@lovely complex Well, I was gonna have Augustus go to a pharmacy somewhere and try to get the cocaine researched and stuff. But I don't know who'd be willing to RP the pharmacist or something.
Akai no Senshi Member
GAAAAAAAAAAH! ATSUI WA KOKORO DA!
STATUS: WE ARE FIGHTING DREAMERS. SAGASHI WA MIZASHITE. FIGHTING DREAMERS. 8 yrs ago
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WE ARE FIGHTING DREAMERS. SAGASHI WA MIZASHITE. FIGHTING DREAMERS.
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and i'm just sitting here doing who knows what expecting something with open eyes
;_:7
;_:7
@Noxious - I don't get off work and home till close, which is five-six hours from now. So if you can finish it by then? The post isn't finished so that'd probably give you more time as well.
five six hours 2 much can't wait must rp ;_:7
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
False. I wanted to watch that, but not anymore ;_:7.
T/F: You like to watch movies more than once, some more than others.
T/F: You like to watch movies more than once, some more than others.
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Naruto: True Peace. [ALWAYS ACCEPTING] [Cool guys club inside]
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8 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
@Raijinslayer Uh, I thought I'd managed to avoid that because Saketsui used Sharingan right after the Shuriken attack and then leapt out of the building through the window again. Sorry, I should've cleared that one up in my post.
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Naruto: True Peace. [ALWAYS ACCEPTING] [Cool guys club inside]
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8 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
Saketsui was never actually convinced that what he's done could be detrimental to the mission. Sure, the signal that the trap sent off was blaring and obvious, and Saketsui was definite that him and Mikoto would eventually be discovered, but that was not a mental qualm to him. A side-effect of confidence, supposedly. He balances down on his feet and looks around. There wasn't much to represent any sewer plans or relevance to the Red Sages, so before Mikoto's timely arrival he shuffles through desk after desk, making sure not to skip too many vital pieces of information. Subconsciously, he was aware that he'd be assailed by Shinobi in just a few minutes, maybe under, but what comes with his self-esteem is the ability to recognize his own capabilities, where he is compromisable and where he is not. Saketsui measured and understood his strengths long before he delved deep into this territory.
When he sees Mikoto move about and give him advice, Saketsui nods his head, but recognizes that it's far too late for stealth now. Akio Tendou steps into the room, and Saketsui does not have time to glare straight at her, because she is not talking whatsoever. Her initial strike is just as vicious as he imagined. A charge of electricity breaks out and threatens Saketsui's safety. He pulls back with his legs and backflips to a bit of an effective distance. This does not necessarily render him a-okay, as he is hailed with shuriken not too soon after. This is when he brandishes the two blades resting at his waistline. Edges that bear tenacity and polish. The swords tear at the shurikens one by one, until they're all completely deflected. When he looks up, Saketsui's eyes sunk in deep red, a crimson so unseemly that brings dismay and aversion. It was the Sharingan, activated with all of it's grandeur and grace.
Then, when Mikoto attacks in his stead, Saketsui already perceives that Akio motioned for yet another jutsu. That's when he leaps right out of the building, and sheaths his swords ever-so-casually. He makes sure not to break his stance, though. His poise is relevant to the competence of his coming technique. Two index fingers collide, and three Kage Bunshin are created out of pure smoke. These three dart into the building to replace Saketsui, and each utilize copied versions of the two swords Saketsui possesses. He, on the other hand, takes the roof with Katsuko, but does not do anything too prominent just yet. He waits out the fight Akio is taking on with Mikoto and his three Bunshins, hoping to draw out some of her strongest jutsus out of assumption that Saketsui is among those three. He hoped Mikoto created enough of a diversion for her not to see Saketsui perform the Kage Bunshin and leap into the roof, but if she saw it, that'd still not technically nullify what Saketsui has in mind.
His fingers interlock in preparation for a certain Jutsu. Several are made, but nothing is actually done just yet.
When he sees Mikoto move about and give him advice, Saketsui nods his head, but recognizes that it's far too late for stealth now. Akio Tendou steps into the room, and Saketsui does not have time to glare straight at her, because she is not talking whatsoever. Her initial strike is just as vicious as he imagined. A charge of electricity breaks out and threatens Saketsui's safety. He pulls back with his legs and backflips to a bit of an effective distance. This does not necessarily render him a-okay, as he is hailed with shuriken not too soon after. This is when he brandishes the two blades resting at his waistline. Edges that bear tenacity and polish. The swords tear at the shurikens one by one, until they're all completely deflected. When he looks up, Saketsui's eyes sunk in deep red, a crimson so unseemly that brings dismay and aversion. It was the Sharingan, activated with all of it's grandeur and grace.
