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Rexanna De Rosieres
the Penumbra
Queen of the Hollowed Grounds

Age: 34 | Height: 5'4" | Race: Ascended x Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds
Level: 4 Abandoned (Level 3 Ascended) - Strg: 19 - Dext: 14 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 9 - Int:
Played by: Skylark Offline
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Posts: 1,453 | Total: 13,495
MP: 0
#15
R E X A N N A
this is not your destruction
There was something to be said about the man beside her – that he seemed so similar and yet different from the one she recalled. There, in that other land, he spoke very little but enough to where the point got across. Here, it wasn’t any different. The similarities in her recollection to now grew stronger the longer she sat beside him, but as she expressed her discontent and he remained silent, listening to her, she felt like a mere child whose parent simply stopped to listen in the attempt to sate their curiosities and their voices. But it felt different when she had finished her speech, of her promise to him open in the air, that should he have her she’d never betray his trust again. That is, if he allowed his trust to her once more.

When he finally did speak, his gaze lingering on the wall behind the bar, her gaze lingered on her cup – simply watching him through her peripheral vision. His voice reached out to her, in a way that deep down she knew was far truer than anything she could’ve said of the strange land where these two strangers had known each other – had even been friends of sorts at one point. But his attention slipped to her again, and she turned her own head to catch those familiar blue eyes – piercing and so cold that her heart thundered in her chest in worry and anticipation. It wasn’t so much an apology, or forgiveness so much as it was a hope for a second round, to prove that she could be so much better and so much more than she ever had been. That the half royal blooded daughter of an affair, a prisoner of two kingdoms, could be something more than her name and her previous actions. But then he spoke and smiled and she felt the air whoosh out of her chest, as her heart squeezed one last final tug on her lungs and relaxed, her pulse simmering from what seemed like a rolling boil with the final set of words.

Rexanna offered him her own smile in return, lifting her glass in a kind of mock toast. “Here’s to learning from mistakes.” She offered Deimos a slight wink before taking a drink from her glass, hoping to prove to herself that she might make better decisions here – that she had been under the thrall of far too many men in her life and that life to continue to make the same mistakes. A cage was still a cage, regardless of how beautiful it were decorated. And she vowed to herself silently that she wouldn’t – couldn’t – be caged again.

But then, she shifted the conversation in an attempt to not bring up more information than she was intending on sharing. Despite having known him previously – she was certain – she didn’t entirely know him here either. Better to have her life story found out over time rather than spread it around in gossip and easy conversation. “Do you happen to have any idea what this place is? It’s all so different from where I was, despite how I got here.” She half laughed, looking to Deimos to see if he held any information on that front, or if he was just as uncertain as she was.

this is your birth

Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
BELIAL - Mythical - Peryton (Blend) ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 6,559 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#16

Deimos the Reaper
You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this
long and lonely road to hell
the throne must be such a sad and lonely place

Learning from mistakes; a bitter, acerbic taste on his tongue, fixtures of brutal reminders and recollections that he had so much to grasp. He could’ve been a master at penitence, drowning in remorse and rue, waiting to be scalded, seared, and smoldered again. It had turned him into rock and rubble, abhorrently apprehensive, waiting on the sidelines, calculating where he could survive another error, another state of ineptitude. It left him cold, unfeeling, detached from the rest of the world – soldier and mercenary through and through, because he had control over blades and cutlasses, because he could fathom death, because it was a skill, a talent, he possessed beyond the ruse of obliteration. His boldness had led him down great, grand paths, and some harsh, reeling ones – borne him from boy into unreachable, unattainable beast, bristling and barbaric, staying in the abyss, in the void, of familiarity and dissolution. But now and again he softened, remembered what it was like to have companions and friends, fellow allies and comrades, all consigned to oblivion together, fighting for the same thing, for the glory, for the triumph, for the conquest of anything and everything; marauders of kingdoms, mercenaries for hire, armies meant to crush and divide. When they were gone, when beings he cherished, devoted himself to, were eradicated, he withdrew, tucked himself away in the quiet corners of shadows and shade, of dusk and twilight, of the twisting, turning, meticulous scruples and veils of the hollowed impartial. He left burning structures and husks of the past, the clawing sickness sticking to his ribs, the smirking, snickering rhythms the earth dictated towards his own personal hell. Vengeance hadn’t even been his to grasp: everything fallen, fallen, fallen, sinking stones and intangible frameworks barring his path towards irreverent, molten, infernal wrath and condemnation. His brooding convictions and sorrowful vendetta hovered along his bones, summoned by the vast memories of days when he’d shattered and hadn’t been enough; and the fear that it would all occur again, a rapid, churning, burning, swallowing, all-consuming haze, segmented and nettled its way right into his chest. He raised his glass at Rexanna’s wink and clamor, to the beacon of familiar, gilded light, but didn’t murmur the consternations suddenly eating at his sinew and flesh. I’ll fail you, he nearly said, silence and anguish stinging, behemoth thorns daring to drive their way into his skin, burying and seething in his veins. Just like the rest of them.

