M O N G R E L

Independent canon Warwick blog penned by Player

[chemicalmongrel]

(( Hi, I am still alive, yes, just dropped in to say SEASON 2 TEASER DUDE, WARWICK IS HYUUUUUG, MY BOIIII

[chemicalmongrel]

What Type of Soul do you have?

Blank Soul.

You'd walk backwards into hell with a smile on your face. if only you'd care enough. you're blunt, moody and aloof. you'd say you weren't always like this but you seldom remember a time when it wasn't like this. you'd like to do good and you CAN do good, but... do those around you deserve it? haven't you gone through enough? can you save everyone? it's not about saving everyone its about doing what you can. and you know this. somewhere in your deeply sanitised heart you know. albeit your misery you prize yourself in your humour and by the gods you'll never let anyone take that from you. reluctantly you admit to being a good mentor. and i know that you are. you can look after others. it doesn't always end bad. just try not to let the cats claws tear you down. because you've learnt to lick love of the silver glint of a blade. and you're not sure if you can ever go back.

Tagged by: @arcanescion Tagging: Whoever wants to do this, really.

[chemicalmongrel]

Moral Alignment Test

Warwick

Lawful Good

People who are Lawful Good believe that an orderly, strong society with a moral government can work to make life better for the great majority of the people. When the laws are fair and the people respect them and try to help one another, humanity as a whole prospers. Therefore, people who are Lawful Good strive for a social order that will bring the greatest benefit to everyone and cause the least harm. Lawful Good personalities may sometimes find themselves faced with the dilemma of whether to obey the law or do good when the two conflict. For example, when upholding the law of the land would lead to unfairness or harm or when there is a conflict between two orders of what is right, such as between the ways of their community and the law of the government.

Tagged Stolen By: @arcanescion and @witchcraftandburialdirt Tagging: Whoever wants to do it, really.

[chemicalmongrel]

Missing to Found

Starter for @arcanescion!

It began in the teary mist of early morning with the sun cresting over the silvered rooftops of Piltovan estates, and long shadows cast across Zaunite spiretops that reached defiantly toward the sky. Dark clouds straddled the horizon. And the chill of autumn's passing rolled over the twin cities, a zephyr with the promise of a storm sown into its seams. Scones and fresh coffee wafted from the thoroughfares with the well-heeled. Pastries, spices and so much more. But the allure of hardier foods and the lingering sting of alcohol from late-night pubbing in the Boundary Markets mingled in with the finer things. Trademark of the other half of the illustrious City of Progress. Altogether an experience one could only partake in if they immersed themselves in the Promenade. In both Zaun and Piltover--as it was meant to be. Steeped in this pleasant quiet, a rare moment when the world forgot who was at whose throat, was when a sump-scraper found his way into Caitlyn's investigation bureau. One swollen from the rampant augmentation required to just survive so far down into the trench and covered in no few articles of clothing to hide that unsightly fact. Their presence was an immediate shift in the atmosphere. All nervousness and anxiety wrapped up in the smell of rusted metal and the acrid pungence of cleaning supplies. Something that clung to the ruffles of their tatter clothing. Beady blue eyes peered out from beneath the shadow of their hood, thrown up over a bundle of gauze that squeezed their neck, the eso-philtre causing it to bulge out and up over their mouth. They took a moment to look around, trying to find something, before settling on waiting off to the side. Somewhere they would not bother others. But if looked for would be obvious at a first glance, all while trying to pull themselves further into their own overabundance of clothing. Waiting, as people of their ilk always did.

[chemicalmongrel]

misstantabismuses:

"Your sister is gone. You know that as well as I do." She had been able to remove most of the debris from Warwick's body, thus allowing the wolf to get on his feet easier, when the large beast spoke again. Jinx stopped digging, holding a chunk of debris in her arms, and listened as the gargled voice revealed a probable place to hide A tavern at the edges of the swamp level. Not The Last Drop as the Lanes were located in the entresol level and for lack of a better word almost the heart of the Undercity. "I think I know where that place is you are talking about. Come on, Wolf. Let's go."

