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Mateotis Member

The Guardian

STATUS: Life is great! 7 yrs ago
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    1. Mateotis 10 yrs ago

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7 yrs ago
Current Life is great!
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Been here a while.

@MyCatGinger is my girl.

Most Recent Posts

In Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!) → 6 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay



Daimyon clutched Marianne's notes and e-handbook tight as he rushed through the hallway wordlessly. His mind was going a mile a minute and his heart was racing it as he quickly checked his own identification at the door of his room, slamming it shut once he was inside. He tested the door to make sure it was closed, then breathed a sigh of momentary relief. With slower, lumbering steps he walked up to his table, shoved away the diary and placed down the new documents. As he sat down and took the same piece of paper into his hands for a second time, he could only hope he had grossly misread it...









Daimyon reached the end of the page. He scoured over it again, then flipped through the rest of the notes, hungry for knowledge and desperate to find out more. The feeling was akin to an excellent novel ending on a cliffhanger—except the protagonist was him and instead of healthy excitement, reading the lines and filling in the blanks with his imagination awoke dread in him. He had more questions than when he had started reading, and he soon realised he would not find what he was looking for between the numerous plant descriptions and general observations of events that he himself had experienced.

Shoving the pile of notes away, his attention fell on the e-handbook that sat below them. He turned it on, and sure enough, Marianne Eniola Roche flashed on the screen. It belonged to her, and Daimyon knew it could be used to enter her room. He also recalled the Carnage Sister's words: that there was more to find in there. An unmistakable gut feeling struck him in that same moment and his resolve shook. Who knew what could await him at a place where no one had been since the tragedy? Still, his hands were tied. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it would not kill Daimyon Londe. He would become stronger by it, he swore.

He had to visit Marianne's room.
In Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!) → 6 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


Who can one trust when the dust is cleared?

The question circled through Daimyon's mind again and again as the madness unfolded before his eyes in the courtroom. Isaiah's murderous intention flared out and thrashed against Calvin's steel resolve violently while they brawled on the ground. Chaos and bloodthirst descended on the group, the intense atmosphere took a hold over even the most level-headed Infinites as they called for the death of the trickster.

It was all too much for Daimyon. He had just finished writing a poem in the midst of all this, yet he was already aching to return to the world of his imagination. Anything to get away from the all-consuming despair. Jezebel's rundown on the murder sent chills down his spine while the details of how the hapless Marianne died caused disgust to rise in his throat. Disgust that threatened to take over his entire body, to rally his mind and heart both against the perceived evil standing in this very room. He felt his muscles tense at every other mention of the heinousness of the crime. He channelled this horrible energy into the vote, making his with a strained sigh of relief.

When the culprit spoke again, he was no longer listening. He did not wait for inspiration to strike—he doggedly called upon it himself, and started writing a remembrance piece for the one who deserved it: Marianne Roche.

Like a flower on a roadside field you've been
On a sleepy morning, glistening with dew


The execution began, the spectacle the vicious masses were waiting for—but Daimyon kept writing, tearing his eyes away from the screen. He would not be dragged into anymore madness.

Joyous was every traveller who passed through here
A spot of beauty—that's how they remembered you


One last maniacal cackle sounded as the murderer breathed his last.

Alas, terrible woe loomed ahead
A rogue came and tore you from your bed


A man started speaking, quite loudly. The screen now showed a different courtroom, not unlike the Infinites' own. The words came difficult for Daimyon so he redoubled his efforts, focusing entirely on the pen in his hand and the words in his head.

He ripped out your roots, then hacked your stalk in two
Threw away your petals, left it for the wind that blew
It away, all away...


Familiar yet frightening chords sounded once more: death's music.

Worry not, beautiful flower!
The rogue had no command
O'er the gracious wind that wind to
Fly every petal of yours into the hand
Of those you were kind to

Worry not, beautiful flower!
We will keep your flame
We will remember your name
And when we emerge from hell with glory,
We will tell your story.


The poet closed his notebook with relief. He felt as if a stone had fallen off his heart, and he could finally smile again for the three new Infinites who had just arrived.


Everyone was considerably exhausted by the time they got back to their rooms, Daimyon being no exception. He lay down in his bed almost right away, reading over the pages of his notebook as he had done every night before heading to sleep. The thought of Marianne remained in the back of his mind—the last time he saw her alive was when she had been enquiring about his absence. If only he had known what was going to happen, he would have spent more time with her...

