hunting season.

highly selective and private independent multimuse, 21+

[foulprey]

FOULPREY ; Private, independent, highly selective. Multimuse blog hosting a collection from Baldur's Gate 3 and original characters. —hunted and coveted by @macabrehunter

Blogroll: Bruce Wayne/Batman - @unforgivened

〚 muses. 〛〚 prompts. 〛〚 rules. 〛

Activity is sporadic. This blog can be very slow.

Strictly 21+ in every sense of the word.

Don't ask for Discord or personal info.

Highly selective. I hardblock liberally, it's not personal.

Triggers/content warnings aren't tagged unless asked.

Inbox is always open, but don't tag me in unplanned starters.

No drama. Act like adults. This is a hobby, I want to have fun.

If you're a DC blog, I followed you for my Batman sideblog.

Primary muses: Enver Gortash, Adonai Iskios, Dane Hyland

[foulprey]

"I have eyesight which far outstrips your own. I am built to watch." / @pleasureprince for Raphael.

It makes his skin crawl. He makes his skin crawl, with the assured nature of his voice breaching the depths of Raphael's guts like a swarm of maggots. A reminder of precisely how powerless he is, how petulant he must seem, a child clinging to only the semblance of power and control. Worse, in his own home.

To his credit, Raphael doesn't seethe, even when his expression contorts with distaste. Pursed lips and narrowed eyes, fingers curled into tight, intertwined fists on his own lap over crossed legs. What he hates most is to be made small, to be made insignificant. But he is a self-preserving creature, above all.

When his eyes flicker to the board, he sees all the ways this game of chess could end. Yet not enough for victory. Not enough to escape his insight.

This is his loss, proverbially.

"Pray tell, then. Illuminate me. What have you been so watchful over that you've decided to grace me with your presence," he asks, biting through the words, "here, in the House of Hope?"

Uninvited.

[foulprey]

So he's been browsing the wrong pile. This, he assumes, taking one last glance at the seven-bedroom property, didn't make the cut. Still, his point stands. The smallest Simon's seen was a four bedroom, and he uses this word lightly, cottage.

Cottage. He snorts.

Richie makes one fair comment regarding the distance that he's able to agree with wholly. While Simon has no qualms about waking up early enough that the sun wouldn't have to rise for another few hours, he may have a few choice words for the commute that'd come with that sort of distance. Plainly put, a waste of good time.

He reaches for the other pile that Richie believes he'd be more interested in. Simon thinks he's rather simple; all he needs is a roof over his head and something adequate. He'd even settle for livable. Between the two of them, Richie's the more particular and opinionated man.

At least the options seem to be more reasonable, by a margin.

"What exactly are you looking for?" Simon asks as he sifts through the papers while Richie sorts through the rest of what he's got. He grunts. "Five bedrooms. Plenty of space for a sleepover."

[foulprey]

"If you live long enough, time can be a weapon." / @pleasureprince for Adonai.

Between the pages of tomes older than even she is lie traces of the countless lives that came before her. These marks left behind by desperate hands, or hopeful ones, wanting to be remembered in some form by leaving pieces of themselves behind. The few that are lucky to have survived the ages. How many more out there? And how many lost to time?

If not to fire. To the elements. If not to other, jealous hands.

But some stand out more than others. A craftsmanship that catches the eye. Or a presence, carved out of onyx and into the space of this study hall itself. Her pale eyes catch his reflection on the brass candlestick, flames flickering when the air around them stirs as he approaches.

"...Yes, that maybe so." The charming, well-spoken gentleman had been in discussion with some of the other patrons. And Adonai is here only in passing, always in the wake of death. A stranger. Her head turns to look at him. "But I imagine not all weapons must be wielded."

[broarrow]

✦ i'm joining in too

POSITIVITY TIME ! drop a ✦ in my inbox and i'll tell you at least one thing i like about your writing, portrayal, headcanons, world building, blog aesthetics, whatever it is i like about your blog, writing, & portrayal!! if you can't see the symbol, send 'star'!

Bestie!

I stared at this for a second because I don't even entirely know where to start with you. I don't think I can articulate your skill in a post.

Your writing is some of best I've ever written with in all my years of roleplaying. It is so, so, so rare that I'm brought to tears because of someone's writing dick punching me in the feelings. You are so good at just grabbing me by the heart and fucking squeezing it with your writing. You have these one liners that haunt me.

Purple made him sick for days.

Because you will ruin me most.

There's others but you get the idea. Honestly, I think I've grown as a writer getting to write with you. You've challenged me to do better just to keep up. You are so creative and devious and witty.

