askforfireman

[askforfireman]

Heh.

Fiery kid, that one, all plated up and ready for war ( hadn't he done enough snooping? Not rumors of war ― just terrorizing villages . . . or maybe he needed to invest a little more in those rumors, research 'em in his nefarious little way. ) Ah right, the occasional threat ― he'd given one, so the kid gives one. Fair enough. Eye for an eye . . . heh, well, he preferred getting paid over losing an eye, but he might take losing an eye over losing any coin. Decisions, decisions . . .

First step to dealing with the noble sort: rag the hell out of their morals ( if they had 'em ― not many of that sort do, nobles and their hoarding. ) The issue? It wasn't his line of work ― all the talking and diplomacy and discussing and . . .

Heh, brute force was an option, always was ( it beat talking any day. ) But the man seemed lofty, which meant he had coin, which also meant his death wouldn't go unnoticed, so it wasn't like hiding his body was an option. Damn, what a dilemma. Can't dispose of 'em, might as well join 'em. ( Helps if they pay well, too. )

"Cut the racket out," He gruffs, slipping from the branch to plop on his feet, no thud, no sound ― silent like the night. " 'Fore the whole damn town hears you."

He keeps to lingering, skirting around the man, always partially facing him ― even when trying to assess the town and its flickering torchlight from crouched behind the thicket shrubbery.

"Not to mention you don't look the sort who knows how to hide a body. Keep it down, and we won't have to."

ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴅᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ / &Diamant

#ᴀ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴛᴀꜱᴋ . . . (Threads) #ᴄʟɪᴇɴᴛ : ʙʟ : Diamant #Diamant : Been There Done That : Gauntlets +1

[askforfireman]

What luck he had . . . heh, said who? When? Luck? Heh, no. Not luck -- Mister Misfortune at best: what jargon. No, luck was a concept for the people who couldn't quite pay high debts but somehow got off. Or for the people whose nasty employer suddenly sipped on something a bit too strong. No, he wasn't lucky -- he was the luck. He was the guy that got someone's pesky debt collector off their back, the guy that thickened the employer's drink with something a little too strong.

But he wasn't lucky.

Not when the crickets' chirping was interrupted by a gal who couldn't ( or maybe she could, and just opted for temporary illiteracy ) read the room.

"Huh?"

Lightweight. Heh. A few beers ( not spiked, of course -- he knew how to play the game ) could disprove that, so maybe that's why he didn't feel the need to disprove her. Maybe that's why he resumed his idleness against the trunk of the oak, lounging about like a man who profited on time ( and he did -- could charge more for it, too. A nice little convenience fee. )

"Heh. Get lost, lady. I'm not looking for a jester right now."

tossing technicalities

#ᴀ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴛᴀꜱᴋ . . . (Threads) #ᴄʟɪᴇɴᴛ : ᴀᴡ : Sonya #Sonya : “Tossing Technicalities” : Axe +1

[askforfireman]

//✧𝓒𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓮𝓭 +𝓣𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓴 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭! ✧ :) //✧ 𝓘𝓷𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓲𝓫𝓵𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝔂 ✧

ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʙᴜꜱɪɴᴇꜱꜱ.

Continued from here! @iyusiia

It was rocky from the start . . . Her hand clasped his, maneuvering his beverage ( free but, nonetheless, not worth being trashed ) out of his grasp to top off a waiter's tray with it ; a swift lean puts it back into his grasp, and he tugs himself free from her hold ( formal, being noble and whatnot, but not any more welcomed than the hand of a scumbag ). He takes a sip, a gruff hmph! rumbling in his throat.

( That swirl of shocking lavender and swirling emerald ― something to look into, information for a later date. )

"ꜰɪᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴏᴜꜱᴀɴᴅ. For the dance."

It cost to be agile ( not to mention the stain it'd rub into a businessman of his sort's reputation ). Too high a price, too foolish a move to make if it wouldn't garner a profit. But to add it to the repertoire of services he could charge for?

Eh . . .

Additional fees or a lousy reputation?

"Fireman ― that's all you need to know. And where to find me: docks, unarmed knight. I'm being generous tonight with all the celebrations. Anything more, and I'll start charging on top of what you owe ― your flower, by the way. That's my price."

#//✧𝓒𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓮𝓭 +𝓣𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓴 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭! ✧ :) #//✧ 𝓘𝓷𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓲𝓫𝓵𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝔂 ✧ #//just closing this off! much and many thanks for letting me know jae!!

