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h o l d m e d o w n u n d e r h o l y w a t e r

π’„π’π’Žπ’Šπ’π’ˆ 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏 ! - 𝒇 𝒐 𝒓 π’ˆ 𝒆 𝒕 𝒖 𝒔 𝒏 𝒐 𝒕 .

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

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&&
the bird.

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πš• 𝚘 𝚘 πš” πš— 𝚘 𝚝 𝚝 𝚘 𝚝 πš‘ 𝚎 𝚜 πš‘ 𝚊 𝚍 𝚘 𝚠 𝚜


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β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ

Origins? Unknown.

Anyone from the local law enforcement to bigger government branches such as the FBI, NSA, CIA, and ISA, none of them have been able to pinpoint the exact origin of this supposed mega-network of criminal organizations all controlled by someone or even multiple people operating under the one identity of The Bird. The fact is, despite all efforts, they aren't any closer to knowing the stake that which The Bird's Nest seems to operate from.

Where does The Bird get their resources? How far into the hole are the government and law enforcement officials in with The Bird and The Bird's associates? How many separate criminal organizations operate within The Bird's Nest? Who is the Bird? Where is The Bird located out of?

Those are all questions asked, yet none have been answered because of one simple fact: The Bird uses information as a tool to keep absolute anonymity. In this day and age, information is the new currency and The Bird is well-equipped for just about any kind of foe or foe-turned-ally. This is achieved by having several spies placed in high-ranking positions, trojan horses and various invasive malware and spyware always feeding The Bird information as they come in. Other branches of the Nest's network include foot soldiers that range from hardened criminals to kids with nowhere else to go but serve The Bird's wishes. They report to their own boss who feeds The Bird's underlings the information. At every corner within every crevice and hole the streets of The Badlands possess, The Eyes and Ears of the Skies is always watching, waiting, and poised to strike like a vulture. When the time is right, whoever crosses the ultimate predator of the open clear skies will know the wrath of the mighty talons.

That is what The Bird's Nest is - a network of criminal organizations that all bow to one mighter than all of them combined. They worship and fear the one who could ruin them all. They know not to fear the reaper, but the reaper's master, The Bird.

β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ

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β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ

Victory came at the proceedings of carnage, elegantly or barbarically undone by methods deemed cruel by the mortal givings of their existence. Giselle witnessed the shine and ping of life bleed out into bland monotony; flat and lifeless with her blade slick and curved deep to the forged hilt into one man patterned in grime. Silver charms twinkled eerily against ebon hair that stilled around a dementedly contoured face of this would-be reaper, and thus he fell, hands clutched against silver fur and obsidian veils and she watched, curiously so, as he sputtered and cursed her very being. Ironic, wouldn't it be, if he knew her life was already adorned in the dressings of the forlorn and forsaken. Giselle proffered a silent simper laced to the teeth with a stoic malice and slid her sickle free from flesh, and nudged with her boot to send the body onto the road and beneath the wheels of the carriage and the hooves of those following.
The horses stilled and fell back, with their bindings now loosened, there was nothing to insist their heavy charge and whilst the caravan slowed, Giselle wiped free the remains against her blades, fingers slick and heavy, burdened with life and sin and they trembled doing so. It was something akin to excitement at the mayhem she had procured and, as one of the boys might put it, a job well done. To work for someone else had never given Giselle the report of loyalty and pride to a higher being, however there was something pleasurable still in taking these lives and knowing she had done so without a hindrance that was utterly flawless. At the appreciative whistle, she knew just that, and allowed her simper to beam into something widely satisfied and, perhaps, a bit manic and bordering something feral. Of course, she would not be the perpetual specter within the eyes of the dying otherwise, so such a garnish was befitting no matter how woefully demented.

