MINI HIATUS NOTICE, real life is kicking my ass and i have very little time. my feelings on sheol as a character are shaky and i hate that, so i am giving them some room to breathe while i figure them out more. catch me on my multi or discord.
# RISENDEADS : ind. & sel. original lore necromancer oc, SHEOL MAVET, future king of the necromantic royal family. occasionally guest muses relevant to sheol's lore: tolphin mavet, the father & current king of necromantic family prior to his death. marsia applewite, the estranged mother & leader of the mage's assassin ring. isamu and kenji applewite, the estranged half - brothers, incredibly prolific members of the assassin ring in their own capacity. incanted & created by goomy/artie, 26, ( they/them ). fandomless, has multiple verses & generally versatile! ( EST. 2019, RESURRECTED FROM THE DEAD 2025. )
# STUDY IN: death, resurrection, the horror of being reborn, mourning & loss, emotional & physical trauma, family complexities & the expectations of the heir to an exiled empire, haunting, the forest as a breathing lung & home, necromancy, playing god, devotion & desire, mania, obsession, mirroring the mother, playing fast & loose with your life, encasing a soft heart with a hard shell, generational trauma, stitching & licking your own wounds, even the worm will turn.
lore, multi. rules & brief profiles for family below.
mains & affiliates: sukiisho, rekkax / ravenhe
open starters. permanent interaction call. inbox tag. default timeline. plots & dyn wishlist. available & wip verses.
** as of 12/05/2025, i have started my doctoral program so activity across all blogs will be lower. rules & info below the cut have been updated as of 18/11/2025. discord will be more active, so feel free to ask for it!
001. i'm goomy or artie! i use they/them pronouns. this blog is super low activity, i'm an adult who's in school for their doctoral degree and working a job & this is a hobby! it's supposed to be fun. i am typically with my fiance and working on the weekends and am not active during those times. i don't engage in "drama", i'm too old; obviously, it is different when someone is genuinely problematic / doing something gross..
002. sheol is a character that i've had for a while; my original blog was made in 2019 and went dormant for age. i love writing and ocs. my dms and discord are always open. i just ask that communication about characters is open, i treat everyone who is writing here the same and i will default to you for information on your character, even if they are a canon character that i am familiar with. :-)
003. basic dni criteria. no bigotry of any kind, no ableism, etc. this blog is 21+, and dark themes will be present here. sheol is an oc enshrouded with horror themes and dark content. blood, gore, death, injuries, anything that you can associate with 'horror' as a genre will be present here. there are topics regarding animal death, misogyny / misgendering, and abuse ( physical, mental, and emotional ) in sheol's story and alternate universes of their story, heavily discussing abuse when it comes to settings involving marsia. additionally, a lot of marsia's story includes a history with violent misogyny, period - accurate sexism, homophobia, and s*x work. though s*xual harassment and assault are prevalent, the discussion of it will be extremely limited if at all. i will not be writing these other topics explicitly, but may be mentioned here. please be aware of that and don't follow if you're not comfortable with it. i will tag things, but not everything might be caught.
004. both mun and muse have autism. i am autistic and cannot change that. because i am, so is sheol. i quite literally cannot understand or write the world from the perspective of a neurotypical person, so anyone i write also has autism. this is not an excuse for anything, if i or sheol say something that is not appropriate or makes you uncomfortable, please talk to me about it. i never intend to do anything like that or make anyone uncomfortable. it is difficult for me to respond and i get in my head or don't respond as quickly or may be shy in sending prompts / initiating interaction, but it isn't you. it's me, i am trying my best to learn how to make and keep friendships, i promise you that if i follow you, i wish to interact.
005. i feel most comfortable interacting with threads if there's base - level ooc interaction also; we don't need to be best buddies, nor do i expect you to respond quickly or regularly, but i prefer deeper connections between muses, slow burn, and longer, multi - para threads. i'm happy to do shorter threads, but i tend to save those and respond to them a bit more slowly. i don't require you to match lengths or formatting or style or whatever, but i really, really need you to trim replies, especially if they're longer. i'm iconless, i use small text. lmk if you need me to change that, i'm more than happy to.
006. i also post a lot of ooc on dash. both related to rp, writing, my ocs, and my real life. if you're not okay with that, maybe my blog isn't for you. blacklisting "#mobile /" might be helpful, since i do post a lot of my ooc posts from my phone.
007. i love romance, i love shipping, i love platonic and familial dynamics. please note: sheol is non - binary, uses they/them pronouns only, and is bisexual. heavy chemistry is necessary for shipping, as well as a connection ooc before doing anything romantic. nsfw jokes / crack posts will be a definite, and nsfw / smut is reserved for people i am comfortable with. but most often, i opt for fade - outs or timeskips. just talk to me first and i'd love to figure something out. patience is key here, esp since sheol is very difficult to ship with. additionally, tolphin, marsia, and isamu are not open to shipping without TONS of chemistry or ooc connection! kenji is, but again, my focus is and always will be sheol.