He should’ve been pushing forward, just as determined, just as boundless, just as brutish, barbarous, and depraved; yet, in the clouds of ignorance, in the state of bewilderment and the unknown, he’d betrayed his own normal considerations. The Reaper had often been led by his damnable curiosity, bewitched and distorted by interests and intrigue, starved until he found the answers – and here? Here he’d dragged his feet and found a bar, aimed to settle back into his old ways and drink himself into the ground, until he couldn’t remember the wounds, the scars, the losses, until he couldn’t murmur his name, until he was just a pile of ash and dust, blown away by the wind. The soldier muffled a sardonic, scorching laugh, the smile previously worn all but fettered away, head down, piercing eyes glowering at the wood instead of at Rexanna, whose essence would likely blister his gaze; undeserving of the resplendence. He loathed ignorance and yet soaked and sullied himself in it, sat there amidst a group of unfamiliar, unknown casts, and had done naught to reach into it, claw his way out. “I do not,” he gave, his frame, his figure, his mere existence the only thing he could offer. There was no information rolled and coiled in his brain; just machinations of the past that had little impact on the present. A low growl curled its way through his throat, but it was only to himself, and he squeezed his glass a little harder than he should; clenching his jaw, withholding sighs and curses. “I cannot even explain how I arrived.” I have nothing was loud and clear; an empty cauldron of deadly incantations.


Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
Rexanna De Rosieres
the Penumbra
Queen of the Hollowed Grounds

Age: 34 | Height: 5'4" | Race: Ascended x Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds
Level: 4 Abandoned (Level 3 Ascended) - Strg: 19 - Dext: 14 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 9 - Int:
Played by: Skylark Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,453 | Total: 13,495
MP: 0
#17
R E X A N N A
this is not your destruction
Unfortunately, her curiosities were shared with Deimos in terms of what this place was. Perhaps he didn’t care, perhaps she was the only one that needed to find the closure in the fact that her ex-husband couldn’t find her here; or perhaps she was genuinely curious where they had fallen into. It didn’t really matter much, it wasn’t like she could leave. Still, she felt the hollow answers for what they were, and she found herself looking over to Deimos while he seemed to stare down at his drink. She lifted the glass to her lips and chugged the rest of it, wincing slightly against the burn as it raked down her throat.

She set the glass back onto the table, cast a curious glance to the cat that had been watching them before looking back to Deimos with a bit of a raised eyebrow. She recalled in that other universe that he was a man of little words, but there was something different about this one. She had no inclination of his fears and worries, of the threats he seemed to pose against himself. Instead, she found herself wanting to comfort him, but like she had done when she ranked beneath him. She wanted to help somehow, yet she didn’t know how and she was certain he wouldn’t tell her. So she sat there in solidarity for awhile, trying to think of what she could say that might mean something for him – or even something that might take his mind away from where it was.

But nothing came to mind, and so she sat there trying to decide what to say while she had her glass filled again. It wasn’t an awkward silence, but instead a welcome one. A peaceful one, where she could actually think about the events that lead her here and what she could now do. Then, she turned to Deimos again and offered him a small smile. “What will you do now?” She questioned him quietly, her sapphire gaze watching him with the brightness of optimism, her skin shimmering with the gilded light almost as a representation of who she had been in that other world. “I think I’m going to get very drunk and probably sleep in a ditch somewhere.” She added with a small laugh, in jest, wondering if she'd get a reaction.

this is your birth

Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
BELIAL - Mythical - Peryton (Blend) ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 6,559 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#18

