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๐ˆ ' ๐ฏ ๐ž ๐ฌ ๐ž ๐ž ๐ง ๐ฒ ๐จ ๐ฎ ๐ซ ๐Ÿ ๐š ๐œ ๐ž ๐› ๐ž ๐Ÿ ๐จ ๐ซ ๐ž ๐ฆ ๐ฒ ๐Ÿ ๐ซ ๐ข ๐ž ๐ง ๐ , ๐› ๐ฎ ๐ญ ๐ˆ ๐ ๐จ ๐ง ' ๐ญ ๐ค ๐ง ๐จ ๐ฐ ๐ข ๐Ÿ ๐ฒ ๐จ ๐ฎ ๐ค ๐ง ๐จ ๐ฐ ๐ฐ ๐ก ๐จ ๐ˆ ๐š ๐ฆ .
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Black claws pitter-pattering against wood, grooves channeled from paw to bone, scuffling against the dirt and grime and filth -- she presses her nose to the stone, inhales, milky-white visions rapt with a moon gleaming back -- and a tether-length tail coiled against a ridged spine pinched tight. Somewhere in the village below a man utters his prayer into the gloom, lit by candle light with his beliefs gleaning as a golden lamplight she can see in the distance; holy perhaps. Children toil within their beds whilst mothers coo over their cherub bearings and fathers wake into the night, stolen away by her presence from an exact moon ago. They count the cycles and shapes, the smattering of stars along the sky they fear in reflection to where an Almighty is told to lay, and when the moon turned -- faced black and back as they say -- fires had been lit and a sheep had been turned to the fields.

A fine gift, she had speculated, perched in the browse, listening to the bleats of an animal forcefully made lame by the shattering of its bone. Her growls had turned luring in that respect, relinquishing territory to cousins stalking within the night, witnessing their shadows as they stole upon the lamb.

She falls to her quarters, paws crossed, tail wrapped and wind-raked fur settled on her loosened posture and muscles. Within the forsaken church she lays, a vision within the door left ajar, ethereal and haunting, a specter lingering over the remains of faith turned hostile in the last century. It's not her home but one burdened by a creature akin to she, but far more ravenous, and far more malevolent. A wayward child stricken ill by blood and hate for the sun. Fei breaths in the rot of soiled wood and stone and the smell of blood gone old and cold, slick and staining her teeth.

She didn't like the reputation of a would-be assassin, but the lesser countries lost to time and the world were left to the lingering remains of tradition, something dead and long forgotten compared to the bustling life she still struggled to accommodate herself too.

Her shoulders lifted, something of a sighing breath, the hound laying her head upon her paws, peering endlessly into the moonlit night, a chuff ghosting from her maw as over the peaks of the pine trees the sun began to climb.

There's a weathered glimpse in her eyes aglow, glistening white against the orange rays, something tired and old; ancient. Fei has never really felt the wears of time before, but events past have got her bones feeling like lead and her soul weighted liken to a stone. The black dog within merely adapts, but the mortal counterpart despairs at the sudden loneliness conjured in her heart. She remembers once when someone had made inquiries to her thoughts, her morals, obligations, feelings -- it was all relatively mundane -- and she had paused, head tilted, and answered such with another question.

I don't know?

The hound perched within the doors to a church sighed once more, too human actions counted by the weariness in her musings and the speculative glance of her eyes. The sun had risen fully and the apparition slowly began to ebb away, bleeding outward in fissures of black that coiled, oozed, sliding back in snapping tendrils until all the remained was a rather unostentatious creature, as if merely resting rather than brooding. Fei stood, arched, stretched and shook around the effective glamour stuck and slick against her fur until something silver shined bright into her eyes. She took a step back, claws skittering and observed as a rather modest orb hovered just so against her snout. A looping scrawl greeted her wherein she felt a flutter within her chest, heaved a growl past her maw and touched the orb with a flick of her ear.

There were little words to be spared, nothing lavish and home-coming, there were no warm greetings or summons, just slight givings to another objective. It was done in the dressings of suggestion, that at least was amusing, for there were no commands to a thing such as she, but the location specified roused memories. It was of dark magics and dead things writhing within the night, horrid things, abominations like she maybe. Fei knew this place like any other she had stalked in appetence and blinked, setting the letter ablaze.