[askforfireman]

18. A memory they’d love to change

It's not yours, but it might as well be.

You weren't there, but you should have been.

But what could you have done?

( Part of you thinks it was your problem -- something you were paid to handle had you the need to. )

You remember it -- bumping into the kid's little band of rag-tag mercenaries, newly leader-less. Well, they had a leader, yeah, alright. A kid -- Greil's kid. That's how you learned ( and you should have learned sooner. ) That's how you learned your client was dead, life robbed from him, six feet under somewhere. That's how you learned Greil was dead.

You weren't mad, but it was strange -- you weren't happy. Now, you know you're not the happy sort, lingering in joy and all that cheap bullshit, but despite the popular opinion, you had a professional standard. You thought you were amoral, unbothered by the injustices ( too many of them to try to fix it all, anyway ) but that rubbed you wrong. A good man was dead ( good despite, well, what you know -- that little ace card in your back pocket, Greil's not-so-little secret. ) But what could you do?

It's why you slithered your deceitful shenanigans into the kid's life: his old man finally kicked the bucket, shame as it was. It was the second part of your contract, but hell if you hadn't thought that wouldn't come to pass -- it should have been easy money: first fee for handling Greil, second fee for watching his kid until he hit the golden years, then you could hassle right on back to your scummy life. But hell if that happened. Greil kicked it and the kid was too young, so you couldn't just snag the money and hurry off: you had to do the job. You had to watch the kid.

Had to watch him mourn from your nook in the shadows, then put that fake face on that everyone loves and plow through the hardships -- sounds familiar to you, except you didn't have the audience that the kid did. You could put on the fakest face you'd like, but no one would see it. But the kid? Everyone saw it -- it was something that made you tick. Everyone could watch the kid go and play line leader to a militia made out of patriots and righteous folk, but no one could console him. And you sure weren't about to be the first -- not your job, not your skill set.

You weren't a wishful man then, and you still aren't now, but if you could undo the world's hurt, you'd undo Greil's death.

( And damn if that isn't rich coming from you, you assassin. )

#ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ? . . . (Asks) #//very interesting trying to figure out what a man who doesn't care about much would care about enough to want to change #//good for the brain muscles! :D

[askforfireman]

11. A memory that may or may not have happened

Maternal absence/issues tw

It's warm arms that hold you by the shoulders -- an embrace, you think, but you don't know ( how could you ? ) It's warmth against your temple when darkness thieves your world of light, and fatigue finds your bones and pickpockets their strength -- a consolation into slumber. It's a warm hand that ruffles your hair and makes you chuckle -- not gruff and empty, but boyish and wild. It's when your own stomach isn't the only thing talking to you, but another voice instead -- easy and gentle and warm ( but you think you hear the speaker's stomach talking, debating with hunger. ) It's warmth. Physical, tangible warmth, and it makes you laugh that boyish and wild and warm laughter.

It's locks that match your own -- wispy and brunette -- that you use when you're lost in the marketplace: your anchor, your home -- where you flock to when nowhere else is safe to flock to. Maybe it's where you get your rust-hued eyes from, or their narrowed structure, or the way they reflect at times like they're burgundy instead of rust-hued. Or maybe it's where you get your nose from -- all angular and blunt, but not hideous. Or was it the width of your face instead? Or the crease where your nose melds with the bones of your eyes, and the way it makes you look old and tired? Or maybe it was where your upturned smirk came from, persistent and smug, unwavering despite it all?

Or maybe she was lithe and quick on her feet like you? You put food on the table being quick and nimble, so maybe she did the same. Or maybe she had other means? Such that cost in flesh or blood? Did she wring her hands and taint underneath her nails with red like you did? Or was she smarter than you enough to wear gloves? Did she skirt about on the edges of society, demanding gold and coin and anything that shimmered in the light, desperate for financial gain? Was she obsessive over coin like you are, trying to fill the void with it?

It's a fucking lie.

-- That little world you make up in your noggin, wanting more but being unable to achieve it in any way that would matter. It stays up there, marinating when you're a kid -- maybe even when you're creeping up on the adult years. And it's not quite gone when the stubble freckles your face. It's there, lingering, a silent thought -- untouched for years, but, nevertheless, still there.

