Age: Unknown
Birthday: September 13th
Race: Former Quel’dorei
Gender: Agender
Sexuality: Grey-sexual
Marital Status: Single
Physical Appearance ––– –
Hair: Black
Eyes: Unknown
Height: 5’6”
Build: Athletic, thin.
Distinguishing Marks: Persistent dark rings under the eyes when they are half-visible.
Common Accessories: A full face gas mask designed to filter out harmful chemicals and an accompanied respirator. Haunt is dressed to take on a gas chamber, although much of the armor has been tailored to suit an active lifestyle and slimmed down to reduce weight and bulk. A grenade-launcher hitched over the shoulder is common, modified from what appears to be dwarven gunsmithing into something more unholy. A leather satchel attached at the belt to snugly carry a single full-volume book.
Personal ––– –
Profession: Information Broker, Contract Broker, Toxicologist, Flanker
Hobbies: Gardening, reading, experimenting, socializing, field exploration.
Languages: Thalassian, Darnassian, Common, Gutterspeak, Nerubian
Residence: Currently transient.
Birthplace: Quel’thalas.
Religion: Bones and bullets.
Patron Deity: Whatever has kept Haunt alive this long.
Fears: Stagnation of purpose. Reduction of necessity.
Relationships ––– -
Spouse: In a relationship with bad decisions and coping mechanisms.
Children: None.
Parents: Alive and Angry.
Siblings: Also Alive but probably partying.
Other Relatives: Unknown.
Pets: Local stray cats.
Traits ––– -
Extroverted / In Between / Introverted
Disorganized / In Between / Organized
Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded
Calm / In Between / Anxious
Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable
Cautious / In Between / Reckless
Patient / In Between / Impatient
Outspoken / In Between / Reserved
Leader / In Between / Follower
Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic
Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic
Traditional / In Between / Modern
Hard-working / In Between / Lazy
Cultured / In Between / Uncultured
Loyal / In Between / Disloyal
Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful
-The Philosophy of Existence is Extensive and Underspoken: Haunt is fascinated by people and always looking to learn from others. Seekers of knowledge easily attract Haunt’s attention and Haunt is an information trader of many fields, including politics, military, day-to-day ordeals, combat in general, psychology and history.
-Non-Faction Specific: Unaligned with the Alliance or the Horde. Wandering mercenary with maybe a lot of death and destruction filling the valley they carved in their wake. Maybe a wanted individual literally everywhere. Maybe nobody should worry about it.
-A Contract Killer: Hired blade, but the blade is toxic gas and the hiring is just a verbal agreement and perhaps a pack of gum. Hire Haunt and get unsolicited opinions about the people with the targets over their heads and questionable advice on the barriers of individuality and self-awareness.
-Soldier of the Fallen: Haunt has seen many battlefields in the Eastern Kingdom and Northrend and remembers well those that fought, near regardless of sides. A grenadier, Haunt’s uncanny appearance can be an easy giveaway. An aggressive flank and bomb tactic was the signature of Haunt through many battles.
-Purveyor of Unique Goods: Vendors, smugglers, merchants of the hard-to-find and unique (especially military goods) will always find a buyer in Haunt. Pirates, regardless of where, may be familiar in the trades the Informant sets up to bulk up the armaments of unaligned warbands and gangs.
-Tea and Crumpets: Displaced from society as Haunt is, there is a deep pleasure found in those who tolerate the unwanted and welcome them with normalcy. Slice-of-Life with a resident atrocity.
What I Am Looking For –––
Connections: This character is made possible by you, the viewer! Building contacts and networking is a necessary element of Haunt, and finding people to have short-burst or even long-term interactions with to harvest information from or provide to are fantastic additions. Stop by and see Haunt once a week or more! Or less!
Good Guys: Average folks are great, too. In truth, I enjoy being the disposable target in plots. The one that’s in-and-out for a single encounter or a series of them. Haunt is fantastic for this, and the angle can add a bit of chaos to any sort of plot.
Skepticism of Existence: Sometimes a cult of personality gets stuck in its infancy stage. Haunt wants to change that. And others. Because what if what others believe is not the right course of action? Question everything, but question it with Haunt. *Cosmic Nihilism Warning.
