Minerva Mitford

A Thief OC, willing to RP with anyone. [owner]

[stalker-lynx]

Karras number 3! :3

3- Karras in school uniform.

[minervamitford]

[decertatio]

// Minerva redux! This time, with freckles!

[minervamitford]

This was the fourth night in a row now.

Minerva had gotten what was likely eight hours of sleep in the last ninety, surrounded by distant hums of the nightly vigils, the occasional footsteps.  Found her nights' peace staring into the fireplace with the clanging of work hammers in some nearby room.   

She had barely gotten out of Soulforge when the beacons were activated.  Half a block away, she managed to look back at the cursed structure as the tell-tale umber clouds of rustgas began to obscure the vacuum-seal windows.  Her means of escape were a convenient wonder to her.  Flashes of her last duties before her escape from the workshops occasionally popped up in her reminiscence.  

The coppery scent, she thought to herself, was rust from the hastily manufactured metal that she worked with.  The shrieking... were gears, from lack of maintenance .. of course since she was the last one left the last one left the only one breathing left working tonight.  The gasps the heavy laboured gasping of the forges as the flames licked greedily at the air within sealed workroom.  

He hath formed my hands with fingers. And behold, my fingers interlock with cogs...like cogs on a gear. I am part of His unbeholdable machine. Therein lies my salvation. 

Minerva... Minerva, they called and it had been several hours days? into this project, long enough that she's learned to suppress her shudders.  She thought it was Father Karras at first at first before she realise the voice their voices called from within the room.

For lips... and tongue... can twist... truth into lies. I am a child of Karras, and no lips... or tongue... have I.

Her rust-stained hands came from cages she emptied and spilled onto the steel floor and trapped between the rivets and dried up like her thoughts and her mind was empty and it was the only way she could work it was the only way she could work work for Father Karras.  It was by His command He chose her that she had been toiling away all for

I am diligent; 'twas The Builder that made me so. I am tireless; 'twas The Builder that made me so. The word of Karras compels me. It is by his will alone that I exist.

Minerva remembered not putting away her hammer, she remembered she left it on the auxiliary workbench while fixing the wiring from one of the other masked guards.  There was a flash of green, a noise of surprise something human amongst the metal.  Minerva's voice was dry and she was startled and Minerva turned to call for help but when she opened her mouth she stopped and realised there was n o o n e l e f t t o h e a r 

And I thank the Builder for his wisdom, for He hath shown me the divine power of D E A T H

She was left staring at the forge before her, as the fire devoured the air and the world blacked out.

"Minerva?" A gentle, but formal voice called from behind her.  She jolted, but did not bother turning her head, nor responding.

"Siste-- Minerva.  We have been searching for thee for nearly a week."  The warm fingertips of a bare hand softly pressed her arm.

"I know.  I apologise.  I needed a quiet place."

His eyes worriedly searched her neutral expression.  "Surely, the workshop is the least quiet place within the Seminary.  The Temple is oft scarce of the brethren due to the increased patrols."  

His fingers tugged at her, and she turned to face him.  The priest was inwardly startled.  When Minerva had returned  to them for rehabilitation, her face was always to the ground.  While he had known her before she defected, her downcast, tired form seemed familiar to him, though that was all he had seen of her since her return.  

This was the first time he had seen her face.  The fires from the fireplace she had been staring at eerily lit her features; deadened eyes and her gaunt face seemed more skeletal in the dark of the room.  Minerva gazed back at him and tilted her head inquisitively as to his rather rude staring.  The priest looked away.

His whole hand reached and softly enveloped her thin arm, pulling her with him out of the room.

"Come, Minerva.  A warm meal and plenty drink hath been prepared for thee."

[sneaky-taffer]

shorty aloysius needs to use taller people as his mighty steed of JUSTICE if he wants to smite the nonbelievers

[minervamitford]

// i haven't been active for months but UGH i have been committing to too many things at any one time so i need to slow down BUT im giving Minerva  a good old college attempt again so YEAH

[primalprimrose]

Reblog if you’re a roleplayer from the Thief series.

