#it certainly had more time to stew in its resentment and less people to look after in the interim

[as-amemory]

I Could Drive You Crazy

Pairing: Éomer x OFC (unnamed)

Summary: She drove him crazy, with her little mannerism specifically crafted to irritate him, to get a rise out of him, for it was then, in that sweet spot before he starts to boil, before his true ire took over, that they find themselves in the heated throws of passion.

Warnings: NSFW, explicit, racism against Dunlendings (if thats a thing? I don't know, I'm new here), unhealthy relationships.

Word Count: less than 2k.

Setting: Aldburg, Rohan - some years before the War of the Ring.

Notes: This is the result of me ovulating and having no outlet as well as a song-bug stuck in my ear: I Could Drive You Crazy by Sierra Ferrell. Basically its a song about being crazy and I thought that might make for an interesting character to pair Éomer with, since apparently I enjoy watching him suffer. I'm not yet ready to name this OFC. I kind of hate her but I want to play with her a few more times and see what mischief she can get up to first before I decide if she needs a permanent residence.

I'm probably going to the small section of hell they specifically reserve for the sickos who deface Tolkien's works with such vulgarity. Enjoy!

Hay Fever threatened to take him fully yet she barged through the door as if he hadn’t complained to her that morning of an oncoming headache. She loved to do that. Ignore his every word and then act surprised when he was upset with her for having to repeat himself. Rare did he share his feelings with others, rarer still that he was forced to repeat himself. Not as Third Marshal of the Mark, Lord of Aldburg. People listened when he spoke. She did not. 

“Feed your dogs, Éomer,” she says, voice full of spite. He hated when she called him by his name so casually. He never particularly cared for the triviality of titles. It matters not to him how he is referred to, as long as he first gave leave to call him by his given name, yet she takes the privilege without even bothering to ask permission.

She eyes the hound dogs sprawled at his feet with contempt. She did not like that he allows the dogs to reside inside the confines of his home. They belong in a kennel, outside. “They look as though they will devour me.” 

This was his home. It would do her well to get used to seeing them laying on the floor. He sits back in his seat appraising her, the judgment seeped deep in her dark eyes. She is of mixed ancestry, there is no doubt of that by looking at her. Carrying enough blood of the Dunlendings to mark her differently. A mark of his resentment towards her. Resentment that blossomed into hate, the sweet fuel to their more rousing escapades. 

“I should let them.” The threat comes out harsher than he intends, the start of a cold restricting any tenderness from escaping his throat. 

Tossing two halves of an uneaten pheasant on the ground the dogs swallow it whole in one bite. He had taken his supper in his room that evening, not in the mood to dally with the residents of Aldburg. Typically the seasonal Hay Fever did not affect him but the heavy spring rains had caused an influx of new weeds to run wild in the fields causing him to feel less than ideal. Currently a pain bloomed behind his eyes and at the base of his throat, leaving him in no state to make friendly conversation. Yet here she is, when he had specifically ordered the Doorward not to let anyone into his rooms. 

She could drive him to insanity with her blatant disrespect of him. He did not know why he kept her around. They had nothing in common and his list of grievances against her was long in number, dating back almost a year prior, growing longer still.

Showing up late to a personal invitation to go riding, acting as though they had never agreed to a time and certainly not a place of meeting. She had once offered to cook him supper to which he almost choked on the bones swimming in the stew. Had ruined a hunting trip, scaring away all the animals with her incessant humming. A tune which was stuck in his head for almost a fortnight. There was no fishing to be had with her, requiring more patience than whatever little she possessed. Yet time, and time again, him found himself tangled in sheets of his bed with her, or roughly pressed against the edge of his desk in the solar, partial to the idea of being caught, or in the hayloft above the stables, straining so deliciously tight around him as she rode - 

He teeth grind at the sight of her, fluttering about his room, touching this and that, moving it slightly away from its original spot as she talks about her day. 

“I found a lovely bolt of cloth that would make a fine dress.” She has picked up the crystal paperweight from his desk, peering at it as if she is speaking to the paperweight and not him. 

So it was money she wanted? He should have known better than to think she was checking on his well being. He lifts his chin, waiting for her to meet his eye. She would have to ask him directly if she desired any coin from him but she continues to pick up random items just to set them down again, completely ignoring him. 

“Come here.” His patience has grown thin. He will not ask her twice yet she looks at him as if he should be the one crawling on his knees to be near her. As if he should hand over his purse just to be allowed the honor of being in the same room as her. 

When he does not concede to her silent petition she nods her head in appreciation to his stubbornness. A sly smile curls on her lips as she approaches him, already lifting her dress to better seat herself on his lap. 

“I don’t know what I ever liked about you,” he says gruffly as she straddles him. Pushing aside her skirts he unties the laces of his trousers. He would have his due of her before this Hay Fever set in fully. 

She laughs mockingly at that. “You love me.” 

“I don’t think I do.” He nips at her lips and she smiles ruefully. Skirt pulled around her waist he is able to easily palm the wet folds of her labia. “You seem to like me,” he draws out, pushing the heel of his palm into her sensitive nub, eliciting a delicate gasp from between pink parted lips. He takes the opening to kiss her fully when she otherwise does not particularly enjoy the intimacy of a long drawn out kiss. She surprises him by matching the energy, eagerly molding her lips against his. Rutting down on his hand and along his ever hardening cock causes a gasp of his own to escape his mouth and into hers. His eyes closed briefly at the contact. They had last laid together only that morning. Was he so fallible to her that he could not even keep from gasping out like an inexperienced adolescent? 

She bites down on his lower lip. Hard, drawing blood. He hisses his resentment through clenched teeth, digging his fingers into her side. He hated when she did that. This she knows. She remembers that particular detail about him, yet could not remember the name of his first horse or his favorite fishing spot. More than anything she loved to know what he hated.

She is trying to get a rise out of him. Make his boil, just a little. The sex was always better for it. 

“Minx,” he growls against her mouth. Taking hold of his cock he spreads the juices of her pleasure along the length, lining himself up with her entrance. Greedily he flicks his hips up into her without warning. She laments her pleasure, loud for all to hear. The Doorward, no doubt, will not be expecting reprimand from him, not when he can so clearly hear the results of his mistake. 

Wiggling against him she tries vainly to adjust to the size difference but he holds her in place, fingers digging into her sides. He wishes that he wasn’t so incorrigible. That he wasn’t so tempted by her teasing. That he could withhold himself from acting out so rashly. Maybe like that of his older cousin, whose poise and sense of propriety had always come with ease. Yet he falls for her time and time again, fucking her exactly as she enjoys. As he enjoys. 

Letting his eyes linger on her undulating body he sets his jaw to keep from baring his teeth at the pressure of her rolling hips. If only she rode horses as good as she did him then she might be worth her weight in the saddle. Yet for all her withering she is shit astride a horse. It was that cursed Dunlending blood, tainting her ability to be anything but subpar.

A whimper escapes her lips, and he smiles cruelly, at least she suffers, same as him. She rides him slow, a painful pace that leaves him groaning. His only respite from her torture is his thumb circling her clit. She might know everything he hated but he knew exactly what her body loved. Specifically how to milk an orgasm out of her that would leave her seeing stars. It starts slow. Small circles to bring her to attention, and then an increase of pressure as blood engorges to the area. Her breathing hitches in her throat. Like the cat that caught the canary, he smiles at the sight of her. A harsh thrust of his hips, he fills her fully causing her pace to falter. The careful placement of his thumb halts, watching the confused look cross her features as her incoming orgasm slips out from under her. 

His name is a growl on her lips, a slight warning. “Éomer.” 

That he could take his name from her lips. 

She knows the game he plays, the same one she taught him all those years ago. His thumb picks up pace with her rolling hips. He cradles her neck with his free hand. Skin hot, beneath his touch. A sheen of sweat is building along her hairline. He traces the curve of her collarbone and down her chest, across to her nipples, hard beneath her bodice. She is almost as sensitive here as she is between her legs, her hands clench around his shirt trying to hide her rising ecstasy. His nostrils flare, eyes trapped on the expanse of her face, carefully watching for each small indication of her pleasure. 

Turning her head she tries to hide from him but he quickly has her jaw clasped between his fingers. He would see her. Shaking her head she waves off his touch, attempting to cover her eyes behind her hand, like a child hiding in plain sight. He clicks his tongue, taking her hand in his and after some struggling binds them both in his clasp behind her back.  

“Go on then.” He flicks his chin in her direction. Her pace has all but stopped, hesitantly she finds it again, knowing full well that he now possesses all the power. The power to dish out pleasure as he saw fit.  

Yet her rolling hips are more powerful, more exaggerated than before, causing him to grimace, lest he call out her name. She would love that, revel in his undoing. He steels himself with a deep breath through his nose. A ragged breath from her lets him know she is close again. He slows his thumb, wondering if she’ll cry out, plead with him to give her what she wants. 

“Éomer.” His name, like a prayer on her lips, is soft and sweet, and he knows he no longer possesses the control he once touted. 

Letting free her hands, he pulls her in close until her head rests against his. He can feel the warmth of her breath as he takes his pace, thrusting into her. She has brushed away his teasing thumb, replacing it with her own skilled fingers. A shuddering breath and she tightens further around the length of him. She cries out loud enough that he is certain they hear her in the Great Hall. He is still thrusting into her as she convulses hot and heady around him but he soon follows suit, letting his release run him fully with a loud groan of his own. 

Panting, she rests her head against his chest, forehead sticky with sweat it clings to the thin fabric of his shirt. She does not cuddle. She never has lingered in his arms as they slowly drift down from their high. She slips off his lap and he shutters at the sudden loss of contact, hands gripping the armrests of the chair. 

By the time he has regained his senses enough to stand she has relieved herself and wiped clean his seed dripping down her thighs. Maybe a good romp was the cure to any oncoming ailment. He drowns the last of his ale, eyeing her as she smiles prettily for him under dark thick lashes. So demure and pliant, when only moments earlier he was ready to have her thrown from his room for her uncouth behavior.

“You spoil me, my lord,” she says coyly. He bites back a scoff. 

Her gaze is taken with the leather purse heavy on the corner of his desk. A slight nod of his head and she promptly reaches across the expanse, showing off the long lines of her body, and that of the soft curves she knows he loves to grab hold of during their coupling. Deftly, her fingers dip inside the pouch, taking out three coins. 

“This should cover the cost.” Her gaze darts to him, searching for any subtle hint of permission that she could take more but he is hard set against giving her indication. Already she pushes the bounds of his generosity. 

“And one more,” she purrs softly, plucking a fourth coin out. “As insurance to return to you.” 

He rolls his eyes, knowing well she will only return when she pleases not because she feels indebted to him. Offering a low curtsey, she mumbles her thanks, letting his gaze linger on her, on the low cut of her dress. Her bosom all but swells out of the strains of her bodice. When did such a salacious style come into fashion? Surely his sister did not expose herself so scantily in Edoras? He bites his lip, thoughts of his sister quickly pushed from his mind replaced instead by the women so humbly lowered before him. Already he feels a slight twitch of his groin. 

She rises, satisfied with her display of deference. A Haunting smile on her lips, she glances at the hound dogs splayed out on the rug. 

“Feed your dogs, Éomer,” she instructs as a final goodbye. Out the door he is certain she can hear his mocking laughter following her.  

#I probably got his voice entirely wrong #but I had fun writing this #eomer fanfiction #Eomer x OC #Eomer x OFC #Eomer smut #lotr fanfic #lotr smut

[wild-houseplant]

Have Warden, Will Travel- Chapter 7

Excuse the delay on this chapter- I ended up having to split it into two parts. Hopefully chapter 8 won’t be so long coming like this one was! You know the score cool beans: Full chapter here, and also below (the rest is under the cut because it’s long, as per usual). CW for very brief sexual reference. Hope you good eggs are doing ok!! I’ve been thinking of you! 8D

§§

Zevran was smart enough to know he was a fool, and that was just the way he liked it. A person only needed enough smarts to survive their stupidity– and he certainly had enough stupidity to him to make the clever moments stand out.

It all worked out for the best like that, really. If nothing else, it had long imparted the revelation to him, brilliant fool that he was, the secret to life. Simple and unlikely: surviving life in all its exquisite dreadfulness required optimism, and the secret ingredient to optimism was pessimism.

The Warden, that frighteningly odd individual, had practically spent the night with Zevan strapped to her back like an infant. There wasn’t a single kill to his name, and still she openly gushed about him, in front of the entire party and half of Redcliffe.

It was perfectly reasonable to assume that her standards for excellence were so low that a compliment was a thinly-veiled insult. Or that the wholly undeserved praise was a more calculated move to make the others resent him. To keep him out of conflict so that his reflexes dulled for lack of practice. To lull him into a false sense of security, even, only to take him (somewhat) by surprise when she and the dog murdered him in the dead of night and feasted on his innards.

And as far as Zevran was concerned, such thoughts only made the good things stand out more. He had survived a battle without a scratch. The leader of the party had given praise, and there was no taking back what had already been spoken, undeserved as the words might have been. His own tent was in the works. Even the sunrise had a peachy glow to it that was hard not to admire. No, this was more than enough for now.

At the top of the hill, the camp was finally in view. It was as higgledy-piggledy as they had left it; no more, no less. The tents sat in their usual semi-circle. Rhodri’s small, neat one with the blue glow and the black burnspot; Alistair’s huge, stained disaster; Leliana’s, yellowish and draped with a fur; and Sten’s sombre, nondescript affair sat at the tail-end. At the perimeter, Morrigan’s rag fort and the dwarves’ cart hovered like moons. There was something to be said for familiarity. Precisely what, Zevran didn’t know, but definitely something.

At some point, his own tent would need to go somewhere, but the Warden’s audible panting snapped his attention out of hypotheticals.

He turned and grinned broadly at her. She didn’t notice; it didn’t trouble him one bit.

“Ah… hah…” she huffed between breaths. “Looks like we haven’t been robbed by bandits or corpses. Mr. Bodahn and Sandal will be pleased to see their wagon is safe.”

“Who knew the undead had moral limits, no?” he quipped, allowing half a snort of his own as the Warden laughed appreciatively.

“Oh, you’re good! Now, since you wish to clean your leathers off, would you like to take the first bath?” She smiled and rubbed her fingers. “I can wait.”

Perhaps it wasn’t a lie, but it was only a truth in the same way that people drawing their dying breath were technically not dead.

He shook his head a little too hard. “A kind offer, my Grey Warden, but unnecessary. What if you took the first bath and I used the time to make us the finest Antivan frittata this side of the border?”

She smiled and shook her head. “I’ll have some cold leftover stew, but thank you. Please make whatever you want for yourself, of course.”

“Mm? You do not like frittata?" He whiffled a hand. "It is no bother, I can make anything your heart desires. Though perhaps with some local variations, given our ingredients."

Rhodri shrugged. “Oh, I like frittata a lot. Especially with those small red onions. Mm. What are they called? Salliculae… ah…” The Warden trailed off, talking to herself in slow but intelligible Tevene, ‘How did I forget the Common name when I speak the language all day…?’

Zevran smiled and answered in clear, smooth Antivan, ‘The red onions of Salle? The little sweet ones, yes? Esalota, we call it. I do not know the name in Common, unfortunately, but I understand the vegetable you mean.’

Rhodri let out a delighted squeak. ‘Ah, you understand me!’ Her pace picked up to a near-babble, ‘Didn’t know… Antivan is… intellig–... with Tevene… … … you?’

He chuckled. “Ah, forgive me. I got lost at the end, there.”

“Oh!” Her grin went lopsided. “Talked too fast, I think. I did understand you, though. And you understood me a little, yes?”

“Mmm, I believe Antivans can understand much Tevene if it is spoken slowly enough. Or very loudly,” he added with a smirk. “So no frittata without the esalota? That can be arranged, given that we have none.”

Rhodri scuffed her foot on the grass. “Oh, I like it with or without, but my plan for the next day or two is to eat the leftovers for dinner until they run out, see.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Zevran saw one of her hands wringing itself, and he absently touched the handwritten schedule in his pocket.

“Ah, but of course!” He kept his smile and nod generous. “It is well to keep to a schedule where one can, is it not? Not having to constantly plan ahead frees up the mind for more important things, no?”

The Warden gaped at him like he’d bought her a house.

“I… well, yes! Yes! Ha-ha! Yes, exactly!” She bounced on her toes, fixing his cheek with a gleaming smile. “Good to– yes, it’s good for a leader to be efficient, it’s true. Helps in the long run. Hah. Right. Yes. Ah…”

She pointed her nose toward the campfire. “Would you like some help with cooking? I can… mmm, what can I do… ah!" Her chest puffed out again, and her shoulders… if he wasn’t mistaken, they just shimmied a little. "I can break the eggs. Leliana showed me how to do that just before you joined us."

Oh, she would have starved in Antiva.

She down looked at her hands. “Oh. I need to wash first, though. And change. But I can get back to you as soon as I can to…” she squinted. “Hum… Cracking eggs isn’t actually that helpful, is it?”

He smiled, half from relief she'd reached that conclusion on her own, and half for a reason he couldn’t put his finger on.

“You are good to me, my Grey Warden,” he purred, “but a frittata is the work of a moment. Do not let me keep you from washing. In fact, by the time you’re back, it should almost be ready.”

Rhodri acknowledged this with a low hum. “You’re quite right, of course. It was an impractical suggestion.”

Untroubled though she looked as she rubbed her chin ( “Now what would be more useful…?” he heard her murmur), the remark twanged a previously unnoticed nerve all the same.

“Ah, but think,” he trilled quickly. “That means we can eat together, no?”

Her eyes widened a little. “Mmm, very true! I suppose I’d better get to it, then.”

“If I could perhaps ask a favour before you go, though?”

“Mm? Anything you like.”

“The fire has long gone out,” he gestured at the heap of char in the middle of the camp. “I wonder if I could borrow a little of that delightful magic to help me get it going again? I believe I lost my striker back in Lothering.”