Thunder and rain. You could count the number of natural phenomena the undercity got to experience on one hand. Sometimes on just three fingers, depending on how deep you go. But that did not preclude Zaunites from the joys of experiencing the byproducts of abysmal weather topside. And as the wind from above howled its way down through the spires, alleys, pnuema-tubes, pipes and vent stacks, water begins to pour in from the runoff drains spread all throughout. In time, it would become a deluge that flooded the Sumps. In time, the staccato of an angry god would force factories to shutdown lest they risk incurring the volatile anger of chemtech. In time, everything would become a hazy mist amid the drizzling rain. Just another day in Zaun.

To describe the trek down through Zaun, toward the golden disc, with any pleasant word would be a lie. Droplets of water plummeted all around the unlikely pair in a steady crescendo. It worsened the visibility of an already abysmal day of Gray. Making the already stagnant, penny-laden air muggy and humid. But the ambient ether was chilly compared to the gouts of steam pouring from the beast's shoulders. While dragging him through the thoroughfares, alleys and abandoned courtyards, the machinery threaded throughout his body vented excess heat into the air. It billowed out from eso-philtre vents. protruding from his shoulders. Bulky, glaring augments that huff and puff with each belabored breath--not dissimilar from the augmetics seen on overwrought chempunks. Although the steam was far more tolerable than the pulped viscera trailing behind them. Especially when squirming intestines, desperate to coil back up into the reforming torso of the beast, caught on something. But blue pushed on, Jinx carried a weight Powder may well have crumpled under--one far greater than even a chempunk could. After a time, the meager livings of lower Entresol gave way to the pauper's half-life in the Sumps. You could tell when you were getting close to the heart of old Zaun when the air curdled. Becoming thick and chunky, something you had to chew to make breathable. Where the Gray was thickest, pooling along the toxic runoff like a fogbank and hiding all manner of awfulness. Or when the streets became crowded, worn down or poorly constructed. Down here was where the truth of Zaun came out in force. Everything was for sale, and everything was stolen--heavy and unsightly augments kept adults from dying while snipes lurked in the shadows of alleys. This was where you went to when the city decided to spit you out. Were it not for Jinx's own reputation and the monster she lugged with her, the paupers and chempunks and runny-nosed snipes might well have pegged her for a mark. But Zaunites always knew their own when they saw them. And tucked away in one of the many rundown ghettos people, for some reason, kept clinging onto was a hint of gold.

Warwick's ear flicked at the sound of glass crunched underfoot and brick kicked aside--some amount of life was coming back to the wolf. Hidden away in a forgotten corner of the neighborhood was a building large enough to be consider a tavern. Perhaps an inn, once? Someplace for sump-scrapers and thugs to hang up their boots for a spell, find a bite to eat and partake of the rotten swill Zaun called alcohol. Except it was a pale imitation of The Last Drop, likely even before it had been turned inside out. A sign with half its letters worn off hung over the ruin of the front door, what few bolts keeping it in place threatening to give way. They read, T-e Su- D--c on the backdrop of what once was a glorious sun. And the contents of the building people had not seen fit to pilfer laid sprawled out afore it like a moth-tattered, mildewed pool of vomit. Inside faired little better. It resembled the platonic ideal of a common room for a tavern or an inn. Full of ruined furniture, a cracked bartender's area in the middle and shattered glass from broken windows above. Letting the rain and the wind in, dripping onto the stone floor. Producing a whistling sound from how it curled along the second floor railing. Something someone had hoped to one day make into what they envisioned an open place full of smiling faces would look like. The only thing left of a time when the fireplaces at either corner of the first floor were lit was a broken sun decoration dangling from cables overhead.

