#propheresy

[mslangermann-a]

@propheresy​ (ber) liked for a short starter

    “... How many have you killed?” The question is a way to break the silence, to lessen the room’s tension bearing its weight on her shoulders. “Or do you even remember?” 

#propheresy #VERSE ; NO HOPE (far cry 5) #<3

[aliasmultimuse]

@propheresy said:

“There’s something wrong with me.”

Jason knows that feeling of wrongness, has been intimately acquainted with it for years now. Shame and guilt are things he and Miriam have in common. When she is guilty for the lives she took, however, Jason is guilty for not feeling guilty about the ones (way more than Miriam's) he did.

But what is he supposed to tell her, that she's right? That he's noticed the thrill of the kill in her eyes, a perfect mirror of his own? That, while Jason can understand that feeling, so many people won't and that will set her apart from them one day, slowly but surely alienate everyone in her life? Should he tell her there's no coming back from where they are, that once she gets used to life in a warzone, she won't feel home anywhere else? He can't. He can't tell her the truth because it would break her. God knows she's already cracked.

❝There's nothing wrong with you,❞ he lies, swinging his bright red Vector across his back so he can put a comforting hand on the Deputy's shoulder. ❝It's them. This shit-❞ he pulls up the right sleeve of his jacket, showing the letters crudely inked along the underside of his forearm, PRIDE. Miriam has a matching one, different position and different sin but it comes from the same deranged artist. ❝They're trying to get in your head. But it's not you. You're just doing what you have to.❞

#p: reply #c: victim turned warrior #v: hope county 2018 #propheresy

[wrathiincarnate]

@propheresy liked for a lil starter / Miriam

"---Has it always been like this?"

#my generator literally was like “is he always like this” #WHEW LETS NOT DIVE INTO THAT ONE #propheresy #V1: He who justifies the wicked and he who condemns the righteous

[austerulous]

◈ @propheresy

It did not do well to linger too long in the wilds. Drenched in the shadows of ancient trees, they might sicken, become wolf-drunk. Miriam had been reluctant, remained so even now, but Farkas had insisted. After all, she was most susceptible to turning skin, surrendering eternally to the beast.

Mud-clogged streets were hardly thrilling, neither were the suspicious stares that scratched at them. Outsiders, trudging into this remote settlement. A most peculiar pair. A man with a ruined face, wounds delivered by a terrible rake of claws. Lurid in their colouring, still knitting closed, those furrows had almost cost him an eye, had left a gouge in the bridge of his nose, had split his lips. Filthy knuckles rubbed at the lacerations time and again, man and beast alike driven half-mad by their itching.

Miriam was a pale shadow by comparison. Bruised, fretful, pretty thing. A ghost of a girl, even as she stood in the throes of youth, the summer of her years. Hooded and cloaked, she curled into him, clung to his flank as one who hoped to climb inside his shifting body, to make a home in the raw heat of his viscera.

The interior of the rain-stained tavern was an assault on their senses, almost unbearably loud to an inhuman pair attuned to quiet, untamed corners of the forest. Hot, stale air reeked of smoke, sweat and souring ale – all of which would go some way to disguising their own musk, the wet-fur stink of their kin.

A couple of tarnished coins – languishing miserably in his damp pocket – were traded for slices of cracked wheat bread, generously buttered, and two bowls of stew fished from the perpetually bubbling pot, hung over the perpetually burning fire. The fare of mankind, fit for armies and common folk alike. A reminder of their humanity and the comforts of civilisation.

“Eat. It will do us both good.”

What he should have said was: it will do us both well to eat something cooked, something warm. For far too long they had been nourished by great gluts of raw venison, sitting heavy as liver in their bellies.

One hand swallowed a spoon, the utensil almost comically delicate in his monstrous grasp. The other hand slunk beneath the ring-marked table to find Miriam, his thick fingers forcibly filling the narrow spaces between her own.

“We will be quick.”

#two cryptids walk into a bar – #i hope this works ♡ #propheresy #◈ — ic; farkas

[mtnsedge]

「  @propheresy​​​ said,   “ PEOPLE ARE GONNA COME LOOKING FOR ME. ”  」

“Will they?”

