[Seasonal Event] Good Gourd
Leatherworker

Age: 29 | Height: 175cm / 5'9 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 3 - Strg: 16 - Dext: 17 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 8
Played by: Neowulf Offline
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#1
Rory
Good thing about today: the weather was clear and chilly, a cold snap having happened overnight. Pale and thin sunlight streaked down from a mostly cloudless sky, and with temperatures just below freezing the usual muddy hell that passed for roads in and out of the Settlement—and in it, too—were frozen and uneven. Upside? No mud-caked boots! Downside? The frozen ridges were a health hazard. Rory had already stumbled a handful of times just because he hadn't been paying attention to where he was putting his feet.

He was on the way to see if he could pick up a couple of more orders with Deepfrost just around the corner; fur-lined boots, new, thicker gloves, patching your pouch, goat-hair socks, whatever have you. Rory didn't work with exotic fur—unless he got something off a trapper—but let him tell you: goat might be a bit coarse, but having your feet embraced by goat wool come the cold season? Absolutely delightful, and absolutely toasty for your toes.

Rory rounded a corner. Passed a small alley between two houses. Took two more steps. Heard the terrifying sound of a pack of vicious gourds, and began to turn to face them just in time as a butternut squash smashed into the back of his knee; he stumbled down on one knee, only to feel the next one strike the small of his back.

And so they came at him, relentless and tiny and compact, bruising him and momentarily stunning him into curling up on his side, with his arms around his head as their fleshy, seedy saliva drooled onto his clothes with each soft-lipped bite and pummeling.

Motherfucker, Rory thought to himself after a couple of seconds.

[ For Amalia and anyone <3 Pls come rescue Rory and make him bake something with his evil assailants. ]
burn scars crawl up the left side of his neck and onto the lower left half of his face
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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#2

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 Reaper threaded his way through the streets, roaming, brooding, and contemplating, a contortion of ominous menace and presiding curiosity. His main ambition had been to settle over an area to perhaps either build his own shelter or restore one that had since lost its purpose, for while he didn’t mind lingering in the footholds of the wilderness, there was a particular notion to a sanctuary, a haven, that comforted his senses. He first thought of mountains, the calculating chill behind peaks and valleys, sweeping through caverns and glaciers, but none had been in the surroundings, and he’d yet to fully explore the vast holdings of this foreign land. So his piercing, penetrating gaze had swept and combed over with a vicious speculation and inspection along the alleyways, intending to find something to abide his form of home.

He lifted his head at a peculiar noise; rolling gourds, vegetables marching down to haunt their newest victim. The beast managed to release a soft sigh, mind whirling and pondering over how long their escapades would last, or how many still lingered, fighting their way into onslaught after onslaught. What was their purpose: pumpkin domination? The thought mustered a brief snicker across his face, and he thought about moving along, continuing on his warrior way. He would’ve done so had his gaze not caught sight of someone actually trapped beneath a hoard of the more violent, ferocious gourds, and his march altered direction without hesitation.

His movements and motions were deliberately threatening, a cold, detached gaze, an eldritch stance, a barbaric, savage step, and he took no time in arriving near the stranger, fending off one attack with a ferocious kick. The squash managed to fly through the air and hit a nearby wall, and Deimos repeated the pattern with obvious fervor, enjoying the fiendish array of violence, the simplicity of each murderous gesture. “You all right?” He murmured between more punts and jolts, reaching down to grab ahold of one vegetable who intended to climb and nibble his boots.


Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Hand of the Queen / Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 12 - Strg: 34 - Dext: 34 - Endr: 35 - Luck: 34
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
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#3

Amalia
i'll light a fire in your new shoes

The gourds have been driving her slowly mad, popping up in inopportune times and any imaginable place. She has taken to carrying her staff wherever she goes, just in case an unruly pack should cross her path - they make good target practice, so there's that, and a healthy smattering of pumpkin seeds now coats her well-worn boots. On colder days like this the things snap easier, exploding into satisfying bursts of guts and grit, but on warm days the smell of them pervades the area, seeping between boarded walls and oozing into ceiling and carpet. It was on one of these warm days that she first got the idea: why not incorporate the the gourds into her own cooking, strike back against the oppressors, as it were?