He hoped his poem, small consolation as it was, would reach her in the heavens.


Blissful rest avoided Daimyon for most of the night. An ominous feeling of emptiness, something he could not quite place, kept him awake into the late hours. When he slept, he had no dreams—although he considered that a blessing after all that happened. Rising from the bed still groggy, his attention instinctively turned towards the partly-deciphered diary on his table. It had already taken too much time away from him, and no secret was worth enough to keep him away from the people he cherished. With this newfound determination—and a refreshing shower to get the last vestiges of sleep out of his system—, he left his room to have breakfast.

People filtered in and out of the break room when he arrived and he found no one to really strike a morning conversation up with. That was not a bad thing; like most other people, he was an all-around more pleasant person to be around when he had a full belly. He headed for the kitchen where he found two people: Bliss Buckly, whom he already knew, and Emily Rishima, who was new. He had some catching-up to do, socialising-wise.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said with a smile. “Emily, I don't believe we've met! I'm Daimyon Londe, Infinite Poet, at your service.” He took a small bow. “May I help with anything? Perhaps cooking up something? While I may not be the most talented in the kitchen, I can assure you, my enthusiasm is up there with the best of them!”

Just after this gracious and perhaps somewhat unwise offer was presented, the screens came alive with the unmistakable sound of Monokuma. He introduced three more new Infinites, after the initial bunch yesterday.
“Goodness...our little group is getting expansive, is it not?” A hint of a frown could be spotted on his face which he retracted back into his pacifying smile a mere moment later. “Well! As they say: the more, the merrier, right? Shall we go welcome these new arrivals?”
In Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!) → 6 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


Alice Parker: Killgood's fifth daughter, unloved, name changed to A, wants to be free
Every executed blackened brings her closer to release; we should be at three
Three, the third—is it Shaun? Jezebel thinks so
She presents fast arguments until Krista stops her
She retorts with upright zeal, defending the boy
And so a battle of wits erupts! Quite a stir
Puns and insults, impulse with few results!
As it goes back and forth with force
And then When a voice of reason strikes like yellow lightning!
—red rage consumes it, yelling and fighting
Back! As the accusing eyes fall upon the sharp eyes
Of the recon who vehemently denies
Isaiah! He holds out the key to our salvation!
Ah! But what is this murderous intention?
That I spy in his gaze, this predation?
No consideration, only acceleration
Revelation of secrets, provocation!
Who is he really? Who is Shaun?
What is this flow of accusation?
Such a hopeless situation...
(After this I might need cardiopulmonary resuscitation!)


“...Zachary, I share your desperation!”

Erin Steele...it is true!
The mask falls, the façade is through...
Madness! Madness!
No one is who they seem!
Who can one trust when the dust—
—is cleared?


“Who...?”
In Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!) → 6 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


The debate flowed like a rapid stream with many forks and branches but all ultimately returning to the surging river: which, in this case, was the question of the second Infinite Trickster's identity. The known trickster was not exactly helpful, although no one could blame her. Daimyon would have also certainly been surprised had he found out about another Infinite Poet. Why, he loved to think he occupied a unique position on the grand stage of life, even though it was as much a privilege as it was a prison. He had often felt he was nothing without his rhymes and his poems, that he was destined for a specific fate from the day he had entered this world.

Alas!

Pushing these thoughts away, he refocused on the court. Everyone's motive notes were presented—he apparently had Max's, though he did not give it much attention, considering his busy state these last few days. Noel had his description, a brief but entirely fitting one. Noel...

He snapped back again. Alice's words made him instinctively hit up the e-handbook again, but this time he did not find what he was looking for. He ran through his notebook as well for insurance but found nothing. And yet, the truth bullet was clear as day...

“Excuse my interruption...!” he spoke up. “Who is this Parker you speak of, Alice? I admit to absent-mindedness, but if I'm not mistaken, they have no entry in the e-handbook! Surely Dr. Killgood would be meticulous enough to keep this vital document up-to-date...”
He looked over the group of Infinites, again and again. Everyone was included in the tablet's list, except for this Parker who had apparently witnessed something...
In Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!) → 6 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


Daimyon stayed in the room, hunched over his notebook until the screens came alive again and announced the end of the investigation. Against all impulses, he forced himself to pen the final words—he would have had more to write, but something told him it was not wise to ignore the urging call. Even still he made it to the gathering place last, almost missing the trial. He felt particularly squeamish on the rollercoaster, though not for its twists and turns but the heavy atmosphere that pressed down on the group of Infinites. The poet had always possessed a good intuition, and more often than not the general mood of his surroundings influenced his own, for better or worse.

