DOLMA _ MULLER @dolmamuller-blog - Tumblr Blog

elimarkos‌:

location: Providence Park time: dawn ( open )

Sunrise finds him kneeling in the dirt of what used to be farmland, in the area surrounding the haven they’ve taken to calling providence park. The scent of loam, thick in the air, feels like a bit of a betrayal, a promise of fresh starts and new life where he knows there is no such thing. Others, he knows, have felt God’s absence like an ache, but he never really felt God to begin with so instead he sees it in their faces as he passes them by, offering out a hand on the shoulder, a tiny benediction.

Things should be growing here.

They should be doing something. Something other than hiding, to fix the mess they’ve made. But it is so beyond the scale of human comprehension, he doesn’t even know what there is to do, what there is to fix; all he can do is take care of those around him.

Between the thicket of his thoughts, he hears footsteps, quiet, muffled by the soil but still there. Approaching him. He sits back on his heels with a sight, his eyes fluttering shut for one last brief moment of peace, before he turns to greet the footsteps in kind.

“Morning. It’s early, is everything alright?”

–– there he is. eli markos. their wonderful messiah. would-be leader. so, she thinks, gaze landing heavy on his back, this is what i could have been. she has found herself in his ministry now, when she should have - could have - been leading her own.

jealousy flairs in her, for the briefest of moments. she finds him lacking. she finds herself hungry for what he has. dolma attempts to push all of it aside. she doesn’t like to be an envious person. she has had enough sin in her life now, she does not need to give in to petty things like pride.

the crunch of her footsteps alerts eli. good. he should be on his guard.

“ just confirming my suspicions. ” voice low, tilted quiet in reverence to the early morning light. “ i was afraid i would find you wallowing, and here you are. ” maybe its sharp. maybe its unkind. but he is their leader, and she imagines that he should be doing more. he should be making plans of action, preparing all of them for a war carried out in chaos.

she sits beside him, hitting the ground with an audible thud. that is how she treats her body now, a tool to be thrown around. it has no other use. “ other than that, everything is fine. ” this is, she considers, quite an untrue statement. she gives him a tight-lipped smile. “ as fine as things can be. ”

#[ guess my friends can't face the cold || eli ]#[ eli 001 ]

festerandfeed‌:

They move through the city on the muscle memory of the body they are in, winding through strange alleyways as if they are as familiar as home, stepping over cracks in the pavement, curving past potholes, all through the slick night, heat rising off the streets like fog even past sundown. The city burns, like the most familiar places of hell, but the scent of sin is thicker, here, cloying in the air.

It’s amazing, how things change. It’s amazing, how it’s all exactly the same as it was centuries ago, when they roamed the earth as an angel, breaking their role as a Watcher for a chance to give a couple of pretty humans a couple of pretty gifts. They all wear Azazel’s gifts, still, teenaged faces smeared with makeup, boys trying to look like men by holding guns they barely know how to use. Give a human a blade, and he’s going to want and want and want until he’s god a nuclear bomb.

It’s not the fear they can smell, as the woman approaches: it’s the blade at her side. The metal calls to them like a child crying out for its mother. It makes them want to make her draw it, just so they can see what she does with their little gift.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Hear they’ve god a rotten sense of smell.”

–– theres a rotting stench to this. literally and metaphorically. no one can say that zion city is the cleanest place in the world, and this creature before her feels dirty with it too. eyes like hunger, like insanity, like something unhinged that she can’t put a name to.

she can’t put a name to anything about them. rotting, but glowing. a power undefinable. is this a hero or a monster?

her gut tells her m o n s t e r. through and trough. she grips her knife tighter, a flash in her mind telling her to slit its throat without hesitation.

the softer part of her saying no, thou shalt not kill. don’t put another stain on this soul.

find purity again.

but she can’t do that. purity will never be hers again. she’s as dirty now as the streets around her, as the heat radiating off the pavement, of the grim on the walls, unfixable. thats why god cast her aside, isn’t it? the white lace of her mind is ripped and sullied.

she wets her lips, knuckles white on the blade handle.

“ maybe the snivelling runts. ” it comes out too sharp, but she couldn’t give a shit. she shoulders past them, shoulder colliding against theirs with bravado, the aura of a woman who claims her rightful space with no guilt. with a look sharpened silver, she locks eyes with them. “ come back to me when you’ve learned subtlety, and them maybe i’ll humour you, demon-spawn. ”

#[ guess my friends can't face the cold || azazel ]#[ azazel 001 ]#dolma: fight emoji #yara: hearteyes emoji

angxluriel‌:

Earth is just as desolate as they remember. Harsh chemical smells, insufferable swells of heat. It is unusual for Uriel to feel so distinctly uncomfortable. They can feel their shirt sticking to their back as they meander through the city, people flitting this way and that, perhaps looking for salvation of some kind. You won’t find it here, they muse, watching the gang of youths scurry away, God is on high, not down below.