She nodded, went to the firepit and threw a few logs in. He watched after her and waited for the flick of the hand to summon the bright, full-bodied flames that had cooked their food all week.

Any moment now.

… Or?

The Warden bent down, propping herself up with a hand on one knee, and held the other out by one of the logs. Her fingers started to tremble.

“Ah… hah…” her shoulders rose and sank like a bellows in time with her breaths.

Zevran strode over to her. “My Warden? You are well? If it is too strenuous…”

Rhodri didn’t answer. A wisp of smoke curled out of the cracked log bark and crept skywards. Her fingers moved with shaky… encouragement, he would have called it, if it didn’t sound so embarrassing. Who encouraged a flame?

She did, apparently. And when a bright orange tonguelet slipped out and licked at the bark, she certainly smiled like she was proud of it.

Through heavy pants, as it happened.

Zevran tried again. “... My Grey Warden?”

“Hah… a-hah… forgive me, I was… hah… concentrating.” She braced herself with both hands now.

His insides crawled with embarrassment. "Shall I bring you a restorative of some sort? Something to chew on, perhaps?"

Rhodri shook her head. "Thank you, no. I need to wash." She straightened up slowly and gave him a crimson-cheeked smile. "Nothing for you to worry about, my friend. I’ll be back shortly. May I take my clothes from your tent?"

Zevran smirked. “Your tent now, my dear.” And what a relief that was.

“Yours until this other tent arrives," she chuckled breathlessly. “I won’t declare it mine again without proof you have yours first.”

She didn’t wait for a reply before leaving, and that was a mercy in itself. The fact that she wasn’t actually staggering toward the tent was another.

Even so, Zevran listened out as he cracked the eggs, legs half-tensed in case the Warden fell unconscious mid-bath and he had to rush to fish her out of the water. He shouldn’t have let her go without a small rest– shouldn’t have asked a tired mage to do more magic in the first place– but of course, he never was one for keeping important things in mind.

Nagale. If she drowned, that was the end of him. If he burst in on her bathing, that was the end of him, too.

Why were his plans always so horrid?

Luckily, Rhodri had left the tent warbling a tune Zevran remembered a prostitute singing in the mornings as she dressed her hair.

He kept cooking. Rhodri kept singing. It was a hair’s breadth away from pleasant.

§

When the Warden re-joined him, dripping and looking incredibly pleased, the frittata was almost ready. He had taken the hot pan off the fire to let the heat in the iron cook it the rest of the way through.

She plonked herself down beside him and started filling her bowl with leftover stew.

“Something smells nice,” she said, giving him a wink that would have been visible from the other end of the country.

He waggled his eyebrows. “Almost ready, too. I happened to overcook, so if you change your mind, there is a goodly portion that is yours for the taking.”

Rhodri beamed as she tore a loaf of bread in half. “Spoken like a true Northerner! I don’t remember the last time I heard someone say they made too much food.” Her eyes drifted over to the frittata and rested there. And with its golden exterior and halfway runny inside, who wouldn't gaze like that? It was a triumph. Even a Fereldan would fall in love with it.

“Hmm?” Zevran nodded down at the pan. “You look tempted there, my dear.”

She chuckled. “Oh, I am. I should eat the leftovers first, but it’s been a good twelve years since I saw a frittata made the proper way…”

Pleased, Zevran acknowledged the remark with a grin.

“I used twelve eggs in this," he declared. "The most I have ever eaten in one sitting is six. If you want to know if it tastes as good as it looks…” He took a bite and made a noise bordering on inappropriate as he chewed and swallowed it down. “Mmm! Let me assure you it does. And your half is waiting in the pan for you.”

Rhodri’s gaze was firmly on the frittata on his plate. Not a hint of a blush. No bitten lip. He was of a good mind to ask her if her preferences departed from the usual humans, elves, dwarves, to food.

She turned back to the stew and took a bite, and the urge to ask that question disintegrated. Alistair had looked tickled pink with himself yesterday mid-morning, serving up bowlfuls of the grainy, tombstone-grey concoction with all the delighted benevolence of a man who was handing out gold bullions.

Credit where it was due, though: the Warden was as good as her word– or her plan, at the very least. She slogged her way through it valiantly. The only sign of it being the stuff of nightmares was the gusto with which she attacked the bread between mouthfuls.

When the bowl was empty, he smiled at her. “Are you ready for a palate cleanser?”

He should have waited for an answer; why he didn’t was anyone’s guess. He also should have known better than to firmly grab the side of a hot cast-iron pan wearing a leather glove that bordered on threadbare in parts.

If nothing else, he should have concealed the discomfort better. Zevran hastily pulled his hand away and created a breeze by wiggling his fingers.

Rhodri almost leapt a foot in the air. From her seated position, no less.

“Oh, Zev! Did you burn yourself?” She zipped over until their thighs were almost touching and held out her hands to him like she was receiving a gift. “Will you show me? I promise not to do anything without your permission.”

Zevran smirked and bit his lip at her. “Oh-ho! Will you kiss it better for me, my Grey Warden? Luck is very much on my side today.”

Oh, for the love of sanity, why?

The Warden blinked at him like he had thrown sand in her eyes.

“I’m… ah, sorry, but kisses haven’t been proven to heal wounds. You’ll just end up with my spit on you, and I think we’ve established that would be unwise." She smiled encouragingly. "But we can work out something that will help.”

The whole thing seemed hugely unwise. Ten minutes ago, it was a distinct possibility that casting a fire spell would send her to the Maker’s side. Or drowning from exhaustion thereafter. But who was he, Zevran the equal, to tell her to watch herself?

Oh, it was too much altogether.

“Perhaps,” he edged his hand out toward her, “we could simply examine it, for now? No need for treatment as yet, I do not think. It does not hurt so very much.”

Rhodri nodded fervently. “Of course, of course. Whatever you’re comfortable with. Would you be amenable to me taking the glove off so we can look closer–? Ah, thank you.”

It was a curious thing, the way four of her fingers cradled the underside of his wrist with featherlight gentleness. Her thumb, as if disgusted by it all, was stretched as far away from him as it seemed possible.

“Is this all right, my friend?” she indicated their point of contact with her nose. “Just to hold your hand steady. I promise not to make a full grip on you with my thumb.”

Zevran realised he had been staring, and when his fool blank look resisted being trained into something more sultry, he simply nodded.

Rhodri nodded back kindly. “All right. Nice and easy, here we go… tell me if you need me to stop and I’ll let go straight away…”

The glove was cajoled off delicately. Zevran couldn’t help but smile upon seeing that the unencumbered top half of his finger, though angry and rapidly swelling, was neither bleeding nor blistering.

“Mmm, look at that!" He swallowed a relieved laugh. "Barely a trace of my carelessness.”

Rhodri frowned. “Eh? It looks like you’re smuggling a cherry under your fingertip!”

He gave a casual wave with his free hand. “Ah, but that goes away on its own fast enough, no? No need to trouble yourself over it.”

Rhodri took her fingers away from his arm one by one until he was supporting the extremity on his own. She gave him a suspiciously patient-looking smile.

“It’s all right if the magic still unnerves you, amicus. I don’t expect that sort of thing to go away overnight. And I'm afraid even if you did ask me for magic, I couldn’t help right now.” She shrugged apologetically. “No mana left, I'm sorry. But I have some lovely heat balm to take the pain and swelling out, if you like? It’s in my satchel here…”

It was hard to know if there actually was a satchel that was situated to her right, or if that was simply what she called the great void her robes created. Whichever one she rummaged in ended up supplying her with a small jar of greenish ointment that she held up indicatively.

“What do you think? Shall we try it? You’ll only need a little, I think.”

Zevran’s mind faltered halfway through an attempt to jump to the worst possible conclusion. Topical poisons were common. The Warden, however, seemed an increasingly unlikely candidate for murdering him subtly. Or murdering him outright, when it came to that.

His finger throbbed. Pointedly. He affixed a smile.

“If you’re sure you don’t mind, my Warden–”

She shook her head so fervently that he stopped talking.

“Not at all,” she insisted. “Not at all. Here, let’s get some on you…”

He chuckled weakly as she set to work. “You are clever, Rhodri, making all these balms and such.”

Rhodri looked up and let out a wild laugh.

“Oh! I didn’t make this, Morrigan did. I never paid attention in herbalism, because it always bored me to tears. In fact, I said to my friend Stella, ‘So long as I can differentiate the vegetables on my plate, I’m proficient enough in plant matters.’”

She gave him a sheepish grin and rocked her feet from heel to toe. “My herbalism teacher heard that. She smacked me in the back of my head with my book for my trouble.”

Was it too much to laugh? She’d grinned, and a grin was three-quarters of the way to a laugh. It wasn’t kind to hit students with books, Zevran knew it in his heart of hearts, but what a tame punishment, all told.

He covered his mouth with his free hand and settled for watching her with a smile kept solely to the top half of his face. She glanced up at him– at him , in his eyes, not on his cheek– and once his digestive tract had stopped trying to escape via his mouth, he decided that there were worse things than eye-to-eye contact with her, odd and prolonged as it was.

Rhodri returned his balmed hand to him by carefully setting it down on his knee. "It takes about five minutes to work, so just sit easy while you wait. And while I think of it…" she pointed down at his gloves with her nose. “These need to be replaced, my friend."

Of course, he could never have been permitted to feel too settled with her, could he?

Zevran smirked and refused point-blank to consider the awkward lightness of his money-bag as he did so.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he challenged weakly, giving a wicked laugh. “I think I could get a little more service out of them.”

She raised her eyebrows at him, and he was a fool for feeling surprised about it.

“Frankly, Zevran, I think the only service they can offer you now is not dissolving entirely, and even then it’s looking grim.” She put her hands together and opened them like a book. “How about this. We’ll go to Mr. Bodahn and pick you out a nice new pair. What do you think?” Rhodri gestured at his shabby set and smiled warmly. “You can still keep these if you’re fond of them. They can be your leisure gloves.”

Zevran pulled his fingers away from his money and used them to stroke his chin.

“I… am not sure what Mr. Bodahn’s prices are like, truthfully.”

Rhodri waved a hand. “Oh don’t worry about that. We’ll get a good deal with him. He promised us a hefty discount, and we have plenty of money stashed away in the common fund for times like this.”

“Ah,” was all he said.

Her eyes widened. “Oh, I– Did you think you would have to pay for your own gear with your own money? Goodness, how thoughtless of me. I owe you an– no, wait! I owe you two apologies, in fact.”

He blinked. And then forced himself not to. “Two? I am sure you do not even owe me one, my dear Warden.”

“No, I do,” Rhodri shook her head hard. “I absolutely do. First of all, I'm sorry for not telling you that our common fund always covers work and basic living expenses. Armour, weapons, food, and shelter are all paid for by that. Your income is for you to save or spend on things you want. Now, secondly…”

She turned again to reach into the Robe Void and/or her satchel. Buckling turned to rustling, which became the jingle of coins, and when she faced him again, she deposited three sovereigns and six silvers into his unexpecting, balm-free hand.

“I should have given you your pay in advance the day you joined us,” she said solemnly, “but it didn’t occur to me. Please allow me to offer my apology for this oversight by paying interest– hence the six silvers. That was my mistake and it won’t happen again.”

Zevran stared down at the money, hating the three sovereigns that made his first pay packet and that he wanted to pocket them and the interest both.

“Most kind of you, my Warden,” he offered uneasily. “There is no need for the interest, though, I’m sure–”

Rhodri held up her hands. “There absolutely is. You are working with us,”

Working? Hah! Dancing, perhaps.

“And you are to be paid for it. Late pay means you accrue interest. I’m not taking that money back. It’s yours and none of my business now.”

Without a word, he stuffed the coins into his money bag and could have wept with relief that the struggle was over once he had. There was no gloating, no smiles, no hands going onto his body to take something back. If anything, the Warden looked as relieved as he felt that he had simply yielded to her request. Her fingers drummed on her knees, feet rocking too rapidly for it to be comfortable.

“... You know, my Warden, there is a very lonely frittata sitting between us,” Zevran offered tentatively. “Perhaps you might help me with it?”

Rhodri frowned. “Lonel–? Oh!” She looked at the frittata and up at him. “Have you eaten enough? You should have as much of it as you can. It's a long time since we last ate, and eggs are good for the health.”

“I could not eat a bite more,” he said earnestly, giving his belly a (careful) pat. “Getting through half of it was a challenge in itself. I’m afraid between the two of us, you will have to be the one to give it a good home.”

She swallowed audibly and eyed that damned frittata like she was going to make love to it.

“... You’re quite sure?” she asked hoarsely.

Zevran grinned. “Oh, yes.” He pointed his nose at it. “Go on, dear Warden. Enjoy it while it is still warm.”

After another loud gulp the Warden nodded and, fork in hand, reached down and speared a bite out of the pan. Zevran bit his lip, unable to resist watching on as she brought it to her mouth.

She chewed it slowly, eyes fluttering shut. Sighed, grinned, blushed– Maker’s breath, she might as well have taken the pan back to her tent at the rate she was going.

He couldn’t help but smile. “I take it you are enjoying it?”

It took a moment before she swallowed and turned to him, and he wondered if she had been prolonging the inevitable parting with her mouthful.

“Yes I am,” Rhodri said softly. “It’s exactly how they made it at home in Kirkwall when there were no esalota.” She gestured at the pan. “This is beautiful food, Zev. The best thing I’ve eaten in twelve years.”

A pang of some sort registered in Zevran’s chest that he studiously ignored in favour of the jubilation of winning the Warden’s favour via simple cooking. He didn’t make bad food as a rule, but this had not even been one of his best. He bobbed his head with a flourish to point his nose at the remaining half (minus one bite) of the apparent masterpiece frittata.

“I shall have to keep that in mind,” he purred as he scoured his mind for the exact proportions of herbs and seasonings he had used in the mix and committed them to memory. “Do please go ahead and eat to your heart’s content.”

The Warden shifted a little. "Maybe you should keep it for your lunch. I can reheat it for you."

He shook his head. "I prefer to eat it fresh, but thank you."

She glanced out toward the hill they'd scaled to reach the camp. "Then perhaps the others will want it."

Zevran laughed and didn't bother trying to stop it. "They will have had all the best foods Bann Teagan can supply. I am quite sure they will not have room for more. And truly," he added with a thin smile, "if they do not trust me, they will not want to eat something I have prepared."

The Warden appeared to consider this for a moment. Then with a nod, she took another bite, and another, and then another.

"Mercy, this was good," she mumbled as she downed the last mouthful. "Absolutely perfect." She sighed and gave him an awfully soft smile for someone who tended to bustle and loudly declare awkward things. "Thank you for sharing your food with me. You're so kind, Zev."

Zevran chuckled before he knew what he was doing. "Practically a saint among men, no? I thought I was the only one who believed it."

Rhodri grinned at him with that joyful shark mouth and waved a hand between them. "We know the truth, you and I, don't we–"

A loud "Oi!" silenced her. They glanced over their shoulders and saw Alistair traipsing heavily toward them bearing a cumbersome-looking canvas bundle. The rest of the party strolled behind him, save for Leliana who walked by his side.

"Ah!" Rhodri got to her feet. "Alistair brought your tent up after all! Come, he looks tired. We'll take it off him and set it up, yes?"

Zevran didn't need to be asked twice.

§

Rhodri beamed at Zevran as he left her tent with his armful of possessions. She bent down by the entrance to his (his!) decidedly spacious yellow canvas tent, and opened the tent flap for him with a small flourish.

"Welcome home, my friend," she said grandly. "Once I've had a little sleep, I'll be able to insulate your tent for you, if you're happy to do it."

Rhodri wrinkled her nose as she glanced skyward. The sun was high enough to start warming the air properly, and there wasn't a hint of a cloud to delay proceedings.

"It's going to get hot soon," she mused, "so it's probably for the best that it isn't already done."

Zevran smiled and set his belongings inside the tent without stepping in. The rest of the party were shambling into their own lodgings, and after a week of nobody murdering him in his sleep, it seemed reasonable enough to guess that it was unlikely to happen today.

"Mmm," he chuckled. "I haven't met a hot day in Ferelden I didn't like. In fact, I haven't met a hot day in Ferelden at all."

The Warden snorted. "See how you go. There's a nice breeze, at least, so if today's the day you encounter warmth, you can tie your tent flap open.

"Anyway, I'll excuse myself now." She passed his tent flap to him and gave him a pleasant wave. "Sleep well, Zev."

There was no reason to watch her step over to her tent next door and disappear into it.

Well, no, there was. It paid to keep an eye on her movements for any number of reasons an experienced assassin could reel off. And what need was there to list said reasons when he was his own audience? No, it was foolish.

Satisfied, he pulled off his boots, climbed into his tent and cursed as he flopped down and met hard ground instead of his bedroll. Winded, he looked to his left and saw the absentee mattress, still rolled up and looking as smug about it as an inanimate object could.

You're lucky that's all that happened while you weren't paying attention.

Zevran agreed with himself by way of a sigh, hauled himself up, and made his bed. He lowered himself down onto it gingerly.

Oh, and it was marvellous. Only a thin thing, and he hadn't even opened it out to lie under the blanket. Tired bones sank into the meagre padding like quicksand, and Zevran stared up at the canvas ceiling with the sunlight prickling through the weave and let himself enjoy this little moment in his little makeshift house supplied by this strange little group. Just once.

§

The sound of his neighbour groaning woke Zevran up.

He raised an eyebrow. There had been sounds issuing from Rhodri's tent as he was falling asleep as well: quiet, heavy breaths people made when they were attending to those personal needs that so many had, but were doing their utmost to be subtle about it.

Such noises– and far louder ones– had been part of the background noise more nights in Zevran's life than not, as normal as rustling leaves or the creaks of kissing floorboards underfoot. He almost hadn't noticed Rhodri's, and when he did, he nearly managed to convince himself he was still in his tiny, packed apartment in Antiva City. Ignoring it was the easiest thing in the world.

