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twave
FetzenMy Discord has been hacked so if you get random messages from me please ignore them and delete me
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6 yrs ago
Current
Sliced Bread is the best thing since Betty White
6 yrs ago
I finally got around to watching A Silent Voice. Very nice to see some deaf culture representation in anime.
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7 yrs ago
My room is so empty! All of my furniture sans bed and wardrobe have been moved to the new place. Not long now :)
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7 yrs ago
Buzzbead... BuzzBEAD. WHICH GEMSTONE ARE YOU? TAKE THIS INSIGHTFUL QUESTIONNAIRE TO FIND OUT!
7 yrs ago
*Downing a bottle of cab merlot whilst filling out mental illness quizzes on buzzbeed* COMING OUT OF MY CAGE AND I'VE BEEN DOING JUST FINE
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Bio
"Just a white girl trying to enjoy the croutons in her salad."
Most Recent Posts
Heather sat among a small circle of her peers from Sanctum in the quadrangle of Haven academy. She’d struggle to call them friends as none of them were particularly friendly towards her. They viewed her as some charity case, needing to be plucked from the bowels of mediocrity by their graces. Still, it was better than being perceived as some sort of weird loner. The girls had insisted on meeting early to grab some coffees to go before heading up the laborious stairway, now perched to observe the flood of prospective students. They eagerly exchanged gossip as a few persons of intrigue passed through the gates.
“Is that the Al Mond heiress?” One girl said, her cheeks flushed with bewilderment. “Do you think I should ask for an autograph?”
“Desperation isn’t a good look for you, Olive.” Another giggled, the group chiming in to offer their own equally vague and uninteresting opinions on the matter. They made little effort to include Heather in their conversations. It would seem they were just as content to keep her on the periphery of the social circle as she was to remain there.
Don’t make waves, Heather. Those were the last words she heard from her Aunt Camelia that morning as she departed. They had certainly dampened her spirit somewhat. Her aunt was never one to shy away from praise or offer support, but she had made her disapproval of Heather’s ambition to attend Shade apparent ever since she expressed an interest in the entrance exam.
“Hey Heather, look over there.” Gwyn, the ringleader, pulled Heather from her train of thought, drawing her attention to a silver haired faunus who they were all too familiar with. Silme. He’d garnered quite a reputation for his violent outbursts and callous attitude.
“You know,” Another girl began, sneering sidelong at Heather whilst talking to her friend beside her in a whisper loud enough for the group to hear. “I thought allowing her admission was just the Headmaster being generous, but if they’re letting him attend then clearly whoever’s in charge has a screw loose.”
“Do you think the school has some sort of benefits program for troubled youths? Maybe they’re trying to rake in the Lien.”
Heather dug her nails into her palms, staring down at the grass whilst the gaggle of hens cackled away.
Don’t make waves. Don’t make waves. She repeated the words again and again, bringing herself to her feet with as much poise and dignity as she could manage in the face of their jabs.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to take a walk.” Heather snapped, staring daggers at the girls. They took little notice of her departure, their attention drawn to another student. She practically stormed off from them, reassuring herself with the same mantra that had gotten her through Sanctum.
I will not let that woman define me. I’m here to become a Huntress and that’s what I’ll do. No two ways about it. The affirmations failed to invigorate her as they normally would. No amount of manifesting positivity could hide just how nervous she was. She found herself leaning against a tree in the courtyard, slumping down into a seated position with a forlorn sigh.
“I’ll be better off if I never have to speak to those nasty, vapid cretin’s again.” She cursed aloud, turning her head to the side to notice that the tree in question was already being occupied by another girl.
Startled to her feet, Heather’s cheeks went beet red. No doubt the gray haired girl had heard her and the idea of airing her business to a complete stranger by accident was mortifying. She’d need to think fast.
“Wh-what I mean to say is, uh, what a lovely day we’re having isn’t it? Truly splendid.” Truly splendid. Who talks like that anymore? Today was her chance to redefine herself among people who had no idea who she was. She’d hoped to have a bit more class than to out herself as a nervous wreck and a dweeb to the first stranger she met.
