@dignitaes

[movedvalor]

moved to  @dignitaes​

most drafts are being moved and continued !

[movedvalor]

moved to  @dignitaes​

most drafts are being moved and continued !

[movedvalor]

moved to  @dignitaes​

most drafts are being moved and continued !

[movedvalor]

moved to  @dignitaes​

most drafts are being moved and continued !

[movedvalor]

gunbash​,          sebastian moran.

from  @valorcries:  nonverbal  prompt  90  /  sender  helps  receiver  patch  up  a  wound

❝  THAT’S  —  YOU  KNOW  I  DON’T  NEED  …  OKAY  .  ❞  sebastian  is  initially  resistant  to  the  attention  ,   half-ready  to  scramble  away  as  dasia  insists  ,  but  soon  sebastian  yields  ,  accepting  the  help  ,  the  temporary  focus  .  he  settles  down  ,  sits  ,  and  tenderly  rolls  up  the  sleeve  of  his  shirt  to  better  expose  the  wound  .  ❝  just  didn’t  want  to  cause  a  problem  .  make  this  a  BIGGER  DEAL  than  it  already  is  .  i  can  patch  it  up  myself  ,  you  know  ,  if  you  have  something  else  to  —  okay  ,  okay  .  ❞  he  accepts  the  glare  when  it  comes  ,  nodding  ,  swallowing  thickly  in  acceptance  .  why  fight  it  ?  sebastian  sighs  and  decides  to  shut  his  mouth  ,  instead  focusing  on  the  woman  beside  him  and  her  diligent  attention  to  detail  when  it  comes  to  his  wound  .  THE  GASH  IS  NASTY  ,  but  it’s  not  life-threatening  or  deserving  of  anything  drastic  .  that’s  why  he  watches  her  gather  easier  supplies  ,  things  to  clean  it  with  ,  gauze  ,  materials  to  help  .  ❝  thank  you  .  ❞  said  after  a  while  of  silence  ,  yet  holding  the  same  level  of  meaning  .  he  slowly  dips  his  head  .  ❝  i  …  i  could  have  fixed  it  up  myself  ,  but  you’re  clearly  doing  a  far  better  job  than  i  would  have  .  THANK  YOU  .  it’s  …  ❞  he  winces  as  she  starts  to  wipe  the  wound  clean  .  ❝  IT  LOOKS  WORSE  THAN  IT  IS  .  i’ll  be  fine  .  just  —  thanks  .  i  appreciate  the  help  .  ❞

         she isn’t pursued by an overcast sky.     it’s the first day in weeks where she catches a   glimpse   of sun rays peeking behind dark clouds she formerly believed to   never leave her.     they follow her around,   casting her with seemingly endless grief,   and she doesn’t know what appeared to change.     there’s a few hitches in her new path,   sure,   like patching up an   assassin   covering as a teacher.     this would’ve been an ordinary evening if she were still at dauntless,   if factions were still active.     if around the clock training wasn’t presently a thing of the past.     now dasia patches up her   own   wounds,   she battles   those who target innocents   —   and though she isn’t quite certain what sebastian’s intended demographic is when it comes to   prey,   those are wonders for another time.     ❛     do you always talk this much when you’re trying to get someone to stop helping you   ?     ❜     there’s a grin in her voice as skilled hands work with motor memory alone now that all required supplies idle within reach.     she’s cautious to not touch flesh with bare hands,   a brush of her roughened fingertips sure,   but touch doesn’t linger.     she can’t,   doesn’t want to.     back remains slightly hunched the longer she concentrates on the wounds depth.     it brings her at eye level with it,   and from what she can derive,   it’s mostly shallow,   no stitching required.     ❛     i’ve done this for worse people,   sebastian.   no need to thank me.     ❜     she attempts mercy as she pats the gash with saline solution,   the parted skin having exposed damaged,   hemorrhaging blood vessels now clotted as pressure had been applied.     ❛     be still.     ❜

[movedvalor]

mesmersi​,          sersi.

❝  you have no reason to believe anything i’m saying  -  ❞  sersi relents to the way of the world,  where trust is earned rather than given and no one wants to be the first to expose their weakness.  this way of life makes the world quiet,  disconnected,  desperately searching for something that they ignore for the double-edged blade of security.   ❝   -  but i really do want to help. ❞

@valorcries​  /  starter call.

         the eternal means no harm,   that much is clear.     it’s evident that she intends to assist.     with such awareness,   dasia doesn’t quite discern why she outright   bristles   in response.     she doesn’t   verbally   respond yet however,   for her pique is unwarranted.     ❛     if i have no reason to believe you,   then maybe i shouldn’t believe that you want to help.     ❜     she’s calmed,   this   quip   is her calmed,   and in place of suspicion and provocation,   a smirk   trails her words.   the other set herself up for that one.     jagged rock is dragged against the blade of a knife with utmost force,   sharpening it to precision before slipping it back into its thigh holster.     a deep sigh deflates her chest then,   slackening her shoulders slightly before she pivots towards sersi.     ❛     okay,   i’ll bite.     how can you help me   ?     ❜

[movedvalor]

liarincommand​,          billy russo.