This groaning of hers, though, this was something else. Certainly not the sound of enjoyment, though he had managed to nod off despite unhappy sounds often enough, too.

He listened out. There was movement. Tossing, turning, some hushed remarks.

'Argh, no. Too much. It is too much, I cannot!'

There came a slap of canvas on canvas, and footsteps as the walker strode out and away.

Knife in hand, Zevran had reached over to peel back his tent flap just a little, but stopped upon hearing Alistair chuckling.

"Too hot for you as well, eh?"

Rhodri sighed. "You have the right idea sleeping out here in the shade, amicus."

Alistair laughed again. "Not just a pretty face, am I? You know, Rhodders, you'd be a lot cooler if you just took your robe off."

"Mmm? I'd be a lot less modest, too."

"Nobody cares about that in Ferelden, though. You can roll your sleeves up or strip down to a shirt and breeches without any problems, I promise you."

Rhodri gave a disagreeing hum. " I care about it. I'm still a Tevinter who is out in public, and I would be in a state of undress even if nobody noticed or minded."

The Templar chortled good-naturedly. " Well, can't argue with that. Maybe you could magick a little breeze up your sleeves to cool you off."

She laughed. "You're splendid you know, Alistair. A real treat. I'm glad to have a friend like you."

Zevran chewed his lip to button in a hysterical laugh. So she did this to everyone, did she? Unable to resist, cracked the tent flap open wide enough to observe Alistair's suffering.

His eyes widened in spite of himself: the Templar's face had the most ridiculous grin on it, and the giggle that came out was twice as bad.

Alistair pulled his shirt off and sprawled gracelessly on his bedroll under the tree.

"Back at you, Rhod," he sighed.

The Magewarden, dressed in the usual colossal robe, was somehow both rocking on her feet and unfurling her own bedroll under the neighbouring tree, beaming all the while.

Zevran forced himself to shrug. An odd reaction perhaps, but despite the agony of the whole awkward scene, it was very reassuring to not be the only one being subjected to the Warden’s nerve-jangling remarks.

Oh, but Alistair didn’t think they were nerve-jangling, did he? He looked so pleased with himself and his company, drinking in the affection–and it evidently was affection– like he was made for it. Or was, at the very least, whole enough to appreciate it.

Chest aching, Zevran let the tent flap fall back down. He re-sheathed the knife, rolled over so his back faced the scene outside, and scrunched his eyes shut.

#really leaning into the slice-of-life shit with my writing these days hey #the material jumps out an accosts me like it's trying to steal my lunch money #Rhodri being her usual self #Zevran being HIS usual self #please consider looking at the chapter notes on AO3 as I wrote a little bit there on cultural notes #Have Warden Will Travel #hwwt #Rhodri Amell #Zevran #Alistair Theirin #Dragon Age: Origins

[tomoonine]

[scenario] leedo as a husband and a father

Hiiii can i request for husband and dad! Leedo? Wow this man is something

☽. what a man indeed... this is still gender-neutral by the way!! i used the parental title “nari”, derived from “non-binary”. feel free to replace it with a name of your preference as you read. anyway, if you enjoyed reading this, check out more in my masterlist! requested: yes; anon word count: 1.4k words

“Are you sure you don’t need help with that, Go-eun?” Geonhak is quick to ask as soon as he hears a deep sigh escape his daughter’s lips. Despite being busy in the kitchen, he’s thankful that his heightened senses were able to pick up the sign of distress from his own flesh and blood. 

As the scent of freshly cooked food begins to permeate around the room, that’s when Geonhak finally puts a lid over the pot and weakens the fire of the stove. He takes a glance of his daughter, who had one hand on her head as she stares into her math homework. Without much thought, Geonhak walks toward Go-eun and takes a seat beside her. “I just finished cooking dinner, you can ask me anything.”

Go-eun shifts around in her seat, she rests her back on the chair and she drops her pencil beside her worksheets. It’s only then that Geonhak takes a peek of what appears to be algebraic expressions and he feels the color drain from his face. His mind is quick to dig through any remnants of middle school mathematics in his memory, hoping that he could still be useful in some way. However, Go-eun dismisses his offer to help, and Geonhak can’t help but feel relieved.

“I’m alright, dad.” She beams at him. “I kind of know what to do, it’s just a little tiring doing everything. Like, on repeat.” Geonhak hums in response, taking the sheets of paper in his grasp to examine them. A small laugh escapes his lips as he looks at Go-eun’s handwriting, especially with the way her numbers curve look strikingly similar to his own handwriting. “Maybe you should take a break first.” Geonhak suggests. “It’s almost dinner time and your Nari will be home soon.”

He doesn’t miss the way her eyes brighten at the mention of your name, and it’s enough to render his heart tender. “I’ll fix the table!” She exclaims, and Geonhak simply watches her get off the chair to run to the kitchen. His vacant hand picks up the pencils on the dining table. He stands up to set aside her homework on a nearby countertop. Once he’s sure that they’re kept away properly, he goes back to the pot on the stove. Geonhak lifts the cover carefully, and he takes a waft of the dish. Just as he takes in the scent of the dish, he hears Go-eun walking behind him with all the cutlery and plates in hand.

A fond smile finds its way on his lips when he hears her mumble to herself while she arranges the placemats and plates. As he shuts the fire and sets the pot aside, he can hear her scurrying back to the kitchen for the glasses. Geonhak reminds her to be careful, and she hums in response as she struggles to carry three glasses in her grasp. He contemplates on whether or not he should give her a hand, however seeing that he has yet to plate the food, he ultimately decided to leave her be.

It takes less than 5 minutes for Geonhak to finally emerge from the kitchen with three bowls of rice and the main courses. Go-eun, who retrieved her math homework while he was in the kitchen, lifts her head up and beams at him. She excitingly waves her accomplished school work for him to see. Geonhak flashes a smile towards her as he sets down the items on the table. “I thought it was break time?”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “but I wanted to finish it so that we can spend time later!”

“Good thing you’re really good at math, then. If I helped you out, we might end up spending the rest of the evening confused about it.”

Go-eun laughs at her father’s response while she gets off the chair to keep her homework in her school envelope. She quickly runs back to the table to sit back down in her seat. “At least we still get to spend time together! It’ll still be fun!”

At her words, Geonhak abruptly pauses in his movements. His hands are still clutching onto Go-eun’s bowl of rice, several centimeters off the surface of the table. An odd feeling creeps into his system as he repeats her words, to spend time together. He tries to shake away the feeling while he finally places his daughter’s bowl down, but nothing changes. Even as he takes a seat beside Go-eun, his heart still feels somewhat heavy.

When she flashes him a toothy grin, Geonhak somehow can’t bring himself to grin back at her. All he does is show her a simple smile. He can’t help but wonder if he’s truly spent enough time with his own daughter. It’s not all the time that he gets the luxury of a vacation, considering that his work demands him to be away from home practically almost the entire day. It usually ends up with him arriving home during the late hours of the night, and Go-eun would sometimes be asleep by then. You were his only company during those times, and you were the one who updated him about his little girl’s life in her stead.

It makes him wonder if he’s truly been the father that his child deserved. She looks at him so tenderly and innocently, and he can’t help but feel as if she’s hiding some sort of resentment towards him. For not being there for her. For not being home, even when he’s in front of her right now. Even when--

“Dad, are you alright?” Geonhak’s train of thought stops as he feels Go-eun’s finger poking his cheek. “Almost lost you there! You kept staring at the stew, it tastes good, don’t worry. I took a slurp while you spaced out because I couldn’t wait to eat your cooking again.”

“You know that I’d cook anything for you if you asked, right?” He can’t but ask as his hand moves to brush the back of her head. “Yeah, I do.” She replies, scooting closer to him and he adjusts accordingly. “But I know that you’re busy with work, and that you’re tired every time you go home. I think I like it better if you get some rest.”

“You’re not mad?” He blinks at her in shock, and Go-eun raises an eyebrow at him. “No? Well, sometimes my friends and I would talk about parents and stuff...” She begins, and she rests her elbows on the table as she goes deep in thought. “They’d usually feel a bit sad about busy parents, but I don’t think I was ever sad about you not being around.”

“Oh? Why?”

She shrugs. “Nari always talks about how it was important to give people space when they need it. And they’d always tell me that you’re gone every day so that you can work and provide for us. Things like that. I don’t really understand what my friends are saying, but yep.”

While his daughter was pondering on her own, Geonhak follows suit with his elbows resting on the table. His hands are clasped together and resting on his chin as he reflects on his own, but he has his head turned to watch Go-eun. It only dawns to him now that his little girl has grown up, and at a pace that he can’t seem to catch. He certainly feels a bit of guilt for missing out on so much of her personal development, but hearing her wise words has certainly taken him aback. 

All his guilt has been replaced with a sense of pride, knowing that Go-eun has matured immensely thanks to your guidance. His heart is filled with love knowing just how much you cared for the family you built together. And nothing will ever replace the bliss he feels knowing that he’s fulfilling his role as your husband and Go-eun’s father relatively well.

It’s reassurance he can only get from both of you, and each word that comes from you and Go-eun is enough to wash away all his worries. No longer is he forcing himself to show a smile, because now he lets a fond smile grace his features. It’s a look of endearment that can render anyone soft, and even Go-eun giggles under his gentle gaze. “You’re really smart, you know?” He beams at her, and he leans close to kiss the crown of her head.

As he leans back to his chair, Go-eun shows him a beautiful smile. One filled with joy, one that reaches her eyes and forces her nose to scrunch up. It only dawns to Geonhak that looking at her felt like looking at a replica of himself. Every crease on the expanse of her face looks just like his own when he’d mirror the action. It’s a sight, an experience rather, that quickly becomes a core memory, especially after hearing her next reply. “I got it from you, dad.”

#oneus #oneus scenarios #oneus imagines #oneus drabbles #oneus reactions #kim geonhak #kim gunhak #leedo #oneus leedo #leedo scenarios #leedo imagines #leedo drabbles #ravn #seoho #keonhee #hwanwoong #xion #oneus au #oneus fluff #requests #150 follower milestone #tomoonine writing

[jinruihokankeikaku]

After doing some additional research, I think I’ve found the Mythological Role I relate to most. Anyone who knows me knows I have a tendency to cycle through over-committing and burnout, and if there’s one thing I can do consistently, it’s try too hard and take things too far. Now, these are traits that basically all Time players can potentially manifest, so I think that’s what’s had me hung up on which Class I ought to be, but then I remembered one of my strongest beliefs when it comes to classpects is that they’re not descriptors of who you are; they’re representations of who you aspire to be. I don’t aspire to understand Time - I rather, I kind of just aspire to have Time. All the Time, one m8 say, if one hypothetically said things like that. But enough rambling. Here’s my take on the...

Title: Thief of Time

Title Breakdown: One who actively steals [appropriates, seizes, desires, seeks out] Time [literal time, death, endings, inevitability, rhythm]

Role in Session: Thieves, like the two Destruction classes (Prince and Bard) are often perceived as a dangerous class, and the two canonical Thieves certainly back up this reputation. The Thief is an extremely active Role, and all Thieves begin with a real or perceived deficit in their Aspect, somewhat akin to Princes. However, while the Prince tends to lack their Aspect because they’ve “destroyed it within themselves”, the Thief usually construes their lack of the Aspect as their having been deprived of it, and generally desires to seize as much of their Aspect as they can to compensate. So how does the desire to have all the Time manifest within a session?

Well, the Thief of Time is probably going to start out as a very frustrated sort of person, feeling as though they aren’t getting closure, aren’t getting a good ending, as though their life doesn’t have pattern or purpose. In a more literal sense, they might feel like they’re always “running out of time”, caught in a struggle between staying permanently busy and procrastinating indefinitely. What they want more than anything is for their life to have a coherent rhythm and narrative, instead of just kinda stumbling along in fits and starts. Once in they’ve entered the session and realized their ability to travel through time (an ability shared by all Time players), they’re probably going to go on a bit of a power trip, trying to accomplish everything through their newfound capabilities. At first, they’re likely to disregard their duty to maintain the timeline, in favor of trying to settle personal scores, save their friends, destroy their enemies, and so on. Their quest, in terms of personal development, is to learn to give other people Time (literally and figuratively), and balance their desire for control and consistency in their life with their duty of protecting the Alpha timeline.

With regard to team composition, a Seer of Doom could remind the Thief that, well, they’re living on borrowed time, but could also be a source of comfort for a Thief who’s buckling under the pressure to Do Everything. Additionally, a Hope player – perhaps a Sylph or an Heir, both of whom tend to incite or inspire their Aspect in others – could give the Thief something to believe in, and perhaps lend their narrative some much-needed thematic direction.

Opposite Role: The Page of Space. The Page of Space “calls others to serve and/or equips others with openness, expansiveness, and new beginnings.” Since both the Page and the Thief start out with a relative lack of connection to their respective Aspects, these two would likely be close, or at least vaguely friendly, with one another, but they’d gradually drift apart as the Thief became more and more single-minded and the Page more and more open. The Page might realize and resent how much of their literal time the Thief is taking, and try to distance themself from the Thief in order to start anew and recreate themself. Depending on how close they were at first, the Thief might see this as a sign of rejection, and tensions between the two could end very badly for one or both of them if they’re allowed to escalate.

God Tier Powers

[Obligatory disclaimer about these only being a few of many possible powers.] But seriously, the power that most defines Time players is their time travel – everything else tends to do with how they specifically interact with their own timeline or others.

Borrowed Time: The Thief, well, borrows some Time, from their own past or future or from someone else’s. This allows them to more or less stop time, with the caveat that this Time has to come from somewhere – borrowing from the future means risking cutting a life short, and borrowing from the past is obviously totally inadvisable due to the kind of changes it could inflict on the future. This is an incredibly powerful ability that also has the potential to doom a whole lot of timelines, so if the Thief isn’t careful, they may well dig themselves (and their session) a hole that they can’t get out of.

Count the Seconds: Time forms a sort of density gradient around the Thief, flowing and bending toward them. This has the outward appearance of the Thief moving extraordinarily fast, but is in fact due to her local Time’s slowing down. As the Thief develops further, she can control this power to widen or constrict the area of effect, thereby manipulating the pace of combat, or of life in general. This power can be taxing, though, as the flow of Time will eventually bounce back. Like all the powers Thieves’ have, the challenge is to use them carefully to avoid burning out altogether.

Steal the Show: Time (the aspect) is associated with literal Time, yes, but also with narratives, rhythms, structures, and endings. Perhaps a Thief of Time could “steal the ending” by spontaneously jumping forward (or backward) in time, or even to a doomed or alternative timeline, to change the course of events at the last minute. They might have an intuitive sense for climactic events like this, and they’d likely be eager to significantly alter the course of events, but whether or not they alter things for better or for worse remains to be seen. As I mentioned in my Prince of Doom analysis, a stunt like this is a good way to land yourself a Just or Heroic death, so a Thief of Time, unless very careful and very well-developed, doesn’t have great odds of sticking around ‘til the end.

Personality: If there’s one thing our two canon Thieves (Vriska Serket and Meenah Peixes) have in common, it’s that they’re big personalities. They might not be as explosively theatrical as a Prince or a Bard, and they might not front a persona as much as, say, a Knight, but they have a tendency to dominate any conversation they happen to be a part of, for better or worse. This isn’t likely to endear them to other people in their session, although some of the less assertive roles (Pages, at least early on, as well as Seers and Heirs) might find themselves drawn in by the Thief’s sense of drama and adventure. The Time aspect and its associations with death might endow the Thief with a rather dark sense of humor, and both the Thief class and the Time aspect tend to be… whatever the opposite of risk-averse is. From the very beginning, a Thief of Time is going to look like a threat to themselves and others, and if they’re not careful they might well end up fulfilling this prophecy. Time is also an aspect fairly heavily associated with music – this could manifest as the Thief of Time being particularly proud of (and/or sensitive about) their “talent” or lack thereof when it comes to their particular variety of performance.

Songs

Running Out of Time by Hot Hot Heat

Beat the Devil by the Mountain Goats (our obligatory Goats song here is a bit of a deep cut, but you should definitely check it out

The Drug in Me Is You by Falling in Reverse

(Amphetamine) Logic by The Sisters of Mercy

Brain Stew / Jaded by Green Day

The Thief of Time, as the first Thief I’ve analyzed, is another example of a tentative pattern I’ve noticed, wherein the more Active a particular role is, the more likely they are to be a bit of a mess. As always though, as long as a Session isn’t void, there’s yet hope that it can be turned around. As always, if you have any comments/criticisms/questions, please lmk!!

~P L U R~

#Homestuck #classpect #classpect analysis #Thief of Time #thief #time #class #aspect

[some-cookie-crumbz]

Break Through

Break Through - Kidge Month Day 8 Prompt Fill Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender Pairing: Kidge Summary: Third part that goes along with these: [One, Two]. With leads and intel running out, Keith and Pidge take a break from their Garrison investigations to grab a bite and maybe raise their spirits. Standard Disclaimer: If you read and enjoy this, please give it a like/ reblog so I know if I should write more.

She dragged one hand through her hair and let out a loud, infuriated growl. "How are they doing this?" Her voice came out more as a screech than a shout, which caused her partner to wince a bit. A part of her said she should feel guilty, but the much larger part of her was just pissed. “There’s no way that they’ve upped their security this much in less than two months! I shouldn’t be running into this much trouble trying to track down files!”

"I don't know, but we'll figure it out. We’ve already had smaller breaks in this whole thing," He said, a bit of frustration starting to tinge the edge of his words. He pushed another pin into the cork board they used with more force than necessary, clearly trying to keep a handle on his own irritation.

She glared at him over her shoulder, reaching up to push her hair out of her face. "We've been at this for five weeks and we've gotten almost nowhere!"