Priscilla Duran
Among the crowd of adoring fans Priscilla observes the spectacle fight with more than a mild sense of awe and wonder. She’d heard many tales of the strength of Phoenix Wing’s mages but to see it in person was something else entirely. Her eyes dart from one combatant to the next, unsure where best to hold her gaze to take in all of the action. Stalwart steel clashes against elusive shadow magics, their respective wielders deftly parrying each other's blows. The other side of the ring sports an ardent display of fire and ash that piques the flame witch’s curiosity somewhat.
Priscilla outstretches a hand to catch a falling ember from the clash. Both the flames and the ashes held an energy unknown to her. She rubs the soot between her fingers.
“Those two,” She begins, addressing Jamie without averting her eyes from the combatants. “they are no ordinary elementalists, correct?” She didn’t expect much of an answer, for she knew better than most how essential it is to safeguard one’s secrets - especially where peculiar magics were concerned.
The mages continue to clash and the crowd grows more and more uproarious at their showcase of skills.
Priscilla’s lips curl into a smile.
Peculiar magics indeed.
Meredith Clagnan
“That’s it, love, you’re doing great.” Meredith found Manami’s contribution to the ritual to be more than stellar; even if the young lady was unsure of its purpose. The two witches lift their veils and gaze into the cauldron. The mixture had bubbled away, absorbing the blessings of all those present and becoming something more than the sum of its parts. A calming draft that would see a startled familiar to rest.
Meredith sat herself down on a stool while her companions prepared the final touches, offering a seat to Manami.
“Our practices can be a little more delicate than the magic you’re used to, but they’re rooted in traditions that span back thousands of years. We draw inspiration from the old ways not because it is necessarily more effective than modern magic, but out of respect for our ancestors and the struggles they endured to freely practice their craft.” Meredith wasn’t quite sure how a history lesson would go down with Manami, but far be it for her to pass up the opportunity to enlighten someone from a different walk of life than her own.
Henri Baptiste
Shiro’s confidence in the heat of battle brought on a low chuckle from the older man. Hopefully she wasn’t just all talk. Her sudden disappearance caught both Henri and Hagar off guard, but the latter was sent reeling by the sudden headbut. He spat out a curse, leveraging himself against Shiro’s successive blows by digging his back foot into the dampened soil. His dancing blades struck against her hardened skin to little avail, prompting a grunt of frustration from the brute.
Meanwhile Henri was already in motion, enveloping his arms in their watery appendages once again. Two directed blasts of water saw the dancing blades struck from the air as they landed in a muddy pile. Henri plunges his fists into the soil once again, the tentacles emerging beneath Hagar’s feat and enveloping themselves around his legs and then up his waist. Henri pushes clenched palms even further into the earth, corresponding with Hagar beginning to be dragged into the earth. He figured Shiro would appreciate a stationary punching bag.
Though it would seem Hagar had other plans.
“You slippery brat.” He snarled, his hands suddenly reaching out to clasp the side of Shiro’s head. “Keep still a while, would ya?” Hagar heaves Shiro a few feet from the ground whilst a few of the blades surrounding them turn to point towards her.
“Sword Magic: Four Point Binding” Four beams of ethereal energy burst forth in an attempt to pierce Shiro’s limbs. Rather than slicing or dealing damage, they would instead lock onto whatever they struck in an attempt to keep it bound in place.
"Look out!" Henri bolts forward in a desperate attempt to bowl down Hagar to aid in Shiro escaping the spell, but as a result finds himself taking two of the swords in his left arm and leg. A sudden numbness overcomes his left side, his limbs no longer responding to his commands as they are suspended from him.
Hagar looks to capitalize on his partially trapped opponent, raising his arms into the air before thrusting them forward.
“Sword Magic: Vorpal Blade” A few more of the swords comprising the arena release sudden flashes of light that bend and twist at sharp angles to slice at the pair from all manner of directions. A couple slashes release Hagar from Henri’s tentacles. Henri uses his right arm to deflect as many of the slashes as he can, but his left side sustains a few gashes in the process. He redirects his tentacle to strike at one of the swords binding him. It’s grip falters slightly at the impact, but not quite enough to release him.
