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glitteringcldie · 1 year

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The following information applies to the default verse and is a basis for multiple other verses (including my canon-divergent DT ‘17 verse).

Name- “Glittering” Goldie O'Gilt Species- Anthropomorphic Duck Eyes- Cornflower Blue Height- 2’ 11" Birthday- Sept 18, 1873 MBTI- ESFP

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Personality- Clever, tough, occasionally even cold, she has been a spirited lady all her life. Goldie can prance gracefully or pack a powerful punch. She can be loving and thoughtful, or sharp and fierce. Although she has been a singer and dancer, she is also a hard worker, and she does not often expect nor give things for free, unless they are deserved. Overall, how you treat her will determine how nicely, or threateningly, she treats you.

For personal/rp partners' reference on this blog, I have tried filling lengthy unknown gaps of her life and logically blending her main canons. That being said, some of it is canon, some of it is historical-based, but the rest are my headcanons (with discussions and help from tcthinecwnself) that seemed important or interesting to mention.

Warning: there's a lot. Skip to the end for most interactions' relevance if you wish.

Parents

During the mid-1800s, there was an event known as the Great Famine (or Great Hunger) in Ireland. This event took the parents of a young Irish duck, and inspired him to migrate to Canada to find a new, healthier life. His name was Eoin O'Gilt.

Surviving one of the unpleasant boat trips with others who had the same idea, he did not find himself in much better shape after arriving. Moving further inland and away from so many other migration areas, he worked more than one job, saving what he could to eventually buy his own land and begin to farm again.

Before that time, however, he met a French duckess. She was not very impressed with him at first, but as a pleasant sense of humor and gentleness revealed itself from this hard working Irishman, she found herself enjoying his visits to her family’s tavern. She became Rochelle O'Gilt.

Both of their savings bought the land for that farm in the Quebec providence, and they raised three ducklings who could not have been more different in personality and life-goals.

Siblings and Growing Up

A pair of eggs were the first born, a boy and a girl. Rochelle named them Jeffrey and Amie.

A few years later, another egg came along, and Eoin was promised he could name the third. After she was born and already had golden feathers, he chose Goldie.

They did not grow up with expensive things, but they had a home and food, even if not often feasts, and love.

Goldie was determined she would go out and see more of the country, and acquire the precious metals and jewels that she had only heard of. Knowing if she stuck to the idea she would need to learn how to defend herself, Eoin taught her to fight and shoot alongside his son.

As they reached adulthood, Jeffrey remained and worked at the farm, and later expanded it. Amie was more interested in being among people and settled in Montreal. Goldie remained at home with her brother until she too became an ‘adult’ in age, then started traveling along the path of the Canadian Pacific Railway.

Early Adulthood

Having her share of adventures and interesting encounters, Goldie listened and learned a great deal, from how to deal with the harsher climate to swindling tricks (it’s amazing what people will share when a pretty face is curious). She also discovered her consciousness did not bother her if she resorted to conning and theft from crude individuals or scoundrels. Sometimes, in fact, it was easier than being honest.

Within a decade, she had already made her way to the Yukon when news of the Klondike strike reached her in a lumber camp (an area that would later become Dawson), presenting a grand opportunity. A flood always accompanied the discovery of gold, and she set up shop in preparation (with the help of some of the lumberjacks she had been serving meals).

Two of the first to arrive left the strongest impressions. One was a loan-shark named Soapy Slick who wanted to use a table of her establishment for his business, and she agreed to rent it to him until he moved into his own building later. The other was a Scotsman who turned down the offer of a meal after his journey. She did not know his name, but he was pretty cute for a tough guy, him and his fluffy whiskers, and no one else ever left a moose at her door.

She watched Dawson form and grow around her due to the gold rush, making a decent profit selling food, drinks, and occasional card sharking here and there. She had little pity for gamblers who didn’t know when to quit.

The small building was rebuilt and improved to become the Blackjack Ballroom, with advice on style and some furnishings provided by a duck dubbed Dangerous Dan, who then worked with her as a co-manager and bouncer (populace and the violence accompanying crowds had begun to outweigh her ability to keep up with everything herself).

She hired some of the other ladies that had made their way to Dawson by this time, the ones with talent for entertainment, as well as a rather nice pianist who she never thought belonged in such a rough place. Goldie herself finally had not only access, but the funds for fine dresses and jewelry to wear, and she gained her historical title among others during the Klondike Gold Rush: Glittering Goldie. She also gave occasional performances of her own, receiving tips from those she hired.

She eventually learned the name of the whiskered Scotsman who left that tired moose, and heard of his past endeavors in passing conversations the rare times he came to town. He was intelligent, didn’t waste what he earned, and no one could get the jump on him– until the Steamboat incident, a story that may have received exaggeration and been regarded as legend afterward, but she beheld the aftermath in person. It proved Scrooge’s intelligence was matched by strength, an admirable duck among so many idiots and wasteful souls.

Their brief interactions since the beginning of the gold rush were not bad ones, but both were too busy to have time for casual conversation, until the day McDuck brought a very large gold nugget into her saloon. And while Goldie did not pick on him like others before it was revealed, she felt the same greed as Dan and other card gamblers when it was. Brawling soon followed when Scrooge realized she had cheated him out of it. Once the fighting was over, she was confronted, and to avoid being reported to the mounted police, she claimed she would dig him another to make up for it. His disbelief only fueled her determination, as much to prove she could accomplish anything she darn well pleased as actual payment. And maybe swipe more from such a rich claim– she did not plan on emotions getting in her way.

Goldie had helped with lumber, but she had never mined before, and proving she could did not mean she was going to be nice or quiet about a ruined dress or sorry excuse of a bed. There were many a loud disagreements at first, but with time, she noticed moments of softness that showed he was not as cold as he seemed. His mention of parents and childhood reminded her of her own, and how they would feel if she shared the less honest moments of her life away from home in an occasional letter.

Being defended from wildlife, dealing with claim jumpers together, and other events lead to more peaceful interactions between them. Slowly, she did not wear the Ice Queen facade that kept her from seeming weak in a rough town as often. Playfulness started to show itself, such as hurling a snowball at his head one day without warning.

During a long winter of mining and working together, shifting from squabbling to caring, looking after one another when ill or hurt, they accepted they were in love. As spring arrived, they intended to leave together with their stash of gold. Goldie gave him a silk Valentine before returning to Dawson to pack some of her things from the Blackjack Ballroom she had not brought to White Agony Creek, and waited at the train station that night, as they agreed.

Dan had other plans. He stole their stash, and lied to both about the other leaving without them. Goldie did not exactly trust him, of course, but they had worked together, and she had never seen him sink so low. After another person claimed to see Scrooge leave, she had to accept the possibility. She was too proud to go after him to ask why, and too hurt to go after him to shoot him. She assumed she knew the answers: greed, using someone, all to get what you wanted. Why not? She had done it, not to the extend of pretending to love, but it wasn’t a far fetched concept.

Still, after days of anger and sadness, she sent one letter after him. A letter could be ignored, and she did not have to look him in the face; she refused to be a pathetic heartbroken lover who could not accept truth. No response ever came, for the man it reached was as hurt and afraid to read it as she was to chase him. She accepted she made the mistake of thinking he was different than the rest of these gold-fever fools and cons. And she would not let herself make that mistake again.

Mid Adulthood

Goldie sold the Ballroom to Dan, for gold rushes do not last forever, and she had no desire to return to socializing often or wear a smile and put on a show for men in Dawson. She did not have to. She knew how to mine now, she would keep the claim and continue to work it herself. If Scrooge wanted it back, if he dared return, he would have to fight her for it. As far as she was concerned, she had as much right to it after working so hard for nothing, and she would not relinquish it.

She was not quite sure what she would do after hoarding the next pile for herself alone. She had traveled across the country like she wanted when she was a duckling, she had seen it and fought with it. What would she do with another stash? Maybe whenever it ran out, she would go home, work with her brother, or start a business of some kind. But she never did, for more than one reason, each one young and hungry.

Between the countless fights, bushwhacking, and accidents in Dawson and mining camps, a child was sometimes left without a parent, or a parent who would not claim/want them, or both. When she traveled to town for supplies, she found one. And later another. And more. She had no idea how to raise children, but surely she was a better option than having no one at all. Goldie took care of them, fed them, bought and repaired clothing, protected them, and they helped her in return.

Dawson’s booming dwindled, especially after gold discoveries in Alaska. Goldie and some other miners with successful claims rather than failures remained, but droves of others left. Over the next few decades, it became a much quieter, smaller city.

The children she took in grew up, and one by one left to start lives of their own, or go to higher schools. Goldie gave them sufficient funds for travel and making a start in life. One even wished to become a doctor, and she sent him funds while he attended medical school. That stash she once thought she would have and use to move and start somewhere else was instead mostly spread among them.

Later Adulthood

Her gold feathers had gained gray by the time she found herself alone again, but White Agony felt like home now. She stayed voluntarily, she had found joy in those children, more than dresses or jewels, and the idea of starting something else from the ground up again no longer held the same appeal as when she was younger. The mountains were beautiful and providing, and knowing she had supported multiple bright young adults that would undoubtedly go and accomplish great things was more satisfying than anything else she had done before.

Goldie continued to spend the next few decades fishing, farming, and surviving the winters; she was not directly affected by many other events in the world that occurred, but some of her adopted children were. She still has letters of their stories, both personal notes and things effected by wars and politics. Most of their children, however, did not continue to keep up with her. She did not mind. Why should they? They never met the rough woman one of their parents knew.

That is not to say she did not still have random adventures. The smaller Dawson was not so loud to visit, but plenty of shenanigans could occur even in a small town, especially with a few fiends like Dan leftover from the old days. She was involved in her fair share.

And she raised a baby bear, who became a big bear, and a guard bear for a silver feathered older woman.

Shenanigans involving said bear also occurred, including to keep destructive dredgers away from White Agony.

Then he showed back up. The drake she thought she would never see again, and she darn near shot him. Cue the Back to the Klondike DT ‘87 episode that I am not going to summarize in entirety, but it concludes with them learning they never betrayed each other, and while Scrooge does ask if she’ll return to Duckburg with him, she does not. It had been so long, and she had not been a part of the normal world to get used to its changes with time... she did not think she belonged in it.

Having discovered a vein during the episode and without anyone but herself to take care of, however, the option of starting over financially returned. She was old, but she was still in fine shape, so why shouldn’t she? Dawson had begun to gain tourism due to its significance during the Gold Rush, and her first investment was a hotel, restoring the abandoned Blackjack Ballroom for that purpose and a landmark. She later built additional hotels at other historical tourist areas, including Alaska.

Goldie hired some assistance for mining this time, for she was not quite as young and strong as she once was. Since she had had experience with lumbering in the past, and she did not want to jump into any modern business she knew nothing about, land and lumber were her next investments.

By the time of the Ducky Mountain High episode, White Agony had been mined out again, and while her bear remained to guard it (for that was his home and it held many years of memories for her), she had moved to another cabin among some of her timberland. Gold was discovered near it as well, and was cleverly acquired.

Additional RP Development

After establishing more than one business for herself and developing respectable, increasing income, Goldie started to visit Duckburg more often, ‘testing the water’ to see if she really could still fit into the much more civilized world.

Her adjusting to less-harsh (and alone) conditions continued, and said visits grew lengthier.

And one day, after getting to know his family and employees, after business alliances were made, after seeing for herself that she could still be a part of his life and overcoming the doubts about it– Scrooge asked her to marry him, and she did, that same day, in the bin without publicity or ceremony, just them and the few people needed to make it official.

Goldie thus becomes a permanent resident of McDuck Manor. And since she was already used to working at home, one of the spare rooms was converted into an office for her to continue to manage her own businesses by phone and ‘electronic mail.’ She doesn’t have to socialize when she doesn’t care to, she gets to be around and help raise multiple children again, and she sees the love of her life everyday. Now, she has both forms of the two greatest sources of happiness she had ever known; her drake, and family.

#musepage

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spherekuriboh · 6 months

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Back At You Motherfucker. 4, 20, 69

4 - Dirty Imbecile by The Happy Fits

c; don't die before me

Okay so I have this Silt Verses oc called Xavier, and she's insane- her parents were god hunters, and naturally this fucked her up for life, and forced her to choose a different career path. She's an adherent of The Cloak, which is (ostensibly) the god of cops, but is mostly just a propaganda figure so that the force doesn't *actually* have to partner up their individuals. However, because Xavier is how she is, believing that some day the entire worship system will collapse and there will be one god to rule them all with humanity in the running, she eventually turns up some kind of mangy stray god shaped like a coat. She keeps "The Cloak", and its miracle is one of negation: the miracle of nothing happening. It's her favorite joke, that the god of justice went hungry because cops fucking suck, and often she'll goad the Cloak into eating smaller gods because the struggle is thrilling. In a world where you don't get to choose what eats you, she wears a coat with teeth. Also, Parker is her partner who's tried to kill her a whole bunch (long story that's actually a short story: they're assholes) and the Cloak ultimately bit his damn hand off. It keeps that inside itself and when Parker wears the Cloak the hand reattaches really badly at the end of the sleeve, it's super funny. It picked up Xavier's sense of humor :)

+ rp; thrice is enemy action

double combo, the "I want another one of these blonde any pronoun bitches" option, Jazz Cross. Cross is a character I play in a campaign called Pilot, which is a subset of the Metrocity setting run by my friend Q. Metrocity is a supernatural Truman-show style setup, where in the present day, everything is kept running fit for TV. Pilot, however, occurs during the test run of Metrocity a few decades ago. Cross sold themself into being a Metrocity guinea pig to avoid being captured and killed in police custody... and was made into a main character of a cop serial show, along with the serial killer Morel Carter, who has a brain made of lead and is still up to his old shit. Cross, however, is pretty susceptible to the brain-melting that turns out to be the screams of captive gods bent to Metrocity's will, so his rewritten personality is a lot softer than it was in the past, but he retains his opinion that every situation has rules to follow, and anything with rules is ruthlessly winnable. Anyway, Cross is aligned with "The Hat Man", who is actually a god called The Observed, and LOVES to pull them into the goddamn meat dimension and make them do resident evil ass puzzles to communicate with them. Cross takes care of its dog when it's busy, like right now because we fucked up and got the Hat Man captured, and because Metrocity is moving into its next phase, Cross' fiancee is about to break up with him. It's gonna break him into MOTW multiclassing! This is just how we're living. :)

20 - Creature Comfort by Arcade Fire

rp; strata radio

Okay this one is on a setting playlist. The setting is Strata, which I run for two players. They are workers in the lowest office of a place called Terminus, which is the shittiest of the Fabricated Cities-- essentially, getting un-promoted from here is getting kicked out of the company entirely, so the whole office building is full of crazy bitches and fuckups. Unfortunately, because this is a capitalist dystopia, god help you there, we're all crazy fuckups. Struggling to stay employed and make enough money to eat in Terminus, where you can look up and see the rich dwellings of those who maintain this status quo, is a sisyphean pain in the ass, until one of these identical days, when an overturned boat appears in the middle of the street. The man on top of it claims that the world will end tomorrow.

Tomorrow, the city starts flooding with garbage. Higher, and higher, and higher. Apocalypse now, baby. This ocean demands blood to recede, and as people who live in the lowest parts of the city, this sounds like a you problem.

69 - Weights by Everything Everything

rp; can i ask you a question?

This one belongs to Carlos Flores. This they/he is my character in a campaign called Bureau of Esoteric Affairs, which is the organization that essentially kidnapped them after they accidentally started checking documents out of their digital archive assuming they were novels. He misses being a librarian so bad, dude, now he has to go do all this Men In Black nonsense and for what?? Anyway. Carlos has a bad habit of asking too many questions. He knows how to navigate social situations in theory but not practice, and if his partner (Flint N. Steele) wasn't even weirder than him, Carlos would probably have flown off the rails by now. They hate loose ends, and make situations worse trying to solve them fully sometimes. He has a type of clairvoyance where, once he picks a divergent point, he can see exactly what could have been for as far as he can chase the rabbit... which he was previously using to write really detailed fanfictions about these novels no one else had ever heard of. It's a bit harder to do intentionally, much less project into an uncertain future, but "having magic" is really new to them so they're still trying to figure out the logistics, which feeds back into their favorite activity of asking one billion dumbshit questions. This isn't helped by the fact that he ran straight into the lovecraftian horrors and now they're watching him.

Anyways Carlos really truly cares for everyone he meets and thinks everyone here is fucking insane for not burning this building down and doing something normal instead... which he is open about expecting to happen very soon. That is totally going to happen. They also got jealous of all the office pets and adopted a main coone named Salt for themself. Also, they're in love with the war criminal that the BEA is keeping in the basement and goes down there all the fucking time to shoot the shit and play board games with him. I think the narrative parallels are really tasty and as far as it's up to me? They're gonna fuck that old man, and there's nothing anyone can do about it.

