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you're a walking, breathing, living tragedy.


graphic artist. digital & traditional artist. passionate gamer. novelist writer.

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[ l a n t e r n s a n d p a p e r f l o w e r s . ]
This seems rather refreshing.
I'm in.
updated -- 11/9/18.
two weeks later........
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃....
&& the snow has begun to fall . . .
___________________________________________________________________________________

The chill had come with an offset of rain.

The deluge was heavier than normal in the morning light and gradually waned towards the thick and humid airs of a struggling afternoon where only the smallest rays of the sun were permitted to peek through the perpetual grey curtain of The Badlands. The warranting season had come as it always did: with little warning and sharp winds that whistled through spires and howled low betwixt alley ways and rattled panes of glass and steel. The river was beginning to recede into the bubbling waves of a winter brook, where polar fog churned lazily along the slopes. The city was thus an artist's induction of a grey-mapped photograph framed in black glass and painted with only the smallest touches of deadened blue.

A week prior, the skies had been awash in flurries that brushed soft against skin and clung to the streets before the warmth of the asphalt and rubber would wash them away into the gutters. It was a prelude of the season to come that would descend upon the city in the frigid breath of Winter and encapsulate the city in the wonders of ice and snow. But even on the most peaceful landscapes of snow-capped spires, the sky would eternally be eclipsed by the grey and black of the skies of the wintertime. Only one night and day would they impart, briefly, to reveal crystalline blue wherein the air was slight and crisp, unburdened by taint of smog and metallic residue. Such had not occurred in years, but The Badlands continued to celebrate festivities of the later years nearly every month, and even carried on those traditions into the warmth of Spring.

Rain falls eternally here, but the locale refused to allow their lives to be convinced to be done otherwise. And whilst hearts here weigh heavy and souls are burdened by the soot of ashen pain and woe, they still found and discovered endeavors to keep eyes alight in wonder and joy.

The following week had been stricken in a fever by the preceding of The Badland's most coveted affair. What once had been a whispered event by newsletter and rumor had now become the social necessity since the College had expanded the doors to teaching histories by the sanction of The United Mythos' teachings and manuscripts written and delegated by the seemingly most eligible bachelor within city now -- Patrick Montreyu.

Since the highlighting of the gala, the Paramorlian Histories Museum had received a phalanx of curious investors and those desiring to reap the benefits of the fundraiser and the private collections of many artifact aficionados that had, for a moment, allowed interviews and slight guesses to their donations. Most of all, the solicitation had been beneficial to the curious eyes and minds of particular individuals daily scouring the papers for these documented revelations and the most important and focal of family names that had been privy to the press. Two weeks had flown by in immediate and careful preparation, execution done swiftly and efficiently with little trail to pin point their motives.

It was all playing well into hand, and that, of course was almost too good to be true.

Upon the fall of an early and spiteful season, something had shifted, just so, upon the ambiance of the alighted soiree. Upon an axis, tilted, smudged just so in a color of red that prompted the host of the event to nearly double his security upon the currently renovated floor that was being prepared for the newest exhibit. The Atis was being the lauded center piece of the entire gala and upon further translation of the pages, the winds seemed that much colder, and flames all the more brighter, and the coming winter suddenly reaped in a ominous telling that afflicted the most prominent players at hand.

Carefully, one man looked yonder upon the glass of his office and panned his gaze low, the light of a text searing his eyes and bringing with it, a pained smile.

Across the city, a woman worked peacefully among her blooming greenhouse, dirt smudged adoringly upon her cheek and brow; hair tucked high and loose. The rain fell heavily, as it always does, but the grey and black of the storm did nothing to darken the glimmering blue of her eyes and the book to her left that was a glow in warming tones where the pages seemed, suddenly, very much alive.

___________________________________________________________________________________


She leaves with promises and whispered farewells, her eyes flitting and lashes swooped low whilst they embrace in a swift good bye, his arms around her small shoulders and her fingers scooped against his back. It's brief, but telling, and within Ana feels only the slightest burdens of guilt. Their meeting may of been performed on a means to an end, but their friendship is genuine in warmth and understanding, though currently under forgery. Ana is the first to break away and she glances up -- she then realizes just how much taller he is than her -- and smiles. If such is perhaps pinched around those delicate edges, he doesn't say, but then she doesn't question why he seems perhaps a bit too hesitant to let her go.

But, he does. Eventually.

Patrick watches as she leaves the park enclosure in front of the museum -- his museum -- to cross the main road where citizens of The Badlands gather in troupes and part around her briefly before closing entirely around her. To him she stands out like a brightly coloured bird, adorned in paradise and dressed in splendor, appealing to the curious notions of rarity that crowns her as something beloved. She would loathe that comparison he knew and would tell him she was otherwise and simply just a normal person, however she was anything but. A shadow descended across his eyes as the sun fell yonder clouds swollen all grey and dark, heralding to the Fall weather slowly embarking across the later noon with the promise of the evening chill. He knew she was after something, though his knowledge ended there as to what she was searching for. But, there was no mistaking the glimmer in those ethereal blues alight in success, pride, and intelligence so keen and well wielded, that he was powerless -- no, hopeless -- to do anything else but acquiesce to her very whims and wishes. However Patrick was not without his own merit and with this distinction in hand he quickly retrieved his mobile -- ignored the message there with her name attached -- and dialed a number from memory.

