ＢｌａｃｋＨａｗｋ @enragier1 - Tumblr Blog

Bʀɪɴɢ Bᴀᴄᴋ Wʜᴀᴛ Oɴᴄᴇ Wᴀs Mɪɴᴇ…

It was Guts, but not her Guts. This man had his face and voice, and yet he was almost completely changed. His presence was more powerful then the last she had seen him, dark and brooding. Donned in all black, he looked the part of a villain. There were more scares then she remembered, more then she could count. Most alarming of all was that, despite all this, he looked so much older. As though time had passed, and time had not been gracious.

She quickened her own pace to him, sheathing her sword quickly. He was the first person she had found, and that didn’t seem like a coincidence. It wasn’t long till she had reached him, but a skeptical look still hung on her features. She was dead so what did it mean if he was here as well? Had he too died? Or was this some sort of vision meant to taunt her? The last thing she remembered he had returned, they had saved Griffith from his captors. Her death was still fuzzy, but finding Guts there looking this way, surely meant something.

”… Why are you looking at me like that?”

Casca was baffled by just how shocked he appeared. Her words had been spoken before she could realize what she had said. Her hesitation was clear. Nothing made sense to her. Not her death, not this place, and most certainly not his presence. But it had been his expression and the startling relief in his voice as he had called her name that set her on edge.

Answers would follow her questions surely. They had to think of a plan, an efficient one that would allow them to locate shelter for the night and then move on till they found others still alive… or dead. Perhaps there friends would be among their numbers, and would have a better explanation at their untimely demise.

Before that, she would ask one more question. They were alone as not another soul could be seen on either sides of the shoreline. Reaching her hand upward, gentle fingers hesitant at first would move delicately through the small patch of white that decorated the nearly all black swordsman. It was an indicator that time had passed, and the very thought of that struck her deep at her core.

“… Just what has happened to you?”

enragier1

How could he not dare to observe her quietly? Appreciating every faction, every word spoken regardless of how idiotically simple they could be. Love may be a strange concept to handle, too preachy to even consider claiming aloud. To him, it resembled a miracle having a chance to see her again.

It made sense that she had forgotten everything and even to this point, she disregard the crude experiences lived. From the loss of their comrades and to the afterwards events -- being injured meant nothing in comparison to the horrors she has lived while some were his fault. He owed her an apology, countless of explanations that could never justify his deeds.

Though, how to begin? A query that can be left aside, he can accept the blame for enjoying the mere sight of Casca. Opposed to his deranged self, time did not dare to alter the mercenary leader and left her intact from all harm.

Slender fingers brushed the white of his hair, a gesture that took him aback due its abruptness. It seemed far too long since she dared to stand so close, the hatred drawn within her eyes no longer part of his reality. Did he grow used to the constant rejection? Somehow, he felt stupid at the realization and laughing did not sound like a terrible idea but, was a lecture what he wanted from her? Actually, it would not be that bad.

Unknown to himself, a smile blossomed at the corner of his lips. He sought to not denote relief and failed, repressing his emotions was but an idiotic idea in front of her. It is stupidly soothing to think of himself submissive, willing to allow another onto his personal space when most time he rejected everyone else.

"Just...a lot of fighting." Nonchalant as per usual, taking no concern on the physical burden he endured until now. It was a reassuring reward to see her again...at least as briefly as it could last, for he never truly hoped this to be a lasting experience and had come in terms that fighting heaven and hell alike, is a worth risk to take.

"You don't like it?"

#quassicare #casca001*#sobS

jetstream-sam-moved-deactivated

heres a comic about berserk

#quietly reblogs go d #;old friend

quassicare

Bʀɪɴɢ Bᴀᴄᴋ Wʜᴀᴛ Oɴᴄᴇ Wᴀs Mɪɴᴇ…

This was not home.

This was not like anywhere she had seen before. The ground was laid in stone, but with material she had never seen. The buildings surrounding her of the likes of which were foreign. The roads were littered with large steel like boulders, glass squares allowing others to peer inside. Nothing was familiar to her, and that had caused a seed of panic to set within the female soldier. Not to mention the complete lack of people in what should have been a bustling town.

Nothing felt right. Not the buildings, or the atmosphere in which everything was held. Casca herself did not feel intact, a part of her was missing that she was clearly having trouble to face.