Amalia has just finished preparing for an afternoon bake when a sound from outside catches her ear. It sounds like a struggle; she snatches up her staff and pops out the door, prepared to combat some new injustice, only to see another wave of gourds bustle past, pursued by a familiar, hulking figure, and disappearing into the alley beside the shop. Without a thought she joins the pursuit, prepared to defend some other poor soul from the march of the pumpkins, the war of the gourds, drawing quickly to a halt as she rounds the corner of the shop. Surprise flashes across the girl's face, followed by wry amusement: the scene is inadvertently comical, a narrow man curled up as a brawny one defends him, both familiar to the entertained baker. Deimos, she is confident, has the situation under control.

"Catch some of them whole," the girl calls. "I'll whip up some scones to celebrate your victory." She smiles sympathetically at Rory - this is fortunate, actually, she needs more boots - before swiftly bringing her staff down on a wayward gourd, sending in flying before it can begin to scramble up her leg.

image by tambako @ flickr.com
Leatherworker

Age: 29 | Height: 175cm / 5'9 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 3 - Strg: 16 - Dext: 17 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 8
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#4
Rory
It was a deeply seated instinct to curl up in a ball when struck by unknown and ferocious assailants—and whether it was an instinct shared by all mankind or simply one Rory had acquired as a picked-upon kid he didn't know. He just knew that for a brief moment he'd been back in his scrawny child's body, and the gourds had been the boots of his bullies. Turns out humans and vegetables bruise you the same. Turns out that those memories were ones he hadn't touched in years, and he was surprised by both how potent they still were, and how little they affected his day-to-day life these days.

Still. He was curled up on his side in the frozen mud, covered by angry and murderous gourds, and to make matters worse, it was in the middle of the Settlement. If he had hoped to ride out his surprise in peace and then get up, hopefully without a pumpkin bashing his head in, he was to be disappointed.

Even as he was gathering his senses and preparing to throw himself upright again, he heard footsteps approaching. And the woosh of a well-aimed kick, followed by the splatter of a gourd landing somewhere far away.

Good job Rory. You're getting rescued.

He kind of wished one of those really big calabash would just land hard on his head so he wouldn't have to deal with this embarrassment, but, tough shit: sometimes you have to face life head-on. Steeling himself and searching for his naturally good humor, Rory spasmed once, with the intended effect of giving him enough space to sit up. As he did, he saw that he was being saved by someone who he didn't recognize. The man was tall and bulky and sort of dark-looking, but he seemed pleasant enough, as he actually asked Rory how he was doing, instead of gloating at him.

"Just startled," Rory responded, only then noticing that it wasn't just the two of them. Amalia, the baker, had come from somewhere, staff in hand, amusement on her face. Rory, for some reason still sitting down, made shooing motions at the gourds, which was enough to keep them from climbing on top of him again. She suggested victory scones, and while the idea of watching someone expertly murder his attackers sounded good, he actually wasn't sure if he was invited: victory scones sounded more like something Deimos would get out of it. Rory wasn't doing much victory-ing.

He thought of Wessex, hanging the gourds by their stems. He looked at the patch of pugnacious pumpkins. Kicked a little towards a gnashing squash. "Grab 'em by the stems," he suggested, pulling himself into a crouch. Oww, yeah—boots and cold veggies definitely bruised you the same. He grimaced a little before diving for one of the better-looking pumpkins, and rather easily grabbing it by the stem.

You got deft hands working with leather and animals.
burn scars crawl up the left side of his neck and onto the lower left half of his face
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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#5

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 relish of destruction and annihilation was an incandescent, brilliant thing to his being: he was disaster, he was ruin, he was power, and he was domination. Another kick sent one more gourd flying, and the smash of its sides against the building was music to his ears; hardly the war-torn battlefields, but something amusing and diverting all the same. He set about rounding another one into its unfortunate demise, when the rescued soul at his feet had managed to sit up, looking quite embarrassed, sheepish, the kind of moments where one is snagged and snared in a ridiculous trap. The Reaper paid this no mind: he’d been in a thousand other mishaps as a child, growing wild and free along beaches, sand, surf, and lone, wild prairies. Normally, however, he didn’t play the role of savior; that was reserved for more beatific bodies, those with morals, and not lacquered, lacquered, with boundless iniquity. So he wasn’t exactly sure what had come over him in those feral instances – perhaps just the chase, just the mayhem, just the consignment to oblivion – but he’d save the thoughts and nuances later, closed them off with a simple shrug, a nonchalant stare rendered over his features. He nodded at the fellow, but otherwise didn’t engage in conversation: what did one say about a hoard of attacking pumpkins?