"It's me."



Nights within The Badlands came upon a near winter breath, frigid winds following down the mountain at the farewell of the sun beyond the peaks looming within the clouds. Punctuated to the skies, the evenings fell swiftly and the cold more so in the later years, thus the days shorter and the nights longer that did little to wane the actively of the locale. People flocked to dimmer settings with amber essences and ambiances dulled to golden dusk and husky browns like whiskey in honeyed glass. Cafes were traded for bars alive in smoke and whispers and here Ana paused, glancing to one such establishment that only opened doors at this hour of dusk. Those initial patrons spilled out onto the patio adorned in bare bulbs and maroon drapes; heavy velvet embellishments pulled taut away from tinted glass that cast her reflection back upon herself.

Once, maybe some odd years ago, Ana would indulge in such luxuries with former associates much like Patrick. Lost to whimsical music in the shadows of twilight with perspiring tumblers held cold within slight gestures, such dalliances now seemed like an age ago, almost another life time lost to fate of life and all the destines lain therein. An adopted birth rite had been her sanction and on the eve of coming to terms with her bequeathed purpose, Anastasia came to accept that initial of role of maintaining facades built upon facades and fortifying those with simpers laced with false mirth. She remembers accepting the key that would dedicate her justification to thievery of legendary artifacts and priceless objects from the highly coveted vaults and coffers of many would-be millions of those wealthy patrons that sired The Badland's herald. Anastasia had taken the mantle of the harbinger of forgotten rouges and in exchange, she had come to thrive in the shadows cast by these very buildings she had known so well. In small ways, her identity too had been stolen, buried somewhere among the roots of her family's legacy, liken to a rose among thousands of thorn bushes.

Quietly, she smiled to herself and tucked a strand of hair behind the shell of her ear before abandoning her reflection within the amber tinted glass, and continued her way home to the Herlion building where a rich Greenhouse awaited her and where a forsaken tome of dead poems and lost serpentine dragons suddenly became a glow.

Now the real games would soon begin.


. 𝒆 𝒕 𝒅 𝒓 𝒂 𝒄 𝒐 𝒈 𝒍 𝒂 𝒄 𝒊 𝒆 𝒊 .
@Dead Cruiser - Absolutely.
To basically put it, Fei has found the mentioned symbol burned into the wall. She's bothered by the entire atmosphere teeming with leftover demonic energy and refuses to go any further in the conjuring room because of it. She has mentioned that she doesn't hear her, the witch, in that her soul-spirit or essence of life is completely snuffed out. Fei can usually see and hear the dead in whichever form.

I left it open ended with dialogue so that any one else can follow up. I wanted to include a bit of everyone thus Fei addresses everyone in a loose question to possibly trace the symbol's likeness of what have you. Basically anyone can follow up and press further into what it could be.

Sorry for any misinterpretation.
________________________________________________________
𝐈 ' 𝐯 𝐞 𝐬 𝐞 𝐞 𝐧 𝐲 𝐨 𝐮 𝐫 𝐟 𝐚 𝐜 𝐞 𝐛 𝐞 𝐟 𝐨 𝐫 𝐞 𝐦 𝐲 𝐟 𝐫 𝐢 𝐞 𝐧 𝐝 , 𝐛 𝐮 𝐭 𝐈 𝐝 𝐨 𝐧 ' 𝐭 𝐤 𝐧 𝐨 𝐰 𝐢 𝐟 𝐲 𝐨 𝐮 𝐤 𝐧 𝐨 𝐰 𝐰 𝐡 𝐨 𝐈 𝐚 𝐦 .
________________________________________________________


She meets him eye for eye, a slow breath pluming her exhale white whilst she stoically observes, lashes panning down with each flutter. From boot to crown, seeing him but then not him. Fei knows another predator is in her midst and it seethes and boils beneath mortal bindings and the sheer void of appetance whets her tongue with longing, it pines hard and deep and thick and it's just enough to make her squirm whilst her bemused simper falls away into a concerned lapse of a frown. Every nuance tumbles and collides till it forms into a singular construct and label: dangerous. Punctuated and bruised and old.

The black dog relinquishes her glare in favour of mortal graces -- for though she is horrid, and the Doctor is an abomination at best, she can barely stand the sight of that thing -- and heaves a solid growl that churns away inside her throat, catching against her teeth till it whistles harmlessly into the cold.

Magic pulsated around this girl, a bit manic and bright, colours that bled profusely within the eye of the canine now glancing through the entire company provided. Fei spared a second longer to gather her bearings, lingering past insipid candor and glided her tongue against her sharp teeth and now chapped lips before she swiped the pad of her thumb against her pout and snapped her attention to.