There were never any warm arms that enveloped your shoulders, or goodnight kisses when you were young enough to think monsters weren't on the streets but under the bed. You never laughed, not more than a scoff, and who were you to think you'd ever laughed in earnest? A cold man like you never picked up a match to strike warmth in the world -- you were Fireman. You smothered the heat until it extinguished itself. Took all the warmth out of the world.

There were never brunette tresses to follow, or a visage like yours to gaze at. There was no lady willing to put blood underneath her nails to put warm food on your table -- hell, there wasn't even a table. She didn't bloody her hands to put gold in her pockets, or in your pockets. There wasn't any lady that shared your smirk or your conviction -- no lady to watch the stubble find your face and tease you about it, or the gray hairs and tired eyes.

You know you should have one, but you don't think you did.

You don't think you ever had a mom.

#ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴏᴜꜱᴀɴᴅ. ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴ . . . (HC) #//my finger slipped #//oops :)

[askforfireman]

a kiss where they’re both covered in blood

Violence & blood trigger warning

He knew the life -- hadn't lived it, but knew it. In and out: all the intricacies of it, the barbaric facets, brutish impulsivities, utter lack in regard for the common person bereft of any hostilities. He hated that sort, actually -- loathed them beyond compare. Damn ruffians, waltzing about, preying on the frail and the feeble ( not that their particular person of interest was feeble -- took a hell of a lot to be a cleric, especially with how corrupt religious establishments tended to be these days. )

It broiled his blood in just the right way to prompt the blade of his dagger to slide from its sheath and lodge itself with nifty agility between the juncture of the jaw and shoulders, puncturing the hefty aorta enough to witness gushing crimson torrents. It happened just about the same time that the sole of his boot made contact with the side of another's knee, caving and collapsing the brute. Not much of a crime scene to clean up . . . except for his hands, of course, and maybe the girl's face, all red from aortic pressure.

"Come on." He doesn't spare her a quarter ( doesn't spare anyone a quarter, really -- not even a penny ) before his hand hassles her along, diverging from the dirt path into the green of surrounding thickets. There's not much to it, he hadn't thought, until she pecks his cheek in thanks ( startling him enough to jerk a faint flinch, but nonetheless a gesture often understood . . . not that it pleased him. Wasn't his thing -- couldn't be with how queasy it made his stomach. )

"Yeah, yeah. Just consider it recompense for that shitshow -- you know the one. Too much of a conscience to let good people get gutted by ruffians. "

#ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ? . . . (Asks) #ᴄʟɪᴇɴᴛ : ʙʟ : Mercedes #//today is simply volke's day

[askforfireman]

She's all inclined to care, and while the crease of her image and the glimmer in her eye might suggest it's earnest, he's not made it this far to fall for a whim of humanity ( if it existed — humanity, rare as it was. Can't say he's encountered it much, church-work or not. ) Suppose it wound up recalled on divine shelves, mixed up with greed and envy and put on the world like some fleeting dream. He wasn't much of a dreamer — a doer, sure, not a dreamer.

"I'm fine." He gruffs, resuming his efforts in aiding by glimpsing the topmost loft — nice little place to store supplies, likely some more flint and a lantern or two. Could offer some nice warmth. "Give it to someone who needs it." A grumble, and he's turned to hoist himself with innate dexterity up the rungs on the ladder, peering above the wooden floor.

At an arm's reach, he procures a lantern, sliding it onto his other arm to take into hand the second, only to then hop from the heights and plant himself at the ladder's base again.

"Use the flint." He offers, dropping the lanterns with a gentle thud ( wouldn't want the glass shattering — what a needless expense. ) "The cold things can't make heat on their own — need to make it for them."

No doubt that she would, all considerate as she was. But he wasn't one to flock around with wyverns, all snappy and bitey and hell if they couldn't use more warm meat right about now — made for some nasty possibilities that he didn't feel like wounding up dragged into. But hell, what were they paying him for? Lounging around? — almost made him laugh ( not to mention the recompense demand he could make if he lost a finger. )

"Make it quick. They're dead tonight if we can't get them warm by dawn." Always pays to help out -- hence the unsheathing of his own dagger, "Give me some flint. It gets done twice as fast then."