[minervamitford]

// hahahahhh i swear i'm not making a habit of inactivity.  been a horrible week but its hopefully looking up!

[ros-solis]

A proud smirk makes its way onto Drosera’s face when the Mechanist steps away from him. Wisps may not be particularly useful in any other situation, but a superstitious Hammerite or Mechanist will always assume much worse of any Pagan magic, a fact that Drosera will exploit as much as possible.

He jabs his staff in her direction again, putting a scowl on his face to scare her off before having his expression immediately falter from the sounds of the bells in the distance. He looks around, confused and alarmed again before remembering that with a Mechanist near him he’d do better to not drop his guard, and holds his staff close again as if to warn her to not make sudden movements.

[minervamitford]

Being trapped in the alley with Mechanists swarming by was the exact situation Drosera was hoping to avoid, and his confident expression is slipping, revealing the anxious face underneath. The alley was dark enough to hide in for a little while, but with the female mechanist present his location would be found out almost immediately. He suppresses a shudder at the thought of being found out, something which looks as though may happen regardless of whether he began running now or not. He was unfamiliar with this part of the City enough that doing so would just attract unwanted attention, and probably just lead to his running into one of the Iron Beasts that roam the streets.

But then he had a stroke of inspiration, an idea that lit up his features before allowing the cold smirk to appear on his face again. He reaches over with his staff, giving Minerva a rough jab in the side with it.

"You bes leading me away from here, Mechanist,” he spits, “And maybe I bes givers you my name and not havers you turning into a… a frogbeast.”

It was pure rubbish of course, no amount of magic would turn her into anything of the sort. But she didn’t need to know that.

A brief expression of anxiety flitted across the pagan's features as the tolling of the bells ceased.  Minerva inwardly smirked at the effect of her statement.  Her indulging in his reaction was briefly interrupted when he'd turned back to face her, his eyes alight with determination.  The pagan prodded her suddenly with his weapon, demanding safe passage from her.  Punctuated with a threat, no less.

Minerva gave him an unimpressed stare before ceding.  It was highly likely that the interloper was not familiar with the area, having been unaware of the changeover time for the patrols.  And if the lanky vermin was fool enough to trust her to lead him out of this precarious spot, then perhaps she could turn the situation to her advantage.  She would have to be careful however, the staff pointed at her could very well mean the end of her blossoming career with the Mechanists.

"Very well.  If thou art intent on leaving this alleyway safely, I suggest thou doest as I say."

A mere few minutes had passed, she figured the patrol should be on their path returning to Angelwatch now.  Indeed, distant telltale footsteps began to approach on either side of them.  Soon, there would be no window of opportunity to pass by unseen.  It would appear suspicious for Minerva to be emerging from the dark passage way with a pagan accompanying her.  Unless of course...

"Thou canst pose as my prisoner until we reach somewhere safe."

Permitting no moment for any interjection, Minerva offered out a hand to the staff.

"If we both intend to go our separate ways without any issue, then I suggest thou playest the role of the acquiescent prisoner to the best of thine abilities.  Otherwise we both will be under my peers' suspicion and neither of us will be safe from the Mechanist inquisitors."

She gave a small smile.  "We do not wish that, do we?"

Minerva relied on the pagan recognising that he was far too treacherous a position to refuse (just as much as she was - the Mechanist

inquisitorial department were not to be taken lightly).  Either certain doom now, or a less likely chance of it later.

[minervamitford]

22. >D

A fig leaf —

// builder take the gear ggdfhg

[minervamitford]

[closed] salvation at soulforge

[father-karras-blog]

          Divinity True divine favor was a strange feeling.

          Cords, snarls of wires; twitching, sparking masses of machinery; the holy complexities of a thousand systems, turning together — he was a foetus curled in the womb of an electric god.  He existed within and overlapping these systems; his identity had melted into them, as it had with the Builder, and his biology spread itself across all his praise-singing accomplishments as an octopus might spread its tentacles out among the waving sponges and stalwart corals of artificial, cold, inorganic intelligence.

