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Cᴀɴɴɪʙᴀʟɪsᴛɪᴄ Yᴇᴛ Cʟᴀssʏ
STATUS: Hey y'all. I am about to start working on a webcomic and try to draw for a living now. 7 yrs ago
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7 yrs ago
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Hey y'all. I am about to start working on a webcomic and try to draw for a living now.
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9 yrs ago
Oh no. The World Ending library has started to smell of lemon again. Nobody likes dying to the smell of citrus
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Bio
"Always tenderize the meat first."
Most Recent Posts
Posted finally.
Henry - Näck/Siren
The fire encircled them as ancient words were spoken by the demon they all reffered to as Atticus and who Henry considered his foremost confidant and greastest friend. Ok so, maybe he and Atticus had a unhealthy rivalry when it came to the art of seduction and there was a reason why they banned both of them from the Boston clubscene 3 years in a row. But that was only natural! At the moment, Henry more concerned with whatever reason Atticus and Hoyle may have to want Henry to come with them specifically. A intricate web of burning leylines seemed to web together in the form of a giant wolf and suddenly the roar of a wind came bursting out the ground. Suddenly Henry felt a strange stillness envelop him as if the winds were a blanket around him and he knew instinctively what manner of power carried them. He had never experienced the Deep Wind before, It was quite something. It gave him some time to ponder over the past year. A lot had happened, and he had thought the branch scattered. Yet here most of them had been, showing up when called. And now there was the possibility to get Max back, something had to go wrong somewhere. It always did.
The wind subsided, and the Siren stood on North American soil for the first time in a full year. Alaska was a gorgeous place Henry had visited before, not far removed from his own home in feel and appearence. The mountains were larger, the snow a little more insistent and the woods more fern then Pines. The cold itself had never bothered Henry, not the natural and northern kind of cold at least. He was immune to it as spirit born of a northern river himself. In fact, the snow wasn't all unpleasant, he had not seen a real winter in so long that he was positively thriving. But even if it felt deceptively like home, the spirits were completely different then the Scandinavian ones. Here no Huldra would lure men into the forest, no Mares would lure in your dreams and no trolls would slumber in the mountains. He had once met a Qalupalik from Alaska, they were kindred spirits to the näck in a way, living and singing from the watery shores. Of course, Henry had been forced to make the Qualapik relinquish a mortal child, but that was simply details. Tornits also lived here, although he had never met the alleged Alaskan bushmen. Indeed, this was familiar yet alien territory for the Näck. But they found themselves inside a mountain from the looks of it, a deep cavern provided them with a roof and walls of massive rock.
Henry was not a fan of caves, not in the slightest. He counted his blessing this was not Norway. Last thing he wanted was to meet a cave troll in the Troll Kings service. Worse hosts were hard to find. Instead their host was a somewhat weathered looking Hoyle and Henry felt a mixed well of emotion flare inside him. This was the man who Henry had saved the life of a year earlier. But Hoyle had been the man who long before that, helped Henry out of a fate worse then death. Still, Henry had not forgotten the price he had payed to save Hoyles life once before, and yet here he was again. It was a good thing the Näck wasn't as a craven and foul as many of his kind. He was well in his rights to refuse helping the old werewolf. Yet, the thought didn't pass his mind even once. The company he realized, was all he had. The thought hit him like a truck and for a second his entire being seemed to falter into a pained stagger.
Luckily for him there was entertainment to be had and it seemed to be just cure for his impromptu case of mind numbing self reflection. The Dryad had foregone clothing it seemed and the Siren busted into a melodic fit of laughter. He kept the warning from before in mind however, quelling the innate magic within his voice. Luckily for the Driad, Henry had brought clothes with him on the trip, mainly because Atticus tended to ruin his clothes with sulfur fueled hellfire. Henry wasn't the incubus assistant without a reason.
“And here I thought it was Atticus who would end up ruin his clothes.” He said as he tossed the polo shirt and pants to the dryad.” The shirt goes well with scarf” He added with a chuckle before following Atticus and Hoyle into the cave.