He glared back at her before indicating her laptop with one hand. "We know there's a missing audio file; that's a huge step in the right direction!" He glanced back at the cork board to verify where they pin had been placed. It was covered in a maps and photos, with pieces of colored yarn attaching each map to its corresponding photo. She could see the familiar spark of determination in his dark eyes as he observed all they’d discovered so far. "It's only a matter of time before we find it."

She scoffed, feeling no where near as certain as he did. "Unless they completely wiped the hard drive. They wouldn't want potentially damning evidence like that just sitting pretty for someone with a little bit of hacking skill to find. It's a huge liability that they can't afford," She grumbled, closing her laptop and shoving it aside. For as much as she wanted to keep going, a part of her felt so tired. She’d been working tirelessly since two and a half weeks ago, when she’d first found the clue in some confidential emails that there was a final audio log picked up from the Kerberos mission. “The Garrison is run by a bunch of assholes, but they’re clever assholes, Keith.”

Keith stared at her before sighing, setting his hands on his hips and looking down at his boots. "Maybe we need a break to help clear our heads. We can get some food or something,"He suggested, lifting his gaze again to look at her. She didn’t look over at him, though, and instead decided to focus on the tiny hole starting to appear in the old socks she was wearing. "Wanna go to the new Denny's they opened up?"

"Whatever," She sighed, stretching her legs out and getting up.

She toed her sneakers on while she pulled her hair back in a messy ponytail, wanting to just get it over with. Her stomach roiled quietly, clearly thrilled at the idea of food, but she didn’t want to yet. She wanted to stay and work more, try to find an answer. If it was there, surely she could find it with a little more time! But no, just because she was feeling a little frustrated, Keith decided they needed to stop any progress! Did he just not care about the fact that the Garrison was spitting outright lies about what had happened to Shiro, Matt and her Dad? She’d noticed he seemed more interested in whatever strange energy reading he’d been tracing through the desert.

She was silent the whole ride to Denny’s staring at the window, stewing in her resentment at Keith for dragging her out.

Despite it being well after midnight, there was a modest crowd at the restaurant. Not enough people that it looked like they’d need to worry about waiting long for service, but certainly more than she’d been anticipating. Normally when they felt the need for post-dinner-pre-breakfast pancakes, they were the only diners in the place. They had to wait a moment while the server dropped some drinks off at one table before being greeted properly.

He offered them a small smile. He seemed a bit tired, but the smile was still genuine. "Good evening. Just two for you?" He asked as he reached to grab two menus.

"Yes, please. Thanks," Keith said gently. They were led to the dining room and were given a corner booth, with an empty booth between them and another pair of dinners. Pidge immediately scooted in as far over she could, glaring out the window again. While she did that, Keith ordered their drinks and opened his own menu. "You know, sitting there and pouting won't accomplish anything, Katie."

She looked over and glared harder, miffed to find he hadn’t even lifted his eyes from the page to address her. "Maybe if I was at my computer I'd be able to do something,"

"Patience yields focus, you know," He commented casually, tilting his head a bit as he looked over an item. She couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his words and how completely cliche they were. Where had he heard that from, she wondered. The server returned with their drinks and then headed off again at Keith saying they needed more time. She pulled her own drink over and took a sip, unsurprised at the taste of Dr. Pepper. He knew her so well. "Hmm. If I order some mozzarella sticks, would you have some?"

"Where did you hear the hoakey nonsense?" She asked as she stirred her ice with the straw.

He looked confused, finally tearing his gaze from the menu to look at her. "Well, I'm not hungry enough to eat a full meal and a whole order of mozzarella sticks on my own. Plus, I know you like them, too, so it just made sense to ask,"

"What? No, not about the mozzarella sticks," She said, taking another sip before opening her own menu. She may as well figure out what she wanted for herself, too. "That thing you said just now, about patience and what not?"

"Patience yields focus?" He repeated, clearly confused.

"Yeah, that. Where did you hear that from?"

"Oh, Shiro used to say it all the time, when I'd get pissy about stuff with the Garrison. It... It's helped me a lot through this whole situation, remembering what he said back then," He admitted, suddenly seeming uncomfortable. He tore his gaze down, swiped up his water, and started chugging it, as if trying to wash the taste out of his mouth.

"Oh," She trailed off, looking away for a moment before looking back over at him. And, this time, she really looked at him. She had enough time of knowing him to be able to read his subtle gestures. One hand was gripping his water like he was trying to shatter it, the other drumming along the table. His eyes had returned to fix on the menu, but they weren’t registering the words on the page, cloudy with pain. Her own heart lurched, knowing that look and that pain all too well. She looked back down at her drink as shame swallowed her whole. "I'm sorry."

He perked up in surprise and looked at her, blinking rapidly to recompose himself. "For what?"

"You're going through all of this junk, too, and sometimes I forget that. I need to be more aware that I'm not going through this all alone, that you’re trying just as hard as I am,” She admitted, peeking up at him as she spoke.

"It's okay; it's not like I don't occasionally forget myself," He said, offering her a small half-smile in return. Some of the shame wiped away and she squared her shoulders a little bit more as he returned his attention to the menu, turning the page and looking at the dinner options. "When we get back to the house, we should watch a movie or something. Oh, or we could listen to music and just veg out."

“You mean like we used to do on the Garrison roof?” She laughed.

“Yeah, only way better, because we can play the music as loud as we want,” He said with a sly smirk.

“Yeah, but can you even get your stereo up there? Since, you know, you don’t just use streaming sites like the rest of modern society,” She teased, peering over the different breakfast options. She wanted the mozzarella sticks, but pancakes also sounded really good.

He laughed back and took another, smaller sip from his water. “Oh, please! Your streaming sites are only good when you have internet connection. Having a physical copy of the album to use is a great approach; especially with bands or albums that are particularly great,” He retorted.

She opened her mouth to respond before a thought occurred to her, causing her to gasp. “Keith, you genius!” She squealed, reaching across the table to grab his face and pull him closer.

He looked stunned and stared back at her, blinking slowly, before chuckling. “Ah, made you see the light of day?”

“No, what you just said! That it’s good to have a physical copy of something, in case you can’t access it otherwise! That would also be a great approach when dealing with sensitive materials, such as classified files from a computer? Burning a physical copy to keep tucked away somewhere safe, so that you still have a record of it, to maybe assure that people snooping around on your computer can’t find it?” She pressed further, lowering her voice as she spoke her last few words, not wanting to risk being overheard. They hadn’t encountered anyone from the Garrison in their time off base, but she was still a fan of being safe rather than sorry.

He sucked in a quiet breath, eyes widening. “It’s a huge liability they can’t afford, but they also can’t risk not having it, in case of the higher ups wanting it,” He breathed out.

“Exactly,” She hummed, letting go of his face and slumping back in her seat. Her lips turned up in a grin. “Celebratory mozzarella sticks?”

“Fuck it, let’s go all out. Celebratory mozzarella sticks and celebratory milkshakes,” He said with a smirk of his own.

#Voltron legendary defender #Keidge #Kidge #Peith #Kidgemas #MonthofKidge #MonthofKidge2019 #KidgeaPalooza #KidgeaPalooza2019 #Pidge Gunderson #Keith Kogane #my fics #Me: I'm gonna make sure all of this fics are stand alone! #also me: *writes this*

[rironomind]

Original work [SH- Cut]

I’m working through the first draft of a fantasy novel but the story has changed pretty drastically since so I’m cutting this whole chunk. I thought it was pretty exciting but it has no place in my novel so I figured I might as well share it before it’s lost forever. 

Summary: During an eclipse, the citizens turn on their leaders. Oz, who has been tasked with protecting the young lord of the citadel, calmly assesses the situation.

“It’s a mirror system,” Needle explains, in Lihese, for the benefit of his brother who is almost certainly about to start screaming for attention. “The crystals aren’t shining bright enough to last out the storm, let alone the eclipse. We could be down here for days.” He interrupts himself with a fit of coughing. Cece hands him a skin of water. “It’s okay,” Needle says. “I’m just tired.” The flesh under his eyes are dark and swollen while his cheeks are sunken, a punishment for taking on all this responsibility. 

“The mirror system relies on a series of silvered glass set up around the Under,” Needle explains. “Ray designed it. But we need to be able to put it up.” He erupts into a fit of coughing again. 

“You’re burning up,” Cece says, trying not to let any harshness creep into her tone. “You need to rest.” She manhandles him into the small cot they have set up in their space. Every evacuee gets an allocated lot. The four of them have been granted one in the centre, under the greatest amount of light. Around them are muffled murmurs of the citizens, their voices hushed by trepidation.

“I’m ok, I can still help,” Needle protests weakly, but Cece’s firm hand keeps him in the cot. 

“Ouou,” Cece says, fixing burning red eyes on Oz. “You need to help Ray.”

Oz doesn’t even bother to summon the energy to be surprised. “What do you need,” he barks.

“Um, the plans are almost done. All we need to do is set up the mirrors.” He unrolls the map of the Under. It’s the parchment he took from his father’s study. The only one in existence but it hardly matters since Oz knows this place like the back of his hand. How many times has he patrolled this damn place? The layout is uneven, it being a natural cave and all, but he knows every rock and bump. 

Ray hands him a stack of mirrors. “Can you, uh,” he starts. “Put them up?”

“Bit by backbreaking bit.”

The next hour or so is spent swinging back and forth the Under, climbing up to fix the mirrors into place, jamming them into the rocks until the angle is just right. By the time the mirrors are up, Needle has rested enough to continue planning with his brother.

“Ridiculous, don’t you think?” Oz mutters to Cece in Tieyen as the two brothers pore over their parchments.

“What?” 

“That I just put up a bunch of glass all over the place. I mean we’re in a room full of Liangers.”

“No one is ready for this eclipse!” Cece hisses back.”No one is properly rested, people are dead!” That would explain the weeping. “And they need to conserve their energy,” Cece says, shaking her head.

Oz is silent. He watches the two brothers prepare a container for a light ball and face it towards the first mirror. The light beams out like an arrow and bounces off the first, and then second mirror, but it misses the third by a hairsbreadth. Everyone looks at Oz.

“Goddammit.” 

Climbing up a second time, he notices other things. People complaining, they start to wander towards the main shelter. When he rejoins the others, Cece has already taken charge. She steps towards the citizens, eyes burning bright. “We protect you. But we protect them first.” 

Oz lifts a shoulder. “She says it because I can’t.”

Liz the Tanner adjusts her stance. “You would fight us?”

“You’re disturbing the peace,” Oz explains, throwing a small dagger into the air. It flips a few times before he catches it by the handle, its sharp blade pointed menacingly towards the crowd.

“What peace? This pit isn't peaceful,” she spits. “The citadel isn't at peace, the kingdom isn't even at peace. We’re less than a decade from the war and we’re all holding our breath in case the flame goes out.” Oz casts a glance at the crystals hanging above. They’re less bright than the glowing fury of the mob of Lumierians before them. “The reason why the shield wasn’t ready-”

“Ouou…” Cece mutters in warning. Oz pretends not to hear her, he hasn’t changed his stance. 

“Ou Zi!” Cece hisses. She can tell. Of course she can, she’s watched him before. Opposite her or from a distance she can smell the danger. Or maybe just the tang of her own fear. 

 Oz surmises that Ray has lost control of the situation and by the looks of the citizens’ raised weapons, they agree. They’re long past the point of excuses. This is three years of uncertainty and two particularly long hard weeks of which to stew the grudges, doubt and hatred.

“You had your chance, Ray.” Liz says, raising her hand. She uses her magic to refine metal and armour. Oz has espied her at work when she came to the castle to carry out more finicky projects for the family. Her focus is absolute, like needlepoint. He’s seen her carve leather, metal and even stab a cow through the heart with light at point-blank. 

But she’s got nothing on a moving target. Liz’s fingers start to glow and out of the corner of his eye, Oz sees the fluttering of a brown cape as Cece’s arm rises to stop him.

“Mother!” A young girl rushes to the front of the fray and grabs Liz by the arm. “Stop this!”

“Lily! Get off me!” 

Oz recognises the girl from Ray’s court. One of the tittering scholars who gazes at him with starry eyes. “Earl Ray is doing his best!”

“Be quiet, Lilly.” Liz, her mother’s eyes are hard, a cold greyish-yellow like a star that’s burned itself down, worn thin over the years. (‘Do your people shine?’ Lady Sana asks. ‘Do they, Oz?’)

“No,” Lilly Tanner responds high and petulant. “What do you have against Ray? He’s doing his best.”

“Lilly! Have you forgotten? Your brother who was supposed to return months ago?” She looks from Lilly to Ray. 

Ray’s face blanches. 

“That wasn't Ray’s fault! It isn’t his fault the Duke hasn’t returned. Or…” she drops her voice and looks sulkily away. “Anyone.”

“This is your brother, Lilly. Your own flesh and blood and instead of them, you are defending a family of murderers-”

“And if he hadn't returned that's on him, he always forgets where he is. He didn't even want to take over the business, he just wanted to find father. If it wasn't for the summons-”

A resounding slap and Lilly fell away, clutching her cheek. Liz dropped her hand. “He would still be with us. Hold your tongue. You embarrass me.”

Oz allowed a sneer to cross his face. “Civil unrest, even dividing families, what mischief you get up to Ray.”

“I...I can fix this,” Ray continues to mumble over and over again. Ray’s face contorts which betrays his unease. Oz thinks he’ll lose his nerve. It’s too late. Then Ray opens his mouth and proves him right. “Citizens of Sereto, I speak on behalf of Duke Lamiere.” Ray’s voice is trembling but his fists are clenched by his side. “We ask for your patience, we are doing the best that we can.”

There’s a pause and Ray’s shoulders dip. Oz stares unblinkingly at the crowd. 

A cry rings out. “Is that the best you can do?”

“We are in the process of restoring the light until the eclipse ends. There is ample food and medicine in the centre. We have rationed enough for a few days, but please be courteous or swift action will be taken against you.” Ray tries to get Oz to meet his eyes. 

“You call that courteous?” Shouts the same busybody from the back. This time, Oz spots him. He’s a vendor at the market, sells imported goods, of which imports only come once a year. They used to come every few months. But if he’s worried about making money he shouldn’t have come to this citadel. If he was brought here against his will or perhaps misled like many others, Oz could have sympathised, but it’s not often he gets to follow up on a threat, so he strikes. A dagger leaves his fingers and whips through the crowd, embedding itself in a scaffold next to the naysayer who almost wets himself.

“Ozul!” Ray shouts in alarm.

“What, I followed orders, that’s what I’m supposed to do, right?”

 “That’s right, we can’t blame the dog for who its owner tells it to bite,” Liz says offishly.

Oz spins round, “I resent that. I prefer not to bite, lots of things taste bad.”

Liz cracks her knuckles. “Easily fixed when we remove your teeth.”

#sh #it's just a provisional title #ao4

[comeondowntosouthparkrpg-blog]

Rebecca Cotswolds

Is she gonna kiss Kyle again? Rebecca has been accepted! Send your blog to the main ASAP.

out of character info

Name/Alias: Alice

Pronouns: She/Her

Age: 18

Join Our Discord: I’m already there

Timezone: Central

Activity: 9

Triggers: N/A

Password: jimmy can fast pass my ass

Character that you’re applying for: Rebecca Cotswolds

Favourite ships for your character: HMU

in character info

Full name: Rebecca Ruth Cotswolds

Birthday: January 17th

Sexuality, gender, pronouns: She’s not sure about her sexuality, she’s a female and goes by she/her pronouns.

Age and grade: 18, Senior

Appearance:

Rebecca has shoulder length, curly brown hair that she often keeps back with clips or bobby pins. Although she does put her hair up in a messy bun occasionally. She has pale freckles that dust her cheeks and arms. She has pale skin that betrays her nature of not going outside in favor of studying. She has deep brown eyes. Rebecca stands approximately five foot and weighs a healthy 94 pounds. She’s rather partial to flowers or other nature clips in her hair or accessories.

As for fashion, you could commonly see her in lace or some kind of sundress. She prefers neutral colors that compliment her dark hair and light skin. Colors such as white, pink, or pale purple. She loves to hang out in her black ballet flats. She wears fairly natural makeup, except for her lips which she prefers to do a red shade. If she’s feeling it, she can do her eyes darker as well. Her fashion wouldn’t look out of place at a garden photo shoot. Since her big episode whenever she was like, eight, She largely dropped the revealing clothing. Except whenever she really feels like rebelling.

Personality:

Rebecca has grown a lot since her time as a third grader in South Park High School. Her parents took her right out of public school until middle school, so her growth definitely stagnated. They kept her sheltered, so this has a direct result on her personality as a high schooler. Growing up in a conservative mountain town under the watchful eye of her mother and father left her with very little experience regarding things such as sexual endeavors or even how a girl her age is to supposed to act. She’s still very innocent in that regards, and that inherent innocence seeps down to her core. She’s definitely kind, willing to donate to whatever charity or organization needs her help. However, there is a darker side to her that’s even more deeply rooted than her innocent and kind nature. She has a defiant streak in her, that expresses herself in weird ways. She fantasizes about intense emotions, good or bad, that she could one day feel. She’s fascinated with her inherent desires that she was trained to suppress all her life, which drives her to do the extreme on occasion.

She’s a compassionate individual, despite having not really deep emotions at all and her yearning to feel them. She does find herself feeling compassion for others situation or those in need. Never let it be said that Rebecca isn’t intelligent, she’s very intelligent. Still harboring her desire to become a brain surgeon, and she focuses a lot on her studies. A thirst for knowledge leads her to be extremely curious for the world around her, yearning to know all its secrets and feel all its emotions. Deeply, she’s in resentment towards her sheltered life and wants to experience the world and gain an independence she never had. In her, she harbors a deep sadness within her at her current situation and the way her knowledge intake is stagnated by her fanatic parents. Rebecca, in a small aspect, still wants to remain a sheltered child and a subconscious part of her that’s been indoctorined into her still wants to uphold her parents and be willfully arrogant.

