Rockette

OBLIVION

she feisty.

OBLIVION

FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT

@nodogs

I’d put money on it.

OBLIVION

@Aeolian
i love him so much.

OBLIVION

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

samuel sabiston. █ act one: way down we go ▸ Ritman High, Football Field. ▸Interacting with everyone. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Samuel sits in the back of a cab, one street down, idling at a stop sign when the driver, again, glares at him through the rear view mirror. Bloodshot eyes scan over every visible tattoo: from his branded throat and penned fingers laced over his mouth whilst he gazed through the smoke-fogged window and ignored the vibrating presence of his cell balanced on his knee. Idle chit-chat had been exchanged for uneasy silence, a brooding after thought that plagued Samuel that this was mistake, a trap, his paranoia crested high from the earlier flight to the hailing of the taxi service and putting himself up in a hotel for a couple days. His father offered the guest bedroom earlier in the week, but Sam had declined on whispered refusals - his new wife, step-mother he thinks, didn't much enjoy his looming figure, much to his expectation. Which was fine, he told himself and his father, he'd see them over the holidays and they could catch a beer or two tomorrow, right pops? "Right here is fine, actually" Samuel announces suddenly, leaning forward and fishing his wallet from his pocket and fingers a few bills, "How much...?" "Thirty even." Comes a clipped reply, suspicion evident there, who was this heavily tattooed man in their town, prowling after hours no less. "Here's forty, keep the change." He pays the fare, no hesitation as he procures a smoke and cups his hand around the flame he flicks to life from his Bic. One shuddering pull and an exhale later, Samuel walks the rest of the way to Ritman through a haze of smoke. He avoided going to the opening affair to this stroll down memory trauma lane, for he was not a confident man when it came to hashing over history with nothing but glass tumblers and amber liquids separating then from the now. Samuel procured his earbuds on reflex, their wireless function immediately resuming his every evolving playlist to accompany his short-ranged vigil. Nostalgia perfumed the air, taking form in wisps of white and muttered lyrics that formed a symphony for the melancholic mortals that stalked this night in memoriam. Booted feet fell in tandem to a personal beat, following a path not taken in so long, easily strung upon reflexes as he had walked this path through both reality and dreams. A gap in the fence, a gateway to the inferno, he poetically mused, the rusting gate flaking beneath inked gestures that shook. The figures came first, haloed by light and framed in shadow, and Samuel carefully removed his earbuds as the voices came to then, pinging upon remembrance of snide remarks and comments, to the pitying glances and whispered rumors that saw to Samuel's harrowing graduation. Would they even recognize him, donned and embellished as he was, hair dyed and the weight shredded through vices and determination: his person a phoenix that was risen from the ashes of his incinerated childhood. There was no going back as Samuel crossed onto the field, hands tucked away in his back pockets after he rucked his sleeves up to his elbows. Printed black on black, the logo of Black Arrow embellished across his chest and down the back with his own design advertised. There was no precursor to the words that followed his debut, but he did straighten his posture at least, spine suddenly rigid as many introduced and reminisced. "Hey, Billy- uh." A deep timbre coiled, his grin turned suddenly sheepish. "Marco.. Everyone. Here to open the capsule, yeah.." He glanced down, first at his boots and then to mascot still embossed there, as if searching for a distraction before he rocked back onto his heels. "It's Sabiston, by the by. Samuel." ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

ᵀʰᵉ Spirits Within/Aeon

There is no shame in my game.

ᵀʰᵉ Spirits Within/Aeon

we can fix that. ;)

OBLIVION

@udonoodles
awe. The beautiful friendship that could've been. ♥
sad.

edit.
Half way on a IC post for Sam, will finish it tomorrow after work.

ᵀʰᵉ Spirits Within/Aeon

I like hot FCs , I cannot lie.

ᵀʰᵉ Spirits Within/Aeon

---

_{DAY 1 《》 STEELWATER [RD-PRS] 《》 Afternoon 《》 @Rockette@DeadDrop}

---

▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇

"I told you, it's fine." Scylla drawls, blouse pooled on her wrists, sporting nothing but unassuming negligee that offset the pallor of skin blemished and bruised. Eyes linger upon her back, she knows, feeling tacking stares that ping down her inked and scaled back and set her spine rigid in posture. The bruises circling her torso are observed and prodded, photographed even despite her protests in the language of frigid stares and thinned lips. Someone mutters an apology: your highness. It slips out on a uttered reflex because they know who she is and what: an assistant beckons and Scylla laughs. Leviathan. "I'm not royalty. Just ask my father." It's a whisper, one whistled through pursed lips as the explanations from Emilia bubble and fall on her ears. Scylla cuts her a glance over her shoulder, idle movements lifting her blouse back over head, making note to ask that one Aeon - the fashionable one - to perhaps sew the miniscule gaps now along her sleeves. It bothers her, only slightly really, to have those certain appellations pinned to her presence and fixating her reputation beyond the reaches of her own name. She should be used to it by now, of course, but -- As mother would say, own that shit. Scylla's attention mills around as the Research Division unfolds around them, it's not unfamiliar really, Dragoon forces often took shelter in battle grounds much like this - not as chaotic - but none the less serving as an infirmary. Her gaze though quickly peels away from the bustling activity and curiously pins onto Robert, completed with an inquisitive head tilt. He speaks her name, and she likes the way it sounds, a little charming, a little intentional much like the way she leans forward. "Oh, I imagine we could get pretty creative." Hair now fallen over her shoulder, voice lowered to a whisper and says: "Catch a break, eat and --" The universe would not wait for the suggestion planted there, a seed of wanton expectation, and Scylla labeled the encounter for another time as the world became awash in reds and blacks. The clouds of brown smoke was an unnerving sight, her spirits of water and air vibrating in their area of influence as Robert fled down the hall, fired. First in, last out. The embellishments of a man with a death wish. Her spear and rifle were left upstairs, no good down here in gloom and doom of the undead it would seem. There's something about them that summons a peculiar sense of having seen their like before, the twitching limbs, the deadened stare and ravenous appetite to maim and destroy - to feed. Scylla has one pistol drawn immediately, her movements fluid as she kneels just for a moment to pull the shiv free from her boot and sprints down the hall after Robert. "Down," she snaps, using her momentum to strike from the flank, bullets chambered and then fired, that little razor lancing out with a wicked gleam on the blade. She doesn't allow herself to think about that maybe just a few moments ago that they had been people. Delicately mortal and mundane. Through the head and neck she strikes, one down, still more to go.

ᵀʰᵉ Spirits Within/Aeon

@Prisk
I'm a big ass baby when I get sick okay.
I can handle bougie bitches all day and bride-zillas but allergies? nah.