A ache blossoms in his chest as he sits in front of his niece. The pain is nothing sentimental, rest assured — a pinched nerve somewhere in his shoulder, or perhaps too much strain placed upon his lungs. He imagines Joseph would prefer it if he softened his heart to her, this girl he thought he’d killed years ago, tubes pinched between his wavering fingers in some hospital down in Georgia. He’s heard the tale before, half-confession and half-decree. God spoke, and so his brother obeyed. 

Jacob wonders even still if it were some backhanded response to his own defiance, rather than guilt, that prompted the Father to recount the slaying. A threat that none were safe if his daughter wasn’t.

Botched slaying, Jacob thinks with some measure of derision. 

It’s terribly ironic, poetic in the way his brothers love but Jacob hates; success would have prevented this. He doubts Joseph would have been so lax as to let either of his brothers escape, had God condemned them as He had his daughter. 

Regardless, she is a present threat to be dealt with, not a past memory to dwell upon. 

“When will that be, d’you reckon? It’s been...” Jacob pauses, mulls the passage of time. Beraiah, ever faithful, ever steadfast, had dutifully plucked her from the bosom of the Valley within hours of his handler ordering the capture. 

Five days ago. His boy works fast, can scent a heretic better than any of his wolves. She is not here in their clutches because of any negligence on her part. She is here because the Father willed it, and his soldiers obeyed.

“Five days. Nearly a week of shittin’ in the corner of that cage, pissin’ your trousers, sleepin’ in the cold. When d’you think all those good, kind people you helped save will break you outta this kennel?”

A redundant question, he knows. It’s half the reason he’s asked it. Abandonment protrudes from her chest like a hunting knife, and Jacob takes his time twisting it. 

“That ‘resistance,’ those Cougars at the prison, the Whitetails...” Scorn drips from his words, not least of all when the final epitaph passes his lips. Some militia. Eli’s frightened band of pretend-soldiers, cowering in their bunker, wondering who among them will turn when the right tune passes through their ears.

“You’d ‘ve heard the gunfire. It echoes in these mountains. Not a peep. They’re all sittin’ around with their thumbs up their asses. They know where you are. I don’t bother to hide it.”

Jacob reaches through the bars of the cage, grabs Miriam by the jaw and squeezes. “So when the fuck’re they comin’ ?”

He halfway expects her to snap at his fingers like the feral mutt she is. A gnarled hand shoves her away as he leans back in his seat, the ache in his chest spreading to his sternum. God damn his lungs for their tender flesh, and God damn the military for pumping chemicals into it in hopes that he would die in some desert before he could complain about it. 

“You know just as well as I do. No one’s comin’. Not those fuckin’ hicks down in the Valley, not those pretend-soldiers Eli sends out to die every day. Not that little friend of yours, either. One of Faith’s Angels, fella with the flesh rottin’ off his face.” A dry, flat laugh rasps out past his cracked lips, the sound turning into a heavy cough. 

Well, that describes all of Faith’s zombies, doesn’t it?

“Had quite a look to ‘im when he first came to us. All his hair, his guitar, head hangin’ down low ‘cause he’d lost his way.” Jacob wipes his mouth with a cloth caked in dirt, olive-drab and spackled with the rust of his own organic decay. “What’s his name, again? Michael?”

Jacob swipes at his mouth again and tastes iron on his tongue. 

“He ain’t comin’ here to help you. Reckon he’s thrilled you’re with us, gettin’ to know the family. He’s been a good boy, your Michael. Maybe you ought’a join ‘im here.”

He says it as if his first impulse isn’t to shoot her dead. 

“Or is it John you want?” 

Ah, his baby brother. Had Joseph let him order his Chosen to kill the bitch dead, John never would have spiraled into this obsession with the girl, tethering his salvation with hers. In part, Jacob’s hunt had been to sever the cord between them. But the knife needs to be twisted further. Miriam is just as stubborn and degenerate as any Seed that came before her.

“No, no...” Jacob shakes his head, glares down at his captive. “Johnny ain’t gonna be seein’ you for a long time, niece.”