Field of Reeds

#ᴀ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴛᴀꜱᴋ . . . (Threads) #ᴄʟɪᴇɴᴛ : ʙᴇ : Igrene #Igrene : “Field of Reeds” : Flying +1 #//so funny to color his dialogue compared to like lachesis who could talk your ear off and all you see is her pink font whereas volke's got #//--> like zero social skills whatsoever

[askforfireman]

Send A Number to Experience One of My Muse’s Memories

Memories are vignettes for one’s past, and often times, they are very telling.

1. Their First Memory 2. A memory of their father 3. A memory of their mother 4. A memory of a sibling 5. A memory of a pet 6. A turning point in their life 7. A memory they want to forget 8. A hazy memory 9. A photographic memory 10. A disappointing memory 11. A memory that may or may not have happened 12. A happy memory 13. A memory of a friend 14. A memory of a relationship 15. A heartbreaking memory 16. A memory that makes them angry 17. A memory of something they regret 18. A memory they’d love to change 19. A memory of someone they don’t see anymore 20. A memory of someone who is deceased 21. A memory of the first time they did an activity they love 22. A childhood memory 23. A school day memory 24. A holiday memory 25. A birthday memory 26. A memory they want to share 27. A memory of something they’re proud of 28. A memory that strains a relationship 29. A memory they can’t let themselves forget 30. Asker’s choice 31. Writer’s choice

#ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ? . . . (Asks) #//let's give him some depth by giving him some memories

[askforfireman]

"You," the address comes dagger-sharp, like an accusation; It took long enough to find a free second to approach. At least the quiet guy's dancer's garb is easier to pick out than the usual darker cloth he seems to prefer, what with how he tends to stray towards the sides and the shadows. Takes one to know one.

Maybe it's that gut feeling that makes him seem easier to talk to, even though he's an adult.

"What's your name? I realised I should probably know it." They meet his eyes, level, if a bit fatigued. A pause, before they vaguely lift a hand, palm up, plausible deniability for a handshake. "Mine's Chad. Good to fight by your side, Mister."

There's the typical drop in rates and client retention when stupidity garbs you -- the sort of concern that jingles his nerves when he's put by some higher fool in this . . . outfit. If it could even be called an outfit -- more like loosely designed and arranged scarfs. And the dangly decor, no. Absolutely not. Makes too much damn sound to scuttle about like he was used to -- too much attention to attract at the wrong time. ( And it drags a scruffy scoff from him, and folds his arms, and damn if there's not a tick of ire in his veins. )

"What, kid?"

The thief. Kid-thief. Heh -- he knew that lifestyle. Scuttling around, scurrying hither and thither, slipping hands into pockets or daggers into bellies. Running off trying to mute jingling gold or dangling, clanking jewelry. That was a long time ago -- the easy stuff. Before the violence and the red-letting. Oh, yeah, and the pissed client that couldn't quite put two and two together when they were dealing with a hand quick enough to spill their red.

But the kid's got honesty with 'em -- for now, in that way that kids do. It leaves eventually, sucks the soul dry when the world can't return it -- no guaranteed refund for the hope the world sucks from you. It's all one big transaction -- the world gets your hope, and you get the emptiness that tries to make itself at home in return. Shittiest transaction that could ever be made. Piss poor interest rate, too.

So why not let the kid keep it around -- let 'em think the world isn't so bad? It's why, on the contrary, Volke clasps the kid's hand and shakes it nice and hefty, a simple transaction.

"Volke, kid. My name."

#( 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚍 / 🪙ᴄʜᴜʀᴄʜ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴀᴄᴛ: ᴊᴜɴᴇᴀʀᴇɴᴀ𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟹 ) #ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ? . . . (asks) #ᴄʟɪᴇɴᴛ : ɢᴅ : Chad

[askforfireman]

"So, you ain't much of a talker, huh?" Linus mused, having followed the man around for a while now, more or less keeping up a one way conversation the whole time. Unless you counted price tags to go along with questions to be a conversation. "Know a lotta folks like you. All broody and playin' cool as a cat that caught a prize bird."

Which wasn't a lie, but may have been a bit of an exaggeration. Sure, there were plenty of quiet types in the Fang, but just as many more that weren't.

"Always fun to mess with folks like you -- not, like, in a bad way. Least not all of the time. Just fun to rustle some feathers, and see if I can get a reaction outta ya, y'know?"

He's grinning, all casual and very much playing around. Not serious, since Volke seemed to have that covered already. and that was what Linus was hoping to disrupt a little.

It was all about getting a reaction.