She left it there, a scorch mark against bereaved wood, and left with the howls of her farewells lingering against the sunrise. The village below shuddered in fear, but the feelings of dread had left, for a moment, their curse suddenly lifted.




Fei traveled on all fours rather than two, as she avoided public transit for various reasons, claiming such to be a purpose in avoiding mortal ambiance in what she claimed as safety to the locale. Besides, galloping from shadow to shadow, slipping into the blank canvas of darkness, was much more befitting and welcoming than cramped and heavy airlines and trains. She lifted her jowls, parted them briefly, still donned in the blanketed trickery of her simplified form, and tasted Death and lingering tangs of desire gone stagnant. Magic wed to the surrounding plain and forestry and committed the stain to slithering remains hanging lame and shattered from the loss of a conduit. The black dog huffs. At her paws she had dropped bits of clothing, carried from numerous coffers she has hidden around the realm for such occasions in her slight occupation.

I know this place.

She remembers, from long-long ago, where witches schemed and plotted, they took lovers to their beds often, killed them on the promises of power, spoke to dark being in the night and danced wild around fire under the glisten of the moon. Fei had once watched such a sermon in action as these women danced, lost within lustful qualms and throes of wicked passion and wailed like banshees into the night sky. Resting, feeding on their euphoria, a goat had settled near and yet far, wicked horns and teeth festooned and clustered around that bearded face. Scarlet eyes reeled, hood-less, lifeless and suddenly the fire had turned black --

Fei shuddered her memories away, bones cracking, fur suddenly alive as it writhed and coiled as she bounded from the trees and approached the quaint domicile that reeked of aged brimstone -- slight, but enough to raise her hackles.

However, it wasn't enough to banish the rancid stench next, it was reminiscent of soiled wool dripping sopping wet with taint, cured leather blanketed over such, but remaining wholly effected by what was laid beneath. The black dog barked around the odor as in pinged vaguely familiar in her memory of a being that inspired more disturbance than her truer form ever could. She paces forward in small increments as they talked, greetings and old words lingering in familiarity, and attempts to remember the names she had once read over in her studying of dossiers and infamous tellings. Fei pauses, curiously canine attributes found there, and sniffs delicately around the pull and tug of her mortal countenance, a shrill whine peels sharp against the bones shifting, grinding, as something old in magic and sway reels back and exposes her flesh. It's like coming away from limbo, being within one skin for too long, and Fei breaths in finality as she stands, full height and shakes out the tangled weaves of her thick hair wind-tossed and braided.

She dressed slow, as if stalling, ebony wool pulled over her inked and decorated skin with long sleeves tugged rough over lithe limbs and the hem shucked down low, addressing to mid-thigh wherein she bends and pulls long stockings over her bruised legs. Fei distantly wishes she had brought a coat, but banishes that thought as she lifts her hair, gatherings the mass within her hands and securing as much as she can into a whipping tail. Her body temperature fluctuated too often when in the graces of certain beings and when adjusting from beast to human -- as human as one could attempt anyways, and already the battle had begun in a war of hot and cold. She gazes then upon the house, hands gone idle and at her sides.

In the distance she hears chains that rattle and a wailing women that weeps over her agony and pain.

Fei breaths, her voice raked harsh over her throat from disuse.
"She suffered awfully."

It rings heavy against her weighted heart and teases against the desire of her given existence, she can almost taste the Death wet and heavy against her tongue, as if new and thick despite the lingering vestiges of demonic cruelty.

Bare-footed and arms crossed now, Fei turns on the last catches of introductions, offering her initial profile. She's never worked with others before, not really, at least not in such quantities and in such company. She was told of such in her vague summons, but the practice was still in infancy stages despite any preparations she could have attempted, and Fei, with her brow lowered and troubled, could only scratch idly against the wool on her neck and laugh. Merely at herself, of course, but the chortle was enough to summon a smirk to her lips all the same.



โ™š
esper'yhn barghest.
f e i b l a c k c l a w.