Then, when Mikoto attacks in his stead, Saketsui already perceives that Akio motioned for yet another jutsu. That's when he leaps right out of the building, and sheaths his swords ever-so-casually. He makes sure not to break his stance, though. His poise is relevant to the competence of his coming technique. Two index fingers collide, and three Kage Bunshin are created out of pure smoke. These three dart into the building to replace Saketsui, and each utilize copied versions of the two swords Saketsui possesses. He, on the other hand, takes the roof with Katsuko, but does not do anything too prominent just yet. He waits out the fight Akio is taking on with Mikoto and his three Bunshins, hoping to draw out some of her strongest jutsus out of assumption that Saketsui is among those three. He hoped Mikoto created enough of a diversion for her not to see Saketsui perform the Kage Bunshin and leap into the roof, but if she saw it, that'd still not technically nullify what Saketsui has in mind.
His fingers interlock in preparation for a certain Jutsu. Several are made, but nothing is actually done just yet.
"You can and will be stopped."
WALTER KING.
25. | 21 // January. | 5'8. | FIRST CLASS.
appearance.
Walter King is /stacked/ with muscle after another, his entire body copulent with mass that conforms into a heavy, toned assembly between body parts that are twinged with the kind of fit decor that you'd find in any man who enjoys an active workout. Pleasantries to Walter King are but a simplification of the expression that he wields at all time -- as though his entire leveled jawline is ripped to a point where gravity drags it down into a consistent sulk. He is never a public possessor of a smile, which adds a hint of mystery and an atramentous conundrum, whereas being found with edged lips means that you are one to part them continuously. Walter King is thus deemed silent by his own appearance, an attire that befits a gentleman who still puts his natural-born, rather subconsciously composed sophistication to good use. A glistening complexion of handsome dark-brown with a graceful addition of prominent dingy eye, overcast with an effulgent, august combination of hazel and blue.
Walter King bears the traits of majesty, a novelty of garments that are frequently changed to fit his refined getup, which do not reflect his atrocious heavy armor that clads him when necessary. Aside from such -- words best left for later --, Walter is fashionably equipped, his entire wardrobe consisting of no more than polished ties, caravats, brown shirts, lined vests of lurid fawn and suits that match his daily wear. His hair is routinely combed backwards, a bowl cut that runs down to his cheeks and conceives a suave, premature beard. Left to it's shadowy color that symbolizes an addition of perplexity to Walter's personality, he prefers to keep his beard at it's lowest, and engages in the timely shave to keep it stylish and nifty. Whilst Walter's frame is proudly stout, his height is easily a mitigation to his sturdy and vigorous appearance. A 5'9 height does not carry him to the necessity of 'intimidation', and while it may still be a prominence to those that have not experienced it yet, that height is a dainty tenderness to Walter's body, his dismaying physique, and his grim eyes.
To go into advance on his physicality would detail his every complexity, from the depths of his nose to the width of his lips, which would both be admirably perfected to an undeniable point. His lips are short of cherry red, his eyes are a pair of proportional ovals, his ears are uniformly pointy and his nose is sticking out in a manner so unseemly. Despite these slight imperfections that create a vague, handsome man; with model-like changes in certain areas that bequeath him with stunning beauty. It is no exaggeration when others point out his flamboyant features, presentable even at an equitable cost of his humble, soft-spoken self.
Walter King bears the traits of majesty, a novelty of garments that are frequently changed to fit his refined getup, which do not reflect his atrocious heavy armor that clads him when necessary. Aside from such -- words best left for later --, Walter is fashionably equipped, his entire wardrobe consisting of no more than polished ties, caravats, brown shirts, lined vests of lurid fawn and suits that match his daily wear. His hair is routinely combed backwards, a bowl cut that runs down to his cheeks and conceives a suave, premature beard. Left to it's shadowy color that symbolizes an addition of perplexity to Walter's personality, he prefers to keep his beard at it's lowest, and engages in the timely shave to keep it stylish and nifty. Whilst Walter's frame is proudly stout, his height is easily a mitigation to his sturdy and vigorous appearance. A 5'9 height does not carry him to the necessity of 'intimidation', and while it may still be a prominence to those that have not experienced it yet, that height is a dainty tenderness to Walter's body, his dismaying physique, and his grim eyes.