#propheresy: miriam #propheresy #joseph at the start of the game: no one is coming to save you #jacob: they're not coming for you because they don't care about you<3

[fightfirst]

"I know, I know." He stops Quinn before she can get into it. "We said no bullshit. But it's not bullshit. Check this out." Ber pulls the box out from behind his back, an excited gleam in his eyes. Never one for romance, he's always had the habit of unwrapping other people's present. In order to forego that, he didn't wrap it at all. It's for the better, he thinks, as he holds up the brass knuckles to Quinn's face like a giddy kid. "I had to get you these. They got settings, and they cut through RealSkin like butter." He points excitedly at the listed features.

"Thought maybe as a birthday thing but I couldn't wait. And it's Valentine's." He adds, a little sheepish. It's very kindergarten, now that he thinks about it. Ber looks back at Quinn as if to try and gauge her reaction. He's got no clue why he's even nervous to begin with. Maybe it's too much. Maybe it's not enough. Fuck.

"...Wanna try 'em out?"

She was going to kill him. An argument was already dancing on her lips that no bullshit meant no bullshit. But she was caught off guard by the look on his face. Something so soft and caring, it was a look that had almost been lost on him as they grew older, Quinn couldn’t argue with him about it even if she tried to force the words out. Not now. Beholding the gift presented before her, something deep in her chest ached, not the splitting or devastating ache of hurt, no, this was more cruel somehow. For it was the ache of want. 

“Ber…” She started, but was unsure how to finish. Taking the knuckles from his own hands to examine them. They were perfect, this moment was perfect. Sliding them onto her own knuckles, she couldn’t help but think that for normal people it would have been a ring or bracelet, her cheeks rose to a deep blush when the word of what the day actually was was mentioned. 

“I didn’t get you anythin.” Her tone was almost embarrassed, they had an agreement! No bullshit. Though as the thought crossed her mind, it was as though the knuckles shone and she held them up to admire them. They must have cost some pretty little eddies… or he’d stolen them. She’d have preferred he’d stolen them, actually. Shifting her gaze to Ber, she could read him like a book. The nerves that leaked out of him. A smile cracks onto her features as a little sigh of a chuckle leaves her. “Ber.” Again, shaking her head at him for a breath of a moment before she was flinging herself around him. Arms around his neck, brushing the knuckles against his nape, burying her own face into the space between his neck and shoulder, lips grazing the skin there. 

“I love them.” Her fingers moved into his hair then, scratching lightly at his scalp beneath. If she could have captured a moment and placed it into a bottle, this would have been one of them. If she had some hindsight, she would have taken a moment like less for granted. Instead, she’s pulling back, looking up into his eyes that she’d so often get lost within, and smirking. “But did you just invite me to kick your ass?”

#propheresy #rel: quinn & ber. #//pouring one out HARD for them rn man

[nomadical]

@propheresy​ || confrontations || accepting!

“ you can’t run away from this forever.  ” (beraiah saad)

There’s mud two inches deep on either side of his boots. Paul doesn’t mind. But the sound is a bit stomach churning as he walks to the very edge of the compound. He doesn’t get as close as he used to. Tensions keep rising between the town and what’s going on out here..where ‘they’ are? He’s been getting some hellish looks leaving town and making his deliveries out this way. Has even had his fair share of confrontations about supplying the crazies (and that’s the kindest of the names the Seeds are getting for themselves) anything they might need. 

Paul doesn’t tell them the worst of it. How, from the corners of his eyes, even though he keeps his head down and tries his HARDEST not to see much (unsure if it’s plausible deniability he’s going for or attempting to convince himself that he’s not toeing over a line he doesn’t want to admit is there when he’s telling himself, and others, that it isn’t)----there’s a sinking feeling in his gut when he glimpses what’s going on behind Beraiah. Or around him on his way up to the last gate.

Or how the mud’s often mixed with a color too red to be rust when the rain washes the dirt downhill..

Brows shove together, he lifts one foot. A sickening sludgy gulp, sucking pop noise later--it’s free.

‘ you can’t run away from this forever. ’ Ber’s voice drags Paul’s attention up from the tan and copper/crimson laced gunk coating worn black leather and makes eye contact. He’s speechless. Pale, sea green eyes search the others like he doesn’t understand. HE DOES. Makes his blood turn cold. A slick coats his mouth and tongue.