Variety is the Spice of Life: Adventure, Action, Espionage, Conversations, Criminal, Military, Good vs Evil, Evil vs Evil, Good vs Whatever That Is Over There, Horror: Cosmic or Not-So-Cosmic. A scene at a bar is as much fun as a scene raining bombs over a headquarters that fail to detonate and need to be manually activated while the occupants scope out who’s dropping duds on their head.
Contact Information— -
-Here on tumblr!
-World of Warcraft: Bladeshatter MG-A (Character is on MG, WRA, both factions.)
The desolate halls, eternal in their namesake now, shudder only with the deep heaves of Icecrown’s winds at uncertain intervals. The languishing groans echo within patina-worn cobalt corridors, their barren walls desperate to ward off encroaching spindles of creeping icicles, of whose cadence is a soft, crystalline thrum. Whimpers of smaller alcoves are swept away with soft rattles of railing-strung and pike-lofted bones. The mounds that protrude from the shadows of sharp-tip buttresses had long ago frozen over, reaching high arches lost to darkness, competitive with the ridges of ice and swathes of snow that now blanket the numberless tawny knobs and sallow heaps in their eternal rest.
No grave is more mass than this.
Though the frigid waste’s air diminishes the stench, the corpulent piles of remnants permeate beyond sight into other senses; a ruthless invader set to make raw any sensation of foulness the mind could concoct, sparing no mercy especially to the olfactory system. This was a nightmare that knew not how to be gentle in its manifestation. Light does not dare itself here. Held at bay by a clime of miasma, its roils stirring dense pools contained only by cathedral vaults to listlessly caress against the strokes of brushes made by violence—strokes that prove the mounds were earned. It never got cold enough to stop the dripping. Not at this level. The red rust of metal planks and strutted catwalks could not truly cease to gnaw away at crude edges and black chains under so many droplets of warriors long-gone. It drums an endless beat, a wet layer added to the dirge of the forgotten forge’s arteries.
“Ooph!” The bones only rattle to the breath of their tyrant’s maw, not Haunt’s cry; but some, long errant from their settled corpse mounds, skid across a blade-scarred platform in a hollow clamor under the scuffle of leather boots and leather bindings.
“ＹᴏＵ ᴋＩᴄＫ ʜＡᴜＮᴛ? You kick Haunt like the football?” Haunt screeches with a warble only known by elbow-knockers, shrill and: “Jail! Eternal jail for your foul-flung foot!” A knee rises then drives its metal heel down on fabric-wrapped flesh just as recycled air hisses from the half-cocked, now rent diffuser. The metal facet securing the hose into the mask spills plumes of bilious green mist. Desolate wails slice through the gaseous fumes with an insouciance that similarly forces chilled air directly into the leaking fissure, freezing Haunt’s air supply. They wail alike, thrown into a flailing fit unsuited for someone permitted to carry loaded guns. Again a kick filled with rage swipes at bondage, sending their captured quarry rolling over slush and crumpling into an amused, pained, and blessedly muffled cackle in a split-second of hubris—or maybe hopelessness.
Heaving like a beast bit open at the throat, Haunt twists, half-bent, dancing with sharp contorts between peals of anguish (and more adamantly, questions of victim-hood) and sprays of flash-freezing chemicals until the unsatisfactory sound of ripping rubber hosing from broken metal slams the mechanically stiff whips and nae-naes to a halt. The bound bag of a body writhes, invigorated, its bindings mercilessly denying sight—and obscuring from others seeing. The sounds of desperation keep Haunt aware of the attempt to escape, despite focusing on the crisis of broken equipment.
“Gah! It’s always the last ten—mmph—twenty meters! Always so close, steps away from ▇▇▇!” Frantic clatters punctuate the shed of a worthless respirator, only to fade away, lost in teeming darkness. The prominent light source, Haunt’s rebreather and its tubing, sputters a few final rivulets of green-tinted chemicals as its hose joins the cadence of those far-off droplets, slipping from a despondent grasp to join the now-abandoned breathing tank and hooded filtration mask on the ground. Rid of refitted leather, the once-bright fluorescent glow of green lenses now stare with the pallor of dark glass-tinted eyes, generously pinpointing for no one in particular exactly where the ghastly captor lingers in the bleak haze as they stalk towards their bounty.