The fire encircled them as ancient words were spoken by the demon they all reffered to as Atticus and who Henry considered his foremost confidant and greastest friend. Ok so, maybe he and Atticus had a unhealthy rivalry when it came to the art of seduction and there was a reason why they banned both of them from the Boston clubscene 3 years in a row. But that was only natural! At the moment, Henry more concerned with whatever reason Atticus and Hoyle may have to want Henry to come with them specifically. A intricate web of burning leylines seemed to web together in the form of a giant wolf and suddenly the roar of a wind came bursting out the ground. Suddenly Henry felt a strange stillness envelop him as if the winds were a blanket around him and he knew instinctively what manner of power carried them. He had never experienced the Deep Wind before, It was quite something. It gave him some time to ponder over the past year. A lot had happened, and he had thought the branch scattered. Yet here most of them had been, showing up when called. And now there was the possibility to get Max back, something had to go wrong somewhere. It always did.
The wind subsided, and the Siren stood on North American soil for the first time in a full year. Alaska was a gorgeous place Henry had visited before, not far removed from his own home in feel and appearence. The mountains were larger, the snow a little more insistent and the woods more fern then Pines. The cold itself had never bothered Henry, not the natural and northern kind of cold at least. He was immune to it as spirit born of a northern river himself. In fact, the snow wasn't all unpleasant, he had not seen a real winter in so long that he was positively thriving. But even if it felt deceptively like home, the spirits were completely different then the Scandinavian ones. Here no Huldra would lure men into the forest, no Mares would lure in your dreams and no trolls would slumber in the mountains. He had once met a Qalupalik from Alaska, they were kindred spirits to the näck in a way, living and singing from the watery shores. Of course, Henry had been forced to make the Qualapik relinquish a mortal child, but that was simply details. Tornits also lived here, although he had never met the alleged Alaskan bushmen. Indeed, this was familiar yet alien territory for the Näck. But they found themselves inside a mountain from the looks of it, a deep cavern provided them with a roof and walls of massive rock.
Henry was not a fan of caves, not in the slightest. He counted his blessing this was not Norway. Last thing he wanted was to meet a cave troll in the Troll Kings service. Worse hosts were hard to find. Instead their host was a somewhat weathered looking Hoyle and Henry felt a mixed well of emotion flare inside him. This was the man who Henry had saved the life of a year earlier. But Hoyle had been the man who long before that, helped Henry out of a fate worse then death. Still, Henry had not forgotten the price he had payed to save Hoyles life once before, and yet here he was again. It was a good thing the Näck wasn't as a craven and foul as many of his kind. He was well in his rights to refuse helping the old werewolf. Yet, the thought didn't pass his mind even once. The company he realized, was all he had. The thought hit him like a truck and for a second his entire being seemed to falter into a pained stagger.
Luckily for him there was entertainment to be had and it seemed to be just cure for his impromptu case of mind numbing self reflection. The Dryad had foregone clothing it seemed and the Siren busted into a melodic fit of laughter. He kept the warning from before in mind however, quelling the innate magic within his voice. Luckily for the Driad, Henry had brought clothes with him on the trip, mainly because Atticus tended to ruin his clothes with sulfur fueled hellfire. Henry wasn't the incubus assistant without a reason.
“And here I thought it was Atticus who would end up ruin his clothes.” He said as he tossed the polo shirt and pants to the dryad.” The shirt goes well with scarf” He added with a chuckle before following Atticus and Hoyle into the cave.
Ah that's allright. Good luck with your other rp's!
"I watch it for the plot"
Well, Näck DOES mean nude.
Still drunk on lust and cheer, Jack rose from his flourished bow to his amorous equals and broke his full gait into a nimble dash down the upper halls and over the old staircase banister, creaking as he lay hands but only a moment to vault himself up and over to the floor below. Landing with a thump, the small main room of the Café Majestueux through the patrons seemed mostly unfazed. Pockets of tables cheered, some at the bar gave a knowing nod and a raise of their glass, but most in the Majestueux needed not even to look from their drinks to know who had come crashing from the bedrooms. The Majestueux had long been the haunt of the Dog Headed Whore as it was placed far enough from the main gates to arouse suspicions but far enough from the swamps proper to avoid less than savory critters ending up on the menu. The crew were French after all, a fact they never failed to remind their Striker Jack when sending him hunting ashore.