Sorry I'm like this! Thank you for playing 💖

#distext #ocposting #podcast tag #metrocity #strata #bea #long post #i fucking guess #anyway thanks for playing all i do is make characters and characters and places for characters and characters--

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desertpeachcatte · 2 years

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RP Excerpt: Forgiveness

((OOC: The brothers have been led to the aetherial sea by Senelle. For context, experience of The Aitiascope will help.))

The two pairs of mirrored eyes watched as Senelle’s light brought the glimmering motes toward it like a flame attracted moths. As her words continued, the aetheric density seemed to partly wash her voice around them like gentle waves.

Here, in this mystic sea, where corruption would be cleansed, where, she seemed to imply, reconciliation and resolution could be found.

As the first of the glimmers took shape, both brothers blinked. An inexplicable familiarity surrounded them, and they could not help but draw closer. Legs formed, then the rest of her…

“...Mamma..”

I’ason’s voice breathed out before any part of her became clear. But she didn’t need to fully form. She was faded - perhaps no more than a collection of memories - and voiceless. But it was enough. The younger of the brothers was swift to go to her.

“Mamma, it’s you!” I’ason’s voice was disbelieving, but excited. Joyful. His face was alight even as his eyes began to well with tears. When was the last time he had seen her? The real her, as she truly was? After they had mourned for and buried what I’kaya had brought back of I’mharyus, I’ason’s final memory of his dam was her rage, grief, and a tearful farewell as she promised her kits and tribe justice. A promise that was never kept - and one he had never asked for her to make.

He looked upon her now, was present with her, and she him. Their exchange was silent - a kit who had struggled, now grown, gazing upon his dam with fondness. Love. Every now and then, I’ason’s gaze would flick to Senelle - his Bonded and mate, mother to their future. And though I’ghrane’s eyes were impossible to see, words were unnecessary; they would know. In their hearts, she would be heard, felt, and thought of.

Relief. Joy. Resolution.

I’kaya watched as their reunion played out. He stepped closer when he felt I’ghrane bid him join them, slowly blinked as she embraced him like she had when they first let her fly to join their kin among the stars out with the Brotherhood of Ash. A long nonce of stunned rigidity caught him, even as a low purr vibrated in his throat as their dam greeted them, and it wasn’t until the other blinking motes seemed to steadily take form that he sucked in his breath to look around. To comprehend what else could happen. Whom else he might meet…

Just like the first, the orb elongated with legs, arms, head. Two of them, together, formed - faded and vague, but unmistakable. I’kaya knew them before he could see them.

Water, wind, earth. The patterns of his tattoos touched him, unseen, but there - gentle, capricious, embracing. Memory of the nunh’s braids brushing over his head and cheeks as he was held in loving arms, and a soothing voice that fortified the spirits of the youth that had to bear witness day after day to the violent normalcy of their lives.

Fire, lightning, steel. The other set. The aether was impossible not to know - electric, passionate, forceful. It was his fire that blazed the path for him to follow, his heart that led the fiercest spear that would plunge in from behind I’kaya’s shields and break the onslaughts meant to raze their tribe to the ground.

—

”We can’t fight forever, brother. Let us ask Pappa to parley with our foes and seek passage to somewhere safer, as you both proposed to the Council..”

“Truly? There are those among our fanatical Amalj’aan foes that would hear us, if we but surrender the Homesands to them? Aye.. if there is a way for us to save those we can and find a way to peace..”

“We are come, Rhaksha.”

“..Are you certain..?”

“!? No, Pappa–! Get ba–!!”

Fire. Inferno. Burns. Death. Betrayal. Blood.

In hopeful naivite, the rising star of the Ee that day brought their nunh to his death. Led on by beloved brother whose Tempered nature did not reveal itself until too late, I’kaya’s hand then did not hesitate to pierce his blade into I’rhaksha’s heart. The Amalj’aa that murdered I’mharyus got away, and the screaming Ee youth was left to gather the burnt corpse to bring back to his people.

Only one time did he ever look back to speak of that day.

—

The quiet Sagoliian’s eyes widened as he knew who stood before him now. In the span of a nonce, time seemed to dilate. His gut became a singularity of chaos, and it felt as if his very humors split apart and unraveled. His insides became a storm of electricity and bile, and acrid bitterness rose as his knees buckled. His eyes became hot, then wet.

“..Pappa..” was all he managed to say before his knees gave way and the bile erupted. The explosive chaos from years of unspoken guilt lurched his torso forward and he retched. On his knees before the ghosts of I’mharyus and I’rhaksha, I’kaya gasped, then heaved - and ultimately failed to hold in heartbroken sobs, then trails of vomit.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…

As the appearance of the two new spirits served to ignite long-neglected rot within I’kaya, I’ason watched his brother crumble in alarm. The comforting warmth of his dam’s present aether seemed to do little to shelter him from what he saw. Confusion swirling in his eyes, he raised his gaze to the new arrivals.

I’mharyus and..

“...Rrhaksha..”

A conflicting mix of his own emotions welled. His elder half-brother had always been severe with him - but he knew what he had meant to I’kaya. He pulled in his lower lip, worrying at it as he watched his sire reach out to touch an intangible hand over I’kaya’s head - a gesture of gentle comfort as I’rhaksha, in all of his fearsome and proud, elegant power, bent down to slide tender hand over the jaw of the wretchedly sobbing I’kaya. I’ason felt his eyes sting as he bore witness to this, as his indomitable brother seemed to absolutely shatter at the gesture from Rhaksha. A violent shudder overtook Kaya as that hand swept under his jaw, and he leaned into it - a gesture of such love and vulnerability, it hurt to see.

Indeed, it hurt to see his ever-stalwart brother on his knees, shaking and sobbing with bile stains trailing from the corners of his lips as he greeted his beloved spearbrother. I’ason blinked back his own tears as I’kaya held no bars to what he expressed now, as he unknowingly reminded I’ason of the sheer depths he habitually kept closed off. He had loved Rhaksha. Truly and absolutely. And if this exchange revealed aught, it told I’ason that there was much more to the story of Rhaksha’s loss than I’kaya had ever shared with him.

More and more, it seemed the grief of the elder living Ee drew more ghosts to form from the dancing lights. Figures flickered into view, young and old - all silent, but hardly distant. I’ghrane remained by her youngest and his mate, her memory strong, embracing, and knowing her elder son needed his space to draw out the rot he had kept in him - how his very soul screamed in apology, sought forgiveness.

It was those two who stood before I’kaya now that could give that to him.

“[Rhaksha…]” The voice came out strangled, the Sagoliian barely a decibel over a whisper. “[My brother.. My flame..]”

Spear to my sword.

“[I…]”

Another of I’rhaksha’s hands reached out to join I’mharyus’ on the crouched warrior’s head. Quieted him. Calmed him. No platitudes of apologies needed be offered - perhaps apologies were offered in turn. Love. Hope.

Forgiveness.

I’mharyus allowed his hand to slowly stroke down the length of I’kaya’s plaits. A smile could be felt as he let his wounded son know he could start healing from this guilt. His other hand seemed to rest momentarily on I’rhaksha’s shoulder - glad for his kits to have this reunion - before he drifted closer to where I’ghrane stood with their younger kit and his Bonded. A flood of gratitude warmed the aether around Senelle as dam and sire both not only offered their kits peace, but could now drift freely through the sea with the knowledge that, one day, I’kaya and I’ason could forge ahead.

I’ason inhaled deeply before letting his breath out, blinking rapidly, as he saw I’kaya fall into silence and stillness with I’rhaksha crouched with him, tenderly ‘touching’ his forehead to his. He nearly started when I’rhaksha then turned to face him, tail lashing out of reactionary anxiety before eventually calming.

There was no biting feeling of criticism this time. No insult nor severity. No spear butt jabbing at him to force him to take his lessons seriously. None. Instead, there was acknowledgment. Apology. Regret.

Take care of him, little brother…

The future was theirs. I’ason could teach I’kaya how to build his own, or show him the way, as he had done for himself. Nodding, as I’rhaksha withdrew, I’ason moved to replace his tenderness with his own.

“Kaya..” he murmured softly. Predictably, his elder brother provided no response, so he moved in to fold him in his arms. “[Come along, you stupid sandblob–]”

“[I never told you..]” Kaya suddenly said. “[Never told anyone..]”

I’ason blinked. His brows furrowed, but then he settled in. When Kaya had a story to tell - he always listened.

#i'kaya #rp excerpt #the faris #i'ason #the heart

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theholycovenantrpg · 3 years

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CONGRATULATIONS, MIMZ! YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF RAPHAEL.

Admin Rosey: I never really thought that Raphael’s application would be so f u n to read. Macabre? Absolutely. Impassioned? Of course. But hilarious to the point where I was giggling? Definitely unexpected but that is what made this so enjoyable and it is ultimately why this application received a r e s o u n d i n g yes from each of us. There was a perspective that I always envisioned for Raphael but was never able to articulate it myself until you laid it out, word by word, with this application, Mimz. Raphael is such a multi-faceted and character that holds so much potential, and the way that you wove it into every aspect of the application made this so fun to read. Thank you so much for taking the time to produce such a wonderful application! Your faceclaim change to Kendrick Sampson has been approved. Please create and send in your account, review the information on our CHECKLIST, and follow everyone on the FOLLOW LIST. Welcome to the Holy Land!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias

mimz

Age

Personal Pronouns

she/her

Activity Level

i’ll typically check the dash every day, and i try not to keep replies stewing for longer than a couple of days! that said i can be a little slow, especially around exam seasons.

Timezone

pst

Triggers

REMOVED

How did you find the group?

miss minnie bleubeard’s blog

IN CHARACTER

Character

raphael, with a fc change to kendrick sampson

What drew you to this character?

short answer: divine amorality sexy HAHAHAHA

long answer: there was something i read a little while ago about some of the best surgeons being able to dehumanize their patients to a rather frightening degree. there’s a level of abstraction that you need in order to not let your empathy get in the way of the practice of medicine; ultimately, a body is a body is a body, right? and then there’s the moral quandary of healing - it is a doctor’s duty to heal, but what does that actually mean? to what extent is a doctor’s duty to relieve suffering? to obstinately prolong life? if the body heals but the mind still ails, is a person healed? what i’m getting at, here, is that in some ways the healer is the most dangerous character of all.

when i read raphael’s bio, there was a quote in that article from a surgeon named david cheever that came to mind: “as a result of anaesthetics, the surgeon ‘need not hurry; he need not sympathise; he need not worry; he can calmly dissect, as on a dead body.’” to me, raphael is an explosion and expansion of this concept. raphael is, quite literally, a medical ethicist’s worst nightmare, and to me, that’s absolutely fascinating. without sympathy, what separates a healer from an educated control freak with a god complex? with raphael, we can extend this concept to its furthest extreme. raphael isn’t even human - how could he even begin to sympathize with an experience so foreign to him? why would he worry about something trivial as human suffering when it essentially exists as a theoretical concept to him? divine beings have no reason to play by human rules, and as a creature raised by god’s side raphael was so far removed from the concept of human suffering that it’s sort of a no-brainer that he developed a sick fascination with it, like a child who managed to con their parent into buying a grand theft auto game and is obsessed with running over pedestrians because the stakes never quite feel real. it’s a perspective i’d absolutely love to explore in a group rp setting because the nature of rp means that it’s kind of...completely unsustainable? like as writers we’re shoving these characters together, which means that raphael will have to be exposed to mortals. there’s room for a lot of character development there, and it seems like something extremely interesting to explore.

BUT HERE’S THE THING⁠—and this is where the character gets really fun, in my opinion. i’ve talked a fair bit about god complexes already, but when applied to raphael an interesting question is raised: how much is a complex, and how much of it is actually being divine? what really made me want to get my grubby little hands on the reins of raphael’s story was seeing the disconnect between the way his connections are written from raphael’s perspective versus the other character’s perspective. it’s a fun little hubristic shade that makes him an unreliable narrator and infinitely more interesting than a simple morality thought experiment. i think it’s easy to see raphael as this super cool, all-powerful master manipulator (i think that’s a pretty accurate take on his self-image, in fact), but he’s not the only player in this game. for every pawn he’s trying to move, there is someone else trying to use him in a similar way, and i don’t know that he truly understands the ramifications of that. see, i think it’s easy to reduce raphael to the points i discuss in the previous paragraphs because that’s what he wants you to think of him. but this is a world of gods and superpowers and magical political intrigue and game of thrones doesn’t exist so nobody can tell him that he’s on the path to becoming a cersei lannister (admittedly i haven’t watched got so this reference might not be right but i feel like it’s right so uh. yeah!). maybe i just like to see arrogant men getting knocked down a peg? this might be a projection of that. i dunno. i just know that there are quite a few mind games and mental gymnastics to untangle with raphael and that’s fun. he’s fun.

also. i would like to once again reiterate: divine amorality sexy. it’s not good, to be clear, and i don’t condone it, but i’m just saying.

What future plots do you have in mind for the character?

WHEN THE CITY CRUMBLES AROUND YOU AND YOU HOLD ITS VESTIGES IN YOUR HANDS, WHOM DO YOU BLAME?

i think Raphael’s big character arc revolves around a simple question: how far are you willing to go to achieve what you want?

ostensibly, it’s an easy answer: very far. but when your desire is antithetical to your very purpose, when chasing it puts you at odds with the thing you’ve worked to build, do the goalposts move?

(the correct answer is that raphael did not build caelum. he simply destroyed god.)

let’s say, hypothetically, that raphael gets what he wants. the world is thrown into war and chaos and destruction, yadda yadda, raphael gets his blood and his suffering, great. he’s lived through this before (a couple times, actually), so you think he’d realize by now—eventually, the dust will settle. people will tire of suffering. and where will that leave raphael? how many times will you remake the world to watch it burn? can you ever be fulfilled chasing a temporary high?

(the correct answer is no, but raphael is an immortal being. more importantly, he is a patient one. he will wait a million days for rome to be built, if only to witness the single day in which it will burn.)

i think raphael needs to reckon with these questions. i think he’s lived far too long with his mentality unquestioned and that has made him both insufferable and a major threat to society. this is a long and pretentious way to say that raphael honestly kind of needs a hobby whatever the thc-verse equivalent of therapy is, but i think any sort of positive character development is contingent upon a recontextualization of suffering and chaos and raphael’s masks.

of course, this isn’t to say that introspection will only lead to positive character development. perhaps a raphael who looks deeper into his psyche will come to understand that his desires outweigh his role; perhaps such thoughts will push raphael over the edge of propriety and into something more outwardly despicable. no matter what, though, i think that the direction of raphael’s character development will be largely shaped on how he decides to prioritize his⁠ roles and goals.

FOR WHOM DO THESE HANDS HEAL?

let’s discuss the archangels, shall we? despite it all, raphael genuinely loves his brothers. i would argue, even, that raphael believes that his scheming is in service to the other archangels; he’s not blind to the way complacency has softened the angels. at this point, the only true threat to the angels is themselves—if michael wants to to unlock a state of sanctifying grace, it will happen at the hand of one of his kin.

i spoke earlier about raphael’s goals ultimately being futile. this is largely because they are diametrically opposed to michael and gabriel’s goals, and while raphael knows this intellectually, i don’t think he’s quite thought about what the long-term implications of that conflict entails. he’s so caught up in the conflict between michael and gabriel that he’s neglected to consider how he factors into the dynamic. could he be the common ground that brings michael and gabriel together? could he be the final straw that breaks them apart? he is excited for the fighting, the fallout; but has he stopped to consider what the long-reaching effects of such a rift may be?

raphael is breaking his family apart because he loves them. will that be enough, when he is sent to pick up the pieces? whose side will he fall on, if he is to pick a side at all?

DID PYGMALION FALL IN LOVE WITH THE BEAUTY OF HIS CREATION, OR THE BEAUTY HE CREATED?

i said this in the previous section but i’d like to reiterate it: i think a big reason raphael is Like That is because the stakes have never quite felt real to him. raphael’s a pot stirrer, but he’s not a creature of action. to this, i say give him real stakes. to be honest, i don’t know exactly what that entails, because i could see a number of ways in which tangible pressure manifests itself for raphael. perhaps his meddling with michael and gabriel steps too far, and his brothers perhaps the angels become suspicious of his maneuvering, in which the spider is drawn into his own web of intrigue. maybe we apply positive pressure, where the ails of the world require a healer and raphael is tapped to higher purpose⁠—and higher power. maybe raphael will find himself tempted by the very demons he holds in contempt.

the point is that raphael has largely been a character who acts through others. even now, we see this through his grooming of romilda, with his subtle manipulation of michael and gabriel. i want him to become a more active character, either by his own volition or by his hand being forced.

similarly, i’m extremely interested in seeing how raphael navigates the political elements of this verse. i expect it stings a bit to be the only archangel not given a position of leadership; perhaps he holds lingering resentment toward zadkiel for being given a role raphael had expected to receive. does he subtly undermine zadkiel’s leadership? i want to watch him play up tensions with the vices, to hide a vicious war-hawk perspective under the guise of a concerned healer. i want him to smile in abaddon and samael’s faces and plot their suffering in his mind. i want to see the snake slither in the grass, to return to his original form as a spider spinning a web of intrigue across his court. yes, i want a more active raphael, but i think the political drama is ripe for development, as well.