We've so many headcanons together, so much world building. Across multiple blogs. Multiple fandoms. I can't even begin to say how grateful I am for your presence in my life (rpc and ooc).

I still think of our Astarion and Gortash stuff. And of course, our most recent, Bathawk.

Happy New Year, my friend.

[hvndredbattles]

I wanted to write Richie experiencing sleep paralysis, because that seemed like it could be interesting. So here's that, with special guest @foulprey's Simon, because it's generally more fun to torment your characters when there's someone else there too.

Bloody inclement weather.

He barks orders to the men behind him, straining to carry over the storm despite their comms.

Between the rain and the ocean spray, the ship's deck threatens to greet them with one wrong misstep. And the ocean all but promises as much, tossing the tanker on swells no sane sailor would be out in. To make matters worse, its cargo's either come loose or been cut free. Containers squeal across the deck with every heavy tilt across the rough waters.

"Push up! Watch your exits!"

Duke doesn't see what hits him. One moment he's pivoting men down this precarious path, and the next, the force slamming into his chest is enough to send him reeling, then into free-fall. Wind and rain lash at exposed skin the whole way down.

The ocean swallows him whole.

He sinks. Drifts. From under the surface, so far below, it's almost peaceful. No torrential downpour, or waves breaking against the ship's hull, or onto the deck. No shouting, or the threat of impending gunfire.

A flash of lightning illuminates the water around him. Without the accompanying clap of thunder, he just feels. Small.

Farther still, he sinks. The weight of his kit - the plates, the ammunition - drags at his body. His medical kit, strapped to the front of his vest, presses heavily on his chest.

Richie inhales, and his breath catches. It's different from drowning. Plate and ammunition and his kit, it all pushes against the effort of his lungs. Water in his mouth. But it's not drowning. He just- can't catch his breath.

What he'd thought to be the white noise, background noise, of the storm, or the ocean itself, resolves to muffled talking, and a high hiss, radio static growing in volume.

A twinge passes through the scar tissue of his face. The surprise and flash of pain of it is enough to jolt him awake with a faint grunt, opening his eyes to darkness. No howling rain, or fathomless ocean, or container ship. Just long shadows cast across a plain ceiling. And sweat sticking the fitted sheet to his back. And that damn radio static kind of hiss, blasting through his ears. A breath whooshes out through his nose.

"Pliers." A voice from his left. His... Richie tries to loll his head that direction, but his view of the ceiling doesn't change.

In his chest, his heart pounds insistently. Aware of something he hasn't caught up to yet. But as soon as he's noticed that, he grows conscious of the pressure in his chest. On his chest. Weight bearing down on him, pressing back against his lungs as they try to expand.

Fucking hell. Up. His body doesn't respond.

"No, not that one." Thoughtful and disapproving at once. He catches shadows of movement out of the corner of his eye, but no concrete outline of a person.

Pain sparks up along the scarring of his cheek. With it comes doubt, chased quickly by dread. He'd thought- If this isn't his ceiling-

Fuck. Fuck. The protest he manages falls in pieces, struggling against lax muscles. Not again.

The surface under him dips.

From his left, that shadowy figure coalesces. Sand-covered scrubs and features he can't make out on the face looming over him. It's so dissonant from the sharp detail of the rest of what he can see that another displeased, distressed sound strains by. He doesn't feel drugged, his heart rabbiting a goddamn mile a minute, but what else could it-

"Richie?"

A warm hand slips into his right. Simon's face appears over him not a heartbeat later, a concerned frown etched into his brow.

What bravado Richie's been trying to muster as he figures out what the fuck's going on and where the fuck he is slides through his fingers. He tries to open his mouth and nothing moves, can't squeeze Simon's hand or kick out or-

"Hey, hey, I'm here," Simon soothes, words just barely audible to Richie over the hissing in his ears or the pounding of his heart. With his free hand, Simon starts feeling for injury, narrating each touch before and as he goes. Field care Richie's been helping him brush up and build on. Check for neck injury. Check his airways. Check for abdominal injury. It's not lingering contact, here, Simon's being thorough but professional in this. Richie's not sure if he's grateful or upset for it.

He manages another uneasy sound when Simon shifts too far and leaves Richie's line of sight. The hand in his squeezes, and Simon returns to sitting at his waist, half-leaned over him.

"Think this could be sleep paralysis," Simon hedges. He rubs at Richie's shoulder.

It makes sense to the rational part of his brain desperately trying to make sense of what's happening. Not as much as it could, because he's never had sleep paralysis before. But sure. Sure. Sure.