The man smelled the air, sniffing weakly. Where was the bacon and grease? Or the slightly stale beer poured from a recycled cask? It all felt empty, cold. Alone. He was home.

[zaundads]

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[chemicalmongrel]

(( Unrelated but I need to find new warwick art, specifically of him just being ABSOLUTELY messed up. All the kinds of injuries.

[chemicalmongrel]

"Happy Shurima?"

[chemicalmongrel]

[chemicalmongrel]

[[ I go back and forth on the league rp community, whether or not I want to continue Warwick in earnest like I used to. On one hand, there are some very talented writers here and I would love to try and interact with them if they would have me. But I also feel, at times, that with how long I have been away, with how many of my long-time partners are either no longer here or don't really do much anymore, that I am a stranger here.

[[ I adore Warwick to no end, but at times I just feel so awkward going to people in their PMs or asks (especially as a side-blog) to try and start something up. Like I am bothering them or imposing my presence upon them.

[[ I definitely need to figure out what I am going to be doing going forward now that I've got my bachelors and a need to work. Probably going to start with commission stuff, as kind of redundant as commissioning someone to write a story for you is.

[chemicalmongrel]

misstantabismuses:

"Hey, it's alright, Wolf", Jinx whispered, stumbling over her own words; not knowing what to say, she fell into the mantra, Silco would tell her whenever she lost herself in her own head, "It's not your fault. You are not in the bad place anymore. You are here with me. You are safe. Everything is going to be fine. You'll be fine. I'm not dead, Wolf. See?" The Loose Canon sniffled softly as her tank top slipped to a side, revealing a bad scar parting the skin on her right shoulder. "Despite everything, I am not dead. I'm fine. So no need to worry." Above them, the air carried the smell of approaching rain and thick clouds robbed Zaun of the last few rays of sunshine, which may have fought their way down the dingy streets. The low grumbling of thunder and the wind, thugging at Jinx's braids, promised a storm to come. The Loose Canon peered up at the clouds in wary mistrust. Turning back towards Vander, Jinx said: "We need to get you out of the rubble before the rain hits. Do you have any shelter?"

There wasn't any strength left in the chimera's body to lash out at the pain that shot through his shoulder. He could barely even register it. Like a needle lost amid a haystack, the pain was all encompassing. More so than ever before. Yet the image of blue pouring strength that belied her knobby body, all knees and elbows, was forever burned in Warwick's head. So much was different. All of it wrong in ways the man might have struggled with had he all his faculties about him. Then the scene shifted and he felt his head resting against someone's lap. Had he not tapped someone's cheek? When was that, did it happen? All the thoughts in his head were trickling out of the fissure splitting the back of his head. His eyes lolled about until coming to rest upon Jinx (Blue? Powder? Who?), wincing from the blood and grime caked into her face.

Angling back and forth, Warwick's ears chased after blue's voice as it skittered up and down the debris. It was distant yet close. Echoing down the way yet resonating right up against his eardrums. Something that made less and less sense the longer his splintered mind tried to focus on it. He was dying, again. It was a familiar sensation given how many times he, man and beast, had since the madman discarded his broken body. Watching glimpses of sump rats skittering through the bar after hours, jumping up on the tables and knocking over glasses. Heedless to how long it took to clean it after. Seeing fleeting hints of white fur, cloven feet and a massive wolf trailing after the white. All mingled together until it became impossible to tell what was, what is and what wasn't. How pathetic he was. To die in pink's arms, now to die in blue's arms.