"I am," Fei drawled, slow intonations and sluggish responses tempting her voice to sunder away from howls and chuffing rejoinders. Appreciation fled across her countenance whilst she dropped her crossed gestures and bent at the waist in likeness, following in juncture to the hell-born man and performed an old custom. Not bad, a little formal, rigid, but tinged in grace and genuine fluidity and respect that Fei took to with finesse. Though she had no greeting or intention of speaking his name aloud, for the epitaph of Atticus Cléirich was one well adorned into her memory of dossiers gleaned and pried, a wealth of an infamous tale shrouded this man and Fei's eyes visibly coloured in feminine appraisal.

Oh, but then another one speaks and Fei turns sudden and open, eyes then close before they pinch into a glare, narrowed and perplexed till familiarity dawns them in shades of warmth.

"Nestor," the dog beams, barb wired smiles and gleaming teeth that snap around his name. Fei was a solitary creature, bidden to the company only by the command of an Alpha in times of need, however this demonspawn was a frequent companion in the centuries of their respective existences. When loneliness capped to listless and dreary souls lost within limbo or a forlorn purgatory, often did Fei cross the path of ice and jagged cold to share space and time with a creature plagued with Eternity like she, trinkets of chained dead and tombs of kings in her mind's eye whenever she met his gaze. She then preforms a mock curtsy with plucking the hem of her sweater dress and one ankle crossed behind the other when she dips slight, head canted and hair flowing over her shoulder. Fei did so for the amusement of one particular lace adorned creature -- to say it was a woman would've been kind, but over the years Fei has yet to really understand the Demoness and thus keeps her acknowledgement as is -- and attempts to listen in as Atticus details their dispatch.

However it's nothing to temper the bristling at her nape when she goes on the prowl, the lilting voice warped to her nerves and ticking across her spine in the rasp of a winter touch. Fei shakes out her discomfort and paces herself away from the queer company of their wizard, she has seen contracts like these before but never ones quite so eccentric. Their mass seems useful but she steps around the bobblings delicately upon her clawed toes and inches towards the house rapt with taint and stagnant malice.

Whilst the others prepare, Fei takes strides onto the porch, her posture lax whilst her eyes glimmer to silver coins, pressed white and silver around the edges liken to a swollen luminescence. Nestor is right of course, something had indeed passed through the gates of blood and bone and crossing that threshold throws her ambiance askew; tilted and slanted wherein the thick weaves of her hair almost writhe in an unseen breeze. As - Sal, was it? - prattles on in a lazy tune, Fei ghosts slight and almost wills her truer self to embark ahead, knowing that the black dog she is could pass between these shadows and lingering summons of magical stains, however she stalls and glances outside to where Nestor is lurking about, seemingly enthralled by his own findings.

The energy of demonic sin positions against Fei's own vivacity, buffing and chaffing against her flesh and fur. It flows and ebbs in thick waves with a stench not entirely unlike her own signature when passing through mortal chasms. It's curious in comparison and coils within her mind as she passes through the living room and sniffs close to the scorch marks marring the late woman's furniture, the walls displaying the same damage from what Fei can only gauge as the sheer pressure from the ritual airs. The decorum is entirely conventional, something plucked from a home edition page, complimentary colours and hues, pieces collected from the previous decade obviously but still within taste.

With her eyes aglow, she seems to be looking, searching, for something, something that is not quite there and missing. Fei stalks through the home and glides her claws against the walls, scraping light and inhales sharp to breathe in the cold and death - head tilted. It's quiet, much too quiet, the silence plucks on her nerves and frays them apart - she tilts her head another way, curious canine habits - and here, not quite into the room where her body had been found, she stops.

"I don't hear her," she whispers. "Dead souls linger where they have passed on with the chains of their life and sins." Her gaze drops and flickers, a growl suspended within her admission. "But I don't see or hear her, all that she should be and was is entirely gone."

The black dog crosses that threshold into the room with pittering claws and flickering eyes, her face alight in wonderment as the lingering energy of the ritual seethes against her. Fei snarls around the withering smell of the magic used here and that's when she sees it. Swollen lines of black warped harsh and thick into the wall, bleeding scrawls flush against smoldering remains that have eaten away at the symbol burning and somehow pulsating with meaning; a mark, a crest, a memento of the damned. Within she rears at the sight and parts her lips, a breath heaving past her pointed teeth in a slick pant.

"There, see that." Fei dares not to press closer, for something here wars against the very thing that she is. Memory fluctuates and conjours bone festooned faces of goats upon the mortal remains of a man, three there are with inverted insignia's blazoned and burned into deadened flesh, all the way to the heart do they blaze and stay and pulse alive. Women dance madly into the night and impale themselves upon the horns of a ram with the pelts of black dogs worn over their breasts and their deadened faces adorned upon them like crowns of bereaved queens. Fei howls in mourning around the fires that lick away at her paws --

"Atticus, Doctor -- someone." She banishes these horrid visions away and is careful not to cast her eyes upon Sal - for she should never look upon her visage with ethereal regard. "Do we have something to trace this..."


Ah, another weekend gone.
I'm off this Tuesday, so my post for Fei will be up by then, just know that it's at least started. ♥
I'm pretty much non-existent over the weekends, so I can relate all too well.
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