"I'm right here, Rich." A gentle hand through his hair, and quiet words to soothe and distract, Simon is right here with him. Richie focuses on trying to match their breathing, and trying to will his hand to squeeze Simon's.

He's home. Safe. Just- dealing with whatever the hell this is.

It's still slow going. One minute ticks into two before he can manage more than a minute twitch. Simon talks over the hushed drone of.. tinnitus? Sounds of the flat that his mind is turning into muffled words? Fuck if he knows.

But he squeezes Simon's hand, and it's like that much control steamrolls into the rest. He's not sure when the hissing dissipates from his ears - he's just suddenly, acutely aware of how quiet their bedroom is. The other figure is gone. Or- was never there, more accurately, and his mind's finally reconciled sleeping from waking.

Richie spits an impassioned fuck as he sits up enough to lean into Simon. Now that the adrenaline's fading, minute tremors shudder through him. Fucking hell. With the hand not still in Simon's, Richie rubs his fingers into the scar over his sternum.

Neither of them seem to have words. Probably for the best. What the fuck do you say about bloody sleep paralysis? Richie's got no clue. He's also not sure how to say that his skin's crawling now, itching to get up and away and move despite the fact that he also very much wants to stay right here, just like this, with Simon.

His face makes the decision for him, another spasm of muscle around scar tissue that has Richie gritting his teeth.

"D'you want the salve?"

No. Yes. Christ.

"I'll get it." He finally pulls his hand from Simon's and peels himself away from Simon's side. If Simon notices the way Richie has to roll his shoulders, lets that travel down his back, then he's good enough not to make Richie say something about it right then and there.

So Richie pads out of the bedroom and through to their bathroom, digging his fingers into knots in his shoulder like it'll alleviate the disquiet brewing in his veins. It makes his skin crawl to put his back to the bathroom door, and knowing that his back's to their entryway, even around a corner as it is, but he does it anyway. Stubbornly goes through the motions of fetching one of the many scar-related creams of their medicine cabinet and rubbing some into the scar tissue of his face. Washes his hands when he's done.

If he strains, he thinks he can hear Simon rustling in their bedroom.

He fixes his reflection with a hard, tired stare. Fucking hell. Sleep paralysis. Sure.

[crownmemes]

Foundation Sentences, Vol. 3

(Sentences from Foundation (2021-). Adjust phrasing where needed)

"If you live long enough, time can be a weapon."

"I can never decide whether the runners are weak for showing their fear, or if it's good they die honest."

"How'd you know how to fly like that?"

"My loyalties lie elsewhere."

"Is this a poem?"

"You're always so angry with me."

"You were supposed to die centuries ago, yet here you are."

"There's something happening here. I can't explain it, but I know you're at the centre of it."

"The road ahead is one you can travel on your own."

"Well, if it can get worse, it can also get better."

"I think, in this moment, I understand what it's like to be you."

"I promise you, you will come to love me."

"On the rare occasion when I tell someone who I am, they tend to be frightened of me."

"You have pleased me."

"I'm not afraid of history."

"If the world's going to end, why keep secrets?"

"War. What do you know about war? You are a boy."

"Do you ever feel like your life is not your own?"

"I don't think you'd enjoy meeting my family."

"Hundreds of millions died that day, and you speak of it like it was nothing!"

"I have eyesight which far outstrips your own. I am built to watch."

"Death doesn't seem an option for you."

"You are mistaking me for human."

"Did you love her? Did she love you back?"

"The thing I had for a mother doesn't have any idea what it is to feel a connection with someone."

"If you're here in person, it really must be bad."

"It's not that I don't think you were loyal. You were - just not to me."

"I really wish I could have kept my promise, but there was never another way out of this."

"Do I need to know what that is?"

"I wasn't raised to be kind."

"Who are you to be talking about morals?"

[foulprey]

❛i cannot keep pretending this place feels like home.❜ [ gabriel to mags-- ]

Pretending. What a terrible thing that is. To be something one is not, to forcefully believe in what is untrue to be true. At times, in desperation. The wanting, clawing need to belong is like a yawning abyss impossible to ignore. But there comes a point where the illusion will shatter under the weight of reality, the ultimate desire to confront the truth for what it is and look at it in the eyes.

For too many years now have mutants been cast out from the rest of humanity. Differentiated, sidelined, treated as animals in need of taming and culling. They've made their haven here, freed from the shackles that bound them, but Magneto understands that home is never just a place. It is that, and more.