Adorned in silvery intonations, with pleasing lit and charm, Amara offered her mount back into her graces and Giselle almost cooed at the beast for displaying such loyalty, even with having only been under her charge for perhaps a few days of practice. She rose gracefully to do just that, for she was not keen enough to pilot a carriage, when her boot struck against a poorly contained satchel and from it rolled glass orbs boiling within the rose coloured sunset. Brimming with fire and life, demanding that they explode and be struck upon the earth, as per their creation, and tempting to the woman in their remains. Her eyes lit up, briefly, alighted with a scholar inclination and want, a curious mind baited by the givings of magic and pain of it. Giselle carefully bent at her knees, kneeling as if allowing herself a moment of reprieve and waited, watching Amara fixate her attention else where, and whilst she engaged in banter with -- Willard -- yes, that was the name. It flitted seldom across her mind, usually associated with that curling, bitter taste of magic that surrounded his impression in a lamplight of madness. Giselle inhaled, sharp like slivers, ice in her veins and shining in her eyes as delicate fingers curled around globes of hellfire and swiftly pocketed them within her veils -- hidden, yes, to be examined.

Giselle was a curious creature, a woman that pursued the findings of life and carefully scribes them within the flickering candle light in her evenings. She claims, often that the means are meant to be's and must haves, that she is the one who must do them for nothing else will quell the musings of her mind warped and hellish bound.

She dismounts from the bloodied transport, mindful of her new possessions and grasps hold of the halter of the mare, loosely brushing fingers against her decorated mane and tugs loose the reins from Amara's hold, bringing her back around from Willard's attention.

"Thank you for keeping her, I'm no good with carriages -- well, steering them anyways -- so I'll ride along side." Giselle admitted and stepped around, allowing Amara to descent from her temporary mount and board the vessel now under her care. The others it would seem, had taken to similar purposes, following after Gabriel's call that they bank East wherein a small town laid, a blemish upon the road, she remembers, called Braven. Fitting, her mind supplies, and she hosts herself back upon the dappled mare and steers her along side Amara's guidance, keeping herself at the flank and back, taking up a rear position of their stolen caravan of bounty.

Giselle had been privy, once, a long time ago lost in the shadows of night and memory, to the darkness of the Wildlands in the cover of pitch and wonder. Of what rutted among the browse and called in the night on capers of raven song and howls of addled creatures. Things that, by her observation, were warped eternally by something suspiciously similar to a magic infested artifact bridled under queer enchantment. Crystalline eyes panned towards the thicket of their hidden passage, the road hardly traversed by the undergrowth teeming about their hooves, the bodies left behind would appease and assuage curious appetance of those manic beasts drawn by the magic used today. And so, with that small, careful thought tucked into a reassured mind, Giselle lifted the veils upon her features and bounded her eyes straight ahead and urged her horse into keeping a steadier pace.

β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ

@Arya10108909 //



you know the drill. click the raw to receive the code. β™₯
❝𝒕𝒉𝒆 π’‘π’“π’‚π’šπ’†π’“π’” 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 π’˜π’† 𝒉𝒂𝒅 π’‘π’“π’‚π’šπ’†π’… π’˜π’†π’“π’† π’π’Šπ’Œπ’† 𝒂 π’…π’“π’–π’ˆ.❞
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βœ• ⇽ -- the secrets that we sold were never known -- β€›

&
it's time to crash and burn.
a n i n t e r e s t c h e c k.


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&& disclaimer ; I'm an incredibly busy person, with prior life engagements and a full work schedule, not to mention commitments to the site in other forms of writing. As such, when applying for interest, you take into consideration -- and that you've read this obviously -- that this will not be fast paced. Unfortunately I'm not able to handle more than maybe a weekly posting schedule, maybe a few days longer depending on events. However I'm always looking for that next thing and it's hard pressed for me to say no. But -- I'm only considering maybe one or two more partners.