“If you did not want to contribute to the betterment of the world,” Haunt circles, a vulture wreathed at the throat with pride and pomp. Six feet and then some of wrapped fabric, strapped leather, and a few additional half-frayed ropes, twists like a worm, bereft of appendages in these confinements and made to be pecked at by Haunt’s heightened words and pitch. “You should have learned to kill your shadows!” The circling ends at feet, where the lank of Haunt’s frame looms, dripping still, just out of cadence with the rest.
“Pity, yes? You didn’t. You didn’t learn from the mistakes of those that still take breath. You have been shown the path before, and yet— Now you serve a better purpose—You should see—you should really look, but, those bright green eyes of yours, Haunt finds them unsettling; you will have to imagine, instead. Here, where you were a bitch, is a holy chamber of innovation, made especially for your type: the weak. The ones made to fill the pits, with your big shoulders and your strong arms and very powerful legs, what the fuck.”
In the darkness all is clear. The way that body churns in every effort to be free under the monotony of Haunt’s hundredth soliloquy of the trip, and how Haunt failed to see the liberated leg that came out of nowhere earlier until attempting to gather up straps by both hands once again. The kicking resumes, but frustration fuels focus, protecting what remains of personal protective equipment and guarding a face now only concealed by sable cloth wrapped like bandages. “Haunt was perfectly fine not having to smell this place again, you know. It’s not the worst now, it will be worse later, but even this—”
In the darkness, the cloth gag sounds less effective, and among recapture, kicks grow fervent until both ankles are seized as a hen is captured by its irate farmer and hung to think about its decisions before the blood rush comes. It leaves Haunt awkwardly long in the body, an unholy might coursing through appendages to keep six damn feet and then some off the ground and unable to do much more than thrash. Over the shoulder and shuffling towards the hall’s end, it is a quick motion that puts legs backwards against a back well strengthened by carrying a breathing tank.
“Listen, hm? Yes?" There's enough pause for a fly's heart to beat. "Okay. 𝐹𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔—” In vain, both, they collide in struggle again, each step far exaggerated by the need to counterbalance a body in riot. Jerks and tugs adjust and adapt, and despite it all, shadows continue the need to be heard. “Flailing is not going to help! It just makes this hard—breaks Haunt’s things—fills you with unearned rage. Sure, rage is good, but too much? It will be wasted. Haunt needs what’s at the core, not the surface. Try to find your center. Deep breaths, think vengeful but calming thoughts. Fire, perhaps? Haunt assumes that is a rational go-to. Big, large, vast bonfires? Wildfires without boundaries.”
To any victim, the true torment is the stream of consciousness, the platitudes, the confessions and knotted philosophies. It always hints, implies, fills just enough space to create more in the end. In the darkness, it is everything, and it has been darkness for hours, this time, for this singular soul. Some targets are worth more effort but afforded far, far less respect, a blatant hypocrisy to the values often honored by Haunt’s typical prey subjects. Even as the winds wane and the gangrenous heaps are lost beyond icy pillars and then taller walls, there are the words. “… Most of these places have been long pillaged by the combined forces of you breathers. Few remain in such splendor—capable of creating, capable of modifying. It is transfiguration that is hardest to achieve in the wake of catastrophic errors. Sure, at first there was the direct conduit to the blueprints, the schematics! Oh, the schematics…” The chill permeates worse, where wind is stifled by humid air and walls still sweat from their last exposure to profane experimentation. It digs through fabric and bindings, and heralds an end Haunt has done nothing but sing of.
“Now, with none of that, we start from scratch. The scratch is you, by the way. Well, your being. There is no greater fuel in this world, than what has been pressed from within your heart under the torment experiences of your…really quite long life. You’ll do well in your new purpose.” Praise as there is, the body is still dropped like a wet bag of trash.
A different crescendo of sounds blares after minutes of silence, away from words and metal, left only with the moisture. Then, the worst of freedom comes with the rifling grip of metal and leather-clad fingers prying away a blindfold held by a belt strap. The faint ebb of waning green glow rims the wicked edges of machinery made beyond the minds of the living. It blinds, despite its dimness, though as minutes carry on and Haunt abandons being helpful in favor of ushering more carnal groans from profane equipment as it whirs into function.