As they each took their place at their designated podium in the ‘courtroom’ and the discussion began, Daimyon was reminded of something rather crucial. He would have remembered it earlier were it not for the, ah, even more crucial thoughts that had occupied his mind until this very moment. Still, it was no excuse to forget something so much depended on, and that brought the poet another query: why was his mind having so much trouble keeping thoughts in order? Perhaps he had isolated himself too much for his own good. He needed to refocus his priorities; give that mysterious diary a rest.

He would have time to decide on that later. For now, he buried his head in his documents, opening the fourth tab of the e-handbook and pouring over the information in there and matching it up with the observations he had written down in his notebook. He could see that most of the group was already engaged in theorising and hoped that no one would mind his temporary silence. Once he felt a bit more equipped with knowledge, he looked back up, waiting for an opportunity to speak up. He felt obligated to when Mary's words made Shaun's face go red as a beetroot.

“That is no cause for concern! Marianne was also in my room a few times—doesn't mean anything, ahem, happened.” The poet smiled an unassuming smile. “As with me, she must have had an appropriate reason for visiting Shaun as well.” The hapless web designer next to him promptly gave the answer which lit yet another light in his head. “The note! Of course!” With a quick sleight of hand, he pulled out the card nestled inbetween the pages of his notebook and read its words out aloud. “‘They were the original Infinite Trickster, before the current one.’, it says. Why, we already happen to have an Infinite Trickster in our ranks,” he turned to the Infinite with that title, “Jezebel! Might I ask, are you aware of anyone possessing your talent before you?”
In Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!) → 6 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
@Aewin You da real MVP.
In Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!) → 7 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
NOTICE: The ‘Motive Note’ has been updated in the Court Record Truth Bullets section.

paging @Vocab; you were right this time, my bad!
In Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!) → 7 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


The performance ends, and there is great applause. The man on the stage, tall and dressed in a green coat and matching scarf, takes a theatrical bow but remains where he is. He steps up to the microphone, an honest smile on his pale face.

“Thank you! Truly, you are too kind to this humble poet!” He clears his throat, the chilly air having taken its toll on his voice. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have one more surprise in store for all of you!”

He signals backstage, and an older man comes forward with a guitar in hand. There is a surprised cheer from the crowd, especially when the guitarist starts playing some soft opening chords.

“Most know me as a man of words, not melodies,” the poet continues. “But now with the help of an old friend, I am here to show you that the wonders of art know no boundaries!”

The guitarist picks up his tempo as the applause dies down, playing a distinct blues rhythm. The poet begins, not singing, but fitting his words to the instrument:

“The blue sky fell on me like a great hat,
And loyal friend, I had one: the fog.
Amongst full plates, I hungered
Before fiery furnaces, I froze!”


The combination worked very well and created a fantastic atmosphere on the stage and in the audience, who did not expect to hear much music at this gathering.

“...and somewhere among the autumn litterfall
In an old thorn bush, on which only
A sinful star's crooked colour falls:
I, Daimyon Londe, will rest
Blessed and blasphemed everywhere!”


The poet ends the last note with outstretched arms, taking in the final applause.

“And so goes the No Man's Ballad. Thank you!”


Daimyon let out a wistful sigh as he reread the recollection of his last performance before being hospitalised. Illness had struck him down at the worst time; he had been full of energy and vitality, genuinely living a second flush of youth.

He remained hopeful, however, that the ballad would not be Daimyon Londe's swan song. Besides, that was not even what he was looking for when he opened up his trusty notebook; he merely stumbled upon it. He was looking for a different memory, namely the one shedding light to the bunch of unexplained scars tattering his chest. They were small and thin, covered under his shirt and he had only noticed when he had first taken a shower here. Even then he had ignored it until today when he decided that he would finally get to the end of the matter. Smaller accidents and injuries slipping his mind were not uncommon, but if it even had a modicum of importance—and those scars looked like they did—he had recorded it in the notebook.