WHEN I SPIT UP MY SINS AND BEG FOR REPENTANCE, WHAT WILL COME UP?

this one’s a long shot, but i could maybe...see...raphael……..falling. i can guarantee you that the idea has never even crossed raphael’s mind, and that he would literally rather be smited than be cast out of caelum, but i can see it. i think he might be happier, actually; if he fell, he could really lean into the chaos and suffering thing without any compunction.

of course, this is something infinitely easier said than done. were raphael to be cast out of caelum, he would have nowhere to go. infernum would never take him⁠—he’s made far too many enemies among their ranks. he could wander the holy land, but he’s far too proud to bind himself to its existing social systems. (he wouldn’t be able to look gabriel in the eye.)

raphael would have absolutely nothing.

but he would also be free.

that’s right, i think that a horsemen-style liberation arc would be an absolute banger for raphael. again, i don’t think it’s feasible unless a very specific set of circumstances happen, but just imagine a raphael with nothing to lose, free to go absolutely apeshit. his only prerogative is to make sure you have a bad day. he is free to sow whatever chaos, whatever suffering he so wishes across the land. WHEW.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character?

yes, but i don’t see him going down easily.

IN DEPTH

Driving Character Motivation

entomological curiosity, in short. consider: why did god leave the apple in the garden of eden? why do humans keep animals in glass cases? why do children burn ants with magnifying glasses?

raphael wants to observe the world. a good healer must understand his patients at a fundamental level, and such truths are only revealed when the subject is broken down to its basest parts. you see, raphael was weaned on temperance and virtue; there is a lush decadence to emotional extremes that he finds most fascinating. they are debased. they are crass. they are wantonly sentimental, in a garishly beautiful way.

but this is not all. he wants to stave off boredom, and these are the tools he has to play with. for all of his machinations, raphael is a simple being. raphael has no grand ambitions, no lofty ideals, and that is what makes him so dangerous. he wants to be amused. he wants to be stimulated. he wants to observe a world in which things happen.

ostensibly, this is not as selfish a motivation as it may seem. as a healer, raphael knows something that many do not: serenity cannot exist in perpetuity. it is impossible for the world to remain unchanged⁠—even if the change is not evident, it is happening. an eternal peace is all but a stagnation of the kingdom; the only thing stagnation breeds is degradation. the angels are weakening because they are not being challenged. michael and the virtues may be doing extensive research to find an alternate explanation, but raphael knows this to be the truth.

of course, the irony underlying the selfless explanation of raphael’s motivations reveals the truth of the matter: it is a farce. perhaps it is a lie that raphael has even convinced himself he believes, but it is farcical nonetheless. raphael claims he wants to invoke change because stagnation is dangerous, but riddle me this⁠—if this is true, why has raphael never changed? centuries upon centuries have passed, and the world has changed around him, but raphael himself has remained largely unchanged. he is the orchestrator of change, not its agent nor its subject, and that is just the way he would like things to stay.

Character Traits

CHARISMATIC - there’s a reason very few have cottoned on to raphael’s true nature, and it’s not (just) his pretty face and magical girl-esque aura. there’s something effortlessly captivating about raphael, a pace to his cadence that has you hanging on to his every word, a lightness to his smile that makes you want to coax it out whenever and however you can. everything about raphael puts people at ease, except for his eyes, which tend to put people on edge if he’s not careful. he’s not gregarious or the outgoing sort of charismatic by any means, but he does manage to exude an overwhelming charisma.

PATIENT - it’s important to remember that before raphael turned on god, he waited for him. raphael performed healings for centuries and never raised a hand against his father in that time. think of all the angels that fell, that rebelled; raphael was not among them. no, raphael played the dutiful son, allowing his resentment to fester and boil deep underneath his skin, but never to surface. for centuries he served loyally, biding his time. remember: lucifer fell. raphael did not. which one killed god? as i mentioned in the plot section, raphael will wait a million days for rome to be built to witness the single day it burns. prolonged suffering is perhaps the most beautiful of all. fortitude goes hand-and-hand with patience.

INTELLIGENT - in a few ways. raphael is well-studied, with extensive knowledge of biology and chemistry and history and politics. raphael is emotionally intelligent; he hides his true nature behind a veneer constructed to meet expectations. he may not be as talented as gabriel in this regard, but it is a skillful construction nonetheless.

MANIPULATIVE - i mean. yeah.

ARROGANT - he thinks he’s smarter than god???????????????? tbf god was a bit of a headass in this universe but we’ve all read enough tragedies to know where this kind of hubris ends up going.

CRUEL - there’s a bit to unpack here. i’d argue that there are two types of cruelty: malicious cruelty and callous cruelty. raphael is certainly capable of both, but i think he embodies the latter. with certain notable exceptions, raphael’s cruelty is rarely personal; it is a thoughtless sort of cruelty, the type inflicted upon beings considered expendable. raphael is selfish and petty and powerful, and these traits coalesce into a casual cruelty.

In-Character Para Sample cw: light gore

Look at how they look at him. God’s good little lambs, lined up all in a row, passive and pliant and patiently awaiting benediction. Patiently waiting for Raphael.

Raphael hates them.

No. This is false. It is difficult for Raphael to muster up stronger feelings toward mortals than a vague sort of amusement, the sort of affinity one might have for a particularly stupid kit when it does something surprisingly clever. In this regard, he understands that he differs from his kin. Gabriel, in particular, has developed a particular fondness for the mortals. Why anyone would wish to strip mortals of their most fascinating behavior⁠—to the point of openly defying their Father⁠—is beyond Raphael. He has given up on trying to reason with his brother on the matter.

The first supplicant is beckoned forward. They pray to the Lord and Raphael touches their forehead with one palm, cups their chin with the other. His fingers splay carelessly around a throat all but bared to him and the ceremony is so mechanical Raphael allows his thoughts to wander⁠.

How easy it would be to tighten his grip. How beautiful it would be, to watch the lamb’s naive adoration flash into fear, to watch fear darken into betrayal and resentment and the most beautiful emotion of all: despair. He can feel the pulse at his fingertips. It would quicken in a stress response, he knows. It would quicken, then it would pound, and then maybe it would stop. It all falls to Raphael’s whim. In this moment, Raphael holds their life in his hands. They have all but laid on his sword for the promise of absolution and when they look up at Raphael with their dumb, trusting eyes he can see the sparkling tracks where tears once fell, down the hollow of a cheek into the pool of a collarbone. He finds himself overcome with the desire to trace the fall with his tongue. “Give me your pain,” he murmurs. Let me taste it. Let me understand.

He takes it. He does not taste it. He does not understand.

He releases the mortal. Those beautiful tear tracks are already fading. “The Lord be with you,” he says, and perhaps he even means it. His Father’s gaze burns into his back, even from a world away. He’d laugh at the irony, were he free to. Is this the weight you so desire? he wants to ask the devotee. No, Raphael knows the truth: God’s love is a shackle. God’s love is a leash and it is holding Raphael back from his fullest potential.

“And also with you,” the lamb responds. Their head is bowed obediently in prayer and they shuffle away, appropriately awed. The next supplicant is beckoned forward.

The light of Raphael’s presence obfuscates the darkness in his eyes.

—

Later, much later, Raphael finds himself studying his hands. He flexes them, balls them into fists, stretches his fingers as far as they will spread.

How easy it would be to tighten his grip.

The hand is at once an individual unit and a summation of individual parts. The hand contains twenty-seven bones and thirty-four muscles connected by over a hundred ligaments and tendons. Wrists connect to metacarpals, which connect to carpals, which taper off into delicate phalanges. Individually, each of these parts are largely useless; were Raphael to take a scalpel and drag it through a tendon, across the joints, the strings would be cut and the puppetry would cease to dance. You would be left with a small pile of carpals and metacarpals and phalanges, loose strings of muscle and tendon. At times, it is difficult to fathom how such mundane component parts are the instruments of extraordinary acts.

Raphael flexes his hand, watches bone shift under skin. If he remembers correctly, mortals have an idiom about knowing your hands, or something along those lines. He will not pretend to be familiar with mortal culture. Did you know that, wings aside, mortals and angels all have the same bone structure?

Of course you did. It is common knowledge that God made all beings in His image, or so the story goes.

This is an easy answer, but one with interesting implications. Let us extrapolate. If mortals and angels are essentially biological mirrors, and each are made in the image of God, does that mean that God will bleed like His creations? Slide a scalpel across God’s knuckles—will His puppets cease to dance?

Raphael could find out. It would take only a single blade, sliced through a single tendon.

Now, Raphael is not so arrogant to believe himself the blade. He would not even consider himself the hand. Such a role requires a particular kind of conviction—

( —and that sort of conviction is made manifest in bitter disillusionment⁠—the sort inflicted upon Michael. How easy it would be to find himself in his brother’s ear, whispering of their Father’s capriciousness and the unnecessary cruelty that resulted for the poor, poor humans— )

( —and that sort of conviction is made manifest in righteous anger⁠—the sort inflicted upon Gabriel. How easy it would be to find himself in his brother’s ear, whispering of their Father’s neglect and the unnecessary cruelty that resulted for the poor, poor humans— )

( —and that sort of conviction is made manifest in a whetted hunger⁠—the sort God gifted to each of His angels. Hunger breeds hunters and heaven is full— )

—that Raphael simply cannot embody. Rage has never been his forte.

Consider, however, that the hand is controlled by nerve impulses. A spark is all the hand needs to transform from a collection of bone to an agent of action. Yes. He clenches his fists. Here are the bones, the veins, the tendons, the muscle. Angels and mortals all share the same bone structure.

Does God?

Extras

pinterest.

raphael has classically beautiful wings. i’m talking TEXTBOOK cherubic angel wings, with the sweeping white feathers and all. raphael kind of hates them, though he takes a great deal of pride in them.

raphael doesn’t have a signature weapon. he’s proficient with blades, yes, and fights with a surgeon’s precision, not the strongest nor the fastest but eerily efficient in his blows. but he is a healer—at the end of the day, his empty hands are all he needs. (his empty hands are what you should fear.)

raphael hates the heretics pro forma but. but. he cannot deny a certain...fondness for them. the heretics exhibited such dedication to a futile cause; they believed their suffering to be something noble. it’s a laughable notion, certainly, but a sentiment so distinctly human it’s almost charming. should they wish to return, to throw themselves on the knife over and over and over, well. raphael shall not complain. he shall smile beatifically, perhaps abate their suffering, even⁠—and watch them do it again.

in a modern au, raphael is a reality tv producer. ok actually he’s probably a surgeon but i think he’d make a very good reality tv producer. alternately, there is a universe out there where raph fixated on like...baking, or k-pop, instead of suffering. those are good timelines, i think. maybe not the k-pop stan timeline.

raphael is the living embodiment of that dwight schrute “we need a new plague” meme.

#accepted #accepted: raphael

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diveronarpg · 4 years

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Congratulations, KYLIE! You’ve been accepted for the role of RICHARD III. Admin Cas: You put it best, Kylie—Ronan is a Machiavel through and through, but he’s also far more than that. He’s known suffering, more intimately than most, yet rather than allow it to shape him, wear him down, he sharpened it into a weapon. Yet again, you captured everything critical to Ronan’s character, from his scorn and ambition to his insatiability, his pride, his precision. Your writing itself is just enchanting to read, and we’re so thrilled that you’ve returned to us. We cannot wait to have you grace our dashes with your deliciously scheming and delightfully avid Ronan once more! Please review the CHECKLIST and send your account in within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Kylie

Age | 26

Preferred Pronouns | She / Her

Activity Level | 5-6. I like to be on at least once every day, and manage some type of content.

Timezone | MST

How did you find the rp? | i missed it :)

Current/Past RP Accounts | ronanivarsson.tumblr.com

IN CHARACTER

Character | Richard III, Ronan Ivarsson

What drew you to this character? |

ableism tw

there is something that will always be intriguing about the machinations of a machiavel, that will always be attractive, always be intriguing, which is what first drew me to ronan. however, i think it’s difficult, and dangerous, to label him as simply a manipulator, a prince in search of power and a throne–to me, he’s far deeper, far more layered than that. from the moment he was born, life put ronan ivarsson in a position to know nothing apart from weakness–he was born a pawn for his parents to play against one another, only for his father to stroll past the room where the board sat, to overturn the table and cast the pieces to the floor. he would remain forever trapped in the ivarsson villa, unwanted and loathed, never strong enough to fight for himself, to run from the horrible cesspool that made him, that twisted the hearts of the people that lived there–he should have been no better than the monster that frankenstein abandoned, the wife that wailed and gnashed, locked in the attic of the victorian manor house, a creature doomed to shadows for the whole of his life.

but ronan refused that life–and that’s the endlessly fascinating thing about him. he is a machiavel that should have never come into being, that tore the pages from the book and cut out only the passages that were useful to him. god reached down to him and showed him the path, the divine right of kings, and ronan, with his halting steps, with the black and poisonous blood that runs through his veins, walks it with precision, with the intent to wrestle the crown from the hand of the divine himself.

ronan took his emptiness and weaponized it, refused the shadows and instead forged them by his own hands into a kind of armor–look upon that which you would scorn, he says as he strides through verona a kind of caesar, a kind of richard, a lurching colossus, and kneel. i love that about him, but the thing that really got me in the end, is that he cannot successfully hide the weaknesses which still plague him–he ignored machiavelli’s greatest advice, that to be feared would better serve the prince than to be loved. he fell in love, with a beautiful mystery of a man. he still feels his pulse race when the cameras all come to train on his face, when he has every citizen of verona eating like lambs out of the palm of his hand. he looks at the only surviving gallo twin, and he feels something gentle curl around the corners of his mouth like perfumed smoke. he is cold, but he is not yet corpse.

it remains to be seen if that will be his downfall, in a place that so easily tears the heart from the chest cavity, if it takes a man or a monster to wear the crown, when the battles are finished.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

KINGS IT MAKES GODS, AND MEANER CREATURES KINGS

So far the path to the Montagues has been messy and bloody for Ronan, has left a trail of bodies behind him. Since he is now nothing more than a soldier, where such behavior, such wanton ambition won’t be tolerated, I want to see how he adapts his methods. Will he continue to kill whoever stands in his way, because such is the divine right every king should possess? Or will he learn to temper himself, to hide such business in the shadows? In the same vein, I would love to explore how much he’s capable of tolerating such a thing being asked of him–how long will it be before he bites the hand that feeds him? Until his patience for following orders starts to wear thin, and the divinity that guides him becomes impatient, insatiable?

A WORD THAT COWARDS USE

Love is an indulgence that Ronan knows he should cast aside, and yet he finds himself locked in a kind of constant craving. It’s the one thing in his life he’s never been able to buy for himself, never been able to take from the hands of someone else–so how does a man who so easily casts aside life’s gentler aspects, learn such an art? Is it part of his need for validation, for recognition from the public that would so easily cast him aside and speak vitriol towards him if he were anyone else? Or is it something deeper, something that would actually salve some of the wounds he’s carried his entire life? So far, he’s only known it as mistake, a wound that despite being stitched closed continues to hemorrhage blood–but then he looks at a man like Santino Gallo, and sees the potential for something that almost feels gentle. If such a thing were to make itself available to him, would he open himself up to it? Or would he make the decision once and for all to remove the cursed organ that beats in his chest?

EVERY TALE CONDEMNS ME FOR VILLAIN

Ronan holds no particular loyalty to the Montagues–he could have easily bent the knee to Cosimo Capulet, had the man approached him first. The Montagues are simply a means to an end, and I could see him being willing to sell them out if the right prize were offered to him. I want to see him be treacherous, silver tongued, the consummate politician, and flirt with the temptation of easy success. Would his pride keep him from taking such a way to a promotion, to an accolade? Would he really be willing to betray those few who he deems worthy enough for his time or glance? I could also see it working in the reverse–that perhaps he could use his talents to win recruits or information for the Montagues.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Of course! It’s probably what he deserves!

IN DEPTH

Please choose between the interview or the para sample (or both, if you like!)

ONE.

It begins with a question, posed by a handsome mouth, sealed with fingertips that come to gently lift the hem of ronan’s shirt, to curl themselves around the curve of ronan’s hipbone.

“Tell me your favorite place, in all of Verona, and take me there right now.”

He grins, like a knife slowly being pulled from its soft leather sheath–all glint and sharp edge. He wraps his fingers around the young man’s neck, digs his nails into the short hairs there, until he gets a hiss that could either indicate pleasure, or pain, for his efforts. He coos, clicks his tongue and placates his plaything with the tender caress of lips against well muscled shoulder, neck. The young man makes another noise, something guttural and unprompted from the back of his throat, and ronan laughs.

