[Seasonal Event] free of the coliseums
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
MP:
#1

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 never really thought much of his new house. The fact that he’d even managed to settle here was enough of a shock; but the rest of it remained in his same habitual form. It was plain, outfitted with the essentials and naught more, perhaps just as reticent as he, away from the legion of other clustered homes, slightly on the outskirts. It suited him just fine, a means to a shelter, but lacked all the warmth, all the fineries, all the delicacies he’d shared with family amidst other worlds. Perhaps that was well too; because their constant reminders, their bombarding memories, still haunted him in his sleep, and when he awoke to the simplistic, wooden arches and beams, to the dull, conventional panes of glass, he knew he was still alive, still existing, not yet dragged down into his destined hell.

It’d have to be secured for winter and the rumors of Longnight. He’d thought about restocking supplies on weaponry as well, made a mental note as he went about the outer walls, lingering along the perimeter, eyeing the jumble of wood he’d brought back from the forest. It remained where he’d left it from the day before, resting on top of his sled, a good amount but not enough. He’d have to return another time. The piercing slate of the Reaper’s eyes meandered slowly along the apertures and armaments of his refuge, gesturing back to the sun as it rose steadily through the sky, then dipped a little, flattened on a thin line of winter’s ridiculous gestures. He could pile it here, where it could dry further from the sun’s rays, provide more nourishing warmth in the weeks to come.

The beast took off his top fur layer, hanging it off a beam, before getting to work. His hands grasped hold of two logs and maneuvered them towards his chosen spot, placing them accordingly so they lined up parallel, as neat and scrupulous as he could be. The piling was meticulous, born from his attention to detail, so that he may fit more and more logs with one another, so that they wouldn’t fall in some ridiculous, stupid, asinine fashion, so that all his hard work would pay off. Warms you more than once was a notion in his mind, causing a smooth smile to dip along the corners of his lips, recalling one of his grandfather’s favored sayings. His father had always embodied fire anyway; to which all the generations gathered together would shake their heads and laugh, but Deimos’ gifts hadn’t been towards the flames. It’d only been death and demise, the withering of souls – so he strayed here, lost in the confines of repetitive motion, pushing down the weight on his shoulders, consigning it to his stockpile.


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

Amalia <3
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
Change author:
Posts: 1,971
MP:
#2
amalia
i'll light a f i r e in your new shoes
There had been a time when Amalia made regular deliveries, her young and pensive face appearing on doorsteps, armed with baskets of bread and other baked goods. In the company of her mother, and later, alone, she deposited her wares around the domiciles, exchanging warm loaves wrapped in burlap for food, cloth, or fuel. These days it was harder - the world had changed, the people shifted, and some days the young baker found it hard to adapt alongside it. Without help deliveries had faltered and stalled, but lately she had begun to brave the cold once more, venturing out to make sure families and stores were well-provisioned for the upcoming Long Night.

Her last stop was an unscheduled one. She had spotted Deimos around the domiciles over the past weeks, his familiar figure coming and going a point of reference for the girl. Since the day in the bakery when they'd massacred gourds Amalia had itched to approach him again, to offer more of the comforting sustenance which seemed to enlighten him, embolden him, but timidity and a lack of invitation held the wavering girl back. Loathe to impose but eager to engage, she warbled and waxed in indecision until finally it became too great to bear and, shouldering her parcel of daily deliveries, she determined today would be the day.

It helped that her deliveries went smoothly, the venture through Sanctuary lit by stray luxere and warm smiles. His house was left until the end: she had seen him stacking firewood, and the action provided a handy excuse, a reason for her approach. With a deep inhale the girl strode forward, basket of bread held before her like a shield, a shy and hopeful smile pulling at her lips. "Hi, Deimos," Amalia called, her alto voice punctuated by a cloud of steam that crystallized into ice around her lashes. "Trade you a loaf for some of that fuel."

ooc || let's see charks try and fail to write well in past tense, hmm

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
Change author:
Posts: 1,831
MP:
#3

