𝗖𝗥𝗬 ╱ FOUL. @sikarius - Tumblr Blog

# SIKARIUS . for your viewing pleasure, the suffering of KIRAN ARATI and WITTAYA NATHARUETAI has been displayed.

¹ BIOGRAPHIES ² OPENS ³ HOME ⁴ PINTEREST

featuring MIA, in partnership with LAWLESSFM, in the role of the writer bringing a dependent, private portrayal.

crucial muse development questions. send a number in my inbox to find out more about my character as a person ( because often, the most important things about character development have nothing to do with their shoe size or netflix queue ).

what would completely break your character?

what was the best thing in your character’s life?

what was the worst thing in your character’s life?

what seemingly insignificant memories stuck with your character?

does your character work so they can support their hobbies or use their hobbies as a way of filling up the time they aren’t working?

what is your character reluctant to tell people?

how does your character feel about sex?

how many friends does your character have?

how many friends does your character want?

what would your character make a scene in public about?

for what would your character give their life?

what are your character’s major flaws?

what does your character pretend or try to care about?

how does the image your character tries to project differ from the image they actually project?

what is your character afraid of?

ofhurricanes

— with wittaya (@sikarius) | the headquarters of red eye, wherever it is

He’d like to think it’s more than quid pro quo – a friendship, perhaps. You don’t find a lot of those in this gorgeous establishment; you’re either a hunter or prey – you’re either a competition or a complete fucking zero. It means expectations had to be forgotten: there’s no warmth to be found; no courtesy. You can and will be loyal only to your own grave – and your own hand the destroyer; yes, it will become the end of you too. It’s the only matter that’s clear to him, and he’s unsure of the moment he first learned this – maybe he’s alway been carrying it inside his mind.

And yet still, he’d like to call this a friendship; something that never happened before inside these walls before – he helps you, you help him; it’s a fantastic concept that should’ve been introduced to him and other professionals of the craft earlier. It’s too individualistic, being an assassin – not that it should be a team work; but sometimes other points of view can surely be appreciated.

“You’ve been well?” A short one with a quick nod – the signature of Søren. Never been much of a yapper, and yet now he’d like to share some thoughts and ideas. The microchip has been feeling a little too heavy; the clouds in his mind – scarce. He’s beginning to see a little too much; more than he should and more than he’d like to. Still, the tongue is the heaviest of them all. “What you’ve been up to – or is that a top secret?” Cigarette between his fingers, he’s searching for a lighter in his pockets. “I’ve been a little too bored. No tasks. So I do need entertainment – or a puzzle to help you solve.”

sikarius

eyes trail over his friend, a habit he'd gotten used to in red eye. checking for bruises, injuries, maladies. he told himself it was in caution, in preparation of a fight. wit fished his lighter out of the pocket of jeans and lit the cigarette in ren's mouth.

"well is subjective. they've got me on the underbosses." fingers raked through his hair, leaving it in an even worse state than it started. the underboss objective felt more like a punishment to him than anything. or a test. a nearly impossible task, but he knew most of red eye had been assigned the same one. do they want them to compete? or to work together? he stopped trying to understand the psyche of his handler months ago.

he would ask for his help if he thought they could synergize, but their styles were entirely different. he's seen søren kill. it's natural, hidden. probably smarter. but wit's got a bloodlust in him. it's base and animalistic, often desperate. he doesn't like anyone seeing him get there and survive.

"new york is easy, ain't it? everyone's got those big fucking windows, their doors are hackable. they're all doing enough drugs to kill 'em anyways." his words weren't bitter, but they did harbor an emotion. maybe pity? DISGUST? wit knew he lived here before red eye, but he was injured before recruitment, and his memories got all blurry when he thought of it. he was a fighter. or a soldier? a protector?