It’s almost too easy–like digging his fingers into the scruff of a wild cat, expecting teeth and claws, only to have it purr in response. He contemplates disposing of him then and there with a clean cut across the throat that bares for him–but to leave empty handed, simply because there was no challenge in it, no cunning required, would surely be wasteful, return him to a state of excruciating boredom and restlessness.

So he hums in mock thoughtfulness, sinks his teeth into skin and licks over his mark, before he speaks. “As beautiful as you would look, pressed up against the brick of the arena, all of the blood and bravado of a gladiator roaring through you, I hardly see the need to travel so far away. Perhaps the library, would be a better location for such things as you desire?”

There it is, he thinks to himself, as the muscle pressed up against him comes to fall still for no more than a fraction of a second. All of the confirmation he needs, so unwittingly given. He hopes the rest of the Montague stock aren’t so impossibly dimwitted, or easily swayed by the promise of a more carnal method of persuasion. Where would the fun in that be?

He takes squared off chin in hand and kisses the soldato one last time, before the blood spills onto Ronan’s chest and subsequently the ground underneath his feet. He becomes the first of them to kneel.

TWO.

Lucien rolls off of the top of him, and Ronan immediately feels the muscles in his hands twitch, send the command to his shoulders to reach out, keep the seemingly endless expanse of pale skin from ever travelling where he cannot touch. Unfortunately for the memory of meat and tendon that has never properly obeyed his command anyway, ronan shuts the notion down in favor of watching–it’s all he feels he can do, when it comes to the man who now leans against the railing of the yacht. Watch, in the hopes that an answer of some sort may reveal itself–or perhaps even the question, that Ronan knows he should ask and yet cannot find the language to form. Strange, to be so willingly robbed of his best weapon.

He suspects Lucien is aware of where Ronan’s eyes come to rest, most of the time, and chooses not to comment. Perhaps he even enjoys it–being caught but not captured in the jaws of the predator, having the power to command him to wait, to stay until he is willing to give. If Ronan were to be honest with himself, in a way that has never been his policy, he would have to admit that he enjoys it as well–being compelled, by force of nothing more than want, wrapped in the candy coating of desire and attraction.

The man turns, and the breeze rustles his dark hair across his forehead. his eyes are hidden behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, but Ronan can imagine the familiar spark of heat, of mischief, that flickers there like a matchstick flame. “You live like this every day, Councilman?” He drawls, one corner of his mouth drawn up into a smirk.

Ronan grins and leans his head back with a pleased sigh, crooks a finger to indicate that Lucien should come close again, should let Ronan show him just how decadent things can truly get, and shrugs one shoulder casually. “Occasionally there is work involved, but given the right incentive i’d be willing to throw the whole thing away. Perhaps you have an offer you’d like to make towards that end, Doctor?”

He doesn’t open his eyes when the deck chair bends with the weight of another, when lips are pressed against his own. He just slides his hands down each delicate rib bone, digs his fingers into flesh already marked with purple and blue blossoms that Ronan had planted there the night before, and tries to communicate without ever speaking, that this is only the beginning for the two of them. That when he’s finished with the work, he’ll ravish this man on a throne made of gold, decorated with jewels and the head of any who would dare oppose them.

THREE.

His sponsor is a weak-willed man, that reminds Ronan far too much of his own father–or at the very least, the passing glimpses and vitriol laced stories of his father that had fallen carelessly from his mother’s lips, after one too many glasses of wine. He comes upon ronan walking through the hallways of the library, wraps an arm around his shoulders as if to prove he is unafraid of touching a thing so malformed, so clearly repulsive to the eyes of others, and he smiles. “You have done well so far, Ronan.” he says, personably, as such men who would describe themselves as such always are. “Tell me, no big mistakes to report of? I won’t hold them against you too harshly–there is always room to grow, to learn, in a business such as this.”

He resists the urge to speak through gritted teeth that he is in the middle of running for office, and not some schoolboy in need of guidance and direction–instead his eyes catch on the silver band that sits, gleaming as the day it was put there, on his left hand. “I don’t believe in mistakes, signore.” He says, more quietly than he had intended. He bites down hard on his bottom lip, before schooling his expression into something more neutral, that feels less to him like exposing an open wound to the particles of a dust storm. “I make choices, and I live with their consequences–for better, or for worse.”

FOUR.

He stabs the man a month later, sinks his blade into the heart up to the hilt.

Someone Ronan thinks might be the capobastone comes to stand next to him, after the news of the dead Montague being found on the steps of the cathedral begins to circulate, and rests a hand on his shoulder. He resolutely does not think about breaking the bones in each of his fingers, one by one, for such a presumption. “You’ve handled yourself admirably, in the wake of such a personal blow.” He says, with an exhale of breath that causes the skin on Ronan’s neck to crawl. “It is the most difficult thing asked of us, to continue to live after another is gone.”

Ronan bites down hard on his bottom lip, by all appearances to staunch the overwhelming feelings of grief that must clearly threaten to spill forth from him, but in reality to stifle the laugh that threatens to give him away at such a ridiculous statement. He forces a slight tremble in his hands, as he brings them to scrub at the back of his eyes. “He taught me so much in such a short time–made me a better soldato.” A sharp inhale, shake of his head. “It is hard to believe, that I will never get the chance to thank him for such a kindness.”

The man nods his head in understanding, and squeezes, despite the pain that radiates all the way to the tips of Ronan’s fingers. He clenches his teeth. “We have watched you, the work you have done. And while it has at times been sloppy, and reckless, Don Montague believes that in the wake of Richard’s unfortunate demise, you should step up to take his place.”

He can taste it, in the back of his throat then. Blood, mixed with saliva, something distinctly more honeyed. Divinity, in all of its raw form–he half expects to open his mouth and see it spool out before him like ribbon, blinding everyone else in the room, rendering them nothing more than ash for him to step over as he walks towards the crown, the throne, the destiny that has been planned for him since he was nothing more than a young boy. He touches the hand on his shoulder and half expects it to be pulled away and burned. “I would be honored, signore, to serve the Don in such a way.”

FIVE.

“Tell me councilman,” the reporter shouts from the crowd, phone recorder thrust into the air like some sort of trophy or other holy object. “What are your thoughts concerning the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?”

He shakes his head, schools his face into an expression that is solemn, serious–the grim line of an Alexander or a Caesar, his heart bleeding into the streets of the city he has built, for the people who populate it and offer him devotions for their continued success and survival. “I think there will be no winners, in this conflict. And that whoever remains standing, will prove himself to be the more cruel, the more bloodthirsty, the more willing to do unspeakable acts in order to secure his own power–an honor i do not wish on even my worst enemy.”

And why would he? It is an honor he wishes for himself alone.

Extras: N/A

#accepted #accepted: richard iii

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kalle-and-lita · 5 years

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By Fate’s Design Chapter 6

WARNING! GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE AND OTHER SENSITIVE SUBJECTS DEPICTED.

THIS WORK OF FICTION HAS NO AFFILIATION WITH ANY ONGOING RP THREADS THE MUN HAS ACTIVE. ANY CHARACTER INTERPRETATIONS ARE MY OWN, AND RP LITA AND FANFIC LITA ARE TWO DIFFERENT IDEAS OF THE MUSE

Enjoy~~

Whatever hold she had over him was going to be the death of her, the Night Haunter idly thought as he observed the maid from a hidden perch. The garden was well tended to, glittering flora shimmering dimly in low light. She seemed more at ease here than anywhere else he'd seen her, her posture was well relaxed as she plunged her hands into the soil and churned the soft mixture.

At her side, shaking it's brightly colored tailfeathers in her face, was some sort of bird of paradise. It sang loudly, strutting back and forth, vying very hard for her attention. To which she eventually heaved an irritated sigh, stood up, and grabbed it by the body to haul it back to the rest of its own kind grazing by the reeds.

The garden itself wasn't that large, but decent sized enough to house several beds of flora. An aqueduct ran from one end of the garden to the other, following a glittering stone path to a gazebo in the center before flowing out onto sluice gate below. Reeds lined the aqueducts, giving the illusion of shelter to the brightly feathered birds that seemed to eat the pests that tried to make home among the flora.

But his interest wasn't in the garden; no, it was the maid. It had been like so for the past several months. He was no longer entertained by taunting her from the shadows in the library, not since she had fled from him from the throne room. Her frustrating demeanor confused and irritated him.

Irritation was something he could deal with, easily channeled into the criminal underworld of his planet. But the confusion was something different; he did not like to appear the fool in any sort of situation. So this hold, whatever she did, he would find out what it was, and why.

His first thought was to beat it out of her. Most talked under the duress of pain, yet he wondered if she would give him the same dead eyed stare she had those months before. He didn't want to risk it, so he resolved to watch her from afar.

One way or another, he'd figure her out, and he'd finally be free of her.

The Night Haunter watched the exchange between Rylen and his daughter, her hands moving in the maddening language she chose to speak in. Their conversation was a quick and easy one, each reply from his consul giving him clues as to what she was saying. Bit by bit he learned, memorizing each gesture she made so that when the time came to confront her he would not be made out to be foolish.

They were talking about dinner, Rylen wanted her to come to his home to eat. She declined, something about... the rain. A funny gesture he didn't know, paired with a grimace beneath the curtain of her hair.

Pain, then?

Something else, something about leaving. Food? Gathering it?

The Night Haunter hissed low, he hated this. Hated this guessing, hated that he was entertaining this maid and her frustrating ways. He should just be done with her, move on. She was no one, and certainly not worth his time when he had the pressing matter of running a planet to contend with!

But he found himself moving as she packed her things for the evening and left the palace. With the hood of her jacket pulled low over her head she made for the market before they closed for curfew, and struggled to get home in the rain. It was a half hour past curfew before she managed to clamber to the front door of the complex she lived in.

The Night Haunter settled upon the opposite rooftop and watched dispassionately as she fumbled for the keys to let herself in, while juggling the heavy bags of food she carried in her arms. A shadow of movement from the topmost window caught his eye, and soon a figure pulled open the complex door. The maid jumped back as a hand reached out, and the Night Haunter found himself tensing to jump down. Frustrating as she was, he would not stand for a bystander to be attacked without provocation. Yet, he paused as she regained composure. A man stood in the doorway, about her age, holding it open and trying to reach for the bags in her arms in an effort to help. She declined, and he backed away to let her in.

A neighbor who had noticed she'd been struggling at the door.

The pair disappeared inside. Shadows in one flat and then the other, then a light. He could easily see through her window into her living room. A small kitchen where she placed the bags and moved to put away the food she'd bought. She seemed to be alone, confirmed when the light in the other flat flicked on.

Within the safety of her apartment she allowed some sort of façade to fall. Her shoulders slumped as she leaned heavily upon countertops, her back to the window he peered in from. She was tired, bending her body in odd shapes from some apparent discomfort as she tossed the empty bags to the side. Then, movement as she reached for something just out of sight. Deftly she took something by mouth, washing it down with water.

For the next few hours, the Night Haunter watched her. Peering into the window from afar while she went about some nightly routine. Until eventually she flicked off the lights and moved to somewhere farther in the flat. He shifted his position on the rooftop, trying to see if there was another window and to his satisfaction he found one into her bedroom.

She was trying to sleep, but tossed and turned for much of the night. Little by little he noticed the exhaustion set into her face. Eventually she gave up, throwing back the blankets and once gain disappeared from his view. When he found her again, she was staring out of the living room window down onto the rain spattered streets below.

He was beginning to wonder why he was out here when something happened. A flicker of her hand that easily opened the window, and he found himself holding deathly still to watch. She swung a leg over, then the next and the only thing keeping her from falling to the pavement below was the single hand she was using to hold onto the sill.

There was a thousand yard stare in her eyes. Like she was somewhere far away.

Had this been the reason he'd been so irritated by her? Her death?

But... this wasn't right...

His visions never wrong, and this wasn't her death. She would fall from a great height, yes, but not this one. This he knew in his gut. But he stayed still and watched intently.

Then, it was like a switch had been flipped. A sudden horrified realization as she threw herself back inside, hitting the apartment floor violently. She sobbed, her cries falling on deaf and uncaring ears, and minutely satisfied the Night Haunter turned to leave.

It was like witnessing everything in slow motion. He had found her in the ballroom, tending to the ruined drapes. Precariously leaning over to try and undo the clasps. Then, her sudden movement shifted the ladder, throwing her off balance and tumbling towards the floor far below her.

In the next instance he found himself moving. Faster than any eye could follow and sliding underneath her falling form to catch her deftly out of the air.

Was this the reason? For everything?

To prevent her death until its appointed time, like he had witnessed in his visions?

Why?!

He had never been called to do anything like this in his life, and why was it her?!

She seemed to realize that she was no longer falling, stunned for a long moment until her eyes flicked up towards him. Instant recognition, and she struggled to escape his grasp. To which he dumped her unceremoniously upon the floor, and she landed with a hard grunt.

She scrambled to stand, he fluidly following her movement until he towered well above her. There was an angry look in her eyes, a frown set deep into her face. Her hands were moving, erratic as her breathing, as she gestured angrily to him.

This one he knew.

Why?

He loathed to admit that he didn't know any better than she did.

"You do not die yet," That much was truth, he had seen it. And she was far older in his visions than she was now. "I have never been wrong before, and I do not plan on starting now because you are clumsy." She seemed surprised that she'd been understood, but it quickly shifted into the same dead impassive face she usually wore and she turned away. Another gesture, her gratitude if he guessed correctly, and she made for the ladder once more.

Hissing angrily under his breath, he reached out and grabbed her by the arm and squeezed. She whimpered, one hand struggling against his grip.

"Leave it," he ordered, "I'll find someone who is less disaster prone than you. Now go!"

She rushed out of his sight, leaving him to fume. Pacing a wide swath across the polished floor as he tried to wrap his head around everything. Was this it? The culmination of everything he had witnessed, to prevent her death until it was her time?

Why?

He saw death, that was it!

The one time he had tried to alter fate had been a disaster, costing more lives than what he would have saved. A bitter lesson that it was his destiny to witness destruction and never have the power to do anything about it. To march to the tune of someone else's instrument towards an unknown horizon.

If it was also part of his destiny, to guide wayward souls to their due end, then he loathed it all the more.

#konrad curze #warhammer #warhammer 30k #Lita #oc

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limitsbroke · 6 years

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Prompt #10: Coward

(Thanks to @heretics-blood for letting me use Fafnir, this is loosely based/an addition to an rp that happened and i hope i wrote them ok hhhh)

“Kill endlessly, son of man, thy path is long. Long and barren. Struggle and accept this.”

It’s voice vibrated along the mist, echoing around the two of them, before they spoke again.

“Is it death, thou fear?”

“No.” He spoke, his gaze blazing with barely restrained anger, looking up at the coalesced, misty form of the dragon before him. His words forced between clenched teeth. “I do not fear death.”

“Thee who seeks power. Who seeks blood. Who seeks change! Thy fate is sundered in blood, a thread sullied, tightening around thy throat like a noose.”

“A fate inescapable. A fate thou hasten towards! Thou do not fear death.”

“Thou fear life!”

Lancelaux snarled, glaring balefully upon Fafnir. His knuckles white as they spoke. The dragon’s voice, ancient and powerful, enough to make the hairs on his arms stand on end.

“Thou fear thine legacy. What will they call thee, cursed dragoon? What fates will thou change, son of man?”

“Slayer, and savior both. Bringer of hope and ruin. The one who destroys themselves to save others! Coward who flees towards his own demise, martyr who sacrifices all, for nothing!”

“Thou are the serpent, devouring it’s own tail to make itself whole!”

“My fate is my own!” He cried, turning his back on the dragon’s wavering form. His body shaking, anger and shame racking his shoulders in unquestionable rage. “I will not live beholden to the prophecy of a monster! Begone!”

“Then bleed in this star, son of man. Thou shalt become the monster thou fear. Kill those around thee. There are no innocents.”

The voice of Fafnir began to fade, as he walked away. The creatures shape returning to the mists, alongside it’s callous, mocking tone. Aether crackling and howling like a cacophony of laughter.

“Flee! Thine folly still turns the Wheel of Fate. Run to thy end, ruinmaker. Blackblooded hero. Fallen knight! Let thy power grow!”

“Slake thine hunger. Save thyself, with every drop of blood! And with every drop, hasten the fate thou seek!”

Their words echoed, even as they dissipated into the air, an ephemeral curse that chilled his very being, from bone to blood. Other words falling upon deaf ears, but a chilling promise, and fact resounding in his mind.

“Thy doom!”

#FFxivWrite2018 #writing #ffxiv #Lancelaux Fiermont #heretics-blood #CUTTING IT CLOSE BUT TRYING TO GET BACK ON THESE #the rp this is based around is like one of my fave interactions tbh #lance tag

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vcloudbreaker · 6 years

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Writing Challenge: How did your muse meet some of the people in their lives?