Talos snapped and swiped at Regan as she danced circles around the beast, taking cursory swipes while taking care to avoid the serpent’s head. The serpent lays low, it’s eyes fiercely keeping track of the woman's movements. Talos whimpers at Regan’s slices, but they are of little effect mostly in part to her purposely holding back. The serpent hisses towards it’s wolf head, prompting a low growl as though the two are communicating with one another. When Regan stops her assault Talos leaps forward to take another swipe at her, though this time there is a strange hesitation to the attack as though the beast is attempting to feint her. Sure enough the attack purposefully misses and Talos bows low, revealing the open jaws of the great serpent lashing forward towards Regan once again.
At this point the beast has revealed itself to be of a higher intelligence than the average monster, it’s wolf head bowed low whilst magic gathers inside it’s throat. The serpent continues to reel itself back and lash out in a series of bites against Regan, but immediately pulls away when the crack of electricity fills the air. Talos let’s out a howl that is accompanied by a crack of thunder, a beam of lightning bursting forth from his gullet directly at Regan.
Apologies for taking so long, it's been a week. Will most likely do a quick re-read and edit tomorrow morning, time allowing.
I am, as the kids say, intrigued.
Jet turns away from the group while Auron preaches on the weight of the kids' decisions to become Hunters. The lecture had him feeling somewhat guilty for offering such a blasé response. The fact that it wasn’t true was of little comfort when he recalls how equally uninspiring and thoughtless the actual reason was. He briefly wonders if Caramelle feels the same, but the blunt assuredness of her answer didn’t suggest as much.
And people reckon I’m cocky.
He reaches down to pick up a handful of coarse, desert sand while Auron continues by reminding the quartet of how Shade Hunters are generally received around these parts. He let’s the sand sift through his fingers, watching the streams in quiet contemplation. His old mentor Diesel was once a Shade hunter and he had often heard as much in one of his caregiver’s ramblings. Honestly he’d usually chalk it up to the old geezer just enjoying a good whine about almost anything.
Bleedin’ Vacuans got no respect for us Hunters! Jet holds back a snicker, mimicking Diesel’s voice in his head. He claps his hands free of any remaining dust and dirt, turning back to see the group's attention had shifted to something about tinted windows?
Crap, he really ought to be paying more attention.
Jet’s teammates were convinced that Auron’s test had not truly ended. Go figures. He could tell gramps was the type of sly bastard to pull a stunt like that. The stragglers in the junkyard caught his eye, shifting around the trash as if they were looking for something a little too specific to be found in a pile of crap. He slides his visor back over his eyes, scoping in to get a clearer view of them.
Closer inspection revealed that they weren’t in fact searching for something, but rather unearthing a peculiar structure embedded into the ground itself. It was white and jutted from the earth like some sort of rod.
“Awfully clean hands for junkers.” He muses aloud, reminiscing on the many evenings spent scrubbing dirt and grime from his hands after a long day in the junkyard. He scans the remainder of the gathering, keeping an eye out for any other details of note. A few of them have flecks of what he thinks to be dried blood scattered about their garbs.
The same uneasiness and suspicion that gripped Veloce and Turq now churns within Jet’s own gut. He rises to his feet, slinging Obsidian End back into his grip. An accusing glare meets Auron’s eye.
“What game are you playin’ at Gramps?” He said, keeping his rifle at the ready. A younger, more naïve Jet would have hoped this to be some sort of misunderstanding.
But this was Vacuo; where hopes come to die.
Priscilla Duran
Priscilla found herself unexpectedly heartened by the thought of Jack coming to visit her quaint home in the Silverbranch Glade.
“Oh you simply must visit. It is a lovely place.” She takes a drink from her cup, holding a finger up with a startlingly abrupt mumble. Downing the mouthful she turns her attention back towards Jamie. “Oh of course the invitation is extended to yourself as well, my dear.”