To go into advance on his physicality would detail his every complexity, from the depths of his nose to the width of his lips, which would both be admirably perfected to an undeniable point. His lips are short of cherry red, his eyes are a pair of proportional ovals, his ears are uniformly pointy and his nose is sticking out in a manner so unseemly. Despite these slight imperfections that create a vague, handsome man; with model-like changes in certain areas that bequeath him with stunning beauty. It is no exaggeration when others point out his flamboyant features, presentable even at an equitable cost of his humble, soft-spoken self.
personality.
First and foremost, Walter King is a methodical gentleman, with reliable finesse that puts him at a standard beyond agreeable measure. His senses belong to the rightest doubt, his every reason led to the alpine of self-esteem, his every confidence an artistic piece of his elegance and apparent wisdom. Despite this, Walter King is a mislead chaperone to the wrong inside of him, a helpless lightweight who does not know what to do for his own self. Even a gentleman can fall short in departments that he cannot recover -- somethings that simply can't change. A simpleton who walks with a straightened back and a flagrant poise does not necessarily classify him as the bearer of courage, but in Walter's case he is specialty. He is a seeker of this emotion, the emotion that spurs the courage and bravery in him, but that sort of physical and mental empathy is a heavy concoction of his own psychological troubles, the inability to bring use.
Walter's contentions are sporadic, a guileless lack of strength. He fears what he can in fact do, and that is to protect. This created, or rather, recreated a sense of animosity in him, which brewed initially from the melancholy of irrationality and pressure. Walter is -easily- breakable, the most sensitive of men but to a certain point. Continual exposure to pressure and agony can only salvage his subliminal angst, which would then be an extension to anger, fear and an eventual depression into the depths of self-realization. That is a journey that threatens his sanity, with blatant transparency in his personality that is a grandly blaring issue, Walter has an uncontrollable urge to always close his eyes and rethink his choices, words and even memories. Try to help him reinstate his personal safety that relates to his cognitive work. In basic terms, Walter's sensitivity can be nullified if he is given time to actually remember the desire for happiness. To place it back where it belonged. That is Walter's truest self, and he will not sensibly argue that point.
That is why Walter cannot be thrown straight into a mission that can deter his psychological work. With that much strain, he'd be threatend with death, not by the enemy's hands, but by his. He is unable to live with those that can harm him, frightened to a measure so unusual that some would mistake him for antisocial. But it would be otherwise -- as Walter's own silence is correlated to his inability to handle those that will to put him down no matter what. Despite these outspoken problems, Walter is still a source of excitement for many that meet him, and he will hold himself sturdy in the face of conversation. Shy he is not, but he is a man that cannot bear too many secrets, lies, and deception.
Walter's contentions are sporadic, a guileless lack of strength. He fears what he can in fact do, and that is to protect. This created, or rather, recreated a sense of animosity in him, which brewed initially from the melancholy of irrationality and pressure. Walter is -easily- breakable, the most sensitive of men but to a certain point. Continual exposure to pressure and agony can only salvage his subliminal angst, which would then be an extension to anger, fear and an eventual depression into the depths of self-realization. That is a journey that threatens his sanity, with blatant transparency in his personality that is a grandly blaring issue, Walter has an uncontrollable urge to always close his eyes and rethink his choices, words and even memories. Try to help him reinstate his personal safety that relates to his cognitive work. In basic terms, Walter's sensitivity can be nullified if he is given time to actually remember the desire for happiness. To place it back where it belonged. That is Walter's truest self, and he will not sensibly argue that point.
That is why Walter cannot be thrown straight into a mission that can deter his psychological work. With that much strain, he'd be threatend with death, not by the enemy's hands, but by his. He is unable to live with those that can harm him, frightened to a measure so unusual that some would mistake him for antisocial. But it would be otherwise -- as Walter's own silence is correlated to his inability to handle those that will to put him down no matter what. Despite these outspoken problems, Walter is still a source of excitement for many that meet him, and he will hold himself sturdy in the face of conversation. Shy he is not, but he is a man that cannot bear too many secrets, lies, and deception.
biography.