She was dead.

It wasn’t a sort of woman’s intuition or a guess, it had been a feeling at the bottom of her gut that she could not shake. There was fear, anger, but most of she was so disappointed. Everything she had worked so hard for was now wasted. Her resolve to stay by Griffith… had it not been strong enough?

Casca moved out of the town, her hand gripped tight on the hilt of her sword. With no one at the town there was no reason to stay. Perhaps it might have been better to wait, but in truth, staying in a ghost town did nothing to calm her. Casca was restless. In the search for answers, Casca came to a cliff that overlooked a gray sea. She couldn’t remember the last time the last time she had seen a body of water so large, or if she had ever. It was relaxing, but not enough to shake the feeling of being watched.

And that is exactly what was happening. She could see a tall figure, completely black, out of the corner of her vision. With a sift movement she drew her sword, but was stopped.

It couldn’t be.

”… Guts?”

enragier1

I remember... Whenever I stand by the waterside with her...It is always to prevent something bad from happening...

Remembrances of days buried beneath the sand of time, he would observe wishfully the movements of the water that passed by the trajectory chosen in this particular attempt of knowing the realm that has caged him and many others. Granting the branded man moments to be lost in thought, it reminded him of the beginnings in his hunt. Those empty attempts to soothe his lose, an erroneous choice was to believe the solution can be found in nonsensical slaughter. However, what other option he had but to fight? Still, achieving a peaceful life was but an ridiculous idea and he was left with limited options. It didn't justify how many have wronged and hurt in the process, anger consuming his judgement more often than needed.

All for what? To have nothing. Yet, was this place attempting to play with the minimal he has amounted and present before him a known person? He would have removed himself, if his resolution was stronger than to ignore the presence of the figure that represented far beyond mere familiarity.

To listen her call out his name, how stupidly reassuring was that? For the common stoic expression, now surprise has taken a hold and nostalgia is what clutches his heart -- a swarm of emotions follows, overwhelming enough to leave a trace of confusion and amidst the inner turmoil, he is rendered motionless. His body didn't respond, slow-paced heartbeats opposed growing anxiety.

Sweet and bitter sadness...

Memories of days long past...but always in the end...--

"...Casca." And it is until a while he can actually intend to approach, his steps hurrying where she stood in an almost desperate fashion. However, refrained from seeking her embrace, the stigma of her rejection still etched in his memory and now of all times, he would detest to be denied the minimal approach. To hold her, it was a right he lost long time ago and he had no means to recover.

Seeing the vivid expression within those black eyes, had that not sufficed as a reward or would he become selfish and demand more? A clear answer is not what he needs in regard his doubts, if she can at least call out again his name, he is willing to depart -- never glance at her again, keep a safe distance between both if she needed such.

Anything.

It didn't matter how obnoxious or absurd it would seem, he will comply.

"CASCA!"

#quassicare #guts isnt crying yet but im the oNE IN FUCKING TEARS

enragier1

deadbeat witch and swordsman ❮beatrice❯

serutee

{ ♛ —

While she’d always been one to cause mischief and trouble, Beatrice did have moments where she did good. Sure, she’d done a few morally reprehensible things here and there (in her opinion, anyway) but Beatrice thought nothing of them. Morals didn’t matter to witches. Witches were beings that did as they pleased, whenever they pleased. But, she didn’t think she deserved to get shot from behind.

Really, that day she’d just been minding her own business and exploring the Valley. Nothing out of the ordinary… Well, except for being dead and all. So, when a loud ‘bang!’ went off near her, Beatrice instinctively turned, and was met with a sharp pain to her torso.

"Ack—!”

Her blood splattered on the ground, and, if it weren’t for her shock, Beatrice wouldn’t have taken so many moments to heal herself. A swarm of gold passed through her and the wound, fully healing it, evaporating the blood, and fixing the tear on her dress. Then, seeing the culprit and hearing his lackadaisical excuse, the anger set in.

Her temper had always been short and fierce, and this was no exception. While it was an accident, such a relaxed manner was what really set her off.

"You shoot someone and that is your response?!”