ahnleh -- falcon cry.&&&
18+ & adv. β—† political / court intrigue β—† high fantasy β—† shape shifters β—† royalty β—† arranged marriages β—† subjective themes and material
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dies irae. -- a tale of persecution and ruin.
18+ & adv. β—† religious fanaticism β—† false gods β—† sins unbound β—† alchemic made monstrosities β—† crusades
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farewell. -- anthology of the red and black book.&&&
18+ & adv. β—† sensitive themes and subjects β—† history themed β—† death β—† obsession β—† psychological / philosophical struggles
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&& Send a private message my way -- do not post within this thread -- with the subject or plot you have in mind, either from the selection above, or something else entirely. I used to have a long list of rules and requirements, but I don't think it's necessary until we come to the actual discussion, so I won't bore you with all of that. Once introductions are settled, we'll deliberate on characters, intentions, developments and so on and so forth.

Looking forward to writing with you. β™₯
@Arya10108909 // for some reason dear I'm not able to retrieve the image on my computer, it appears broken somehow -- though on my phone it comes up just fine -- probably be easier to just link it to me if you can. β™₯

edit.
oh nevermind, I got it now. though it's terribly small. I'm going to try and find a bigger example of the same photo for me to work with.

edit. ii
found one -- no worries.

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β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ

𝓒he was black on black; blanketed in ebony and obsidian waves of fabric against coal-hued veils and hide, pale face and kohl-smudged eyes brimming blue liken to cemented, dead forgeries in the winter. A specter she is, a reaper bathed in slick red smiles and coils of hair reminiscent of serpent-haired maidens. She's all bone white with silver ticked fur adorned over her shoulders and streaming behind her elegant posture do silver charms eerily ring, her funeral tole. Giselle leans down close against heaving withers and adjusts to the shift of her mount galloping headlong along a predetermined course. There's dust in her eyes and her thighs are already aching -- because she hasn't ridden in a long time, but Gabriel had insisted they all go and with new mounts at the ready -- but her blood is singing and adrenaline pumps hard and thick in her veins and she urges the grey-dappled mare all the more by digging boots into her decorated flanks.
𝓣o the left they had said, and whilst Giselle guides the mare after the flighty buckskin carrying Amara, she feels a subtle pulse in the air that suffers heat and a pull. Almost an instinctual sensation that pings something deep within her coiling belly, she flinches the moment sparks fall around hooves and hocks and draws back at Gabriel's carrying baritone. It's magic all right, though of a different construct and intention, capsuled in specially blown glass interlaced carefully with enchantments courtesy of pyro aficionados. She has ever seen the like, but only has heard of their use in passing. Giselle peers through the black veils pulled over her veneer, attempting to judge their trajectory the moment she witnesses Amara thrown from her horse and cinches her fingers tight against the reins, pulling hard to the opposite of their track, veils rising above her crown and coloring her presence darkly as she slows. Giselle hardly understands the bonds of camaraderie, after all, she's been surviving on her own merits for years, but she finds something ill in allowing the younger woman to fall beneath the wagon or threat of fire. Perhaps it's her image, all manipulative delicacy and pale hair, dark eyes that shimmer black and dangerously so with a keen intelligence privy to assassins.

𝓦hatever it may be, she thinks in the moment, that she's meant to assist her and when she hoists herself up and over, the mare gallops that much harder from the descent despite the added weight on her quarters. Her brow lowers into something akin to a scowl at their distance and the weight of her sickles hidden beneath the veils at her hip are that much more apparent at her own disadvantage. Amara was meant for this range, and she attempts to keep her horse steady along the road as her arrow pierces through the air and straight through a man's mocking laughter and impaling deep past his flesh. She grins at the sight, relishing in such a bereavement and almost sings in mirth herself as they begin to hide. Such attempts would only serve them quicker to their death beds, they had signed the warrant of their demise the moment calloused palms curled over infected glass. Giselle keeps her body low, risking a glance at the weave of Amara's voice through the commotion, bell like and a little shrilly as she suggests their next course and silently Giselle nods her consent and releases the controls the moment her slight hands curl around her waist.