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๐Ÿ๐ž๐ฆ๐š๐ฅ๐ž. โ—† ๐›๐ฅ๐š๐œ๐ค ๐๐จ๐ . โ—† ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ž๐ง๐ญ๐ฒ-๐ฌ๐ข๐ฑ : ๐จ๐ฏ๐ž๐ซ ๐Ÿ’๐ŸŽ๐ŸŽ ๐ฒ๐ž๐š๐ซ๐ฌ ๐จ๐ฅ๐.
โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ


โ๐’•๐’‰๐’† ๐’ƒ๐’๐’‚๐’„๐’Œ ๐’…๐’๐’ˆ. ; ๐’ƒ๐’‚๐’“๐’ˆ๐’‰๐’†๐’”๐’• ; ๐’ƒ๐’๐’‚๐’„๐’Œ ๐’”๐’‰๐’–๐’„๐’Œ ; ๐’‘๐’‚๐’…๐’‡๐’๐’๐’• ; ๐’„๐’‚๐’‘๐’†๐’๐’•๐’‰๐’˜๐’‚๐’Š๐’•๐’† ; ๐’ˆ๐’“๐’Š๐’Ž.โž

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First spotted in 1577 at the church of Bungay in Suffolk.
-- apparition, ghost, shapeshifter, hellhound, reaper, guardian of the crossroads --

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If ever should you come across one of these fabled apparitions within the gloom of the night, look not into their eyes that are aglow in spectral white or demented hellfire, these are the glimpses of deadened things prowling about in the shadows on the rattling chains of the dead. And should one ever cross your path, turn away at their presence, for fables tell of those who perish one year, six months, three days, two hours and one minute to the day they see such a horrid thing. Standing betwixt glamoured constructs and guarding ancient pathways and ley-lines festooned in acclaimed magics and forlorn souls lost wondering and held to the world; the Crossroads of reality and veiled existence. Black dogs are storied through watered down tales and lore, so often that their origins are muddled between Celtic, and Germanic elements of various cultures, but a constant remains they are famed as a portent of Death and ill wanted. They herald omens of change, death, illness and misfortune to mortality. Such follows their wake even into the Underworld wherein many are christened as Guardians; some told of would-be reapers that sing a funeral tole on the winds of the dead souls that call for their dues.

In whichever fable is held to a token of truth, it varies upon the tale told and the whispers uttered of their creation and conception. Secrets and lies are afforded in spades to the protection of self and life, uttered by either man or canine. Electrical storms rampant on a too-silent night will foretell a cruel malevolence that bears fang and claw on any victim, usually upon a moonless cycle where the shadows impart briefly to allow black dogs to roam free without the tethers of their once upon masters and would be keepers.

โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ
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@AmongHeroes - You got me interested, obviously. โ™ฅ
&&
the bird.

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๐š• ๐š˜ ๐š˜ ๐š” ๐š— ๐š˜ ๐š ๐š ๐š˜ ๐š ๐š‘ ๐šŽ ๐šœ ๐š‘ ๐šŠ ๐š ๐š˜ ๐š  ๐šœ


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โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–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.

โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ

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โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–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.

โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ

@Arya10108909 //



you know the drill. click the raw to receive the code. โ™ฅ
?

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&& disclaimer ; I'm an incredibly busy person, with prior life engagements and a full work schedule: fifty plus hours some weeks. 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 partner.




dies irae. -- a tale of persecution and ruin.
21+ & adv. โ—† religious fanaticism โ—† false gods โ—† sins unbound โ—† alchemic made monstrosities โ—† crusades
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farewell. -- anthology of the red and black book.&&&
21+ & adv. โ—† sensitive themes and subjects โ—† history themed โ—† death โ—† obsession โ—† psychological / philosophical struggles
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howl. -- a story of us.&&&
21+ & adv. โ—† romance โ—† angst โ—† modern โ—† hate โ—† manipulation โ—† subjective themes and material of mental dissociation and identity
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alkaline. -- a tale of self destruction.
21+ & adv. โ—† angst โ—† opposites attract โ—† modern-esque โ—† obsession โ—† addiction
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purgatory. -- the final tale; the end of an era.
21+ & adv. โ—† reincarnation & rebirth โ—† hell on earth โ—† death โ—† punishment โ—† religion
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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. โ™ฅ
@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. โ™ฅ

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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โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ

๐“ขhe 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.
๐“ฃo 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.

๐“ฆhatever 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.

๐“ขhe 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."

๐“ฃhe 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.

๐“ขhe 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."

๐“–iselle 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.

โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–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.


. ๐’† ๐’• ๐’… ๐’“ ๐’‚ ๐’„ ๐’ ๐’ˆ ๐’ ๐’‚ ๐’„ ๐’Š ๐’† ๐’Š .
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