Walter King, son to [ King ] and his own personal [ Queen ]. There is mystifying glamour gilded with a luxuriant splendor. It is this household which houses the rituals of birth which bear the name King. They are irrelevant. Walter King is a recipient of a different story, one of no misguided lines of gold, silver and bronze. Riches cannot compensate, not for him. Walter King is one with his wife -- the past and present are nigh unquestionable. There is a delicate love. Breakable so easily but corrigible with a humble exchange of words. There are arguments. There are vases that mount the walls. Water, oil, sometimes even blood. These are the discourteous ornaments of Walter King's home. Not his parents -- no, those were a disciplined couple. This is [ Walter's ] home. His abode. And in it, lies a woman of deceit. Ugly. Ugly ugly ugly. To him, to dub her the 'reincarnation of the devil' would be a mere, fadeaway component to her happiness. There is disgust and sin, but Walter King wishes to get rid of it all.
It was the wrongest marriage of two that are inseparable. They had a certain bonding, flourishing as finely as the flowers in a aureate garden. The grace of this love had been dainty, but Walter King was to her an unbearable abomination. He was a man, but acceptance was not in his wisdom. He was a warrior, but honor was not in his weapon. Walter King did not fight for love, but he fought for her. And the distinction between the two created a polarity that was sundered purely by the heartless reciprocal of two personalities. One was ruthless, the other compromised. Walter King came first. She did not express gratitude, she did not say 'yes'. But he deserved it. He didn't provide for her. He was stupid. Erratic. That's why she raised her arm. That's why her fingers hugged the hilt of a collapsible knife. That's why she looked at hsis eyes and saw pain. That's why she cried. And she kept crying. Walter King put her to rest. He grasped the knife, held her by the neck.
This was a lack of mercy never before seen. She was stabbed. Not in the stomach, not in the neck, but in abominable way. The plunge tore at her insides. Her heart. Obnoxiously, he pulled it out. His eyes were vicious. Shit shit shit. He was -crying- too. He did not hug, but he pushed her away. There hadn't been any love here. The spark deteriorated. Seized, Walter King was taken to the nearest correctional facility. Poor, poor Walter King. He was asleep, another man atop him. The bunk was creaky. Ugly, just like her. That's why he couldn't sleep. He always woke up. He always started screaming. He was loud. He was crying, again, again, again. They took him out. Away. Another one.
It repeated. That's why they found no use to him. Investigation had no point. He couldn't be fixed. A transfer was due. The SOLDIER program. That's the only thing he can remember. Injections, harmful words, pills. Physical pain. Mental pain. A confliction of both created a set of memories astray from him. Things he could not recapture. Images forever gone. That's why, when he saw her lips over and over again, he just screamed. [ Please, d i e. ]
He cares. He really does, but he wants her so dead. Over and over. Here, in hell, in heaven, in the afterlife, in reincarnation. That person deserves death, but he does too. They are a pair that is destined to be inseparable. He was not asking HER to die.
He was asking himself to die.
It was the wrongest marriage of two that are inseparable. They had a certain bonding, flourishing as finely as the flowers in a aureate garden. The grace of this love had been dainty, but Walter King was to her an unbearable abomination. He was a man, but acceptance was not in his wisdom. He was a warrior, but honor was not in his weapon. Walter King did not fight for love, but he fought for her. And the distinction between the two created a polarity that was sundered purely by the heartless reciprocal of two personalities. One was ruthless, the other compromised. Walter King came first. She did not express gratitude, she did not say 'yes'. But he deserved it. He didn't provide for her. He was stupid. Erratic. That's why she raised her arm. That's why her fingers hugged the hilt of a collapsible knife. That's why she looked at hsis eyes and saw pain. That's why she cried. And she kept crying. Walter King put her to rest. He grasped the knife, held her by the neck.
This was a lack of mercy never before seen. She was stabbed. Not in the stomach, not in the neck, but in abominable way. The plunge tore at her insides. Her heart. Obnoxiously, he pulled it out. His eyes were vicious. Shit shit shit. He was -crying- too. He did not hug, but he pushed her away. There hadn't been any love here. The spark deteriorated. Seized, Walter King was taken to the nearest correctional facility. Poor, poor Walter King. He was asleep, another man atop him. The bunk was creaky. Ugly, just like her. That's why he couldn't sleep. He always woke up. He always started screaming. He was loud. He was crying, again, again, again. They took him out. Away. Another one.