Indeed, they never failed to teach Jack many a thing growing up. Now a point of morale and the son they never wanted, Charbon's crew had, for better or worse, raised the young Haitian to the man he was today; a man now standing in an especially exaggerated pose, his arms open wide and a grin plastered across his dark face.
"Voici! If that's not fit for a drink, I'll kiss your pecker!" Jack called loudly as he made his way to the barkeep, an older man with one eye and a penchant for watering the booze if you don't watch him. "What says Gaspar? Drink for a dear friend?" Resting himself on a shabby wooden stool, Jack flashed a smile at the old man. Gaspard was once the quartermaster of the Dog Headed Whore, the very same that caught Jack as a boy stowed away and stealing food. For years he refused to speak to the boy despite his obvious favour with Charbon, often giving him the worst foodstuffs available. Being a slave all his life, such malnutrition was barely noticed much to the old quarter master's chagrin.
It wasn't until many years later an ill fated raid on am English vessel that cost Gaspar his eye and nearly his life that he grew a begrudging respect for the young man who turned a blade seconds before it ended the old man forever. Staring death in the face changes a man and as such Quarter Master Gaspar became Bartender Gaspar, a position which allowed his years of divvying supplies and breaking up brawls to shine while giving him some semblance of security.
"You will pay me like all others, imbécile. And to that, I tell again, you are no friend of Gaspar's." With a warm glare, Gaspar spit once more on the bar and ran his rag across the knotted wood. "Et Autre chose! Another thing, Gaspar hears the wooden singing of creaking boards, do not think he does not! You and your pouffiasse lovers, you will not break another of Gaspar's beds or he shall grab a paddle and-" Gaspar stopped as a shadow fell across the room as a stranger stepped to the doorway, blocking the oil lamp and casting the black beast. All eyes turned to the newcomer.
It wasn't exactly surprising that he made people stop talking. The man, tall and blonder then the suns own yellow, carried himself like a true sea dog as he strolled inside. Stares from the regulars let him know that they didn't like new arrivals very much. He shot the nastiest looking a smug smile and patted his sabre, the other man shifted and ran his hands against a blade in his boot. Horacio took note of the others knife, and counted the people in the bar as he took in the ale soaked tavern in all it's glory. This was a fine place to start stirring shit up.
Horace then he steered towards the bar with the confidence of a man that survived a bit to much for his own ego to take it lying down. He produced a small pouch from his belt and let two pieces of shiny golden metal slide across the bar. “Rum. Bottle of it.” He glanced over to Jack and eyed him slowly.
“Get this ugly mug something to drink as well.”
With a smug grin, Jack turned back to Gaspar. "Aha! Voici la chose, mon frère! I told to you I would not be paying for my drink this night! Look how Ghede Nibo provides! A drink from a handsome stranger and yolk for dear Gaspar's face!" Jack pulled a silver flask from the purple scarf about his waist, something within rattling against the precious metal, and kissed the emblem carved into the side, a symbol of health and virility.
Gaspar mumbled beneath his breath as he reached below the counter and produced to bottles of rum, one dark and one white. He knew what Jack wanted, it was the same he ordered every night, or rather, tried to get for free then, failing that, ordered like a civilized person. Likewise, he knew the exact ritual Jack followed and laid a small crude funnel atop the bar alongside the bottles. With a courteous smile, Jack uncorked his flask and inserted the funnel. From within the silver, fragrances poured out into the room, the bite of cayenne peppers, the sweet aroma of shredded coconut, the tropical pungency of mashed plantains, all piled atop the lingering smell of death as six pieces of human bone rattled inside as Jack poured in a small bit of rum and shook the slurry in front of him. With a toast to his benefactor, Jack sipped the concoction and returned the flask to his belt. "Massissi!"
With his thanks to Nibo complete, Jack turned to the dashing man beside him. "Tell me, racé, what brings such a man as you to our corner of the map?"