@valorcries​  liked for a one liner

            “Who are we if not exploited?” A brow arches , a hollow laugh leaving Billy’s lips. “No one gives a shit int he end , not really. You gotta look out for yourself instead.”

          ❛     my own person,   for starters.     ❜     his hollow laugh wills her top lip to curl,   brow set in skepticism and   distrust.     she figures he means exploited by others,   that’s something she’ll by no means ever allow.     dasia’s prudent to not react so precipitately however,   she’ll tread gingerly around   this one.     ❛     no one will make use of me.     i   make use of me,     ❜     ‘   by making my own rules and following my own code   ’,   she doesn’t say aloud.     ❛     and it’s exactly how i look after myself.     ❜

[movedvalor]

@diesalot,     touch.   for your muse to rest their forehead against mine’s.

          she wears it well   —   disenchantment,   heartbreak,   grief.     hope had been torn from her grasps,   shoulders carrying the weight of what she formerly assumed the world to become following a life of living in factions.     she believed the rumors to be true,   the ill-conceived notion that solely parts of the middle and east were in ruins,   entirely controlled within the confines of government-sanctioned experiments.     but she’d been wrong,   it may have only been pockets of the world subject to a disguised prison,   but little did she know that there wouldn’t be hope elsewhere.     it was long gone,   prospect decimated and ripped from the depths of her ribcage.     you could say it was her heart that was torn,   broken,   but it’s more than that.     it’s as if her soul could no longer rise in aspiration or love,   there’s nothing left for her   —   not in there,   not out here.     for it wasn’t long after the fence opened that her father passed,   the one person capable of grounding her when she felt herself to be too much of various things,   reflecting one too many traits.     it would get staggering when she was younger,   especially when made to conform to a mere   one   following a choosing ceremony or be perpetually factionless.     if she hadn’t known of the experiments,   factions wouldn’t have become a source of aggravation for her.     it was all she’d known,   it maintained order   (   for the most part   )   therefore she adjudged it a way to maintain peace and societal order.     then the enlightenment came,   and she was unable to push away the incoming feeling of betrayal,   resentment.

          now she resides outside chicago borders,   somewhere called the jungle,   in a world ravaged by chaos.     vincent mancini,   he’s been kind   —   patently determined to keep not merely himself but others alive as well.      dasia could relate.     she sits in a pool of roving blood,   regrettably   not her own as their friend lay lifeless five feet away.     vincent aside,   she trusted   one   other,   and that trust met its end as soon as her friend’s throat had been chomped and severed directly from her neck.     dasia isn’t revolted by the sight of blood or ravaged flesh,   she’s   sickened   at the sight of a friend now   dead.     ❛     vin. . . .     ❜     hands tremble against tensed quads,   tear-filled eyes trained on the dirt around her knees.     vincent kneels before her,   she isn’t sure how long he’s been there,   she hadn’t noticed when he’d approached.

          without warning he’s in her space,   forehead pressed to hers,   their ragged,   warm breaths fusing in the dead of night.     overcome by the initial shocks of grief,   she hadn’t recognized what had just transpired.     not until the heat of his skin adapts her own temperature,   not until she can nearly taste the warmth of his breath on her tongue.     her pulse skyrockets,   near misfires within her breast as beads of sweat collect at her nape.     his touch bleeds sympathy,   benevolence,   it’s a touch she’s shied away from since the first time another’s hand   struck   —   a hand she once thought to be kind and   just.     where she’d typically jerk away,   now she doesn’t move,   she’s paralyzed in a trance of triggering distress.     she   wants   his touch to bring her peace,   a touch she’s undeniably come to trust,   but it only serves to fuel her chaos.     maybe if she doesn’t move away,   maybe if she lets this prove to her that it won’t betray her.     maybe then.

[movedvalor]

sinshe,          amara petros.