𝓒he doesn't hesitate -- she thinks she maybe, sort of, trusts Amara [poisons aside] compared to the other members of the Guild, some are crazier than her after all, and maybe it's because of their shared gender -- but Giselle lifts a few veils away from her person, coils them within her hand and turns.

"Get in her closer, once I get inside, keep to the left, and if you see a chance to shoot - take it."

𝓣he silver within her hair chimes madly the moment she shifts her weight around and coils her figure tight, almost felidae like and contorts her body slight enough to not hinder Amara's controls. The mare blows hard through her velvet nose and with one hand coiled with sheer fabric, and the other through her greying mane, she bunches all the weight into her legs the moment the caravan comes nearly parallel and launches herself at the crates their sudden enemies have chosen to hide behind.

𝓒he falls hard, the jarring impact loud to her ears and her shoulder takes the brunt of the impact before she forces herself into a roll from the crate she has landed on and crouches down low and hisses. Magic pulsates thick in the air, heady and coating her skin in a heavy heat that beads sweat on her dark brow.

"Hello, boys."

𝓖iselle is a dark whorl smudged betwixt blossoming reds, her veils fanning outward and the ones previously coiled in her grasp used to sheath around stricken faces, masking and blanketing them in sheer darkness before her sickle shines and slick and heavy, it strikes across one neck that weeps over her fingers and there's blood that falls suddenly like rain. She laughed and abandoned her mark and pirouettes to face her next opponent. There's two that have abandoned their magical explosives, but the others have taken to launching them still at the others, and showers of flame and sparks fly, reflecting eerily in crystalline eyes. Giselle takes her sickle, her lips parted on panting breaths whilst her tongue coils against the sharpened blade that shines against bone white teeth.

Two down. Now c'mon fellas, time to get to work.

β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ



On the yellowing-grey cusp of an early afternoon of daily machinations did the temperatures of The Badlands slowly begin to ascend, though delicately enough that even clad in cashmere warmth, Anastasia disregarded the shift with nothing more than fixating a pair of solar protected lenses on the perch of her nasal. Traveling on foot from one district onto another was the only typical way one traversed through the bogged city, every road intersected with a myriad of chains of franchise and corporate luxuries, peddlers, and owners of kiosks that operated on the hours betwixt dawn and night. These were the busiest cycles of the day that hardly shifted through seasons, only to carefully interchange merchandise and methods of browse by the supply and demand of tourist incline and students courtesy of the local University that barely passed the title of maintaining its' college status. Ana stepped around clusters of candy-eyed youths shimmering gold and bronze in what little sunlight there was, squelched her body between denizens of the crowded bus stop and crossed the signaled walkway before the lights flickered once more from their red to green.

It had only taken her a quarter of an hour from The Blue Mirror establishment onto the busier market streets, her destination another ten minutes across the way across what was literally called the College Way; lacking taste in a moniker, but exact in purpose if nothing else. Whilst representative citizens of The Badlands tended to model existences and musings, Anastasia found her thoughts lacking that blissful normalcy. After all, to rely on the potential kindness and whims of another was rather risky for a woman of her work, for her own tools and capabilities were all she needed, her talent natural and fluent, refined and elegant and left naught a trace. Ana had found in her younger years that she needed none and desired none; though her origins were modest and hardly legendary, she had to proudly display that she had come well into her own over time and grace of luck and fortune. Though, partially stolen.