“Rumors” Horace answered and waved a mosquito away from his face. This place was swarming with them it seemed. He took a swig of the rum, smacking his lips as if unsure what to make of it. Not the worst he ever had, but far from Havanna in quality, that was for sure. He eyed jack again before grinning.
“Actually kamrat', I heard you know this place fairly well." He paused. "You are Hyena Jack are you not?” He smiled widely as he referred to the other man by his nickname. When he wasn't chasing culists, he was a sort of a pirate after all and he could be very pursuasive. After his stunt at the gate, he had easily scared some locals into giving him a name of pirate of the right color and expertice to help him. He had no interest in a well off, white christian at this moment. Horace was after all, not a christian himself. His goddess was quite fond of witch doctors. Add to that the fact that they were in Three Snakes territory, he rather keep himself on right side of the local freemen and others that may be as inclined to practice the art of Vodou. This was a start towards establishing his base of operation.
“I have a proposition.” He said, taking the bottle in one hand and one arm over the others shoulder. Leaning so only jack could here. “I am tracking someone, I might need the help of someone like yourself who knows the local crews and can move in circles I cannot. The pay is good and the cause is not entirely gob'shite.”
Jack leaned close to the man as he spoke, amorous affections fell aside as he listened closer. While his flask was seen as a simple quirk, Charbon and his crew held an unspoken stance against openly speaking of the Loa. Much like his childhood on the plantation, Jack held his offerings in private though now more out of respect than fear. Speaking in equally soft tones, Jack spoke to the stranger careful not to let Gaspar hear. "You come on wings of Nibo so I will listen. But not here." Clapping the man on the back, Jack staged a loud laugh and called for his crew mates to hear. "But of course, Handsome! You who buys me drinks, what sort of date I would be to not walk with you a while! Come, step through moonlight with me." With that, Jack rose from his seat and took the stranger by his hand.
Indeed, they never failed to teach Jack many a thing growing up. Now a point of morale and the son they never wanted, Charbon's crew had, for better or worse, raised the young Haitian to the man he was today; a man now standing in an especially exaggerated pose, his arms open wide and a grin plastered across his dark face.
"Voici! If that's not fit for a drink, I'll kiss your pecker!" Jack called loudly as he made his way to the barkeep, an older man with one eye and a penchant for watering the booze if you don't watch him. "What says Gaspar? Drink for a dear friend?" Resting himself on a shabby wooden stool, Jack flashed a smile at the old man. Gaspard was once the quartermaster of the Dog Headed Whore, the very same that caught Jack as a boy stowed away and stealing food. For years he refused to speak to the boy despite his obvious favour with Charbon, often giving him the worst foodstuffs available. Being a slave all his life, such malnutrition was barely noticed much to the old quarter master's chagrin.
It wasn't until many years later an ill fated raid on am English vessel that cost Gaspar his eye and nearly his life that he grew a begrudging respect for the young man who turned a blade seconds before it ended the old man forever. Staring death in the face changes a man and as such Quarter Master Gaspar became Bartender Gaspar, a position which allowed his years of divvying supplies and breaking up brawls to shine while giving him some semblance of security.
"You will pay me like all others, imbécile. And to that, I tell again, you are no friend of Gaspar's." With a warm glare, Gaspar spit once more on the bar and ran his rag across the knotted wood. "Et Autre chose! Another thing, Gaspar hears the wooden singing of creaking boards, do not think he does not! You and your pouffiasse lovers, you will not break another of Gaspar's beds or he shall grab a paddle and-" Gaspar stopped as a shadow fell across the room as a stranger stepped to the doorway, blocking the oil lamp and casting the black beast. All eyes turned to the newcomer.
It wasn't exactly surprising that he made people stop talking. The man, tall and blonder then the suns own yellow, carried himself like a true sea dog as he strolled inside. Stares from the regulars let him know that they didn't like new arrivals very much. He shot the nastiest looking a smug smile and patted his sabre, the other man shifted and ran his hands against a blade in his boot. Horacio took note of the others knife, and counted the people in the bar as he took in the ale soaked tavern in all it's glory. This was a fine place to start stirring shit up.