#* ʷⁱᵗᵗᵃʸᵃ ﾉ script ‸#ofhurricanes

dogbleed

there is an echo, bleating and bleeding, floating above painted shores. beyond the peach-cheeked face and log-warted skin. even the barest of sound makes colour so bright. artificially vivid like a square of buildings made to advertise. you alone see the tight brooks of sunlight, pressed into your eyes by the heels of your palms. subtle breaths that flicker into view. a sweaty feather falling into your open waxen fingertips. amara will heed the silence, its heartless hand. these will be her fingers, and she will make a bird of any sweet head. and the first sight he offers is a neck, his gaze cast aloft at a speck of dust. something she doesn’t see; something that doesn’t matter. still, his neck demands her glance. a pulse is a trigger; it will be held. without another look at his face, she grants him a slinked approach. how a broken, velvet wing follows its bird-boned back. hands clasped in front of her. he is loud like a sore. and what can a thin tick do but listen? she stares at the broad brushstrokes. ‘ the arts speak to you. what do they say? ’ her voice crackles to life. an idle question for her idle interest. ‘ do they ask why you came –– why you’d subject them to such a farce? ’ the wry grin curls around each syllable, then, makes them drawl like a low note caught in an old stereo. and a sagging hum. he will win her interest, she decides, if his mouth rules his head. ‘ i can’t hear them, i just think they’re pretty. rich in colour ( … ) not pretty enough for you. ’

sikarius

"you're asking for a transcription?" eyes raking through strokes and shading, he let out a soft hum. "that's the point isn't it? to say something that can't be said?" his favorite painting, in fact, had been explained by it's artist. a stiff betrayal of the masterpiece that hung above his headboard and he disagreed with it every morning. though the same picture, it was painted different in his eyes.

the painting before them was a dampened imitation, but he knew the one it claimed to be. a river bank, trees gently swaying at it's bay. a woman. alone, but looking back just out of frame. she's waiting for someone to join her at the water. her eyes searching for someone to join her. kiran tore his own eyes away, dipping his head sheepishly like he had been caught.

"oh i do think they're quite pretty." his nose crinkled as said it, "but just being pretty won't hold one's attention for long. atleast," he let his shoulders sag in mock humility, "that's what they tell me."

#* ₖᵢᵣₐₙ ﾉ script ‸#dogbleed

gravefed

Any stranger amid this burial ground of this empire would do well to hear that story of hers — but Aranya will swallow it. Chew it raw until there’s nothing left of any memory. Let them decipher her no more. Still, that history has a habit of returning to the surface, undisturbed. Like snow refusing to melt with summer’s sun. As stubborn as her blood. She doesn’t need to see his face to recognize him. How it was somehow the voice that he held when she was upset with scraped knees back when she was ten, yet entirely void of all memory. Detached, distant. She moves easily, with a silent foot — pulled from experience of becoming prey, the lounge area’s table in between them. “You and I are never alone. You should know this.” Murmured without firmness, her words are water wetting stone like an early rain. Almost a chastisement, motherly in nature — but the hesitation rubs the syllables in the wrong way. She tenses. She can’t make out his face yet, but she’s aware of the coldness of it. She’s seen it before, in the mirror, many times after she returned. Winterbled. Like a form of the soul frozen in time, mid-torture. Uncertainty floods her system, a nervousness that begins in the back of her throat and vocalizes itself with a slight hum of confusion. A step to the side, hand almost reaching a small statue that sits on a shelf, carved jade. Heavy enough to sedate, but she pauses. It’s harder to be vicious when the wolf looks so similar to her kin. “He is not home. I think I will make us tea.” No questions, she is aware of how tightly absent her words are — somewhere in her mind there’s a timer soon to be set off. “I thought you were dead, Taya.” A snap of her heart, it dulls the next jerk of movement, fingers wrapping around the switch for the lights above them. Pure darkness evades them, while the lights are off from inside the condo, the neon swelling of entertained outside illuminates the room in a crescent shape. Reds and blues washing over her arms and hands, the jade statue just out of reach. “Are you still?”

sikarius

the boy was having a hard time getting breath to come to him. he remembered something so clearly. a warm day in new york, a soccer game his mother would miss. the glare of the sun obscured them until the game was over and he saw henrik, with aranya on his shoulders. they were smiling at him as he tried to catch his breath.

"death is something you know well?" the sound of her unearthing a kettle spurred him. she was faster than he was, but he knew he could stay silent until he was too close to counteract. aranya was only a few inches from the countertop when he reached her, and he grabbed her. hand on her forehead, wit forced her to expose her neck.

due to the shaking of his hands, his blade pierced the skin above her collarbone before he had prepared for it. it was sharp, and the splitting of her skin reminded him of the bursting of a citrus fruit. from what he could piece together, his sister had always been a summer's sun to him. unforgiving. something to guard against. raging. but something about drawing her blood his blood hit him so hard it made him stagger back. wit took a steadying breath, fortifications withstanding.

