psych0pomp

*✧･ﾟ:* ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ *:･ﾟ✧*

Whelp. Thought I refreshed before posting. Give me a few minutes to edit the post.
Good first impression, me.

And edited.

*✧･ﾟ:* ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ *:･ﾟ✧*

𝕃𝕠𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟: 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓒𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓷 𝓜𝓪𝓷𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷
𝕀𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟(𝕤): 𝓜𝓲𝓻𝓪, 𝓜𝓪𝓻𝓴, & 𝓒𝓵𝓪𝓻𝓪

“If you don’t stop wiggling, I will break arm more. Eh?” Sterling stated, gripping the bloodied arm of a child that couldn’t have been more than twelve, but no younger than three. He was bad with ages. The child calmed down, and his doe-like blue eyes pushed against the witch’s pleading. His mother’s shadow loomed over them both, Sterling perched precariously on a short stool that barely supported him.

He wrapped the arm in an old satin blanket that had come from the “old country,” or at least that is what he said. It actually had wrapped some kolackzi from another client. Still, it was a good way to hide whatever he was doing. The mauve tassels of the blanket bobbed from the faint breeze that moved through the apartment, with its old wooden floors, oppressive marmalade-colored walls, heavy crown molding, and geometric wooden panels over the windows. It didn’t help that Sterling hung numerous herbs from the ceiling, not all of them medicinal. There was a faint scent of oud wood that hung in the air, but beyond that, there was sterility to everything. The child looked away from Sterling and back at his mother. The witch used that moment to grip the child’s arm and twist with his fingers. The child let out a yelp and jerked his arm from Sterling. His eyes were bubbling with tears. Sterling just tugged the blanket away to reveal the misshapen curve of his forearm was gone. There was no sound of grinding bones when the child moved it. The only tell that there was anything wrong with his arm before was the swelling. “Make sure he drinks plenty of juice. And none of that sugary głupie gadanie, eh?” The mother didn’t know whether to cover her son’s ears or not, but she fished some bills from her pockets and placed them on one of the ancient pieces of furniture before leaving.

Sterling stood and grabbed the wad of cash. He thumbed through it disgruntled. It was sad to say that he was cheaper than the American healthcare system, but he wasn’t that cheap. She’d shorted him twenty dollars. Fortunately, Val had decided to bunk down with him, and she was an endless fount of money. It wasn’t something he wished to take advantage of, but he was boarding her, feeding her, and training her. He’d be an idiot not to take anything. Still, he did pull out a ten-dollar bill and lay it on her schoolbooks.

Val was currently in the shower, the old pipes rumbling through the apartment. He knocked heavily on the door. “I’m off. Make sure to lock door. And keep water off of floor. I nearly died last night.”
“You nearly die all the time, GG. You’re old and fat. I’m surprised you don’t keel over just going up a hill.”
“I love you too, so I left you money on books. It’s not enough to fix attitude, though. So, just get burrito.”
“Should I stop by the coven after school?”

“Yes, but this time actually study. No flirting with girls.” Sterling yelled through the door before leaving, locking the front door on the way out. He sighed into it as the stout smell of old beer and vomit from the hall in the building hit his nostrils. He slid his shoe underneath the rug outside the door to see that his runes were still intact. It’d been some time since he’d seen witch hunters, but he’d been getting some troubling reports recently from the pigeons. He needed to keep both himself and Val safe.

Sterling tapped his shoes on the mat right inside the Rosenthal Coven’s mansion door. There was nothing on them, but it was an old habit that he’d picked up from living in rundown houses most of his life. It was always muddy on his trek to the door. He glanced around, the odd hum of conversation tickling his ear. Usually, people were still mired in their cups of coffee during the morning, but the hum of energy was—different. He pulled his London Fog coat further onto his person, it was a brick red with thin gray lines running through it. He had a gray suit on underneath, with a black dress shirt and deep red tie cinched tightly around his neck. It all looked in order, but the fashion was that of a tenured professor at a community college—if that was something that existed. His tallow hair was less messy than usual but still came forward in slight waves—trimmed neatly on the sides. Those pale locks ran into his glasses which obscured his eyes. There was a bulge in his top left jacket pocket from his tarot deck, another bulge in his bottom right pocket from his wallet and keys, and then a general bulge of his midsection which pushed his gray waistcoat out making diamond-like gaps from his dress shirt between the buttons.

He moved through the hallway with deliberation, one hand in his coat pocket and the other holding an apple. Inevitably, he found the source of the conversation. His brows may have risen in surprise as he rounded the corner to see everyone gathered in the kitchen. “What in nine hells?” he asked under his breath. There was Clara, who was well-mannered and good-natured. He also got a good handful of ingredients from her. Then there was Mark. Mark from a long-standing family of blah blah blah. He didn’t care. Sterling didn’t have much regarding lineage to lean on here, his family old and blooded in Poland. But that didn’t mean he had to respect the young man. Then there was Mira, strapped with the unfortunate duty of dealing with a group of assholes—himself included.