008. i created all of the lore for sheol myself, though you may see inspo from several IPs such as fire emblem: awakening & three houses, fullmetal alchemist, dragon age 2 & inquisition, etc. sheol was originally an inquisitor for da:i but i have since rewritten all of their lore and information. i do ask that you at least skim through some of sheol's info on their carrd, i worked very hard on them and their story and it means a lot to me that you are even reading this and consider them at all in any regard. i'd very much appreciate it if none of the things that i've written or made for sheol is stolen. necromancy and magic may work differently than the systems that you are used to or aware of, as i built my own systems for them. please be aware of that before interacting. additionally, there are inspirations taken from real - life tragedies, cults, and criminal events in the mother's side of the story. i do not condone any actions committed by any criminals, my degree is in criminal justice with a focus on criminal psychology, which is why i have an interest in studying, writing about, and discussing criminal activity and the consequences of crime hurting those around you, intentionally or not. if you are not comfortable with that, this page is not for you. thank you for understanding!
TOLPHIN MAVET, FORMER KING OF THE NECROMANCERS. ( verse / timeline dependent ) / very large, looming man who looks more akin to a beast than a man / traits of the demon that first bore a necromancer child stronger in him than sheol, tolphin stands around 7'10" tall and is a barrel chested, rough and tumblr guy / very big teddy bear for his child, tender hands and heart melt whenever they are present / constantly worried about the pace sheol operates in, but he was no different / has seen better days, his joints are not his friend anymore and any fits of extreme strength come on in moments of adrenaline / outspoken on necromancer rights, very intelligent man who expanded fifteen of the journals his family had published, primary claim to necromancy advancements was further studying into elemental imbuing into the bodies of resurrected humans and plants / around 127 - 128 when sheol was born, around 154 - 155 when he died
ATARAH MARSIA APPLEWITE, LEADER OF THE MAGE ASSASSIN RING. mage / imposing assassin ring with enough members to classify as a sovereign state / previously a victim of trafficking, marsia was an escort for highly important, political figures / conspired with a fellow escort to assassinate the chancellor of the huntsman territory, which was successful, but only marsia had survived / she had her first son at 20 with the man who aided in the establishment of the assassin ring / 28 when she had an affair with tolphin during a mission in yoltura, 29 when she birthed sheol / her second son was born when she was 33 with the same man as her first son / currently unaware that sheol is alive, passively hunting them and all necromancers through her sons / currently 55 - 56 years old
ISAMU APPLEWITE, 36 YEAR OLD MAGE ASSASSIN. currently one of the top wrung workers for the assassin ring, marsia's bride and joy / he is ruthless, violent, and proud of what he does / fiercely loyal to his mother / married once, wife and child passed during labour / looks just like his father / when finding out he shares blood with a necromancer, he is livid and actively hunts sheol down once finding out they survived the fire he and his brother set
KENJI APPLEWITE, 23 YEAR OLD MAGE ASSASSIN & TACTICIAN. acts as a diplomatic force for the assassin ring, making deals and negotiating / not exactly a smooth talker, but has amazing damage control / much more passive in his acts of violence, specializes in slow methods of assassination and poisoning / sometimes uses his body when words doesn't get him what he wants / not offended that he has a necromancer sibling, is much more willing to speak to them versus trying to kill them like isamu
sheol wishes, severely, that they could conjure the ability to turn invisible. mocktail forgotten and mostly water from melted ice, cigarette that was ignored and ashing in between their fingers, they almost neglected to remember that they were in a murky bar. one teeming with low - life criminals sheol was no better than, though ones they still sneer down their nose at. tired, harsh eyes that were dark enough to swallow their pupils were staring at faces, attempting to figure out where they've seen some of them before: other gatherings of undesirables, other meetings where they shook hands with their bosses or made deals to put bullets between eyes for them. they hadn't even noticed the fact someone was next to them, not until he spoke.
eyes widen, some life returning to them, pretending not to have jumped in surprise at the sudden question. sitting up in their stool, sheol brings their cigarette to tap away the burnt tobacco away. do they know anyone here? do they ever. assassin hums, non - committal, "not really," not... technically a lie, which is what allows them to say that without spilling their guts on polished wood counter in front of them. "i've, i've, uh... seen their faces before, around here." curious gaze from sheol shifts to him, skepticism lacing their expression. "do you, uh, you know anyone here?"
detached, they both inhabit their curse once anew. it lies in a too distant past --- their faint conversations of abandoning their written fate. of surrendering, claiming a belief, the illusion of control over their own life. only to reunite once anew. cut themselves on their sharp, sewered edges --- shattered, below both of their feet --- the accumulation of what remains, once sin settles. a rotting with no root to pull. for the fragment of a moment, his fixed gaze pins itself on the only words that have left sheol's lips in response --- and their agreement tastes almost satisfactory to tony. cold, like arrogance. they threaten to abandon this shore, sink into a distant, deserted sea --- austere features, steadfast in approaching storms to shake them awake. they flinch violently --- like something that rebels against the impending, inescapable force of nature, overridden by his unforgiving pull. strained patience, he does not ask to be forgiven. absolution may bleed from the heavens --- and he'd refuse. all curses under shared horizon, decorated titles to attach to a damned name --- a traitor he was not.