A distraction fettered him away from having to disclose anything else; Amalia’s presence came with a strike of her staff and a broadened command. He turned her way and arched his brow; ordinarily blistering and simmering at the notion of having to listen to any sort of authority, but the promise of food kept the residual resentment buried, away from his stomach. The heathen’s stare flickered back to the bludgeoned vegetables sinking down house walls and building columns, eyeing the spray of seeds and pulp along the street. Apparently these wouldn’t do. It was too bad really, because he’d taken great joy in ensuring their demise.

At the suggestion of the stranger, he noted a gourd managing to sidle its way towards their vicinity. Quick, swift, despite his massive size, he seized a hold along the stem, slightly irritated and irked by the thorny ambience of the rough skin, and held it tightly underneath his arm, indifferent to its squirms and pleas. “I am Deimos,” he added into the air, mostly intended for Rory, making the only conversation he could come up with at the time.


Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Hand of the Queen / Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 12 - Strg: 34 - Dext: 34 - Endr: 35 - Luck: 34
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
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#6

Amalia
i'll light a fire in your new shoes

The duo make a classic pair, one slight and fair, the other dark and broad- and the girl, golden, observing quietly, anxious and interested, mind full of plans. For a moment Amalia watches them recover from the onslaught, concerned they may reject her proposal, or find it in poor taste. Luckily the men seem to be on board: Rory lunges valiantly for a squash while Deimos snatches another up. A pleased smile flickers over Amalia's face. Reaching down, she scoops up a segment of her own victimized pumpkin, the seeds glistening tantalizing, and turns to lead the way inside, absently picking seeds out of the gourd. The pumpkins themselves will take some time to cook, but seeds roast up quickly, and the oven is already hot.

"Open them up and pull out the seeds," Amalia instructs, glancing up quickly to make sure her instructions are met. "That should get them to stop fighting. Those ones will take a while to cook, but these should be done soon." The girl swings around the counter and reaches down to pull out a bowl of dough earlier prepared, deftly pulling out segments and shaping orange triangles. She pushes them carefully into the oven, garnishing each with three pumpkin seeds, and stands back, wiping her brown before turning once more to face the men.

"Make yourselves comfortable." Not the easiest thing to do.The bakery, while significantly less dilapidated than earlier in the season, is still far from its bustling beauty of earlier years, but seeing people within it fills Amalia with pride. Her bronze skin glows in the fire and sunlight that dances through the warm space, decorated now with flowers and aromatic herbs. "I can make you some tea," she offers, then adds quickly, "But all we have right now is black."

image by tambako @ flickr.com
Leatherworker

Age: 29 | Height: 175cm / 5'9 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 3 - Strg: 16 - Dext: 17 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 8
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#7
Rory
It wasn't how he had imagined his day to go, but he had since long learned to roll with the punches. While anger was sometimes justified and productive Rory found it unpleasant and a waste of energy at most times, choosing instead to look for the silver lining. In this case, it was probably scones.

"Rory," he responded to Deimos, blunt nails moving lightly over the squash's skin, tracing little patterns. "Pleasure to meet you." Pulp and seeds aside; the circumstances could certainly have been nicer. But alas, they weren't, and acceptance was one of his double-edged traits: making his life easier and smoother, but also making him more prone to give up.

Flicking away bits of gourd flesh from his clothes he followed Amalia and Deimos into the bakery, rather absentmindedly holding on to his wriggling vegetable with his other hand. Honestly, goats were more slippery to hold on to—goats were demons in a furry disguise when they so chose to.

Once inside, Rory sort of just .. stopped. The heat radiating from the oven, the tantalizing smell of a bakery, the space being somewhere right in between run-down and restored; a ghost of what it might once have been. It was almost like you could hear the echoes of a time more prosperous.

Oh, how little he knew of anyone in this place, despite having lived here his whole life.