“Ms. Andrul, you will let me know if you need me to get high spots again, eh?” He asked, noting her cleaning supplies. "Everyone seems to be standing around for reason, yes? Why?"

^{𝕋𝕒𝕘(𝕤): @CleverUsername @MagratheanWhale @Inertia}

*✧･ﾟ:* ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ *:･ﾟ✧*

Sterling VanCise

ℕ𝕒𝕞𝕖

Stijn "Sterling" VanCise

𝔸𝕘𝕖

101

𝔾𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣

Male

𝕊𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕖𝕤

Witch

𝕄𝕒𝕘𝕚𝕔 𝕊𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕒𝕝𝕥𝕚𝕖𝕤

𝓒𝓱𝓲𝓻𝓾𝓻𝓰𝔂 - Back in the old country, they didn't call it such a delicate name. It was called "flesh stitching." And despite its name, that was exactly what it was. More precisely, Sterling has the ability to perform surgery with his bare hands. He mostly uses it to heal the wounded, graft flesh, or tend to organs, but it can be used as a weapon as well. Unfortunately, he has to be able to use his hands—his fingers more accurately—to wield the ability. Meaning that if someone has decided to come after Sterling, they've decided to come after his hands.
𝓐𝓵𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓶𝔂 - A more common art of magic, he was taught from a young age what herbs to mix with what to get what one wanted. Not interested in transmuting iron to gold, he uses it more to help facilitate his other healing abilities. Something to numb the pain, something to bring back appetite, something to stop the infection, and sometimes more cosmetic ones for the rough state that his chirurgy leaves the skin.
𝓒𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓸𝓶𝓪𝓷𝓬𝔂 - Sterling uses the cards that once belonged to his mother, an old Polish tarot deck. He's not good at divining any fate other than misfortune—which has been unfortunately useful in his life.

ℙ𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕠𝕟𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪

The bags under his eyes aren't there just for decor, they're where he carries his sour mood. Sardonic and indifferent are the two words that could easily describe him. He's quick to dismiss and scoff at things that aren't any of his concern. When asked for his advice—why would do that, honestly—he'll spit the most obvious thing from his lips. It doesn't matter if it's insulting. It's the truth, laced with all the vinegar of borscht and just as pretty, too. It's not as if Sterling is beyond compassion, it's just piled underneath flake layers of dried molten that used to pour from a wellspring of his warmth. Now he only gives it to those that he views as worthy of his compassion. And "worthy" is an odd way to put it. It isn't quantitated based on personal wealth, status, or otherwise. There's a different equation there. One that many people have tried to figure out, only to be let down.

𝔸𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖

He used to be a very attractive man. Sun-kissed blond hair, pale green eyes, and a svelte form that could have been on the front page of any magazine. But his power had its price, and that coupled with the stress of keeping himself financially afloat has taken its toll.

Standing at 6'3", Sterling can fill the place of your door in the frame. If his skin has seen a lick of sun, you wouldn't be able to tell. Distilled green irises are vibrant against his almost gray sclera—a haunting change from its once leafy green set against a pale cloud. An aquiline nose slopes into full lips. He has a crooked smile but it hides a straight row of white teeth. His blond hair is a messy pile on top of his head. It's odd because he takes the time to get it shortened on the sides and layered on the top. Then he does nothing with it. He wears thick tortoiseshell glasses, though it's hard to say why as his sight doesn't seem bad—and if it was, he's since corrected it. Maybe it's to bring a pop of color to his haunting eyes. A strong chin, once seemingly carved from marble, is soft around the edges.

That leads down to broad shoulders, muscular arms covered in arcane tattoos, and down to large hands with agile digits. He's barrel-chested, and a threat to all his button-up shirts, with a gut where his once Adonis-like abs were adorned. He has long legs usually clad in some form of dress pants. Never assume you'll see him in jeans or—heaven forbid—shorts. He's always dressed like he's going to a funeral or the world's most macabre date. Sterling slouches more than he should, having grown accustomed to ramming his head into every cabinet door. He's unassuming until you get a closer look and see that he's a piece of art barely held together with a heaping of plaster and paint.

ℍ𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

The son of a Polish witch and a Dutch gambler—not his true profession, but it's the one that had the most impact on Sterling's life. He spent most of his formative years in Poland, not able to travel to the Netherlands for some reason his father never fully explained. His mother was the matriarch of the house and everything within it was to her liking. She wasn't a cruel woman, but she didn't have any maternal instincts. Sterling may have taken to vodka at too young an age. What the young boy did remember was that his mother would sit him in front of a piano, with a needle and thread, or with bread dough. He'd have to practice small, minute movements for hours on end. Sometimes she'd disappear when someone would enter their home—passing the dried herbs that hung like chandeliers from the ceiling. Screaming would commence, but the person would leave thanking his mother for the torture that they endured. He didn't understand it until he was older. This was a good pain. And that his life would be filled with the bad kind.

