much as she can, Shuyi stumbles through the hushed hallways of the abandoned hospital with barely-seeing eyes, preferring the images her mind creates over the truth. There are invisible servants rushing about her to prepare tonight's state dinner. Her sister towers over them all, directing them to their rightful places. Darje and her husband playing cards, talking of matters reserved for the men. Corvo (and here the fantasy wavers) by her side, a trusted friend full of wisdom. And all is well. Their worries are petty, inconsequential, and easily soothed. The world is whole. Her hands are free of the scent of blood. Her heart is light.

The thought causes her throat to clench up. It's sadness, she thinks, then brushes it off. They have no time for that.

Behind the hospital is a church, more beautiful in its old age and if she stands just by the altar, the sunlight draws a crown above her head. She takes a chair that barely holds its shape and takes her seat ceremoniously, resting both arms on either sides of her as if she occupies a throne, rather than a chair stolen from an abandoned asylum. Her smile is serene, with mischief bubbling under the surface. She weighs her next words with authority, meaning for her voice to echo against the decaying walls, the broken windows. To that, she adds a gesture to him, beckoning him to come closer, lay his lips upon her hand. ]


Corvo. Tell us. How may we ease our people's grievance this day?
tuitor: (• and nothing else matters)

[personal profile] tuitor 2017-01-16 01:19 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Time is not kind to them, duty is less so. The things that are done to them, and the things they have done, are unforgivable. Because there has never been words for the torture inflicted upon them, by them, that they do to themselves every day in the name of service, of love, and the place that is both.

To that end, he knows she has wondered further than a mind can manage. He knows because he has walked it the same, and to that - he does not disturb her. It is not safe, sometimes, to live in the present. It hurts, like knives, like bullets, ( like the tortures hot metal bars searing him over, and over, and over. )

He has wondered back from his days since then, as he wanders to her now. He sweeps his bow, graceful, a touch more showey than perhaps need be, but the madness is in the embellishment. How it makes details soft, and others horrendously completely.
]

My lady, [ he takes her hand his with head bowed, his hair is short cropped now, the bristle of his beard against her fingers as he ghosts his lips against knuckles. ] with your smile, of course.

[ straightens up, smiling in the subdued way of his - something that creaks wrinkles and scars at the edge of his face. ]

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pigsfeet: (arms of ANGER)

the real reason this took me forever: I CAN'T FIND ANY PICTURES.

[personal profile] pigsfeet 2016-12-15 08:31 pm (UTC)(link)
They're lucky, so it happens when they're alone. In the middle of a shittier summer than they've seen in ages, sun beating down on them, Rani gets surprised by a walker in a closet. It's a teenager, probably told to hide by her mom, but it's enough. If she were regular people, she'd be dead.

Rani is deadset on never letting anyone forget she ain't regular. The walker takes a chunk right out of her throat, blood everywhere, before reaching over for the walker and twisting its head off like it's the top of a soda bottle. The head falls to her feet, jaws still clicking. Shredded piece of her throat are caught in its teeth.

Daryl kicks the head right out an open window. "Serves you fucking right!"

It's loud, though, and that's what has Sasha running down the stairs, gun at the ready. She has the muzzle trained on the walker's body, before she realizes what happened. How the hole in Rani's throat is a bitemark. There are no more tears left in Sasha. She just drops her weapon and sighs. "I'm sorry."

Daryl doesn't know who she's saying it to. Maybe herself.

And then Sahsa gets out her knife.
shri: (» our hands are tied if we stay)

[personal profile] shri 2016-12-16 01:13 am (UTC)(link)
It's pointlessly flashy, ripping off that Walker's head. Letting battle rage fuel her when she should do the smart thing, tend to herself first when she's pissing out blood like a river. Where it takes out of her throat, gets fingers into her arm and rips the skin down her shoulder wherein the heat she'd elected to not wear her heavier clothes for once - what a mistake that was.

She feels the mistake of it a minute later, stumbles back as Daryl kicks it away. Straight into the cupboard door where it had come from and with her pressure on it - swings shut. Weight tipping, heavily, falling into the door, back hard and the weight lands heavily with it. Desperately grasping at the wound to hold it shut. But her arm dead and useless where it'd ripped back the flesh.