skin collides --- electrifying and unexpectedly intrusive. don't you betray yourself, tony? haven't you, all your life? his gaze tips lower, stirred impatience, captures them entire. they want to look away --- and for a moment something threateningly close to disappointment could explain the traces of his frown --- except their digits remain, where he had placed them. it's the passing of a long second, slowed down --- glance waltzing between their pair of eyes --- the way he searches for answers, he is never given fast enough. something tightens, like a noose slowly to embrace him --- and he freezes, tension cracks, wants to ease . . . a strange, macabre curiosity drags itself across his skin by their touch --- static buzzes through veins and he stiffens, shoulders straightening.
eyeing, what bloomed in front of own vision --- to his very own astonishment, refusing to interrupt the fragility of what he came to witness. sheol's unoccupied hand raises, cages what singular palm could not entirely grasp --- and own countenance grows austere, blank as realization settles in his mind with terrifying accuracy. it drips from a re - awakened gaze, burying, muting this familiar restraint of theirs --- starless --- joint digits to drag, force into thinning skin. it takes longer, much longer for executed action to collapse his iron - clad wall of all, which proved him human instead of half monster. the crack between his brows. the air trapped within own throat. it should border confusion, something repulsive, rage, rage, rage! he wants his instincts to take over. and they do.
his eyes do not widen, instead to lose their final traces of unconcern --- it sinks like a setting sun, violently erupting into the intensity of a thousand solar systems to die by setting themselves ablaze against the inexorable end. tremor of an exhale held too long, stuck within constrained throat, withering, and his body does not move, no it solidifies --- until the embers of something inexplicably nefarious claim sheol's eyesight entirely. head grows light, dazed, on the border of floating free --- and for some macabre, grotesque and twisted truth revealed --- it tastes like a moment of bliss to be offered to him for once. let go, tony. but he cannot make peace within disturbed, fragmented, mutilated soul and split heart --- lips part, slow --- alike forcibly lowered pulse, " sh- shit- " closer to a hiss, a snarl – visibly struggling voice and he refuses to choke on what words could leave his mouth --- as lack of air blurs the edges of his eyesight, never having left sheol's, as if under an enchantment, chained. they still have not let go --- and his own internal war rages on with it --- between total saccharine surrender and the absolute, violent refusal of their indulgence. stalemate, again, his pain flips into something so dangerously close to peace, he is about to mistake it for such . . .
it starts with a step taken back, heel sliding against the concrete --- and sheol matches it until back collides with the pillar behind him. an overwhelming struggle, on the border of incredibly contained panic yet to spill, as heavy palms settle on their shoulders. flashes of a dead man invade his mind --- and tony swears, something blurs the face in front of him into his --- messy push turning into pull, as if to steady him, body sliding against the cold concrete, down, down --- he needs air, --- this unbearable urge of reaching for own firearm tucked between his belt at his back, natural as instinct, shoved to the side. suffocation interrupts stream of rushing thoughts, fractured sound escaping him -- and tony's mask cracks. awakened hues jump between theirs. with all his panic. his rage. and underneath --- something, that looked like relief.
whatever answer he seeks does not exist within them, not within their stare. when he struggles, when he moves, their stomach lurch and stare jumps from where their hand was against his flesh up to meet his gaze. brows pin together, a silent reprimand: sit still, won't you? you asked for this, am i wrong? don't fight me, their step plants where his was with locked elbows, following him and tightening their grip as if desperately afraid of letting him slip away, between their fingers like fleeting grains of sand slipping between an iron grasp. their thumbs curl in this frenzy and the blunt edges of their nails dig into his flesh, an inch closer to peeling his skin away and inviting themself into him. him, him, him. why is it always about him? such pointed anger, hatred, detestation for him, that it evolves into some obsession bordering on delusion. a belief that he is the answer, or the provider of some answer for questions they have yet to ask. of course, they cannot rid themself of him. sheol, ultimately, would be lost of the only connection they've truly cared (?) about since their life was ripped from them.
and he pulls them, they follow. of course. is this not the pattern they have found themself in? where tony treads, sheol is not too far behind, for some reason. even when desperate for space and to run, haunted vessel finds their way to him.
the assassin winces as they fall with less grace than his slide down concrete pillar, knees colliding with the harsh rock beneath them, framing one of his thighs. the pain, much like usual, goes vastly ignored. sheol was oblivious to how they were acting, instinct pushing dulled but with utmost sharpened senses forward. squeeze, push, tighter, refuse to let him move. stiffened arms finally loosen just a touch, allowing elbows to bend and bring them closer, to see this vision beneath them. tony, panicked, for once, fearful, angry, sheol misses his relief almost entirely. the locust, however, does not.
it sings a song completely out of tune. a crescendo to this horror - flick scene, it sounds like violin strings shrieking against an unrosined bow, whispers and whimpering between the high pitched squeal of laughter and joy. a child rolling around in the mud, gripping his sides as they ache from giggling. the locust finally finds words, you are doing him a favour! look, look! you cannot look away! you are missing my favourite part! learn this, this surrender into what you cannot escape, phantom hands stead sheol's head, pushing it closer until their forehead is resting against his, the small cartilage of the tip of their nose pushed to bend against his. he's in bliss, behind it all, he's ecstatic! oh, joy, joy, joy! the joy of this! listen to how he squeaks, isn't it so beautiful?