In short, she’s a confused child who is trying to find her place in the big world.

History:

Rebecca was born on January 17th to two loving parents. A deeply Christian household, they took a fundamentalist approach in her and her brother’s upbringing. From a young age, she was not allowed to watch TV except for documentaries or Bible specials. She was homeschooled for the majority of her young childhood, and often had nothing to do except for play board games with her brother or parents, study, or wander in the very extensive garden. Her mind carried beyond the fence borders, yearning to see the world. Her chance came with the spelling bee. After the antics of ‘Hooked on Monkey Phonics’, she was pulled out of public school, unlike her brother who got to remain. She was homeschooled, and her parents drilled into her what she was doing was wrong, even though they never explained to her why it was wrong leaving her incredibly confused and hurt. So began her struggle on why something so bad could feel so good.

Just before fifth grade, she approached her parents and begged them to let her attend public school again. At first they vehemently denied her, but she remained relentless and with help from her brother managed to convince her parents to enroll her in the local public middle school. Instantly, she was overwhelmed and felt like an outsider. Still, she refused to allow herself to be sunk. She slowly became more and more confused as time went on. She knew she couldn’t bring it up with her parents or else they would just pull her out again. She was also forbidden to study anything regarding sexual practices or drugs. This was out of the paranoia of her parents that she would end up as some bitch of a pimp. So throughout middle school she remained by choice willfully ignorant, although a growing desire and yearning was filling her.

Rebecca in high school is no less confused than she has been all these years, however a budding resentment was starting to brew at her parents for refusing to explain what her urges are and why exactly they are so bad. She began fantasizing about feeling something deep. Anything. Pain, sadness, ecstasy, true anger, she isn’t allowed to feel any of that and was denied it so often as a child she’s definitely more twisted inside. Come senior year, her full self as she knows herself now has formed. Innocent, knowledge hungry, compassionate, and fucked up in a way that could only be faulted by her parents.

Sample paragraph:

As another day dwindles to a close, the brown haired girl walked slowly through the garden. Taking in the flowers and the colorful shrubs that were so intricately chosen. Her black flats subtly jumped from one stone to the next, her dress fluttering in the wind. She was in deep, meditative thought. About everything and nothing. She could spend hours roaming the gardens and never come across the same thought twice. She was largely introspective, because where else would they go? Her brother certainly did not understand her desires or confusions, and her parents were out of the question. In fact, any minute she would be called inside for dinner. The routine would follow with her and her brother cleaning the kitchen, before the gathered around the fireplace for their nightly scripture reading, until the grandfather clock dinged 10 and it was time for her to bed. She allowed a sigh to escape her red tinted lips, a surge of sadness coming at thought of that routine. Something she should find comfort in gives her none. She couldn’t help but think she would find comfort in something much more dark.

Rebecca paused, coming to a little hole in the fence. She stepped off the cobblestone path, and pushed aside the vines that artfully grew on the fence. Her parents called it art, she called it prison bars. She peeks outside of the hole, seeing the town mall. She had been to the mall on occasion, but her mother preferred to have her clothes custom made by a family friend. She tucked a stray strand of brown hair behind her ear before carefully setting the vines back in place before continuing her garden stroll. She looked down, there was some moss growing in between the stones, and she looked to a bed of daises, her favorite. She tutted softly, seeing the weeds. She would have to weed the bed tomorrow. Of course, with summer closer than ever she would have hours upon hours of time to do whatever she wanted. In the borders of the bubble they forced her in, of course. Instead of sadness, there was anger. And she didn’t find herself pushing it down.

Still slightly stewing, she took a seat on the white wicker bench they had that looked like a scene straight out or Romeo and Juliet. She looked to her side seeing Lillies. Beautiful, pure, innocent flowers. She reached out a hand and began stroking the petal. “How lonely you are,” Rebecca said quietly in her mezzo soprano voice. “I daresay you haven’t had the pleasure of seeing the world. Your roots are planted here, after all.” Rebecca said, gazing at the flower with eyes filled to the brim with longing. “And even then, what is in the world except for dirty boots and rotten people to pull out your petals or crush your stem.” Rebecca said, knowing full well what she was saying. “Still though, you want to go? Yes, pain could possibly be therapeutic. Or is that what you’ve read in storybooks? What is reality?” The flower said nothing, it could not hear nor speak. That suited Rebecca fine. She sighed softly. “You won’t be finding out will you?”

No sooner did the words escape her lips, she heard the call of her father. She looked over her shoulder, before she got the inexplicable urge to lay her lips lightly on the flower, before walking softly and quickly away, to wash up for dinner.

Headcanons:

-Isn’t in the top ten, but the top fifteen taking the 13th spot.

-She’s still an incredibly good speller.

-Is going to Norte Dam University. She wants to pursue neuroscience.

-Finds herself fascinated with documentaries regarding death.

-Plays the flute

-Her voice is definitely on the lower side for a teenage girl.

-Has undiagnosed anxiety

-She helps her mother with their extremely beautiful garden.

-Has a diary, it is the only place she lets out her frustrations.

Anything else: N/A

#accepted #submission

[col22promo]

Kyra Zabala | Twenty Seven;  Survivor

House: Torren Security Class: 3 Status: Infected - Empatheia

History

Kyra was going to be a big star some day. This knowledge followed her for years: growing up in Hollywood, she was exposed to the rich and the glamorous despite her own more humble beginnings. Her mother was an SFX makeup artist, so naturally little Kyra had the best Halloween costumes each year– though that was where the maternal bond began and ended. With her mother often away for weeks on end doing shoots, Kyra was left more or less at the mercy of her father.

‘At his mercy’ wasn’t as bad as it could be, really. He was uncomfortable with children, and never coddled her. If she brought a fingerpainting back from kindergarten, he would happily offer up criticisms and refuse to hang it up on the fridge until she worked on her colouring. The only interest he really showed her was when it came to drama class; thanks to their location, Kyra was given a comprehensive grounding in the dramatic arts, and it was something she had a real flair for. She knew how to play an audience and get the reaction she wanted, and the limelight suited her. 

Her teachers encouraged her to apply for drama academies, come the end of her high school career. Competitive though entrance could be, they believed it was her only real shot. Kyra had flashes of brilliance, but she was lazy and unmotivated and certainly wasn’t going anywhere based on her academic merits. The day she was accepted into the country’s top performing arts academy was the happiest day of her father’s life. Or so she assumed, for he wasted no time in messaging their social circle about her success. The next four years were good ones, filled with praise over her acting talent and landing roles in their theatrical productions. Some of her classmates began taking small movie parts, but Kyra was adamant that she would concentrate on her studies before committing herself to such a thing.

Graduation came and went, and Kyra began auditioning. The first few rejections stung, and then irritated her, and then were just another part of her life. It was nothing personal, they said, the market was just too competitive. She landed a few roles; never the lead. She got the sidekick, or the sassy receptionist, or the background character with great legs. The first starring role she landed was for an indie horror flick: Baba Yaga. And Kyra was to star as old Baba, who lived in her chicken legged house in the woods and offered poultices and potions to local women, in exchange for their youth and beauty. There was also a great deal of throat slashing and sex, naturally. And Kyra was determined that it should succeed, and launch her out of obscurity.

She recalled the Blair Witch Project, and Paranormal Activity, and how their successes were borne on the shoulders of their viral marketing campaigns. Independent of the studio, Kyra made up her mind to begin her own viral campaign for Baba Yaga, and it started off with the foley artist being found hanged in the set’s decorative vines. And then the plucky young blonde with almost as many lines as Kyra found herself with slit wrists in a warm bathtub. And finally, the director was discovered with enough pills in his system to kill an elephant, drowned in a pool of his own vomit. It worked: the cursed nature of the movie brought hordes of people in for the premier. And Kyra played her part perfectly, dashing tears from her eyes and giving a speech of thanks to her deceased crew members, sniffling about how the movie wouldn’t have been made without them.

It was actually hard to resent the police for crashing in when the credits had finished rolling. She had to laud their excellent dramatic timing, and her face lit up the screen of every news outlet for weeks after. At just twenty years old, Kyra Zabala was a bigger national star than Angelina Jolie ever had been. 

The charm wore off quickly, as she was grilled by psychiatrists and detectives, manhandled through the court process. Slapped carelessly with a diagnosis of psychopathy and bundled away in an orange jumpsuit for what looked to be a life sentence, Kyra grew more and more resentful that her story could fizzle out like that.

Kyra Today

She had been stewing in her cell for three years when D-Day came. In and out of solitary confinement for assaulting other inmates and staff members alike, she hadn’t become the well loved starlet that had inhabited her dreams. Thank god for the asteroids, she thought, cutting off power and allowing her to push the cell door aside and leg it into the night.

When a gang of looters approached her, Kyra wasn’t nervous. She felt them as kindred spirits. And now it no longer mattered that she was sloppy and unprofessional, because there were no police left to find stray hairs on her victim’s bodies. She came to find a certain pleasure in killing– the rest of her group killed because they wanted supplies, or something that the corpse had to offer. Kyra killed because she was fascinated by the way flesh peeled back like so much raw meat, and how white bones really were. These days are naturally undocumented: as far as the Echo database knows, her body count still lies at three.

As many did, she and her group travelled. They stole vans where they could, or walked for days. Once, they stowed away on a ship and took control from its crew. They spent weeks on that voyage, loving the freedom that the sea offered. It was only by pure bad luck and ignorance that they sailed straight into a storm, and the boat went down. Kyra surfaced, gasping for breath. No one else was in sight, so she hauled herself ashore by herself. Within hours she was found, shivering and soaked through, by a group of crusaders from Colony 22. Now, though Kyra was arrogant and self centred, even she didn’t believe she could survive alone in this wilderness, so she went along with them.

And in the few weeks since she arrived to the Colony– immediately branded high threat and often watched by the guards– an infection has made itself known. Her empatheia infuriates her, because the negativity of others now drains her and leaves her exhausted, where before there had been nothing. Worse still is the fact that she requires joy and laughter from other people to regain her strength. Though Kyra is theoretically capable of being friendly, she struggles to be anything less than an abject asshole to most. She misses her freedom, hates her infection, finds most of the other survivors weak-willed and flimsy, and thinks this New Wave Reformist bullshit is some of the most ridiculous shit she’s ever heard of, because she didn’t ask to get saddled with her stupid Infection and why should she be punished for something she had no control over?

Her only relief comes in training. Nobody ever taught Kyra a thing about physical combat, and though technically she is one of the weaker in her sessions, she has a passion for it that few can rival. Indeed, her trainers are about the only ones capable of getting more than a ‘fuck yourself’ response from her. It is hoped that, as she recovers both from her imprisonment and her years out in the wilds, Kyra will try to be a little more personable. As of yet there is little evidence of that, but as her therapists say, it’s early days yet.

HOME | PLOT | SURVIVORS | INFECTIONS | 2157 was the end of the world.

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[2gameprince]