Now, just how was she going to make him pay for this? }

enragier1

So his suspicions were correct after all. He had shot someone accidentally and worse case, his shot hit straight on the incidental target. A pained claim sufficed to make him alert of what was wrongly labeled as a mishap. The trail of smoke took a while to dissipate, finally allowing the feminine figure to be seen. Still, was that not enough to eliminate a person entirely or even a minor beast if such was the case?

And that's when he finally began to grow truly concerned on his actions -- this was not a human being and was far stronger than what he expected to confront. Blood dripped from her form, mangled flesh exposing external damage and partially; internal. Clothes subtly torn and burnt, a mere open.

Yet, she was capable of movement and only took few seconds to restore his mess.

And his conclusion? This is some fucked up shit. One he will have to end sooner or later.

"You're okay." Or else, she would not be trying to argue with him in this very instant and her body would be laying on the floor -- despite he was on the wrong for not offering at least an appropriate apology, if she had the energy to lash on him, it meant a discussion wasn't necessary.

"If you can fucking grow back up your skin like a gross lizard, I don't see why you're complaining."

#ladybeato #A CHAIR...#dont sit on his armor at least

foodforflowers

Look who's digging their own grave. || Open

foodforflowers

"Oh?" It wouldn’t be the first time someone said that to him, though for now, Inigo just noted that the man he managed to come across certainly wasn’t all that cheery to being compared to an angel. Or perhaps his face was stuck that way. It’s like looking at a more beefed up version of Gerome, all he needs is a mask and wyvern. "Dear sir, what can I say? I was simply happy that I came across another person! First thing that popped in my head, honest," he explained, grinning. It’d be a lie to say that Inigo wasn’t wishing for the company of a pretty girl instead, but beggars can’t be choosers, and hey, if a battle were to happen, a very capable hand was greatly appreciated.

Even if it didn’t look like it, he sure as hell wouldn’t want to see an real angel here either. This was a mess enough; even, if he could say, Hell itself, and they were the unlucky ones to be in its levels. Inigo couldn’t be angry at anybody but himself: it was his own mistake he ended up here, in the midst of battle to make a difference, after all.

Sadly that thought wasn’t what his mouth said.

The Mercenary scratched at his cheek, allowing himself to be comfortable. “Would she be too much of a sight for me to see? Her beauty radiant? Aren’t you the lucky one, being able to see her already!” Damn nervousness, look at what you did. Though Guts, as you can see, oblivion would have been so much better than what you have to deal with right now. Yet with practiced grace did Inigo ignore all annoyed looks; a gift for him, a pain in the ass for others, male or female.

"So not only are you capable of attracting the ladies apparently with the one-eyed look, but you’re also good with that kind of sword," he said, giving a pointed look at said weapon. Such a thing couldn’t just be for appearance sake, considering the thing had to be taller than himself and weight ten times more. "Just what can a man of your stature not be capable of?"

enragier1

If he was dead and this was his hell, could this be considered the punishment heavens have casted upon his tortured soul? Guts would not be surprised that his limited patience was being put into test, perhaps ending as part of a void full of laments did not sound as bad so long as his mind was not aware of the overwhelming idiocy of certain individuals. Sadly, he was in his full senses and could hear and UNDERSTAND every stupidity spoken. While none of his concern, he began to assume this man's demise was his fault alone and mostly, of the bullshit he said.

He would have not doubted a single instance to pierce his throat in order to silence his futile attempts of comedy and he would not blame whoever intended to do that in previous occasions.

His attitude was extremely bright, somewhat reminded him of his elvian companions that now he wondered, what would be of them right now? His starts with Puck were terrible and he was an unreliable companion. Nonetheless, he stuck alongside until the end as a somewhat strange support to his deranged soul. Perhaps, he should not consider this as bad. A mere guess. For now, he could care less of presenting certain disgust on his presence

Black iris wandered away, index finger scratching his right cheek whilst processing this conversation. Attracting ladies? Not his major preoccupation, luckily he scared away most humans and he was correct in regard his swordsmanship. In fact, was what he not capable to do? To which he thought would be interesting to add soon after the pause, "Of not killing you, maybe." Whether he was joking or not, such could not be detected by voice alone nor his expression since both were equally indifferent.