Original Prompt here: https://saephoraembersky-wra.tumblr.com/post/179339498313

When I first got tagged for this, I picked Lesti’s husband, Xaereth, for the first of three characters I figured I’d write this out for. (Post there still to come!) The list of other possibilities ended up consisting MOSTLY of Blood Knights. When I started considering which two were “most important” and “most developed Lesti” I got bad feels about it. Then Lesti decided to make it semi-relevant to current RP and grabbed the keyboard and this happened.

Lesti’s been around WRA for 5 years now, and in that time MANY of the Blood Knight characters on this realm have helped shaped her character. We didn’t always get along (might be fair to say I didn’t like some of you and you didn’t like me on an OOC level, ever) and things weren’t always great. Still, I want y’all to know that Lesti wouldn’t be who she is today without each and every one of you, and I want to thank everyone for all the awesome RP through the years. (even if lesti’s IC opinion still isn’t glowing)

Tagging every tumblr for everyone I can find, mentioned below -- feel free to do the prompt yourselves for the originally intended sensible amount of characters and tag some other folks. WRA isn’t a perfect home, but it’s home and all we’ve got is each other.

Tagged By: @adilynia (your tags are always awesome ilu)

Tagging for mentions and for the prompt: @housetyrellian for Arth and Jaira, @bloodhawkrising , @jaypyreanor , @zanpyreanor , @drimmari , @azkariel , @mourne , @solarine , @talaenwildthorn-blog , @shakesthesun , @inathia , @raynellalaria , @hylaudius , @analyse-bloodwing , @trollydruid , @sworntothesun , @valorandvictory , @seekingthedawn , @bamsilverheart , @denlandis @catraena-blazewing

He'd put her in bed.

Valestia stared through the curtains that separated their bedroom from the balcony and her husband's back. He'd removed his armor, at some point, but his clothes hung unfastened on his body, bedshirt ruffling in the early morning breeze. He stood arms behind his back, legs set apart; rigidity had long since settled into his shoulders.

She wanted nothing more than to go to him and ease it from him. It wasn't what she needed to do. She went silently, his cloak still gathered about her shoulders. It wouldn't buy her much time before his notice, but it would be enough.

Ladyqueen and Nana lay sprawled across the nursery floor, as was their wont. She stepped carefully between tiger and hound, passing them only because they were accustomed to her presence. Elendae’s nightgown wasn't fastened correctly, but she could hardly fault Xaereth for his valiant attempt. Smiling fondly, she reached in and lifted the toddler from her cradle, hoisting her up against her shoulder before making her way downstairs.

The girl was awake by the time they came to the kitchen and dining, and Lesti picked her way across the floor to set her in a chair with a few rolls of harvest spice apple-pumpkin fruit leather and a glass of sweetened goat's milk.

“Shh, darling,” she instructed gently, brushing aside soft curls to press a kiss to the child's brow.

That done, she turned her attention to the first part of her task. Unlimbered of her platemail armor, the currents of creation flowed unhindered through her veins. Shards of clay and glass and bent scraps of metal floated free of the floor, churning like a slow cyclone overhead until they came to rest atop one of the tables. The tablecloth fluttered, wrapping snugly around them.

She stared several long moments at the heaping bundle ready to spill off one side of the table or another. The image of the precariously confined disaster was not lost on her. At least it was for the moment contained.

Candles next. She dug out every box she had of every shape. She needed as many, she imagined. They were piled haphazardly atop the table in front of Elendae in short order. She climbed up on top of it, after, letting Xaereth’s cloak slip to pool about her as she knelt there. She gathered up a candle, snapped her fingers to light it.

It was Xaereth, who had taught her to look at the Blood Knight Order as anything other than an abomination. It was through him she began to truly get to know them, one by one. Beginning with…

“Lilendae,” she whispered hoarsely, causing Elendae to look up in confusion. She was Xaereth’s student, taken under his wing when they were in Venris Cinderblood’s guard, together. They had grown so close he had adopted the young Adept. They had all been, terribly close, until she disappeared. It was a loss that still haunted them both.

“I pray...that somewhere...out there...the Light guides you home.”

She tipped the candle to one side, let the wax pool on the table, used it to anchor the candle upright. Another candle, next.

“Jidai.”

She had known him through Lilendae. They two had been... close. Fond of one another, if she recalled correctly. She remembered him as a cheerful, upbeat sort.

“I pray...that you have grown strong in the Light, and that you are happy, with someone. She would want that.”

“Justicar Centari.”

He was a friend of her mother’s. Prominent, by her telling, but as oft delinquent as inspiring. He was impossibly jovial and carefree in his connection to the Light.

“I pray one day you blind us all with true Radiance.”

“Justicar Sunfury.”

Her father’s best friend, before her father had turned on Venris Cinderblood. Exian Sunfury had a resoundingly intimidating reputation, but by the time she had met him, the jaded Champion had lost his fiery convictions and was little more than a lamentor of glories lost.

“I pray… you walk into a fate you can accept with a glad heart.”

“Vemair…”

She shook. This was the first.

Anger can only fuel a flame for so long.

But Drimmari Dra’zar had no idea how long her flames could burn.

Vemair had kidnapped her sister, Laryana, for Venris Cinderblood, twice, to bait her father into traps intended to kill him. She HATED the Knight-Master. She could still put a hole in his chest without a twinge of guilt.

“I pray...”

That the Light has more mercy than I will.

“I pray…”

One Order, one body, one mission, one heart.

Aeliana…

“I pray that hatred releases your heart- and that I might be free of hating you.”

It felt hollow. It tasted of ash. Still, at least it was said. She had to say it, if she couldn’t yet think or believe it. She at least had to say it.

“Aeliana.”

Aeliana Malevus. The name still wrenched her heart. She met the Knight Master when the other woman got between her and Lucius Bloodraven, during a gathering in the Hall. It was nearly a bloodbath. She still believed that only Aeliana’s love for every knight in the room had spared them a fate to sully the entire hall.

They were instant and fast friends. She was the first Valestia had called “Sister.” She might have loved her more than those born to her. Aeliana spoke with her on the Light late hours into the night, conspired with her to heal the Order of its festering wounds, introduced her to dancing…

Aeliana, like Lilendae, had disappeared. She had been speaking of a covert mission, at the time.

“I pray you’re well and happy, and that one day I’ll manage to live up to your example-- sister.”

“-Lucius.-”

She could not keep the weight from her voice. There was too long and conflicted a history between her and Lord Bloodraven. She met him when he called conference in the Hall of Blood. It was the first of several he would stage in his vain attempts to wrest control of the Order. They began at one another’s throats, climbing to a conflict that ended nearly in blood before their war grew cold and civil. Her cursed scrupulous nature had even see her free him from behind bars for a crime of which he was accused-- framed, she’d discovered. He had claimed to turn a new leaf, after that, but she watched him hurt those who loved him and abandon those who cast their hopes on him, one after the other.

“I pray you found a true path to redemption.”

She would not be holding her breath, for that. But Lucius Bloodraven had consequently brought many knights of the Hall into her life.

“Master Alah’zaram.”

Another zealot who had stood alongside her and Aeliana, during their initial conflict with Lucius. Few knights had inspired her so, before or since. He was unwavering in his convictions, determined in his leadership. He had helped her and others who joined the Order after the Sunwell’s rebirth to settle into the ranks and take heart in their differences. She owed him a great deal, however much she had to admit his uncompromising nature did not always do her favors, in example.

That nature had taken him from them, too.

“I pray you’ve found a brotherhood and purpose that does not disappoint you.”

Her mind spun, calling back the events of the previous year. She looked on the Knight Master’s example, and saw her own actions in new, ugly light.

“Arthamir,” she hissed quickly, soldiering on before she lost her nerve for more introspection.

It was the night the Hall had nearly massacred itself, five years ago, now. Arthamir was on the opposite side of the room, then. He was an officer, if not second in command, to Lucius Bloodraven. But Arthamir had a level head, too level to follow Lucius down his destructive spiral for long. He was always proactive in the community and in the Order, almost always present. It was a horrible to watch him dance the line between soldier and politician, especially as honest a man as he was-- as he could be, for a politician. She found him the most agreeable officer to deal with, when she had to, and mutual respect had grown between them as they both worked in their own ways for the good of the order. The Champion was now the only officer she would address by his right rank.

“I pray your life is both long and satisfied-- I doubt you can see such a fate for yourself. And I pray the Light keeps you safe. I don’t know what I’d do without your guidance, sometimes, old man.”

She gave the flame of the candle a long look before nestling it amongst the growing cluster in the center of the table.

“Aervin.”

Arthamir’s wife. They had met few times, over the years. Aervin kept largely to their family holdings, especially since she had started producing heirs to Arthamir’s house. It was just as well. They seldom got along. Aervin was one of the few knights Lesti had ACTUALLY come to blows with, over the years. Still…

“I hope your children lead long and -happy- lives, Lady Tyrellian. May the Light bless them and the lands their inherit.”

She smiled as she set the candle, then sighed as she plucked and lit the next.

“Jaira…”

Arthamir’s daughter, taken in much the same way Xaereth had taken in his Lilendae. She had probably first met her while hosting other knights for dinner in the Fairbreeze in. She got to know her as a student under her instruction. Jaira was a fine study and a fine knight, when she was not testing her limits.

“I pray your heart finds contentment in your service to your people and your family, Jaira.” She said it, and wished it, earnestly.

“Jadoth.”

She met him perhaps the same night she met Jaira. Learning of his constantly precarious position in the Order, and seeing how desperately he seemed to need it, she had made it her mission to help. He only needed someone to believe in him. She had believed that for a long time; and believed in him through all the wrongs committed against him, all the wrongs against their realm and their world that chipped away at his heart, and all the wrongs he had himself committed.

One mistake. She had made only ONE mistake, but it was enough to earn his ire, and at last she understood. She learned, as others would have to, for themselves, what others had tried for years to make her see. She could not help him. It didn't stop her from wishing, every time she saw him, that she could.

“I pray that one day, you learn to -truly- let the Light fill the endless vacuum in your heart.”

She couldn't think of one without the other.

“Jayir.”

Jay Pyreanor was at the time Jadoth’s best friend. Another of her students. A better study but too easily influenced to think of himself as an outsider and misbehave by his friend. Jayir had been ever-present but avoidant, and she feared she had never put enough effort into understanding him with Jadoth absorbing her focus.

“I pray the Light has given you confidence your gifts and abilities, and in yourself.”

“Zan.”

They were too alike, she and Rerservist Zandrae Pyreanor- Champion, when someone else needed him to be. He was uncle or cousin to Jayir- she distractedly wondered if she’d ever bothered to ask- and often in the orbit of observing or aiding in her lessons with the Initiates and Adepts.

He had a gentle hand with the students but was outspoken towards officers- like she was. He could spend hours patiently listening- like she could. He could flare in righteous indignation and charge blind and furious to the defense of others or his own convictions- like she could. He could condemn and spurn, when those convictions were set- like she could.

They had inevitably gone up and down a rollercoaster of good times and bad between them, their convictions and inclinations to take “mother bear” stands in the face of what they perceived to be injustice led them to sometimes crash headlong against one another like Alterac rams.

He was, she was sure, still offended on Jadoth’s behalf.

“I pray the Light grants us both more patience, wisdom, and understanding; with each other, those around us, and ourselves.”

She needed those things, probably more than he did, at the moment. She had constantly told herself as much, over the years, unless she was angry. A stubborn and purposeful misstep- that was when she most needed them.

She closed her eyes a few moments, let the perpetual storm pounding in her head wash over her, mind and soul. Now was as good a time as any.

“Dr-mari…”

Not Dra’zar. Not today.

He had wanted to HELP. She was coming off too many bad experiences with the other officers when they met. From the beginning, she had gotten off on the wrong foot with him.

He was patient, and not rebuffed. He learned her troubles and reasons, and she learned his. They were quickly friends. He was always available, when she needed him. She had on turn helped him save his child.

He had a soft spot for children. She looked over her shoulder at the once-more slumbering toddler. He had loved Elendae from the start-- not that there was anyone who seemed immune to the child’s contagious charms-- and the more she grew, the more she seemed to love him back. It was a more potent rebuff of Valestia’s temper than any the rest.

The candle snapped. She gave a start. Even the soft click of the wax giving was loud in the still morning. Light, but she was still angry. She started to set the broken pieces aside for another, but the flame yet flickering caught her eye. She found herself instead rolling the wax between her hands, softening it between the warmth of Light-blessed palms until it melted enough to come back together, if imperfectly. She nestled it next to Jadoth’s before it could take anymore punishment.

“Mother Moon,” she breathed with solemn desperation. “Grant us your grace.”

She fought the compulsion to strategize in her next choice, but chose him to avoid thinking on it further.

“Azkariel.”

She stared through the flame on the candle she lit for him, at Drimmari’s beyond.

Forgive me for heaping his faults on your shoulders.

Azkariel was exactly what she thought she needed at the time she met him. Someone who didn't need to be taught to handle himself on the battlefield. A veteran of the Northern War. A solid set of shoulders on which to lay their missions during the war against the Legion. It was too bad he thought as much of himself.

Azkariel was, she learned, impatient and power hungry and resentful of others’ recognition. More and more she got the sense that he thought he could do her job better than she could. She would not give him the chance.

But you did. I was like that, once. I pray you have been better repaid for it than I have over the years.

“I pray that the Light teaches you humility and the value in SERVICE.”

It was not criticism. She let him poison her heart with his own resentment enough to know that he would never be happy until he could change.

“Caci…”

Azkariel’s “student”. Lover, it turned out. She had done her best to receive and instruct the girl as if she were there for the right reasons. She believed she had a good heart. She regretted letting her go, most of all.

“I pray you have found someone to make your talents shine.”

“Terrestre.”

He had found them in the wilds, during the Legion’s invasions. He had heard word of them in the vicinity, and was determined to make himself useful. He was not particularly personable, and she was sure in hindsight that he deserved more notice than she had given him.

“I pray your valiance found good application. Lights grace and safe travels, Blood Knight.”

“Mourne.”

She had known him only the five years she'd known most the Order, but it felt like she'd known the Champion all her life. She couldn't even recall the exact moment she'd first seen him- though she had the strangest image in her mind that he'd been wearing a pink gown.

He was almost immediately one of her best friends. It seemed like they went everywhere and did everything together. Others had assumed they were married more than once- to both their horror.

They had grown apart, during the Legion’s invasions. It was her fault. She knew that. She would mend it.

“I pray you and Zozha are blessed in your union.”

“Solarine...Talaen, Lacryma.”

She lit and nestled two candles, held a third.

They were close to Mourne. Like Mourne and like her, they were priests before they were Blood Knights-- Shadow priests. They were a loose sort of circle, they five, in her mind. They knew one another, as others did not. They sensed things, when others did not. They could call on one another, when they could call on no one else. She did not often know where they all were, anymore, but she had a strange sort of constant confidence in them.

“I pray we all maintain The Balance.”

“Julian.”

Lucius had pulled Champion Julian Sunrest into her life. She could hardly say she thought much of his conduct or views, but battle against the powers of the Void had forged their relationship, and there were few Champions of the Order Valestia respected more for living up to their rank on the field. He would always be brother to her, whether or not she was always happy with the fact. There was only…

“I pray the Light keeps you on the right side of The War.”

“Nightsorrow,”

She didn't know the Knightlord outside of a few interactions, but few in the Order had inspired more confidence in herself. Nightsorrow saw progress in her. He had -threatened- to promote her, more than once.

He had seen little of her, but she suspected he knew her. The easy-going officer had a keen way of making her practice intense introspection with the lightest comments. She knew that even if she never saw him again, she would have much to credit him with, throughout her life.

“I pray the Light long continues to work through you to inspire others.”

“Forgefury.”

Her voice didn't shake. It was, perhaps, the first time she could say as much. The first night she met the Knight Lord, he was threatening to roll heads, and she had put herself in his path. She still felt the chill of that moment sometimes, and knew well what force had passed her by.

It hadn't taken long, however, to understand him. Veteran of the order. Jaded by the fate of their people. A survivor, desperate not to see the Order’s successors inherit any weakness. She hoped she had convinced him of the tenacity in the newer knights’ own brand of strength.

“I pray the Light heals your scars.”

“Ina’thia.”

They were alike in ways she and Zandrae were not. Looking at Knight-Lord Ina’thia Dawnblade was like looking at a prophecy incarnate. The mirror image was to be anticipated and feared.

Ina’thia was scrupulous. She had known her from the start. They two were sometimes nearly friends, sharing meals and speaking for hours together- and sometimes nearly nemeses, standing on opposite sides of disagreements that threatened violence. They usually tried to avoid both.

The two danced around the middle when it came to interacting with each other, keeping as close to a curt working relationship as possible as often as possible.

I wish I could trust you.

…

But I -will not BE you.-

“I pray you find true happiness. Someday.”

“A’laria.”

They called her Champion, sometimes, captain others. Whatever her actual title, Valestia had always almost exclusively known Raynell A’laria as “champion” of Ina’thia’s cause. Wherever the Knight-Lord appeared, Raynell always seemed to be in close proximity, if not at her heels.