@valorcries​​,   ❛  i’ve  gone  and  run  my  course,  haven’t i?  ❜

there’s an immediate response to dasia’s question, the weariness in her voice calling to the empathetic side of amara she doesn’t commonly reveal.  but those from the east had been through wars.  they weren’t accustomed to what true peace could look like.  they were told it wasn’t possible without factions, without literal barriers that kept them from questioning the system until it was almost too late.   “whatever course you existed on before is gone. it’s been obliterated.”   the statement did little to offer a reprieve from that feeling of hopelessness.   “but here? you’re free to try again. you can make your own.”   amara reaches for a hand of the other to hold, an amiable display of affection.   “people are here to help you, if you’re willing to trust them. if you’re willing to trust those same instincts that kept you alive in the first place.”

whatever course you existed on before is gone.

          whatever course you existed on before is gone.     amara’s candor deluges beneath her skin,   first like a regulated stream and then all at once,   barrels of glacial waters running frigid around her bones.     she ran cool most days anyhow,   there’s been little to enkindle her warmth   —   little aspirations,   little prospects,   little life.     when she’d initially trekked past chicago’s opened perimeters,   she wasn’t entirely like this,   bereft of avidity and hope,   until what lay awaiting her was merely another life of forthcoming heartache.     or so she presently believes.     it   is   better here,   however,   here she has a life to be whoever she so desires,   to go wherever she itches to go next,   without crushing expectancy and demands.     the other’s words continue their plunge into the most cavernous depths of her,   saddening her.     for the course she’d existed on prior had been her   life.     a life she once believed to be the right way of the people,   a life she put every last ounce of herself into.     but,   it was also a life of affliction at the bare hands of others.     that life shaped her,   despite the torment that spitefully follows.     she mostly agrees with amara,   dasia can try again.     ❛     it’s difficult erasing what’s been part of me for so long,   no matter how painful.     ❜     she didn’t prognosticate the hand reaching for hers,   the heat of delicate digits securing her own with palpable compassion.     dasia tenses,   she wishes she didn’t.   she knows amara means well,   but her gut churns violently   and the hand now held stiffens in distress.     touch,   the most gentle and kind,   still triggering.     ❛     i can trust them,   i can   . . . .     ❜     she pauses when her fingers flex by sheer instinct,   movement loosening the hand covering hers until she can facilely slip it out of its grip.     ❛     trust you.     i’m sorry,   i just   —     ❜

[movedvalor]

grievences,          sookie stackhouse.

❝  the world is a horrible place sometimes and your neighbours  ?  the people that smile in church and say they’re sorry to your face at funerals  ?  they’re just a fuckin’ horrible.  ❞  she tired of people thinking that she is dead just because she had been forced to change,  forced to recognize that the wickedness in the world didn’t care to hide itself anymore.  this isn’t a title solely reserved for vampires or the were packs,  this wasn’t some animated movie where the faeries bestowed wishes and dances upon rose petals  -  this was life,  bloody and unrelenting,  and sookie would no longer be its victim.

she stutters through a calming breath,  refocusing her ire away from @valorcries​ who should not suffer as a martyr.   ❝  i’m just so fuckin’ tired of going to funerals.  ❞

          mystic falls seems stuffy,   and she doesn’t solely mean the municipality.     because save for a collective handful,   it’s people don’t seem too great either.     everyone   appears   to be allies,   friends,   even,   while concurrently hating one another.   they also all seem to switch off partners a great deal and   proceed   to remain friends.     it’s weird,   but it’s truly not her concern.     truth be told,   she   doesn’t   prefer it there,   but as her father lay on his death bed a mere eight months prior,   the last remaining family she had,   she knew she was to fulfill his wishes for her,   for their bloodline.     the one who enlightened her   on   said bloodline before she rather regrettably and inadvertently kills someone,    triggering the werewolf gene,   which she had,   a little over a month following his death.     debilitating culpability aside,   the full moons have been excruciating,   and although in virginia for reasons solely known to her,   she knew of no better place to be than in a town deluged in the supernatural.

          glass ascends to her lips as the other woman speaks,   or fiercely vents,   dasia continues unsure.     her words ring true however,   the world is horrible,   where appearances of good faith masks envy,   where gossip breeds   thrill.       even in the most unimaginable place   like a funeral.     her last was her father’s,   and she’s decided to not allow another being so close as to avoid the hurt of their inescapable demise.     since everybody dies.     she considers sookie’s ire,   lowly humming in assent.     a life full of death either hardens your heart or enfeebles your soul,   there’s nothing wrong with choosing the former to feel less of the latter.     

