Avatar of cerozer0
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  • Old Guild Username: IntenseInsanity
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    1. cerozer0 6 yrs ago
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Recent Statuses

6 yrs ago
Current rpg’s biggest issue? the gender binary
2 likes
6 yrs ago
im a fool in fool clothes
2 likes
6 yrs ago
pussi
6 yrs ago
the nyc commute grind reveals why adults pass out at 9 pm daily
4 likes
6 yrs ago
its a dick suck dick world ya know
7 likes

Bio






F R A N K I E
Nonbinary || 20 || Gay || EST
Tumblr || Twitter || frunk#8974



Most Recent Posts



Nyke, perhaps finally broken of whatever drunken spell he had placed upon himself, stumbles back and drops his weapon. It clatters to his feet, loud and clear in the quiet square, but he pays it no heed as he rushes to Hercules' side and hauls him up. He then glances towards Achillis, eyes impossibly wide. There is no more fight in him, only the assumed visible stupidity of a man who is unsure how to handle absconding from his current situation.

Whatever fear that spiked his mind seems to cool, somewhat, when the familiar shape of Belen returns to his side. Behind Belen is an even more familiar figure, one who looks impossibly calm despite exuding an aura of pure rage. Andrimar storms forward, ignoring the flapping Quilla on his shoulder who seems to be repeating the words "a fight! a fight!". Belen mutters a quick, "Let's go." as he grimaces and hauls Achillis up to his feet. The two men and their downed, bloodied, and vomit-covered friends vanish down the street leading passed The Drowsy Druid.

"Zevemar!" Andrimar calls, perhaps nearly roars, and before you even have a moment of reprise to respond you are pulled into a tight hug. He pulls away after the squeeze to inspect you for cuts and bruises, worry clear by the crease between his brow. "A fight on your first night back? Really, Zevemar? Really? I thought I raised you better than that." His scolding is as tight as the tension in his shoulders. Still, he takes a moment, breathes deeply, and glances at both Io and HORUS, with whom the latter he shares a curious look.

"Excuse... The outburst, and the people of this town." He bows his head, ashamed, maybe, or just hiding a flinch of swallowed anger. It's impossible to tell. "It seems you've gained another body in your little posse, son. Perhaps you can introduce them after you explain to me what happened here?"






Io is momentarily distracted by a flash of nearly invisible red-white light. Zev's words of intelligence are drowned out by HORUS' cry against their shared enemies and her own personal distractions. She waits as if expecting another, more noticeable effect to take place beside the shimmer of magic in the air, and when nothing comes she returns her attention to a blubbering and shaky Nyke. Io flourishes her sword once, twice, and takes a step forward.

Nyke moves jerkily as if he just realized there was another threat, and the sword slices uselessly through the empty air as he nearly falls back onto his ass. Io mutters a curse, glances back again in a veiled moment of concern for the initial surge, and then prepares to strike again.





The fall of Hercules almost seems to shock Nyke out of his drunken rage, but at Zev’s words he seems to turn red and lets out of howl pure anger. He presses forward again with his scimitar and tries to once again slash at you. The sword cuts into the flesh of your upper arm, splashing blood across the dusty cobblestone of the town square. Once again Zev, you raise your hand and that transparent shield blocks the sword before it can connect.

Nyke frowns as he pulls back, twisting his sword around in a tumbling flourish as he babbles, “I won-won’t let you get away with this, you dumb old orc!” He glances down at Hercules as if expecting praise, or a vocal noise of agreement, and his expression falters as he finally seems to notice Hercules is unresponsive and horribly bloodied. He seems to consider his next course of action a bit more carefully as he slides into a defensive position.



Belen gasps at Hercules’ fall and Nyke’s strike on Zev, his surprise nearly knocking him off his feet as he scrambles back. He considers everything around him, his placement in this fight, his lack of weapons, and finally he stares at you, Zev, and seems to make a decision. He straightens up and bolts towards the street on which Io and Zev had made their way into the town square, using all the speed he can muster to push himself out of the fight.






