grief is a house

Do not interact with or follow this blog unless you are 18+. “Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.” ― Euripides, Grief Lessons: Four Plays ABOUT || RULES || PROJECT STORIES This is a roleplay blog for Captain Yim'ram Devoltn'er from PROJECT STRIFE. Please read all page information before interaction!

[griefisahouse]

meanderingheroic‌:

“Turned it in a week after you reminded me. Haven’t you been paying attention?? For shame, Captain Devoltn’er, for shame.” Wiggles his fingers playfully at her with a wink.

She just. Stares at him as he’s standing there doing whatever it is he’s doing with his fingers. Alright then.

“I see. I suppose you’re not opposed to taking on these, then? My usual assistant seems to be tied up at the moment, and I don’t trust the rest of the pathetic lot to be able to handle such detailed work with the care required.”

With her second pair of hands, she just slams a heavy, tall pile of paperwork on the table between the two of them.

“I need these by the end of the season. Good luck, Captain. I don’t want to see a single error; don’t disappoint me, will you?”

Despite the condescending tone, there does seem to be a good humored spark in her eye that only he can draw out of her. In that pile, should he do his job, is a little present just for him. Whenever he reaches the middle, he’ll find a new project request - something the two of them agreed upon years ago. The time has finally come for him to learn her coding language.

“Goodbye, Solm.” With that, he’s shoo’d out and the door slams behind him before he can get a word in edge-wise.

[griefisahouse]

thesoldierhero‌:

“God damn, it’s been a long time.”

“Have you finished your paperwork yet, Captain?”

[griefisahouse]

Well, it’s certainly been a while. She’s been around all that time, of course, working on her schematics and figuring out how to run the PROGRAM as efficiently and effortlessly as possible. People are difficult to puppeteer, she knows, but they’re all pliable and willing if you treat them correctly. Most of them, at least.

There’s a difference in the air tonight, though. Something isn’t quite right, and she can’t read whether or not it’s a good thing. She is made of eyes - all the technology of the PROGRAM assists her in that - but there are eyes on her that she can’t see. She can’t tell if they’re good or bad, malicious or benign. It’s unsettling, feeling something you can’t quite place being there but know must be there.

Bony fingers curl tightly around her box as she leans out of it, glaring into that screen before her, scanning the world for something, anything, that might be looking back at her through the cameras. What she doesn’t realize, however, is she’ll never find those eyes; they are outside her cameras’ viewpoint because she’s looking down, not up.

No one in Myrhl ever looks skyward anymore. There’s no reason to study the stars if you know you’re never going to leave the ground. The knowledge of the universe has been lost to time itself, and the whispers of the stars is considered arcane and is most often found crumbled against the ruins of the Old Civilizations that died to the Virus. There’s no looking up for anyone here anymore, figuratively and literally. But that’s where those eyes are. In the stars, watching from above, almost like an angel to the Angel herself.

A shame the Angel incapable of seeing that with her many eyes.

[larmoyante]

It gives me strength to have somebody to fight for; I can never fight for myself, but, for others, I can kill.

Emilie Autumn, The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls (via hatofmischief)

[griefisahouse]

I gotta spruce this blog up but its yimyam time

[cheaphalloweencostume]

today the barista at Starbucks accidentally gave me a trienta instead of a venti (which was cool cause hey more coffee) and I pointed it out in case she wanted to switch it so she doesn’t get in trouble or something and she looked right at me in my eyes and said “I decide what you drink now”

[antiandrogen]

When you set foot in my store I become judge jury and executioner

[steampunktendencies]

Installed in the year 1410, this 600 year old clock in the city of Prague is the World’s oldest astronomical clock still in operation.

[griefisahouse]

“Unfortunately for me, I’m here.”

[griefisahouse]

wildgcd replied to your post: remembering yim’ram is a cyborg:

o bee will Love Her if they ever meet omg

The thing is she doesn’t look like or come off as one

but a lot of her “powers”/”strengths” come from the fact she has had to modify herself to fit in with society so >:3c

[stimman4000]

.

[griefisahouse]

remembering yim’ram is a cyborg:

[griefisahouse]

me, remembering i was writing that story for Yim’ram and how I had her logs half-finished:

[vindictive-suggestion]

I’ll swallow my blood before I swallow my pride

[griefisahouse]

anammxlech replied to your post: -- " Pronouncing your name just sounds and f e e...

FDSFGSFGFSGJHFGH

i love her sm

shes a grumpy mom who aint got time for NONSENSE

[griefisahouse]

-- " Pronouncing your name just sounds and f e e l like I have a spoonful of Peanut butter in my mouth- . . . "

She’s definitely heard worse said about her name, although it is irritating all the same. She glances to the demon, ears flopping a bit, then glares at her with her singular eye in the center of her forehead.

“That sounds like a very YOU problem. Perhaps you should deal with it, away from me. Very far away.”

[griefisahouse]

(ง'̀-‘́)ง

“If you’re expecting a reaction out of me, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.” She doesn’t even bother looking at Annie, still busy working on whatever it is she’s doing. “You are hardly a drop in the ocean of people who have it on their minds to somehow dismantle my physical form.”

[griefisahouse]

mncrvs‌:

Her tone changes, still stern but warmer. Relief washes over them at the shift, allowing them to drop the stiff position they were in. They would feel embarrassed for reacting like that if the subtle scratching of shame stopped clawing at their mind for a moment. Fyn straightens up slowly, ears still angled back slightly in defense.

“I’ve… apologized for less,” they mutter, mustering a shy smile to her. That was too much information. “But I’m Fyn!” They recover quickly, blinking up at her curiously. “Who are you?”

“Captain Yim’ram Devoltn’er. I run the Soldier PROGRAM, primary directive of Gimorrah.” Man, she really gets down to business, huh?

It’s not necessarily that she has nothing better to say; she just prefers keeping people at a distance. Idle chit chat wastes time, and she’s a busy woman. Still, something about this being reminds her of the few she calls friends and family, meaning she has a little more tolerance off the get-go. Not much though, unfortunately.

“From where do you hail, Fyn? You certainly aren’t from where I come from, that’s for certain. Unless I am mistaken.” She’s not. She knows every race that lives on Myrhl and their details; this is not someone from her own timeline. “You don’t seem to be suffering from Strife, nor Strife Madness. A bit of social anxiety, perhaps, but I’m used to that.”