Having to trek across town under these facilitated pretenses, as it were, left her mind in a constant reel of her next step, each potential varied and possibilities of each and every one of those calculated upon the finalizing factor of "what if". And Anastasia did not favour those eternal doubts and inconclusive outcomes that could lead to a literal life or death decision of fate and sheer luck. On the sidewalk across from the more active attractions and establishments, she could witness the spiraling peaks and crowns of the museum adorned in slight cherubs and angels reminiscent of the view she shared with others across from the Herlion complex. Terracotta hues blended seamlessly with grey undertones and burnt mahoganies that capped pale stone and brick that appeared to be toned in beige and darker golds in the time telling shadows. She cut across the alleyways, ducking down under metal ladders and vents betwixt the buildings, knowing most of the backtrack methods to navigating The Badlands that were conveniently used to be literally unseen. Most of the city could be taken this way, one would never have to cross the main roads if they desired not to and most, if not all, had been carefully planned as precise escape routes long before she had even utilized them herself.

Perks of the trade, she muses and comes from the shadows with arms crossed at her bustline and eyes gazing up through shielded lashes at her destination.

Still, under minor construction, the courtyard sprawling before ornate doors, though many would describe such as a luxury park by the number of trees planted around the expanse, with artful iron fences and lamposts paired with oak wooden benches against immaculate sidewalks, it still gave her pause by the sheer beauty of it all. The architecture was something of a lost art, similar to the original master and designer of the Cathedral across from her home, with the original blueprints being only of one and kept under literal lock by the former curator himself. Anastasia could only imagine what inside looked like now, what with their constantly expanding exhibits and new collections rotated through their featuring newsletter. Of course, that was where her intended lay, and from her judgment of the exterior, the gala would be somewhere on a secluded floor rather than the more prominent rooms facing out. So, something of a challenge then.

Ana casually sauntered towards one of the many benches, this one picked for its' view of the foyer, angled just so within the shade of a maple tree and fetched her mobile from her belongings, and with all the nonchalance of a regular woman browsing within the fresh air, she began to read over the digital press article of the gala's secret promotion. Appearances had to be maintained, certain ploys had to be played out and liken the park to a stage, Ana was flawless in her execution and performance. She crossed one leg over another, deliberate and leaned back just so, enough for comfort and enough for visual advantage and she continued to re-read the information she already knew.

Hmm.

It wasn't until a full five minutes had ticked by that Ana pinged through her messages, as if looking for an old friend lost within the feed of her some on and off acquaintances, a woman that was, perhaps, meeting with a friend under the grey skies. Her eyes lit up briefly when she found the name was searching for and began to type out a summons, the smallest of carefully solicited simpers curling her lips.

Hey.



It had only taken him an exact seven minutes.

Enough time for a woman such as she to spruce her appearance, hair tucked into place, the smallest of shrugs to the shoulder allowing soft wool to droop just so and for genuine softness to curb icy blues to something a little more appreciative. Ana's smile was all porcelain fragile and white as bone, gnashed against the widest of grins that lifted her gaze and crinkled just so to be seen as welcoming.

Patrick Montreyu was a man of careful reception and appearance, even she had not seen him out of particularly arranged attire and even in the most casual of grace, he was always on the cusp of gentry and refinement. With a vocabulary of proper etiquette and tutelage and a mind rich with the expanses of histories, he was a rich bank of information to the most curious thief wishing to learn more of her gains. Over the years, she had come to form a friendship of sorts, backboned carefully by their families' intertwined involvements. Though, he needn't know of her exact ties to the name of Frievald. In a three-piece suit toned a soft, warm gray, double-breasted and oxfords of course, for she expected no less, Patrick approached with his phone in hand and hazel eyes never leaving her features.

"Don't stare, Patrick. It's rude." She jaunted, peppering her voice an octave higher and with a spring of annunciation to colour her voice in warmth. His shoulders fell just so, only to immediately bristle.

"Just, hey? I don't see or hear from you for three months and then you just," he gestured, even that motion was careful. "Show up. I swear you're like a phantom, Ana. Come and go as you please, as is your want."

She scoffed, petulant and visibly chaffed. "I was out of town."

"I find that difficult to believe, nobody leaves town. And certainly not for a quarter of a year." He immediately sounded back, reclining next to her on the bench, a proper distance away, but still close enough she could visibly notice the hurt in his eyes. It was like emerald shards stabbing into her breast, and Ana, though still under her guise, could not feign that smidgen of guilt that came with her performance.