their breath, at some point, was held within their own lungs. an instinct; why indulge in something you are denying someone else? it is why they barely engage in life, dedicate their waking hours to death. beast that dares to separate skin from bone, it's own teeth scraping against sheol's brain, infect them with that sick desire to kill what they did not create. sheol almost sobs, a strangled noise rises from them in frustration as he does not fight.
he does not fight? it sobers them with a blink before they retract almost entirely, hands flying from his neck as if he suddenly burns them. hunched back straightening to put distance between faces. they don't move from where they're knelt, looking at him with sobered eyes, wide and horrified, confused. mouth is open for a moment, dumbfounded, dizzy and lightheaded before shaking appendages move to enter their view, staring at their hands. "why...?" is all their strained voice starts with, quiet and timid, before stare drags to his face, watching as he drinks in the air he was starved of and colour returns to his cheeks.
"why didn't you fight?" little confidence in their quiet voice turns into rapid fire questions, stutter taken a backseat when they are not thinking of their words, "why didn't you push me off? why didn't you kill me? why haven't you killed me? what am i becoming? how do you live with this?" sheol's hands, things they should not be laying on this man again, find the edge of his jacket and grip, but do not shake him. close to tears but not at the edge, their voice borders on a beg instead of accusatory, seeking guidance, support, from such an unlikely source. invading what little space they briefly gave him, they move their hands to his jaw with an apologetic softness to the way they tilt his head to look at his expression as he regains himself, "release me from this, give me a, a, an answer, please."
cursed abyss to stare back at them, not to dissolve for the depth of nocturne has veiled this rotten realm once more. between them stands an unholy truth --- that bleeds through both their gazes alike, colliding alike sinking stars taking their final breath. wide awake, sheol's hues strike like lightning. thunderous --- fogged mirror to clear itself. their words wear the colour of a familiar exhaustion --- ghosting along his ancient scars. paint him like the monster he is while hiding their very own reddened palms. it wraps itself in irony, speaks in a language that sticks like a stain --- final in its existence. his humanity spills through the crevices of his ribs, erodes with each bullet spent until naught but a blurred line, the tissue of whitened skin remains. destroyer of worlds, they both are.
sheol turns their gaze --- and the gap between them holds its breath. eye to eye, they sanctify him once anew --- on this throne, a beast is crowned! isn't it funny, isn't it ironic! " can you look a dying man in the eyes, " leisure step taken closer " that you speak to me of humanity? " his voice turns sour, fragments of past winters and summers alike leave his head to spin -- thunderous, the drum of a hundred erased hearts beat against temples. this tide yearns to pull him deeper once more, sink him to the bottom of an endless sea. this is the price i've paid and i still cannot breathe --- don't you see? this game announces no winner, his trophy is the illusion of a curse, waiting, luring to break his shoulders. these shallow waters which you tread are a mirage, sheol. don't you understand? " you can't keep both, hm? " neither your humanity, nor what you do. " you just don't, uhh -- fucking see that yet. " you'll let me be the monster i am --- and how can tony disagree with what held the truth? the truth.
breathe your hatred into his soul --- crown him. he had not expected less. sheol drifts against the edges of this soiled purgatory, eyes that wander, stray. he recognises it. chin tilts higher, weight shifting on one leg as a deeper inhale burns them. why do they share this wound, when he hasn't pulled the trigger? how does it stir, coil in the pit of his stomach each time his hues land on their presence anew? singular eyebrow to raise, unexpected such explanation to fall from their lips. he huffs -- and it sounds too gentle. " humanity is distracting, huh? " have you not surrendered it after all, sheol? even while the poison within his body rots him inside out, in very moment --- tony refuses to let his lips spit it out.
their back still turned against him, the whiplash of their question should have hit harder. but he does not feel it any longer. too much of own youth spent under the heel of his father's shoes. numb knees, bruised cheeks. broken spirit, that cannot name pain as violence any longer --- but his eyes, his eyes grow dull. embrace an eternal dusk to lay itself over own vision. body tenses up, repulsion flickers through fragmented mind. his tone slips, " no. " and neither would he have. it climbs to the surface, grotesque images to blind his gaze --- of two bodies drowning in each other's blood, clawing at their pyrrhic victory of staying alive. between splintered bones, macabre unintelligible sounds --- taking turns at strangling the last breath out of each other. " broke my fucking rib. was gonna pass out, fuck. " in tony's old fashioned manner --- until the calmness within him suddenly cracks too loudly. his hand lifts, fuelled by torturous slowness, in muted conflict with himself. touching his throat, until digits ghost along newer, scarred skin. isamu's hands on his throat again --- his damned phantoms --- and quietude falls over him. held exhale. he cannot take it. large steps, clear target -- this monster's precision is an eternal flame that cannot be coaxed out after all -- his cross to bear and his sword at the same time --- until he stands right next to them, body turning to face them at once. " look at me. " he doesn't realise what he's doing until his voice calls him back , quieter. death is intimate and it bleeds into his tone. " you want to know? " you want to know what humanity looks like, in its final moments? he reaches for them. wraps his large palm around their wrist, loosely at first, " he didn't beg. " pulling sheol's hand to his throat. tissued skin, his pulse beneath it. " was smiling at me. until i blew his brains out. " splattered against his face. he wants to vomit, his body betraying him. pulse rising, own breath hitches involuntarily, shakily, ugly. closer, and he'll fall apart. but he doesn't let himself. can't let himself. so he releases them. rattled gaze, forcing itself back to veil countenance within his mask anew.