They had to move to the US suddenly and without being able to take much beyond a few of his mother's books and his father's watches. Suddenly, Sterling had to acclimate to a new culture and language. He was also to keep quiet on the legality of them being there. His mother was devastated at the loss of occult knowledge and artifacts from their quick escape. It was something that she never forgave Sterling's father for, and no sooner had they arrived than they relocated—just him and his mother this time. She soon went about teaching him the ways of the "flesh stitchers." That along with the potion magic that she always seemed to be brewing. Her kitchen was a test of whether or not one could tell the difference between a pig-blood potion and a beet stew. Sterling was wrong more than he was right.

Though he was able to receive a proper education, anything higher than public schooling couldn't be achieved by legal status. Around that time WWII had started. They had been lucky to get out of Poland on a lark, instead of being dragged into the theater of war. Unfortunately, during that time he lost many friends and a few that he'd classify as more than that, but not in a public setting. He and his mother's little kitchen clinic drummed a lot of business up around that time. That was until his mom contracted tuberculosis and passed. Without legality on their side, and his mother having paid cash for everything, Sterling couldn't keep their house. He instead headed out, having to move in with his father at that time.

The city was not quite what he expected it to be. His father was mostly absentee but had a cash flow that was scary in its amount and irregularity. So, Sterling used it to take a break from the macabre of his family's witchy practices. A few years later the war ended, and the soldiers came home. Around that time, Sterling's father failed to come home himself. A few more nights passed before his door was beaten down by a local gang that his father owed a lot of money to. They were lenient on Sterling—as in they didn't kill him outright—and put him to work as a gopher. During one fateful night and one bad gig went wrong, Sterling saved a very rich man's daughter that they'd been extorting money from by using his magic. Of course, Sterling just made it look like he was quick with the first aid, but the daughter knew better. Realizing Sterling's "medical" aptitude would be useful, the criminal organization put him to use as their own personal physician, and realizing she owed him his life, Hester Montgomery made it a point to schedule him into hers regularly. That, of course, turned into a whirlwind romance.

The fine minutiae of that time would be lost to faulty memories and too much alcohol. But there came a time when Sterling had worked off his father's debt and thought about proposing to Hester. Of course, like any good Romeo and Juliet love story, it had to end in tragedy. Fortunately, it was not the bloody kind. Instead, she became engaged to the eldest son of an equally wealthy family and Sterling never saw her again. Not knowing what to do, he did what he knew best—he became a back-alley doctor. There he was found out by the Rosenthal Coven and joined them with the understanding that his business was to use subterfuge to keep the witch hunters at bay.

Years would pass, Sterling would age—but not really. He'd use the mastery of his own power to retain some form of youth. He'd have a few more dalliances, but them along with his life experiences would begin to dwindle. That would be until he learned about one Valentine Montgomery-Hunter, the grandchild of his and Hester's secret love. Val had suddenly exhibited something close to magic, and she'd been given an address from her late great-grandmother's belongings. As if things couldn't be worse, he now had a teenager living with him.

Blades of the Blood Coast

And listen, all anyone has to say is "I need more time, I have life stuff" and I would gladly extend it. It's when I'm not being told anything that it looks like people just aren't posting, but just let me know and I will always give people as much time as they need :)

@POOHEAD189

Understandable! If I had better judged my week, I would have let you known that things would have been busy. But I thought I had time on Thursday, and then sleep was like: NOPE. I got the COVID booster on Friday, and I napped so hard today. But I feel a lot better than I did after the second shot. Yikes on bikes.

Anyway! I'll be more on top of telling you about my schedule. But, in the meantime, have a Migi post.

Blades of the Blood Coast

Who could have told Migi that in a few days’ time, she’d be sitting at a table in a busy tavern? Surely, the shackled, stinking, and sore burrahob would have woven a different story for herself, especially when that one fellow burst open from the plague. She tried not to think about it. Much like lice, it’d lead her to scratch, and she didn’t need to do that here. There were too many skin flakes floating around in the air already.

Migi barely paid the goings-on around her any mind as she hoisted the mug with mead to her parched lips and gulped it down like a land bound fish inhaled water. Then she went about chewing on the heel of the bread, stuffing her cheeks in a squirrel-like manner as she did. The others’ keen eyes might have caught more onto what was happening, but hers only saw nourishment.