Droplets of brackish rain pattered down from on high, slipping from rooftops and gutters and the everpresent smog blanketing Zaun. It was refreshing. It was damning. It was everything a sad, lonely boy bereft of his mother had hoped to see when he looked up toward the absent skyline. Her face, too, faded into the flame. The scar biting into blue's shoulder brought the man back to the forefront, out of the fuzzy reveries of nothing. Even as drops of water started to pool into the crevices of his eyes, even when her words were muted and indistinct. The scar was an island amid the growing hot-cold of his body. It seemed otherwordly against her pale, grimy skin. Like an ugly crag that splits the lip of a cliff, it dips in and turns the pale to an even paler hue. Scar tissue and something else... was there something else? When did she get it? Where did blue wander to find it? For a moment, the crack of thunder scared off the lamb and her hunting dog. Its jagged light would never be seen from so far down. But the tremor of its thunder could be felt from anywhere in Zaun. In how it shook the filling of your teeth, leaving a burnt copper taste against your tongue. And filling your ears with the rattle of hollow pipes. One of Warwick's eyes went cold and dim, but the other still burned with the same pitiful fire as before.

Shelter? A home? The words itched at several parts of his head, made the beast keen and the man remember sights and sounds and smells. Frothy mugs and soft music joined with the occasional boisterous laugh while pool cues clack away. His hands are always busy with something, the cotton of a cloth or the smooth chill of a spigot. Whiffs of smoke mingled with the soupy quality of the undercity air, but the whine (was it meant to be making that noise?) of that expensive exo-philtrator unit he managed to get installed meant it would always be breathable. How could you describe a home in words comprehensible to anyone who hasn't lived in it? Especially when it wasn't yours anymore. But it wasn't the only place. He remembered the scent of oil a few days from expiring as it popped in a pan from the crystal burner stovetop. Soupier air a bit heavier with the Gray than usual. Something you could taste, all gritty and caustic. Made all the worse by how it sat in your lungs, festering in the humidity and sweltering heat, with spoiled lavender. Yet the colors were brighter than outside. And there was a promise of bacon (what passed for it) and sausage and stewed mushrooms. Was this home? He couldn't remember, but a small part of the man knew the latter still existed while the former was a bitter scab for blue, pink and green.

"...gold..." he wheezed "...'ear the sump... border wit'... entresol... a small div' wit'... gold disc fer a... sign..." Then his head slumped back, his one good eye dimming out of consciousness.

[jennystahl]

oc questions

💅 What are some things they have strong opinions about?

💋 What traits do they like in other people? What traits do they not like?

💖 Do they have a significant other? If so, who?

💞 What’s their friend group like? What role do they play (leader, mom friend, etc.)?

💄 Do they care about their physical appearance? What’s their routine like?

👓 Do they have any physical or mental disabilities?

🔫 What would they die for? Kill for?

🔮 Do they have any magical powers or abilities? If it’s a realistic world, what religion do they follow?

🎉 Do they celebrate any holidays? How do they celebrate?

📚 If they were the protagonist in any book series, what series would they choose? Alternatively: what would be their favorite book?

🎲 Do they have any vices?

🎤 Do they play any instruments?

🎪 What would their favorite ride at an amusement park be?

🐇 What animal would they say best represents them?

🍸 How do they act when they’re drunk?

🍯 Which era of history would they most like to live in?

🍰 What’s their favorite food?

🌹  What songs remind you of them?

⛄ What’s their favorite season and why?

🌙 Which D&D class would they play as?

💫 What’s their favorite expletive?

🔥 What’s their favorite candle scent?

⏳ How do they feel about death?

💐 Do they collect anything? What’s their most prized possession?

⚾ Do they play any sports?

🌊 What one place do they really want to visit and why?

🌵 What languages do they speak?

🍒 What are some items they always carry? What weapon do they favor using if they exist in a world where weapons are necessary?

🍑 Which emoji would they use the most?

🍄 What fantasy race would they be? If they already are one, pick a different one.

🍼 Do they want to start a family? If they already have one, describe it.

🐝 What stereotypical high school clique would they fit into?

💳 What one thing that they don’t need do they waste the most money on?

👠 What kind of shoes do they wear?

👻 Do they believe in ghosts, aliens, and the occult in general?

💉 Which Deadly Sin do they most correspond to? Which Heavenly Virtue?

🃏 If you had to choose one tarot card to represent them, what would it be?