          The Fisher King of the Mechanists moved about his protective chamber, sluggish, mouth and mind and eyes full of his god’s whispers.  The Builder no longer required him to sleep for prophetic dreams and visits, what with his new technological awarenesses:  He had spoken recently, in fact.  How long ago, he could not summon to mind — time moved differently in the awareness of a god the most loyal of the Builder’s flock — but the order had been urgent. 

          Brother Kelsus’ face had flickered before his eyes, green with treachery’s rot, and the Builder’s voice had issued itself from his mouth:  O, Karras, that Thy followers were not so fickle.  Thou canst trust none but Thyself…

          The eventuality of Paradise no longer sufficed, because one stray hand could thrust itself into the machinery and clog the process; the entire order must be disassociated with its mortality, split from mankind before the roots and vines of humanity took hold of perfection and dragged it back to the wretched Earth.  They would all be made perfect.  Rearranged — sinners turned true and noble.  Even the most loyal, eventually; none could be trusted.  The hands that pushed the final pieces of his plans into place must be bronze and copper and lead.  Trusted.  Holy.  It was only fitting, that the Builder had chaperones which were bent into His image.

          F…father Karras?

          The flesh stirred; the mind rose from the depths of its reveries, into the harsh blue-gold light.  Minerva.  The cog he needed to fix in place at the moment.  "Only a little ways to go," said the Builder.  "Speakst thou to her — she can be trusted.  She will be the last."

          He fumbled, wiping some rust-colored liquid from his ashy lips.

          "Thou approach’st perfection, Karras," beamed the Builder.

          As he rounded into sight, he could see her, blurred and obstructed, through the reinforced glass:  He spared her a curious glance, face unreadable, lips trembling in something like amusement.  Is this how they look?  So imperfect!  So… hideous.  And yet — what sadness remained?  Something… something felt horribly wasteful...

          STOKE THY FORGE, AND BURN AWAY ALL IMPURITY

          He slumped forward, nearly into the slotted steel door.  Copper fingertips scrabbled; joints hummed and whirred and creaked bloodlessly, screaming their wrongness and discomfort like the wheeze-blast of a microphone.  He stood by the door, summoned his voice from his throat.  “Friend… Minerva.”

          A long pause.

          “Minerva,” he breathed, and something almost of childish glee had entered his voice.  “How welcome thou art here.  Step’st thou closer to the door, Friend Minerva:  Thy presence here is of the utmost import, I assure thee… — fear not, for though I have been absent from my flock, I am not gone, nay, nor false, nor…”

          His voice trailed off.

          “Thou wonderest, no doubt,” he began, tone almost wry, “wherefore thou hast been called to this… sanctuary…”

[minervamitford]

         Minerva's voice had come out meeker than she intended.  The din of the distant machinery echoed loudly in the empty halls despite its distance from the main foundry, sounds travelling through the pipage that spread out like veins in the mechanical being that was Soulforge.  She found herself drowning in the silence that followed her unbidden interruption, the uneasiness settling within her.  It was far from dark in the hallway, but such bright lights cast darker shadows still. 

         A voice sounded her name from right behind the door, startling her.

         Acknowledging him in an even voice, Minerva replied, "I am here, Father.”

         He repeated her name, protracted with a strange slur.  Perhaps he was tired? His appearances grew seldom, and rarer still since she heard his voice from victrolas.  It was understandable since the Cathedral housed a huge but discreet project.  She could understand on some level the fevered ecstasy of immersing oneself in work, especially when surrounded with equally enthusiastic colleagues. 

         He bade her closer, and she cautiously did as she was commanded.  Minerva approached the door closer than she intended to as she found it difficult to hear the Father's words, even harder without his lips to read.   