Alas, that did not seem to be the case. He skimmed the thick document carefully, but it brought no fruition. Resigned, he put it back down on the wooden table, lay back in his chair and breathed out. His eyes wandered back to the other writing sitting conspicuously on the table: the mysterious book he had procured some time ago from the study. The unshakable gut feeling that the piece was vital persisted, and thus he devoted more and more time to it. These recent days, most of his waking moments had been spent trying to crack and understand its secrets; it had him like a man possessed. Even its title was cryptical: he had managed to figure out some additional letters, making it the ‘Ryoshi Membook’ when read together. What became clear at least that it had once been a schoolgirl's personal diary, something certainly not meant to be published. How it got to a hospital library was beyond him, but it just added to the overall eerieness surrounding the book.

Of course, it was not the title that held his interest the most. He had read through the book more thoroughly and found, aside from numerous pages that had been unmistakably ripped out, a few entries that were, for the lack of a better word, censored. Almost every identifiable name in them got plastered over, as well as details of seemingly essential events. Hungry for information and a mind bursting with imagination, Daimyon had decided to restore these pages to the best of his ability, using context cues to assemble the missing pieces of the enigmatic girl's life. He had made good progress already, though unfortunately, it came with the price of him being cut out of the loop with matters concerning the rest of the Infinite group. He had caught bits and pieces of big things going down but generally stayed out of the action.


It would have been the same today too, had he not heard a commotion outside. There had been a few before, but this was the first time that he was not too engrossed in anything else to care about it, not to mention this time the centre of the action seemed to be particularly close. Also, was his nose misguiding him or did he just smell smoke? That was certainly unusual. He stood up from the table and stretched out his numb legs before picking up his e-handbook and opening the door.

The sight of the opposite room wide open with a number of people standing inside registered in the poet's mind at the exact same instant that a terrifying ding hit his ear:
“A body has been discovered. The patients have a limited time to collect evidence before being called into the court of carnage. Do your best everyone!”

“W-what? A...body?” he uttered, an inexplicable force pushing him forward into the room ahead of him. He did not get farther than its door before the image that had been looming in the background as he approached came to the forefront: a woman strung up by her wrists, her write dress bloodied by several—

“—Marianne!” Daimyon exclaimed. She was the only one who he had honestly spoken to in a few days: she had knocked on his door to check on him when he was just getting into his restoration work; he had even noted her thoughtfulness. And now she was...no!

The same force that drove him this far now shut him down completely. He only managed to make it to the corner of the room before he had to lean against the wall for support. He shut his eyes as if to escape from the scene, but the image only got more vibrant in his head. The room also came alive with a cacophony of sounds: people shouting, talking, crying; some entering the room, others leaving in a hurry. The initial shock passed for Daimyon, too, overtaken by crippling...numbness? Why? Why was he not feeling anything? Marianne was important to him...was she not?

It took him several minutes to recompose himself. His incessantly vibrating e-handbook was what snapped him out of it finally; opening it up he saw numerous ‘truth bullets’ already discovered by the more acute Infinites. Of course...that was how things went in Axis Mundi. If you kill, you have to get away with it too.

They were not going to let that happen.

Grasping onto this shot of determination to shake off the numbness, he looked around in the room—the murder scene. He took out his notebook to make some observations but was rather surprised to find out that he had forgotten to bring his pen. Though his room was close, his first instinct was to reach for the desk here to procure a writing instrument. The table, however, was blackened—not unlike the killer—by the fire and there was nothing on it. The room in general was a mess, and Daimyon almost turned around and left for his own. Not before he nearly stepped on something, though: a pink card of some sort lying on the ground nearby, its edges charred but mostly intact. It stuck out sorely from the scene, and the poet found curiosity getting the better of him.

Curiosity had the right idea, for once.

The card had a single sentence written on it:
‘They were the original infinite trickster, before the current one.’

They? Who? Marianne? The Infinite Trickster? That did not sound right—and was entirely too suspicious to be an ordinary writing by the room's owner. He slid it into his notebook for safekeeping; perhaps it would serve a purpose at the trial.