is this new, tony? for sheol to be a hypocrite? for them to lecture, spit words at you they truly do not know the meaning to with the same amount of venom? for whatever is eating sheol whole, rotting them from the core, houses no capability for humanity. they have some humanity left, it wails and writhes and forces their neck to twist away to avoid seeing the scene they cannot rinse from their hands. the scene they created, the nausea the tidals over them in all - consuming waves—- sheol wishes to argue, that's what humanity they have left, but a headache threatens them at the shore when their jaw moves to open, so they clench down, ivory against ivory that wishes to squeak against the grind. he speaks, his soured tone, his expression they can see clear as day without looking at them, and it makes a being beyond him grin with teeth far too straight and perfectly white while also being the ugliest smile the pair of them could visualize. at least a gummy, toothless, rotten smile is a human.
"it is," acquiesces the assassin under their breath, words riding a shallow exhale, before it all shifts. no, of course, isamu wouldn't have begged. the revelation has them wince; their brother wouldn't have gone down quietly, and tony did not even offer him the chance to. it's no surprise, though makes them wish to apologize to a man they hate, for the ire they harbour for their brother is far greater. they don't. why would they? not only is there not enough room in the conversation, but sheol isn't actually sorry that isamu cracked a bone. a pain in tony's side, the two older siblings would be. perhaps he should send a thank you note to kenji for being total background noise.
his presence brings a weight, a dull hum that announces itself, and they don't even have to look to know he's not far from them. sheol thinks how easy it'd be to jump, how easy it'd be for him to push them. these thoughts, however, are very quickly snuffed. once again, frustratingly, he makes a command, and they follow. head tilts before body does, hand still at the edge of cold concrete wall. expression, finally, for once, unable to fully state what they were feeling or thinking in plain language. almost unreadable, perhaps too absorbed in their own thoughts to fully let it show in the way their lips curl. you want to know? brown gaze flicker quickly down to his hand, flinching on an instinct—- a shrieking, whistling tone sounded like alarms that drowned out all thought. he smiled, he didn't beg, his skull shattered, his gore splattered in a way no one else's has before. it's almost poetic, if you think about it. your brain would do the same thing. what kind of art would it make, do you think? sheol's stare locked at where their hand was being guided, and it how it effortlessly, naturally made the shape of his neck.
they recognize that pale, subtle, of a man feeling ill. it makes their gaze falter, as if modesty was in supply in this very moment, though it travels right back to where it was. the pads of their fingers, skilled at finding pulses, twitch and easily fall into place. they feel his heartrate mount and rattle the vein beneath his flesh. tony releases their arm and, normally, sheol would have let their own muscles heave their hand downwards. but muscles contract and they keep their hand there. for a second, it remains the way he left it, just such light of a touch, such a faint thing that he could've ignored it for the collar of his jacket. then, it speaks again, squeeze, but it isn't the locust that speaks to them. it's their own voice that raises itself between their ears. fingers tighten, palm presses flat against the column of his throat, against his adam's apple. not enough to restrict him, yet. sheol feels his throat move and with a morbid curiosity, they push even further to find the ridges of the larynx, his larynx. they wanted to know. straighten their stance and squared their footing; was this his invite? to see humanity on the brink of fading, in a much more close, intimate way? inescapable? would he let me keep going? would he let me kill him? isn't this what i wanted? isn't this what i swore i would do? isn't this exactly where i want him to be? other hand, with it's calloused skin and fragments of flame that licked them close to death, joins. thumbs press exactly where necessary to cut off his oxygen, push the walls of his airways together until little can pass through. eventually, there's enough pressure until nothing can. and to sheol's confused, disgusted horror, they don't stop the moment they realize what they're doing. and to make matters worse, he lets them. is this what it means to have power? sheol's had it, they killed a man not even fifteen minutes ago, but whatever this feeling is that delights little demon that's frolicking in the chemical coursing through their system is far different. parts of them shriek to cease, remove their hands, let the man breath. but a much louder bell silences them, much to sheol's chagrin, and demands. insists. whatever this feeling is, this sick, dizzying, horrible feeling lights something behind their affixed stare. it's as if something makes sense, and their head is no longer fighting the push underneath tsunami's tide.