         Minerva stood but a few inches away from the thick metal door, her eyes trained on a vague silhouette she could make out between the metal slits.   As she settled nearer, an alien scent began to permeate her senses.  The odour itself did was not strange, but rather its curious intensity.  It smelt akin to excessive soldering, enough to ruin metal.  The scent was difficult to ignore, and she wondered why Karras would err so recklessly in his work. 

         As he explained, curious hazel eyes studied the outline of Karras’ figure through the door.  It seemed he was wearing something other than the usual robes.  His posture was oddly askew, leaning either away or towards the door.  Karras' voice also sounded much different, a strange, giddy lilt to his speech.  She recalled his presence back at Angelwatch: a measured theatricality but ultimately pragmatic in his verbalism. A sense of wrongness was pervasive in his approach, sheltered behind the glass and metal, his articulation indistinct, though Minerva dismissed the feeling as quickly as she had noticed it.

         Barely latching back onto his words, trailed off into a pause, and a subtle, vocal cue as to her input.

         She found it hard to measure how much curiosity she could communicate in her response. It was equal parts anxiety from the sudden commission, and tremendous excitement that burned at her core.  Since she had joined the order, it had been perhaps an incidental goal of hers to maybe one day collaborate with the great paragon himself.  Time and time again, Minerva had thrown herself at every opportunity to experience Karras' genius first-hand, to see him as he conceived his mechanical creations.  She'd never been under his direct guidance in any projects before - this was a rare opportunity, one she wanted all the more since he'd restricted his interactions to the select few stationed at Soulforge.

         "I do not know what I can offer thee here within thy sanctuary," Minerva fidgeted, indulging her nervous energy by wringing her hands.  This is no time for doubt, she scolded inwardly.

         "But I am ready to work to the best of my abilities.  Though my skills are rather specialised, I am willing to learn, Father Karras.”  

[sephiramy]

The Character Wardrobe Meme

Send a number to my ask box along with a character of your choice, and I’ll draw up the ensuing ensemble! (If the character chosen wouldn’t wear the option given… go ahead and sub in something else!)

DRAW YOUR CHARACTER WEARING…

Underwear

Casual clothes

Work uniform

Night clothes

Swimwear

Formal gala garb

Lounging, lazy-time stuff

A party outfit

Date night threads

Something outdoorsy

Interview outfit

Tourist/travel wear

A costume!

Their sick day scrubs

Summer clothes

Winter clothes

Um, spring clothes?

Why not - fall clothes!

Workout wear

Last minute throw-ons

The most expensive thing they own

A fig leaf

Feel free to add, subtract, or alter as you please to fit your character bunch!

[minervamitford]

psa. i am an agonizingly slow roleplayer — my muses are fickle and some days all i can manage is chat threads or shenanigans. other days i can pump out longer threads like no one’s business. if it takes me a while on your thread it has nothing to do with you as a writer or me losing my muse for the thread. never hesitate to ask for my skype for in between threads for chatting and plotting and fun.

[minervamitford]

[oneshot]

// I just really wanted to write a thing about recovering-mechanist!minerva

-

A shrill scream filled the gloom.

Gasping, Minerva lay her head back on the pillow.  It had been a little over a year since the events at Soulforge, though its scars remained.  Many of her colleagues were lost to the horrors she partook in, her own clumsy, shaking hands haunted by their blood.  Dark phantoms of her actions lurked in the corners of her mind, waiting for the shroud of the night to suffocate her senses.  Memories would fill her nightmares, sometimes flashes, sometimes more; but they were always crisp and clear.  

It would be barely morning when she was violently shunted out of her respite, the dim, cold hues of the evening still battling with the sunrise in an orange tint.  There Minerva would lay, wide eyed and with shallow breath, until the day light filled her room.

Her Mechanist brethren no longer existed, scattered amongst the masses.  But the Hammerites remained to clean up their mess.  Indeed it was they that offered her this quaint rehabilitation.  She did not dare repeat what happened that fateful night, though it seemed the Master Thief in question filled in the blanks in her stead.  A small, cold comfort.  They still did not allow her into their ranks, of course.  Tradition is what shaped their order.  They gave her food and shelter for a while until she'd sold most of her belongings to afford a humble apartment in South Quarter.  