"And what does home mean to you?" Magneto watches the young mutant's face, hands folded neatly behind his back. "What is it are you chasing, Vulcan? The phantoms of a feeling, or something real?"

[foulprey]

✍ Favorite thing about writing the muse? 👀 Favorite thing about the muse’s appearance? 💢 Something about the muse that annoys you? 📝 Favorite headcanon for your muse? 💭 Favorite memory of the muse? 😩 Hardest thing about writing the muse? for Ghost <3

munday stuff!

✍ Favorite thing about writing the muse? his banter. he's so petty. snarky. everything funny he's ever said were and will be spoken straight-faced. which makes it funnier

👀 Favorite thing about the muse’s appearance? oooh baby have you seen those eyelashes...

💢 Something about the muse that annoys you? emotionally repressed. (his verse with richie is a miracle lol)

📝 Favorite headcanon for your muse? that he's got a DNAR... LMFAO

💭 Favorite memory of the muse? between him and richie specifically, the forced R&R. that was fun

😩 Hardest thing about writing the muse? trying to figure out his thoughts and put it into words without it being too many words and not too little. this is also because i'm rusty with him but i choose to blame it on him instead

[foulprey]

🌌Favorite alternate version of the muse?

💕Favorite ship for the muse? 

💔Least favorite ship for the muse?

💢Something about the muse that annoys you?

😈Worst thing you’ve ever done to your muse? 

For Adonai

munday stuff!

🌌Favorite alternate version of the muse? the one where she remains as myrkul's priestess is pretty cool

💕Favorite ship for the muse? reos/adonai >:3 (shoutout to her playthrough romance with halsin)

💔Least favorite ship for the muse? those are the only two ships of her so... ?!

💢Something about the muse that annoys you? nothing ofc she's perfect (not annoying, but a flaw that makes me love her more is how she is hypocritical with her values vs actions, especially surrounding her story with reos)

😈Worst thing you’ve ever done to your muse? maybe have her whole temple murdered by a certain bhaalspawn, who would also torment and chase her down, claiming he loves her while simultaneously destroying everything around her? but she can't and won't let him go, doesn't want to kill him, and suffer the consequences, guilt, and the aftermath of their twisted love because she fooled herself into believing that she can save him even though the blood of dozens is also on her hands?! i don't know man...

[foulprey]

😒 Is there anything canon about your muse that you ignore? 

🔮 What do you see in your muse’s future? 

🔥 Unpopular opinion about your muse? 

💭 Favorite memory of the muse? 

For Gortash

munday stuff!

😒 Is there anything canon about your muse that you ignore? hmm not that i know, i think i incorporate gortash’s canon into his character as best i can because there’s not a lot of it to begin with

🔮 What do you see in your muse’s future? canonically? dead and tortured eternally. but i want him to be an evil tyrant :p i’m not interested in redeeming him he should be evil forever. as a treat

🔥 Unpopular opinion about your muse? i don’t keep up with what the popular opinion is and gortash is so polarizing in the fandom. i’d say, “i think he’s hot,” and half would agree and half wouldn’t

💭 Favorite memory of the muse? when we first started writing bloodtyrant and that’s how we really started to become super good friends :3

[rpmemegraveyard]

Mun talks about the Muse

Send one of the following to ask the mun… (please specify muse for multis)

✍ Favorite thing about writing the muse? 👀Favorite thing about the muse’s appearance? 🌌Favorite alternate version of the muse? 💕Favorite ship for the muse?  💔Least favorite ship for the muse? 💢Something about the muse that annoys you? 😈Worst thing you’ve ever done to your muse?  😂Funniest thing that’s ever happened to your muse?  💡 What inspires you to write the muse?  📷 Favorite picture/screencap of your muse? 📑 Favorite part of your muse’s backstory?  📝 Favorite headcanon for your muse?  😒 Is there anything canon about your muse that you ignore?  🔮 What do you see in your muse’s future?  🔥 Unpopular opinion about your muse?  💭 Favorite memory of the muse?  😩 Hardest thing about writing the muse?  ⌨ What’s a situation you’ve always wanted to RP with the muse?  🎭 How similar are you and the muse? 

[foulprey]

❛ well, someone's cranky today. ❜ (Gortash)

These irritating, ignorant imbeciles with half a thought shared between them are driving him mad. Gortash's jaw juts forward with clear and visible irritation as he leans forward over the table with a scowl. When he speaks, his teeth are bared, the gravel of his voice quiet enough not to alert the other patrons around them but a clear message is sent and received.