It repeated. That's why they found no use to him. Investigation had no point. He couldn't be fixed. A transfer was due. The SOLDIER program. That's the only thing he can remember. Injections, harmful words, pills. Physical pain. Mental pain. A confliction of both created a set of memories astray from him. Things he could not recapture. Images forever gone. That's why, when he saw her lips over and over again, he just screamed. [ Please, d i e. ]
He cares. He really does, but he wants her so dead. Over and over. Here, in hell, in heaven, in the afterlife, in reincarnation. That person deserves death, but he does too. They are a pair that is destined to be inseparable. He was not asking HER to die.
He was asking himself to die.
weapon{s}.
Strength lies in two. Walter King is contracted to the [ Shield of Blue Waking Eyes ], an aegis with crystal clarity in the center, a grid of blue that hues in and out of fading color when hit. It is a cybernetic shield, designed to withhold the strain of the battlefields. The shield is colored blue at it's midst, but the edges are a humid copper, a shy beige with an underlying cast of black. With height and mass, the Shield is created to always stay taller than Walter King, for him to efficiently hide underneath. It is extremely potent in strength, able to deny most magic and abilities, and even recover as quick. The Shield holds no weight on the user -- and especially a possessor of the Heavy Armor, a Sentinel such as him -- and is easily controllable in one's hold, with a granted stamp of the mightiest saying, 'Defense is the best offense.', which is artistically drafted somewhere along the perimeters of the Shield.
skillset.
| Remarkable balance.
| Tenacious hold.
| Great strength.
| Tenacious hold.
| Great strength.
ability.
Walter swings his Shield at the ground, and decrees with it that things rise. Or fall. With the [ Shield of Waking Blue Eyes ], Walter is able to control the flow of 'gravity', thus rendering it weightless or heavy upon a certain zone with pure will. This ability will last a minutes only, and the effects are not too extreme, although he can alter the flow of attacks too, as for example if flames dare reach him, then he could change the gravity to become light to a point where the flames would disperse. The lightest he could change the zone's gravity is 1.722, which is only slightly heavier than the Moon's gravity, and the heaviest he could change it is to 71 kilograms of mass that adds into a person's weight. While the compression sounds quite normal, an abrupt transition in one's weight could have independent effects on each and every individual. Because none, regardless of how strong, could get instantly used to walking through air and whatnot.
aeon.
Vasiliás. - Black / Green - Ambition for the will to protect. Unthinking for the heart that yearns. Instinct for the broken conscious. Always controlled by emotion. | The King of Harvest |
Vasiliás is a humanoid creature, blessed with grace and beauty. A fragrant black hides it's misfortunate imperfections, and it's strands of ivory miasma hail from it's long, silky dress. There is no throne for a King with unrequited love, but the crown wields it for eternity and more. It was enigmatic, cursed with a dark hue that pursued it's every movement, and the sound of hushed whispers whenever it's legs moved. That was Vasiliás, with all of it's elegance and royalty.
limit/overdrive.
Fort Lullin: Gate is Walter's limit. And it is shamelessly named after the birthplace of his power. Walter smashes his shield into the ground, and an entire wall which is correlated to the 'kinetic' aspect of his Aeon is made, which is rumored to be the Wall That Protected the King of Harvest. It's a hulking wall that is quite literally unbreakable for a good duration, but it's concoction comes at the cost of Walter's beloved weapon. This Wall is extremely strong, able to withstand GREAT punishment before yielding. It is a command for protection. The Wall is more akin to a dome than anything, as it encircles anyone within it from ANY attacks. Sides that cannot be reached are the north and south, which are quite literally in complete blockage by an invisible force of constantly moving energy. This barrier-like structure is just as strong as the Fort, and even stronger at times.
It is the utmost defense.
It is the utmost defense.
YOUR BOY.
Augustus Wesley | House of Ventrue | Hallways
Augustus had been in a pressing circumstance he'd never experienced before. Initially, he compiled Ventrue's every word intellectually and by decree of his subconscious, just nodded. A simple, soft-spoken response that reached out to grab his Lord's attention. This was exactly what an Aspirant had to do, listen to every single alphabet. Absorb and learn -- because decisions make the best structure for responsibility. The Leviathan. Still not a better choice for Augustus personally, but he wasn't about to argue with Lord Ventrue. That'd be way too foolish, and especially for an Aspirant like him. His lips edge and his eyes saunter from the midst of the conversation to the side when Lord Louis Ventrue turned his head too. Augustus was in confusion, honestly. He didn't know if there was a certain topic he was supposed to think about.