Soulforge itself still stood as a strange marker of the events that had passed.  While many wanted to demolish and repurpose the building, many (particularly the Hammerites) were reluctant as they did not wish to unleash any active mutox.  In the end, the Hammerites instead built various walls around the ruined Cathedral to isolate it from the rest of Dayport, should any of the rust gas begin to leak.  Minerva was consulted briefly on this, as with other surviving Mechanists who were aware of the mutox's origin.

The day began to shine brightly in her small bedroom, urging her to get up.  Minerva cast a tired glance at the corner of her room, where she had left most of her leftover possessions from the Mechanists: her old work robes (she had sold the ceremonial ones), her mace and an old book of prayers, written personally by Karras himself.  She remembered fighting to keep it, though the Hammerites disapproved greatly of her sentiment.  If that was what it was.  She had not touched it, as with her other items, since she had placed it in its small dark corner.  

Minerva was loath to part with it, as doing so would accept that these strange days were now long gone.  Even despite the night terrors she clung on to those better days, where she was productive and her skills truly blossomed.  Some of the nobles still retained some of the Mechanist technology, despite the warnings and finger-wagging from the Hammerites.  Here she found work, maintaining these outdated, aging mechanisms.

She was hardly a matron, but Minerva felt aged, delapidated as the parapets of Soulforge.  Her hands acquired a tremble to them over the months, and her work was more difficult than she had ever remembered.

How do you pick up the pieces of an old life?  And how do you make something new, and better from such jagged shards?

[minervamitford]

[closed] salvation at soulforge

                A tangible tension had festered amongst the Mechanists as of late.  There was a certain, consistent percussive rhythm to Angelwatch and rarely did Minerva ever miss a beat.  However, recent events had their movements at a constant, directed crescendo with Minerva ever anxious, not of the fevered tempo she found herself working to, but the inevitable, screeching halt to come.  Her colleagues became nothing more than scribbled salutations at the beginning and end of lengthy correspondences, teal blurs in the gear-metal grey and molten bronze of Angelwatch.  Minerva felt as though she stood, eyes closed in the eye of an invisible storm. 

                The heat of the forge had all but wrung every last drop of sweat from her, and at the end of the day often found herself dried and spent, desperate for an extended respite from her hourly labour which came rarer as the days went by. 

                A surprising correspondence found its way to her, the seal indicating that it was directly from Karras.  By no means was Minerva familiar with him, but to glance upon Karras’ person these days was a near miracle.  His presence in Angelwatch was now replaced by victrolas for his guests.  More unnerving were the contents however, urgently requesting her presence at Soulforge.

                Far be it for her to question a direct missive, it was highly uncharacteristic.  For such a critical request, it was hastily scrawled, notably scarce of details, and being thrown unceremoniously onto her desk by Friend Vilnia (who herself was also only then made aware of the immediate reassignment), which only fed her concern.  Despite her woes and worries, she felt obligated at the very least to serve their paragon as best she could.

                Soulforge had changed since last saw it.  It had a hopeful conception - a true dedicated workshop to progress and a worthy testament to the works of the Builder.   But before her Soulforge stood cold and far removed from any warmth of the Builder.  The chilly morning air was interspersed with smog from the factories, the drab atmosphere illuminated by the forges within.  The building groaned in settling from the cold morning to the warm high noon.  A sense of dread had settled in the centre of her chest. 

                Pushing on, she felt her body was as though an invader slipping through the membrane of an organic thing; the space was thick with smells of fire and metal, filled with loud clanking from both the various machinery and the patrolling Children.  Nearly everything was covered in paved stone or polished steel and it greatly unnerved her.  Perchance it was because she was used to Angelwatch, its purpose to house and entertain guests and seldom was it ever void of humanity.  Here there as a distinct, deliberate lack of it.

