fabled foreign tongues [Seasonal Event]
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’ last attempts at Luxere coaxing had been an utter disaster. While he tended to enjoy the trips and sojourns straight into annihilation and discord, this one had the opposite effect of his ambitions, and he hoped not to repeat it. His chances of sighting the elusive, illuminating beasts were scarce at best – too much darkness brewing and brooding its way through his existence – and watching his resources burn had obliterated any and all opportunity in the phase.

But he was stubborn, tenacious, an obstinate individual hellbent on acquiring what he wanted, even if it was a set of glowing antlers and an answer to legends and rituals. So he gathered more fruit, a few apples still resting beneath a tree, neglected by others. Some were a bit bruised, but it was all he had left, and the meager attempts looked rather pathetic bundled in his arms. He’d pondered over obtaining more hay, but most of it was likely damaged by snowfall, or simply left to fallow and wither, not much use to anything or anyone but cows or goats, those with enduring stomachs.

The Reaper presumed the oasis might be a better option; enriched with tangible outlines of serenity and tranquility, despite his traipsing motions and obvious cretin, miscreant movements. Wouldn’t this be a suitable place for those blessed and drenched in peace, in repose? He wouldn’t truly know; his life was an outline of blissful sketches, and then subsequent torment, misery, and melancholy – but he breathed easier here, didn’t feel a weight across his shoulders.

This time he’d gone in the early afternoon, giving himself time to find a spot to place the fruit, lining them up along an expanse of snow-laden grass and ferns. The soldier avoided the shrine nearby entirely, too forsaken and abandoned to give a single thought to proffering pleas and bargains; he made his own path, swallowed and consumed the costs when they bit and tore into his flesh. Then he tucked himself behind a tree, whittling away some hours, moments, and intervals by gathering a few bundles of moss, presuming they’d be adequate supplies to stuff in his floorboards, to quiet the already hushed domicile.


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
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Posts: 1,971
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#2

The glade: beautiful, pristine, a classic locale for luxere charming and escaping the turmoil of their chaotic world. It is the only place Amalia will happily venture in the cold; she feels at peace here, and despite the looming terror of Long Night, as though the world will one day again be bright. There was a time when she came here with others, when the grove was warmed by the laughter of family and friends... when family and friends were something she had.

Despite her enlightening conversation with Safrin, the girl cannot shake old beliefs. To her, the glade is Rae's domain, an oasis of beauty and nature in their decaying home, and though she doubts the Old God can see her she brings Them offerings: bread and grain for Their hungry children, slices of salvaged apples for the luxere who linger beneath the trees. They are scant today, dispersed among the laden boughs, though the baker spots flickering antlers here and there, and fresh prints litter the frostburnt ground. Her own footsteps are hushed, a quiet crunch in the soft new snow as she drifts and dances beneath the pines, looking for the perfect place to make her stand.

There- and Amalia pauses all at once, her dark eyes taking in the scene with curious interest. Somebody has been here already, somebody has made this place their perch. Telltale fruit rests on the ground, waiting for a hungry scavenger to pick it from its place. She takes a step toward it, then pauses, quiet, almost deer-like herself as she stands in the snow, head tilted slightly and long limbs frozen between steps of a dance. "Hello?" the girl softly calls, her deep voice glistening in the icy air. Perhaps the stranger does not wish to be disturbed- but Amalia's heart beats a fluttering hope. She has had good luck here, after all.

Deimos

amalia
i've been watching your kindness keep
a lonely company - look at the fire and think of me
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

At the first sound of steps, he thought he might’ve been lucky – a chance, an opportunity finally seized. So he waited in feral, decadent silence, surrounded by the calm tranquility, by the sensation of springs and power, wisdom and sagacity, incapable of understanding it all. He merely bided his time, taking a few deep breaths, staring off into the expanse as if he were one with it (and everyone knew it wasn’t true – the seditious torment built through his blood echoed in darkness, in fortitude, in might, so the glimmer of gods never looked his way, never gave him a second thought).

They continued, soft, and he remained impenetrably still, a statue, a monument, a Colossus in the snow, until the hushed hello transpired over the terrain, and the aspirations sunk with it. It hadn’t been the luxere at all, and the instant slipped away, a ghost, an enigma, a quandary he wouldn’t be able to fathom. He recognized the voice though, tilted his head at its muffled inquiry, wondered why the baker passed through here. Perhaps she was a believer, and had come to bow to her saints and patrons, to worship and pledge vows; he had half a notion to simply leave altogether, allow the deities their moment of peace with a pious being.