"Well, I'm here now." She muttered, not quite an apology, but close enough that Patrick sighed, tucking his phone away and leaning forward to table his elbows across his knees, relaxed by her admission.

"...True. Though I wish you would have called first. I've been incredibly swamped lately."

"I've noticed," she inclined her head. "Still expanding I see, and what's this I hear of a gala? There hasn't been an event outside annual holiday festivals for a long time."

That was her ticket, her first initial prompting into securing her way into the echelon of sponsors, buyers, and collectors. A pathway she had to immediately secure at all costs.

"Saw that, did you?" He chanced a glance her way, under his lashes, carefully raking her from boot to crown, eyes lingering, something curling his smile just a tad from male appreciation. "It's been difficult to keep it under wraps, but the press has ways to get something out of me yet if only to keep them from crowding my office again."

"Uh huh."

He straightened his posture, elbows lifted back against the bench's support. "Well if you've read the papers, then you know how important this is. We've been setting up for the past week and it has taken me months to secure all the pieces."

Go on.

Anastasia leans forward that much more, subtle, interested, all the cues of a dame baited on his words.

"We've even translated new pages in The Atis, the centre piece of the whole exhibit..."

Wait. Ana's body stilled, her breaths coming in shallow and quick, barely there to register her sudden decline in emotional fixations. The very name, The Atis, was always enough to stow away her thoughts into an overdrive of hyper-awareness. For the one he spoke of was a forgery done by the gypsies in her family, given back under pretenses of goodwill to the United Mythos when they had extracted it from the church. To hear that these false pages had been translated turned her heart to a stone, one of burden; it was a weight of something ancient, something that had been given to her by the hands of her father. She had never opened such a thing, for the very thought seemed wrong. Patrick's voice faded, her mind awash in sudden waves of blue and red, fire and ice, of fangs seeped red and black skies on the horizon chaining her into place.

She forgets to breathe.

"Ana?"

She jumps. "Oh."

"I'm sorry, wow. You really translated them? How many pages? I mean. I know you're like an expert at dead languages, but didn't you tell me once that it was impossible?"

He seemed concerned, though didn't press, vaguely encouraged by her sudden inquires and interest. "Yes, but I found written passages in the margins towards the centre of the book. It's barely legible, but just enough to read and work that into a reference on how they translated it themselves. Since doing so, I've been contacted by many collectors claiming to have pieces of artwork that were inspired by the very scripture dating back hundreds of years ago."

"Wow..." She breathes; the reveal of his discovery daunting, foiling her act just enough for the sake of her plans to pause within her mind. The security of such a thing alone, and the sheer number of artifacts associated with something so coveted. It would be the biggest accomplishment of her career.

"I'd love to see them." Ana cooly recites, vixen-esque temptation coiling her voice something sweet. She can see the cogs churning with his eyes, manipulated senses at work with only a minimal amount of hesitation banked there. He hasn't seen her in a long while, the impromptu visit has him toiling in memory, their last time together rising to the forefront of his mind. And, he thinks, he glances to those eyes and remembers, somewhere in his office, there's a scripted invitation, one of only so few that was left from those already sent. Only one, for one another.

"I do have a spare invitation, actually, if you'd like, I'd love to show you the translations and see what you think of the exhibit at the gala premiere."

"Oh, really!? I'd love to!"

Bingo.


. 𝒆 𝒕 𝒅 𝒓 𝒂 𝒄 𝒐 π’ˆ 𝒍 𝒂 𝒄 π’Š 𝒆 π’Š .
@Narcotic Dollie - Why thank you! It was tedious and a lot of trial and error to piece it all together, but worth it in the end.
Personally, I have this love-hate relationship with Discord. I've seen it work well, and I've seen - from my own attempts - it fail miserably and butcher OOC communication.