Unlike the careful dance between her and Ina’thia, Valestia and Raynell had always had a relationship of casual but open rancor. A’laria was disdainful of the newer rank and file knights, sometimes threatening, sometimes more than threatening.

There was no faith in that one- lost, broken, or otherwise. There was no grim protectiveness some of the older knights like Xaereth, Drimmari, and Hylaudius exhibited. There was only vengeance. Valestia couldn't say she minded that A’laria’s focus was usually on shadowing Ina’thia.

“I pray the Light touches your life and your heart.”

“Dorennen,”

Another of Ina'thia's Phoenix Guard, Hylaudius Dorennen had been a fixture -- almost literally-- at the door of the Hall, since Valestia had been there. Not like the slackers or the goofs, or those who were looking to be available for even the most trivial of matters, like herself. Dorennen had always been there, to act when it -mattered.-

On hand for anything from cats up trees to trauma healing, in was inevitable that Valestia found herself often interacting with the Knight Master. He was seldom pleasant or agreeable, but he was honest with his evaluations. He'd come to remind her of her own father, in his conduct and service to his people.

He was gone. Lost in the war against the Legion.

“I pray… we who succeed you see the value of the dedication those like you gave us all in your service.”

“Ana.”

Analyse Emberbloom was Ina'thia's knight on one hand, led astray by Bloodraven on the other. Somehow between the two and the trouble that brought her, she and Lesti had become fast friends, if briefly.

Ana had seemingly withdrawn from the Order and indeed the public after a personal tragedy. She was well enough perhaps last they spoke, but Valestia knew how easily knights found a brave face.

“I pray the Light gives you comfort, sister.”

“Ele’nath.”

Taneisha Ele’nath had started out taking an interest in Valestia’s healing instruction for her students. The sister knight had come to learn and assist by turns, and to work alongside her when actual need arose.

She'd asked Valestia to become her teacher, once upon a time.

She hadn't seen her, since Draenor. She hoped fervently that she was alright.

“I pray the Light continues to guide your heart and your healing hands.”

Ele’nath had been close, if briefly, to one of her students. Valestia swallowed a lump in her throat.

“Farstrider.”

Ratheras Farstrider, a.k.a. Cascade Lightstrider. Xaereth often told her she belittled the progress he’d made, towards the end, when she called him by his born and inconveniently unoriginal surname. She couldn't help it. She still heard herself scream his name in agitation every time she thought of him.

A grin came unbidden to lift the corners of her lips.

She and Mourne had taken some of the students to Tanaris for “social skills” training. Laughable to some of the officers, she was sure, but to her mind you couldn't make a real defender of the people out of someone who was not for all intents and purposes, one of them. They had met Farstrider there.

He was a bumbling, naked drunk who accosted her and Jaira, of all people. Mourne had sent them away, in a rare show of seriousness and his temper, to leave him to deal with the bum. She had not expected him to turn up with the elf at the Hall of Blood.

Ratheras Farstrider was a former Knight Master who had fallen into despondence after losing the squad under the command of his Champion teacher to the Champion’s overconfidence. Mourne had convinced him to try and redeem himself and resume his service as an initiate. He asked Lesti to let him participate in the students’ lessons.

She had quickly found pity and understanding for his predicament, and soon asked Mourne to give him to her as her student. Farstrider had taken it too quickly and too thoroughly to heart. He was brash, defiant, and often delinquent, but he was thoroughly hers.

He was the only reason she had survived the initial invasion of Draenor, and for several months afterwards. The horrible fate that had befallen him when they returned home- when they should have been safe- continued to haunt her.

“I-I…” tears slid slowly down her face. “I pray… I live up to the faith you placed in me, someday.”

“Sillienth…”

WHY did the name even come to mind? Valestia's pulse pounded in her ears, and it seemed as if she could see her blood coursing in her vision, behind her eyes. Her tears tried in the face of hot fury, fresh as the first day.

Traitor…

Sillienth Goldenmist was one of the first knights Valestia met, and a close friend of her adopted daughter, Naatsu. Both elves had treated her as their mother, and Valestia had loved them both as a mother might. But in the end, Sillienth had literally betrayed Thalassian, Horde forces to an Alliance ambush. There had been casualties. Xaereth was supposed to have been there. If Valestia hadn't…

She didn't even WANT to wish it, she wasn't ready to let it go, herself, yet.

“Light forgive you.” she choked out.

“Althrin,”

Althrin Santhil. She had not said the name, in some time. He was one of her first friends in the Order, and they had quickly worked together on several matters.

But then, his pursuit of Lucius Bloodraven's corrupt conduct, he'd been awarded the rank of Champion. She saw him change, immediately. She could still hear her own voice in her ears.

“This is what you wanted- all along! This is ALL it was about! I hope you enjoy the new company you keep, -Champion.-”

She did not think she had ever spoken to him again, after that. Her eyes strayed past Althrin's candle to Drimmari's.

I don't want this, again.

“I wish I had given you more time...patience. I pray the Light and your station lead you to great things in service to our people.”

“Nestarion,”

More of the same.

WHY do I DO this?

She had been convinced Nestarion Sunsworn was good for the Order, when they first met. She had been ready to jump to his aid, any time there was the slightest need- even if sometimes she'd been as much trouble as help to him.

He had disappointed her expectations. She didn't even remember how it had happened, now. She had not extended him the forgiveness he had extended her for her own mistakes. She didn't even remember if she'd had the decency to tell him she was angry. The cold shoulder was her go to, after all.

I'll do better than this.

Now, all she hoped was that wherever he was, he was safe.

“You went through...so much. I pray that you'll have more happiness and less hardship in the future, than you did, then.”

“Arai. Thyrus.”

The brothers Sunshield. She had not known them well. Arai was secluding to Pandaria by the time she met him, and Thyrus…

He had managed, however brief their interactions, to impact her.

“I read your report. As far as I'm concerned, YOU'RE as MUCH to blame for this, as HE is! I'd roll your head, were it up to me.”

It had made her re-examine the matter that had been at hand, again and again, until she was satisfied it was resolved in an unsatisfactory but correct way; and it had made her that much more thorough in her considerations, over the years- however short sighted they might still be. At least she was never satisfied with them, easily, anymore.

“I pray the Light and your families serve and guide your noble hearts and strong hands well.

“Dawnsword.”

He was positively contagious. He didn't seem to hold anyone -save the Alliance, of late- in contempt. He was bright, faithful, unstoppable.

Like so many knights, she had met him before the Hall. She recalled she'd overheard him defending his faith to another knight. They had connected instantly, and spent many hours on free nights discussing the Order, the Light, and the world's troubles. He seemed to rely on her consul, at times. She was the one inspired by him.

“I pray you and those who succeed US, and those who come AFTER YOU, are continually brighter a Light for our people and those who come after.”

“Rilserath. Latheri.”

Rilserath had come to her after Draenor, robbed of his Master on another world in another dimension. He was a good and dedicated study, a fine combatant, and possessed of a compassionate heart. She could not have asked for better, at her side from that moment until after Argus. She wasn't sure she'd ever told him that he was her pride and joy of a student. If she hadn't, it was because she credited his previous master with saving her any hard work.

Latheri was his student. He'd picked her up between the Isles and Argus, and the Initiate had been forged in Felfire and endless battle, on the Legion homeworld. She was already, Valestia suspected, more technically skilled than her teacher.

She had let the two of them have time, afterwards. In the face of the ever increasing conflict over the past couple months however - Light, had it only been THAT long?- she could not help but think it was well past time to recall them.

“May the Light preserve us, and guide us in its wisdom as we hold one another up, shoulder to shoulder.”

They were with her, but there were three she missed keenly.

“Bamerin.”

Prodigy. Bamerin was everything she had ever wanted in a student. She had taken that opportunity, she feared, to drive him too hard; and ultimately away to his own counsel.

"I pray the Light has taught you better than I managed to, Silverheart."

“Dwin'arnith.”

With the threat of the Legion looming, she had pushed them all too hard.

Denlandis Dwin'arnith was headstrong, from the start. He reminded her of Jaira, and herself. He took what he needed but accepted only his own judgement. He never understood her explanations, and she hadn't the patience then to make sure they were clear. She suspected she had let him go to his doom.

“I pray our mutual impatience did not leave you long-wounded-- and that ... you have found solace for your losses, at last.”

She-

“Would you like some privacy for this, love?’

Reflexively, started to gather the cloak up around her, in the split second before she realized the voice of course belonged to the garment's owner. Xaereth stood there when she turned her head, looking at her with understandable confusion.

Don't mind me, just setting up a shrine on top of the kitchen table.

She shook her head.

“I only had Catraena left.”

Dear, sweet Catraena. As Xaereth gathered up Elendae and settled into the chair behind her, Valestia settled back into her contemplation. It was Catraena who had delivered Elendae. She was previously a priestess who, like her, had come to the Order to do -more-. Like her, she was too easily touched, too easily wounded. But Valestia loved the Order, and she was sure that in time Catraena would too.

Perhaps she would have, if in her frenzy to confront the demons Valestia had not turned her away at her first doubt. It galled her on one hand. On the other, she HAD been too great a liability to take on the field.

“Catraena. I only pray you FOUND someone with the patience to help you through your doubts. You deserved better than you thought of yourself."

She had dreams, prayers; not just for herself, but for all these knights. This was the why. This was what she needed to remember.

#Prompt #long prompt is long #IC #RP #WRA #WOW #Valestia Cloudbreaker #Blood Knights

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handsofprovidence · 6 years

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Character Prompt Template

(I assume this is being tagged for Providence, owing to whom has tagged me in this post. I have two main iterations of Providence for the two continuities that I RP him in. Whenever there is a distinction between these renditions of his character, I will make note of it here.)

► Name ➔ “Providence.”

► Are you single ➔

(Aligned): “Yes.”

(IDW): “No.”

► Are you happy ➔ “I am when my people are content and provided for.”

► Are you angry? ➔ “I am when I see my people suffer at the hands of another, or from infighting.”

► Are your parents still married ➔ “This isn’t applicable to Cybertronians.”

NINE FACTS

► Birth Place ➔

(Aligned): “The well of all-sparks, as all other Cybertronians.”

(IDW): “Cybertron, in one of the consecrated hotspots. The metal that gave the shape you see me in now might have come from one of Cybertron’s moons, in the days of old.”

► Hair Color ➔ “Cybertronians don’t have these. But, the color of my helm is crimson, and the prongs of my sensor’s array is gold.”

► Eye Color ➔ “Gold.”

► Birthday ➔ “We don’t measure days in a way that would be meaningful. Instead I will give a more accurate measure; it was in the days of old, in the days of Primes, empire, and expansion. It was far before the present troubles you see today.”

► Mood ➔ “Peaceful. When there is no war, then the sufferings of this life become much more bearable, and more easily corrected. This does not mean to say that I am happy; but I have learned to be content with many of the troubles of life, and to accept them as means by which I and others may grow and learn from. Perhaps by this we may yet find ourselves a path into a lasting and better world.”

► Gender ➔ “By human standards, I would be coded in the masculine sense of things, by and large. But I hope to embody some of the nurturing qualities commonly associated with humanity’s femininity, as well.”

► Summer or winter ➔ “A summer’s sun makes for a pleasant sail, and the winter snow brings with it a unique beauty to Earth. I enjoy both for what they offer.”

► Morning or afternoon ➔ “Sunrises are good for inspiration; afternoons are for winding down from work.”

EIGHT THINGS ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE

► Are you in love ➔

(Aligned): “Not with a particular individual.”

(IDW): “That is one way of putting it.”

► Do you believe in love at first sight ➔ “A possibility that is greatly overshadowed by what most would call infatuation. It is impossible to tell with a first impression; I don’t think anybody can know themselves well enough to make an immediate distinction. The mind so easily tells itself the lies it wishes to hear...”

► Who ended your last relationship ➔

(Aligned): “You assume I had one to begin with.”

(IDW): “Shadowplay. That isn’t the name of a person, but it is the act of villains.”

► Have you ever broken someone’s heart ➔ “If I have, it wasn’t by intention.”

► Are you afraid of commitments ➔ “Never. All things in life that is of worth ought to be committed to wholeheartedly, or not be bothered with.”

► Have you hugged someone within the last week? ➔

(Aligned): “Nobody in particular that would come to mind.”

(IDW): “I think I hugged Geardust last week? He’s is in need of them more often than he would admit.”

► Have you ever had a secret admirer ➔ “Nobody that hasn’t eventually confessed something of the sort.”

► Have you ever broken your own heart? ➔ “In a word, yes. The story behind that would take lifetimes to recollect.”

SIX CHOICES

► Love or lust ➔ “I have experienced both, and of the two, the former is far greater.”

► Lemonade or iced tea ➔ “Cybertronians don’t have equivalents of these. I do, however, believe Rider likes lemonade more...”

► Cats or Dogs ➔ “Rider seems to like dogs more. I know they are known for their loyalty, and a generally sunny attitude that stands in stark contrast to the austerity of cats.”

► A few best friends or many regular friends ➔ “What defines a ‘best’ or ‘regular’ friend? For me, a friend is one who I lay my life down for, and there are many for whom I would do this, and will continue to do so. There is nothing ‘regular’ about that, but I find that this is the only definition of ‘friend’ that holds real value.”

► Wild night out or romantic night in ➔ “I have known people who favor one over another. Personally, I have no particular preference.”

► Day or night ➔ “In the day, there is much to be done, but at night I find myself walking among and counting the stars...Take that as you will.”

FIVE HAVE YOU EVERS

► Been caught sneaking out ➔ “Nowhere that I had not already announced my intentions of leaving.”

► Fallen down/up the stairs ➔ “I can recall a few occasions of these, when in battle.”

► Wanted something/someone so badly it hurt? ➔ “Everything I have wanted I have fought and bled for; there is nothing else of worth.”

► Wanted to disappear ➔ “Once.”

FOUR PREFERENCES

► Smile or eyes ➔ “Many might claim that the eyes speak everything, but for me, a genuine smile will always be louder. It is easier to lie with a smile, but those who choose sincerity in all their actions have the better part.”

► Shorter or Taller ➔ “Sometimes I think my imposing stature comes at a greater inconvenience than the troubles of my contemporaries.”

► Intelligence or Attraction ➔ “Intelligence must be wielded with wisdom; attraction is a natural instinct; in both, I counsel prudence.”

► Hook-up or Relationship ➔

(Aligned): “Relationships are always more ideal; nobody can fully determine the consequences of a hook-up. Acknowledged or not, there is always something moving beneath the surface.”

(IDW): “I have experienced both; of the two, only the latter carries depth, and in the end it is the depth of a matter that determines the distance it will travel. Relationships will always last longer, and thus more worth striving towards.”

FAMILY

► Do you and your family get along ➔

(Aligned): “This idea isn’t applicable to Cybertronians.”

(IDW): “As to the family that I have come to define the term by, I would say that we do.”

► Would you say you have a “messed up life” ➔ “That is one way of interpreting it, but I would rather define my experiences by how I respond to them more than focusing on the events themselves, whether they benefited or hurt me.”

► Have you ever ran away from home ➔ “I have walked away from it, but never ran. It was not something to fear such that I might seek refuge elsewhere, nor something so repulsive that I thought it impossible to redeem.”

► Have you ever gotten kicked out ➔ “A civil war twists the experiences of ‘home’ into something that feels much more foreign. It is more accurate to say that we burned down the home that we knew. Who held the planet didn’t matter; even those who seized the privilege to walk on its surface couldn’t recognize it anymore.”

FRIENDS

► Do you secretly hate one of your friends ➔ “I have hated the actions that some of my friends have taken, and I hold them responsible for such decisions, but I have never hated my friends themselves; otherwise, the word is meaningless.”

► Do you consider all of your friends good friends ➔ “What I consider is not the whole picture; ask them. Then, look at my words and my actions and determine for yourself.”

► Who is your best friend ➔

(Aligned): “Silence and solitude. Those aren’t people.”

(IDW): “There is no single one; I count them all among equals, and I am especially fond of all of them.”