Hercules cursed as he is struck hard by HORUS, taking a single step back as a rush of cold seems to surround him. Something akin to the rage that is glossing over your eyes appears in his, HORUS, but it melts quickly as he turns and attempts to slam his club into Io again. While the strike appears to hit true after a shaky start, Io raises a hand in a similar fashion to Zevemar and the club cracks against a glittering, red shield.

“Fucking magic fuckers.” He muttered, and with another shaky push through the icy-blue aura that HORUS had infected him with Hercules punched through the glittering shield, clocking Iolanthe right across the jaw. Your lip splits, Io, and it aches as Herc pulls back and readies to strike you again despite giving Zev his full attention. It seems he is still trying to get a rise out of you despite his bloodied and bruised status.



Château de Monfort
P I K E
Interacting With: @Congee, @Silence Sounds




The Chateau was bustling with life as Pike walked invisibly back to his room. To the servants, all that mattered to them was overturning sheets, or hot food, or aged wine. A man who appeared a few years prior and gained a phony title was nothing to these busybodies. Sometimes, it was nice to be nothing.

Pike moved with purpose, as he usually did. There were bound to be countless guests now, all kissing the hands of the Queen Regent and King, and he was late to his very important job of watching such things happen. His room was present among other guest rooms often used for nobles coming it from out of the country, pressed into the white-walled halls of the second level of the chateau.

Inside, he had taken the liberty of redecorating the once silky periwinkle walls and satin bedding to fit his usual tastes, leaving in his destructive wake navy blue paint, black sheets, and an array of silks and curtains hanging wherever he could fit them. A low-standing table he had managed to bring in from home was placed at the foot of his bed in lieu of his trunk, which he had pushed to sit next to his closet and was currently overflowing with dirty, lacy shirts. On the table were his cards, a multitude of animal bones, unpolished crystals, and a few gold trinkets he had snatched back in his pickpocket days.

A beautiful outfit, which he had picked out days prior, laid on his messy bed. It was a dusty pink, almost mauve in the right light, and it was so soft that it could have only been ordered by one of noble blood and worth. It had been a gift from the queen. Somehow, Pike despised it, and yet he pulled it on without hesitance. It felt nice. He deserved to feel nice.

Below his feet was the rumble of voices and footsteps, a reminder of where he was meant to be and what he was missing. With a final peek around his room, Pike crouched by his table and snatched a rough pink stone and a more smooth orange jewel, both of which he slipped easily into one of his breast pockets. He left the room within the next second, and began reciting his story on the way down to the gathering.

’My name is Alexander Pike.
I am the Baron of Monfort.
I am a friend of the Queen Regent.
I am personable and friendly and kind.
I am unassuming.
I am air.
But I am always there.’


Pike slipped into the party after a pair of Astaria nobles, keeping his head high but his hair calm, cool, neutral. He was snake-like in his weaving of the crowd, and ever shoulder he accidentally brushed against he punctuated with a soft apology and a gentle cup of the elbow. Eventually, he climbed after a line of gift givers, and once present in front of the familiar faces of Theodore and Theresa he bowed low and regal.

”My King, a gift of magic.” He said, and he pulled the orange stone from his breast pocket. He pressed it into Theodore’s hand and rose with a wink, ”It is sunstone-- good for intuition and vitality. A long life to you, My King.” He bowed again to Theodore, and then swiftly took the hand of Theresa, on which he pressed a kiss to the ring on her finger.

”For the Queen Regent, a gift of loyalty. I am always apart of your court.” He rose from the bow and gave her his ever professional smile, and then slipped off to the other side and returned to the ballroom floor. His smile remained, though as he picked a glass from one of the passing servants it took on a more sauve air, and he mingled among the party goers as easily as a wolf in sheepskin.





Nyke is, for all intents and purposes, fucking drunk. He sways from side to side, mumbling drinking lyrics under his breath and hanging on Belen as the two he usually followed were busy greeting their old “friend”. When the fighting started he considered hobbling away to avoid the issue, but Achillis falling at his feet spurred a fire within in his belly.