Her good arm holds the wound, cupping the blood like water, thick and red and hot between her fingers. Desperately holding it together where she's bleeding out and badly. It had gotten deep enough, scraping teeth in like an executioner's blade and twice as messy. Breathing hard, sobbed breaths of pain that fall high and loud.

She's dying, again, and Sasha's advancing on her with a blade in hand. She's straining, forcing the words out of her throat and - oh it would be a relief, wouldn't it? To this pain in her body, the weight of her mind. The knights had each other, but she had less than that for years now.

"Daryl -" it's small, weak, doesn't sound like her - when she's ordering him out of her way, it's Dixon, when she's teasing him, it's something softer, but right now, it's blood soaked and gasping, holding the wound tightly and slipping in it.

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goodjob: anger . shock (people always say my style is wild)

no pictures take 2

[personal profile] goodjob 2016-12-15 08:57 pm (UTC)(link)
She dies, and then she's not. That's how this shit always works, isn't it? You don't even get a day off when you're dead.

As deaths go, this was not the superior experience. She vastly preferred the unforgiving quickness of Corvo's blade. The slow death of burning, choking on bile and ash, crying and screaming and thrashing through the underbrush, that was cruel. She would have preferred to stay dead, if not for the knowledge she'd never see them again. Not just her family. The rest of them. People on that ship needed her. She had no right to die in pain, screaming at the sun of an alien world.

And it seemed the universe agreed with her. It swallowed her up and spit her out. Charred and burnt, dizzy and confused, she wakes up to find herself in some abandoned house she's never seen before. It looks like shit. There's a dinky little bed, knicknacks, and... is that a fucking sword?

She doesn't care. She can't care about anything. Bleeding, choking from wounds that already killed her once, Fiona staggers for the shitty little bed and curls up to sleep.
vindictam: (pic#8693750)

[personal profile] vindictam 2016-12-16 02:30 am (UTC)(link)
There's blood dried under his nails.

That has remained the same, for so long now. He picks abjectly at it, scraping one along underneath the other to find where it had caked with mud and the river filth.

Tonight, he had killed Lady Boyle. The day before, he had been on a planet that was bright and light and blue, a strange species that he wouldn't have believed, but now didn't even bat an eyelid at, anymore. One that had blurred into the others. Strange and terrifying and something he had lived through and bore not a mark of, and after his 10 years of service, he had come back to do the task he had been first doing.

There is blood under his nails, there is always blood under his nails and nothing, neither some far off world or his home, seemed to change him. Immovable as death - which is to say, he changes and he does not change. Because there will always, always be blood under his nails and he will always have a blade in hand.

There aren't many places he lets his guard down to think, but the Hound Pits, is as near as it gets, the only place he can afford to. But when he hears with his far too keen hearing, the sound of something in his room he stops, the Dark Vision light in his eyes, and picked out as a ghost of a shape, he sees the body curled up in his bed. Not dead, he can see the risee and fall of breath that tells him - no, just sleeping.

Remembers, he had told Emily that he could come to his room anytime she wished too. But this was - different.

She was far too big for Emily, as he pokes his head around the door: one of the staff perhaps?

He isn't expecting to find Fiona - alive and breathing Fiona. His heart cinches up tight in his chest. It has been years, years since he'd seen her. Since she had died in the fires of Macha, of a woman that insisted he be the one to kill her and bore no grudge about it.

And there she was, sleeping in his bed, like nothing at all had happened.

His footfalls are quiet, unable to tell if he should wake her, leave her to sleep more, and perhaps he should let her rest. He can smell the death on her even though she seems untouched by it.

It's the noises downstairs that make up his mind. He will be called away soon, to debrief, relay what he's done. She cannot be set upon by the other staff before he talks to her first. He reaches for her then, tentative, a brush her shoulder, aching as it goes to wake her where she seems finally to have gotten rest. Then to her hair, smoothing it back from her face.

"Miss Fiona. You must wake, now, I am afraid."

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mahalakshmi: (• yet slow the beggar burns)

[personal profile] mahalakshmi 2016-12-27 11:00 am (UTC)(link)
[ It's been months since she slept.