The Reaper supposed if she wanted any stranger to vacate the surroundings, she’d ask; and on a strange, impulsive note, he poked his head around the tree previously guarding his position. She was frozen there, in mid-stance, and he almost laughed, because it reminded him of the same animals he scoured for, either awaiting the right moment to flee or to stand their ground. “Hello,” he whispered back, caught in a state of amusement with half a smile curled along his lips, before ducking back behind the timber, as if he hadn’t been there.



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

'Hello.' The whispered response catches the girl, draws her in on baited hook and keeps her on the line. Spinning delicately in the snow, Amalia swiftly coils and curls, searching for the source- but she sees nothing save a fleeting movement, the last remnants of a shadow vanishing behind a tree. It is not enough to recognize: foreign, fabled, a mystery, the specter remains elusive, sheltered by the boughs of an ancient tree. "Are you friend or foe, Mr. Shade?" Slightly afraid and slightly entranced, Amalia takes a hesitant step toward the old pine - but another sound freezes her steps, and the waif turns around once more to face an approaching, curious deer.

There is a wonder which blooms within the girl no matter how many times she comes into contact with the luxere, and today is no exception. The glow of the buck's horn thaws her hesitant heart, melting away the trepidation which plagues her and filling her with a vibrant warmth. Amalia steps forward away from the tree, drawn to the creature, the strange disembodied voice momentarily forgotten in the wake of this successful spotting.

But the buck is not so easily captured, and he draws himself up as the girl comes forward, poised as though to spring. Amalia gasps and steps away, pausing mid stride as though caught by a sudden thought. A smile curls on her rosy lips, and she half-turns back to the figure behind the pines, her voice an exaggerated whisper. "I think he wants a song, Mr. Shade. Won't you sing to him?"

Deimos

amalia
i've been watching your kindness keep
a lonely company - look at the fire and think of me
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

The Reaper hadn’t truly meant it to be a ruse; just a peek of amusement, of diversion, settled along his chest, a smothered laugh longing to be set free. His mood had sharpened to pure impishness, perhaps due to the setting, to the inhabitants, or the mere fact that his supplies hadn’t been blown to smithereens, allowed him a chance to savor humor. It was a better feeling than self-loathing, contempt, wrath, or the brooding, melancholic bearings that fell across his shadow and carried him from room to room, corridor to corridor, path to path. So he took it for what it was worth, relished in the devilry, in the hours he might’ve spent with friends and comrades, unholy, merciless terrors doing their bidding on unsuspecting prey – cackling wildly when their jokes had fallen suit, when chuckles and guffaws rang out, when even the most ridiculous of pranks and follies seemed outrageously entertaining. It’d been chaotic, but without complete, utter treachery; no bones crushed, no skin flayed, no final breaths taken, no grand oeuvres of warfare streamlined across the sky. So he stared out along the expanse, still behind the massive tree, still striving to muffle the snickers billowing through his figure, but incapable of masking the smile – besides, only the glade would see it, and he doubted it’d share his secrets. “That depends,” answered Mr. Shade, less doom and gloom, more Cheshire being.

Then the noise of another was caught in his ears, and hesitantly, as if he were nothing more than those pieces and pockets of darkness and dusk, folded over and tucked away until he was required again (a blade, a weapon, a cutlass, ready and waiting). But a rapier wasn’t necessary in these hallowed hills, for he could’ve sworn he saw the faintest glow, the eerie, enigmatic requiem of a luxere’s entrance, held his breath, and then maneuvered back, along the threshold of the pine’s towering figure. Deimos could hear Amalia stepping closer too, surely enveloped in the luminous glow, and the beast shrugged, for at least she was successful in her ventures.

The gasp gave him the slightest pause, and then the request nearly made him grumble. What was with the constant requests for his singing? Did people look at him and really believe he was capable of crooning along? The mask had all but been abolished for seconds thereafter, brows furrowed, nose wrinkling, much more a boyish, youthful look than the face of a warrior who’d endured countless trials and tribulations. In the blink of an eye, however, the turn of a devil-may-care streak flickered over his eyes, over his mouth, and he returned instantly back to the days of his youth, when soldiers had celebrated their victories, when friends had all drank their fill and shouted, yelled, howled their triumphant notes with some of the more absurd, hilarious, or asinine notes known to men. The benefits had been no one had cared about anyone’s tone, and they’d all roared with delight as each tale and tune became louder and louder.