Her enrapt attention was pulled away by a commotion outside. She took a long drink as she watched heads bob out the window and a man enter with a whole carton of something. Whatever it was, the barmaid seemed absolutely delighted. Migi narrowed her eyes. A secretive shipment that was honestly—she looked around—not that secret. Still, there seemed to be no easy way to get whatever was in the container. Migi wasn’t a stranger to tariffs and bans. She knew all about smuggling and the like. She shouldn’t be so surprised that this far out that the flow of goods and economy hiccupped as hard as a bread-filled drunk. Much like herself if she didn’t pace herself any better.

She sat down her flagon as Raddek found space between them. He spoke of a few things needing to be done in return for rooms. Migi hesitated and gave herself a sniff. She didn’t know if she was up for those sorts of deals, but honestly, they could probably throw her in a well and she’d be primed and rearing to go. It’d been a while, the sails could use a good unfurling.

It was then that Raddek stated what they needed to do to earn those rooms—it was manual labor. Migi scoffed. “I’d rather have my flower plucked than do what sounds boring leg work. But if I must choose one, let’s do the one with beer. I don’t care for some espionage. It’s not like I blend in that easily, well, I do if no one looks down.” She snickered. “I miss the days of exploding things for coin. What I wouldn’t give to see a good fire. The flame. The chaos. The screams of—” she paused “—dried wood letting out their last bits of air.”

Rolls

None

Blades of the Blood Coast

I've been slammed all week with work stuff, and I had seized last night for myself. I was all ready to write a post. And I fell asleep on my couch with laptop in hand. Whelp. I've gotten old. So sorry about that. I had a bit of it written, and I'll try to finish it up and submit it.

Young Justice

Bex’s usually aloof expression broke for a moment as her teammate fought the word “babe” as if it killed his entire family. Oh boy… She had heard that the team was a hodgepodge of life experiences, and she’d heard their attempt at idle conversation. It was obvious that they weren’t the most talented at being “normal,” but this was—hilarious, to say the least. Hey, she was playing nice, and it was being reciprocated. This might be more fun than she’d first thought.

So, now in fake-girlfriend-mode, Bex lifted her arms up to cheer him on. Honestly, she had no idea how he’d do. She could destroy the machine if she wanted, so it wasn’t as if she could be easily impressed. But ding went the bell, and Bex let out a cheer. She even kicked her foot up for good measure, her ponytail waving like a pendulum behind her back. She watched from afar as he almost mechanically took the bear away from the wall of winnings and walked back to give it to her. No, it wasn’t as if he handed it over in a normal manner, more like he was a service robot moving a part from one conveyor line to the other. Shame, Bex noted. She bet he could put those hips to good use.

Still, she scooped up the bear and squeezed it close to her body. She could already feel pieces of thing sloughing off onto her sweatshirt. “You were once Daf’s boyfriend, too? Wow, buddy, you sure do get around. Ever hold Zach’s wand?” She whispered, deciding to get in on this game.

It was then that her pocket buzzed, and she wrangled the massive bear in one arm while she fished her phone out. Glancing over Daphne’s message, she brought the bear up to her face—squeezing it tight into the frame—as she took a selfie with the High Striker in the background. She sent that over. A picture was worth the wasted time she'd spend with words.

“Speaking of which, she just texted. She grabbed some food, how about—“ Bex was interrupted by Daphne’s arrival. It was quite timely. She was with the other one. She narrowed her eyes, trying to remember her name. Fortunately, she didn't have to ponder it too long as Daphne offered up some food. Bex took the basket, trading the bear as she did so. "We're in Gotham, so you know these bad boys have extra heart attack fried into them." She bit into the corndog eyeing Sexy Eeyore. "So, while we're playing pretend. I'm curious, what's everyone's relationship situation? I don't like taking someone's sloppy seconds." She winked.

^{INTERACTION(S) | Daph @dreamingflowers & "Sexy Eeyore" @FunnyGuy & "What's Her Name" @Mistress Dizzy}

Firefly - Second 'Verse

^{What has Rex been up to this entire time?}

Rex woke up; his cheek was hot and somewhat sticky. His mouth was agape, and that was verified by his sore throat and dry tongue. Of course, it said nothing of the headache that thrummed right behind his eyes. He groggily stirred and rolled over, his long arm slapping against flesh. A grunt came out, and the hum of fan blades barely moving the air was the only other sound in the room. He opened his eyes and smacked his lips—mouth tasting like he’d licked sour milk.

The wooden paneled room with its equally wooden flooring was suffocating. A small window gave a hint of the sunlight that was outside behind thick, mauve curtains. The motes of dust danced around as sluggishly as he did. Rex threw a leg over the side of the bed, and his foot connected with what he thought was the ground. Instead, it was a glass bottle. It rolled underneath the arch of his foot and shot out from behind him—sending him into the bedside table. One moment he was catching himself in the mirror and the next his head collided with the sharp edge of the wooden table. He flailed helplessly, grabbing a hold of the curtain. It couldn’t hold his weight and clattered to the ground with him.