#foodforflowers #IM LAUGHING #GUTS IS A BEEFED UP GEROME OMG

gonna make you CRY

HAH, JOKE'S ON YOU.

IM ALWAYS CRYING

#Guts shitty answers #ooc ;#:(((((#quassicare

deadbeat witch and swordsman ❮beatrice❯

To properly revise his equipment became a major distraction soon after his arrival, it is a constant to find a rather private place to proceed on verifying his weapons from one on one. Knives carefully placed on a piece of cloth laid on the ground, as well his sword at the side for an easier approach and other supplies scattered among.

And at last, the gauntlet that remains positioned on his arm -- the string hanging from his arm is pulled, as to verify if it was still capable to move swiftly. He didn't consider removing it rather than testing it from the get to go, as he was alone and thought no danger would come if he aimed to a blank space. Who else would come along anyhow? Much to his bad luck, when pulling said string; the canon was loaded -- powder still resided within the barrel and a simple action sufficed to ignite it and fire the explosion.

However, no problem would have occurred if he didn't realize a figure was passing by the area and it was already too late before he could warn whatever that was to remove themselves.

His weapons shook subtly at the recoil, his body remaining in the same position and although he should have expressed slight concern on the possibility of harming someone -- Gut's face was intact from all emotion and presented an almost worrisome calm.

"Huh...,my bad."

#ladybeato #beatrice001 #im so ready for u to step on guts

#mental note: kill inigo. what do you mean we are all dead? i dont care i'LL KILL HIM AGAIN.#but i'll answer reply bc work calls me!!! so yeha ALSO IF YOU WANNA START SOMETHING..like this post???#i can cap it at ...2 8I #ooc ;

foodforflowers

Look who's digging their own grave. || Open

That is what they all say. You’ll drink yourself to death.

foodforflowers

Inigo took no time at all to approach this other person, grin lit, though he managed to keep a reasonable distance between the two of them in case the worse turned to worst. He may just be about to open his mouth and a flirtatious comment will be made, but he’s still a Mercenary, light sleep and able to rest in any location if it was possible.

"Are you an angel? I must be in heaven since I’m standing here next to you!"

The white-haired male demeanor appeared to be him not having a care in the world, comical in this situation, yet internally it was anything but. An inner battle with the words ‘I failed’ floating in his mind; that had nearly done it, they nearly defeated Grima, they were right there and then-

Failure. Watching himself fall, the pain that struck him, and then a foggy darkness, only to gasp himself awake to this strange, cawtastrophic place, the last remnants of the attack leaving him to shudder in the darkness, alone. Alone…

This is why, founding another soul, he reacted out of habit, flirting being his way of distracting himself, and - the funny part - to try to make the other smile. Inigo, still much too shy to dance in front of others, believed he would destroy any of his dances if he attempted to practice right now, and there was no possible way of messing up flirting now for him!

enragier1

He assumed the worst. Last he could recall, he was laying down and vaguely attempting to recover from his wounds of the last battle -- did he die in his sleep? Waves lulling his body into an endless slumber from where he would never awake? Or had he been victim of his own malice? Darkness consuming all, not a single life spared and blood; a scent still vivid within his own self. Did his companions perished? Or have they awoken with the saddening reality of the loss of his companion? As if, he didn't deserve to be mourned. He fears the answer and tries to evade such, pretending entire control on the situation instead -- Casca is in good hands, wasn't she?

His life, at least mattered for a short instance. Whilst he would have appreciated to remain lost in thought, they are irrupted in the most stupid fashion anyone would have ever.

Oblivion sounded fairly better when you're the only moron trapped.

"I would be careful about what I say if I were you." What a fucking annoying way to greet someone, rather than comprehending the purpose of these words -- comparing a human to an angel felt strangely wrong, what should be considered a creature of grace and whatnot; fell in a whole different category as they were nothing but vile creatures and immediately taken as an insult of sorts.

It is not as if he felt offended, irony at its best often brought a sour taste to his mouth sufficed as a subtle annoyance. One he should be willing to mock, at most laugh of how awful things have gone. He was irritated but permitting his composure to break would grant a chance to his more bestial side to go rampant and despite he had nothing to lose anymore -- why to keep pilling up burdens in this limbo?