Having also found a replacement pen amongst the scattered debris, Daimyon felt compelled to sit down at the table. He could feel it: the swallow of his imagination was taking flight again. A glance back at Marianne's lifeless body and right then and there, on the burned table, he began penning down a piece.
In Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!) → 7 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


@MyCatGinger

and

@Mateotis

Daimyon did not expect a helpful answer from anyone in the room. That would have been all too easy and life, this master of dramatic plays, usually did not deal with those. In fact he was already mentally prepared for an exhaustive and exhausting search throughout the entire facility, as the small notebook could have hid or been hidden anywhere, by anyone.

...so when a reply that was not simply helpful but affirmative actually came, he was...rather stunned.

“I have.”

It came from Marianne, the Infinite Herbalist, who stood pensively at one of the food counters. The poet quickly walked up to her, his expression a curious mix of relief and apprehension.
“Is that...so? Where have you seen it? Please, it...it's very important to me.”

The herbalist’s eyebrow quirked and she shifted her weight to the balls of her feet as she searched Daimyon’s face. In one arm, she balanced the tray with the meagre breakfast offered to the infinites, whereas the other hand grasped at the cord necklace before trailing down to one of the pockets on her hospital gown, nonchalantly as possible.

“Of course,” she began, her teal eyes curious and catlike blinking up at him, “It could have belonged to anyone, Daimyon. It might not even have been yours…”
That was a blatant lie. Of course it was his. There was literally not a single soul else it could have belonged to. The way the prose flowed, disjointed and—
“Pardon me for asking, Monsieur, but just what is it that is so important about this book? It seems to have you quite...how do you say it, flustered?”

About life not making things easy...
The woman was curious, understandably so—Daimyon could see it on her that she was not used to him being like this.

“Flustered is a great word, if a bit weak for the situation still...” He let out an anxious sigh. “Ah, it is simply of great value to me, both physically and symbolically. It has always been with me and I wrote numberless poems into it throughout the years...truth be told, I feel rather incomplete without it.”

“Poetry, yes.” the herbalist continued skeptically, her arms crossed almost defensively over her chest for the better half of a minute before she took a less threatening stance, body language open and more chilled out. Of course, something about her tone of voice didn't fit, accusatory at best, “...even the best poets probably do not write their works every minute of every day. Infinite Poet or not, Daimyon...something is odd about this notebook.”

Still, she reached into the hospital gown pocket and pulled out the small, tattered brown book. It was in no worse condition than it usually was. In fact, it was almost as if the herbalist took extra care of it whilst it was in her possession, as brief a time as it was.
“I found this on the floor of the resort last night, chéri.”

Her eyelids sank in a curious squint though her pupils narrowed further. Still, she gave the Infinite Poet a deceptively warm smile. She coolly held the notebook out with one hand, the other casually stuffed into one of the pockets of the gown. “I was there for some work after the trial. Is this the notebook you have been looking for, Daimyon Londe?”

The poet waved away Marianne's ‘suspicions’ with a strained laugh.
“You are correct, it's not exclusively for poems. I immortalise plenty of memories, moments worth remembering into it as well—it's quite general purpose, you see!”

Calling the expression on his face a smile would have been generous, but it still did not speak of the thoughts that swirled in his mind upon one realisation: she had read into it. He did not blame her...okay, he did, because privacy and whatnot, but he was much angrier at himself for apparently dropping the precious document in the resort. Despite everything, however, his eyes shone with undoubted relief upon seeing that it was indeed his notebook Marianne was holding. Perhaps this living nightmare would be over sooner than he thought...

“Yes! Oh, haha, that is it indeed...thank you, Marianne.”
He reached out to take back his possession.

...but where he should have felt no resistance, the fingers of one Marianne Roche remained tightly clutching to the little brown book, her head cocked to the side but with much less of a smile and a much more worried expression than she had allowed herself for the entirety of their conversation.

“I would like to know what is going on, if you please, Monsieur Londe.”

Although the herbalist did not let go, he held his hand on the notebook, looking into her eyes in a silent plea that bore no fruit. His hand soon fell to his side, however, his head slumped and he let out a defeated sigh. He knew he could have tried to deflect the issue, but from the determination that emanated from the woman, he also realised that there would be no pleasant result to that.
“Very well,” he spoke in a quieter tone. “Not here, though. Let's...my room, yes, that should be sufficiently private. Let's go there.”