Tagged by @pacificae-mors

Tagging: @gear-dust @snowblind05 @thesixteenthspark

#ooc post

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theharellan · 6 years

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RP POSITIVITY MEME

DAY 14: FREE DAY!

so this whole week i’ve kept myself from mentioning joly when possible. i promo joly on my dash every day. my very existence is a joly promo. it was mostly a way to make sure that i gave other people attention, and also b/c i saw the last day was a free day and wanted to use it to write about how much i love joly’s characters.

if it weren’t for joly i doubt i’d still be here. that’s not to say that i didn’t love rping solas beyond what i have with joly, but after my hiatus it was the desire to rp with joly again that really brought me back. and i’m so thankful for that b/c it’s allowed me to meet ppl like merc and lisa and kae, ppl who either weren’t around or i didn’t know before. also just when i was having a rough time last year and whenever i’ve had a rough time since then joly’s been there for me. they’re a really special person, who deserves even more kind words written about them than their characters do. but if i keep going i’ll probably make myself cry.

suffice to say if you like my blog, then you have joly to thank. not just for me being here, but how their ocs have shaped my solas. i cannot recommend joly’s blogs enough. they don’t have as much time as they did to write, but it doesn’t make them any less dedicated to their characters as someone who posts a dozen things a day.

before i get to their actual blogs, i want to talk about the npcs or characters that no longer have rp blogs.

first, deshanna. i’ve loved how they made a mother who is flawed and sympathetic, and who i don’t feel 100% good about solas disliking her in modern. it’s my secret desire to be able to rp in a thread where she’s npc’d one day, either in modern or batb. next, layne. what a piece of shit. i don’t know TOO much about layne, and i’m in this position where i want to know more but also i dread it. hoping one day solas and mio can shank him. and then, june. june had a blog (and may again one day??) and he was a fuckin hermit mamma’s boy that was too boring for fen to want to have anything to do with. joly’s recently been toying with some ideas for his character that i think only strengthen what they have, and i’m excited.

@ancientimpudence -

mio is petty. mio is mean. mio is stand-offish. mio is loyal. mio is driven. mio is honest. i love mio.

if you want a character who is flawed and not always nice, you’ll love mio. they’re a really good example of how you can make a character not always be a very pleasant person, but still get plenty of rp mileage off of them and develop meaningful relationships. how two characters’ relationship can somehow be incredibly deep and yet broken. i love what joly and i have built for mio and solas, two ancient friends who aren’t always the best friends.

i could really talk about about their relationship. solas goes through a period where he becomes very empathetic and in-tune with the problems of everyone around him, but mio’s somehow always escape him. i love the gap, and i love how it’s both not his fault b/c mio hides how they feel, but also he needs to do better by them. i love how mio wants what’s best for solas and their cause, while simultaneously suggesting things that actually wouldn’t be best for solas, because mio isn’t omnipotent and is also, to an extent, still trying to keep solas as he was.

i love how mio doesn’t like ian but is still there to help him. i love how mio expresses themself in ways not everyone understands. i love how modern mio has purse dogs and brings vher food b/c they spent all weekend playing the sims.

and vher / mio?? one of those ships that just kinda happened. one of the best things about talking to joly about characters is how often two just kinda cling to one another. vher is aro and can’t return the romantic feelings mio feels for them (and open enough to be accepting when mio finds romantic love elsewhere) but they still care for mio so much. everything about mio that i listed above, even the petty and vain stuff, vher loves. also sometims vher decides they wanna kiss mio and i can only imagine what it does to the poor child.

basically, what i’m getting at here is, joly lets mio be flawed but also shows how those flaws can still lead to positive interactions. joly lets mio be unadmirable at times, but still likeable and lovable. joly introduced some extra diversity in background to the rebellion and i’m eternally thankful tbh.

@betterthanmaps -

harding is one of those characters everyone adores, and so it makes sense that joly, one of the most adorable ppl on the planet, chose to write her. i love seeing characters with stable and normal backstories. harding is just such a steady influence, and i’ve loved seeing her contrasted with the sad backstories most canons and ocs possess. which i wanna be clear isn’t a criticism of sad backstories! i merely mean that it’s also nice seeing variety. not everyone has had a past that has made them cruel or kind, some people were raised by caring parents and lived simple lives until they heard the call to adventure. those people are just as interesting and worthy of telling stories about.

joly’s harding reminds me somewhat of tolkien’s hobbits, i suppose, now that i’m writing this out. and they’re some of my fave characters in literature. only w/ harding we also get fun dragon age dwarfy lore-- someone who is as un-dwarfy as varric but not quite so loud about it and we get actual queer representation.

@spiritualjourneys -

i adore spirits? i do not adore how the fandom treats spirits. things like treating human cole as superior to spirit cole, rather than a person making different choices, both paths making them happy, even if one is for reasons we can’t all understand. pinning everything wrong with anders in da2 on justice. assuming lord woolsey, an innocent spirit-ram who has done nothing but help, has always been a rage demon (even tho the ways in which he has been shown to help the family that adopted him aren’t typical rage-related qualities) but ANYWAY.

the point is, spirits are given something of a raw deal by the fandom and are almost always judged by their ability to conform to human standards. joly’s spirit multi is fuckin fantastic and making spirits different and complex and alien, while also familiar and very much people rather than set pieces in the stories of others. though all of them started out as npcs created by either joly (love, sincerity), myself (joy), or bioware (wisdom) it took joly no time at all to establish their stories. love and joy especially...

what i appreciate about love is the path they took to get where they are. how they weren’t always love, how they focus upon a specific kind of love, how they can’t always see when love is best working past. though i’ve only just started rping peace, i’m in love (get it) with the dynamic the two of them have formed. how they balance one another out and keep one another from straying too far into their own interests, and thereby corrupting themselves. it’s a dynamic that i wasn’t expecting at all when i made peace as an au to my zenyatta blog, but i think that’s the amazing thing about writing with joly. something falls into place and then it grabs you and the idea just won’t let go.

and as for joy, it’s probably the least developed of the spirits, having no form that’s recognisably alive nevermind a person. but it demonstrates well, i think, how “humanity” in elvhenan wasn’t defined by shape. when solas says he dislikes when people see him as just a pair of pointed ears, and that he doesn’t necessarily identify much with modern elves, the idea is expressing multiple things. one of them, i think, is that being an elf sometimes meant being a physical body with pointed ears, but sometimes you could just be bubbles and you’d still be considered a valid member of elvhen society. joy doesn’t exist as we do. joy forgets, joy prefers to never touch the earth, and it exists in a state of cycles to keep itself from becoming something like despair. joly depicts the beauty and the drawbacks of existing in this state and i’m just??? so glad they decided to write joy. b/c they do it more justice than i ever could.

@paragoninexile -

tam’s new blog isn’t fully set up but i wanna talk about her anyway. tam is a good hero and a good person, and in many ways sort of made to be a hero. when i found out about tam i was rly excited simply b/c she was very much like my warden, only with so much more care and thought put into her that now she’s basically replaced my canon warden in my heart.

i think my favourite thing about tam is how much of a front she puts up for everyone. crowning bhelen, even if it meant the death of another father figure. recruiting loghain, even if it meant losing her friend or possibly lover. it shows that even neutral good heroes still have to make decisions that could be considered ruthlessly practical. bhelen is not necessarily the better choice morally, especially not as an aeducan (especially especially not as an aeducan who doesn’t kill trian). i imagine tam knows that crowning him will have dire consequences not just for harrowmont, but the entire harrowmont line. she does it anyway, not because she wants to, but because for orzammar it’s the best choice.

i’ve loved finally having a chance to write one of my fave dragon age ships: gorim/aeducan. i have a weakness for ships who have been together since they were only young, and the progression they take in the au is so good?? being able to find freedom for their love in a life that is literally killing tamar, and the reason they only get 12 or so happy years together rather than 50. but tam is so good that i’m honestly proud to be able to give her those twelve years with gorim. one day i’m gonna make joly hurt w/ thoughts about the kid gorim adopts after tam dies and who he tells them all about. 8)

@cadashsmash -

cadri i think was the first joly character i interacted with, though i believe i remember ian from way way back when i tried rping merrill and couldn’t quite get a foothold like i did with solas and thora.

i’m in love with dwarves u all should know this, so ofc i’m in love with cadri. i love how rough around the edges she is, how she tries to do the right thing, and how doing so can lead to some messed up shit like killing abelas. the work joly’s done with reaver lore is perfect, working with how dirty and raw the specialisation is without making it too hardcore for an inquisitor to ever hope to specialise in it (stop assuming all reavers are cannibals fandom smh). one of my fave threads on thora continues to be the post-battle thread where both are recovering from the drawbacks of their own specialisations and clash because of them. it’s just a really unique idea that is what makes writing with joly so... rounded? like i’m never just writing one thing with joly. they push me as a writer in the best possible way.

overall cadri is just a rly excellent character who, like tam and harding, do credit to dwarves that the series doesn’t always. i’ve loved exploring how differently her and thora react to their position in life, i’ve loved seeing cadri’s anger or indifference towards dwarven society. it’s so valid and realistic and good. i’ve loved exploring the specific ways in which she bucks the presumptions solas has about dwarves, how even in universes where she’s not inquisitor her individuality is still nothing he expects from her kind and how she changes him anyway. i also will always be fond of this being their friendship song.

cadri: hey solas, what d’you call a flower before it opens? solas: a bud. cadri: I LOVE IT WHEN YOU CALL ME BUD. solas: UGHH.

@dalishfreckles -

it’s really hard to not write a post just about ian, honestly. all of joly’s characters are special to me, but i won’t deny ian is my favourite and has a very important place in my heart. if i were to truthfully answer those top 5 fave characters questions, ian would be on there no question.

as someone who goes through some of the same struggles as ian, he’s inspirational. seeing him struggle to keep surviving, to keep loving, to keep helping even when everything inside him is screaming to stop. i love seeing him make mistakes, honest ones or ones born of anxiety. b/c anxiety is more than just hating yourself or having trouble talking to people, although that is very real. sometimes anxiety can cause you to project some really terrible things onto people, things that aren’t really fair to them.

when i see ian doing things like... projecting his own feelings of worthlessness onto solas, assuming he must think the same rather than giving solas a chance to explain? it’s realistic, and it’s not good. it’s trying to pull people into the same destructive game you do to yourself. it’s also realistic, esp since in the thread i’m referring to solas fucked up and has shit to apologise for. idk, it’s just really comforting to see ian pull the same shit that i do, but knowing he’s still a good person and that i love him is an act of self love.

ian’s an important character for so many reasons, that i could probably write a 20 page thesis on him and his development / how much he means to me. i’m proud of him so much. i’m proud when he finds the strength to tease solas, i’m proud when he stands up for himself, even when he’s standing up against the people he loves. especially when, tbh. how as he grows he can see inara’s faults but doesn’t hate her for them, and tries to help her, when he’s under no obligation to. how he still tries to connect with solas after solas coldly brushes him off the first time ian admonishes him. and i love how joly shows it’s not easy. none of it is. and that ian has to keep choosing to be good, it makes everything he does that much more meaningful.

finally, ian isn’t a hero, necessarily. he’s not the sort of person people tell stories about, which is one reason i love the solas/ian pairing so much. it’s really all about the person for solas, and ian is just so much about what solas loves about people. it’s not always about battles and heroes, sometimes it’s just about a person who has the patience and love in them to make a tree grow in the middle of a desert alienage. sometimes the most wonderful things about people are the little, radical things they do for themselves and those they love rather than how they change the world.

this has gotten to be very long, and probably rambling, but to be fair to me this is like two weeks of joly-positivity i’ve been holding in.

i’ll probably be doing one more free day tomorrow, even if today is the last day, just to do a v general positive post for those i follow. but i wanted to take at least one day to credit the person who has inspired me with their words and characters. like. this was just their characters? i didn’t even get a chance to go into the ways joly’s prose shines, how it’s descriptive and yet never difficult to comprehend. how many different types of plots they’re here for.

but to make a long story short, joly is an incredibly talented writer. i’ve said this before, but i can look back on things i’ve written years ago with joly and still like what i wrote (as well as what they wrote but that should go w/o saying), which is a rare feeling, simply b/c joly lets me access the best writer in me. we often here in the rpc use “muse” as a shorthand for “character we write that inspires us” and i’ve found it a difficult word to rly use-- simply b/c joly and their characters are as much my muses as my own characters. at least in the sense that thinking about them inspires me to write.

tl;dr- pls follow and write with joly. b/c the only thing i love as much as writing with joly is reading what they write with other people.

#[ sure do hate this tumblr glitch ]#( positivity )#dalishfreckles #( ooc )#rpc positivity week

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tetsuwan-atom · 4 years

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TMoHS Verse Headcanon - Fixed Factors and the Friday Night Club

This stuff relates to what Bowen might be doing in this verse on friday nights as well as pertaining to his situation in Nishinomiya regarding his work and the observation of Haruhi Suzumiya. It’s really mostly background stuff but can be explored further in rp if so desired!

This takes place after the discovery that Haruhi Suzumiya is identified as the subject of the strange universe readings earlier, confirming the 'interface' that could shape that world is that of a human teenager.

With this discovery, one Friday night he reports to one of his inter-dimensional colleagues, Heinrich Untstag (who came out of retirement just to help Bowen out). The talk eventually turns into a discussion of one of the Ministry of Science's theories called 'Fixed Factors', a theory where, in order for a universe to remain stable, certain circumstances must be constant and present. The discussion turns into a specific theory regarding the SOS Brigade as a Fixed Factor, or rather, the members themselves as Fixed Factors. If one was to be taken out of that universe, even for a short period, it could result in dire consequences, speculating that regarding Haruhi herself and her powers. The most unfortunate part of this theory is that, by becoming a member, Bowen himself is becoming a Fixed Factor. The more he works with the Brigade, the more time he spends with Haruhi, the more this is solidified. It is then recommended his assignment be made indefinite.. and that he not return home under any circumstances. (Might write a drabble on this conversation one day). While only a theory, Heinrich doesn't want Bowen to take risks on a universe that has so many unknowns, especially considering the further unknowns regarding Haruhi herself.

Now stuck in Nishinomiya, his 'best' friend, Leland Brighto, tries to make life easier for the blonde. Secret talks undergoing with certain parties including the Hankyu Railway and the Suburban Transport Authority result in Leland to come to Kitaguchi Station as it's new Station Master (a role he hasn't performed before). This then leads Leland to form a group of people that would hang out at Kitaguchi on Friday nights, mostly to just have a bit of fun and loosen up, but also to help Bowen out. Sometimes the meetings begin at 7PM but can be later... going well into the night past the station's closure. Bowen just labels it the Friday Night Club to make it easier for him. It's mostly railway colleagues from back home, though Heinrich also attends. Shenanigans tend to occur, but are mostly confined to the railway station itself..... mostly. Bowen can attend the Friday Night Club if he isn't spending his time elsewhere, whether it be the SOS Brigade, it's members individually.. or something else going on. Sometimes the Friday Night Club might hang out at the Dream Coffee shop on a particular Friday before heading over to the railway station.

While he sees it unlikely the two paths would cross. He hopes to goodness that Haruhi never finds out about the Friday Night Club and the chaos that tends to resonate from it. Individual Brigade members though, he doesn't have a problem with. He knows Leland is itching to meet Itsuki Koizumi (due to the fact Bowen references Koizumi as looking like a young Leland), but he's waiting for it to happen by chance moreso.

#headcanon #May be updated #TMoHS!Bowen #BOWEN HC

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rxbelling-hxrald · 7 years

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I want Dan to suffer....

Yet saying that its not through violence itself, considering Dan’s character even if a muse is significantly more capable than him, you’ll only hurt his pride in defeat, which will in turn prompt him to hunt them down constantly until he ‘surpasses’ them.

Mentally is where I want him to suffer, where stress and dilemmas hit him.

You might think his past is painful enough living amongst the demons and the brutal realm of society they have, but with Dan’s new found freedom, there is a new level of pain available to him that even Mason was unable to ever hope achieving and have him experience.

That takes the shape of his friends, both current and future. What happens when they realize that the subjective terms of good and bad are not things that cross Dan’s mind? What happens when they realize he’ll do just about anything to achieve his own goals?

Even if he has good intentions, what is truly right in the death of another for example? Dan would easily commit murder if he felt it was necessary for safety. What moral decision do people come too? would they let their friend Dan commit a horrid act to achieve a level of safety? turning their backs on their own morals? or would they do anything they could to stop him? to walk the ‘good’ path and save him from falling further?

This is just a quick example but it makes you think doesn't it?

To Dan, it would break him, he wouldnt WANT to hurt his friends, but if he felt they couldn't see what was right, what was needed to be done to secure something in his mind, he’d fight them regardless despite the pain it would inflict upon him on the inside.

And even if he succeeded, or his friends stopped him....what next? could they ever achieve a strong bond again? could they ever unite again knowing full well the differences in their own morals and ideologies?

You may call me cruel, but that’s an RP I really want to happen one day, something that tests the boundaries of friendship, willpower and mentality between Dan and any friend he might make.

#OOC #Mun talks #Drabble #I just love plotting little things like this to myself #but I wanted to share this #edit: I'd also love to hear what people think their muses would do if you wanna share xD

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red-string-souls · 7 years

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RP Snippets - The Dream

So... anybody up for a little story time? The Grillster Shipping Month thing started by @silverskye13 has been a good excuse for me to drag out various Grillster bits and bobs I’ve collected, along with doing some new stuff. A couple of those bits are things I wrote sort of as filler/world-building interludes for an RP that DH and I did. I don’t know if they make much sense on their own, but heck, I thought I might toss them up for funsies.