In The Sea

I attempt not to stutter now, as I recall back to a most horrific series of events which leaves my mind floating amidst a sea of inconceivable indifference and panic. Even to this day. It was upon a great metallic sea-fort, somewhere off the coast of Florida, where I was to be the chronicler of a series of biological-marine tests concocted upon the aquatic desolate sea floor. Perhaps it was the strange echo of the ocean or the bizarre rust covered nails which held our fort together, twisting the beams which supported us with each breath the ocean drew and sent our way; but this internal feeling that something lurked out in the murky-misty malevolence of the Pacific was a feeling all too certain to myself, and perhaps to some of the other members of my crew. As to the nature of my actual business there, I must say I often found myself acting less like a chronicler and more like another fort hand, aiding every so often in the upkeep of the sea-bound structure and in the execution of the marine experiments, just every so often. The only men I knew for sure, in the last two months we had spent in the stranded place, was Professor Hagon, a college-speaker with a wide array opinions on matters both mythical and realistic; Captain Keane, a scruffy sailor-type, straight out of an old ghost story, with an unkept beard and an addiction to soggy cigars to match; Lieutenant Bricks, a silent general-figure, in charge of the four unnamed soldiers which stood on constant patrol, and a young man named Maxwell. Maxwell was more a janitor than anything. He didn’t speak much to me. And when he did he expressed a negative opinion upon the nature of our being here, upon the sea. Upon this fort. I noticed, especially when he’d sported short-sleeved shirts, that Maxwell often attempted to hid a bizarre tattoo that was scrolled upon the upper portion of his shoulder which made its way down his arm. I figured at the time that he’d gotten it in his youth, perhaps, in honor of a past girlfriend, and just felt ashamed of it after a failed relationship, or something to that effect. I would, however, come to learn of it’s more sinister origin not too long after my noticing it. I can call back to my first experience dancing about the line of questionable sanity on the cloudy and rainy afternoon in which I happened to be unwillingly volunteered to accompany Captain Keane out upon one of the fort’s four rowboats. This was to maintain the boat’s stationary location whilst the captain lowered a sonar-device, attached to a long rope and a weighted end, down into those black watery depths that reached just so far beyond a twenty foot perimeter surrounding the fort. Needless to say, I was all too used to a dry-office job, sorting paperwork and such, eagerly awaiting the turning of the work-clock to that time when I may pack my things and return to my land-based apartment. Being out there on that boat… was a more horrible and treacherously unending sentence than the never-ceasing hours of a torturous work day. Out on that boat, in the sea which brewed like an icy stew, I could turn my eyes to no clock and seek a day’s end. Days never ended out there; and not a single wave could break this constant flow. The time we spent hovering above that abyss of blackness, whose bottom seemed to know no end, the time in which we could vacate and I could return back to that cold bitter flat bed, which awaited me upon that cold creaking fort, seemed all but relative at the time. It was out on that boat in which we began to get feedback from the depths below. A pulse which began to vibrate the boat from beneath us. While Keane probably worried about the through of being carried into the sea by the waves, I worried about the surfacing of something much more sinister. The feeling of an unholy presence beneath us only personified the fear I was feeling. It took some time, but after two near tilts of the boat a panicked Captain Keane was instructed to retract the sonar-device and row on back to the fort. The professor, Hagon, and the general had gotten the readings they’d needed. Even after climbing back up to the fort, I felt no safer, looking out at that ocean which stretched unto the world’s end. It was an empty feeling of the unknown and it clutched my stomach every time I though back to whatever it was that made those underwater pulses. Keane reacted to the encounter with a wild natured culture-shock, while I remained quiet and calm. The captain was given a sedative and sent off to bed, while I returned to my room and tried to sleep off the fear of being out on those waters. I tossed in a frequent unrest at the nature of the captain, a man I already believed to be stern and rough, and the temper at which he flushed out upon the professor. It shook me heavily. Fists flew as the captain, like a donkey, kicked and screamed in a fit of rage. A rage with ended with him getting carried away like an animal that had been put down. The yelling ceased. The army men took Keane away for a rest. yet, I was no closer to believing that we were safe out there, or that these army men and that scientist were really who they said they were. I slept. It didn’t take long for me to begin and doubt the authenticity of the “honor” in which these men said they operated under. I needed answers. No. I demanded them! It wasn’t usually in my nature to go snooping around the contents of other people’s luggage; Especially my superiors. But, I felt myself drawn to the professor’s room and onto a strange looking arcane journal which loomed upon a corner-table in the far left hand of his room. It called to me. Out in the opening and ominous in color, I couldn’t help but notice from the hall outside. This book, in a strange way, resembled the look of aquatic lifeforms and crustaceans crawling amidst it’s covers, but with a twisted look which appeared almost extraterrestrial in a sense. While the professor was away, off smoking with the lieutenant, I inquired in silence and decided to open the book. Before hand I had scrambled through papers which were scattered upon his desk. Each one, a layer of secrets, no doubt, being kept from the lieutenant. That was… unless he too was in on the bizarre truth behind this suspicious venture as well? This ulterior motive for being in this fort, tapping away at the ocean’s bottom. IT was worse than I had feared! Something more than sea-life research, perhaps? The professor’s papers referred to the book and it’s most boiled-down english translation. The book that sat before me was, and through the tongues of the supposed ‘old gods’, known as ‘The Grand Parantheon’. The book told of an extraterrestrial entity from the surface of a desolate world. A world once know to humans, bet eventually forgotten. This entity, Thotep, was the leader in a barrage of equally unimaginable cosmic horrors which spanned the whole and pre-existing series of mankind’s recorded history. The book told of a time in which the earth was dormant in a fetus-like state and that, at this most earliest age, was home and victim to the many inter-dimensional threats which still lurk in the forgotten corners of the cosmos. Thotep, ‘Grand Lord’ and seer of the arcane infinities that make up this world and the next, was supposed to have been betrayed by his subjects. Things that go by the names ‘Gorthuga’, ‘Swog’ and ‘Dythort’. Much like in the legend of Osiris, these turncoats ripped their leader into many pieces; but instead of spreading him across the earth, the disciples of Thotep harnessed his severed consciousness and stranded his physical and unphysical body across many alternate plains of reality. This ensured that the three traitors could gain Thotep’s knowledge and understanding of all things; inevitably leading to their total takeover of the remaining nineteen space-horrors which continued to haunt the surrounding nebulas. They were a family of god-like monsters. Exactly twenty two of them. The book’s last mention of Gorthuga, Swog and Dythort’s plans ends with a celestial encounter, triggered by the ancient-horror, Kirith. For Kirith resented the three gods for their betrayal of his grand lord, Thotep; and so Kirith called upon the aid of ancient Archquondaik Gods. The other seventeen elder monstrosities who’s names were unknown to mortals at the time. These seventeen gods appeared and banished Gorthuga, Swog and Dythort to plains outside conceivable existence. It was from that long-ago time in which Kirith gained the title of ‘Grand Summoner’. Since that time the legend of these gods have existed in the dreams and horrible night-time visions of madmen and those who stay tucked away; refusing to gaze upon the world with the knowledge they now possess. Those ancient things, which now slumber in the essences of myth and legend, were the reason we were here, on the fort. This fort stood upon the underwater cathedral of a long-forgotten tomb. A large monolithic-coffin, if you will, of ungodly proportions that awaited opening was seated beneath us; and we were here to fish it out. A place where the recollected Thotep now resided was to soon meet the light of the modern times. To the men I had aided in this effort, Thotep was an object of controllable power, sought by the highest and richest ranking members of the US, so I supposed. While the leaders of our government one day feared that bombs would rain down upon us from across the earth, they would take no position laying down arms whilst the power to conquer the planet, in the wake of war, existed just off the Southeastern coast. Least’ that’s how it had appeared to me. So, it was the United States that were to harness Thotep in the new age, just as the lesser Archquondaik Gods had done countless millenniums ago. I made certainly sure not to disrupt the order of the book and papers upon the professor’s desks, leaving everything looking untouched. I had even vacated the room before the professor’s return. I merely tracked down the lieutenant and stood by his side most of that week. To me it seemed like we were getting nowhere with research. I was writing little to nothing about the progression of this venture as I was left out of the secret meetings that were held up in the fort’s tower. Maxwell, the janitor, had grown evermore cold and distant. Almost showing a deathly hateful gaze whenever the professor entered the room. Rings came around his eyes and sometimes he looked whiter than usual. Professor Hagon was the only one amongst us, aside from the silent lieutenant, who never slumped into a depressed state. Hagon grew merrier with every passing hour. Then, there came that single, dreadful day. The last day. When the four soldiers were instructed to keep Maxwell and myself in our rooms, while the professor and lieutenant conspired to achieve that which they had planned to do all along. This is what we encountered: The prior night held no clues about the state arrest we had awoken to. Things turned sour, as I was warned that the second I was to leave my room I would be shot dead. I woke to a guarded room and threats being thrown in my face before I had the chance to ask any questions. Maxwell was told the same. Before being sent into my room I had noticed Maxwell struggle with the soldiers on his way in. The tattoo on his arm seemed to have morphed and seemed almost as if it was moving, as he grew more and more cross with the struggling soldiers who tried to subdue him. That night a barrage of echoing nonsense filled the fort. Blasts, explosions and booming noises shook the metal structure. Maxwell’s room, next to mine, was pulsing as he did nothing but scream nonsense words all through the night. My door wasn’t locked, but I was too afraid to open it. About three o’clock Maxwell’s screams grew into chants as I could hear the soldiers outside his door growing tiresome of his voice. He repeated “Kirith! Kirith! Ach-Tuon-Vaslk-Thotep-Vadn Elnf Kirith! Kirith!” His voice was not his own, and it moaned much like the unison of a chorus. Nonsense words and phrases I remember reading in the book filled the air, but strangely, as he chanted them I could recall their meanings. A message about escape. About the name ‘Kirith’. Then it struck me, Kirith was the name of that Archquondaik God that avenged the abused Thotep. This chanting was the voice of a god! One of the Archquondaiks! Was Maxwell a vessel for the Kirith!? Was the summoning of Thotep already underway!? “Has Kirith manifested again because he sees that his master, Thotep, will be taken advantage of yet again!?” I wondered, strangely specifically. I was at the point where every possibility that crossed my mind at that point seemed logical, no matter it’s obscurity. And by the time I had pieced all this together in my head, I could hear the soldiers had had enough. I could hear Maxwell’s door open and the sound of all the four soldiers, that kept us hostage, fill his room. On one man’s command I heard machine gun fire and bullets tearing through the wall. I hit the ground as the soldier’s screams followed up behind a monstrous roar. There was a blast and then a silence. I backed away into the corner of the room and gazed out at the empty open hall. There, before me, the metal surfaces of the fort’s corridors were caked in the liquified remains of the soldiers’ blood, guts, shattered bones and all those other little fleshy pieces that make up a human’s body. Then, I saw it. Stepping out from Maxwell’s room A horrifying heap! It was Maxwell! His head looked as if a grenade had tore it apart from the top down. A strange glow emanated from his wound, and from that glow reached forth otherworldly appendages like arms and grabbers of an alien-kind. It was horrific. His shredded-open head oozed a purple light, covered in white and  silver stardust. The longer I stared, I could feel my eyes begin to burn. It turned to look at me, at least, I think it was looking at me. I turned away as eyes stung to look upon him. He turned away as his bullet-filled corpse began to walk down the hall to where Professor Hagon and Lieutenant Bricks were in the middle of summoning Thotep, so I believed. A short while after hearing more gunfire, and further cries of horror, I debated investigating. Then, the shaking stopped as all creaking and screams came to a silent halt as the fort went quiet. I mustered all the courage I could and ran into the main chamber to see what had become of everyone. Along the way I found the captain, Keane, torn in two. No doubt a victim of that thing which possessed Maxwell’s corpse. By the time I made it to the main foyer of the fort I couldn’t stand. Across the room was the dead body of Bricks, the general. The room was painted in blood that spelled out ritualistic symbols while candles and a stone-alter lied cracked and scattered across the red metallic floor. Maxwell’s body had finally been shot down for good. Thotep’s summoning had been prevented, as planned by Kirith, err… Maxwell. As I stumbled through the horrid mess, I noticed that Hagon’s body was nowhere to be found. I began to hear a small beeping noise that grew and grew, with a high pitch that stung my ears. If I hadn’t caught that noise in time I might have very well been the victim of the explosive charge which then detonated, mere seconds after I sprung for the exit door and off the landing. The explosive, no doubt planted by the escaping Hagon, collapsed the fort. It’s center began to dive into the ocean below as I scattered for the dead captain’s rowboat. As the bridge beneath me began to collapse, I spotted Hagon, boating away, but within jumping distance. He was still holding that damned book that I’d found in his room. Behind me the collapsing floor pulled Thotep’s coffin and the bodies of everyone else back into the sea. Hagon planned this horrific endeavor, failed and was now escaping with that damned object of destructive power. I fumbled to stop him, refusing to let him reap horror across the globe any further. Fueled with anger, I leapt from the collapsing foundation and landed hard in the boat, my foot booting the professor in the face. I found my footing as my crash landing had swirled the boat so far on it’s right that Hagon fell overboard. The book flew from his hands and into the boat alongside me. As he fell back there came a great big metal beam from the fort’s last unsupported section. As Hagon’s eyes shot up in horror, I looked away as it fell into the water, the huge bulk of metal, crushing him against the force of the open sea just as he leapt for me out from the water! More beams fell, like rain as metal and bits of ship and metal poles flew about my boat. I held up a pipe to repel flying debris and soon found Hagon squirming at the end of it. He flew up from the water, attempting to tackle me, once more. I shoved the pipe threw his chest as he advanced. I pulled it back and kicked him off as I fell backward onto wood and sheets of metal on the floor of the rowboat. I had no idea how Hagon had survived the falling beam, but surely the pipe had put him down. A wave caused by the fallen beam pushed the rowboat and swayed me far from the wreckage. I saw the fort burn up with each mile that the boat, the book and myself drifted away. I feared that I’d been stranded. Lost at sea and destined to never share my tale. Not that the rational man would ever believe such a story, and from the panicked nonsense of a man stricken at sea for that matter. I knew no help was coming, and so,  I lied down in that rowboat and waited to die. That book was right beside me. I hooked onto it at the last second of the struggle, I couldn’t let it float abroad. I contemplated throwing it overboard, but I just couldn’t. Something in my head wouldn’t let me. I tossed it to my side after awhile and drifted to sleep as I slipped further and further out into the ocean. Then, there came a sound. A bell, followed by men’s voices. Ropes dropped and a shadow enveloped my closed eyes. I shot up to find myself on a fisherman’s boat. Large and great. The crew was all around me. After helping get to my feet the captain introduced himself and took me inside to get warm. Thank gods, I was saved. I didn’t feel all that cold. The warmth of the rescue was enough to heat my blood. He inquired about my getting stranded. I made up some story I can’t even remember. After I was fed and freshly dressed the captain approached me. He handed me what could only be described as the embodiment of the nightmare that’d befallen me. He handed me the book, believing it to be mine. I took it. It being the only proof I had that what had happened to me was real. After a lengthy fishing venture, I eventually made it back on land. Traveling to my apartment in Boston, I fell flat on my bed, face down for a nice long rest. I was exhausted in every imaginable sense. I lied down for a long time, contemplating all that I’d been through whilst attempting to readjust to my usual schedule. I knew it would take some time, but I shuttered and rejoiced at my return. I’m attending work again and living the office job I had before. But, not a night ever passes that my dreams aren’t haunted by that which I almost fell victim to. Ancient gods. Who’d believe it? I still have the book. It’s locked in a chest in the corner of my bedroom. A pile of heavier books weigh it down. Amongst those titles sit the works of Edgar Allen Poe, with pages bookmarked with local fantasy magazines. Some of the works including these newcomer writers like Howard, Derleth and Lovecraft. They’re alright, I guess. Though, Poe’s always been my favorite. I’d always been fond of horror stories. I never would have believed I’d live through one. I don’t feel broken or amiss like you hear most reluctant survivors say. I feel tired. Just tired. I’m afraid this will be how I feel till the day I die. Since returning to the mainland no government officials have tracked me down. I suppose that’s a good thing. This has led me to believe that out little venture on the sea fort was nothing more but a privately funded experiment, by mad men. No government or special organizations involved. Why they chose me to chronicle the events there, or even take part in their sinister mission, I will never know. Though, I feel safe enough now. Also, since my return, I have made it a point to relentlessly search all corners of mythologies and otherwise for Thotep’s mention. Other than that book which remains lost in my room, I finally found documentation of the damnedest thing in the farthest reaching corners of recorded history. The Vatican Archive, of all places. I found this bit on photocopy papers in the back alleys with some very questionable customers selling them. The archives and documents of old tell of Thotep’s creation, as recorded by an unnamed man, far older than my greatest ancestor. These findings read as such: Thotep goes unmentioned in the writings of the more ancient races. It is a tainted section of an indescribably horrific cluster of events which was, for the better part of the last eighty two years, left out of all theories surrounding the heightened mythologies, which brought forth the belief of monsters and beings too great to merely be glanced upon. It was in this jurisdiction that a devastatingly malevolent quantity of undocumented beings went without notice, or in this case, without a shuttering mention. I came across documented records of Thotep’s supposed existence as most scholars, warped into the grand phycological phenomenon that is undoubtedly growing more common in this day and age, often do. So it was with the ever-growing curiosity of a hundred lesser mortals, before myself, that I delved into the passages presented to me and invoked, not a physical abomination, but an idea which grew until it became more real than the ground I now kneel upon, in astonishment and insubstantial comprehension. It is simply for the inevitability of my constant depleting sanity that I tell you now, that which I have learned before my ultimate entrance to a secluded and unruly end, thus chaining the mortal link of discovery and demise. Thotep emerged from the organic festering remains of a black ooze, made of hate, an anthropomorphized plant-like substance, spawned on the surface of Mars by the last of a dying fraction of beings, fueled by a kind of hollow-matter and banished from plentiful resource for it’s very existence, which was judged as sinful by the highest priests of that, or any realm. This incestuous being, who goes unnamed in all accounts both discovered and theorized, in it’s last moments constructed Thotep, a disciple himself, scrapped from the dead remains of kidnapped beings. With much fear the ancient being finally passed away as Thotep came into being. Thotep emerged from the organic festering remains, and let out a sound so foul, it was said that every star the sound reached died in an instant. Thotep took to the dusk landscape, as a lone entity wandering the bleak infinity of a dead planet. It wasn’t until the colonization of a celestial race of jellyfish-like shelled beings that Thotep took full notice of the benefits which would come with leeching the life-forces out of other races. He hid best he could, and one by one began to devour the immortal jellyfish-like race, only referred to as, Knuhl. The Knuhl’s population quickly plummeted as Thotep devoured half their kind, gaining their telepathic and interstellar-travel abilities. Feeling grateful for the powers he had forcefully obtained, Thotep sucked the remaining life energies out of the last few Knuhl, but chose not to kill them, and instead let them live out in peace for a short time on the desolate surface of Mars, unable to leave and unable to reach out to any other race for aid. Thotep would travel the universe for a time, obtaining unspeakable power and absorbing creatures and whole civilizations until his pure essence became the very driving force behind his power. By the time Thotep descended upon earth where he was merely a thought, a cloud of ideas that lost it’s physical form long ago. For a time he terrorized and aided the conflicts between the start of the New World and the Age of the Archquondaik.

[col22promo]

Kyra Zabala | Twenty Seven;  Survivor

House: Torren Security Class: 3 Status: Infected - Empatheia

History

Kyra was going to be a big star some day. This knowledge followed her for years: growing up in Hollywood, she was exposed to the rich and the glamorous despite her own more humble beginnings. Her mother was an SFX makeup artist, so naturally little Kyra had the best Halloween costumes each year– though that was where the maternal bond began and ended. With her mother often away for weeks on end doing shoots, Kyra was left more or less at the mercy of her father.

‘At his mercy’ wasn’t as bad as it could be, really. He was uncomfortable with children, and never coddled her. If she brought a fingerpainting back from kindergarten, he would happily offer up criticisms and refuse to hang it up on the fridge until she worked on her colouring. The only interest he really showed her was when it came to drama class; thanks to their location, Kyra was given a comprehensive grounding in the dramatic arts, and it was something she had a real flair for. She knew how to play an audience and get the reaction she wanted, and the limelight suited her. 

Her teachers encouraged her to apply for drama academies, come the end of her high school career. Competitive though entrance could be, they believed it was her only real shot. Kyra had flashes of brilliance, but she was lazy and unmotivated and certainly wasn’t going anywhere based on her academic merits. The day she was accepted into the country’s top performing arts academy was the happiest day of her father’s life. Or so she assumed, for he wasted no time in messaging their social circle about her success. The next four years were good ones, filled with praise over her acting talent and landing roles in their theatrical productions. Some of her classmates began taking small movie parts, but Kyra was adamant that she would concentrate on her studies before committing herself to such a thing.

Graduation came and went, and Kyra began auditioning. The first few rejections stung, and then irritated her, and then were just another part of her life. It was nothing personal, they said, the market was just too competitive. She landed a few roles; never the lead. She got the sidekick, or the sassy receptionist, or the background character with great legs. The first starring role she landed was for an indie horror flick: Baba Yaga. And Kyra was to star as old Baba, who lived in her chicken legged house in the woods and offered poultices and potions to local women, in exchange for their youth and beauty. There was also a great deal of throat slashing and sex, naturally. And Kyra was determined that it should succeed, and launch her out of obscurity.

She recalled the Blair Witch Project, and Paranormal Activity, and how their successes were borne on the shoulders of their viral marketing campaigns. Independent of the studio, Kyra made up her mind to begin her own viral campaign for Baba Yaga, and it started off with the foley artist being found hanged in the set’s decorative vines. And then the plucky young blonde with almost as many lines as Kyra found herself with slit wrists in a warm bathtub. And finally, the director was discovered with enough pills in his system to kill an elephant, drowned in a pool of his own vomit. It worked: the cursed nature of the movie brought hordes of people in for the premier. And Kyra played her part perfectly, dashing tears from her eyes and giving a speech of thanks to her deceased crew members, sniffling about how the movie wouldn’t have been made without them.

It was actually hard to resent the police for crashing in when the credits had finished rolling. She had to laud their excellent dramatic timing, and her face lit up the screen of every news outlet for weeks after. At just twenty years old, Kyra Zabala was a bigger national star than Angelina Jolie ever had been. 

The charm wore off quickly, as she was grilled by psychiatrists and detectives, manhandled through the court process. Slapped carelessly with a diagnosis of psychopathy and bundled away in an orange jumpsuit for what looked to be a life sentence, Kyra grew more and more resentful that her story could fizzle out like that.

Kyra Today

She had been stewing in her cell for three years when D-Day came. In and out of solitary confinement for assaulting other inmates and staff members alike, she hadn’t become the well loved starlet that had inhabited her dreams. Thank god for the asteroids, she thought, cutting off power and allowing her to push the cell door aside and leg it into the night.

When a gang of looters approached her, Kyra wasn’t nervous. She felt them as kindred spirits. And now it no longer mattered that she was sloppy and unprofessional, because there were no police left to find stray hairs on her victim’s bodies. She came to find a certain pleasure in killing– the rest of her group killed because they wanted supplies, or something that the corpse had to offer. Kyra killed because she was fascinated by the way flesh peeled back like so much raw meat, and how white bones really were. These days are naturally undocumented: as far as the Echo database knows, her body count still lies at three.

As many did, she and her group travelled. They stole vans where they could, or walked for days. Once, they stowed away on a ship and took control from its crew. They spent weeks on that voyage, loving the freedom that the sea offered. It was only by pure bad luck and ignorance that they sailed straight into a storm, and the boat went down. Kyra surfaced, gasping for breath. No one else was in sight, so she hauled herself ashore by herself. Within hours she was found, shivering and soaked through, by a group of crusaders from Colony 22. Now, though Kyra was arrogant and self centred, even she didn’t believe she could survive alone in this wilderness, so she went along with them.

And in the few weeks since she arrived to the Colony– immediately branded high threat and often watched by the guards– an infection has made itself known. Her empatheia infuriates her, because the negativity of others now drains her and leaves her exhausted, where before there had been nothing. Worse still is the fact that she requires joy and laughter from other people to regain her strength. Though Kyra is theoretically capable of being friendly, she struggles to be anything less than an abject asshole to most. She misses her freedom, hates her infection, finds most of the other survivors weak-willed and flimsy, and thinks this New Wave Reformist bullshit is some of the most ridiculous shit she’s ever heard of, because she didn’t ask to get saddled with her stupid Infection and why should she be punished for something she had no control over?