In the next moment, he's pinning the other man up against a wall, all sharp teeth and mischief.

"You're a thrifty guy, right? So 'm sure you'll appreciate the first one bein' free," Linus chuckled, leaning in to give the other man a fast fiercely playful kiss. There was fire behind it, but not in an emotionally meaningful way. No, this was all about seeing how the quiet man was going to react -- positive or negative, it didn't really matter to Linus as much as the act of doing.

Marketplace shadows couldn't quite conceal a familiar face ( and there was nothing he hated more than being a familiar face outside of his networked clients. ) It'd be best to get the slip and slither off like an unknown fella the moment he spots the brute trotting even a fraction in his direction, but he had business -- the legal sort, this time. Well, partially legal. Bit of a cashed-in favor and red words to nick an addition to his arsenal courtesy of the blacksmith just over yonder.

Except that could be done any day -- better yet, towards the evening when the place clears out. Now? Now was his escape time -- a back-track of his steps leading just around the edges of the perimeter, scuttling off into the lesser alleys of academic grounds to avoid a chaser. The hell with that -- the brute was persistent, yapping just like he had on the battlefield, clinging to his tail ( hell, if some people just can't keep their trap shut ! )

Get a reaction . . . ?

Then there's a thud at his back and vices around both wrists, and instinct juts his leg out to square his foot against the oaf's hip, jostling him back, granting reprieve from being pinned between the fool and the stone wall. He snatches his hands back from where the oaf's thumbs clasp them before squaring the flat of his foot into the man's lower gut with such vigor that it racks through his own leg.

"The hell is your problem . . ."

But he's not one to let a good deal slip him by, so he bids his wordless adieu and heads off, brisk footfalls carrying him around the alleyway's corners to duck elsewhere and slink his way back to Abyss the back way. That was enough for one day -- his arsenal addition could wait.

( But don't forget the nerves -- the comprising spot. What the hell was that? To hell with friendships of that sort -- he'd rather pay a damn five grand fine than have friends if that was the shit they did. )

#ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ? . . . (Asks) #( 𝙻𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚜 /🪙 ᴄʜᴜʀᴄʜ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴀᴄᴛ: ᴊᴜɴᴇᴀʀᴇɴᴀ𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟹 ) #ᴄʟɪᴇɴᴛ : ɢᴅ : Linus #//LINUS OHMYGODBUDDY

[askforfireman]

Admittedly, Valter didn’t have much to draw on when it came to judging this man.

Assuming the other’s objective was to keep a low profile, he was certainly succeeding in that regard. He spoke little and fought evasively, scarcely taking damage from what the general could recall. Beyond that? There wasn’t much to be drawn upon. It was almost impressive.

“ I assume you’re a mercenary of some sort, ” Valter muses aloud. “ Were you paid to be here? Or perhaps you came here out of your own amusement…? ”

The Moonstone shakes his head dismissively, waving the thought away. “ That’s not very important though, is it? ”

“ I am Valter. I would ask for your name in return. ”

"Hm?"

Oh, right, the general -- Moonstone ( what an epithet. ) Teal locks and dark armor, plated and whatnot, poised with precision and armed with silver edges ( nothing like Greil, Gawain -- swordsman of the century, if not the next two centuries, but worthy of a profit with the information that could be sold on him. ) Foe to the Yapper -- an acquaintanceship more laughable than anything, following each other into the darkness beyond. Heh.

"Name's Volke." He offered, arms folding, brow quirking beneath the garnet of his bandana -- what for? A name was just a direction. It was typical, sure, but nothing about the Moonstone rang as typical -- fact or fiction. "As for why I'm here . . . ᴛᴡᴏ ᴛʜᴏᴜꜱᴀɴᴅ."

#ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ? . . . (Asks) #( 𝚅𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛 / 🪙ᴄʜᴜʀᴄʜ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴀᴄᴛ: ᴊᴜɴᴇᴀʀᴇɴᴀ𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟹 ) #ᴄʟɪᴇɴᴛ : ᴄꜱ : Valter