He crossed his arms, leaned against the trunk, and remembered one of the many his allies had utilized. It was rough, it was deep, and maybe even grating, but he hadn’t had any alcohol to diminish the standards. “As I was going to Derby, ‘twas on a market day, I met the finest ram, sirs, that was ever fed upon hay.” And he paused here, recalling how the story would build throughout the song, and how after every stanza, every line, the rest of the rabble-rousers would shout: “That’s a lie, that’s a lie, that’s a lie, lie, lie.” Deimos laughed then, broad and genuine, before continuing. “This ram and I got drunk, sir, as drunk as drunk could be, and when we sobered up, sir, we were far away out on the sea.” He poked his head around the tree again, purposefully leaving himself visible, piercing eyes pinpointed on Amalia and the deer. “Then you say, that’s a lie, that’s a lie, and so on.”



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:
#6

Surprisingly he obliges her, sending a flicker of excitement through the baker's eyes. The song which begins from behind the boughs is not one she knows or expects; but then, there is nothing familiar about this situation, singing with shadows on a Long Night eve. The tune is jaunty if unrefined, both girl and deer evidently intrigued. Curiosity itches and pulls at her fingers, her bones: she wants to turn, to look at him, but something deeper holds her back. Does she know this voice (she knows this voice), easy and mischievous, ripe with promise and delicious potential? It sends a shiver down her spine, an anticipation she cannot place. There is a mystery here, a game for which Amalia does not know the rules. There is something like companionship, something like interest, something- but she dares not look much closer, for fear the fragile fascination will devolve into her usual anxious, tumultuous trepidation.

So she does not look, not at it and not at him, even as a laugh peals out behind her, even as his volume rises. Facing the forest, the deer, the world, she leave him in shadow but invites him to the light - come catch it, if you want it. He cannot see the smile that curves at her lips, the bright and eager anticipation shining in her eyes, the hot copper flush which colors her cheeks. He cannot hear the beating of her heart. They are making the rules up as they go, and he will have to play by hers just as she plays by his.

"That's a lie, that's a lie, that's a lie, lie, lie!"

Deimos <3

amalia
i've been watching your kindness keep
a lonely company - look at the fire and think of me
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:
#7

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 never been beguiling; it wasn’t in his barbaric nature to bewitch or charm. A majority of his lifetime had been spent doing the exact opposite: his imposing figure cutting through bands of miscreants, inept individuals, or paths of war, and most of the time the world obliged. Several had always managed to whittle their way into his brand of society though, but he never figured or presumed they were enamored; they saw him as protection, as a guard, as one of those living, breathing weapons so when the earth turned against them, he’d buffer the wind, the blades, the anguish and pain. Do your worst, they’d say with a laugh because they couldn’t, and his apathetic gaze would haunt thresholds, slash a blade, lacerate, devastate, and ruin. The Reaper didn’t have a siren lure or a captivating, entrancing, devastating balance; he was eldritch and titan, sent from the flames of his father’s ambitions and the stone crafting of his mother’s sagacity. Perhaps if others had a death wish, they could witness him as captivating, capable of rendering their hopes and dreams into beckoning silence, a hushed, quiet demise. Overall, he’d spent a multitude of time casting everyone and anyone away, because it made life easier, to sink into the listless, languid tides, to eventually disappear and dissipate into the ether, dust and bone, forgotten, already accepting the consignment of hell and oblivion at his fingertips. He wasn’t appealing. He wasn’t even amusing. He was the darker threads in a series of iniquitous veils, tied off and frayed at the ends, knotted between partitions of immorality and nefariousness; the biting, savage means and purpose behind driving onslaughts and terrors. He could be treachery. He could be deceit. He could be cold-blooded machinations and utter indifference.

But for an instant, he did wish to be something, someone, enthralling or fascinating, diverting or engaging.

She didn’t turn back to him, and so this was the game; and he refused to bend, to break, to curl back into defeat. The soldier was already marginally successful; neither deer nor woman had left or fled yet (there’d been laughter in there too, halcyon and bold, and he wanted more), and he took that as he did with so many others things: greedily, mercenary, a coveting, grasping hold, pondering how to keep them all there, within reach. He slunk further into the shadows’ reaches as she bellowed back the required response, and he laughed again, more intrepid than before, folding his arms across his chest and remembering, recalling, the next verse. “This wonderful old ram, sir, was grateful as a kid; it swallowed the captain’s spyglass along with the bo’sun’s fid.” The warrior paused, waiting for her eventual part in spotting lies and deceits, before continuing on, boldly testing, pushing, pressing, deep voice resounding along boughs and branches, ferns and undergrowth. “Tonight was very rough, sir, the wind like icy feel. He borrowed my suit of oils and he took my trick at the wheel.”


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:
#8

His laughter meets her declaration, ringing triumphant through the tangled trees. She laughs in turn - she cannot help it - her alto voice rising in a rusty lilt, delight and abashment lighting up her voice and face. The song is perfectly senseless, the whole seen absurd in its unexpectedness. Amalia is not sure what they are doing, but she enjoys it nonetheless, this game played in the expanse between shadow and light.