It is then that their eyes fall upon a woman approaching. Her blonde hair is tousled, her gaze unyielding. But Uriel isn’t intimidated by this display. They can sense a radiance from them, one almost akin to an angel’s, yet not quite. Demons would fear her.

They would fear me too.

Uriel stops and raises a cool eyebrow. “I wonder if you say that out of concern or ridicule,” they reply, their voice slow and unperturbed. “Either way, you needn’t worry yourself. Or are you the type of person to worry about strangers?” they add, tilting their head, curiosity piqued.

–– its a talent, noticing the god touched among them. angels gleam like a light from the inside out, and dolma wonders if everyone else can see it too, or if micheal changed her somewhat when she was chosen. she cocks her head, considers.

“ depends on the kinda stranger. ” she admits, with a smile. and then, laugh quiet. “ okay, you don’t strike me as the kind to enjoy being ridiculed. don’t worry. it was only half a joke. ”

her blade twirls in her hand. a nervous habit.

“ which one would you be, then? ” she tries to pinpoint it on her own. this is an angel, a powerful one, she can tell that much. serious, a bit cocky, a little overly formal. its a little neat, how unique all of them are. all their different personalities. she would be able to tell michael apart from anyone, she thinks, even if michael found a new host.

“ raphael? uriel? barachiel? ”

#[ guess my friends can't stand the cold || uriel ]#[ uriel 001 ]

ofdeviils‌:

often he walks the streets as the sun begins to set. as much as he enjoyed the warmth of the light , he found he enjoyed the night much more. the stars , the city lights , the low bustling , he found that it fascinated him. the former especially , as he was there when many of them were created. it steadied him.

as he strolled , demons bent at the hip in respect , but the humans that passed simply steered clear of the big man’s path. they did not know who he was , but still felt the divinity within him. they were frightened. save for this one , perhaps.

“ it’s true , sweetie. we can. “ the words were meaningless , simply said to alert her to his darkened presence. he can tell she isn’t scared. his voice was gruff as light green eyes roll over her form. what he observes is more than his vessel’s eyes can perceive. he can feel the sin on her. an interesting find , he thinks.

–– like calls to like. thats how the universe works. everything is tied together, some things more strongly than other things. she was tied to God once. his chosen. now shes tied to lucifer, the monster at the end of her life’s path.

she knows him once she takes a good look. he doesn’t feel like other angels. he feels dark. tainted.

she knows what corruption tastes like, and its in the air before her now.

her head tilts, unafraid.

i could kill him now, she considers. plunge her knife through his heart. put all her weight and holy fury into it. but she knows she isn’t ready, accepts it with cold regard.

micheal wouldn’t want her to take the risk.

so she smiles instead. cocky. headstrong. she’s furious. she wants so strongly to claw at him. rip his eyes out. rip his dick off. they say he brought all sin into the world and that means he tainted her. called her to kill. called her away from god.

its his fault.

“ awh shucks, now i’m embarrassed, aren’t i? didn’t mean to offend, big guy. ” her next step brings her closer, bravery still holding her steady. another head tilt. “ and definitely didn’t mean to interrupt –– no, you carry on. sure you’ve got some real important jobs to do. ”

#[ guess my friends can't face the cold || lucifer ]#[ lucifer 001 ]

merciful-love‌:

Jegudiel turned around, recognizing the voice. Their eyes found a familiar face … before darting to the blade held tightly between the other’s hand. Michael had chosen her, their ultimate weapon. But part of them wondered if Dolma even wanted that – wanted to be entangled in this mess.

Because all humans deserved more. More than war, more than suffering.

They offered a smile, wondering, “do I really look that scared?”

And do demons really smell fear? They weren’t too sure, especially now that the divine and the cursed were caught in human forms ( and nothing seemed to be simple on Earth ).

–– they offer jegudiel a smile. wry and amused though it may be. such a pretty thing, innocent. innocence is a rarity now, dolma supposes. something to be p r o t e c t e d. thats what dolma was for now, her new purpose.

a killing thing, if you word it softer, is just a protecting thing.