He steps to the side, passed Belen and Herc, and forward and draws what appears to be a curved blade from the sheath on his side. As one of the few guardsmen in Alanla, he is rather talented with a scimitar, but as a drunkard he is unable to practice any of his usual flourishes. He sways to the side and slashes at Zev’s side, aiming for a gutting slice. Zev, you act almost instinctually and raise up a hand, and from that hand an invisible shield protects you from the slash. The sword bounces off the wall, sending a ripple of light across the surface.

Nyke remains standing beside Hercules, cursing in a thick Illian accent, and he raises his sword to prepare for another strike.



Belen stands completely still as chaos begins to rain around him. He is not a fighter, not in any sense of the word. He makes swords, dammit, he doesn’t use them. Killing things is a lot different than creating things that kill. So he stands completely still, caught up in feelings of dread, unable to even think of running off to find someone to stop the brawl. When Nyke releases him to go for his sword, Belen’s mouth falls open, and once Zevemar’s blood was spilled he shouts,

“Hey, guys, please! We don’t have to fight them, we can just go. Let’s just go…”

No one reacts, but Belen closes his fists and prepares to defend himself from any oncoming attacks. His eyes are intense with fear, and he looks about ready to run.



Chateau de Monfort
Q U EQ I U
↪ Collab between @cerozer0 & @murdoc




Que had been counselled against letting his guard down too readily. He’d also been warned that coming here would be akin to stepping into a den of lions, though perhaps wolves would be a more fitting description. Back home, his circle of advisors had recounted with varying degrees of horror stories about the perilous courts of Vertiron. There was no doubt that many were here to further their own interests, and those of their families as well. After all, it’s what he and Qiu were here for.

Standing off to the side, he had an excellent view of the people milling about. His cane was rather unwieldy, and so, he preferred to hover somewhere where he would not get in the way. The ballroom was filled to the brim with tittering debutantes and dashing young heirs – not quite the wolves he’d been expecting. While many believed that a man of his interests would find the world of politics an impossible riddle to decipher, Que had always been a fast learner. He wasn’t quite as adept as his sister, of course, at maneuvering among nobility, but he was no dullard either. From the moment he was born, his entire life had been about playing the role he was given, and he was very good at doing so. He was a dutiful son and brother, first; then a soldier, and finally, a Marquis. Had any of this been what he wanted? It’s hard to say, though what he wanted would likely remain a mystery for the foreseeable future, even to himself.

Sensing a shift in the air, many from Euhijan had seized the opportunity to join the annual gathering at Vertiron. It was just as well, Que supposed. The Kingdom of Euhijan had made far too many enemies in the past, devouring neighbouring lands and beyond with all the force of a tsunami. If they were to make amends, it would be wise to commence their efforts sooner rather than later.

“So, what do you make of all this?” Que asks Qiu in their native tongue. More than anything, it was a rhetorical question, and as he speaks, his gaze is drawn up towards the huge, crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. “It’s a little extravagant for my tastes.”

To match the ceremony that was apparently required, Que was likewise clad in some of his own finery. There were no padded doublets or stiff, heeled shoes; instead, he wore a many-layered, loose-fitting robe dyed a dark shade of indigo, its collar crossed diagonally, left over right. The sleeves were embroidered with golden thread in an intricate design of waves that gleamed against the light of the ballroom. Tied around his waist was a silk sash, dyed a dark navy and fastened at the back. The hem of the robe came down to his ankles, concealing the brace around his left leg. On his feet, he wore a pair of flat cloth shoes, useless for anything more vigorous than a leisurely stroll around the courtyard.

The whole ensemble was quite a bit heavier than what he was used to, and he shifts his weight from one leg to another, tightening his grip around the handle of his cane. Seeking a distraction from his growing discomfort, he lets himself lean closer to Qiu, voice tinged with a droll sort of humor that he reserved solely for his sister. “See anyone that catches your eye?”