“There’s nothing to run away from. Right? Whatever it is that happens here.. It’s not for me to judge. If people are happy and safe? That’s what religion’s for... Or that’s what I’d like to think. Most of the time? I only see people fighting about it.” He forces a smile, knowing his answer was complete bullshit. A total avoidance of the true meaning behind what Ber’s insinuating. “Anyway.. I could use your help getting all this out of the truck? Big order this week.. Almost cleared me out. Not that I’m complaining..” Ignore how heavy and fast the vein on his throat pounds. Ignore it. Nothing to see.

#i went down to the river to pray. (far cry 5) #propheresy #i love em so effin much #featuring: beraiah saad (propheresy)

[breakthings]

@propheresy sent: Beraiah for Riley : i can barely recall a time when i was not here.

Riley couldn’t remember exactly where or when he had separated from Jason by accident. Being trapped in some Montana County was not on his bucket list; the young pilot being reminded too much of the Rook Islands and the atrocities he had witnessed there—the trees of Montana reminding him too much of the jungles of Indonesia; causing his stomach to twist into multiple knots. He could feel a phantom pain in his shoulder where his bullet wound scar was; a shaky exhale leaving him as he followed the other.

“Did you…grow up here or something?” He was never really good at small talk, but Beraiah was the first source of human life he found while looking for his older brother. Hands moved to adjust his hat that sat backwards on his head; Hazel gaze looking around slowly at their surroundings, dark brows knitting together slowly. Something felt…off. And he was pretty sure that wasn’t the jungle trauma speaking, either.

“Uh, hey…” Riley finally spoke after a moment of silence, glancing at the other warily; though part of him was telling him not to stop or that might be a bad thing. Maybe it was just his anxiety—right?

“Where are we going, exactly? I don’t think you told me.”

#far cry 5 tbt #pilotcrashed. — | 𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐘. #propheresy

[prvtocol]

🌸for Miriam or Ber, if you like!

Send 🌸 for three things my muse likes about yours. | ( accepting!! )

Miriam 

“She wants to learn. Maybe she’s not going to openly admit to that, but I can see it in her curiosity. She’ll get there.”

“I feel akin to Miriam for our similarities in upbringing and the hidden hardships that gilded life entails. When you have everything, it doesn’t mean you have everything figured out. She is trying to find herself and I admire her courage in what seems to be forging her own path.”

Beraiah

“It’s commendable, the striving to adapt to a world so unlike the one he grew up in. Brave I would call it and proves an incredible amount of restraint considering the testiness of corpos and their tendency to let their mouths run. I appreciate his patience in those situations. It cannot be easy."

#propheresy #⚘ ˚◞ answers ◞ 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝑜𝒻𝒻𝒾𝒸𝑒 𝒶𝓊𝓉𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓉𝒾𝒸 𝓇𝑒𝓅𝓁𝓎. #(( one for ber. two for miri (: ))

[mslangermann-a]

@propheresy​ (miriam) liked for a short starter

    Protection isn’t her usual job. Her coin is often gained after taking lives, killing those who sought to hurt and abuse the women in their homes. Playing bodyguard is uncommon, but not unwelcomed. What’s strange about this contract is the location. The women she’s meant to protect is holed up in a camp far from the city, and only she and her partner live out here. Lynn can’t help but wonder what - or who - they’re hiding from. 

    “Are you alright?” Lynn asks of the young woman, not exactly keen on small talk herself, but the silence is starting to weigh on her. 

#propheresy #VERSE ; A WOMAN'S WRATH (middle ages)

[wrathiincarnate]

Outlast II || Accepting || @propheresy

Heart pounds against his ribs as the deputy presses his back against the nearest tree, head thumping back against it as he attempts to catch his breath. He always seems to lose track of time while in the mountains, something he's sure is an underlining effect from Jacob's trials; mind games even when they're none the wiser about the deputy being there.

Or so he had thought.

“ shame is a gift from god, to let you know right from wrong. ”  

Back pushes off bark as Emmet moves to look around the tree that had been propped up against, brows pulling down once gaze locks on the other. he'd almost prefer jacob over this particular solider. For a moment, the deputy simply stares at the other, hand twitching towards his still holstered weapon. He might not get far should when the fight comes, but he'll be damned if he's caught again.