Turning back to eyes now adapted to the undulating pulses pallid ichor amid glassy pipework, arms of black outstretch in reception and white-glowing eyes flicker their vigor of ill intent.
“Welcome, dear soul, to the end of your fleshly constraints!” Standing silent, awkward, and finally issuing a squeak of confusion, a hush little voice mutters: “Confetti—forgot the confetti—” then perks to the highs of self-appointed glory again. “Don’t take it too poorly, your mechanical internment will at least put you between a woman’s legs. You will rumble with a power that could only be imagined in your current state. You will burn, through fuel, through muck, through chaff. You will deliver to her enemies the Sun's very wrath. You'll have a chassis! Wee!" Elation crashes into a solemn sea of silence but not for long, there is an attention deficit to contend with, here.
“Welcome, to the Severing of Your Soul!” There is no applause, but shoulders do sink as if abruptly freed from the burden of announcing. “…ʷᵒʳᵏⁱⁿᵍ ᵗⁱᵗˡᵉ. It should have splendor, but what is splendor for, in the last moments of your current state? You will find no absolution here, and maybe that is the misconception, that which should be avoided here.” Boots drag heavy over sludge, sticky and loud in their ominous approach. “Maybe, instead, Haunt informs you that your ancestors will watch the macerating of your finite existence into something useful. That is all they will be able to do.” The weight of a fist drives into open eyes, ending consciousness in a succinct blow. The room heaves, steady in the motions of purpose, and Haunt rises upright again, shaking out knuckles like a wimpy kid—kaldorei skulls are strong and they aren't big on punching things (guns work pretty great on night elves, however).
This is a place of holy innovation, boasts a thing of unmitigated desolation that cannot possibly reach such lofty claims. But the mounds started here can only grow in height, number, and girth. So they will, until Haunt can reach those heights. One unfortunate resource at a time.
The desolate halls, eternal in their namesake now, shudder only with the deep heaves of Icecrown’s winds at uncertain intervals. The languishing groans echo within patina-worn cobalt corridors, their barren walls desperate to ward off encroaching spindles of creeping icicles, of whose cadence is a soft, crystalline thrum. Whimpers of smaller alcoves are swept away with soft rattles of railing-strung and pike-lofted bones. The mounds that protrude from the shadows of sharp-tip buttresses had long ago frozen over, reaching high arches lost to darkness, competitive with the ridges of ice and swathes of snow that now blanket the numberless tawny knobs and sallow heaps in their eternal rest.
No grave is more mass than this.
Though the frigid waste’s air diminishes the stench, the corpulent piles of remnants permeate beyond sight into other senses; a ruthless invader set to make raw any sensation of foulness the mind could concoct, sparing no mercy especially to the olfactory system. This was a nightmare that knew not how to be gentle in its manifestation. Light does not dare itself here. Held at bay by a clime of miasma, its roils stirring dense pools contained only by cathedral vaults to listlessly caress against the strokes of brushes made by violence—strokes that prove the mounds were earned. It never got cold enough to stop the dripping. Not at this level. The red rust of metal planks and strutted catwalks could not truly cease to gnaw away at crude edges and black chains under so many droplets of warriors long-gone. It drums an endless beat, a wet layer added to the dirge of the forgotten forge’s arteries.
“Ooph!” The bones only rattle to the breath of their tyrant’s maw, not Haunt’s cry; but some, long errant from their settled corpse mounds, skid across a blade-scarred platform in a hollow clamor under the scuffle of leather boots and leather bindings.
“ＹᴏＵ ᴋＩᴄＫ ʜＡᴜＮᴛ? You kick Haunt like the football?” Haunt screeches with a warble only known by elbow-knockers, shrill and: “Jail! Eternal jail for your foul-flung foot!” A knee rises then drives its metal heel down on fabric-wrapped flesh just as recycled air hisses from the half-cocked, now rent diffuser. The metal facet securing the hose into the mask spills plumes of bilious green mist. Desolate wails slice through the gaseous fumes with an insouciance that similarly forces chilled air directly into the leaking fissure, freezing Haunt’s air supply. They wail alike, thrown into a flailing fit unsuited for someone permitted to carry loaded guns. Again a kick filled with rage swipes at bondage, sending their captured quarry rolling over slush and crumpling into an amused, pained, and blessedly muffled cackle in a split-second of hubris—or maybe hopelessness.