[askforfireman]

another kiss prompt

a kiss to make up for an argument

a dominating kiss to end an argument 

a gentle kiss to ask forgiveness 

a kiss against shoulder blades as arms wrap around from behind 

a kiss against the shoulder after waking up beside each other 

a kiss to distract

a kiss against tear stained cheek

a kiss on the brow 

a kiss where they’re both covered in blood

a kiss after one muse has killed for the other 

a kiss after one muse has injured the other 

a kiss between enemies who should be fighting 

a kiss between exes who meant to walk away 

a playful kiss to make the other stop rambling 

an adoring kiss because the other is rambling 

a kiss to end sexual tension 

an angry kiss 

a tearful kiss 

a kiss to prove a point 

a hesitant kiss 

a kiss from one muse who should be afraid of the other 

a kiss from a muse who the other should be afraid of 

kisses scattered along hardened jaw to try and sooth 

a kiss as if trying to answer a question 

a kiss between furrowed brows to try and comfort 

a kiss from someone the other didn’t think thought of them that way 

a kiss that says thank you 

a kiss on the corner of the mouth,  hoping for more but expecting nothing 

an exploratory kiss,  testing the waters between them 

a kiss on the forehead of one who is starting to fall asleep 

a kiss against the cheek after discovering the other is napping 

a platonic kiss just meant to express overwhelming emotion 

a kiss to comfort both parties

a kiss stemmed from relief 

a kiss to make the other believe professed feelings 

a possessive kiss to remind the other who they belong to 

a possessive kiss to show the world they belong to each other

a kiss stemmed from jealousy 

a kiss to make someone else jealous 

a biting,  passionate kiss 

a kiss against the neck which feels more like a bite,  teeth bruising skin 

a desperate kiss as if they are convinced they’ll slip through each other’s fingers 

a kiss to make each other feel alive 

a kiss stolen away in a corner,  ignoring crowds 

a kiss after being pulled into an alley to have a moment to themselves 

a kiss after grabbing the other’s arm and pulling them back close 

a kiss to convince the other to stay 

a kiss like they’re trying to convince the other to love them 

a hopeful kiss in the rain

a desperate kiss in the rain 

an angry kiss in the rain 

a possessive kiss in the rain 

a playful,  happy kiss in the rain 

a passionate kiss stemmed from previous heartbreak in the rain 

a kiss in the rain to make up like it’s a damn romcom 

a kiss in the rain filled with the foreboding of a goodbye 

a kiss to make the other stop being stubborn 

a kiss after treating a wound 

a defiant kiss 

a kiss between partners in crime in front of someone they hold captive 

a kiss to anger a third party 

an adrenaline filled kiss shared after committing a crime 

a surprise kiss just because the other couldn’t stop thinking about it 

#ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ? . . . (Asks) #//ohmygod #//you may get slapped - a word of warning #//again please be aware that he's on the older side even for some of the older toa muses! #//let's stretch the character development muscles

[askforfireman]

Alright. No time to waste, not as he's scurrying about, ducking and weaving, kept to the shadows while the damn infestation of a creature wages its war ( wages -- heh. Wages were a good thing. Waging war? Eh, too expensive. Too high a chance to kick the rusty bucket. He'd rather stick around to get the other sort of wages -- the gold ones. )

( It's a distant clatter on the ears -- the Yapper, well, yapping -- as Volke's finding his way about the arena, obstacles here and there to vault and leap over, landing swiftly and silently. The man's shouting at the girl, and she's keeping the kid under watch -- smart thing to do, maternal and whatnot. Not his sort of thing though: babysitting. And the general -- from poise to finesse to physique, Volke could tell he was a general -- was attempting unintentional murder on everyone. Heh. What a merry band of misfits. )

"Hm."

He drags the feathered end of his choice of a pointy object against the length of the string, pulling it taut, raising the butt of it to rest aside the corner of his lip -- a keen eye keeps to the creature, watching it consume its gross little growths like a suicidal lord sentencing his subjects to death. Then, ffft !

Not even close. Heh -- must have been the relocating. Wasn't like a bow was his first choice in weaponry, hence the fragile attempts with it. So, he draws the string with an arrow again, and, in scooting atop his bended knee to the right, looses his arrow.

And it hits.

Volke 8/10HP misses Golden Lich 15/15HP* with Bow of Zoltan [Roll: 2 + 2 = 4; -0HP, Golden Lich 15/15HP*] Galeforce activates! Volke 8/10HP hits Golden Lich 15/15HP* with Bow of Zoltan [Roll: 8 + 2 = 10; -4/2 = -2HP, Golden Lich 13/15HP*]

But he stays on his bended knee instead of relocating, queasy in the quagmire that steamed up noxious fumes and startled the stomach. Hell, that would be a queasy recovery -- smelling fumes for days afterward.