Having the mobile app however, I am able to receive notifications versus here. So. I'm 70 percent positive for it whilst tilting 30 percent no.

giselle greivhldr.
𝚜 πš‘ 𝚎 𝚠 πš‘ 𝚘 𝚒 𝚎 𝚊 πš› πš— 𝚜 𝚝 𝚘 πš™ 𝚎 πš› πš’ 𝚜 πš‘ .





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[profile] . link . link
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𝐭𝐑𝐒𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐬𝐒𝐱. β—† 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚π₯𝐞. β—† 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐑𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬.
β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ. . .β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ


𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆.
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Dementedly beloved, an enigma of the conjoined presence of grace and otherworldly obsessions, bathed thick in adoration of the more critical and harsh tones of something forlorn, and a paragon of dangers and bereavements. She is a deceptively feminine creature, weighted in accessories of silver with tarnished glamors and silver-black fur, donned over ebony cloth and slight furnishing of hides curred and shadowed by veils. Fed persistent cardio in the daily musings of a woeful mercenary has afforded Gisselle with a willow-wisp figure, accentuated with deadly efficiency and delicacy privy to those of a slight inclination of more relaxed nature to violent ends. Slicks smiles painted in roses over bone-white teeth, etched into the pale face of a reputable woman by glories of strife and infamy. Thick weaves of coal hair spiral onto waif shoulders and down, dipping into her spine and tangled with trinkets of unpolished copper and silver, weighing the mass onto her person; her tresses merrily twinkling eerily within the gloom. Undone, Giselle's figure can be described as slight, malnourished and grotesquely beautiful, the bizarre attractions courtesy of the rather hellish objectives she has pursued in life.

Her gaze is a penetrable blue, crystalline eyes liken to ice floes across the sea, rigid and unyielding, capped by a flutter of thick lashes and a drawn down brow obscured often by her penchant of veils concealing her identity in the crowds of towns and people alike. Uttered as a specter, a lover of the magically inclined, diseases and all to perish, and a harbourer of toxins within the sheath of her tongue and weapons, Giselle is much like the poisons she spews.


π’‘π’†π’“π’”π’π’π’‚π’π’Šπ’•π’š.
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She is often described as unforgiving in her inclinations, if only by the magic she wields. Giselle is burdened by sins of vanity, hubris, and greed, sprinkled and adorned by touches of wrath that is slow and churning, always bubbling yonder her pale face and brewing within her shearing glare. Liken to most mercenaries, Giselle beholds selfish wants and needs, siring to her daily machinations in life that herald to luxury and finesse. She does not tolerate mediocre or primitive dressings, and advocates to the ascension of pleasure and fineries of the current age. Scrupulous unto others and herself, her diligence is well suited to her lifestyle, to see means finished and foes vanquished, no matter how slow one might take her time to see the deed done. Enchanted by the darker findings in life, Giselle is wooed and adoring to poisons and ailments derived from them, her obsessions of fauna and flora turned deadly concealed carefully within a tome always kept to her person. This same obsession is applied onto magical properties found within mediums and the manipulation of spells of a rather poisonous inclination, and a queer fascination to the diseased products of those without. Studious, perhaps, by the employment of these findings and experimentations onto her intended, and other times described as malicious and excessive by her occasional peers within the sell-sword business. A leash may be strung about her delicate neck, but it is one she entirely controls.


π’˜π’†π’‚π’‘π’π’π’”.
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&& [sickles.] -- Giselle's primary weaponry, perhaps a little archaic and simplified, but overall effective to the purposes of her tactics. Often strung about her hip, cushioned against her veils and sometimes hidden beneath them, and sharpened religiously and meticulously to a gleaming edge. She employs two at most, given to each hand, or wielding them singulary wherein one should procede with caution, literally depending on the stance she bears. Giselle is not a stranger to weeping lines and wounds, and infact relishes in their mark, and will employ one's own strength against them by her deliberate motions and dexterious claims. These sickles can also act as a medium to the magic Giselle is inclined to, the stress of her spells fracturing the blades often into web like patterns of destruction that must later be tended to by a smithy.