Her only relief comes in training. Nobody ever taught Kyra a thing about physical combat, and though technically she is one of the weaker in her sessions, she has a passion for it that few can rival. Indeed, her trainers are about the only ones capable of getting more than a ‘fuck yourself’ response from her. It is hoped that, as she recovers both from her imprisonment and her years out in the wilds, Kyra will try to be a little more personable. As of yet there is little evidence of that, but as her therapists say, it’s early days yet.

HOME | PLOT | SURVIVORS | INFECTIONS | 2157 was the end of the world.

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Kyra Zabala | Twenty Seven;  Survivor

House: Torren Security Class: 3 Status: Infected - Empatheia

History

Kyra was going to be a big star some day. This knowledge followed her for years: growing up in Hollywood, she was exposed to the rich and the glamorous despite her own more humble beginnings. Her mother was an SFX makeup artist, so naturally little Kyra had the best Halloween costumes each year– though that was where the maternal bond began and ended. With her mother often away for weeks on end doing shoots, Kyra was left more or less at the mercy of her father.

‘At his mercy’ wasn’t as bad as it could be, really. He was uncomfortable with children, and never coddled her. If she brought a fingerpainting back from kindergarten, he would happily offer up criticisms and refuse to hang it up on the fridge until she worked on her colouring. The only interest he really showed her was when it came to drama class; thanks to their location, Kyra was given a comprehensive grounding in the dramatic arts, and it was something she had a real flair for. She knew how to play an audience and get the reaction she wanted, and the limelight suited her. 

Her teachers encouraged her to apply for drama academies, come the end of her high school career. Competitive though entrance could be, they believed it was her only real shot. Kyra had flashes of brilliance, but she was lazy and unmotivated and certainly wasn’t going anywhere based on her academic merits. The day she was accepted into the country’s top performing arts academy was the happiest day of her father’s life. Or so she assumed, for he wasted no time in messaging their social circle about her success. The next four years were good ones, filled with praise over her acting talent and landing roles in their theatrical productions. Some of her classmates began taking small movie parts, but Kyra was adamant that she would concentrate on her studies before committing herself to such a thing.

Graduation came and went, and Kyra began auditioning. The first few rejections stung, and then irritated her, and then were just another part of her life. It was nothing personal, they said, the market was just too competitive. She landed a few roles; never the lead. She got the sidekick, or the sassy receptionist, or the background character with great legs. The first starring role she landed was for an indie horror flick: Baba Yaga. And Kyra was to star as old Baba, who lived in her chicken legged house in the woods and offered poultices and potions to local women, in exchange for their youth and beauty. There was also a great deal of throat slashing and sex, naturally. And Kyra was determined that it should succeed, and launch her out of obscurity.

She recalled the Blair Witch Project, and Paranormal Activity, and how their successes were borne on the shoulders of their viral marketing campaigns. Independent of the studio, Kyra made up her mind to begin her own viral campaign for Baba Yaga, and it started off with the foley artist being found hanged in the set’s decorative vines. And then the plucky young blonde with almost as many lines as Kyra found herself with slit wrists in a warm bathtub. And finally, the director was discovered with enough pills in his system to kill an elephant, drowned in a pool of his own vomit. It worked: the cursed nature of the movie brought hordes of people in for the premier. And Kyra played her part perfectly, dashing tears from her eyes and giving a speech of thanks to her deceased crew members, sniffling about how the movie wouldn’t have been made without them.

It was actually hard to resent the police for crashing in when the credits had finished rolling. She had to laud their excellent dramatic timing, and her face lit up the screen of every news outlet for weeks after. At just twenty years old, Kyra Zabala was a bigger national star than Angelina Jolie ever had been. 

The charm wore off quickly, as she was grilled by psychiatrists and detectives, manhandled through the court process. Slapped carelessly with a diagnosis of psychopathy and bundled away in an orange jumpsuit for what looked to be a life sentence, Kyra grew more and more resentful that her story could fizzle out like that.

Kyra Today

She had been stewing in her cell for three years when D-Day came. In and out of solitary confinement for assaulting other inmates and staff members alike, she hadn’t become the well loved starlet that had inhabited her dreams. Thank god for the asteroids, she thought, cutting off power and allowing her to push the cell door aside and leg it into the night.

When a gang of looters approached her, Kyra wasn’t nervous. She felt them as kindred spirits. And now it no longer mattered that she was sloppy and unprofessional, because there were no police left to find stray hairs on her victim’s bodies. She came to find a certain pleasure in killing– the rest of her group killed because they wanted supplies, or something that the corpse had to offer. Kyra killed because she was fascinated by the way flesh peeled back like so much raw meat, and how white bones really were. These days are naturally undocumented: as far as the Echo database knows, her body count still lies at three.

As many did, she and her group travelled. They stole vans where they could, or walked for days. Once, they stowed away on a ship and took control from its crew. They spent weeks on that voyage, loving the freedom that the sea offered. It was only by pure bad luck and ignorance that they sailed straight into a storm, and the boat went down. Kyra surfaced, gasping for breath. No one else was in sight, so she hauled herself ashore by herself. Within hours she was found, shivering and soaked through, by a group of crusaders from Colony 22. Now, though Kyra was arrogant and self centred, even she didn’t believe she could survive alone in this wilderness, so she went along with them.

And in the few weeks since she arrived to the Colony– immediately branded high threat and often watched by the guards– an infection has made itself known. Her empatheia infuriates her, because the negativity of others now drains her and leaves her exhausted, where before there had been nothing. Worse still is the fact that she requires joy and laughter from other people to regain her strength. Though Kyra is theoretically capable of being friendly, she struggles to be anything less than an abject asshole to most. She misses her freedom, hates her infection, finds most of the other survivors weak-willed and flimsy, and thinks this New Wave Reformist bullshit is some of the most ridiculous shit she’s ever heard of, because she didn’t ask to get saddled with her stupid Infection and why should she be punished for something she had no control over?

Her only relief comes in training. Nobody ever taught Kyra a thing about physical combat, and though technically she is one of the weaker in her sessions, she has a passion for it that few can rival. Indeed, her trainers are about the only ones capable of getting more than a ‘fuck yourself’ response from her. It is hoped that, as she recovers both from her imprisonment and her years out in the wilds, Kyra will try to be a little more personable. As of yet there is little evidence of that, but as her therapists say, it’s early days yet.

HOME | PLOT | SURVIVORS | INFECTIONS | 2157 was the end of the world.

#mutant rp #dystopia roleplay #lsrp #troian bellisario #troian bellisario fc

[col22promo]

Kyra Zabala | Twenty Seven;  Survivor

House: Torren Security Class: 3 Status: Infected - Empatheia

History

Kyra was going to be a big star some day. This knowledge followed her for years: growing up in Hollywood, she was exposed to the rich and the glamorous despite her own more humble beginnings. Her mother was an SFX makeup artist, so naturally little Kyra had the best Halloween costumes each year– though that was where the maternal bond began and ended. With her mother often away for weeks on end doing shoots, Kyra was left more or less at the mercy of her father.

‘At his mercy’ wasn’t as bad as it could be, really. He was uncomfortable with children, and never coddled her. If she brought a fingerpainting back from kindergarten, he would happily offer up criticisms and refuse to hang it up on the fridge until she worked on her colouring. The only interest he really showed her was when it came to drama class; thanks to their location, Kyra was given a comprehensive grounding in the dramatic arts, and it was something she had a real flair for. She knew how to play an audience and get the reaction she wanted, and the limelight suited her. 

Her teachers encouraged her to apply for drama academies, come the end of her high school career. Competitive though entrance could be, they believed it was her only real shot. Kyra had flashes of brilliance, but she was lazy and unmotivated and certainly wasn’t going anywhere based on her academic merits. The day she was accepted into the country’s top performing arts academy was the happiest day of her father’s life. Or so she assumed, for he wasted no time in messaging their social circle about her success. The next four years were good ones, filled with praise over her acting talent and landing roles in their theatrical productions. Some of her classmates began taking small movie parts, but Kyra was adamant that she would concentrate on her studies before committing herself to such a thing.

Graduation came and went, and Kyra began auditioning. The first few rejections stung, and then irritated her, and then were just another part of her life. It was nothing personal, they said, the market was just too competitive. She landed a few roles; never the lead. She got the sidekick, or the sassy receptionist, or the background character with great legs. The first starring role she landed was for an indie horror flick: Baba Yaga. And Kyra was to star as old Baba, who lived in her chicken legged house in the woods and offered poultices and potions to local women, in exchange for their youth and beauty. There was also a great deal of throat slashing and sex, naturally. And Kyra was determined that it should succeed, and launch her out of obscurity.

She recalled the Blair Witch Project, and Paranormal Activity, and how their successes were borne on the shoulders of their viral marketing campaigns. Independent of the studio, Kyra made up her mind to begin her own viral campaign for Baba Yaga, and it started off with the foley artist being found hanged in the set’s decorative vines. And then the plucky young blonde with almost as many lines as Kyra found herself with slit wrists in a warm bathtub. And finally, the director was discovered with enough pills in his system to kill an elephant, drowned in a pool of his own vomit. It worked: the cursed nature of the movie brought hordes of people in for the premier. And Kyra played her part perfectly, dashing tears from her eyes and giving a speech of thanks to her deceased crew members, sniffling about how the movie wouldn’t have been made without them.

It was actually hard to resent the police for crashing in when the credits had finished rolling. She had to laud their excellent dramatic timing, and her face lit up the screen of every news outlet for weeks after. At just twenty years old, Kyra Zabala was a bigger national star than Angelina Jolie ever had been. 

The charm wore off quickly, as she was grilled by psychiatrists and detectives, manhandled through the court process. Slapped carelessly with a diagnosis of psychopathy and bundled away in an orange jumpsuit for what looked to be a life sentence, Kyra grew more and more resentful that her story could fizzle out like that.

Kyra Today

She had been stewing in her cell for three years when D-Day came. In and out of solitary confinement for assaulting other inmates and staff members alike, she hadn’t become the well loved starlet that had inhabited her dreams. Thank god for the asteroids, she thought, cutting off power and allowing her to push the cell door aside and leg it into the night.

When a gang of looters approached her, Kyra wasn’t nervous. She felt them as kindred spirits. And now it no longer mattered that she was sloppy and unprofessional, because there were no police left to find stray hairs on her victim’s bodies. She came to find a certain pleasure in killing– the rest of her group killed because they wanted supplies, or something that the corpse had to offer. Kyra killed because she was fascinated by the way flesh peeled back like so much raw meat, and how white bones really were. These days are naturally undocumented: as far as the Echo database knows, her body count still lies at three.

As many did, she and her group travelled. They stole vans where they could, or walked for days. Once, they stowed away on a ship and took control from its crew. They spent weeks on that voyage, loving the freedom that the sea offered. It was only by pure bad luck and ignorance that they sailed straight into a storm, and the boat went down. Kyra surfaced, gasping for breath. No one else was in sight, so she hauled herself ashore by herself. Within hours she was found, shivering and soaked through, by a group of crusaders from Colony 22. Now, though Kyra was arrogant and self centred, even she didn’t believe she could survive alone in this wilderness, so she went along with them.

And in the few weeks since she arrived to the Colony– immediately branded high threat and often watched by the guards– an infection has made itself known. Her empatheia infuriates her, because the negativity of others now drains her and leaves her exhausted, where before there had been nothing. Worse still is the fact that she requires joy and laughter from other people to regain her strength. Though Kyra is theoretically capable of being friendly, she struggles to be anything less than an abject asshole to most. She misses her freedom, hates her infection, finds most of the other survivors weak-willed and flimsy, and thinks this New Wave Reformist bullshit is some of the most ridiculous shit she’s ever heard of, because she didn’t ask to get saddled with her stupid Infection and why should she be punished for something she had no control over?

Her only relief comes in training. Nobody ever taught Kyra a thing about physical combat, and though technically she is one of the weaker in her sessions, she has a passion for it that few can rival. Indeed, her trainers are about the only ones capable of getting more than a ‘fuck yourself’ response from her. It is hoped that, as she recovers both from her imprisonment and her years out in the wilds, Kyra will try to be a little more personable. As of yet there is little evidence of that, but as her therapists say, it’s early days yet.

HOME | PLOT | SURVIVORS | INFECTIONS | 2157 was the end of the world.

#mutant rp #dystopia roleplay #lsrp #troian bellisario #troian bellisario fc

[col22promo]

Kyra Zabala | Twenty Seven;  Survivor

House: Torren Security Class: 3 Status: Infected - Empatheia

History

Kyra was going to be a big star some day. This knowledge followed her for years: growing up in Hollywood, she was exposed to the rich and the glamorous despite her own more humble beginnings. Her mother was an SFX makeup artist, so naturally little Kyra had the best Halloween costumes each year– though that was where the maternal bond began and ended. With her mother often away for weeks on end doing shoots, Kyra was left more or less at the mercy of her father.

‘At his mercy’ wasn’t as bad as it could be, really. He was uncomfortable with children, and never coddled her. If she brought a fingerpainting back from kindergarten, he would happily offer up criticisms and refuse to hang it up on the fridge until she worked on her colouring. The only interest he really showed her was when it came to drama class; thanks to their location, Kyra was given a comprehensive grounding in the dramatic arts, and it was something she had a real flair for. She knew how to play an audience and get the reaction she wanted, and the limelight suited her. 

Her teachers encouraged her to apply for drama academies, come the end of her high school career. Competitive though entrance could be, they believed it was her only real shot. Kyra had flashes of brilliance, but she was lazy and unmotivated and certainly wasn’t going anywhere based on her academic merits. The day she was accepted into the country’s top performing arts academy was the happiest day of her father’s life. Or so she assumed, for he wasted no time in messaging their social circle about her success. The next four years were good ones, filled with praise over her acting talent and landing roles in their theatrical productions. Some of her classmates began taking small movie parts, but Kyra was adamant that she would concentrate on her studies before committing herself to such a thing.

Graduation came and went, and Kyra began auditioning. The first few rejections stung, and then irritated her, and then were just another part of her life. It was nothing personal, they said, the market was just too competitive. She landed a few roles; never the lead. She got the sidekick, or the sassy receptionist, or the background character with great legs. The first starring role she landed was for an indie horror flick: Baba Yaga. And Kyra was to star as old Baba, who lived in her chicken legged house in the woods and offered poultices and potions to local women, in exchange for their youth and beauty. There was also a great deal of throat slashing and sex, naturally. And Kyra was determined that it should succeed, and launch her out of obscurity.

She recalled the Blair Witch Project, and Paranormal Activity, and how their successes were borne on the shoulders of their viral marketing campaigns. Independent of the studio, Kyra made up her mind to begin her own viral campaign for Baba Yaga, and it started off with the foley artist being found hanged in the set’s decorative vines. And then the plucky young blonde with almost as many lines as Kyra found herself with slit wrists in a warm bathtub. And finally, the director was discovered with enough pills in his system to kill an elephant, drowned in a pool of his own vomit. It worked: the cursed nature of the movie brought hordes of people in for the premier. And Kyra played her part perfectly, dashing tears from her eyes and giving a speech of thanks to her deceased crew members, sniffling about how the movie wouldn’t have been made without them.

It was actually hard to resent the police for crashing in when the credits had finished rolling. She had to laud their excellent dramatic timing, and her face lit up the screen of every news outlet for weeks after. At just twenty years old, Kyra Zabala was a bigger national star than Angelina Jolie ever had been. 

The charm wore off quickly, as she was grilled by psychiatrists and detectives, manhandled through the court process. Slapped carelessly with a diagnosis of psychopathy and bundled away in an orange jumpsuit for what looked to be a life sentence, Kyra grew more and more resentful that her story could fizzle out like that.

Kyra Today

She had been stewing in her cell for three years when D-Day came. In and out of solitary confinement for assaulting other inmates and staff members alike, she hadn’t become the well loved starlet that had inhabited her dreams. Thank god for the asteroids, she thought, cutting off power and allowing her to push the cell door aside and leg it into the night.

When a gang of looters approached her, Kyra wasn’t nervous. She felt them as kindred spirits. And now it no longer mattered that she was sloppy and unprofessional, because there were no police left to find stray hairs on her victim’s bodies. She came to find a certain pleasure in killing– the rest of her group killed because they wanted supplies, or something that the corpse had to offer. Kyra killed because she was fascinated by the way flesh peeled back like so much raw meat, and how white bones really were. These days are naturally undocumented: as far as the Echo database knows, her body count still lies at three.

As many did, she and her group travelled. They stole vans where they could, or walked for days. Once, they stowed away on a ship and took control from its crew. They spent weeks on that voyage, loving the freedom that the sea offered. It was only by pure bad luck and ignorance that they sailed straight into a storm, and the boat went down. Kyra surfaced, gasping for breath. No one else was in sight, so she hauled herself ashore by herself. Within hours she was found, shivering and soaked through, by a group of crusaders from Colony 22. Now, though Kyra was arrogant and self centred, even she didn’t believe she could survive alone in this wilderness, so she went along with them.

And in the few weeks since she arrived to the Colony– immediately branded high threat and often watched by the guards– an infection has made itself known. Her empatheia infuriates her, because the negativity of others now drains her and leaves her exhausted, where before there had been nothing. Worse still is the fact that she requires joy and laughter from other people to regain her strength. Though Kyra is theoretically capable of being friendly, she struggles to be anything less than an abject asshole to most. She misses her freedom, hates her infection, finds most of the other survivors weak-willed and flimsy, and thinks this New Wave Reformist bullshit is some of the most ridiculous shit she’s ever heard of, because she didn’t ask to get saddled with her stupid Infection and why should she be punished for something she had no control over?

Her only relief comes in training. Nobody ever taught Kyra a thing about physical combat, and though technically she is one of the weaker in her sessions, she has a passion for it that few can rival. Indeed, her trainers are about the only ones capable of getting more than a ‘fuck yourself’ response from her. It is hoped that, as she recovers both from her imprisonment and her years out in the wilds, Kyra will try to be a little more personable. As of yet there is little evidence of that, but as her therapists say, it’s early days yet.