The two men stand and leave in haste, scrambling away without looking back, ducking out of the parlor, and the building, scattering back to the street.

Mentally, Gortash reminds himself to clean up the mess before it has the chance to spread into something doubly frustrating. His sigh is half a groan, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he leans back into his seat, tuning out the sound of music coming from the stage.

"Well, someone's cranky today."

He hears him first before he sees him. When Gortash reopens his eyes, the previously empty seat across of his is occupied by someone who looks and sounds too familiar to be coincidental. It doesn't stop at that. His mannerisms are simply too distinct to ignore, even if Gortash would prefer not to remember.

Gortash's brows rise. "...Haarlep?"

[rottinginplace]

love as violence

caitlin conlon, phantom pains // tina tran, out of the ruins // venetta octavia // iain thomas // yves olade, the miracle mile // sara manguso, love letter (clouds) // traci brimhall, come the slumberless to the land of nod // unknown // margaret atwood, power politics // madeline miller, circe // warsan shire // richard siken, planet of love // hozier, cherry wine

[bloodyarn]

BALDUR’S GATE 3 RP CANON COMPLIANT/DIVERGENT MEME

 ▌@foulprey sent : [ TIEFLING PARTY. ] A starter where our muses approach one another at the tiefling party, to gossip, chat, dance, or hit on each other. / from Adonai

         If  one  had  told  her  that  in  a  couple  of  months        Babette  would  find  herself  attending  her  first  real  party  ever    (  and  nowhere  else  than  at  a  makeshift  camp  in  the  wilderness  )  ,  she  would  have  not  believed  a  word  of  it.  Festivities  usually  meant  cherry-picked  individuals,  breathtaking  halls,  nobles.  All  out  of  reach,  never  experienced,  never  allowed.

But  between  the  predicament  of  a  tadpole  in  their  heads   &   a  dozen  of  tiefling  refugees  their  party  managed  to  save,  the  seamstress  shared  a  rare  night  of  camaraderie   &   drinks.  Her  partner  of  choice    —    Adonai.

       ❝  Doni,  hey  Doni.  .  . ❞      She  scooted  closer  on  the  log  to  the  drow,  voice  low  as  if  anyone  was  able  to  hear  the  two  of  them  conversing  over  the  volume  of  the  party,     ❝ I  think  I  caught  Astarion  drinking  vinegar.  At  least  that's  what  he  mewled  about  .  .  . ❞      She  did  not  expect  vampires  to  be  able  to  drink  vinegar.  This  adventure  truly  is  full  of  new  epiphanies.

      ❝ So  silly,  you  can't  just  .  .  .  drink  that.  It  tastes  yucky    ! ❞

[foulprey]

Time passed without a single ceremorphosis. There were moments in private where Adonai found the presence of an illithid tadpole deep in the recesses of her skull undeniably disturbing, and yet still their collective spirit persisted against the odds. The patchwork group they had gathered found their way from one small victory to another until it became a cause for celebration.

It wasn't an unwelcome change.

Adonai stared at the wine in her glass before her thoughts were interrupted by a sweet voice hushed at her side. Babette spoke of the vampire—of Astarion—the man who, in any other circumstance but this, would have been Adonai's enemy by virtue of what he was. An undead.

"It is an unkind thing to be what he is," Adonai responded, not at all a whisper. She lifted the drink in her hand towards her. "Unable to taste the sweetness of wine. If it were your blood, perhaps he wouldn't have complained."

It was hard to make the distinction between what Adonai meant in jest and what she didn't. That she never clarified didn't help. "Is this what you've been up to, little Babsi? Spying on others?"

[foulprey]

Because Richie needs something more permanent than ink and Simon is willing to leave his mark. / @hvndredbattles

Death is a constant. Simon's been to more funerals than he has weddings, counting his own. But death never loomed so closely, never felt as real as it does now with Richie in his life. He knows that Richie feels it strongly, the fear always clawing its way back from the edges, grazing just close enough one day that sends them tumbling down.

He wants permanence. Something impossible. Simon can only give.

It's instinctive, the way they move like they've done this a hundred times before. Their kisses are urgent, desperate to feel how alive the other is. Searching for a pulse, chasing after each other's breaths. Simon pulls Richie's shirt clean off as they make their way through the flat and somewhere along the way, he crowds Richie against the wall of their bedroom, thighs and legs tangled, hips flush with one another.

"You sure about this?" Simon asks again with their faces so close that he practically speaks against Richie's lips. His hand squeezes the back of Richie's neck. "It's what you want?"

[epifaniacintilante]

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