They so rarely received visitors, even now. It was a shame. She had spent her entire life there and couldn’t think of a more magical place. The forest raised her equally, if not more so, than her own mother. She had many teachers over her life. From the whispering canopy above to the rich soil beneath her feet. The rivers and creeks that pooled into great lakes, flowing from the mountaintop like veins pumping blood from the heart. The wolves were her favourite. They taught her resourcefulness, loyalty and the importance of keeping those you loved close. In her younger years she once confessed to her mother that she wished to become a wolf.
Perhaps you will, one day.
She finishes the last of her tea, eyes gazing downwards into her cup. The remaining leaves, well steeped and happy to have been of service, clump together to form a chalice. Three hands hold it up. The three of cups.
“Of course.” Priscilla smiles, musing to no one in particular. She places the saucer down upon the table, thanking Jamie once more for the tea. She hears a commotion downstairs. Revelry. A party, perhaps? Jack is quick to comment on the noise and Jamie confirms her suspicions.
Her lips curl even further into a cheerful grin.
“A festival, you say?” She wraps her fingers around the grain of her staff, bringing herself to her feet.
“Well,” She continues, flourishing her robes with a quick turn on her heel towards the door. “I see no better way to end our meeting than with a celebration such as this. Jamie my dear, please lead the way.”
She takes one final look at the cup on it’s little saucer and then takes a moment to look upon the faces of Jack and Jamie. Perhaps she stares for a moment longer than she should, but she doesn’t mind.
Some moments shouldn’t be rushed.
Meredith Clagnan
Meredith sits with her nose buried within Grizabella’s tome. Her glasses start to slip from her nose and she readjusts them. Her eyes never leave the pages, even when she addresses the two witches assisting her; hustling about the greenhouse with arms full of powders, crystals and candles. She barks orders, demands specific reagents and corrects rookie mistakes with an exasperated sigh and a roll of her eyes. Amateurs.
“Honestly, have either of you never drawn an alchemical circle before?” She snaps, their heads lowering under her scrutiny.
“Those sigils need to be written in the proper order. These are the basics, girls!” The two hurried off at a brisker pace, eager to meet Meredith’s standards and avoid another scolding. She peers up through the canopy to see the sun just starting to poke out from behind the verdant veil.
Almost noon. They ought to hurry.
Manami returns with a bottle of translucent, yellow venom and a mortar filled with a fragrant, ashy powder. Meredith nods in appreciation, holding the vial up to the light to confirm if the venom is still potent enough for her purposes. She swirls it around. The substance is viscous and clings to the glass for a moment before seeping down and settling back at the bottom. She keeps an ear open whilst Manami confides her own opinion on their young, fiery friend.
Her work takes a momentary pause to consider if perhaps she had been somewhat dismissive.
“No, I’m sure we can make something suitable.” She says with a comforting certainty. She pops the cork from the vial and watches the thick, honey-like venom decant into the cast iron cauldron bubbling away over a candle. The venom sizzles and sputters, a nasty odour of sulfur filling the room.
“Zhulie does not need her feelings spared. If I had a need for her I would have asked, but I didn’t.” She says, sprinkling a handful of the ground clove into her mixture and beginning to stir in a counter-clockwise motion. “The best place she can be right now is by Karla’s side. I’m sure that foul mouthed meathead will keep her adequately entertained as well.”
Meredith rose, gesturing for her assistant to prepare the now completed potion for the ritual. The circle, drawn upon the ground in chalk and soot, was an array of varying lines, shapes and symbols. At each cardinal point a specific, elemental offering was placed with an empty circle. A peacock feather, grave dirt, a red candle and a fossilized abalone. Large rods of selenite and quartz points were purposefully placed in a grid, interwoven among the other components and charged with energy. A witch placed the still bubbling cauldron in the center, her partner crouching before it with a black, silken veil obscuring her face. A shadow. The two hold hands, chanting in a tongue unfamiliar to most. Meredith slipped the elastic for a small set of copper cymbals.
She offered a similar pair to Manami.
“Follow my lead, if you feel comfortable to do so.” She steps towards the circle, wandering around it’s circumference with soft, purposeful movements. Orbiting the two witches, she clashes the cymbals together at each inter-cardinal point. The clang reverberated with a frequency that caused the crystal grid to resonate with energy.