HOME | PLOT | SURVIVORS | INFECTIONS | 2157 was the end of the world.

#mutant rp #dystopia roleplay #lsrp #troian bellisario #troian bellisario fc

[col22promo]

Kyra Zabala | Twenty Seven;  Survivor

House: Torren Security Class: 3 Status: Infected - Empatheia

History

Kyra was going to be a big star some day. This knowledge followed her for years: growing up in Hollywood, she was exposed to the rich and the glamorous despite her own more humble beginnings. Her mother was an SFX makeup artist, so naturally little Kyra had the best Halloween costumes each year– though that was where the maternal bond began and ended. With her mother often away for weeks on end doing shoots, Kyra was left more or less at the mercy of her father.

‘At his mercy’ wasn’t as bad as it could be, really. He was uncomfortable with children, and never coddled her. If she brought a fingerpainting back from kindergarten, he would happily offer up criticisms and refuse to hang it up on the fridge until she worked on her colouring. The only interest he really showed her was when it came to drama class; thanks to their location, Kyra was given a comprehensive grounding in the dramatic arts, and it was something she had a real flair for. She knew how to play an audience and get the reaction she wanted, and the limelight suited her. 

Her teachers encouraged her to apply for drama academies, come the end of her high school career. Competitive though entrance could be, they believed it was her only real shot. Kyra had flashes of brilliance, but she was lazy and unmotivated and certainly wasn’t going anywhere based on her academic merits. The day she was accepted into the country’s top performing arts academy was the happiest day of her father’s life. Or so she assumed, for he wasted no time in messaging their social circle about her success. The next four years were good ones, filled with praise over her acting talent and landing roles in their theatrical productions. Some of her classmates began taking small movie parts, but Kyra was adamant that she would concentrate on her studies before committing herself to such a thing.

Graduation came and went, and Kyra began auditioning. The first few rejections stung, and then irritated her, and then were just another part of her life. It was nothing personal, they said, the market was just too competitive. She landed a few roles; never the lead. She got the sidekick, or the sassy receptionist, or the background character with great legs. The first starring role she landed was for an indie horror flick: Baba Yaga. And Kyra was to star as old Baba, who lived in her chicken legged house in the woods and offered poultices and potions to local women, in exchange for their youth and beauty. There was also a great deal of throat slashing and sex, naturally. And Kyra was determined that it should succeed, and launch her out of obscurity.

She recalled the Blair Witch Project, and Paranormal Activity, and how their successes were borne on the shoulders of their viral marketing campaigns. Independent of the studio, Kyra made up her mind to begin her own viral campaign for Baba Yaga, and it started off with the foley artist being found hanged in the set’s decorative vines. And then the plucky young blonde with almost as many lines as Kyra found herself with slit wrists in a warm bathtub. And finally, the director was discovered with enough pills in his system to kill an elephant, drowned in a pool of his own vomit. It worked: the cursed nature of the movie brought hordes of people in for the premier. And Kyra played her part perfectly, dashing tears from her eyes and giving a speech of thanks to her deceased crew members, sniffling about how the movie wouldn’t have been made without them.

It was actually hard to resent the police for crashing in when the credits had finished rolling. She had to laud their excellent dramatic timing, and her face lit up the screen of every news outlet for weeks after. At just twenty years old, Kyra Zabala was a bigger national star than Angelina Jolie ever had been. 

The charm wore off quickly, as she was grilled by psychiatrists and detectives, manhandled through the court process. Slapped carelessly with a diagnosis of psychopathy and bundled away in an orange jumpsuit for what looked to be a life sentence, Kyra grew more and more resentful that her story could fizzle out like that.

Kyra Today

She had been stewing in her cell for three years when D-Day came. In and out of solitary confinement for assaulting other inmates and staff members alike, she hadn’t become the well loved starlet that had inhabited her dreams. Thank god for the asteroids, she thought, cutting off power and allowing her to push the cell door aside and leg it into the night.

When a gang of looters approached her, Kyra wasn’t nervous. She felt them as kindred spirits. And now it no longer mattered that she was sloppy and unprofessional, because there were no police left to find stray hairs on her victim’s bodies. She came to find a certain pleasure in killing– the rest of her group killed because they wanted supplies, or something that the corpse had to offer. Kyra killed because she was fascinated by the way flesh peeled back like so much raw meat, and how white bones really were. These days are naturally undocumented: as far as the Echo database knows, her body count still lies at three.

As many did, she and her group travelled. They stole vans where they could, or walked for days. Once, they stowed away on a ship and took control from its crew. They spent weeks on that voyage, loving the freedom that the sea offered. It was only by pure bad luck and ignorance that they sailed straight into a storm, and the boat went down. Kyra surfaced, gasping for breath. No one else was in sight, so she hauled herself ashore by herself. Within hours she was found, shivering and soaked through, by a group of crusaders from Colony 22. Now, though Kyra was arrogant and self centred, even she didn’t believe she could survive alone in this wilderness, so she went along with them.

And in the few weeks since she arrived to the Colony– immediately branded high threat and often watched by the guards– an infection has made itself known. Her empatheia infuriates her, because the negativity of others now drains her and leaves her exhausted, where before there had been nothing. Worse still is the fact that she requires joy and laughter from other people to regain her strength. Though Kyra is theoretically capable of being friendly, she struggles to be anything less than an abject asshole to most. She misses her freedom, hates her infection, finds most of the other survivors weak-willed and flimsy, and thinks this New Wave Reformist bullshit is some of the most ridiculous shit she’s ever heard of, because she didn’t ask to get saddled with her stupid Infection and why should she be punished for something she had no control over?

Her only relief comes in training. Nobody ever taught Kyra a thing about physical combat, and though technically she is one of the weaker in her sessions, she has a passion for it that few can rival. Indeed, her trainers are about the only ones capable of getting more than a ‘fuck yourself’ response from her. It is hoped that, as she recovers both from her imprisonment and her years out in the wilds, Kyra will try to be a little more personable. As of yet there is little evidence of that, but as her therapists say, it’s early days yet.

HOME | PLOT | SURVIVORS | INFECTIONS | 2157 was the end of the world.

#mutant rp #dystopia roleplay #lsrp #troian bellisario #troian bellisario fc

[col22promo]

Kyra Zabala | Twenty Seven;  Survivor

House: Torren Security Class: 3 Status: Infected - Empatheia

History

Kyra was going to be a big star some day. This knowledge followed her for years: growing up in Hollywood, she was exposed to the rich and the glamorous despite her own more humble beginnings. Her mother was an SFX makeup artist, so naturally little Kyra had the best Halloween costumes each year– though that was where the maternal bond began and ended. With her mother often away for weeks on end doing shoots, Kyra was left more or less at the mercy of her father.

‘At his mercy’ wasn’t as bad as it could be, really. He was uncomfortable with children, and never coddled her. If she brought a fingerpainting back from kindergarten, he would happily offer up criticisms and refuse to hang it up on the fridge until she worked on her colouring. The only interest he really showed her was when it came to drama class; thanks to their location, Kyra was given a comprehensive grounding in the dramatic arts, and it was something she had a real flair for. She knew how to play an audience and get the reaction she wanted, and the limelight suited her. 

Her teachers encouraged her to apply for drama academies, come the end of her high school career. Competitive though entrance could be, they believed it was her only real shot. Kyra had flashes of brilliance, but she was lazy and unmotivated and certainly wasn’t going anywhere based on her academic merits. The day she was accepted into the country’s top performing arts academy was the happiest day of her father’s life. Or so she assumed, for he wasted no time in messaging their social circle about her success. The next four years were good ones, filled with praise over her acting talent and landing roles in their theatrical productions. Some of her classmates began taking small movie parts, but Kyra was adamant that she would concentrate on her studies before committing herself to such a thing.

Graduation came and went, and Kyra began auditioning. The first few rejections stung, and then irritated her, and then were just another part of her life. It was nothing personal, they said, the market was just too competitive. She landed a few roles; never the lead. She got the sidekick, or the sassy receptionist, or the background character with great legs. The first starring role she landed was for an indie horror flick: Baba Yaga. And Kyra was to star as old Baba, who lived in her chicken legged house in the woods and offered poultices and potions to local women, in exchange for their youth and beauty. There was also a great deal of throat slashing and sex, naturally. And Kyra was determined that it should succeed, and launch her out of obscurity.

She recalled the Blair Witch Project, and Paranormal Activity, and how their successes were borne on the shoulders of their viral marketing campaigns. Independent of the studio, Kyra made up her mind to begin her own viral campaign for Baba Yaga, and it started off with the foley artist being found hanged in the set’s decorative vines. And then the plucky young blonde with almost as many lines as Kyra found herself with slit wrists in a warm bathtub. And finally, the director was discovered with enough pills in his system to kill an elephant, drowned in a pool of his own vomit. It worked: the cursed nature of the movie brought hordes of people in for the premier. And Kyra played her part perfectly, dashing tears from her eyes and giving a speech of thanks to her deceased crew members, sniffling about how the movie wouldn’t have been made without them.

It was actually hard to resent the police for crashing in when the credits had finished rolling. She had to laud their excellent dramatic timing, and her face lit up the screen of every news outlet for weeks after. At just twenty years old, Kyra Zabala was a bigger national star than Angelina Jolie ever had been. 

The charm wore off quickly, as she was grilled by psychiatrists and detectives, manhandled through the court process. Slapped carelessly with a diagnosis of psychopathy and bundled away in an orange jumpsuit for what looked to be a life sentence, Kyra grew more and more resentful that her story could fizzle out like that.

Kyra Today

She had been stewing in her cell for three years when D-Day came. In and out of solitary confinement for assaulting other inmates and staff members alike, she hadn’t become the well loved starlet that had inhabited her dreams. Thank god for the asteroids, she thought, cutting off power and allowing her to push the cell door aside and leg it into the night.

When a gang of looters approached her, Kyra wasn’t nervous. She felt them as kindred spirits. And now it no longer mattered that she was sloppy and unprofessional, because there were no police left to find stray hairs on her victim’s bodies. She came to find a certain pleasure in killing– the rest of her group killed because they wanted supplies, or something that the corpse had to offer. Kyra killed because she was fascinated by the way flesh peeled back like so much raw meat, and how white bones really were. These days are naturally undocumented: as far as the Echo database knows, her body count still lies at three.

As many did, she and her group travelled. They stole vans where they could, or walked for days. Once, they stowed away on a ship and took control from its crew. They spent weeks on that voyage, loving the freedom that the sea offered. It was only by pure bad luck and ignorance that they sailed straight into a storm, and the boat went down. Kyra surfaced, gasping for breath. No one else was in sight, so she hauled herself ashore by herself. Within hours she was found, shivering and soaked through, by a group of crusaders from Colony 22. Now, though Kyra was arrogant and self centred, even she didn’t believe she could survive alone in this wilderness, so she went along with them.

And in the few weeks since she arrived to the Colony– immediately branded high threat and often watched by the guards– an infection has made itself known. Her empatheia infuriates her, because the negativity of others now drains her and leaves her exhausted, where before there had been nothing. Worse still is the fact that she requires joy and laughter from other people to regain her strength. Though Kyra is theoretically capable of being friendly, she struggles to be anything less than an abject asshole to most. She misses her freedom, hates her infection, finds most of the other survivors weak-willed and flimsy, and thinks this New Wave Reformist bullshit is some of the most ridiculous shit she’s ever heard of, because she didn’t ask to get saddled with her stupid Infection and why should she be punished for something she had no control over?

Her only relief comes in training. Nobody ever taught Kyra a thing about physical combat, and though technically she is one of the weaker in her sessions, she has a passion for it that few can rival. Indeed, her trainers are about the only ones capable of getting more than a ‘fuck yourself’ response from her. It is hoped that, as she recovers both from her imprisonment and her years out in the wilds, Kyra will try to be a little more personable. As of yet there is little evidence of that, but as her therapists say, it’s early days yet.

HOME | PLOT | SURVIVORS | INFECTIONS | 2157 was the end of the world.

#mutant rp #dystopia roleplay #lsrp #troian bellisario #troian bellisario fc

[col22promo]

Kyra Zabala | Twenty Seven;  Survivor

House: Torren Security Class: 3 Status: Infected - Empatheia

History

Kyra was going to be a big star some day. This knowledge followed her for years: growing up in Hollywood, she was exposed to the rich and the glamorous despite her own more humble beginnings. Her mother was an SFX makeup artist, so naturally little Kyra had the best Halloween costumes each year– though that was where the maternal bond began and ended. With her mother often away for weeks on end doing shoots, Kyra was left more or less at the mercy of her father.

‘At his mercy’ wasn’t as bad as it could be, really. He was uncomfortable with children, and never coddled her. If she brought a fingerpainting back from kindergarten, he would happily offer up criticisms and refuse to hang it up on the fridge until she worked on her colouring. The only interest he really showed her was when it came to drama class; thanks to their location, Kyra was given a comprehensive grounding in the dramatic arts, and it was something she had a real flair for. She knew how to play an audience and get the reaction she wanted, and the limelight suited her. 

Her teachers encouraged her to apply for drama academies, come the end of her high school career. Competitive though entrance could be, they believed it was her only real shot. Kyra had flashes of brilliance, but she was lazy and unmotivated and certainly wasn’t going anywhere based on her academic merits. The day she was accepted into the country’s top performing arts academy was the happiest day of her father’s life. Or so she assumed, for he wasted no time in messaging their social circle about her success. The next four years were good ones, filled with praise over her acting talent and landing roles in their theatrical productions. Some of her classmates began taking small movie parts, but Kyra was adamant that she would concentrate on her studies before committing herself to such a thing.

Graduation came and went, and Kyra began auditioning. The first few rejections stung, and then irritated her, and then were just another part of her life. It was nothing personal, they said, the market was just too competitive. She landed a few roles; never the lead. She got the sidekick, or the sassy receptionist, or the background character with great legs. The first starring role she landed was for an indie horror flick: Baba Yaga. And Kyra was to star as old Baba, who lived in her chicken legged house in the woods and offered poultices and potions to local women, in exchange for their youth and beauty. There was also a great deal of throat slashing and sex, naturally. And Kyra was determined that it should succeed, and launch her out of obscurity.

She recalled the Blair Witch Project, and Paranormal Activity, and how their successes were borne on the shoulders of their viral marketing campaigns. Independent of the studio, Kyra made up her mind to begin her own viral campaign for Baba Yaga, and it started off with the foley artist being found hanged in the set’s decorative vines. And then the plucky young blonde with almost as many lines as Kyra found herself with slit wrists in a warm bathtub. And finally, the director was discovered with enough pills in his system to kill an elephant, drowned in a pool of his own vomit. It worked: the cursed nature of the movie brought hordes of people in for the premier. And Kyra played her part perfectly, dashing tears from her eyes and giving a speech of thanks to her deceased crew members, sniffling about how the movie wouldn’t have been made without them.

It was actually hard to resent the police for crashing in when the credits had finished rolling. She had to laud their excellent dramatic timing, and her face lit up the screen of every news outlet for weeks after. At just twenty years old, Kyra Zabala was a bigger national star than Angelina Jolie ever had been. 

The charm wore off quickly, as she was grilled by psychiatrists and detectives, manhandled through the court process. Slapped carelessly with a diagnosis of psychopathy and bundled away in an orange jumpsuit for what looked to be a life sentence, Kyra grew more and more resentful that her story could fizzle out like that.

Kyra Today

She had been stewing in her cell for three years when D-Day came. In and out of solitary confinement for assaulting other inmates and staff members alike, she hadn’t become the well loved starlet that had inhabited her dreams. Thank god for the asteroids, she thought, cutting off power and allowing her to push the cell door aside and leg it into the night.

When a gang of looters approached her, Kyra wasn’t nervous. She felt them as kindred spirits. And now it no longer mattered that she was sloppy and unprofessional, because there were no police left to find stray hairs on her victim’s bodies. She came to find a certain pleasure in killing– the rest of her group killed because they wanted supplies, or something that the corpse had to offer. Kyra killed because she was fascinated by the way flesh peeled back like so much raw meat, and how white bones really were. These days are naturally undocumented: as far as the Echo database knows, her body count still lies at three.

As many did, she and her group travelled. They stole vans where they could, or walked for days. Once, they stowed away on a ship and took control from its crew. They spent weeks on that voyage, loving the freedom that the sea offered. It was only by pure bad luck and ignorance that they sailed straight into a storm, and the boat went down. Kyra surfaced, gasping for breath. No one else was in sight, so she hauled herself ashore by herself. Within hours she was found, shivering and soaked through, by a group of crusaders from Colony 22. Now, though Kyra was arrogant and self centred, even she didn’t believe she could survive alone in this wilderness, so she went along with them.

And in the few weeks since she arrived to the Colony– immediately branded high threat and often watched by the guards– an infection has made itself known. Her empatheia infuriates her, because the negativity of others now drains her and leaves her exhausted, where before there had been nothing. Worse still is the fact that she requires joy and laughter from other people to regain her strength. Though Kyra is theoretically capable of being friendly, she struggles to be anything less than an abject asshole to most. She misses her freedom, hates her infection, finds most of the other survivors weak-willed and flimsy, and thinks this New Wave Reformist bullshit is some of the most ridiculous shit she’s ever heard of, because she didn’t ask to get saddled with her stupid Infection and why should she be punished for something she had no control over?

Her only relief comes in training. Nobody ever taught Kyra a thing about physical combat, and though technically she is one of the weaker in her sessions, she has a passion for it that few can rival. Indeed, her trainers are about the only ones capable of getting more than a ‘fuck yourself’ response from her. It is hoped that, as she recovers both from her imprisonment and her years out in the wilds, Kyra will try to be a little more personable. As of yet there is little evidence of that, but as her therapists say, it’s early days yet.

HOME | PLOT | SURVIVORS | INFECTIONS | 2157 was the end of the world.

#para roleplay #bio roleplay #lsrpg #troian bellisario #troian bellisario fc