Volke suffers -1HP [Poison Gas, Volke 7/10HP]

It's Rude Enough Being Undead When No One Wants You, But Showing Up To Gold Round Uninvited???

#toaarena2023summer #ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴇᴇᴍꜱ . . . ᴇxᴘᴇɴꜱɪᴠᴇ (Events) #ᴀ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴛᴀꜱᴋ . . . (Threads)

[askforfireman]

The yapper nails his hefty shot, bludgeoning the infestation with enough force to shrivel it -- heh, as if. Not a damn soul in this little party was that violent -- not even the bloodlusting maniac that seemed infatuated enough with the yapper that neither could get their heads to focus on anything else. ( What an acquaintanceship -- not even a friendship. Hell, couldn't be a friendship even if he squinted. Too violent, too spiteful. Eh, but they couldn't murder the other under church rules -- it'd make a hell of a profit to sell that information should it happen, though. )

He could say it's not his business, he thinks as he nocks his arrow against the mighty bow's structure, but that's not true. Everything was his business. Not just in the nosy sort, but it was his job to know things. From epithets to derogatory nicknames. Friendships to foe-ships. Who liked who, and who didn't. He's sold all that sort of info for a nice little sum of gold.

"Alright, there you are," He mumbles, loosing his arrow from afar ( that was the safe card -- keeping it distanced. Less chance to suffer any repercussions. ) It lands, piercing gross flesh and lodging in its juncture. Any good archer with a keen intuition knew to relocate for their second shot, so he rises, tucked and unseen, from his spot to hurry elsewhere before nocking his next arrow. "And this."

Ffft! And that's what death reeks of.

Volke 9.5/10HP hits Growth: Feast of Maggots 5/10HP with Bow of Zoltan [Roll: 13 + 7 = 20; -4HP, Growth: Feast of Maggots 1/10HP] Galeforce activates! Volke 9.5/10HP hits Growth: Feast of Maggots 1/10HP with Bow of Zoltan [Roll: 18 + 7 = 25; -4HP, Growth: Feast of Maggots 0/10HP] Growth: Feast of Maggots has been defeated!

It also reeks of vinegar and acid, and it clings to his bones and up through his nostrils at the steamy mist rising from the oozing and venin bog. ( Hell, that could char the nose hairs. ) It nauseates the stomach and aches behind the eyes, and he lets out a hefty breath to assuage it.

Volke 9.5/10HP suffers -1HP from Poison Gas! (2 stacks) Volke 9/10HP suffers -1spd, -1avo, -1dex !

"Somebody do something. And be quick about it."

It's Rude Enough Being Undead When No One Wants You, But Showing Up To Gold Round Uninvited???

#toaarena2023summer #ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴇᴇᴍꜱ . . . ᴇxᴘᴇɴꜱɪᴠᴇ (Events) #ᴀ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴛᴀꜱᴋ . . . (Threads)

[askforfireman]

Heh, now this was a better arsenal -- one more befitting a man of his caliber. Keep it afar, keep it swift, keep it strong. One, two, three -- go go go until you outrun death or it catches up to you ( what a miserable game. ) There's a quiver at his hip and a bow in his left hand, and in the gesture of two fingers plucking a feathered arrow from its quiver, he's assaulted. Just like that -- bam !

But it's different. There's a sting, yeah, and a bludgeon against him, but it's not right. It sprawls through him, he thinks, in the way that it flares from his assaulted shoulder to his chest, into his ears where he can hear the blood rushing. And hell what sort of head throb was that? Making him keel over and tighten his grip on his bow, fury askance internally that something feral warrants a nocked arrow raised in that guy's direction -- the bickering Moonstone.

( Was that what Izuka's concoction was like? )

And then it's gone. A swift reprieve -- no agitation left behind, no fury ready to loose an arrow ( and it's startling how quickly he can lower the weapon before loosing its arrow at a client. Shitty business. ) It's the girl, he acknowledges, when the world returns -- green and blue instead of red and purple. No more anger. No more hate. Just . . . emptiness. Back to that feeling -- that one where there wasn't enough gold in the world to quell it.

"Huh . . . yeah, yeah. Right." Instead, and with uncertain hands, he raises his nocked arrow at the half dead . . . thing. A shiny thing -- gold and sparkly ( wonder how much it could be looted for . . . ? ) "Alright, here you are, you bastard."