Heaving like a beast bit open at the throat, Haunt twists, half-bent, dancing with sharp contorts between peals of anguish (and more adamantly, questions of victim-hood) and sprays of flash-freezing chemicals until the unsatisfactory sound of ripping rubber hosing from broken metal slams the mechanically stiff whips and nae-naes to a halt. The bound bag of a body writhes, invigorated, its bindings mercilessly denying sight—and obscuring from others seeing. The sounds of desperation keep Haunt aware of the attempt to escape, despite focusing on the crisis of broken equipment.
“Gah! It’s always the last ten—mmph—twenty meters! Always so close, steps away from ▇▇▇!” Frantic clatters punctuate the shed of a worthless respirator, only to fade away, lost in teeming darkness. The prominent light source, Haunt’s rebreather and its tubing, sputters a few final rivulets of green-tinted chemicals as its hose joins the cadence of those far-off droplets, slipping from a despondent grasp to join the now-abandoned breathing tank and hooded filtration mask on the ground. Rid of refitted leather, the once-bright fluorescent glow of green lenses now stare with the pallor of dark glass-tinted eyes, generously pinpointing for no one in particular exactly where the ghastly captor lingers in the bleak haze as they stalk towards their bounty.
“If you did not want to contribute to the betterment of the world,” Haunt circles, a vulture wreathed at the throat with pride and pomp. Six feet and then some of wrapped fabric, strapped leather, and a few additional half-frayed ropes, twists like a worm, bereft of appendages in these confinements and made to be pecked at by Haunt’s heightened words and pitch. “You should have learned to kill your shadows!” The circling ends at feet, where the lank of Haunt’s frame looms, dripping still, just out of cadence with the rest.
“Pity, yes? You didn’t. You didn’t learn from the mistakes of those that still take breath. You have been shown the path before, and yet— Now you serve a better purpose—You should see—you should really look, but, those bright green eyes of yours, Haunt finds them unsettling; you will have to imagine, instead. Here, where you were a bitch, is a holy chamber of innovation, made especially for your type: the weak. The ones made to fill the pits, with your big shoulders and your strong arms and very powerful legs, what the fuck.”
In the darkness all is clear. The way that body churns in every effort to be free under the monotony of Haunt’s hundredth soliloquy of the trip, and how Haunt failed to see the liberated leg that came out of nowhere earlier until attempting to gather up straps by both hands once again. The kicking resumes, but frustration fuels focus, protecting what remains of personal protective equipment and guarding a face now only concealed by sable cloth wrapped like bandages. “Haunt was perfectly fine not having to smell this place again, you know. It’s not the worst now, it will be worse later, but even this—”
In the darkness, the cloth gag sounds less effective, and among recapture, kicks grow fervent until both ankles are seized as a hen is captured by its irate farmer and hung to think about its decisions before the blood rush comes. It leaves Haunt awkwardly long in the body, an unholy might coursing through appendages to keep six damn feet and then some off the ground and unable to do much more than thrash. Over the shoulder and shuffling towards the hall’s end, it is a quick motion that puts legs backwards against a back well strengthened by carrying a breathing tank.
“Listen, hm? Yes?" There's enough pause for a fly's heart to beat. "Okay. 𝐹𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔—” In vain, both, they collide in struggle again, each step far exaggerated by the need to counterbalance a body in riot. Jerks and tugs adjust and adapt, and despite it all, shadows continue the need to be heard. “Flailing is not going to help! It just makes this hard—breaks Haunt’s things—fills you with unearned rage. Sure, rage is good, but too much? It will be wasted. Haunt needs what’s at the core, not the surface. Try to find your center. Deep breaths, think vengeful but calming thoughts. Fire, perhaps? Haunt assumes that is a rational go-to. Big, large, vast bonfires? Wildfires without boundaries.”