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 was well versed in change and alterations, but tended to defy, rather than adapt. He suited himself to isolation, to an abandoned, forsaken outlook, and it kept others at bay, endless walls too high for them to climb, and eventually they got bored with him, with attempts, and ignored his presence. It was acceptable for a time, and he could carry on brooding, suffering in silence, contemplating calculated, cold-blooded actions, and feel no worse for wear. No one came close. No one bothered. No one hurt. It was protection from his demons, and any ominous, foreboding natures fated to carve their way into his life. However, this yielded its own set of dilemma and trials, because keeping to the outskirts, to the shadows, left him with little information on the surrounding countryside. It was on the outside looking in, and sometimes the smallest pang of regret would resurface on his soul; for there’d been a time where he’d had comrades, he’d had companions, he’d had family and friends, and they’d riot together, immerse themselves in that warmth, in that finery, he no longer held. But they were gone, and he was carved, sculpted anew; forced into strange, new plains and worlds, but following his same old-path.

There’d been a few cracks and fissures in the framework of his statuesque depravity though – Rexanna being the first, the startling familiarity, the promised blend of blended lives, and she proffered him things he didn’t ask for, information he’d never be able to claim for himself. The warrior had yet to come with anything in return – which was ridiculous and irked him to no end, prickled at his mind, clawed at his insides. Rory and Amalia had also managed to segment their way through his indifference by mere acceptance; asking nothing of him more than his presence and a trial of pastries. The latter baffled him far more than the former; all he’d managed to proffer to the other two was some well-timed violence. The notion reared its ugly head, manifested and crooned, roared and howled, in a bludgeoning force, held a staccato rhythm to his cruel nuance. Why the hell would anyone want him around?

He’d served a purpose in Isilme: warrior, soldier, scholar, young and beguiling, a force of nature ready to embark upon the kingdom, eager to be unleashed. Here, he was just one more glowering figure, darkening doorsteps and corners.

The Reaper growled at himself, then grabbed another log, placing it along its brethren, forming his meticulous design, coiling the mutinous thoughts away for something less morose and ridiculous. No sooner had he bent down to grab one more off the sled, did another’s voice ring out, calling his name with startling familiarity. His eyes widened for a second, caught by surprise, irked and irritated that he’d been too scattered amidst his own notions to notice someone approaching. Once he realized it was Amalia, however, he steadied his gaze, narrowing, head tilting, curious as to why she’d even venture to these parts. In his silence, the examining continued, and the answer came well-before her next statement: the smell of the bread wafted its way towards his senses, and his figure eased. She already knew how to tempt him.

Perhaps he did have his uses. “How many do you need?” It was an easygoing affirmation; the man could always go find more trees fallen over, in need of another purpose, another goal before returning to the soil. He wasn’t a baker by any means though, and the wafting of the sustenance kept entangling his confirmation deeper into his gut.


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

Amalia <3
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
Change author:
Posts: 1,971
MP:
#4
amalia
i'll light a f i r e in your new shoes
He greets her with his customary contemplative regard, and for a moment the girl falters, unsure. The behemoth is impossible to read, a stone tablet written on in a language simple and silent and yet full, she is confident, of interesting things. Does he care about her? Hate her? Does she even cross his mind, except as another blip, another bright star trying to melt the armor of ice in which the beast is sheathed? Amalia waits with baited breath, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she watches him watching her, his vibrant eyes inscrutable.

At last he speaks, and Amalia releases a breath she did not know she was holding, tension easing from her narrow frame. A small smile pulls at her lips; she wants to grin and does not know why, instead trying to savor this small victory with a dignity she frankly does not have. At least he doesn't hate her - or so it currently seems, and for the lonely girl lack of hatred is nearly as good as a friend. "Not much," she replies. "Maybe two bundles." She doubts that she could carry more - she is strong, to an extent, but the wood is a trial without a sled.

Reaching back to grab her bag, Amalia pulls it open, revealing a single speckled loaf. "I only have this," she murmurs shyly, apologetic and anxious and eager at once. "It's oat and honey, with pumpkin seeds." The seeds were savored from their baking adventure, and she had saved them - and this - for him, hopeful to rekindle the memory and to prove to herself that the moment of warmth she had seen in him was more than a random fluke.