😊 What do they consider to be their best quality? What actually is their best quality?

🙁 What do they consider to be their worst quality? What actually is their worst quality?

[chemicalmongrel]

// On this episode of I continue to discover more about Zaun and Piltover as cities--did you know the original settlement of Oshra Va'Zaun partly laid beneath the river Pilt? You know, the ruins of that ancient Shuriman township that eventually gave rise to the cities as we know them now?

// Yeah just has tons of undercrofts you can explore - wild.

[chemicalmongrel]

misstantabismuses:

"Y-you aren't dead", Jinx whispered as she cautiously stepped closer towards the wolf, "Wow. That's impressive." She hadn't tried to kill him of course, but it still astonished her. Normally people didn't survive her explosions. Normally, loved ones didn't survive it when she jinxed everything. "Murderer." Her head shook low as she tried to ignore Mylo's accusation. It was not an accusation; it was the truth. Jinx placed her hand on the metal rod and said: "I am going to pull this out of you, Wolf, if you don't lunge at me. And by the way, my name is Jinx. What's yours? It's clearly not... Well, I don't think I can call you who you used to be, Wolf."

Moments before the WRETCHED gun with O N E E Y E hefted against blue's shoulder snapped at the BEAST, everything ground to a stop. The world got caught up in a picture frame. One you could put your hand through, feel around and mess with what it depicted. But only for it all to snap back into position. A moment to ponder, frozen in time. Voices layered atop one another until garbled memories jumbled into a Gordion Knot. Goggles and lockpicks and scabbed knuckles and symbol monkies. Jokes and jabs traded over a store counter. A man held beneath the Pilt, blood clouding already caustic waters. Years of promises shattered in a single night. He thought of the wordless promise he made the bodies lying on the bridge, scarlet pooling around them. Of the word he gave to two scared little girls, lost twisting in the wind. An oath of blood shared between brothers. Names and faces fading in the flames. It was happening again, only now he didn't have the excuse of leather strips biting into his extremities. Binding him down. Leaving him helpless to fight for those he took so much from already. QUIET.. A failure through and through- Heroes always die... ...I have never been better than this... This ignominious end seemed only fitting.

Despite itself, the BEAST bellowed with white-hot anguish clawing at its throat--one that shone through the missile's shout. Fire licked up its matted hide with the feverish appetite of a scampering sump rat. Oranges and yellows and reds mingled with crimson and phlegm-flecked chemicals. It CHARRED its flesh and SCOURED dark blue fur until it better resembled charcoal. Feeling like the hellish spawn between a first-degree burn and a heat rash. And then came the force of a HUNDRED hammers against its body. Bone and flesh RUPTURED, old scars splitting at the seams and weeping caustic ichor. Every limb cried out. It JOLTED back. The air sucked down its throat felt hot, tasted of rotten pennies and rancid mucus that threatened to POP its lungs. Burning shrapnel peppered the roof, ricocheting off shattered slate and riddling the MONSTER'S body. Some piercing clean-through. Others getting embedded like wasp stingers or coming to rest within the jagged canals burrowed into its MEAT! Worse still was how quick its body tried to mend itself. Like an overeager seamstress looking to claw out some recognition so she might have the means to start her own business. Its flesh writhed around where air ran razors over its body. Trying to knit itself back together, force SPLINTERED bone back into a cohesive shape. Despite it all, though, Warwick never took its eyes off blue. Was there a glimmer of a man in those eyes? A ghost of a man who always handed her a bucket of scrap metal, screws and oil crayons when he saw a burst of inspiration flash in her eyes? Something sad and angry, disappointed? Bitter, griefstricken? Who could say, really? The roof gave way.