" i don't. " delayed exhale, almost dismissive. raised brows. his days of sporting should be over, should be done. the truth lies hidden between burning ribs and the sharp hiss of burning tobacco entering a system, yearning for stronger intoxication. how often, had own crimson soaked hands succumbed to the thrill of pointing own weapon at a man? immortal man, half-god, he is guilty of letting such nefarious sentiment corrupt his system --- to feel the rush of ringing blood in one's ears as the barrel of own chrome-coated gun shoves itself between barren ivory and wet flesh of a tongue. it is just part of it. it is just business, that is just how things are. and indeed, to live such philosophy had brought the elder to stand where he stood now.
in the midst of a monsterous, starving city that yearned to swallow his soul one day alike. this man's hands had come to betray his very own soul --- how had the eternal hatred of violence sharpened itself into his very own, fateful weapon? he's engraved his name in it, has kissed its surface holy. does it feel better when they do? yes. yes, it does. but he refuses to speak the language of a devil, he had first shaken hands with a decade ago. how would it feel, to indulge in it again? just once, just once? indulge in it again, feel the rush for its satisfactory sake, feel it in his system again, again, again ---- dulled hues. it's like they put the crown on your head.
on most of his younger days, the elder had played god --- countless prayers whispered, cried against his feet. they'd kiss his hands and yet --- the power held began to taste of such saccharine liquor, elevated own pulse so deliciously --- that on his darkest days, between less steady hands and slurred mutters, he could barely resist its temptation, to feel the cold barrel pressed against very own temple --- until he could no longer endure it, without the demand to press its trigger. " but they do anyway. " inevitable conclusion, spoken with little irritation --- except, own throat clearing itself in his own attempt at burying such cursed remembrance.
something turns sour on scarred countenance and he blames it on the lingering smoke in hazy lungs. burn them out of him, etch them out of his skin. as if he had not tried! half-burned cigarette slips between his thumb and jewelled index finger, inward pointed towards own palm as his hand lowers to his chest ---- observing the scene before him. sheol plays their part like someone, who despises it. but they do it almost too good, for tony to lose respect --- own smoked mirror, cracked --- its reflection planted in front of him. for once, contemplative quietude simmers, yet to calculate, to decide. their clenching palms, bare without their black leather. something had shifted, in this breezeless grave, between the threshold of two worlds they remained at. and he cannot look away, at what looked too familiar, felt too familiar. a step closer, to face them. lie against lie --- gaze gliding between both of their eyes. " it -- uhh, does. " tony wants to tilt his head --- but instead holds, " that's the problem. " for the fragment of a second, eyes snap from sheol's hands back up at their eyes. no sentiment to colour tone nor features, except for the volume of own voice to grow lower by the slightest edge, " you're slipping. " cigarette in his hand flicked into the pool of accumulating blood, belonging to a now dead man, " get it together. "
their tongue runs over their teeth, listening to every word though the digestion of them are delayed, mind flittering to somewhere else: he made them beg, wouldn't grant them the mercy of death until they whimpered and whined and cry. older brother's eyes pierce them from somewhere in the back of their mind. locust's jovial giggles over the idea, sparking some more conversation into their mind, unwillingly. you should do this! you should give it a try! even tony says it feels better, maybe it'll help you love this. i love it, i love it very much, it makes me feel full, makes me feel whole. is that what you're missing, a sense of fullness? wholeness? it could bring us together, make us one.
as if being electrocuted out of focus, they finally register his words, you're slipping. get it together. an inhale before they can recognize the weight of what he had said, yanked from their thoughts so ungracefully, they felt like they were experiencing extreme turbulence on a plane.
eyes widen a touch despite brows furrowing, face turning to look at him, shocked even further when their gaze meets his fully; could he read their mind? or was he just that good at reading people? sheol wouldn't be surprised if both were true, separately or simultaneously. hands go to shove themselves in their pockets, hide them from his gaze, as if they could give him less to observe. though they also, they realize, give him more to learn. lips tuck inwards to their teeth, watching the discarded cigarette saturate red. they want to throw up, they're so mad that he's correct, perhaps a bit thankful that he silenced that whispering snake. growing tired of waiting, of being with him, sheol shakes their head and finds the nearest open space, muttering, "i, i, i still have some of my humanity. evidentially, you don't." though the dig is much less of an insult as they wish for it to be, merely an observation and deflection all in one.
leaning against the ledge for fresher air, eyes scanning for movement of any kind, for the people who are there to obey their every whim. sheol watches a few emerge, their pale, moon faces like a beacon from whatever shadows didn't obscure their features. they move with quick little steps, like mice to a piece of cheese in a trap. "i'm not a, uh, a fan. when they beg, it... it, it distracts me, makes it hard to focus," assassin explains, as if he cared. as if he was waiting for their explanation. when, though, have they ever given consideration to what he wanted? even close to death, sheol refused to give him want he wished for. detached, resting head on their hand and watches the city's skyline, lips slanting again. "did he beg?" flipping the question, pointed on the 'he', hoping they didn't have to specify, not even sure if they wanted to know.
did they want him to have begged? get a taste of his own medicine, feel the fear? or was it more like sheol pictures their brother being in that time: glare pointed up, too proud to say anything, looking his death in the face with the same hatred and anger he looked at everything else. was it quick? did isamu even know he was going to die? they don't even know if they wanted an answer to what they are going to ask, against their better judgment and only to the betterment of the demon that wants to eat sheol alive. how'd you kill my brother? a question they had avoided, an act sheol had once even hit him across the face for airs itself, still not looking at tony, "how'd you do it?"