The other members of the room awoke, groaning and grunting as they pulled themselves from the thrall of bunched, sweaty sheets. Two heads poked over the side to get a good look at Rex splayed out on the floor, the curtain draped over his long form. “I saw it in the window, and I thought it’d look good on me,” he grunted out, the injury to his head adding to his headache.

One of the figures giggled, her blonde ringlets still angelically curled around her face. Rex didn’t know how she did. Black magic, maybe? The other was an older man who just rolled his eyes and pulled himself up. “Don’t tell me that I have to pay for that as well?” he asked.

“It looks like there are just hooks up there. I should be able to,” Rex started to say as he was pulling himself up. He choked the vomit in his throat down. Concentrate on the task at hand. Thirty-seven times nine is… he ran that math in his head as he steadied himself. While his head throbbed, he was able to crunch the numbers like gears grinding in an old ship. Three-hundred-and thirty-three. Wait? That right? He ran the computation again, grabbing the curtain from the ground and threading it over the hooks. It was as good as new… ish. As he admired it, his tired brain confirmed that was the correct amount. Rex had always been the smart one.

“See,” he said, gesturing towards the curtain. “I told you I could fix it.”

The man already had his pants on and was currently tucking in his shirt. His salt and pepper hair was messy, but the angelic woman was quickly running her fingers through it—as naked as the day she was born. “I suppose. You should just stick with,” he trailed off, waving his hand at the bed loosely, “and leave the higher arts to the ones that it comes naturally to. Isn’t that right, Trinket?” His face lit up as he glanced at the much younger woman. They were a married couple, and he was a prominent salesman of a food distribution company. Apparently, he’d come for—fish. It seemed like something that could be handled through a third party, but Rex figured the man was the sort that enjoyed getting his hands dirty. Rex could attest to that sentiment; his legs were going to hurt for a few days. These sorts of dalliances weren’t really well looked upon in certain societies, and there was always the sort that’d find him and his young wife out. So, why not handle business elsewhere? Get a taste for travel and other things.

Rex didn’t mind, though he hadn’t quite thought that was where his day was going yesterday. He’d finished fixing the logs, changing the numbers up, and tending to some things around the ship before leaving the China Doll to grab a drink. He’d fully intended on coming back to his cabin, but instead, one drink led to two led to six led to the bedroom with this couple. He hoped Cal or the like hadn’t been looking for him. Though, they were bound to have questions. Rex rubbed his sore head, feeling where the goose egg was going to raise up as the day went on. Could he say that someone mugged him?

The man fished out some platinums from the deep pockets of his coat and threw them into the bed. “I like to make sure I show my gratitude,” he said, straightening the collar of his coat. His wife was already dressed, Rex noted. She’d practically slipped into her dress like a fish into the water. It was amazing, really. Trinket was perfectly coifed with a giggle and the smell of roses.

Rex looked around the aftermath of a night of debauchery for his pants to tuck the platinum into. He realized he’d have to drop the mugging story if he planned on pocketing the money. Maybe he was mugged, then he hunted down his assailants and the local law enforcement paid him a pretty coin for their capture? That sounded feasible, right? Rex didn’t care to find backup for his story. He just wanted to find his pants. The sun was… up… and he probably needed to make an appearance at the China Doll lest they think he was dead, or Cal thought he’d abandoned him—again.

“This never happened, by the way,” Trinket said with a smile. She was adjusting her garter belt, and Rex caught that her statement was not just punctuated by words but also a thin blade tucked into the frills. When in the nine hells had she put that back on? Where was it last night? Rex must have been getting lax in his old age. He wanted to applaud the older gentleman. The marriage wasn’t just for arm candy, it was for protection as well.

“What happened? I just got drunk and fell asleep, and you two were nice enough to lend me your room.” Rex smiled, finding his pants, and sliding them on. He glanced down, realizing he’d need to wear something a little less revealing today. There were too many hickeys to say that he’d also fallen into the sea and gotten accosted by the largest of cephalopods.

The man gave his first semblance of emotions as he smiled and winked at Rex. “Right. We’re nothing but good Samaritans, aren’t we Trinket?” She nodded, dropping the hem of her dress, and latching onto his arm. Then they were gone. Just like that, out the door as if no time had lapsed at all. Where, on the other hand, Rex looked as if he’d been in a brawl with the business end of a wet mop.

Using the mirror, he dressed and fixed his hair. He ran a hand over his beard, realizing that he needed to give it a trim. Making the bed and pocketing the platinum, Rex slid out of the room long after the high-born couple had. He slunk down the stairs and out of the inn. Barely anyone was awake, and they surely hadn’t had their coffee to connect the wires on what he’d been up to.