A small contribution of her own magic power was all Meredith could offer.
the ritual. She was no longer a witch, relying on others to bring her carefully crafted potions and salves to life. She didn’t mind so much anymore.
If she could play a small part in easing the pain of her beloved sisters then it would all be worth it.
Henri Baptiste
Keeper’s Crossroads | Silverbranch Glade
Interacting with: Regan Hadou @CitrusArms, Argus Leandras @Raijinslayer and Shiro @Lunarlord34
Interacting with: Regan Hadou @CitrusArms, Argus Leandras @Raijinslayer and Shiro @Lunarlord34
The last blow from Hagar struck Henri’s jaw with a resounding crack. His face stung and he could feel something sticky and warm trickling down his temple. Head to head with his assailant, he could see the hungry ferocity deep within the constricted blacks of his eyes. Between the ringing of each blow in his head he could hear the hearty laughter of the brute. He wrestled against him with all his might, but Hagar’s knees were pressed firmly against his forearms, keeping his upper body pinned.
“Ain’t got nothin’ smart to say now, aye mate?” He taunted.
Henri tilts his head, glaring at him whilst a low growl forms in the back of his throat. This guy was an eyesore. He would love nothing more than to smack that sick grin from his face. He digs his fingers into the dirt, magic swelling at his fingertips and into the soil. The ground became damp and bloated, his weight sinking him down an inch or so into the mud. Murky waters rose to form small puddles across the meadow, a sticky humidity clinging to the air like flies to honey.
Hagar reels his fist back, prepared to strike once more when his face shifts from smug satisfaction to a bewildered discomfort. His tunic clung to his skin with sweat and his blows were far more laboured than they ought to be. He glared down at his victim, rightfully assuming him responsible for the drenching pressure.
And that was when the kick landed, in that moment of realisation.
Hagar tumbled a few meters away, planting face first into the mud with a satisfying squelch. His assuming build carried enough weight so that he wasn’t sent flying by Shiro’s kick, but he was nothing if not shell shocked.
Henri brings himself to his feet with only a slight falter. He spits a glob of spit mixed with blood and discards his muddied overcoat. His torso and arms are adorned with a sprawling tattoo of a kraken. It’s tentacles wrap around his chest, neck and biceps. The inked appendages glow a luminescent teal.
Henri leans his head to the side with a satisfying crack, glaring as the lumbering Hagar rose to his knees and groaned. His eyes settle on Shiro. He stood tall, flaring his arms out into a wide stance with a magic circle forming at his feet.
“Right spoilsport you are, love. Was startin’ to enjoy meself I was.” With each word his magic power spiked, radiating from him like a burning sun. The circle expanded to encompass the soil beneath their feet. Henri stares down, gasping in alarm, water spilling forth from his tattoos and engulfing his arms in the wet visage of squid tentacles. He takes a knee, pounding the earth with his knuckles. The ground besides Hagar began to gurgle and bubble, two identical cephalopod appendages sprout upwards before collapsing downwards onto Hagar as he attempts to finish his spell. The interruption is all but certain, were it not for the sudden flash of steel swiftly dispatching Henri’s conjurations with a hefty slash.
Hagar’s dancing blades hover at his side. He lets out a rapturous laugh.
“Aw, bit slow mate. No matter. We’re just getting started. Sword Magic: Iron Maiden.” He bellowed, the circle collapsing beneath their feet to reveal a familiar gleam of light crisscrossing across the soil and erecting around the trio in a large, dome grid. The light fades, revealing rows upon rows of steel blades. The blades share a likeness to each other, but are all somewhat different in their own way. Different blade lengths, hilt designs and engravings distinguish the collection. The swords orbit the arena. Henri attempts to disperse their formation on one side with two water jets thrust from both palms, but the blades flourish nigh instantaneously to dissect the attack with razor precision before settling back into their former position.
The realisation that he’d have to fight his way out of this arena was no cause for alarm. Henri had already hoped to repay Hagar’s earlier punishment with interest.
He takes a firm stance, tentacles at the ready.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Talos had grown silent amidst the conflict between Regan and the other poachers. More bared arms against her after she so easily dispatched the first two. No doubt she wouldn’t struggle too much with them. There were a couple mages among them, but their sorcery was of little impact.