π’‰π’Šπ’”π’•π’π’“π’š.
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She was once burdened by a title of a woman who seeks vengeance, reaping revenge onto those that had scorned or mocked her, or had taken to her feminine disadvantages by lashing tongues and burning teeth; nails peeling and scraping, eyes rabid and mad. Branded in scarlet hate, Giselle bathed within the souls of those victims, some by her hand, and others by Fate, and sunk herself deep into voids of black and red. She relished, and she hated, and she burned. She was an advocate to the eternal curse of emotional disturbances, brandished like a wraith wailing within the gloom of night or a banshee weeping in the dark and seen lost, wondering, yearning and perishing over a loss. Once bound to a man and wed to his morbid and depraved fortune, Giselle was taken of her innocence on the cusp of one Spring and literally fed to the wolves baying ravenously in the distance of her physical nightmares. Sold is a more befitting term, relinquished by parents whos' faces have long since become weeping shadows within her memory. She started, as these types of women often do, as poor and without, weak and submissive to the life she was forced into. Years like these will pass into the dark of the mind and heart, vanishing into nothing until time does not exist or adhere to the soul.

Until a cold night, the grounds drenched in snow strained black, did a shard of metal find itself into her quivering palm, hilt sunk deep into the heart of not a man, but a girl much like her with eyes dead gazing back and lips agape in a silent plea. Giselle cried, not in a sorrow, but in some degree of pleasure, for the gushing red wept over her numb fingers was alive and warm, literal steam coiling off the sudden weapon. She struck again, and again, and again until reason bled over and all she knew was a sensation. It was cruel and it was beautiful, and it was life in the purest form known to man. Giselle buried the shard within what little belongings she possessed and set fire to the body, allowing the stench to coil and attract her masters. Here she turned bright eyes skyward and, feigning innocence at the time, came into her own deceptive prowess by allowing Fate to guide her hand and deadened heart. One, by one, she culled the small town, because they all laughed, they mocked, the watched on as she pleaded to lost deities as sweat became drenched over her and breath tainted her night and day by the man she was sold to, and the wolves that feasted on the scraps of her bitter heart.

Testimony is hardly found with the histories, as the town of Lullin was reduced slowly over the years as a girl wielding metal shards grew into the woman bearing teeth like daggers on their throats. She was discovered, of course, as blood is often difficult to cleanse away entirely from one's clothes, and Giselle was drenched utterly from crown to foot one evening when she tempted two to bed and stole away their breaths on sighs and moans of pain in the night. Finally, there was a face to the reaper in their dreams, and she laughed.

Lullin officials; lost knights and wayward squires and quivering townsfolk will forsake her name if ever prompted, as Giselle vanished suddenly one night in a fire they set to the dwindling, dilapidated cottage she grew up in; chained, and bound, and defiled. Under cover of darkness, she stole into a passing caravan and rode curled up within their discarded beddings. Until she had leapt upon them, dagger in grasp, and raked her tongue in a slivering curse and stowed away their fear, and meek as they were, they silently led her into The Disk under the guise as their daughter.

She has been lost to time, again and again, coming to and from The Disk through life until her infamy, nurtured as it was, came to fruition in her womanly inclinations and wiles of mercenary work. Her severe penchants of magic, coin, and vanity weaving a tale within Pratus that is likened to a crown of bleeding crystal spiraling high and stained in soot and blood. She is a harsh patron and an even harsher employee, though the best often are. Though none are aware of her previous life in Lullin, it's curious that a letter found a way into her tome of poisons one evening, the wilds fresh on her person, and her eyes glowing within the lamplight of the fire of her home. Giselle had sworn to never bind herself onto another person, but when the price and temptation are right, a woman of her nature can hardly say no.

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