Volke 10/10HP hits Golden Lich 15/15HP** with Bow of Zoltan [Roll: 19 + 8 = 27; -4/2 = -2HP, Golden Lich 13/15HP**] Volke 10/10HP hits Golden Lich 13/15HP** with Bow of Zoltan [Roll: 8 + 8 = 16; -4/2 = -2HP, Golden Lich 11/15HP**] Golden Lich cannot counterattack! It is Silenced!  Volke is inflicted with Poison Gas! [-0.5HP, Volke 9.5/10HP; -1spd, -1avo, -1dex]

It's Rude Enough Being Undead When No One Wants You, But Showing Up To Gold Round Uninvited???

#toaarena2023summer #ᴀ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴛᴀꜱᴋ . . . (Threads) #ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴇᴇᴍꜱ . . . ᴇxᴘᴇɴꜱɪᴠᴇ (Events)

[askforfireman]

Yapper’s a lost cause, burning alive — fun as that was. The recipient of arson; wasn’t his whole thing putting out fires? Yeah, sure, but not literal fires ( unless there was a hefty coin pouch to cover the burn expenses as contribution. ) Fireman, but not literally. It was enough to furrow his brows and elicit his all too common scoff — heh! What were they doing at that point? Floundering around like beheaded chickens in some economically well-off nation ( because he knows he’s never tasted decent chicken in hellhole Daein. )

Oh, look at that — the sketchy general ( from the armor to the ego ) snarls at him like something rabid ; that was a problem he could put out with a few pointy objects and a neat-o flick of the wrist ( makes him miss his arsenal of throwing trinkets. )

( Not that he could really fit them anywhere in this outfit, lacking as it was. )

He wasn’t the sort to go off leering, but he didn’t reckon a guy like him typically wound up in an outfit like this — more so a girl’s young dream than an assassin’s inclination. So what the hell was he supposed to do? Clap? Tap a foot? The hell! With what rhythmic bone in his body? ( The one that gets him tapping along to a drinking song in a tavern, not that he’d ever sing to it though. Or stowed away under a deck when some drunken sailors chant their shanties — he’s done that before, too. )

The most he’ll settle for in this gamble for his reputation is a foot tap. Nothing more, wished it could be a hell of a lot less. The issue? This dragged him out of the shadows and into the public eye, and hell if there was nothing worse that’d be a damn lie.

“Try it again, and don’t fail. Otherwise I’ll send you my invoice.”

Volke refreshes Valter!

@knighteclipsed

my world's on fire, how 'bout yours? // team 14 silver round

#toaarena2023summer #//mobile ✨sucks✨

[askforfireman]

Volke 5/10HP heals from Bond (Chad)! [Volke 6/10HP]

Plenty of weird jobs out there in the world. This? Hell, what was this? And damn this outfit! All loose and provocative ( had to resist the urge to shutter. ) This wasn’t a skill of his, prancing around to give someone a little boost. Wasn’t worth it — his fucked up reputation afterward would be enough to demand recompense.

“Yeah, kid.” What an attitude. Nobody liked to lose, heh. A fair gamble ( not that he’d waste precious coin like that without a plan to gain his gold back. ) Untouchable was a nice way to put it. Then, the yapper demands his attention, providing him that magical aid to liven the bones and get the blood pumping. Not without a snarky remark — like tip in the coin jar.

“Yeah, my specialty, yapper.”

Volke 6/10HP crits, hits Supreme Infernal Mistress 6.5/10HP with Wo Dao [Rolls: 20 + 0 = 20, 9 + 0 = 0; -2.5HP, -1.0HP, Supreme Infernal Mistress 3/10HP]

One bound, a second, and a third slices fiery visage with dexterous flings. And again! (Heh — that was it, his talent. Swift violence. Put out the problem. Fireman for a reason.) Agility was nifty when needed, and hell if Daein’s economy didn’t give someone a good enough reason to learn a sleight of hand or a pickpocketing trinket — nifty little talents.

But if anything was obvious ( so obvious he wouldn’t make any profit from it ) it was the alliances built — the girl and the kid, the yapper and the bloodluster. ( Not that the latter pair could be called an alliances. Heh — something he’d have to watch the outcome of, from the shadows, of course. )

my world's on fire, how 'bout yours? // team 14 silver round

#toaarena2023summer