Months since she felt her hands find stillness, since her heart was not felt in every beat against her ribs. She pushed herself as far as she could in every moment that rest did not find her. Fate filled her lungs, did not let her mind come to an ease.

Instead she spent her hours that should be resting in prayer, interspersed with deep quiet that was as close to resting as her world seemed to hang upon waiting for something to slip. It will come in the following days - though she is not to know, now, as she walks as alone as she can in her gardens in the night - to the statue of the Goddess Mahalakshmi - so taken her name from, her husband's Lakshmi though he has passed from her with their son.

Now she goes, perhaps not to plead with Gods, maybe just to be close to the memory of an easier time. When her life had been simpler - though perhaps not at all. It's in those memories she kneels, at the foot of the goddess, bows her head, clasps her hands, and tries to usher something as close to dreaming to her waking mind as she can. The bright blue of her veil all threaded with silver is carefully draped across her head. The skirts swept out as she holds herself.

As close to dreaming as she can be - as close to peace when there is a war to come that she can feel like a storm in the air. A tepid cool in her mouth just about to be swallowed down on.

Perhaps that is why she does not startle when she finds herself with company that is not - her ladies, her guards, her family. Her eyes snap open at the nearest sound, the dagger at her waist not drawn but - her breath goes still, trying to work out who would be bothering her here of all places.
]

What are you doing here?

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patrimonies: (pic#10974803)

for murder dad. surprise i guess???? also im too lazy to write a prompt.

[personal profile] patrimonies 2017-02-03 01:21 am (UTC)(link)


poleaxe: (cocky shit)

4 young corvo, look i brought pictures this time.

[personal profile] poleaxe 2017-02-16 01:06 am (UTC)(link)








Serkonos is a pit, and all pits are familiar by what they lack. The slums of Serkonos aren't that different than the slums of Dunwall. The accents are different, the jokes are worse, and the alcohol is stronger. The important difference is that no one here knows that her father killed somebody in a fight in a back alley, or if they do, no one cares. That was back in Dunwall, after he moved them all on a boat in the middle of the night. It might as well be on a different planet.

There's one other difference, of course. Joan's pale skin and red hair stick out like a sore thumb, but she's used to that. Sure, there were more redheads in Dunwall, but she has a face like a horse and a bad attitude. She's used to fights. She sticks out twice as much here, sure, but that can work to her advantage.

She has to rebuild her reputation as someone not to be fucked with. It's about getting into fights and winning them, and making sure nobody lays a hand on Lucas because they know she'll break their fingers.

So she gets into fights. This time, it's with a bunch of idiots about her age. They called her a whore, and that doesn't really matter. It doesn't hurt her feelings. But she can't let it slide, because they need to know she doesn't pull punches. She fights, she wins, and they tell their friends, and their friends tell their friends. That's how it happened in Dunwall. Here, she'll do it on purpose.

It's all going fine until someone pulls out a knife.

Joan does not have a knife.

"Shit," she says, because they all know she's fucked. Time to bluff. "You really that afraid you gotta pull a knife on me?" Her voice echoes off the old stone walls of the alleyway they're crammed into.

It's the kid with the knife-- Stefano, she thinks his dumb friends (Alessandro and... the tall one) called him-- who charges her, of course he is. It couldn't be one of the ones without the knife.

She dodges, but she can only dodge for so long.
Edited (An Important Edit) 2017-02-16 02:38 (UTC)
dutifully: (Default)

i woke up in the blood you wore; (lakshmi)

[personal profile] dutifully 2017-02-17 01:14 am (UTC)(link)




Edited 2017-02-17 01:15 (UTC)
mahalakshmi: (• don't mourn the setting sun)

[personal profile] mahalakshmi 2017-03-27 04:31 am (UTC)(link)








It's been hours she'd been arrived here. Long, frustrated hours in a place she does not recognize or know. To hear people speak what she thinks is - Russian? Perhaps? European definitely, nothing she knows by any means except in passing from the long days spent running from one country to another. She'd never been that far north granted, in truth, to need to know it.

