....

Roleplay Blog for Michel Bollinger from The House in Fata Morgana. Affiliated with Arietta. Closed to indie interactions.

[camelligare-blog]

Time and time again, he returns to this place. It is not a warm place, nor a kind place. But it tests his spirit in ways nothing else will and he likens it to a reminder: His life is not his own and it would be selfish for him to think otherwise.

He has since come to peace with this notion. There was pride to be found in his own resilience. Life isn’t meant to be easy. The challenge and the hardships are the molds that have built and shaped him.

Yet he is still malleable.

A voice beckons for him and he wants to ask ‘why?’ but the words that come out are politely grateful, “Ah, thank you. I can’t see you, though, it’s too dark. Can you follow my voice?”

He wants to know how the stranger can speak with such resolve: He has never thought of himself as broken, only lesser.

[otherbollinger-blog]

Michel frowns, pinpointing the voice only a few steps from him. Lost in a sea of tall grass and inky blacks. Indistinguishable from the other figures to his eyes.

Whoever in here doesn’t want to be seen, keeps their heart locked up tight.

“I know where you are now, yes. I think.” he responds, lifting his candle above his head to act as a beacon for whatever poor soul resides here.

“But, I can’t move any further in unless you let me. This place is...it’s part of you. It’s a small bit of your mind and soul, it’s trying to protect you. So, you have a choice to let me in or...not.”

[otherbollinger-blog]

@saintemia

“Morgana.”

Once, the sight of her would have made him cry tears he would have been ashamed of, now he feels like if he did cry at all, they would be tears of joy.

She’s not healed. Not completely. Not physically and not spiritually.  There are scars that will mark them both through eons of reconstruction into happier times.

A gust of wind blows by them, causing the trees to sway and their robes; her deep maroon and his red to pick up and dance around them with the leaves. Her figure seems frailer than he remembers, his must as well. They have no power here. 

Here they are both just people.

“Are you alright?” the question comes out without prompting, before a million other more important questions that she’ll answer more honestly. But sometimes, it was important people who would never be normal to have normal conversations.

“I thought, out of all of us you’d want to move on the most.”

At least, thats what you told me. That’s what she would have wanted.

[otherbollinger-blog]

@camelligare

Had he been the Michel of his younger years, he would have turned back at the first sight of the wooden figures and the voiceless heaviness of duty, fear and emptiness in his heart. But, now, Michel knows his heart has endured too much and been softened by them both to not reach out.

A bright candle is summoned into his hands by his thoughts as his surroundings slowly seem to melt and twist from the gentle forest of the Evergreens to decaying open fields filled with the figures. They are all posed stiff and perfect, the image of little model warriors arranged in neat clean lines and the thought of warrior and loneliness makes his heart ache in a way it hasn’t in a long time.

Eventually, the glade stops him from moving forward and he calls out into the darkness.

“It’s alright. You can leave this place. I...can’t fix it for you, but you don’t have to stay here. We can leave together.”

Michel moves in a circle, hoping to illuminate a person and not anymore of the little wooden warriors any longer.

[otherbollinger-blog]

@seraphaels

He was dead, he was quiet aware of that fact. Had been for quite some time. Had resolved himself to a slightly longer wait in this dream-like state before rebirth.

But, for as long as he had been dead, he had never expected to see an angel. Demons, hell and punishment were all things that felt familiar. Unwanted, but home to him in it’s own small way.

The outstretched hand of an angel, their wings protruding from their back made out of silvers and a shining clear white brought him a true sense of awe. Grasping at their open palm and lifting himself up from the ground, Michel noticed absently that their hand was cool but not unpleasant. Like the balm Giselle made for the small nicks she obtained on her fingers.

“I’m not sure why you stopped to help me, it was just a fall. It hardly required divine intervention from an angel.”

He felt flustered and ashamed, but he spoke sincerely. No need to offend the divine in death.

[otherbollinger-blog]

purgatory

@seriedefragmento

First Maria and now Jacopo. This feast was turning into some kind of horrible reunion with the people he had felt like smacking at one point or another but had been in no position to do.

He still isn’t in any position to do so. He thinks, tugging at the ends of his hair; once a pale and lifeless white, now decorated with a multitude of colours. 

Curse his childhood self for having wanted Georges’ thick brown curls and coveting Dieder’s light blond. For this had to be some form of punishment for those sins and his gluttony from partaking in the feast at all.

Jacopo isn’t in a much better position himself, squatting on one of the benches and surrounded by a gaggle of tiny ducklings that fluffed up and nuzzled him like he was their Mother.

“I am starting to believe....” he begins, not evening knowing if Jacopo’s soul will recognise him this time, “...that this is some kind of small hell and we are on trial for some of our lesser sins.” 

[otherbollinger-blog]

@pumpkinspicecatpuccino

It’s a demon.

 It’s a true demon, the kind of creature spoke of in the bible, carefully drawn with ink pens and surrounded by latin script in the hopes that the mere image of them would not summon such unholy beasts into their presence. The kind of creature Michel had spent nearly his entire life being compared too.

Michel had heard true demons spoke of in hushed tones by grim faced brother’s and clergymen at the Church, but this place held no Church, no holy ground at which to seek sanctuary and guidance in ridding yourself of he presence of the unholy. 

They are no human, he can’t lie and pretend to be an angel or one of them here, so he let’s himself be a scared man and there is an odd comfort in allowing himself this, at least in death.

He whips around to face the demon that has been follow him, wicked grin on her face and bundles....of flowers in her hands. Alright. That was not what he was expecting. He holds out his hand, palm flat and firm. 

“Begone.”

Wonderful.

“ Uh, please?” 

That isn’t going to do anything!

[otherbollinger-blog]

reminder to myself to make starters for

jacopo (event)

mercy

meulin

[mariacampanella-blog]

Cat ears. Those were definitely new. Even if this wasn’t Hell, the people here certainly liked screwing with her, huh? Whatever the case, it wasn’t that bad of a curse, especially in the grand scheme of things. Hell, she could even have some fun with it. 

Maria linked arms with the person closest to her, grinning all the while.

“Hey, have you seen these things? Meow I really fit in here, eh?”

[otherbollinger-blog]

Michel blanched (well, as excessively blanc as someone already albino can get)   as he was first, touched by a stranger and then realised that the stranger wasn’t so much of a stranger as someone he had not expected to see.

Michel knew the place he was in wasn’t Hell, but in the five seconds that cat ear Maria Campenalla was touching him, it might as well have been. He wasn’t the most social person to begin with, but even if he had been there was little that could have prepared him for having a conversation with someone he had watched getting shot in the head.

“Ah. Je n’en veux pas?”

He probably wasn’t much better off with his hair coloured into neatly defined rainbow stripes.

[otherbollinger-blog]

so long gay bowser