Deimos the Reaper
You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this
long and lonely road to hell
the throne must be such a sad and lonely place

The reality of his worth came crashing down upon him as he took his last swig – her words were a gateway to the truth, and it stung more than it should have. Here, under the gall and might of bewilderment, unfamiliarity, and keen ignorance, he was nothing. Before, he’d been a tower, a Colossus, a beast, wreaking havoc and calling for war, piercing skulls, leaving bones to bleach beneath the sun, stealing the last moment of an enemy, waiting for the reign of terror to begin again. Before, he’d been a heathen, a Reaper, a living, breathing, moving sword, a weapon for kings and queens, bending the knee for the slightest chance to triumph, conquer, and devour – falling apart in the rain, in the ashes, in the embers of everything that could’ve been and never would be again. In the present, he was just one more figure thrown haphazardly in the shade, disregarded dust and muscle, flesh and sinew, haunted and kindled, incensed with no direction, no guidance, no significance. He was among many of the futile, rummaging for a scrap of information, for the taste of a meal, for the sensation of purpose beyond the walls of confusion and discord. It was sobering; back into moments of gangly years where he didn’t know how to swing a cutlass, where he’d yet to learn the feeling of defeat or victory, where he hadn’t quested for glory, where he hadn’t embodied sojourn after sojourn, bloodlust after bloodlust. Thrown straight into the den of lions without cutlasses, knives, or daggers; just his strength and convictions was an eye-opening experience, and he knew he couldn’t simply stay here for eternity, behind bar walls, drinking the anguish away (it always came back; the pain was his own form of torture; not enough, too little, too late). “I was a soldier,” he started, looking at his empty glass and shifting it back and forth on the surface; gaze shifting towards the cat for a moment or two, withholding a shark bark of laughter that threatened to form over his mouth. She likely would’ve surmised his occupation long before he announced it. “I am uncertain of what is required here.” There weren’t any riots in the streets, danger and treachery didn’t loom thick over his senses; but there were other things about, mysteries and enigmas, threads requiring untangling, the buzzing of too many bees and flies.

Her intentions were amusing, likely meant to spin him out of the inner turmoil clasping over his frame again; the figure toppled, Rhodes fallen to its sea-bed. It took a moment for him to utter a quiet chuckle, a quirk of his brow again when his stare returned back to hers. “Not much of a long-term plan.” The heathen stretched, leaned back against the chair he’d snagged, gave her full attention, drink and glass no longer in hand. “And after? What talents do you possess?” An echo, a refrain, he didn’t know he’d uttered – cyclical, inevitable strikes and chords, the same rumbling tone, the same curious endeavors, beasts trapped and locked in redundant rimes and reasons. The mountains called on his breath, on his air, and a sudden homesickness filled his soul – everything was bitter, and it hurt in its rancorous edge, in its blunt accord.


Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
Rexanna De Rosieres
the Penumbra
Queen of the Hollowed Grounds

Age: 34 | Height: 5'4" | Race: Ascended x Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds
Level: 4 Abandoned (Level 3 Ascended) - Strg: 19 - Dext: 14 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 9 - Int:
Played by: Skylark Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,453 | Total: 13,495
MP: 0
#19
R E X A N N A
this is not your destruction
She listened, leaning against the table as Deimos stared at his empty glass, spinning it back and forth before he spoke. Her eyes lingered on him briefly before looking toward her own glass. He continued, however, and she nodded in agreement. This was a strange world, full of many uncertainties. There was so much to learn and so much to do and for whatever reason, Rexanna felt as though she was running out of time. She sucked in a breath, her eyes shifting back toward him as he chuckled – brows lifting in quiet surprise.

As he responded, a grin formed across her features. “Och, but what fun is a long term plan in a new world with endless possibilities?” She chided with a small laugh. But it grew a bit more serious as he asked what talents she possessed, and it felt an awful lot like when she first met him – standing beside that gilded man, a thief in the night; and him. Stark and dark against the chill of the winter heights, of the mountains that screamed home for so long to her. She couldn’t recall her own answer to him, but she knew her fierce determination was still resolute in her heart.