" I've never heard of you, " Gilbert scoffs between puffs of his cigarette. What kind of assassin has no notoriety? How did he end up looped into a job with a nobody? " Just stay behind me, and don't do anything, you hear me? I promised my wife I would be home before sunrise; I don't plan on disappointing her. " [ravenhe]
and this was... a bad thing? sheol, apparently foolishly, thought it'd be better to be unknown as a criminal. even amongst others of their calibur, sheol does not truly believe there is honour among thieves. so they hum, lips thinning, unimpressed against his scowl. perhaps the best course of action is to meet his huffiness with impassivity. but sheol cannot help themselves! especially over someone so pompously dressed—- a fucking cravat and waistcoat? the necromancer could scoff themselves over his ego, the demands he makes. weapon over their shoulder and at their hip suddenly cool against their skin despite the thick fabric separating gunmetal from flesh, as if to challenge them into a contest.
"considering i'm, i'm, uhhh... a murderer, i'm glad i'm not notorious," brow raises, tone even and flat despite the title sitting wrong in their stomach, "would that not be... a, a, an issue? if i was a known killer? i dunno if that, that, uh... dig is as hurtful as you think it to be." as if, and this is indeed the case, to defy is command, sheol pushes off the wall they were leaning against and taking the lead in the direction they were to be heading in. "don't worry about getting home to, to, to countess mevouillane. she'll find us if we take too long." / @ravenhe!
spent bullets. the reeking smell of spoilt air spills across the pavement and with it, releasing the ugly curse of brutality in a cruelty so familiar to the male, it fails to shock a system attuned to what it had molded it hands for. this city's grotesque calling had long corrupted a soul, swallowed remains of humanity so unapologetically, leaving naught but a destructive force to be reborn each time anew. in the depths of his sin, another soul has decided to dive into the tides of waters colored by a sea of vermillion.
absent, the reflection of any light --- and he wonders, how they have yet not drowned. soaked, in the quietude of acclaimed death. not by his calloused hands. not by his blade, not by his bullet. here they stood, at the crossroads of a path that would haunt this rotten heart, chase it into his man-made golden cage in eternal nocturnes of his solitude. crawling through the crevices of bones, that could not contain their monument of a throne. and tony can't help but feel the sting of a blade --- here to take it from him. what twisted mercy, had fate spared him --- for sheol to manifest, within the accumulation of his unnamed phantoms. upon his jagged features, the restraint of faint confusion carves itself gradually. they breathe his air, they speak their curses in his presence. concealed, sharpened --- an invitation to descend into macabre spheres --- and tony's soul searches for an answer, yet to be given. upon the weight of all that is unsaid, both of them occupy their place, as they had once before. shake blood soiled hands, in a passing storm's aftermath --- a cracked mirror revealed naught, but what he wished to hide the most.
behind his hues, dusk veils him into approaching darkness. gaze climb their way from a dead man on to sheol's countenance --- it's all finished. it's done, it's done, it's done. and his hand cannot help but itch, for a trigger never having been pressed, a bullet never fired, a prayer never spoken. this abandoned grave of concrete, that did not speak his name holy. what is he, this crowned sinner without his halo? an unfamiliar weapon in their hands. unfamiliar words in their mouth. but sheol cannot hide, what couldn't be killed, what couldn't be cut out by a blade. warm blood crawls across the concrete and eyes drop anew, to confirm the face of a man dead --- holding a fragment too long, before gliding back to sheol. the clearance of his throat --- the tension of a bow's string about to release --- and his head drops to pluck a cigarette from its container and place it between licked lips. steady grip to light it. slipping between his fingers after a taken drag, his frowning countenance lifts by the chin, a vague gesture, smoke-clad, light his soul on fire. turn it to ash. " your hands will start shaking soon. " on such close distance. he knows the price to be paid, he knows. when had they surrendered their wall of safety, hidden behind a rifle's scope? they're still here. as if they want to be seen, to be watched. so his eyes pierce theirs, yet an inch to drop, to release a noose. his tone, baths in the presence of bordering indifference. despite its depth, clad to inhabit a hollowness of unknown origin, “ did he beg? ”
he's frowning. he speaks, and he frowns. perhaps in disapproval, to which sheol's stomach lurches in a discomforting way. do they wish to be looked at? it isn't as if, like many things involving their life, they had a choice, a say in the matter. eyes would be following them regardless, and as if there's a radio signal in their head to feed them the whispers and clamouring of cultists that kiss the ground their future death - dealer walks upon. naturally, they are imagining this, but they cannot be certain. like static in between the long pauses tony has between his words. entertainment, the locust whispers, they wish for entertainment, a story to hear once we are done with this. a man who should've been long dead attempting to belittle you, making you feel low for doing your job. will you stand for this? will you procure a tale to spin upon your return to them?