Rory shrugged out of his greatcoat, and then found a suitably open workspace. While Amalia brought out a prepared dough he searched for—and found—a sharp and clean knife, setting to work on cutting up his gourd and scooping out the seeds, rinsing the flesh from them as he went. He wasn't sure what her plans were but he was no stranger to roasting seeds, and it seemed like a natural progression of events. Ever the working animal, he began the hunt for something like a skillet, or a slightly deeper tray. Sooner or later—unless entirely stopped in his endeavors by Amalia—he found a suitable one, gently ignoring the offer to make himself comfortable. Rory was only comfortable when he had something to do with his hands. "Tea would be nice, thank you," he said, transferring his seeds to the tray before holding it out to Deimos, a silent question if the man wanted to contribute his seeds to the effort.

"Do you have some oil or grease?" he asked, figuring that was easier than rummaging through all her stores; and if some was to be had, he'd pour some on the seeds, perhaps some seasoning if such was volunteered as well, making sure it was evenly distributed, before pushing the seeds into the oven to roast. And if not.. well, he'd just roast the seeds without any grease, and then spend an eternity cleaning the tray afterwards.

[ So this post is a bit of an "if/if not" mess; I hope everything in it is okay and if not just poke me and we'll sort it out <3 But I just wanted to get Rory's contribution properly written so there won't be a rush for the next round anymore. ]
burn scars crawl up the left side of his neck and onto the lower left half of his face
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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#8

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

This was not a preferred situation – the Reaper would have been more comfortable left out in the streets, catching, snagging, and decimating the leftover pumpkins, pulsing violence instead of meandering closer and closer into confined areas. Perhaps it was partially because he didn’t know any of them well (and it could be argued that he rarely knew anyone in such a way), and his understanding of social niceties had long since abandoned him. The beast had flung himself straight into war and crusades, and then hell when everything fell apart. He eased a breath, and followed suit, struggling with the notion of escaping into the back alley. Pleasure to meet you floated towards him from Rory, but Deimos had his doubts. Hardly anyone had ever been content to meet him.

The bakery was at least vaguely familiar from his assistance in its reconstruction, and he didn’t feel so entirely out of place in its domicile. It reminded him, softly, slowly, of other things, days long since passed, spent in those quiet, subtle, idle moments, shards of laughter and warmth radiating from each and every parlor. But those hours were gone too, and he shoved the sentiments down, half-listening to instructions, grabbing hold of a nearby knife to make quick work of the pumpkin’s round top. The slice of the blade sinking and simmering down into the orange flesh gave him some relief, and he worked steadily, silently, still dressed in his furs and overcoat, only comfortable in the feeling of death and demise. He could pretend it was an enemy’s heart, cut and flickered apart, sinew struggling to remain whole.

“I am fine,” he spoke off-handedly, not requiring any tea. His typical indulgence was alcohol, downed his throat to alleviate melancholy disturbances. He could recall the last time he’d bothered with the hot drink, and it had only been administered to ensure someone else was content – his thoughts returned back to pulp and seeds, finding no issue with pushing his hand into the opened gourd and pulling out a handful of the chosen food.

Curious and inquisitive, suddenly the scholar more than the soldier, he pushed one into his mouth. It was chewy, not incredibly satisfying – likely better suited to the sizzling pulse of heat. Afterwards, he grabbed fistfuls of the pulp and seeds, separating the latter from the former, and added them to Rory’s tray.


Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Hand of the Queen / Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 12 - Strg: 34 - Dext: 34 - Endr: 35 - Luck: 34
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
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#9

Amalia
i'll light a fire in your new shoes

They work for a time in comfortable silence, the woman with her batter, the men with their seeds. Amalia finds the company pleasing, if a little unsettling: she has imagined this, since re-opening the bakery, but little can prepare an introvert for the fluttering anxiety of having company within their home. From the corner of her eye she watches carefully, taking in Rory's bustle, Deimos' quiet desecration of the gourd. Silently she hands Rory the requisite grease, a small pat of butter previously removed from the dwindling larder supplies. She will need to find more, soon, to see who has livestock and barter for milk. There are so many things she needs to do- but for now, she is content making scones.

Ever moving, ever working, Amalia grabs the kettle and fills it with water before placing it upon the stove. The girl hums softly as she works, a habit leftover from years of isolation, her voice deep and melodious in the warm bakery air. As the water heats she turns back to the men, inspecting their gourds from behind the counter. "We'll throw those in the oven," she informs them, "And you can take them once they're cooked. They're good for soup."