A shower later in the China Doll along with a change of clothes, and Rex was bandaging his head in the makeshift mirror. He’d trimmed his beard and the hair on top of his head and applied some light cologne to get the smell of booze off him—hopefully. He was still more than a little drunk. The best cure for a hangover was always more alcohol. Lucky eyed him out of the shadow of his cage. Rex glanced back, catching that there was the refuse of food that he hadn’t given the bird. “You’re judging me for my actions when I’m not the one showing off my pretty feathers for treats. Who was it? The small one with the clipboard? The pilot? That haggard deckhand? The doctor?” He paused. “Oh. Was it the doctor? You must tell me if it was her. Too much pretty to be shackled with those brains.”

The bird just let out a gravelly noise from his beak.

“Don’t tell me you bit them?” He narrowed his eyes at Lucky. “Nah. You would never. You love treats too much.” He extended his hand, resting it on top of the opened cage door. Lucky took a few sidesteps and nuzzled into his palm. “Sorry, I promise I won’t leave you without company again.” Lucky nibbled his fingers. “I’ll let you pick. But it’s not going to be the pilot.” He nipped Rex’s hand. “Hey, be nice, or it’ll be Cal.”

After some time, Lucky managed to con him into taking him along. He climbed up Rex’s broad shoulder and slid in behind his ear, resting against the crevice between his ear and neck. The bird let out a few happy chirps as Rex pulled his jacket on, creating a nice cozy, resting place for him. Rex also put on a deep purple shirt that he fully buttoned up. It covered most of his neck, and only a sliver of a hickey protruded from the top of it. It was the best he could do without throwing a scarf around his neck, which would just draw suspicion. Now, he’d just look nice for dinner—or whatever time it was. Either way, it wasn’t too late for coffee.

Rex pulled himself up the ladder and into the hallway of the China Doll, making his way to the galley. There he brewed himself a large cup of instant coffee from whatever powered mixture they had. He then sat down at the table to sip it. Unfortunately, he didn’t get very far in before he fell asleep, chin resting on top of his palm. Lucky took that moment to crawl out from his jacket and perch atop his head, ever alert for any intruders.

The Masque of the Dragon || Fantasy Dragons hiding among Humans

Bastia

𝔑𝔞𝔪𝔢

Bastia the Terror - Bastia Aescau

𝔄𝔤𝔢

101 - 28

𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯

Female

𝔇𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔬𝔫 𝔄𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢

A long, thin dragon with teal scales accompanied with black barbs and blood red highlights. There are hammerhead-like horns that jut out perpendicular from its head, shadowing its blood-red eyes and black teeth. Its wings expand out like a bat's with red spines at the ends for spearing and grappling. There are only two legs on the body that are raptor-like in build. Those fierce talons are rarely seen except when latching onto prey and dragging them to rend their flesh from bone. A long tail, adorned with black spines, spills from its body, coiling and bobbing like an interested cat. Bastia moves fast and without remorse, taking to shadows and ruins with the expertise of any other cloaked hunter.

ℌ𝔲𝔪𝔞𝔫 𝔄𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢

Bastia is not a dainty veneer of a human woman. She's cut like broken glass, twisting edges that may bring blood if not held correctly. Black, short hair wreaths around her pale, gray-tinged skin. Her face is marred with slivers of red scars and illuminated by porcelain blue eyes. Her lips are full and crooked, but her teeth are straight and white. Her aquiline nose juts out with a smattering of freckles over the bridge. Her body is wreathed in viperous muscles, prominent and not pretty. Her nails are bloody around the edges, and her palms are constantly wrapped in bandages. She clads herself in gothic armor with a seductive cut to allow what feminity she posses to pour out in the way of an ample bosom and strong hips. She wears a sword on one hip, a chain whip on the other, and has a blade tucked into her gauntlet.

𝔓𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔗𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔰

Sardonic and crass define the words that pour from Bastia's lips. Her voice may be a creamy velvet, but its contents are that of the darkest vitriol. She chews and spits out those that she views as weaker than herself. Yet, her pride isn't all-consuming. She'll let anyone prove their worth. Just don't expect her to play fair. Bastia will win no matter the cost, and take her pound of flesh with glee. She's loyal to her friends, however few and far between they are and enjoys keeping those bridges unlit. Quick to drink and laugh, but not in a manner that would be viewed as warm. She's a cold, dark breeze with wit and off-putting charm for days.