Her smile lingers as his verse continues, though she tilts her head confusedly. Many of the words are foreign to the girl, and the concept of an inebriated ram in the ocean makes very little sense. She has never seen the ocean, but she is confident it is not a place for sheep. Nonetheless the girl is enthused, and gamely she answers once again: "That's a lie, that's a lie, that's a lie, lie, lie!"

The luxere, too, seems emboldened by their song; it creeps closer as the pair cajole, luminous antlers bobbing in an uneven attempt to keep tune. Amalia kneels as the creature approaches, her cloaks falling beneath her as she lowers herself into the light snow, slender fingers reaching out to stroke the deer's soft cheek. "That's a lie, that's a lie, that's a lie, lie, lie." she is quick to contribute on her cue, but her voice is softer now, gentler as she soothes the beast.

She lets the last note linger for a moment, roll off her tongue and fade away, before half-turning toward the man concealed once more among the trees. Face obscured by a curtain of hair, she does not look at him... but nor does she look away. "Have you ever pet a luxere, Mr. Shade?"

amalia
i've been watching your kindness keep
a lonely company - look at the fire and think of me
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:
#9

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 game continued, and Deimos would have gratefully batted back and forth, except the responding tunes became quieter, hushed, and the song faded away – his verses could have multiplied in ridiculous avenues, but then they dissipated in the calm wind. His brows furrowed, and he mulled over what to do, what to say next, mind spinning, churning, meticulous and devout in its ministrations; but her inquiry floated across the snow, and he swallowed down the enticement, the allure. Here, the soldier was caught at an impasse again; the snare set, the trap waiting for him to wander deeper, catch and snag, fervent, eager, to watch him lose, tumble further into ineptitude.

The warrior had to admit he was at a loss. He had nothing to offer her. He had nothing to offer anyone, truly. Killing was easy, a necessity during times of war, when the bugles sounded, the banners waved, and greed spiraled through their mercenary skulls. Slaughter and annihilation weren’t any particular, noteworthy skill, no matter how precise, quick, sudden, and swift he could devise and implement it. No one needed a hulking blackguard at their back, intimidating and glowering. No one required a brooding figure, too immersed, too deep, in their own faults and follies to be useful. No one yearned to talk to a creature dark, sullen, and still; they’d tried, and his failure at discourse sputtered away those finite moments. It was why he often wondered the gods had left him there, kneeling at graves and catacombs, enraged and wild, savage and contemptuous, longing to destroy anyone and anything in his path – they could have struck him down as he spewed blasphemous insults, as he spurned their existence. Perhaps this was his punishment: wandering around the earth in eternal purgatory; useless, ineffectual, and insubstantial. The world could view him as a hollowed shell, an empty, feral vessel, dragging his feet through the muck and mire, waiting for time to whittle its way at his bones, at his flesh. He clenched his jaw and recalled, remembered, the rain and the sea, hands grabbing hold of his face as he bowed his head and growled into the ether, the same bitter, rancorous edges clinging to his soul. The gentle sway it’d held over him, the strength of her cool fingers after coating the world in tranquility, in serenity : you’re worth so much more than you realize, she’d laughed in the sunlight, bright and ebullient, and he’d shaken his head. He hadn’t lived up to her statements, to her claims, either. He likely never would.

Why don’t you just try? her ghost would linger, out of sight, deep within the recesses of his memories, and he knew, understood the reason so very well: cowardice.

The man who stared down death, who embodied strength and brawn, who endured and persevered through sheer, blatant stubbornness, simply feared if he bestowed bits and pieces of his thoughts, of his musings, of his damned, immoral self, he’d lose everything all over again. It was tiring to hurt, to remain in anguish, to stay and stray in the constant, overbearing weight of guilt, of suffering, of misery, mocked by drawn scars along his spine, his shoulders, his ribs, his heart.

The silence had gone on too long, and Mr. Shade stared out in the abyss, piercing eyes straying to the pathways of snow, to the webbed designs left behind on pine needles and broken boughs. Deimos knew what she was doing, and had no way to stop it. The coaxing, the persuasion, was all laid out behind him, just slightly out of reach; he’d just have to break their cycle, be the first to glance, to step into the light, and admit defeat. He sighed, watched the puffs of warm air curl and coil before him, pondering when he’d be brave enough to let the rest of the void take him over the edge. “Never. We did not have them in Isilme,” he proffered, giving away a piece of himself, of history in the segments and lines, the strikes and shadows, the graves and bones left behind; but that was all, because few ever bothered to pick up the shards of the Reaper.



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

Amalia <3


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