She removes the kettle from the stove and adds dry tea to steep before returning her attention to the scones. Armed with tongs and large hide gloves, Amalia carefully extracts the treats, tapping them cautiously to ensure that they are done before setting them on the counter. There are plates somewhere in the shop, part of the strange and curious collected multitude of unmatched cookware, but they will take a moment to find, and the baked goods smell sublime. She cannot help herself - as the last one comes out of the oven she slips off her gloves and takes a bite, gasping in pain at the heat that fills her mouth. Every time! her mother would have laughed (had laughed, every time). Her eyes tear, but she's grinning, laughing, covering her mouth to keep the hot scone from falling out. "'S hot!" she says, her voice muffled. She swallows the bite. "'Maybe let them cool."

image by tambako @ flickr.com
Leatherworker

Age: 29 | Height: 175cm / 5'9 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 3 - Strg: 16 - Dext: 17 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 8
Played by: Neowulf Offline
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#10
Rory
It was a painfully familiar thing, this—his mind flickered through memories of him, his sister, and their mother, all together in the cabin, baking bread for the long and cold Deepfrost days. Laughter. Sunshine outside. Sunshine inside. The family they had once been was shattered, and he had not thought to find this sort of peace again, but there he was, in a kitchen with two relative strangers and not even Deimos's dark aura could sour his mood.

Quite the opposite, in fact. Rory found himself sneaking glances at the man, just as he sneaked glances at Amalia, especially when she started humming, but she did not captivate him in quite the same way; not because she was not captivating, for she was, but because she wasn't totally absorbed in slaughtering a gourd.

There was just something about it.. his focus, his carefully controlled savagery, and then—he stuck one of the raw seeds in his mouth, and Rory suddenly found himself smiling brightly at his own slain gourd. It reminded him of cats. They always did the most interesting things when they thought no one was looking, and his experimental tasting of the seeds endeared him to Rory.

He chose not to comment on it, keeping his smile—though it was slighter now, more subtle—as he buttered up the tray of seeds, sticking it in the oven and then hunting for another tray to put the flesh in. Pumpkin soup sounded divine, but he was happily distracted by the scent wafting from the oven. He watched, bright-eyed, as Amalia took the scones out, and once she had removed the last one he stuck the pumpkins in.

Amalia's muffled voice had him turn around, taking in the scene of her hand across her mouth, the scone—with a suspicious bite missing from it—steaming gently on the counter with its unblemished kin. Rory laughed, but gently. "But they are good?" he found himself asking—duh, they had to be, with the way they were smelling. Folding his hands together he leaned against the counter, looking longingly at them.
burn scars crawl up the left side of his neck and onto the lower left half of his face
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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#11

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

He had no intention of admitting the atmosphere was comfortable, but it had been eons since he’d last relaxed. The battlefield had been a harmonizing sort of reverence for him, sharp, keen, blunt, straight to the point, strike here, strike there, demolish and devastate, violence and acrimony a healthy singe in his nefarious blood. Amidst war-torn lands, however, one could never breathe easy; it was one volley, one assault, one siege after the other, kill or be killed, destroy or be destroyed. Once he’d returned, the beast had expected beast, a moment in time with family, with friends, where he wasn’t entirely heathen, fiend, or demon, but he’d been too late. Not since –

His thoughts wandered dangerously close to brooding again, thoughts of gentle, humming rain, and he took up the knife once more to slice the pulp from the gourd with brutal efficiency. The warrior didn’t even notice the leatherworker watching him – wouldn’t have expected it – because most of the world had spent their time avoiding him, one look at his intimidating figure, at his imposing strides, at the barbarity lining his bones, and they were gone, vanished. Except-

Nope. He wasn’t going there today. It was slaughtering and devouring pumpkins.