To any victim, the true torment is the stream of consciousness, the platitudes, the confessions and knotted philosophies. It always hints, implies, fills just enough space to create more in the end. In the darkness, it is everything, and it has been darkness for hours, this time, for this singular soul. Some targets are worth more effort but afforded far, far less respect, a blatant hypocrisy to the values often honored by Haunt’s typical prey subjects. Even as the winds wane and the gangrenous heaps are lost beyond icy pillars and then taller walls, there are the words. “… Most of these places have been long pillaged by the combined forces of you breathers. Few remain in such splendor—capable of creating, capable of modifying. It is transfiguration that is hardest to achieve in the wake of catastrophic errors. Sure, at first there was the direct conduit to the blueprints, the schematics! Oh, the schematics…” The chill permeates worse, where wind is stifled by humid air and walls still sweat from their last exposure to profane experimentation. It digs through fabric and bindings, and heralds an end Haunt has done nothing but sing of.
“Now, with none of that, we start from scratch. The scratch is you, by the way. Well, your being. There is no greater fuel in this world, than what has been pressed from within your heart under the torment experiences of your…really quite long life. You’ll do well in your new purpose.” Praise as there is, the body is still dropped like a wet bag of trash.
A different crescendo of sounds blares after minutes of silence, away from words and metal, left only with the moisture. Then, the worst of freedom comes with the rifling grip of metal and leather-clad fingers prying away a blindfold held by a belt strap. The faint ebb of waning green glow rims the wicked edges of machinery made beyond the minds of the living. It blinds, despite its dimness, though as minutes carry on and Haunt abandons being helpful in favor of ushering more carnal groans from profane equipment as it whirs into function.
Turning back to eyes now adapted to the undulating pulses pallid ichor amid glassy pipework, arms of black outstretch in reception and white-glowing eyes flicker their vigor of ill intent.
“Welcome, dear soul, to the end of your fleshly constraints!” Standing silent, awkward, and finally issuing a squeak of confusion, a hush little voice mutters: “Confetti—forgot the confetti—” then perks to the highs of self-appointed glory again. “Don’t take it too poorly, your mechanical internment will at least put you between a woman’s legs. You will rumble with a power that could only be imagined in your current state. You will burn, through fuel, through muck, through chaff. You will deliver to her enemies the Sun's very wrath. You'll have a chassis! Wee!" Elation crashes into a solemn sea of silence but not for long, there is an attention deficit to contend with, here.
“Welcome, to the Severing of Your Soul!” There is no applause, but shoulders do sink as if abruptly freed from the burden of announcing. “…ʷᵒʳᵏⁱⁿᵍ ᵗⁱᵗˡᵉ. It should have splendor, but what is splendor for, in the last moments of your current state? You will find no absolution here, and maybe that is the misconception, that which should be avoided here.” Boots drag heavy over sludge, sticky and loud in their ominous approach. “Maybe, instead, Haunt informs you that your ancestors will watch the macerating of your finite existence into something useful. That is all they will be able to do.” The weight of a fist drives into open eyes, ending consciousness in a succinct blow. The room heaves, steady in the motions of purpose, and Haunt rises upright again, shaking out knuckles like a wimpy kid—kaldorei skulls are strong and they aren't big on punching things (guns work pretty great on night elves, however).
This is a place of holy innovation, boasts a thing of unmitigated desolation that cannot possibly reach such lofty claims. But the mounds started here can only grow in height, number, and girth. So they will, until Haunt can reach those heights. One unfortunate resource at a time.
Good trope: Character yelling, "It's not what it looks like!" while doing exactly what it looks like.
Great trope: Character yelling, "It's not what it looks like!" while doing something so unfathomable that the person who interrupted them can't even begin to attempt to figure out what the hell it is they're seeing.
An evening unremarkable among evenings, and Haunt, of course, eagerly makes the most of it by engaging in the otherwise unmentionable. Dirt clings to leather boots, clods on the shovel strapped against the canvas satchel on their back, and falls in little chunks and pebbles at the consistent, unsettled movements of the wormy little mercenary. Moving in, feline grace trips over unmitigated curiosity, landing the elf only a foot away, the fresh scent of dirt the first of many offenses present. Somewhere beneath that lingered oil, pinewood, and mold. Likely mold. For everyone's sake, it's mold.