Marianne found herself staring blankly at the ceiling of the Infinite Poet's bedroom, her dark hair in a mess and sprawled all around her form as she lay on her back on his bed, the only part of her seemingly belonging to the setting being the hospital gown, only barely hanging onto her frame because of th—!
The gears in her head turned slowly and she found her lips parted, almost panting softly as she tried to form words again and again, but somehow coherence was lost on her.

“Wow...is that really, really...true, Daimyon?”

Daimyon stood, his arms crossed low on his chest and eyes idly fixated on the floor next to the bed, carefully examining every speck that dotted it. His posture was slouched, making his tall figure appear shorter—as if it was a deliberate attempt to somehow disappear entirely from the room and from existence for a while.
“...yes. I...guess you could have figured it out by yourself, given time with that notebook...but yes. Are you happy now?”

“Yes and no.” the young woman sat up with a little wince, taking the opportunity to let her eyes scan the poet's figure. He seemed dejected, and why wouldn't he be? She was glad but...not quite in the way she had wanted to be.
“I'm glad you told me. I was thinking you were a minion of Davis, or something like that. Still, chéri…”

She soundlessly stepped off the bed and closed the distance between her and the taller man. Her eyes didn't leave his for a second, even as she leaned in closer and…
...put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a warm pat.
“I don't know what to say. ...I did want to be wrong, but not like this. I am very, very sorry. Does anyone...know?”

The poet tensed when feeling her touch; a few seconds had to pass before he could relax himself at least enough to answer her.
“No one, as far as I'm aware. I wish you didn't either. But alas! Life is cruel, its paths leading us to unknowing doom. Still, hah...” He allowed himself a chuckle, despairful as it was. “...silver linings, they are always there for me. But you'll have to promise that you...stay silent on the matter.”

He finally looked at her again, much in the same way as he had done in the break room, now also giving the expression voice:
“...please, Marianne.”

“I promise not to tell a soul, so long as I am alive and you do not wish me to.” she chuckled hollowly. It was funny, to talk about life and death in this place. You never knew which one was out to get you in Axis Mundi. “But if you…” she found her voice trailing off, lost on the idea for a handful of seconds. “...if you die here, what would you will me to do then, Daimyon?”

“Quite the question, hah...” he noted, but found no reason not to answer. “Death doesn't end everything. People, we Infinites especially, leave behind legacies...I hope to leave one behind, too. And I want it to be for my poems...not for anything else.”

“Then this secret will die with us.”

The Infinite Herbalist searched his face, though couldn't keep the melancholy from her own. She carefully reached her hands out, shaking a little, as she took his face into them, gingerly tilting his head down to look at her again. It seems he had been avoiding her gaze for a large part of the conversation, and...only met her gaze when he wanted something.
“...did it not make you feel...alone, Daimyon?”

“I...dare say I was blessed with a powerful imagination. It...helps bearing through it all.”
His lips curled into a small smile. His words were right on more levels than she thought—the scent of nature's perfume on her was very apparent now that she was this close, especially the minty smell of her hands on his face. As he closed his eyes for just a moment, he found himself in a flower garden, bright and lush. Just the sight helped alleviate the leaden despair that sat on him.
“...it really helps.”

“I also promise to try and help that.” Marianne couldn't help but smile a very peculiar smile at noticing his serene expression. ...he was so vulnerable like this. It was definitely different to see someone relax, in this tense atmosphere. It was...familiar.
Seizing the opportunity, she gently thumbed over his bottom lip before her arms moved around the taller man's neck, and he could feel her body pressed flush against his as she (on her tiptoes) gave him as protective an embrace as she could manage.
“I promise you will not have to be alone anymore, Daimyon Londe.”

His smile was only broken for a moment by a surprised look as Marianne, quite suddenly, hugged him, before it returned to extend on his face wider than ever. His mind failed him this once—he had no idea what made the woman do such thing, but he did not complain. He wrapped his arms around her to answer the gesture, giving her a few gentle pats on the back.
“You see...life is cruel at times, but...it's also a hell of a story writer.”

He let them linger like this for a few more precious seconds before finally breaking away. Daimyon straightened out his clothing with a few quick motions and once again stood up tall, his hands tied behind his back—his signature stance, and the lively smile returned to his face.
“Thank you for everything. In a way, I'm...glad it was you who found it. Now...” He swiped up the opened notebook from the table, closed it and smoothly slid it into his shirt pocket. “...I don't know about you, but I am rather hungry! Shall we head back to the break room?”