The sound of the oven granted a newfound interest, and before he could glance any further at the confines coming out of the wondrous invention, for his intention was to finish cutting the goop away, he heard a gasp of pain. He was utterly familiar with the sound, sometimes one’s last breath, sometimes the shock of agony as they were lanced through the stomach, as they sank to the ground – and he wheeled around automatically, swift and sudden for a man of his stature. His gaze was narrowed, and he’d already taken a few steps in the direction of the noise, eyes widened at the slightest sense of alarm, expecting something menacing and devastating. It’d been the baker, but at her laughter in spite of the tears, the nuance of trepidation and apprehension coiled away from his frame, and the notion of a frown appeared across his lips. Now he just looked foolish; expecting ruin and damage when she’d simply hadn’t allowed them to cool off properly, tempted by the scents, by the smells, by the promise of relish.

To make up for the obvious blunder, he turned back to his piles of pulp, and the empty gourds, placing the carcasses on another tray. Idiot, he wanted to mutter to himself (loss had done a great many things to his mind, and sometimes they manifested in those ridiculous moments, strangled him whole, a noose binding him to purgatory), pretending to lose himself back in the task at hand, and not at the cooling scones, at the sensation of pain.


Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
Amalia Chandrakant
the Shield of Safrin
Hand of the Queen / Baker
Portal Guardian
Age: 22 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 12 - Strg: 34 - Dext: 34 - Endr: 35 - Luck: 34
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
Played by: charks Offline
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#12

Amalia
i'll light a fire in your new shoes

The behemoth's response is swift and sudden and wholly unexpected; for a moment, Amalia's hackles raise, concern that something has happened. Is there a source of danger, a demon in the dark: have the ghosts risen from the larder, intent on driving her from this place, she the unknowing, the unwilling, the undeserving? But no, the man's attention is focused on her, her and her impatience and subsequent pain. The waif flushes, cheeks warming sharply at the idea of causing such a reaction, of making a scene. Pins and needles prickle at her tongue, an expected outcome of such a foolish act, and the girl laughs suddenly at her own absurdity, self-conscious in the wake of unanticipated attention.

She is happy when Rory's laughter joins her own: this is a reaction she can work with, far from the pressing severity of the larger man's concern. Smiling, she wipes the last crumbs from her lips before gesturing at the delicacies. "Try one and see." Reaching across the counter, she pushes the tray toward the man, an expression of hopeful uncertainty softening the angles of her face.

Turning back to Deimos, the girl blinks to find him wholly absorbed in his work, the moment of tension apparently gone. Her hands fidget uncomfortably- had she imagined it? The intensity, the surprise? She glances at Rory and shakes her head, sharp shoulders rolling in a shrug. Gathering up the remainder of the scones, the girl sets them gingerly on a plate before rounding the edge of the counter and approaching the studious man. "Deimos, would you like one?" Amalia asks, her voice soft and earnest as she extends the laden plate. Dark eyes scrutinize the man's expression, searching for any indication of pleasure or disdain, unabashed and innocent in their need for validation, some reassurance that her offering is accepted, her friendship - if you can call it that - secure.

image by tambako @ flickr.com
Leatherworker

Age: 29 | Height: 175cm / 5'9 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural
Level: 3 - Strg: 16 - Dext: 17 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 8
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#13
Rory
It was a cascade of surprises, of the unexpected: Rory's gaze snapped towards the big man as he suddenly moved, wariness etching his frame as he fed off of the alertness the other exuded. Some old, forgotten gene of pack life screamed danger, danger and for a brief moment they were the sentinels, watching, waiting, taut and tense, ready to spring into movement and urge the others away.

He'd seen it enough time in horses and goats.

But there was nothing there; just the three of them and the furniture. Rory, far more trusting than Deimos, relaxed again almost instantly, lulled back into the atmosphere of warm baked goods.

Still, he kept half an eye on the bigger man a moment longer, again intrigued by him—who was he, and where did he come from? And what had hammered such reflexes into him? Clearly, he didn't want them to ask, for with the air of a cat pretending its botched landing was planned to go like that he turned back to his pumpkin.

Rory was willing to let it lie. He wasn't there to pry the secrets from their souls.

Instead, he focused his attention on the tray of baked delicacies slid to just underneath his nose. The scent was mouth-watering, carried up by the steam gently rising from them; Rory teased one off the edge of the tray, trying to not hold on to the scone for too long in a single place, for it was still quite hot. Juggling it with some experience he got it up to his face and took a bite out of it, inhaling through his teeth to try and cool it off a little.

And. It was. Divine.