Then, it hit him. Yes, he, an Aspirant, had been standing in the presence of the Lord, in flesh and blood. Augustus heard a few rumors of the previous Aspirant to have been killed for even daring to speak with Lord Louis Ventrue, permission or not. This itself reached back to Augustus inner fear and pulled it out. This, in return, painted his face a dingy purplish, with overcast blue. This was the color of prominent anxiety. He was concerned for his own life, because the circumstances panned out exactly as he imagined. A flintlock pushed against his head. It was cold. It felt, sounded, and he imagined even TASTED, like death. This is where Augustus willed to retreat, but his legs made sure he didn't. He'd thought to himself of his life. His next life, and his previous one.
The circumstance escalated far quicker than Augustus could possibly conceptualize. His heart sunk in total aversion, and his head already prepped itself well for what HAD to follow. That's why it couldn't properly establish what Ventrue had to say. Augustus was told as properly as possible of his mistake, and what he did wrong. That in itself threatened his sanity. Augustus wasn't one to express his fear in his face. He'd learned overtime, though, of the outspoken personality the House has, and that in itself forced him to conform to the behavioral fits of Lord Ventrue and his assigned Vampire. A good reason for Augustus to experience sudden outbursts of emotion, or a mental wave that assembled in blockage to his already worked personality. This, collective with the pressure stratum of this House, gave birth to a 'changed' Augustus, in the sense that, where he previously lacked he now gained, and what he had drastically changed. The House of Ventrue brought about interesting effects with it.
That's why, in this current moment, his face was swift to recover from the qualm it had painted. A smile replaced it, and Augustus looked at Louis Ventrue with a certain hatred. That he made him go through that, although with that said, he was also, to a certain degree, exponentially happy of what he'd done after. A point made and understood, Augustus accepts the white thing that Louis Ventrue explained to have unusual effects, which Augustus saw frequently already, and takes the flintlock with him. Akin to what the Lord pointed out, Augustus was still a human, so any chances of fighting back a vampire had to be slim. And if any other vampire, of any other House, had learned of Augustus' status as an Aspirant, then things would fall over. The future of the Ventrue house had literally kept Augustus involved for as much as it could. Augustus addresses the flintlock shortly after he turns away from Lord Louis Ventrue and expresses relief in his face. Despite the actual setting, the flintlock was of french origins, and Augustus recognized the way it looked because his father used to have one of these. They were quick, short-lived, but potent and virulent. One would need intense aggression and a fervent type of ruthlessness to use a flintlock for the sake of murder.
Augustus was completely willing to take it upon his hands and shoot a vampire, though. These were some of the teachings of the Ventrue, and although he doesn't get ANY of this combat-related information prior to actually becoming a Novice, Augustus still picked up a few of these throughout his life as an official member of the Nest. From overhearing other Novices to partaking in a little bit of the action himself in secrecy, Augustus didn't have any physical prowess to go for him, but the ability to be malevolent and relentless had to be credited to the House itself, as Louis Ventrue is so from actively exposing his own family members to dangers outside the realm of potential human understanding. The Kraken and the Leviathan explain enough.
Augustus sets out in exploration. He's not too familiar with the streets beyond the House, as he is not allowed to leave the Nest often or he'd eventually be surmised. To avoid that compromisation, Augustus doesn't usually intend to leave anyway. Anything he ever needed -- and even considering his needy personality -- had been provided for him. So that in itself is testament to the treatment Aspirants usually get outside of work, where they had to sweep, clean, and make sure the House is sparkling before their Lord arrives. That is actually strenuous work, and it requires tremendous effort to perform. Augustus heard some Aspirants were driven to the neck of insanity with so much work, and honestly insinuates his joy again.
With his leave taken, he'll set out to find out about the White Stuff. He doesn't want to go to the Grangrel pharmacy because that'd pretty much reveal to them Augustus' familiarity with the Ventrue house, so he'll have to seek out a different external source. Something equitable to the knowledge of the Grangrel yet indifferent to the four Houses and their sickly alliances. That required thought in and of itself, but he'll spend his walk thinking about where he could possibly go.