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
Change author:
Posts: 1,831
MP:
#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

Deimos had learned to hate a lot of things. His wrath and contempt extended to a broad reach, shadowing and smothering lands, individuals, and even encompassing empty deities and their useless, inept paragons. His fury was marked and etched in stone, in blades, in anarchy and rebellion, by the silent strife as he drew a blade, by the antagonistic acrimony in his wake. But no one here, especially not Amalia, had earned the steely regard, the demonic sieges, the balance of living, breathing weapon and carved, statuesque iniquity. He wouldn’t deny it was much easier to blend straight back into those avaricious columns and marble countenances; he couldn’t be wounded there, blinded there, dragged into his personal hells and condemnation. However, Amalia didn’t deserve the growls, the rubble, the ruin, because she and Rory had readily accepted him, when they, quite frankly, could have shown him the door the moment his violent tendencies became apparent, when his predatory stance overwhelmed. They were still on a tense wire though, both seemingly uncertain and unsure of where they stood – Deimos had long since been used to scorn and isolation, and he could only ascertain the woman didn’t quite feel at ease around him. It could have been the treachery, the danger, the obvious, menacing, sinister, brooding capacity pervading his figure, but she still stayed. He knew he wasn’t a joy to be around. He knew he wasn’t amusing. He knew, deep, deep down, that his protective abilities just about rounded out his virtues, but there’d still been some, the baker included, who didn’t seem remotely bothered. So, he would always put up with those willing to put up with him.

The loaf of bread made its appearance though, and he’s momentarily distracted, eyes focused entirely on the food. He could hear the little oath and assurance in there, the memories of tumultuous pumpkins attempting to maul Rory, the immoral glee the Reaper beheld in vanquishing the ridiculous foes, and then the rewards thereafter. The warrior’s brows lifted again, one defiantly arched, at the note of pumpkin seeds, and wondered if he was supposed to reach out and take the proffered goods, a signature of a bargain, an agreement, rendered complete. He gave voice to it instead. “Deal.” But instead of shaking hands on it, he nodded, then gestured to the remains of the wood on his sled; because it seemed like it’d be enough for her bundles. “You can take the sled.” It wouldn’t be to his detriment; he could go and retrieve it later, before LongNight howled into the ether.


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

Amalia <3


Age: 1 | Height: | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural
Level: - Strg: - Dext: - Endr: - Luck:
Played by: Admin/Moderator Offline
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Posts: 624
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#6

random event


The voices rose in a quiet and beautiful harmony, echoing all around the couple.

Children's voices, they seemed. Singing softly, sweetly... and ever so slightly off key.

Not enough to be troublesome, no... not at first. But soon the chorus rose in volume, and the singing grew louder, higher, more pitched, more fevered...

And now it wasn't singing at all, it was wailing, crying, screaming, begging

oh gods it wouldn't stop, they couldn't be saved, sweet Vi do something, do ANYTHING please


Then nothing. The snow fell softly. The wind blew. All was well.

Carry on, little ones. The night will come for you soon enough.
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
Change author:
Posts: 1,971
MP:
#7
amalia
i'll light a f i r e in your new shoes
He does not seem to yield to her good bright good nature, and again she doubts her wisdom in coming here, in seeking him out. Any fleeting moments of friendship feel distant now, improbable and unreachable, falling between her fingers like so much sand. And is it a surprise? No- she built the sandcastles in her mind, after all. When they crumble in the surf, she cannot blame anyone but herself.

Inhaling, rallying, the girl smiles, though it lacks the sunshine eagerness of earlier: it is a polite smile, her business face, for isn't that all this is? A transaction. Business. Nothing more. "Thank you, she answers, her voice steady, though the loaf in her hand quivers slightly as she extends it to the man. "I'll return it tomorrow- or you can retrieve it. I'll leave it outside the shop."

She begins to turn, to walk away, but a noise stops her in her tracks. Pausing, Amalia tilts her head as though to better catch the sound, her long hair falling across her face. It is beautiful at first, but wrong, discordant, and as it rises in volume so to do her eyes widen, body tensing like a bow. Voices, voices, so many voices, crying a mournful wail, begging, pleading to be helped, to be saved! Amalia raises her hands to her ears, tears springing to her onyx eyes as she closes them and shakes her head, willing it to stop.

And it does, just as suddenly as it began. Trembling, Amalia lowers her hands and takes a shuddering breath. Looking at Deimos through bright, wet eyes, she blinks, opens her mouth, and shuts it again. She doesn't need to burden him with her terror, her cries for help.

They are not, after all, friends.

"Long Night is coming," she says instead. "Make sure you are safe, Deimos."



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