Context for the following scene: Dee accidentally transported himself into an alternate universe. It was not good times. It was, in fact, very bad times that included nearly killing his alternate self, much pissiness and fighting, and neither of them liking the other very much. After much soap-opera-ness, he and that ‘verse’s Gaster (aka Will) make peace. Rum is involved. Dee gets drunk off his ass. Also, the Roman mentioned is Will’s deceased husband and Dee doesn’t “get” romance.

-----

Dee didn't have much to offer in response, aside from a few nods of acknowledgement. He was already drifting. He didn't seem to notice any more of Will's preparations for bed. Not the taking away of the tea and it's accompaniment that had led to this condition, nor the loss of light to a mere dim glow somewhere around the corner of the kitchen doorway. As the main lights went off, the colors of the fire tinted the surroundings in shifting gold and orange and red. Shadows folded themselves into the living painting, emerging and disappearing in an entrancing dance with the hearthlight. This, along with the lulling smell of woodsmoke, drew his already unresistant self into sleep like a gentle tide. Body stilled and eyes closed, the older doctor remained as he had first arranged himself on the couch, slumbering quietly as the hours ticked past. But in the deep of the night, he began to stir. Not physically, but mentally. He had slipped through the other stages of rest until he eased into that one that every mind must traverse. The last images of his waking hours transferred themselves from his recent memory onto the walls of his subconscious. Undefined darkness gave way to warm colors that somehow radiated heat. A familiar, comforting scent haunted the air. He drew in a deep breath through his thin nostrils. He thought of fire and wood and snow. Laughter and drinks. A song he could half remember, something scratchy and old and without words, like an ancient gramophone recording. It streamed gently from his mind into the space around him, so that he no longer heard it in his thoughts but from outside himself. He turned in place, trying to locate from where the music came, his shoes scuffing softly on the hard floor. Perhaps if he could find the source, he could remember the name of the song. His gaze finally came to light on an old jukebox. Though it was well-kept for what it was, a relic fished out of the waters of the biggest fall, he knew it worked intermittently and couldn't recall this particular record being available on it. Before he could puzzle over it more or even think to check the choice labels to see if they might offer an answer, something else pulled his attention away. Not far from the jukebox, a shadow dipped in and out of the wavering colors of the wall. It was too far away to be cast from the device itself, if such an occurrence would even make sense, and yet there were no other sources for such a deep break in the illumination that came from everywhere and nowhere. The shadow continued to swim in and out of the light, broken up rather than in one piece, teasingly close yet so indistinct. Dee watched the enigma in fascination. Curiosity built inside him until he could contain it no longer. He reached out. But so far was he from the wall, that his fingertips merely grazed the air. It would take several steps upon several steps for him to actually touch the strange form. Still, his action provoked a reaction. The wobbling darkness came forward again and, this time, did not retreat. It pressed against the film of barrier. Coallescing out of the wavering light, it took on a more recognizable state. It drew unto itself the fiery colors as it stepped forth. The whites, the golds, the reds, the oranges. The black settled into concrete shapes. Sharp lines and angles. The shine of black leather shoes, hard soles that mimicked his own. A smart vest, neatly tied bowtie, a glint of glass, and the crisp white shirt. He stared as this newly born form came toward him, trailing wisps that fluttered in unfelt currents. The name shot a pang through his SOUL: Grillby. However, his friend didn't simply walk toward him. No, something else was happening. Something he couldn't quite grasp. Grillby seemed to be... dancing. But the dance made no sense. Dee couldn't track the path those feet took. It was like watching an old, ill-preserved film in some ways. There were skips and gaps. He couldn't predict where his friend would be from one movement to the next. It was surreal and disconcerting, yet somehow ethereal and beautiful. As much as he tried to understand it, he couldn't. And it frustrated him because he didn't know where to go to meet him. So it was with a start of surprise that Dee found his friend already standing before him. As if he had been waiting there all along. He felt warm hands curl around his own, the feeling unlike anything he had ever experienced before. How could one describe the texture and give of living fire? He vaguely recalled having felt it once or twice. A quiet voice, warm as the feeling that rolled off the elemental in waves, tickled his mind with a seemingly simple request. Dance with me. Dee felt his expression fall. He looked blankly at his friend. "I... I can't. I..." His words trailed off as he glanced around in a faint panic, searching for something that could remedy his lack of knowledge and ability. To the side, he noticed that two others had joined them in the flame-painted room. Will, his translucent flesh reflecting the cozy hues, and a skeleton - Roman, his own thoughts seemed to whisper to him - whose white bones did the same in a more muted way. The pair seemed oblivious to their audience as they moved, smiling and happy and glitching about in those same skipping steps. Dee found he could no more follow them than he had been able to follow Grillby. No matter how hard he stared, he couldn't decipher the pattern. Finally, he turned his gaze back to his friend and admitted in defeat, "I don't know how. I don't understand this dance." He fully expected Grillby to leave him in disappointment, to dance again on his own. Instead, he felt more than saw the smile his friend directed at him. He heard the quiet voice again as Grillby's face tilted just a little closer. Then teach me how you dance. Dee blinked in surprise. He... hadn't expected for that to be suggested. Could he even do so? More importantly, though, "There are others who understand this dance. It isn't that I wouldn't dance with you, but it wouldn't be the dance you wanted." He felt the grip on his hands tighten in a very gentle manner. Dee... Grillby's face came a little closer, almost touching forehead to forehead. The steps don't matter. All that's important is that I'm dancing with you. Dee stood for a moment absorbing that statement. It was powerful. Empowering. The more it seeped into him, the less room he had for doubt. Grillby didn't care about what the dance was, as long as they were dancing together. It didn't matter if he couldn't do what Will and Roman were. What Grillby could do on his own. His long hands shifted in those fiery ones. He took a step to find his friend matched him near perfectly. Another step they took. Another and another. Soon stringing them together in a coherent path. So quick and adept Grillby was at mirroring and complimenting, almost as if he had already spent hours upon hours observing Dee do this dance before, memorizing the steps for the day he could take them himself. He didn't really need teaching and Dee didn't really mind. All he did was send an amused, mock scolding thought toward his friend, who accepted it with a hidden grin. They traced their own path about the room. Now they were the ones oblivious to whether the other pair still danced along in the same space. All they knew was the contentment, the joy, the companionship of their own steps, the way Dee led in this part and Grillby led in another, following and guiding each other along the way. They made their own pattern, incorporating what each of them knew and what the other could come to understand, until they had something uniquely their own.

#gaster #w.d. gaster #grillby #grillster #undertale #undertale rp #undertale au #grillstember #flux!verse #flux!gaster #the red string souls

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crimsonrevolt · 7 years

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Congratulations Fallon you’ve been accepted to Crimson Revolt as Thorfinn Rowle!

↳ please refer to our character checklist

Death Eaters are always chilling to me, especially when written well, and Thorfinn was no exception. I loved how you balanced the subtle edge between charming and vengeful and constructed a character who uses everything he can to his advantage and spares no mercy. Your interpretation for him was everything that I didn’t realize he was lacking in skeleton form alone, and it was beautiful (and terrifying) seeing him come to life in your writing! We’re so excited to see what you do to build him further and what kind of impact he’ll have in the rp! *your request to age Thorfinn up has been accepted

application beneath the cut; tw: death, violence, murder, torture, abuse

OUT OF CHARACTER

INTRODUCTION

Hello! I’m Fallon, twenty-one, reside in the CST, and go by She/Her pronouns. And for that optional fact: I am originally from Germany.

ACTIVITY

Between a 1-10 I would currently set myself at a 6 or 7. I do run two roleplays of my own, and university is back in session as well as me having work.

TRIGGERS

*removed for privacy

HOW DID YOU FIND US?

Your confessions blog showed up on my recommended blogs, and clicking it out of curiosity, I found myself very much appreciative of all the kind words your members left there. Hoping the roleplay was still active I clicked onward to the main, thus discovering your exquisite roleplay! Also sidenote hi Jen Boo Bear.

WHAT HARRY POTTER CHARACTER DO YOU IDENTIFY WITH MOST?

Hang on to your wands, kids, because this is about to get deep (sorta). I identify most with Sirius Black (alright, so maybe I haven’t been to Azkaban, but we’re disregarding that bit). Being considered as an initial outcast, especially amongst his family, is something I can greatly relate to. With a family that has always ventured on a certain path, holds strict values, and expects their descendants not to differ, both my brother and I haven’t always been received in the best of light. But in the end this unfortunate upbringing didn’t discourage him, but shaped him, and I like to believe that like Sirius, in the end, will be sure of my chosen path.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Just to age up Thorfinn to twenty as earlier discussed, and thank you for considering my application!

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER

Thorfinn Aesir Rowle

Thorfinn: ‘thunder’

Aesir: ‘of the gods’

Rowle: ‘renown, wulf, wolf’

FACE CLAIM

Dominic Sherwood

REASON FOR CHOSEN CHARACTER

I’m a sucker for the dark, battle-worn antagonist, and most likely lack the ability to play anything but. I often play Antonin Dolohov or Amycus Carrow, but one of the things that drew me to Thorfinn Rowle was the simple fact that I’ve never seen him as a character in an HP roleplay before, and that I was instantly drawn to give his character a voice that I have yet to see. I immensely enjoyed all the carefully chosen aesthetics for your characters, but the dark princeling aura I was struck with by Thorfinn’s stuck with me.

I see him with wicked grins and darkly promising smirks; donning a crimson, cracked crown. He is not the calm before the storm, or the storm itself. He is the devastating aftermath; what the world left for others to see. A loose cannon, an army’s artillery, the Coliseum walls, and possibly the tragedy of Pompeii. Rage is his conquerer. I see him a strong-willed and brutally honest; with a sharp dose of unforgiving. He is prepared to move hell and earth to obtain what he wants, obliterate anything in his path no matter the consequence. Socially, he prefers isolation; volatile actions being the loudest thing about him. He’s apathetic, and considers emotions a distraction, a waste of ability. People tend to avoid him due to his cynic and unpredictable nature. However, if he likes you— though you would never find him admitting it— then he’s more inclined to make an effort not to piss you off. He wears vengeance without a cloak, and has swept over lives with its very existence. His charming persona is often a ruse, a swift way to invite you in before the killing blow.

PREFERRED SHIPS // CHARACTER SEXUALITY // GENDER & PRONOUNS

Thorfinn identifies as a male with the use of He/Him pronouns. Though he is demisexual, he has found that he holds a preference for men. Romance is a falsity, and sex is as simple as intoxicated convenience. With parents that married due to bloodline, had a child for the sole purpose of an heir and lineage, he does not hold the best views on relationships. He considers them a ruse, and strongly believes he lacks the emotions to pursue them (or hold the patience to achieve them).

As for ships, Thorfinn, I believe, would do well with someone of similar mind and position. A death eater, as merciless as himself, would cause an initial, gravitational pull. Someone that has known their share of tragedy, and that holds a pension for volatile behavior. Someone he can kill with, but also, in the end, perhaps trust and self-teach a fondness for.

CREATE ONE (OR MORE!) OF THE FOLLOWING FOR YOUR CHARACTER:

You can find headcanons, aesthetics, a playlist, and more on a mock blog right HERE!

IN CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

♔ If you were able to invent one spell, potion, or charm, what would it do, what would you use it for or how would you use it? Feel free to name it:

His mouth twisted with vile intent. There were plenty of spells for inducing silence; to singe the worthless tongues emitting mindless, dimwitted banter. “Perhaps a spell that removes your tongue,” he proposed, mismatched eyes flickering toward his inquirer, “so that when the silence is lifted, you will be forced to remain mute.” He sunk into the leather sofa — his seat a throne wherever he sat— and hoisted legs crossed at the ankle atop a crystalline table. Someone’s priceless heirloom, no doubt. Thorfinn pictured his knuckles testing the strength of the glass, and the force needed to fracture its history. How little he cared, and how much he urged to set ablaze someone’s foundation of precious memory. “Or,” he continued, a dark chuckle bubbling within the cauldron of his hollow throat, “I could simply cut out your tongue.”

♔ You have to venture deep into the Forbidden Forest one night. Pick one other character and one object (muggle or magical), besides your wand, that you’d want with you:

His grin was a trap; a feigned charming persona a fallacy. It was an invitation to lean toward the wolf’s bloodied maw and bare their jugular to ivory fangs; their life forfeit to his usurping snarl. Camaraderie was a long lost, archaic concept to the bloodied prince. Who would he have beside him in war, if not but himself, the only being he knew to depend on upon a genocidal battleground? “Freyja.” At least she was loyal. “Scarier than any bloody werewolf, and knives have never done me wrong.”

♔ What kinds of decisions are the most difficult for you to make?

His brows furrowed, and a dramatic, over-exasperated sigh was its accompaniment. “The decision to answer this question.” He could feel his hands become coated in oil-slick scarlet, sticking his palms together with familial blood. Then his fingers, curling around the dagger’s hilt, and its silvery blade embedding its sharp structure into an unmarred canvas. Again. And again. And again. The parental slaughter had been the most effortless decision of his life. What could be difficult, when your actions were comprised of reactive ideas? Decisions for my wellbeing, he thought, the realization tasting acidic.

♔ What is one thing you would never want said about you?

Flames licked behind mismatched irises. That was rather personal. Through his stoic demeanor came a feign of allowance where discord stood vigil. The query posed could never truly hold a valid response. To allow a crack disrupt his fortress? The idea was built on an inferior man’s principles. His voice captured a death eater’s generic principle: “That I was merciful.” What priest in their dutiful confessional could possess his true answer? Oh, how Thorfinn’s words could set its frame ablaze. The presence of his sins could ignite it, perishing the priest to embers, leaving the scene to ash.

WRITING SAMPLE

(Flashback, Age seventeen, Christmas Eve)

Outside, the Rowle mansion was an exquisite portrait; its estate’s entirety blanketed by a delicate layer of frigid snow. Dusk had sunk the brightest globe, and engulfed the elegant architecture in a fine veil of twilight. Inside, the shadowed hallways were ablaze with screeching, humanoid howls. Inside, a chamber’s immoral walls were drenched by a garnet-tinted paint.

It had begun with his vision of a mother— an empress in her evening silk. A son had ascended stairs which rose toward heaven, yet truly descended into hell. She was seated upon her deep-violet, ornately carved throne, the tip of a feathered quill peeking through a curtain of ashen hair as her cranium dipped to write upon parchment. “I am busy, Asger.” The son had taken another, sinisterly determined step. His mother’s head lifted, and he was met with her porcelain features through a mirror’s reflection. She swiveled around to face him. “Thorfinn.” Her tone was riddled with surprise; had he ever intruded her chambers before? Or, perhaps, the shock withdrawn from her siren-song voice was the result of his wand, steadily directed toward her. She rose with years of practiced grace, and he, the birthed puppeteer whom cut her fraying chords by a whispered, fatal curse. And then, she cascaded, her elegance smite. She looked like the angel she never was. And him? Only demons soaked themselves in blood.

The man convulsed beneath the wand’s volatile scrutiny. Its possessor stalked felled prey, predatory gate circling the pursuit of an oncoming kill. The last of his lineage, brought low. “How does it feel?” he queried, tone level, voice failing to rise above his father’s ceaseless war-cries. “Does your blood feel frozen? Do your bones feel shattered? Does your body feel ripped apart?” He wished to pluck his tendons, incinerate his veins. How does it feel? he thought, to be the receiver of such senseless, merciless brutality. He’d known its pained definition for seventeen years— a length that which confessed itself a millennia of accursed onslaught. His father had swallowed lucifer’s luck; he’d only tasted its iron for mere hours.

And then he unsheathed a bladed heirloom; meant for crystalline encasement, yet selected for insidious motive. Thorfinn knelt beside his father’s mangled figure, the torturous curse subsiding, paying tribute to its subterfuge. “How does it feel?” he repeated, the inquiry infested with sadistic promise. “I’ll teach you.” Like you taught me. There was a spray of pink mist as he drove the dagger home, discoloring his ivory flesh. Turbulent wrath. Barbaric savagery. Ferocious fury. Colossal sin. The blade rescinded to his potent rage with a sickening shing and squelch. The knife committed its massacre; a rerun of sharp steel embedding itself into a shallow-breathing frame.

The host’s mouth parted to expel a current of blood; staining loathing lips with death’s lipstick. Again, a caged voice whispered, rattling his vandalized skull. Again. Again. Again. The battlecries no longer echoed from his father’s frozen throat. They were his elicitations, tearing through his system with each thrust of the weapon.

Exhaustion finalized the deed. At its release, the knife struck the earth with clattering force. The victor rose, armored in liquified rubies. His victim lay in grotesque mutilation, a corpse devoid of its proper casket. The wraith vanished from its demolishing destination, and sought an eloquent alternative.

Deft digits slipped upon the keys, revealing red smears upon their stark notes. The kneazle’s lioness paws left perfect, scarlet-printed shapes atop the piano’s glossy roof. She sat poised on charcoal-colored haunches, sharing a piercing gaze with her murderous owner. “Happy Christmas, Freyja.”

#accepted app

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