So she didn't know half of what was going on, and it hadn't put her in a better mood - if there was any such thing as a good mood when you think you've been captured - somehow. Though if this was a kidnapping, it was a bad one. She might not know what they were saying, but she understood what this isn't what was expected. It leaves her feeling rather like a passed around piece of contraband that no one seems to know what to do with. Hadn't endeared herself any to the people she found herself captive by. She would not let them take her knife and guns, and made it clear that an attempt to remove them would come with a cost, nor did she take the water they left near her to wash off the splattering of blood on the side of her face, her neck, staining the silks she wore. That too, an apparent interest, she wasn't dressed very much like any of them either.

Which led her here, sitting across the table from someone - apparently the person left to deal with her. From what she heard them talk over her head. He seemed busy with something, whatever that meant, he was apparently important. She just watched him, waiting for whatever was to come of this apparent mess. Her fingers curled around the arms of her chair, back straight and stiff, and the expectation clear on her face that he had best start talking and quickly, like they were some how at her leisure here.
komarran: (digging through archives like a boss)

[personal profile] komarran 2017-03-27 04:45 am (UTC)(link)
He was the man tasked to deal with this and already he was getting a headache from the confusing reports. The preliminary ones he'd been sent while she was in transit had already made him suspicious. A strange woman that appeared from nowhere, was covered in blood and armed to the teeth, yet no one could trace any crime that had been committed recently with her weapon of choice. No honor duel in secrecy that had been dragged to light or someone's theft on a blacksmith gone wrong. She was simply ther looking worse for wear.

Worse than he expected once he had her in his office. Not that he can blame her judging from how many people she had been shuffled through. The paper trail told all and he sometimes he wishes he hadn't climbed to this spot in the ladder. Then he wouldn't be seen as appropriate to deal with this. Just high enough for this responsibility to be foisted off on, but not in a place where anyone would get in trouble for dumping it in his lap. Which is why he's drumming his fingers on the edge of his desk as he reviews the flimsy of information briefly before turning his full attention to her. Protocol hadn't been followed properly given the strange circumstances and it was now his task to see that everything was handled.

"I've heard their side of the story," he remarks, watching her carefully. "No one seems to have gotten yours."

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andsobelow: (048)

[personal profile] andsobelow 2017-04-08 02:41 am (UTC)(link)
[ The Hel-folk did not come often to Dunwall. They had gone beneath the earth centuries ago, and they preferred it there in their caverns. It was a world they controlled, which obeyed their rules as they preferred them. Their hatred for magic was something on par with the Everyman, but they also wore little bones and tokens, their weapons gleamed with the luminescent blood of the faeries they forged them with, that made them more durable. They liked the kind of magicks one wrought with their hands, as opposed to the things which rooted in your heart and corrupted your being.

The Hel-folk did not come often, and when they did it was always with some unfortunate tiding. That was their way, too much happiness and one might be suspected of playing with forces unseen. They believed in struggle, strife, and they were a hard-working lot there in the darkness, harvesting faeries for the insect clans in the deep.

The Hel-folk did not tread the upper world unless something drove them there. The last one to come had been an older soldier, blind in one of his reflective eyes from cataracts that gleamed milky beneath the moonlight. He had been driven out for consorting with the Outsider, when by all rights he should have been executed. There was something special enough about him that warranted only banishment. He did not stay in Dunwall, he dipped his head when the tang of spoiled water drew him to the Lord Protector in the night, but he left the gates swiftly and silently and was not seen again.

Now there is the woman, so many years later. She is standing in the daylight, her reflective eyes narrowed against the brightness of it. Her delicately pointed ears visible with her long black hair pulled into a tight ponytail. She is armored in iridescent pieces of beetle carapace, one of the Hel-folks glowing-veined weapons at her hip. ]


There will be extradition.

[ She's a severe woman, as sharp and as eager as her own blade. ]

We know the traitor remains in your city, it won't be tolerated. You will grant me rights to hunt him down, whatever the means.

[ Apparently, she has tracked another of her kind here... a magic user that she intends to drag back below for his execution. What warranted such a hunt, who had he offended. ]
Edited 2017-04-08 05:53 (UTC)

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