𝔐𝔞𝔤𝔦𝔠 & 𝔄𝔟𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔢𝔰

𝓗𝓮𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓰𝔂 - blood magic - Bastia has the ability to control her own blood. She can empower it to allow her to move faster and be stronger. When it is exposed to air, she has basic psychometric control over it. It can become as sharp as a blade or as bludgeoning as a mace. She can also infect someone else with her own blood if she's able to get into their veins. There she can sap their strength to embolden her own, otherwise, she relies on her own stamina to power herself. So, it's not infinitesimal. She can also sense where her blood is, meaning she can tag someone with it and follow them. In human form, this power is reduced due to her smaller size and lack of as much vitae as she has in her draconic form.
𝓒𝓸𝓶𝓫𝓪𝓽 - guerrilla tactics - In her dragon form, Bastia is a twisty beast that uses her sinewy musculature and sleek body to slide in and out of crevices. She waits and baits her prey forward before attacking. While she wouldn't last long in a pure aerial fight, if she is allowed buildings, cliffs, or other varied terrains--she could become quite a formidable foe. As a human, she is a talented blade user, moving swiftly and sharply towards her foes. She uses her unassuming form to land deadly blows as quickly as she can.

ℌ𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔶

Many a mother would whisper tales of the "blood dragons" to their children as they crawled into their bed. They'd encourage them to stay under the sheets all night so they wouldn't be prey to these beasts of dark scales and blood-red eyes. It was an amusing tale and one that was rooted--however flimsily--in truth. "Blood dragons" were the urban cousins of their nature-dwelling brethren. They lived in small nests underneath a bustling city, taking human form almost always to tend to their business. Why be vulnerable out in the wilderness when you could rule the cities of man without their knowledge?

Bastia grew up in the divided Empire of Huldern, using its unrest and dwindling power to hide easily. It was easy to steal away into human dwellings with the promises of cheap labor and a sturdy backbone. At a young age, Bastia took to pocketing whatever went unattended. She refused to live in the squalor of her brethren. Restlessly taking to the streets in glamour during the day and hunting in scales at night. She wasn't content to be akin to a violent alley cat. Unfortunately, that led to her separation from her familial brood at a young age due to a political upheaval that she didn't have the years to understand. She was thrown into the world without much understanding of what it meant to be a dragon. All she knew was how to be a survivor.

The Empire of Huldern didn't make it hard for her to find work. She knew the basics. For a while, she lurked into stables and under the counters of inn kitchens. Bastia refused to shift her form for fear that she'd be found out. Instead, many a year went by without her dropping her glamor. It was in those years that she made sure to constantly move around so no one noticed how slowly she aged. When she got to a point that no one viewed her as a child, she found her calling.

It'd been an accident. Bastia had ducked into an alley to make it to her destination quicker. It was then that a man clubbed her from behind. Everything faded for a moment but came back sharply as blood pooled from her head and raced down her face. Without much control, the droplets became as sharp as knives and she shot them towards the man. One of the droplets managed to get him in the eye. He screamed out in pain, holding it. About that time, the guard came across them. Bastia felt the world close in around her. She knew that she was in trouble. Except... that she wasn't... they actually paid her (well, what was left from their share.) Apparently, the man was a known criminal and had a nice bounty on his head. She then realized she could get money by subduing humans.

As the Empire was in perpetual change, Bastia was able to make a living off this trade. Criminals were numerous when there wasn't a foundation for them to stand on. And Bastia was able to keep moving enough to never rouse suspicion. Though, a tale of her started to be known. How she'd hunt her prey like a fox tracked a wounded rabbit. Though she stayed mostly in human form, she occasionally took to her dragon one to make sure that she never became useless in her natural body.

Bastia had never known many other dragons, but those that she had come across had not taken well to her demeanor. She didn't care, though, her pockets were filled with wealth and she was filled with the thrill of the hunt.

The Masque of the Dragon || Fantasy Dragons hiding among Humans

Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society the RP.

Bastia

𝔑𝔞𝔪𝔢

Bastia the Terror - Bastia Aescau

𝔄𝔤𝔢

101 - 28

𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯

Female

𝔇𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔬𝔫 𝔄𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢

A long, thin dragon with teal scales accompanied with black barbs and blood red highlights. There are hammerhead-like horns that jut out perpendicular from its head, shadowing its blood-red eyes and black teeth. Its wings expand out like a bat's with red spines at the ends for spearing and grappling. There are only two legs on the body that are raptor-like in build. Those fierce talons are rarely seen except when latching onto prey and dragging them to rend their flesh from bone. A long tail, adorned with black spines, spills from its body, coiling and bobbing like an interested cat. Bastia moves fast and without remorse, taking to shadows and ruins with the expertise of any other cloaked hunter.

ℌ𝔲𝔪𝔞𝔫 𝔄𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢

Bastia is not a dainty veneer of a human woman. She's cut like broken glass, twisting edges that may bring blood if not held correctly. Black, short hair wreaths around her pale, gray-tinged skin. Her face is marred with slivers of red scars and illuminated by porcelain blue eyes. Her lips are full and crooked, but her teeth are straight and white. Her aquiline nose juts out with a smattering of freckles over the bridge. Her body is wreathed in viperous muscles, prominent and not pretty. Her nails are bloody around the edges, and her palms are constantly wrapped in bandages. She clads herself in gothic armor with a seductive cut to allow what feminity she posses to pour out in the way of an ample bosom and strong hips. She wears a sword on one hip, a chain whip on the other, and has a blade tucked into her gauntlet.