“They certainly have a domineering aesthetic in Vertiron.” Qiu’s voice was tinged with something akin to distaste; confusion, perhaps, or maybe just an irritated sense of curiosity. She was only in this Court for one reason and one reason only, and that was to ensure some sort of kinship with another royal of another kingdom. It was a simple enough task, one every young man or woman would perhaps have to go through, and honestly Qiu had a small flicker of hope in her heart for something exciting to come from this visit, but so far she has been steeped in the traditional formalities that have been suffocating her from birth.

She stole a glance at Que as the two of them walked beneath glittering chandeliers and painted ceilings. He looked regal despite his slower gait, though the cane might as well have been a glittering sign of his weaknesses. Like her brother, Qiu was dressed in fashionable layers popular within the lands of Ehujian. She contrasted his dark, cool colors with a visage of the height of autumn. A white blouse, silken and shiny in the unnatural light of the hall, was tucked into a long, dragging skirt that matched the bright red color of her robes. Layers of stiffer fabric looped around her shoulders and hung in front of her skirt, depicting scenes of trees in death and cranes flying through a sunset-red sky. It was not the fanciest garb she owned, but it was enough to make a startling first impression, especially in a court where no one seems to appreciate the concept of an empire waist.

At Que’s comment she huffed, eyes narrowing and scanning out toward the many men and women who dawdled around them. Most were attractive, as it was their place to be. She was caught, for a moment, by the King of Vertrion, and a rather impressive looking lady with shiny red hair. Her eyes returned to Que, smoldering like dark coals.

“Most of them catch my eye, brother. I could ask the same of you.” She said, offering him a sensible arm to hook on to if he so needed it, “I will be surprised if you actually have a fascination with anyone, though. You have not spoken to me about matters of romance before.”

“That’s because, sister, I have no wish for half the kingdom to learn who I find attractive.” Que scoffs, but takes the proffered arm after a moment’s hesitation. Truth be told, he held little hope of finding love; even a decorous marriage seemed far out of reach for someone like him. Yes, he’d been a great swordsman in the past, and now, he had a title that granted him a modicum of respect from his peers, but things were no longer be as they used to be. So much of his life had been spent practicing the art of war – Father would only ever truly smile after a victory – it was laughable how easily everything crumbled after the incident. And yet, as his gaze sweeps across the room, he feels himself drawn to some of the charming lords and ladies present.

“Besides, no one in their right mind would want to spend the rest of their days with a cripple.” Even Que himself is startled by the bitterness of his words, though he quickly recovers, playing it off with a humorless huff of laughter. “You know, you should really be off socialising instead of staying here playing nursemaid to your brother.”

Qiu’s reaction to her brother’s cruel words was sudden and vicious. Her grip tightened on his arm, vice-like, curling like a snake, and then she released him. Like the waves receding, she pulled back and flared, roaring internally as she struggled to find the gentle words to tell him to shut up, to keep an open mind, to stop being so depressed--

God, she needed a smoke. Qiu pinched the bridge of her nose and rolled her eyes. ”I am not playing nursemaid; I don’t think that highly of myself.” She said, ”But if you’re going to be a sad sack maybe I should go off.” Her words were harsh, cold. She didn’t really mean them but she couldn’t help but let them spill. Her heart still shook with some sort of guilt every time Que spoke lowly of himself. If only she could speak to him, actually speak to him. If only she could have been there to save him. If only she wasn’t stuck in a court full of people expecting her to be absolutely emotionless.

She bit down on her lower lip, lifted her chin, and said, ”Smile, brother. We must look very happy and peachy for the happy and peachy court, right?”

“I’m afraid that's rather beyond me, at the moment.” Que retorts, though he does make an effort to smooth out his expression into something a little more approachable. Whenever Qiu was around, the matter of his leg always seemed to be a touchy subject. Que, on the other hand, saw no point in dancing around it. Fate had dealt him a bad hand, and that was that.