                A familiar face greeted her, and assuaged her anxieties a notch.  Brother Kelsus welcomed her warmly, though his face seemed gaunt.  Minerva inquired as to the nature of their technical urgency but was met with a confused shrug. 

                “I do not know if our flock is factored much into our revered leader's plans anymore, Friend Minerva.”  She raised a quizzical eyebrow.

                “What dost thou mean?”

                Kelsus seemed unsettled, and his eyes searching for something in hers.  Whatever it was, he dismissed it with a casual wave of a hand.  “Nothing.  I meant nothing.  I… do warn thee, however.  Our leader hath undergone a … jarring transformation.”  He accompanied her as her eyes explored the changed expanse of Soulforge.

                He directed her to Karras’ safe chamber, pointing down a brief hallway before returning to his duties. Minerva had to control her immediate reaction when she came upon Father Karras.  .  Away from the factories, the room was bare but for remote controls for Soulforge’s mechanisms.  Anything else in the room she could not see past the barred, thick glass windows.  The only entrance to the chamber being the burnished steel door, a few discreet slits for conversation to pass through.        

                “F…father Karras?” Her voice wavered.  

[ros-solis]

ooc

//ooc: easily overlooked fact: Dro is actually fairly tall

[minervamitford]

// This actually puts a hilarious spin on our thread, seeing it makes me giggle.

[minervamitford]

M!As: Some Drama to Slip Into

mSometimes we need a little drama for absolutely no reason. Sometimes we need to be a little extra sadistic. Sometimes our followers would love to be extra sadistic. Here's a little list of M!As you can use. Use it wisely! Please specify how long the M!A lasts or let that be up to the poor sod who goes up for this torture. Feel free to add more.

Cardiac: Your character starts showing the signs of a heart attack.

Shrapnel: Your character has been shot in the (anon specified). (Someone can come forward as the shooter, otherwise attack is case of mistaken identity.)

Bitten: Your character has been bitten by an animal.

Snap: Your character has broken their limb. (Anon specify limb broken.)

Flesh Wound: Your character is bleeding from the (anon specified).

Scrambled: Your character has a bit of head trauma and is confused.

Fever: Your character is suffering from a high fever.

Scars: Any old scars your character has have started to burn.

Paranoia: Your character has become severely paranoid.

Pox: Your character cannot stop scratching.

Chill: Icy to the touch, your character cannot seem to get warm.

Mania: Your character has gone on a rampage and cannot seem to be calmed.

Nightmare: Your character has fallen into a deep sleep and is haunted by vivid nightmares.

Wheeze: Your character gradually feels unable to breathe.

Imaginary: Your character starts to hallucinate.

[minervamitford]

✕ and ✖?

✕ - How do they handle rejection?

Badly.  Perhaps in her younger days, Minerva might’ve learned how to be patient and understanding.  However when it comes to matters close to her heart, she tends to not understand ‘no’ and wants it to have to be justified - to her.  Why not? Is there no other way to make it happen? She’ll try to rationalise feelings as if they were an equation, or a scientific problem, which is obviously a really bad approach to rather abstract matters of feelings and relationships - both platonic and otherwise.

✖ - Who is someone they just cannot stand?

She has slight animosity towards the Hammerites.  Commonly, Mechanists view them with maybe disdain or indifference, but because Minerva’s initial request to join with the Hammerite order when she was but a teen was promptly rejected due to reasons, she does hold a bit of a grudge.  Minerva holds a bit of a superiority complex about it.

[minervamitford]

✖ ouo

✖ - Who is someone they just cannot stand?

Minerva cannot tolerate decadence, and those that wallow in it.  She initially came from a poorer background and lucked out in that her skills bloomed and therefore granted her station amongst the Mechanists.  In a way, she detests how the order has become almost a symbol of financial indulgence, but hypocritically enough enjoys the luxuries regardless.  The nobles are, after all, what supports her research and development.