Then, it hit him. Yes, he, an Aspirant, had been standing in the presence of the Lord, in flesh and blood. Augustus heard a few rumors of the previous Aspirant to have been killed for even daring to speak with Lord Louis Ventrue, permission or not. This itself reached back to Augustus inner fear and pulled it out. This, in return, painted his face a dingy purplish, with overcast blue. This was the color of prominent anxiety. He was concerned for his own life, because the circumstances panned out exactly as he imagined. A flintlock pushed against his head. It was cold. It felt, sounded, and he imagined even TASTED, like death. This is where Augustus willed to retreat, but his legs made sure he didn't. He'd thought to himself of his life. His next life, and his previous one.
The circumstance escalated far quicker than Augustus could possibly conceptualize. His heart sunk in total aversion, and his head already prepped itself well for what HAD to follow. That's why it couldn't properly establish what Ventrue had to say. Augustus was told as properly as possible of his mistake, and what he did wrong. That in itself threatened his sanity. Augustus wasn't one to express his fear in his face. He'd learned overtime, though, of the outspoken personality the House has, and that in itself forced him to conform to the behavioral fits of Lord Ventrue and his assigned Vampire. A good reason for Augustus to experience sudden outbursts of emotion, or a mental wave that assembled in blockage to his already worked personality. This, collective with the pressure stratum of this House, gave birth to a 'changed' Augustus, in the sense that, where he previously lacked he now gained, and what he had drastically changed. The House of Ventrue brought about interesting effects with it.
That's why, in this current moment, his face was swift to recover from the qualm it had painted. A smile replaced it, and Augustus looked at Louis Ventrue with a certain hatred. That he made him go through that, although with that said, he was also, to a certain degree, exponentially happy of what he'd done after. A point made and understood, Augustus accepts the white thing that Louis Ventrue explained to have unusual effects, which Augustus saw frequently already, and takes the flintlock with him. Akin to what the Lord pointed out, Augustus was still a human, so any chances of fighting back a vampire had to be slim. And if any other vampire, of any other House, had learned of Augustus' status as an Aspirant, then things would fall over. The future of the Ventrue house had literally kept Augustus involved for as much as it could. Augustus addresses the flintlock shortly after he turns away from Lord Louis Ventrue and expresses relief in his face. Despite the actual setting, the flintlock was of french origins, and Augustus recognized the way it looked because his father used to have one of these. They were quick, short-lived, but potent and virulent. One would need intense aggression and a fervent type of ruthlessness to use a flintlock for the sake of murder.
Augustus was completely willing to take it upon his hands and shoot a vampire, though. These were some of the teachings of the Ventrue, and although he doesn't get ANY of this combat-related information prior to actually becoming a Novice, Augustus still picked up a few of these throughout his life as an official member of the Nest. From overhearing other Novices to partaking in a little bit of the action himself in secrecy, Augustus didn't have any physical prowess to go for him, but the ability to be malevolent and relentless had to be credited to the House itself, as Louis Ventrue is so from actively exposing his own family members to dangers outside the realm of potential human understanding. The Kraken and the Leviathan explain enough.
Augustus sets out in exploration. He's not too familiar with the streets beyond the House, as he is not allowed to leave the Nest often or he'd eventually be surmised. To avoid that compromisation, Augustus doesn't usually intend to leave anyway. Anything he ever needed -- and even considering his needy personality -- had been provided for him. So that in itself is testament to the treatment Aspirants usually get outside of work, where they had to sweep, clean, and make sure the House is sparkling before their Lord arrives. That is actually strenuous work, and it requires tremendous effort to perform. Augustus heard some Aspirants were driven to the neck of insanity with so much work, and honestly insinuates his joy again.
With his leave taken, he'll set out to find out about the White Stuff. He doesn't want to go to the Grangrel pharmacy because that'd pretty much reveal to them Augustus' familiarity with the Ventrue house, so he'll have to seek out a different external source. Something equitable to the knowledge of the Grangrel yet indifferent to the four Houses and their sickly alliances. That required thought in and of itself, but he'll spend his walk thinking about where he could possibly go.
I guess it's because I was raised a country that doesn't have spring or autumn, just hot and moderately hot.(which is technically winter there)
Oh yeah, here's a question. Do I post my character here first and THEN in Character tab, or do I go straight there?
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