He closed his eyes and made the most appreciative, undignified noise, savoring every moment of the bite. Ugh, it had been far too long since he'd had baked sweets of any sort; most of the time they couldn't justify using their flour for such whimsical things.

"They're amazing," he said, resurfacing from his moment of bliss; opening his eyes to watch Amalia try to bait Deimos into trying one.
burn scars crawl up the left side of his neck and onto the lower left half of his face
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Militia General of the Hollowed Grounds / Guildmaster

Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 8 - Strg: 29 - Dext: 28 - Endr: 33 - Luck: 28
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 1,831
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#14

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 had long since fallen into the role of predator. Once, it’d all been a game, eager, young boys waiting to make their fortunes in boldness and acrimony. Thereafter, when blades had fallen, bones had been whittled away and bleached by the sun, when flesh had peeled apart from bone, when faces that had been friends were no longer recognizable, the playing, the diversions, were long gone. He’d been solidified, carved, molded into a scythe, a stone, a bayonet, an instrument of death. Survival had drenched him in detachment, persistence, endurance, and strength had layered him into a terrifying, demonic figure. He’d lived, but only just so, in the waking, breathing instances of tangibility, touching and scalding the earth, blistering fortifications because he could and for a while it was habit, it was comforting, it was something beyond misery, melancholy, and agony. When it’d begun to peel away again, when some form of assuaging touched over his skin, when he laughed instead of hissed, when he smirked instead of growled, the world was his: attainable, reachable, no longer so forlorn, so desolate. Perhaps he’d been cursed, forced to follow these paths of hollowed sanctions, marching in the sketched outlines of triumphs and imminent downfalls, joy robbed from his soul the instant his heart had been lightened. Maybe he’d messed up again, too terrorizing, too menacing, too aggressive and terrifying in a tiny space, believing harm had come to one of them, summoned by those instincts, those puncturing, pulverizing occasions when nightmares were reality, where one carried their companions on shields, where one watched the world burn before them. The Reaper expected them to say something, anything, raise their guards and shove him away (for that would meander along the patterns too, cold and aloof once more), or order him to leave. The beast didn’t look their way, just listened, tense and taut, a fuse kindled, incensed, ready to flee in any direction. It was the sort of strange, bewildering cowardice in a man who’d seen, who’d committed, acts of utter terror, because he knew, he’d experienced, the consequences of his flaws.

But then, it was just silence.

Not a word was said – not an oath, not a curse, not a damnation, not even a muffled outcry. His mind whirled, confusion imminent, brows furrowing because he couldn’t understand why they didn’t shriek or howl. Their eyes had widened, Rory had been signaled into an alarm, whirling to meet the danger that wasn’t there. He’d seen Amalia’s stare, the confusion and bewilderment behind it. He dared a peek, waiting for the ax to fall, piercing gaze flickering back and forth over the others, waiting, wondering, but naught came his way - granted permission to keep his secrets, his sorrows, his utterly ridiculous notions and motions to himself.

It seemed like acceptance, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

They’d already seen who he was: had been witness to his pulverizing of pumpkins and gourds, and though it wasn’t with any difficulty, it was the action behind it, the fervency, the ardor, the battlefield maneuvers, the killing precision hovering over his dark essence. So he released another hardened, quaking breath, moved back to destruction, listening to the sounds of contentment behind him, and smothered a laugh.

Until Amalia approached again, and he glanced up, expecting this to be the interval in the strain, the catalyst, the orchestration of his exit. The depths of his eyes narrowed, instantly suspicious, waiting for the strike, the siege, the way others had left intangible scars along his figure. But then the plate came into his view too, and the offering was there, amiable and amicable, completely innocent, and he felt so stupid. “Yes,” his deep intonation rumbled, hands reaching for one before realizing they were covered in pulp, then awkwardly wiping them on a nearby rag, so the scones would be left undisturbed, unsullied, by their former brethren. He tried once more, meeting her stare again as he grabbed the closest one, still warm to the touch, brought to his mouth with a relish. “Thank you.” Then he bit down, and he would’ve agreed with Rory had he not been wholly intent on consuming the pastry (truly divine, like he’d ever had a moment amidst gods and their ambrosia). There was a growl of appreciation in his next words, a hint of a smile, as he strove to make amends for ineptitude and asinine indulgence. “Delicious.”


Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary


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