The black swordsman's eye casted downward, eyebrows subtly furrowed before taking a different route of actions. Palm placed on his features, solely to remove him away in a rather brusque manner instead of limiting it to a mere push.

"You'd better pray to never find a real angel."

And he would do the same...so far, everything was too damned peaceful for his own like. At least, he would not be surprised whenever it ended.

#foodforflowers #i am 110% guts is the worst kind of person for this open #and that's why i needed to reply

"I'm going to fucking murder someone."

#aspho mini #[guts voice] what the ***** hOLY ****** ****** *** ALL OF YOU ************#i literally dont have enough of time to write a proper intro

i SWEAR I'LL POST AN OPEN SOONER OR LATER BUT YEAHH

let's get along

#aspho shit #ooc ;

faustuszero

#;black hawk #guess who's back #back again

timtomtimmytommy-deactivated201

#;black hawk #this shit tries so hard and he still cried at the end #fuck guts

enragier1

We're coming empty handed. ❮Jack❯

twobitheroic1s-deactivated20160

"I wouldn’t insult you like that, Guts. You know me, I know you. I was never your babysitter." Jack cared about Guts a lot—hell, they were like brothers, ever since those idyllic days running through Paralia, through all the fights and arguments and stupid things. To be talked to like that… it wasn’t unexpected, but it still hurt.

"Look down on you?" Damn, hadn’t they had this fight already? Guts had found out that Jack’s family was a great deal richer than his, that Jack’s persona of a rough-and-tumble graduate of the School of Hard Knocks was little more than that, a persona. They’d come to blows, and after knocking each other around, had decided that they were above such petty crap anyways. "No, it’s nothing like that. I left suddenly, and… that wasn’t fair. To you… or to me. And now… I would’ve said something sooner, but now’s the only time I have the words to say. The right ones."

If Jack was to get any more sappier, he thought, he might as well have brought a wedding band and a bouquet.

"The last time I saw you, you were in jail. Do you remember what I offered? I offered to go to my dad, to see if he could get you a way out." What he didn’t say was how Guts had thrown the offer in his face, told him that he didn’t need his father’s help, or his help. "Then I left. You wanna know why?"

For all his ‘bravery’—all the acts of stupid daring rebellion, the fights, the drinking, the flaunting of the rules, the brainless ‘just-because-i-can’ defiance—Jack couldn’t even say it straight to his best friend’s face.

enragier1

Recapitulations of a past he thought behind provided nothing but a burdensome weight he would give anything to evade but escaping has never been his style -- but there is a viable method he knows can put an end to this torture. "I don't wanna know." Preventing room for dubiety, his response is quickly blurted in a fashion so lax it almost be a reason of concern. His shoulders drop, eyes glancing away from Jack's visage and soon a sigh falls from his grimaced lips.

"You think I enjoy wasting my time sobbing over petty shit?" And despite he is confident on shrugging what he should consider painful, he is the spiteful type, always debating loosening his grip on every harmful situation -- but now he wonders, who he is to bear a grudge due abandonment? When he belongs nowhere, not even near those he thought as close. What occurred in the past was a mere proof of facts he is fully aware of, departure and whatnot were no more a matter of dwelt since it is eventually deem to happen.

I don't want what another man can give me. If he grants me anything, then it's his to give and not my own.

"You're an asshole and no one in the world will change that, doing this for your own sake pretending 's for my own..."

"I don't hate you, now go easy on yourself." Guilt belonged to his companion while Guts never crossed that line, remaining on a safe and comfortable distance. His fingers lingered closer to the glass, his beverage still with half -- he doesn't hesitate on gulping it in one go before regaining his speech -- "The years made you look like shit anyway."

#twobitheroics #jack001 #i took in forever agAIN

cupimus

✗ : blood & guts { event closed. }

In sleep came nightmares—- and within the terrible dreams.. was truth.

Griffith found himself in a cold, dark room, damp stone floor beneath him. Physically, he felt drained of strength, filth ridden both in and out. It seemed far too real to be a mere nightmare, far too drawn-out to occur within a few seconds of a single night. There was pain all over his skin — patches that were burned, others that felt as though they’d been scraped raw.

He did not try to move. He did not know if he even could, yet before Griffith could even make an attempt at pushing himself up, he heard steps approaching. Bare feet hit the cobblestones, a repulsive noise, yet the words that came after were even worse—-

"Let me cut that cute face open.. and see those pink muscles.."