The direwolf had halted his movements completely, his eyes turning cloudy and vacant. It was as if he were in a trance.
When the dark returned to his eyes the wolf raised his snout to the sky and howled. A short lived but intense pulse of magic washed over everyone present. The crippling dread that gripped their very souls was there only for a moment, but it was enough to stop the poachers in their tracks. A growl unlike any Talos had ever uttered burst forth from his gullet. It was a discordant screech that tangled the anguished cry of a woman with the sputtering hiss of a serpent and then ended with a pained yelp.
The yelping persisted, Talos’ legs buckling beneath him. He collapses to the ground, clearly discomforted by a writhing sensation beneath his skin. Talos’ bones snap and contort with sickening crunches, his limbs almost doubling in size before soon being accompanied by the rest of his body. His fur hardens into razor needles, fangs grow and sharpen to the point where they threatened to tear the sides of his mouth.
A familiar hiss comes from behind him, the wolf’s tail extending and shifting into the form of a great, tawny boa constrictor with cream patches. The snake sets its sights on the only poacher too stunned to run for the hills like the others.
The serpent stiffens, but there is nary a moment for the poacher’s heart to beat one last time before it lashes out to strike.
The beast wastes no time savouring the kill, hungry wolf and serpent eyes befalling upon Regan as an enraged Talos pounces with tooth and claw.
Jet slung his rifle over his shoulder, taking a load off on a large rubber tire stuffed with rusted pipes. While not physically taxing, there'd been a few intense moments during their little bout with gramps. Auron's critique of his physical ability and aura control was met with a short, knowing nod. He couldn't deny it; had it come down to direct blows there'd be no telling how much damage he'd have sustained in that fight. Veloce's stepping stone comment prompted a slight smirk on the young boy's behalf - glad to know that little stunt would go down in their group's history.
Jet's mood sobered at the mention of why the group had chosen to pursue the life of huntsmen. Everyone's reasons were standard enough, the spotlight eventually turning to Jet who stood within it like a deer in headlights. Why did he want to be a huntsman? Truthfully, he wasn't sure. It had always been Slate's dream, and Jet had simply resigned himself to riding those coattails wherever they may lead. Growing up his older brother had often teased him for acting like his own shadow sometimes. God he missed him. He supposed he could say he was doing it for Slate, if not for the tiny detail that that's who he was pretending to be. It took him a minute to realise the silence had grown stifling. He'd been sitting there like a bump on a log in lieu of providing an actual answer to the question.
"Uh," He coughed, trying to think of something on the spot. "I guess, there ain't many other ways to make an honest living where I grew up. Being a Hunter was really the only choice I had."
Auron’s crouched figure was locked square within Jet’s sights, his finger itching at the trigger in anticipation of the Hunter’s next move. A half-assed compliment wasn’t a satisfactory surrender. Not in his books, anyway. He wouldn’t put it past the crafty geezer to fatten them up with sweet words before catching them off guard with another one of his wicked haymakers. Vacuans; trust ‘em as far as you can throw ‘em.
Jet caught the salute from Veloce, lowering the rifle to return the gesture. Bird brain had gotten a nice, solid blow on gramps afterall. Everyone performed well. Not something to write home about; he had expected his teammates to be somewhat competent. Still, that small ounce of recognition was nice. He shook his head, perishing the thought.
Things looked steady down below, the crowd’s excitement over the bout washing over the group. Latching his hook onto the beam, Jet stepped from his perch and gently lowered himself to the ground. The wire reeled back into his wrist with a satisfying snap whilst he approached the group just in time to hear Turq running his mouth.
“If nothing else, you made a good stepping stool.” Jet snickered, readjusting his goggles back onto his forehead. He kept the rifle at the ready, but was otherwise relaxed when addressing Auron.
“You ain’t an easy mark, Gramps. Annoying as hell.” He whined, thinking back to those lightning fast reflexes and movements. There was no doubt in his mind; Auron would have kicked his ass had he been up against him alone. Like the others, Jet was curious as to what their overseer would have them do next to prove their mettle.
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