"Stairs?" The glint of evening road lanterns flicker over tinted goggles as they take in the questioner and question alike, with an audible hum of consideration and sudden tap of one metal fingertip upon the filter that sits at Haunt's right cheek. It is a slow, ambling appraisal, as they take words less cautiously.
"Typically? No, the stone ones--the sturdy ones--those are fine, very doable. Like human ones, or dwarven, yes, indeed those." As if the question demanded anything more, a lithe frame of sable leather and oxidized metal kicks up at the right knee to cross that leg over the left knee. Standing, contorting, one-legged and not even wobbling, the explanation continues with visual aid. Free hands, despite the weight of whatever that satchel was on their back, reach down with ease, pry at leather belt buckles without hesitation, and in a reveal as grand as a show's opening--slow draw of the curtains and all--the mechanical right leg is exposed.
Wiring as condensed and complex as any goblin's hairbrained electrical device ball around fine, moss-tinted shine, the pipework of the prosthetic tibia just visible beneath the electrical components. "It is those other ones, the floating ones, you know--oh, you might not--do you know?" It isn't like Haunt leaves time for an answer. "Silvermoon, the stairs float there. They wiggle, and the magic, it dispels under the discharge from the heel--here." A gloved digit extends to display the titanium-looking bracket at the heel of the half-boot worn on the replaced leg. The slender tip touches to the metal heel activating a spark of turquoise arcing to pure white just at the contact point. Retreating, it disperses, webbing along the twisted pathways of wires to discharge entirely into the rod of the tibia.
"Haunt would like to have a word with someone about accessibility complications present in Silvermoon's public locations because stepping on a stairwell and having to run at full speed as it discharges its magical properties and collapses underneath Haunt makes for a lot of very unnecessary exercise that Haunt would like to not engage in while simply enjoying themselves in the city." Like a light flickering off, that head swivels up to stare forward.
"Elves just do not make good stairs."
if the rotten hand that thrusts out of the dirt and grabs your ankle as you cross the graveyard is gay is that a diversity win or loss? on the one hand it is gay. on the other, it came from the dirt and most likely belongs to a corpse, which could be argued to be an example of bury your gays,
“Late for your own coronation. That isn’t a good look, Lord Imortis.”
Vane was ripped from her inner thoughts by a voice that could only be defined as harrowing. Soft enough to lead a man to his death, but with enough steel to deliver temptation’s kiss. Both sides of a coin stood upon the manor’s second floor balcony, overlooking the dancing crowd outside that ignored the chill of winter’s advance. The young Lord dressed in a black suit, flourished with a sole purple rose, at the lapel. Alexa, of course, stole even her sister’s show in a form-fitted, low-cut, backless, azure dress.
They lingered, their dichotomy in existence amid a quiet moment as the wind stirred matching brunette strands of both siblings. Vane nursed a glass of brandy in lieu of more frowned upon substances, far more sober than their guests, due to arriving at the party fashionably late. She had not the time to clean the soot from underneath her fingertips, but otherwise, looked well groomed for the affair.
Alexa, however, was the essence of perfection, straight backed and attentive, watching like a hawk as a certain pale terror picked her way through the amassed crowd. One could only wonder how Alekya could keep her head so high underneath the weight of her mother’s gaze. Vane knew its gravity, and the burden of carrying the family name, especially now that she ascended to the upper echelons of the nobility’s playing grounds once again.
“If you would be so gracious as to forgive me, Vice-Admiral, it would be appreciated and not forgotten in any haste.” A low timbre of a voice offered, finally, as the shifting of leather armor behind their respective forms reminded the two present of the tense silence. Blind eyes and wise ears kept tabs on their conversation from inside the manor’s doorway, Fah’s form taking up the door frame with its pure mass and splendor.
Even with her protection, Vane could not help but feel alone and afraid when within a foot or so of her sister. Despite Carmilla being a simple word away, a literal arsenal of knives and weaponry always lingering at the ready, even. Two lines of defense, each respectively ready to come to the rescue as soon as a glass fell, or words rose above an acceptable level.