          ❛     i get it.     ❜     my dad died recently,   she doesn’t share.     it’s a jagged slice to the heart with every passing day.     ❛     it gets tiring seeing the people you care about die,   just to be surrounded by people who never even   knew   them offer   false sympathies.     ❜     she agrees,   umber hues flickering up from the bar before them to settle on sookie.     ❛     i get it.     ❜

[movedvalor]

          serrated shards pierce her forearm,   bar brawls were never quite the   diversion   to break up.     albeit she’s scrupulously controlled,   ill-tempered just enough to intimidate but in control enough to withhold a heavy fist,   dasia had intercepted.     she keeps a glock strapped beneath the bar on her shifts,   fortunately she hasn’t needed it,   today   being one of those days.   but one day she feels she might.     she simply desires one shift where things don’t quickly escalate,   where things don’t take a turn for the worse.     one night,   that’s all she asks.     but she’s still in the east,   supposes there’s masses of harbored resentment assembling within the public for past manipulation.     or perhaps these were nothing but drunk assholes.     it’s typically the latter.     ❛     not that i don’t appreciate the help,   but i can really take care of this myself.     ❜     an unfamiliar   @optimst   had shifted to take ahold of dasia’s bleeding arm,   a first aid kit deposited alongside them by her boss,   ray.     ❛     i’ve dealt with worse.     ❜

[movedvalor]

          restoration’s met chicago gracefully,   little by little it’s progressing framework and faculty to house   real lives,   free of the council’s stringent control.     free to not conform if so desired.     she strides past stretches of sand dunes,   pack slung across her back abounding with sustenance and water.     earth is far from what she’d yearned it to be,   condemned and ravaged by the fallacies of mankind.     or at least,   that’s what she liked to presume happened,   that it wasn’t the   people   striving to endure but those in control   —   those who sought to repair their wrongs to merely fail,   yet again.     nape is still smeared in coagulated blood,   her own,   the jagged nails of a woman sinking them into her flesh from a mere day prior.     something had been amiss,     dasia had taken one glance into caverns lodging depthless eyes before sinking a blade into the side of the woman’s neck   and knew something had been gravely wrong,   there was no life in her eyes,   not a soul in sight.     she would’ve been flooded in contrition if there   was.

          she’d come up on at least twenty-four hours of trekking through searing heat,   the sun brutally beating down against the tattered flesh of her neck.     for the most part,   a curtain of hair shielded her from undue exposure to the sun,   but it stung like nothing else as beads of sweat seeped into raw wounds.     with inclement weather so furiously wearing her down,   day by day,   she figured she must have been delirious when two figures had materialized into view.     yet,   she wasn’t,   it was four,   four and a stranger,   and four had been badly injured.     far worse than dasia had been,   that’s for certain.     inductions set aside for a later time,   a much safer point in time,   dasia aided them in their travels.     once returned to their clandestine bunker,   she took a moment to reorient herself,   to recover from the violent sun’s rays.     if she didn’t know any better,   she’d think solar flares were the heat’s   culprit.

          ❛     marianne,   right   ?   thanks for getting us here.     i thought i’d never see four again.     ❜     that is,   until today.     for a fleeting instance she bites the inside of her cheek,   arms ascending to tightly fold across her chest as she steps forth to stand alongside   @lovelack.     ❛     what is this place   ?     ❜

[movedvalor]

          absconding is no longer a requisite,   no longer imperatively sought after as the fence became,   and thereafter remained,   disassembled.     she once believed she knew of self-determination and command of oneself,   little did she know that albeit autonomous to a certain degree,   her entire life was merely an orchestrated scheme manipulated by puppeteers.     control was the one thing she by no means truly ever had in full.     not until the rise of the others,   the divergents,   not until they dismantled the factions societal order.     it appears as though rage still churns her gut even two years following,   manages to unilaterally revolt and incapacitate her when it surges through her with relentless intensity.  there’s been so much loss,   so much of their lives reduced to factions and made to fundamentally believe to hold no true value   —   solely persisting to sustain government sanctioned experiments to rectify where   they’d   gone awry to begin with.     she shouldn’t be shocked however,   and truly she isn’t,   because when are those in high places ever doing anything correct,   anything fair.

          her journey had unquestionably been a long one,   but which one’s aren’t following a lifetime of tedium   ?   she never stayed the same path while growing up,   transitioning from candor to dauntless was no easy feat,   but nothing compares to being out in a world virtually   unknown   to her.     a world that was never devastated as she’s been made to believe,   a world that conquered against all odds.     in this world she meets   @destage,   a man expertly trained   —   someone  much like her in several ways   —   and she would’ve been eminently cagey if he   wasn’t   wounded before her.     ❛     deep breath.     ❜     she murmurs,   hand then promptly yanking at the tourniquet now securely bound around his thigh.     ❛     sorry,   i could’ve given you more of a warning,   but anticipating it just makes it hurt more.     ❜     dark eyes peer up at him from where she’s kneeled before his frame,   hands dropping to the tops of her own steadied thighs.     ❛      at least,   that’s what i like to believe.     ❜