“Ah! Most definitely! I find myself quite famished…!” the herbalist replied when the couple’s hug came to a close, her attention being torn away from the corner of a neatly folded piece of paper jutting out of the notebook that just disappeared into Daimyon’s shirt pocket. A kind of heat rushed to her cheeks with a stray thought and made her a smidgen giddy, even as she nodded enthusiastically up at her companion. He had ‘rescued’ her when she first landed in this place. It was only a matter of happy coincidence that she could do something similar for him. “Somehow, in this place, I never seem to be able to have a proper breakfast. Perhaps that will change today. ...after you, Daimyon. May your smile never cease and your silver linings never fail you.”

In Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!) → 7 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

In his dream Daimyon walked a long, winding road embedded onto a vast hillside. The sight of encompassing greenery accentuated by a few rocky peaks rising above, the hushing sound and breezing touch of the wind that fluttered the many blades of grass—it was all exceptionally vivid. The hill, however, did not give any cause for wonder and awe: without as much of a tree or a even a colourful flower in sight, it was rather drab. The sky was cloudy, the sun did not shine to guide the traveller's path. And yet he went on, tired but driven forward by an inscrutable force.

Something struck out at the side of the dirt road that caught his eyes right away. An injured white swallow writhed in the grass, a tiny flash of red trickling down its wing. Daimyon stopped and knelt down beside it right away.
“Oh no...who did this to you, little friend?”
He murmured, gently gathering the bird in his hands. Before he could pick it up, though, it cried out in pained chirps which made him withdraw.
“Oh hmm...let me see what I can do for you...”

His attire was a loose-fitting set of worn brown garments, and he tore a sheet of cloth from the arm to fashion a bandage for the small wound. Holding the swallow, he carefully wrapped it around its wing and fastened it. The bird seemed to respond favourably, trying right away to flap its wings. It looked like it only needed a little help.
“There you are, friend. Ah, I wish I could stay with you until you fully heal, but I've no doubt you're also aching for the skies...come on, then!”
He picked it up, this time without resistance, taking one last moment to marvel in its pure beauty, before he extended his arms and...


...let out a groan as he woke up. His limbs felt heavy but his head felt the heaviest, like he had spent the entire last day memorising ancient Greek classics. He had to stay lying for a few more minutes before he could even sit up, though thankfully the dull ache cleared quickly. Suddenly feeling much brighter, he stretched out his numb arms and legs and reached for his notebook on the bedside table.

...and caught nothing but air.

His heart sank and his head turned so quickly that his neck almost broke into it. Despite his best attempts he was not an orderly man, but there were a few things he never forgot to do—such as placing the small book onto the table every night before heading to sleep. And yet, this morning, the plain brown table was empty.
He sprung up like he was shot out from the barrel of the gun and began frantically searching around in his room. The usual sense of composure and easy-going attitude that he had usually emanated was nowhere to be seen right now as he turned everything upside down amidst panicked murmurs to himself. He checked everywhere he could: under the bed, on the writing table—which actually had two books on it but not his notebook—, the wardrobe—including going through the pockets of every single outfit stored in there—, the bathroom, he even opened up the first-aid kit in a desperate last-ditch effort.

To no avail. His notebook, his trustworthy companion throughout the years, his treasure trove of poems and memories and so much more, was nowhere to be found.
And to rub salt in the wound, his pen got lost with it.

He sat back down on his bed, and tried to recover from the shock. Without the sole anchor of familiarity in this unknown place among unknown faces, the unruly tides threatened to push him out to the endless sea, never to find shore again. He took deep breaths, whispering ‘calm down’ time and time again. Words did not work this time however, and he had to take a cold shower to regain at least some of his presence of mind. Once out and dressed, he grabbed his e-handbook—which was still at its place, or else he would have really lost his mind—and browsed it for a few minutes before getting out of his room and walking down towards the break room.

The long hallway was quiet, but the break room was lively—in the sense that there were people in there, not that those people were in any way qualified for the definition. The morning daze still hung over most, although some discussions were already ongoing. Daimyon, however, was not here for any of that: he was not in the mood for chatter, he did not feel hungry, and even Jezebel's ‘affection stand’ was not something he considered in the moment.

“H-has anyone seen my notebook?”
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