"Lucky for you, I don't have any shame, huh?" Emmet responds, gaze bouncing around briefly before settling again on Beraiah. If Jess was smart, she'd stay hidden.

"....You guys really don't have any either. "

#propheresy #Em: holy fuck look @ that huge guy #also em: lets mouth off to him >:(c

[mtnsedge]

@propheresy  〉  miriam

"You’ve made a goddamn mess of the Valley, niece.” 

Pratt is well-trained, abused mutt that he is. He drags an empty ammunition box across the muddy soil and rests it in front of the cage, shying away as if he expects the back of his overseer’s hand for his efforts. Cowering, Pratt’s hands clasp in front of him, shoulders squared, eyes trained on some imagined point straight ahead in the distance. 

Who the fuck told you to stand at-ease?

An issue of discipline he’ll contend with later. He has a far more pressing issue to contend with. 

Jacob eases himself onto the wooden boards, a rasping exhale escaping his ruined lungs. Beraiah stands just behind his shoulder, masked and clad in his menacing assortments of red and white. His lieutenant looms like an omen, casts his shadow across handler and earth and captive. 

Jake leans back far enough to murmur, “Escort Michael back to where he belongs.” 

He’s served his purpose for now. Musician turned ne'er-do-well turned brain-rotted Angel. The best bait is that which can be reused. Let no resource go to waste.

“An’ the Henbane. An’ my mountains.” 

Beraiah departs from him with a grunt, and Jacob turns his attention to the caged woman, curled on a bed of soiled hay like an animal. He coughs into the closed mitt of his fist, the taste of iron glancing over his tongue.

His brothers may not see her for the feral beast she is, but Jacob knows better. 

“What d’you think these people’re gonna do with you, once you’ve served their purpose?”

The elder Seed spits a bloody wad of saliva into her cage. The scent of refuse hangs in the air, carried through the mountainside by a brisk autumn wind. The first test of any asset, once resistant to the cult — can they endure the mire of their own defecation, their own waste?

The man one kennel over could not. He lays rotting in his cell, dead and unmoving, trousers soiled with shit, half-starved as his bowl rations grows untouched.

Jacob coughs again, raises a canteen to his lips and drinks of its lukewarm water. When he swishes it about his mouth and spits it out past his lips, it lands within her cage. “Go on, Miriam. Tell me, d’you think this “resistance” cares about you now that they know you’re a Seed?”

#propheresy: miriam #propheresy #evil uncle evil uncle #this is the time he snatches her up for her conditioning and uses mike as bait :')

[aliasmultimuse]

@propheresy sent:

Miriam for Jason : (beg) : sender’s muse begs receiver’s to stop attacking them

For it's true, you are my destiny, says Jacob's song, stuck at the back of his head, under the frantic beating of his heart. It's what Jason has known all along, deep in his bones, finally put into words: Miriam is his destiny, like he was Vaas'. For all of their efforts, the circle remains unbroken. They have become one of the same and now, one must kill the other. It's a natural law, no more avoidable than gravity itself. "Nail me to the fucking cross," he hisses, gaze fixated on Miriam's (when you hold my) hand (I understand the magic that you do), on the bleeding wound that Jason's machete carved in it. It looks like a stigmata and she looks like a saint, a martyr in the making.

Jason himself looks like the devil, like a fallen angel. Once handsome features are now twisted, rotten almost. His ghastly face bears every sign of the weeks spent in Jacob's hands, of the horrors he had to endure: it's ashen, decorated with bruises that range from blue to yellow and adorned with an overgrown, patchy beard. There's a gash on his forehead, above his left eyebrow, red and swollen and encrusted with old blood; under it, two dark circled, deep set eyes the color of swamp water look at Miriam with dazed malevolence.

Miriam is begging, pleading for him to stop, words that reach Jason's ears but stop just short of his fogged mind. Both her hands are wrung tight around his wrist, desperately trying to hold back his weapon, and the familiarity of that scene plunges Jason into a (you're my) dream (come true). The past and the present bleed into each other. He's in a warehouse, only lit by a multitude of tv screens, air hot and humid and heavy with rancid sweat; he's in a bunker, crude fluorescents flickering above, air cold, still and dusty. Jason's grasp on the machete goes lax, the weapon falls. Out of muscle memory only, his left hand moves to grab it. He's done that before, caught his blade mid fall to plunge it deep into Vaas' chest, over and over again.