sheol, actively, must silence this demon that hisses at them. a sniff, glancing back to where his eyes once stuck to, to the face losing it's colour. lip curls at the sight, trying not to frown, side - stepping in attempt to avoid sticky crimson from clinging to the sole of their boot. fingers clench into themselves, nails digging crescent moons into their palms instinctively at his words. their hands did, with great frustration, start to shake. lips press into a line, a huff from their nose when they refuse to look him in the eyes any further. did he beg? what horridly mocking words. twisting a knife, pushing on the bullet lodged in their flesh still. star - shaped scar whimpers at the thought alone and their hands, instinctively, go to their hips; move your arm, do something. this is not as much of a charade as it once was and instead feels more like an awkward, unpleasant reunion. two people who travelled almost parallel to each other that to occupy the same space feels like decompensation. felt like whatever progress is being, has been, made is being undone in four or five sentences. a back and forth that's less of a conversation and more of a pissing contest; what can i do to piss the other one off more? make them react? how will they express, emote when i say this? unfortunately, and with sick realization, sheol almost smiles at the idea of tony getting mad. they could be afraid of another parting gift from him, one that doesn't linger, but sheol doesn't believe that tony'd give them the satisfaction.
"mm," sheol hums with little commitment, as if having to recall mere moments ago. the man did beg. he had a bruise that had very little time to bloom on his jaw from them having to kick their ankle free of his grasp, unfortunately landing a heavy blow onto the bone. sheol doesn't remember if they heard a crack or not as the guy had cried out in pain and their brows wince together briefly at the memory. "i can't recall," murmurs the now uncaged assassin, now merely tethered. they've gotten better at lying, trained their tongue and face to be less betraying of their emotions. to cast him a sideways glance is all they can really muster; as much of a spine as they have developed, they still have to fight how small they feel under his gaze. they have to retaliate, irk him, irritate. "why? do you make yours beg? does it, it, it feel better when they do?" they ask with a sharpened tone and brow raised, barely turning their head so he can see their curiosity, their inquisitiveness. perhaps a genuine question, though sheol'd not admit to it.
sheol sometimes believes, for one reason or another, that they were above it all. it helps, that now there are people in cloaks that watch their every move, worship an aspect of them that, even though is not them, exists entirely at the base of their skull. though the worship of their mother's underlings was never what they sought. for whenever it decides to unveil itself, it takes sheol with it. while they claim that they are entirely indifferent to the thought of being consumed whole but the unhinging maw of a snake, they don't wish to die. it seems, after every continuous hiccup and downturn in their life, only fair that they can act however they so desire. death their primary spoken language; it has always followed them wherever they step, tracing their path with utmost delicacy. sheol dares to even think, after so many moons of entering this seedy under - belly of the world and after such resistance to letting themself submerge under the staining ink of crime, they're deserving of killing and being killed. for what is better justice, than to rip life from people who doubt you? preventative, is it not? to not just show them what you are capable of, but have it be the last thing that person will ever learn? this is what that locust speaks into their ear any time they have doubt. some nights, they'd grin, alone in their candle - lit room, happily, deliriously—- some nights, they'd threaten to rip their hair out of their scalp, wishing to dig their fingers into their flesh and rip it out. of course, it was right. of course, they had no choice but to listen when they were alone.
but right now, they aren't alone. no matter how much of a stomach sheol's grown, how much tolerance to the malevolence they developed, they still cannot look down to the face of someone who was begging to be let go, swearing at them, spitting venomous speech. their visage blank, turned away from the target after aiming their weapon, and squeezing the trigger with a gloved finger. it wasn't until the ringing ended and silence was all that remained would they look back and get someone else to deal with a body. a sigh through their nose: what an inconvenience... they think, muttering an apology and falling silent upon hearing footsteps, not the silent movement of worshippers and cultists that were watching from shadowy corners and through binoculars into the window. head barely turns to meet the unfortunate sight of tony. instead of running, they twist their gaze back away from him while they reset their weapon, "sorry if, if, if you were looking for him," chin gestures to the lifeless cadaver quickly growing cold between their legs where they stood over him. like they didn't know he was. his silence, sheol's learned, is never a great thing. assassin's aware that he's thinking, or assessing them. cold concrete offers no love, the dim light of a single bulb flickers, so sheol feels the need to fill the quiet. perhaps it's one - too - many of the people that tony's acquainted with turning up with bullets in their heads, one - too - many people that were under scrutiny from his business turning up, that they don't even get a word out before he states,
( ' tell me why you're really here. ' // from tony ♡ ; @scrrface )
it's almost like things haven't changed. sheol still wishes to pounce and give him a mirroring scar on his other eye. he gives a command, and sheol's expected to give an answer? has he ever said something, requested something of them without money attached, that they abided by? yet, sheol manages to keep the acidic bile that gives them heart burn at bay. they believe they owe him that much, they could exercise some decorum. but only some. over their shoulder, they cast him another gaze. their lip twitches into a smile, fake and not even given that much energy, "why, can't i, i, uh... find a unique way to, to, to say hello to my best friend?" they snide, holstering a pistol uncharacteristic of them. as quickly as their lips pull, they drop. "what does it, it, it look like?" their foot lifts as they turn to fully face him, peeling off gloves and tucking them in their back pocket, "taking care of a, a, a problem of ours. maybe a, a, uhhh... 'thanks', is in order."