𝔓𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔗𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔰

Sardonic and crass define the words that pour from Bastia's lips. Her voice may be a creamy velvet, but its contents are that of the darkest vitriol. She chews and spits out those that she views as weaker than herself. Yet, her pride isn't all-consuming. She'll let anyone prove their worth. Just don't expect her to play fair. Bastia will win no matter the cost, and take her pound of flesh with glee. She's loyal to her friends, however few and far between they are and enjoys keeping those bridges unlit. Quick to drink and laugh, but not in a manner that would be viewed as warm. She's a cold, dark breeze with wit and off-putting charm for days.

𝔐𝔞𝔤𝔦𝔠 & 𝔄𝔟𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔢𝔰

𝓗𝓮𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓰𝔂 - blood magic - Bastia has the ability to control her own blood. She can empower it to allow her to move faster and be stronger. When it is exposed to air, she has basic psychometric control over it. It can become as sharp as a blade or as bludgeoning as a mace. She can also infect someone else with her own blood if she's able to get into their veins. There she can sap their strength to embolden her own, otherwise, she relies on her own stamina to power herself. So, it's not infinitesimal. She can also sense where her blood is, meaning she can tag someone with it and follow them. In human form, this power is reduced due to her smaller size and lack of as much vitae as she has in her draconic form.
𝓒𝓸𝓶𝓫𝓪𝓽 - guerrilla tactics - In her dragon form, Bastia is a twisty beast that uses her sinewy musculature and sleek body to slide in and out of crevices. She waits and baits her prey forward before attacking. While she wouldn't last long in a pure aerial fight, if she is allowed buildings, cliffs, or other varied terrains--she could become quite a formidable foe. As a human, she is a talented blade user, moving swiftly and sharply towards her foes. She uses her unassuming form to land deadly blows as quickly as she can.

ℌ𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔶

Many a mother would whisper tales of the "blood dragons" to their children as they crawled into their bed. They'd encourage them to stay under the sheets all night so they wouldn't be prey to these beasts of dark scales and blood-red eyes. It was an amusing tale and one that was rooted--however flimsily--in truth. "Blood dragons" were the urban cousins of their nature-dwelling brethren. They lived in small nests underneath a bustling city, taking human form almost always to tend to their business. Why be vulnerable out in the wilderness when you could rule the cities of man without their knowledge?

Bastia grew up in the divided Empire of Huldern, using its unrest and dwindling power to hide easily. It was easy to steal away into human dwellings with the promises of cheap labor and a sturdy backbone. At a young age, Bastia took to pocketing whatever went unattended. She refused to live in the squalor of her brethren. Restlessly taking to the streets in glamour during the day and hunting in scales at night. She wasn't content to be akin to a violent alley cat. Unfortunately, that led to her separation from her familial brood at a young age due to a political upheaval that she didn't have the years to understand. She was thrown into the world without much understanding of what it meant to be a dragon. All she knew was how to be a survivor.

The Empire of Huldern didn't make it hard for her to find work. She knew the basics. For a while, she lurked into stables and under the counters of inn kitchens. Bastia refused to shift her form for fear that she'd be found out. Instead, many a year went by without her dropping her glamor. It was in those years that she made sure to constantly move around so no one noticed how slowly she aged. When she got to a point that no one viewed her as a child, she found her calling.

It'd been an accident. Bastia had ducked into an alley to make it to her destination quicker. It was then that a man clubbed her from behind. Everything faded for a moment but came back sharply as blood pooled from her head and raced down her face. Without much control, the droplets became as sharp as knives and she shot them towards the man. One of the droplets managed to get him in the eye. He screamed out in pain, holding it. About that time, the guard came across them. Bastia felt the world close in around her. She knew that she was in trouble. Except... that she wasn't... they actually paid her (well, what was left from their share.) Apparently, the man was a known criminal and had a nice bounty on his head. She then realized she could get money by subduing humans.

As the Empire was in perpetual change, Bastia was able to make a living off this trade. Criminals were numerous when there wasn't a foundation for them to stand on. And Bastia was able to keep moving enough to never rouse suspicion. Though, a tale of her started to be known. How she'd hunt her prey like a fox tracked a wounded rabbit. Though she stayed mostly in human form, she occasionally took to her dragon one to make sure that she never became useless in her natural body.

Bastia had never known many other dragons, but those that she had come across had not taken well to her demeanor. She didn't care, though, her pockets were filled with wealth and she was filled with the thrill of the hunt.