“I can take care of myself. Don’t worry about me.” Voice dropping to a murmur, the corner of his lips quirk up into a smile he hoped was reassuring. In spite of their differences, they were still twins, and he wanted nothing but the best for his sister. If that meant having to set aside his self-pity for the time being and striking out on his own, then so be it. He couldn’t very well spend the entire night standing here by himself, could he? And Que’s presence next to his sister certainly appeared to have the unfortunate effect of dissuading potential suitors from approaching.

Reaching out, he steals a glass of honeyed wine from a passing servant, and downs its contents a single swig – for courage, if nothing else. He grabs another before taking his first step towards the thick of the crowd, though this one he doesn’t drink quite just yet. Instead, he turns around to fully face Qiu, and offers a suggestion. “There’s all sorts of interesting people here. Why don’t you go talk to them? See what you learn, and you can tell me all about it after.”

”... Fine, since you’re so stubborn about it.” Qiu scowled, taking her own glass of wine and tipping it back in a rather unladylike manner. Once drained, Qiu returned the glass to another passing butler and bows sarcastically to her wallflower of a brother. ”See you around, my dear brother.” And she turned and vanished into the surrounding crowd, instantaneously adopting an air of regalness and approachability once out of Que’s radius.




“Ow, fuck! I know what the debt is, you fucking—”

Hercules can barely get a word before another attack slams against his throat, driving the air from his lung. He stumbles back and winces as a flash of green warms the back of his eyelids. Beside him, Achillis cries out, burned by whatever spell the elf bitch cast. After shaking the stars from his vision Hercules straightens, fists clenching tightly as he shifts his left foot back and drops into an offensive stance. The tattoo on his arm is glowing slightly, imbued with some sort of magical energy.

“You’re not the only one who went off and trained, scummy.” He says, and after a brief moment of thought, he turns to Io and suddenly attempts to slam the club that had been sitting on his hip into her side. He whiffs completely as you manage to step back in time, Io, and whiffs again when he attempts to slam the back of his hand against your face. Hercules growls in rage, the tattoo on his arm sputtering back to it’s muted colors.






“Oh, no way. Zevemar? That’s Zevemar, isn’t it?”

From the direction of “The Drowsy Druid” came a four-bodied group, backlit by the tavern’s bright lantern-lit entrance way. As this group approaches, Zevemar, you recognize two of them as children from your past, children who took pleasure in tormenting you. The head of the group, and the one who had called you out, is lean and fairer skinned; a trait oft shared by those who lived deeper in the countryside of Illio. He wears a sleeveless tunic and flowing capris which reveal his lack of shoes and countless traditional tattoos. Zevemar, you remember his name is Hercules.

Beside him is Achillis, his tall and imposing right-hand man. He is dressed in all blue, matching his startling eyes, and you notice a new scar that cuts down his right cheek. Behind him was a nameless drunk, leaning on a sheathless and red-cheeked Belen, who is staring at Io with quickly shifting expressions.

It is only you three and this group of four on the streets. Perhaps this is what gives Hercules the courage to chuckle and lean forward immediately, eyes full of that familiar, raging fire of disgust and playful hatred.

“Zevemar, Pelor above.” Hercules approaches quickly and claps a hand onto your shoulder, “It’s been awhile, scummy. I thought you skipped town for good.”

“He wouldn’t leave behind the pixie. You know that.” Achillis says, and then his gaze drifts to Io and HORUS. “Speaking of, looks like he brought more in. Welcome.” He bows his head, hiding a smirk, and Hercules elbows his side and barks out a HORRENDOUS laugh.

“Zevemar, man, are you serious? I’m surprised you didn't bring back any scumskinned friends with ya as well, man. Maaan.” He holds out his hand to Io first, face twisted in a caricature of a friendly smile. “Nice to meet ya, pointy, the name’s Hercules. This is Achillis,” He points to the man on his left, “Belen,” He points to Belen, who has resigned himself to staring at his feet, “and Nyke. Now, who in the Nine Hells are you and your halfa friend?”


Another girl done @Congee

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