She turned her head and grinned to him. “I do my best to negotiate.” She replied with a wink sent in his direction before she cleared her throat. “I’m not sure what people need here either. I think I might just do whatever the world needs and hopefully the pieces fall into place.” She paused, tilting her head slightly. “Easier than trying to figure it out right away. Helps to make sure you aren’t making some kind of mistake, you know?” She finally answered, her eyes shifting to him.

this is your birth

Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
BELIAL - Mythical - Peryton (Blend) ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 6,559 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#20

Deimos the Reaper
You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this
long and lonely road to hell
the throne must be such a sad and lonely place

Deimos hadn’t ever been much of a dreamer - his head hadn’t been conformed to the clouds, but stuck in the bellows of ambition. He’d learned, an avid scholar in fighting, in reading, in training, in aspirations, carving and sculpting his way through the muck and mire. His youthful, glowing smiles had been administered in the delight of soldier-craft, as he struck his wooden sword into a fellow apprentice, as he combed through ancient tomes and artifacts, as he buried his sorrows and forged on ahead. But here, he was out of place all over again, motives and impressions lost on him, too far-gone into the abyss. Perhaps he should’ve let it rest, been a listless, languid creation, drift in and out of folds, veils, and shrouds, waiting for something to happen, to appear, to guide him on his way – but it’d be out of character, to let fate alter his course. The grin remained in place, the arched brow firmly entrenched in his features, another chuckle making its way through the tavern. “You must have some goal in mind.” Insurrection, disorder, and bedlam had been his inevitable objectives and intentions, but the rest would be discovered – as he drank and relished every nuance, every sound, every sight the world had to offer; then he’d know, he’d understand, exactly what he truly craved, required, needed.

The warrior wasn’t surprised when Rexanna mentioned her abilities - negotiation - and it hummed against his brain like a distant haze, a murky fog, gold, gold, and gold, impish smiles and eye-rolling tendencies, thieves and knives, the longing, the yearning, to destroy things standing in his path, barring his way. The earth and its kingdoms had never been that easy, but he’d tried; it blended and distorted, confused and bewildered – his eyes widened for a fraction, and then he blinked, pushed his glass aside, back towards the bartender, signaling he was finished in his imbibing. “Mistakes are inevitable,” he shrugged, fishing in his pockets for the last few coins to pay for his drink, nodding to indicate he’d bear Rexanna’s cost too. His whole life could be heralded as a series of errors and flaws, but the miscreant had given it a solid effort, refusing to bow down to the weight of the world lain across his shoulders. “But we should try anyway.” The soldier winked back at her for good measure, because she’d been comfortable company in the bestial slate and hold of the void, despite triggering unwanted nuances; reassurances of a time long gone (mountains, the cold, chilling taste of the wind shoved across his face, standing on top of it all with a heavy crown). “We shall see each other again,” he bobbed his head, smirked, snickered, then maneuvered towards the door, back out into the evening squall and its thousand furtive notions.


Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
Rexanna De Rosieres
the Penumbra
Queen of the Hollowed Grounds

Age: 34 | Height: 5'4" | Race: Ascended x Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds
Level: 4 Abandoned (Level 3 Ascended) - Strg: 19 - Dext: 14 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 9 - Int:
Played by: Skylark Offline
Change author:
Posts: 1,453 | Total: 13,495
MP: 0
#21
R E X A N N A
this is not your destruction
She listened while Deimos spoke, trying to ignore the feeling of remembrance where they had participated in many a meeting, but rarely ever one on one. They had been friends; such great friends that the act of her leaving the land, the home he had offered her to stay in, had been betrayal. She sucked in a breath, vividly remembering those hot springs and how much she wished she could lounge in one now after such an exhausting day, but Deimos had finished speaking and reached for coins – enough for the both of them. She blinked bewildered for a moment before smiling to him and touching his arm gently. “Thank you.” It was quiet, but she nodded with it all the same, with the gesture of friendship in a strange new land as though the two of them hadn’t traversed equally strange lands before.

He got up to leave and grinned to her, offering a means of leaving and she nodded to the offer. She’d certainly see him again; he wouldn’t get away from her that easily. After all, she’d made a promise and she intended on keeping it. Her dark haired head bobbed to him as she raised her glass in a salute as he turned to leave. She herself would remain here a bit longer, not drinking so much but perhaps pondering what a strange occurrence it had been to cross another she knew yet didn’t truly know.
this is your birth



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