At least a ton of stone, metal and burning wood was sent careening toward the crossroads below. Like a landslide without any incline to tumble down. Missing a walkway entirely and slipping down past several layers of Zaun. Punching a hole through the Gray. Leaving dust and detritus drifting in its wake. Swallowing the MONSTER in a dense, cloying cloud. Falling in the same manner Jinx had when, for the first time, her machinery worked. Only Warwick had no time to ponder before a heavy dose of reality shattered his spine and unzipped his backside like an overstuffed sausage. Then the rest of the debris came tumbling onto him, SMASHING his limbs and RUPTURING his body. Driving rebar and sections of pipe through his guts. Saddling the BEAST with punctured lungs and viscera turned to speckled jelly. So when she, Jinx, came upon the handiwork of her inventions--describing the pitiful sight before her as anything more than a dog that forgot how to die was generosity personified.

Whatever was left of the beast incited by the chambers and plungers had lost the strength to give blue the time of day. Having its very life spread out from under the rock and metal crushing its body would do that. Ichor and chemicals oozed from Warwick's split, ruined lips. Something important had broken inside his body. Despite that, whatever kept him going could be seen trying to put his body back together. When she spoke, his one good ear flicked before the eye that hadn't been smashed and starting to ooze out the sides drifted to attention. It was no longer crimson, nor was it a mucus green. It was a weak, pale blue.

He saw her face and felt his head pinch, trying to sift through the jumbled mess of its psyche. Searching for anything substantial. Anything to grab onto. Warwick barely even felt the rod lodged in his shoulder get removed. All he could do was muster the will to raise his ruined arm not pinned beneath rock and metal toward blue, toward Jinx, toward Powder. A name--if nothing else, a name would do. He remembered tapping her cheek with two knuckles when she was pouting. Whenever she had a fight with her sister, with pink. She always came to the same stool at the bar, face downcast and eyes puffy. Then he took out her cup, a jug of juice, filled it to the brim in front of her before then tapping two knuckles on her cheek to get her attention. So he did just that. Reached out to her face, straining his arm, before tapping her cheek. "...am sorry..." he croaked. "...'m fault..."

[chemicalmongrel]

// Seeing all the work and fanciness of people's themes these days make me feel quite old. When did everyone become so good at html and whatnot?

[chemicalmongrel]

First of all, I am really happy that you got back into rping and are giving me a chance. That means a lot. Now excuse me as I go and absolutely gush about your writing style!!!!

Holy smokes, where do I even start?!

Your writing style for Warwick is so specific, so unique and so interesting! I feel like it would be near impossible to replicate it. It is so immaculate and elegant; it is so precise in what you are trying to say. Which I find extremely fascinating, given that we are talking about a giant wolf monster, and as a Warwick rper myself, I can attest to how much of a headache his dialogue is!

I find it incredible how much depth and nuance, you give Warwick as a character. How he perceives the world, how he physically response to his environment, the way his memories interact with his rage and the tank on his back, even the way his memories are written... There is so much in your writing style, I wanna soak it up and roll in it. It is such a pleasure to read from start to finish.

I feel deeply touched and honoured to write with someone so skilled. Like I said, holy shit! You are that freaking good. Like Godtier Warwick. Aaaaaahhh!!!!

Honest Hearts

// I am glad to see that how I write and try to delineate Warwick has not deteriorated much from when I dropped off the face of Tumblr for a few years. That it does not seem like the way I try and format, characterize and have him interface with the world and those around him don't leave a bad taste in the mouth. Something I am, to be honest, quite worried about happening everytime I make a post or reach out to interact with others.

// I think I am my own biggest detractor in that regard. Holding myself up to a standard that sometimes feels impossible at times, especially when so many people on my dash are phenomenal writers and have a fundamental mastery over their muses. Since I often psyche myself out regarding whether or not it is annoying for me to even try to talk to others. Plot out things or ask if they want to do things.

// Which, to be fair, I think everyone here struggles with so I am not really unique in that regard.

// Am jus' happy to know that someone out there is so enthralled by my portrayal of this old dog to feel so strongly.

[yeahniall]

anonymously tell me your honest opinion about me