Jason is but a shadow of his previous self now. In the past weeks, Jacob's broken both his spirit and his body, took away whatever scrap of sanity he hadn't already lost on Rook. He's kept him awake to terrible, sweet music, barely fed him, worked him to the bones. This time, when Jason's hand moves to catch his falling weapon, it's slower. His palm only grazes its blade and a wounds blooms on it, to match Miriam's own. The machete falls to the ground with a dull sound, the song screeches to a halt in Jason's head, verse incomplete.

#p: reply #c: victim turned warrior #v: hope county 2018 #propheresy

[blesscdbliss]

joseph : ❛ she's dancing in the sky. ❜

𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐀 // Accepting

People going missing in Hope County were starting to become less and less of a surprise. Fewer people turned their heads when they heard the news, and even fewer bothered to ask about it.

And you certainly did not ask Joseph Seed to his face where they'd gone.

Lana had seemed nice enough when Rachel had met her. Big, doe eyes and a smile that made it look like her jaw was tensed and ready to bite anytime she'd seen it. No one else in the project seemed confused when Faith disappeared. People moved on with their lives. Rachel was offered shrugs when she tried asking herself. Maybe it was time to ask someone else.

#propheresy #asks #thank you!! #Go in Peace ~ (Answered) #I guess you get beginning and end Rachel

[prvtocol]

@propheresy :🥇 a supportive text. (Miri for Bri!) | texting starters (accepting)

[ landry 📲 baxter ] Good evening. Hopefully you are safely home and off your feet. It was a long day and I’m sure you’re feeling it. Just wanted to send a quick note and say you did really excellent today. Your note-taking at the meeting was incredibly thorough, and I’m proud of all you learned and accomplished. [ landry 📲 baxter ] I know this program is no 20 year old’s cup of tea, but I promise not to make your slated hours for the internship any worse than they were today. [ landry 📲 baxter ] I’ve checked the schedule and next Thursday has potential if you would like another 8 to 10 hours to work towards your 100. And we won’t be in the office all day. I have a power lunch in Konpeki Plaza that you can tag along and then business at the Waterfront. Sounds much better than being stuck in a boardroom refilling tea, doesn’t it? [ landry 📲 baxter ] Please let me know if this day works for you by tomorrow's EOD. [ landry 📲 baxter ] EOD = end of day, just in case.

#propheresy #⚘ ˚◞ answers ◞ 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝑜𝒻𝒻𝒾𝒸𝑒 𝒶𝓊𝓉𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓉𝒾𝒸 𝓇𝑒𝓅𝓁𝓎. #⚘ ˚◞ interactions ◞ . #⚘ ˚◞ 2075-2077 ◞ . #(( bri really tries to make it better for her mentees (even if she puts them to work) <3 )) #(( also. bri this was not a quick note 🙄 ))

[mslangermann-a]

❒

@propheresy​ sent a symbol headcanon prompt 

❒ : my muse and gifts. (if they are good/bad at finding gifts, good/bad at receiving gifts, good/bad at wrapping gifts, etc.)

lynn has an exceptional memory and listens well (despite her headstrong nature). it’s an important part of her job and it translates into her personal life as well. one example being gift giving. an off handed comment about something that interest you and she’ll log that memory away for future birthdays, christmas, etc. where she tends to struggle is giving a gift on time - particularly when any shred of extra time fills up with work.

receiving gifts is a joy for her. she’s not picky about what she gets and will appreciate any gesture. even gifts like picking up groceries, cleaning the apartment, a gift certificate to a massage therapist, are all welcomed.

as for her wrapping, she is quite particular. she will find matching paper and ribbons and bows and she tends to be a bit extravagant. each individual item wrapped, stylish methods of tying a bow she found online, expert paper folding used about the gift, etc. she finds the whole process relaxing.  

#HEADCANON. #ANSWERED PROMPT. #propheresy #thank you!