Horace then he steered towards the bar with the confidence of a man that survived a bit to much for his own ego to take it lying down. He produced a small pouch from his belt and let two pieces of shiny golden metal slide across the bar. “Rum. Bottle of it.” He glanced over to Jack and eyed him slowly.
“Get this ugly mug something to drink as well.”
With a smug grin, Jack turned back to Gaspar. "Aha! Voici la chose, mon frère! I told to you I would not be paying for my drink this night! Look how Ghede Nibo provides! A drink from a handsome stranger and yolk for dear Gaspar's face!" Jack pulled a silver flask from the purple scarf about his waist, something within rattling against the precious metal, and kissed the emblem carved into the side, a symbol of health and virility.
Gaspar mumbled beneath his breath as he reached below the counter and produced to bottles of rum, one dark and one white. He knew what Jack wanted, it was the same he ordered every night, or rather, tried to get for free then, failing that, ordered like a civilized person. Likewise, he knew the exact ritual Jack followed and laid a small crude funnel atop the bar alongside the bottles. With a courteous smile, Jack uncorked his flask and inserted the funnel. From within the silver, fragrances poured out into the room, the bite of cayenne peppers, the sweet aroma of shredded coconut, the tropical pungency of mashed plantains, all piled atop the lingering smell of death as six pieces of human bone rattled inside as Jack poured in a small bit of rum and shook the slurry in front of him. With a toast to his benefactor, Jack sipped the concoction and returned the flask to his belt. "Massissi!"
With his thanks to Nibo complete, Jack turned to the dashing man beside him. "Tell me, racé, what brings such a man as you to our corner of the map?"
“Rumors” Horace answered and waved a mosquito away from his face. This place was swarming with them it seemed. He took a swig of the rum, smacking his lips as if unsure what to make of it. Not the worst he ever had, but far from Havanna in quality, that was for sure. He eyed jack again before grinning.
“Actually kamrat', I heard you know this place fairly well." He paused. "You are Hyena Jack are you not?” He smiled widely as he referred to the other man by his nickname. When he wasn't chasing culists, he was a sort of a pirate after all and he could be very pursuasive. After his stunt at the gate, he had easily scared some locals into giving him a name of pirate of the right color and expertice to help him. He had no interest in a well off, white christian at this moment. Horace was after all, not a christian himself. His goddess was quite fond of witch doctors. Add to that the fact that they were in Three Snakes territory, he rather keep himself on right side of the local freemen and others that may be as inclined to practice the art of Vodou. This was a start towards establishing his base of operation.
“I have a proposition.” He said, taking the bottle in one hand and one arm over the others shoulder. Leaning so only jack could here. “I am tracking someone, I might need the help of someone like yourself who knows the local crews and can move in circles I cannot. The pay is good and the cause is not entirely gob'shite.”
Jack leaned close to the man as he spoke, amorous affections fell aside as he listened closer. While his flask was seen as a simple quirk, Charbon and his crew held an unspoken stance against openly speaking of the Loa. Much like his childhood on the plantation, Jack held his offerings in private though now more out of respect than fear. Speaking in equally soft tones, Jack spoke to the stranger careful not to let Gaspar hear. "You come on wings of Nibo so I will listen. But not here." Clapping the man on the back, Jack staged a loud laugh and called for his crew mates to hear. "But of course, Handsome! You who buys me drinks, what sort of date I would be to not walk with you a while! Come, step through moonlight with me." With that, Jack rose from his seat and took the stranger by his hand.
Max reasons like a grade A douchebag, i forgot about that XD. The imagery of him beating of creatures with a bone is goddamn hilarius. I really liked the post Tig, a lovely "Meanwhile in them realm of DEAD PEOPLE" intermission. Very well written!
woha, easy there Hannibal.
oh Dot, never change. Daisy is so, so fantastic of a character.
Well no, I suppose not. I mean, when they are all hungover and questioning why they ended up sleeping with their friends boyfriend and cousin, uncertainty will grip their hearts anew! xD
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