It was then that Griffith was jolted into consciousness.

Sun filtered through the windows, the gentle noise of birds outside seemingly soothing… yet it only took a single glance for him to realize that this was not his home. This was not the city, where the familiar noise of passing traffic whispered from outside. What struck Griffith the most, however, was the pain. Immediately, he pushed himself up, shuddering instinctively as that burning sensation returned, most prominent upon his back. He had been branded, yet he so far was unaware of it, only knowing that it hurt like nothing else before had—-

a whimper passed from his lips, brows furrowing… but as the noise escaped him, Griffith paled. There was something else wrong. Something terrible. Disregarding the pain, he forced himself to stand, staggering forward. One hand pressed against the wall as he leaned there, the other reaching to his mouth.. and although he could feel it well enough for himself, he insisted upon reaching a finger into his mouth, feeling desperately for proof that he was wrong.

His tongue had been cut off.

For a moment, upon realizing the horrific truth, he nearly gagged, hand clasping firmly over his mouth. He had to get out. He had to see that it was still very much a nightmare, he had to know that this wasn’t reality. Thoughts muddled by confusion and fear, Griffith tore out of the small house, sleepwear still on. Paralia— the sight of it all would have provided a sense of relief, enforcing the idea that it truly was only a dream.. had it not felt so incredibly real. Hand still pressed against his mouth, the young man staggered forward, panicked as he searched for solace of some kind. Yet he found none.

Momentarily, his knees gave way beneath him, white-haired youth slipping to the grass-covered ground. Hands leaning upon his thighs, he bowed his head, attempting to calm his breath. Griffith had always been adept at finding his way around difficult situations, smoothly maneuvering such complications to his advantage — yet never before had he been faced with such a catastrophe. It was the noise of a bystander that caught his attention, however, causing the young man to glance up— only to feel the shuddering chill of dread.

Guts. Of all the people that he could have run into.

Dream or not, Griffith immediately pushed himself up, adamant on escaping the other before he could be seen. He could not face his friend. Not like this, not at such a point.

He couldn’t let his weakness become a reality.

enragier1

Coincidence is a sweet manner to found a familiar face after awaking, he should have expected remaining alone after waking up. He ran through the fields of his birthplace, Paralia now feeling more distant than the scenery he saw in his dreams -- a rocky path where his younger self walked and desired for nothing but death. Now, he was uncertain about his personal intentions other than crossing this path.

Fate is cruel and only now he began to wonder what sort of trials must be faced to destroy the vile strings of arranged misery.

"Griff--...?" Fingers stretched to the fallen figure, never truly seeking for closure but for taunting field, dubiety carrying words in hope of an erroneous answer. How come he can barely withstand the visage presented? A man known for standing above all, whose might is enviable yet breathtaking and undoubtedly inspiring -- who can dare to think of possible to see him on his knees, intending escape whatever sort of horror Guts' presence induced? He could only imagine the white-haired male was disgusted and although he often presented an indifferent outlook whenever judged, he dreaded the idea of Griffith's hellbent attempts being produced by a truth he will not manage to withstand.

Rejection and the like, isn't that a constant in his life? Yet, he could care less and now the exception shines. It all rendered to his past experiences, a memory still so vivid he could see that young child fending himself regardless of his death wishes. Clinging in a nonexistent hope, crawling and managing to keep his fangs bared. Always fighting rather than living. He is strong but can't be compared to the dazzling presence the man he admired. Griffith wasn't like him, they were nowhere close to be similar and that's why he couldn't accept this to be real.

Because he is my...

"GRIFFITH!" Holding resemblance to a desperate plead, out of reflex already nearing closer to prevent him from leaving-- excusing avoidance provided minimal justification but ignorance blinded a greater sorrow that as of late is almost latent, perturbing his judgement and making his actions more brasher than usual. Nearing in a more abrupt fashion to prevent departure, he finally grabs his shoulder but digits acknowledge a peculiar sensation that before was not as obvious and he soon lets loose of his grip -- It's as if a mere graze of his fingers would break him.

"Hey, this ain't funny, you jerk... "

This can't be Griffith.