“ just a little bit, judy. don’t worry, its subtle. ” its accompanied by a wink, for lightness. teasing and bright. “ i’ve just got a sharp eye. ”

she straightens her shoulders, inclining her head in a gesture that is supposed to mean jegudiel should follow her. “ just stick with me, doll. i’ll protect you. ”

#[ guess my friends can't face the cold || jegudiel ]#[ jegudiel 001 ]

––– footsteps clattering around her, the pitter patter of life. dolma watches as a group of young teens rush down the street, whipping by her side like a sudden uptake of wind. young. full of life. full of terror. her heart a c h e s. she wants to find them and bring them home with her, to the relative safety of providence park. but she knows she can’t.

she wants to find lucifer and pull his heart out. see if he even has one. maybe he doesn’t. a cold blooded creature, poison in the well of the world. poison in the hearts of all men –– even hers, she must remind herself. she has been sullied by sin too. no longer pure. no longer perfect. no longer chosen. just a weapon now. a sharp b l a d e, a killing thing. it sets something hard alight in her, something furious.

she approaches an another figure on the street, another sign of life. she steels herself, armor slipping carefully into place. she is not a helpless thing. she still holds a glorious purpose. a blade in easy reach and a confidence that you can’t fake.

“ don’t look so scared, sweetie. i hear demons can smell fear.”

#[ guess my friends can't face the cold || open ]#prov; starter

CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT: HISTORY

ONE.

the ANGEL comes to her on her twelfth birthday. a year of milestones. blood has made her a woman, and god has chosen her for a glorious purpose. its a heavy weight for the shoulders of a child, but she carries it as best she can. she does not run, she does not hide, she does not cower in the face of divine providence. anything they ask of her, she will do. she would be a leader of men, saviour of the poor and the needy.

when she asks a creature of divine light why she has been chosen, their reply is this, in the words of jesus christ: “blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see god.” so she must be a pure thing. she tiptoes around sin. her mind like white lace, her heart like a glowing beacon of light, her intentions like the fall of rain after a long drought. she shall be a glorious thing because god looked at her and saw that she was good.

TWO.

she finds herself twenty-seven years old, working herself to the bone for love of humanity. delicate creatures, prone to bouts of existential dread that can be soothed with the right words and an appropriate miracle. her ministry is small, but her followers dedicated. she is their messiah, a being bathed in light, a creature of god’s mercy. she could do no wrong.

a mind like white lace. a heart like a glowing beacon of light. she should have known that she would attract the kind of men who like to sully pure things. there is a man who wants to ruin her, drag her through the dirt and tear her open, make her his. grubby, grabbing hands and cruel intentions.

instincts are a powerful thing. desperate hands a powerful weapon. as soon as she can, she stops him. stops him forever. blood seeping out from wounds inflicted by her hand. she shakes from it. shock and awe. sorrow.

blessed are the pure of heart. she thinks. except how could a killers heart be pure? but no, god could not blame her for doing this. this could not be a mark in her record for all eternity. self defence is as good a reason as any, and she has taken a cruel man out of the world.

god does blame her for this. holds her accountable. a death is a death. thou shalt not kill.

THREE.

maybe she understands now how lucifer felt after the fall. its a long way down from divinity. a harsh fall. she was pushed from the edge by a god that should have loved her, should have forgiven her. but bloody frantic things can’t be his chosen people.

she still finds herself shaking with it years later. but she finds strength in the pain too. armour over her skin to protect her from the wounds of the world. not caring about humanity is a tempting call, but she continues her ministry in isolation. a helping hand here, calming words there. she finds men in bars making women uncomfortable and beats them up in back alleys and parking lots. she becomes a weapon, a saviour in her own right.

blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be fucking satisfied.

#[ going through the motions || about ]#assault tw #blood tw

fiendhq

dolmamuller-blog

providence-hq‌:

( and i feel so proud when the reckoning arrives )

name: dolma müller role: the chosen - dolma is a weapon of angels, a sword to be pointed at a problem, the sharpest steel in the cosmos. allegiance: god faceclaim: dichen lachman pronouns: she/her status: taken

“God’s chosen don’t go bloody and stay chosen - which is why dolma müller isn’t His anymore. she’d been young when He picked her, but mature for her age and in possession of an understanding beyond her years. she was grateful for it, it made her something special. she dedicated herself to a life of service, which could so easily go to waste now, but it doesn’t. so she went bloody, so she gave in to the thrill of being strong. so her fists broke skin, bruised knuckles and the temptation of glory. the stream of her existence still lays tangled with the pull of eternal circumstance, metaphysical gravity. she’ll never be a Christ figure, but she’s still chosen by someone. the archangel micheal came to her and marked her as a flaming sword to guard the hearts of men. she’ll never be a Christ figure, but her time of glory may still come to pass, and when the dust settles she might hold the heart of the morningstar in her hands, and know that she was the one with the power to rip it from him.”

#[ going through the motions || about ]