"your boyfriend keeps it quite cold." the boy worried his bottom lip, eyes darting across the expanse of kitchen he exposed himself to. a wild thing, his fingers traced paths out onto the countertop he was leaning against. the cold was a cenotaph, he thought. to both of them. to a grave in canada. to a grave in russia. to no grave at all. wittaya natharuetai laughed bitterly, his machinations of escape only revealing new wounds to pick at. "you know what mother used to say about singing in the kitchen? you will marry an old man, aranya. i wonder if that is thai or german. has it come true?"

#* ʷⁱᵗᵗᵃʸᵃ ﾉ script ‸#gravefed

rose mitchell's desk, stoneage industries ⭑ * 10:00 hours ⸺ @haereticus, for rose.

his finger's hurt from typing his own emails. it's not like he's so spoiled as he demands to not do them, but he's always had an assistant who wanted to. you get used to that kind of treatment, and it aches when it's gone.

typing still, he tilted his head back, checking both ways for the owner for the computer. dark eyes marked the name on the desk: rose mitchell, personal assistant. he'd only met her once or twice. heard her name even less. still, he had a few pullable strings in stoneage, and even more in burning gods. as the desk's owner approached, he visably relaxed, propping his boots on the surface in front of him and leaning back in the chair.

"ah, ms. mitchell! finally, i thought you'd never arrive." his voice full of a social threat, that he would be operating on the idea that he being here wasn't at all strange. "

his assistant would scold him for his dramatics, but well, they were no longer with us. family vacation in miami sounded fake anyways. someone must have killed them, and kiran had been ignoring their text messages in remembrance of the dead.

"well, considering you're so late, we have lots of catch-up to do." he clapped his hands together, standing from her seat. "you'll come with me, of course. and don't worry about your work attendance, i requisitioned you from your superior."

#* ₖᵢᵣₐₙ ﾉ script ‸#haereticus #kidnapping /pos #hope this is okay because i found it really funny

boykavalier

INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE 2.08 "And That's The End of It. There's Nothing Else"

#* ₖᵢᵣₐₙ ﾉ images ‸#genuinely the most beautiful man in the world

godfather house of blues in brooklyn, new york ⭑ * 18:00 hours ⸺ @avecaisar, for soledad.

tempo and rhythm was important to a man in his occupation, you'll find. everything in the natural world, even silence, had a rhythm that beat irregularly when something was wrong. red eye operatives were taught to match it. instead of making no sound at all, they followed the ebb and flow of the natural tone of the location of their kill. it caused a silence less unnerving than the normal one.

music was something wit hadn't thought recreationally about for years. the distant scratching of a memory, frozen over and thawed. but music existed, he reminded himself, and it was loved.

the patrons of godfather house of blues were oblivious of the wolf among them, but they were safe in their chairs. wittaya wasn't hunting tonight. he wasn't working at all. the consistent pain in his side told him he had to rest now if he didn't want to risk adding injury to injury, and the sweet smell of whiskey and desolation lured him here.

a sway of dark hair drew his eyes, and he tipped his head politely. "you were great up there, ma'am." a pause, surveying. " i apologize, i did arrive a little late, missed your name?"

#* ʷⁱᵗᵗᵃʸᵃ ﾉ script ‸#avecaisar

simoneashley

Assad Zaman as Armand Interview with the Vampire Season 2 Episode 1

#* ₖᵢᵣₐₙ ﾉ images ‸#sounds of me screaming

atealiers

The Anxiety of Influencers — Barrett Swanson

#* ₖᵢᵣₐₙ ﾉ insight ‸

the west executive boardroom of stoneage industries ⭑ * 12:00 hours ⸺ @gildcdglory, for haneul.

echoes of shouts and groans bounced from wall to wall, contrasted with the current silence of the room. kiran grimaced at the idea that he was actually quite excited to come today. a meeting of only the top of the burning gods food chain happened often, yes, but they'd never been set at stoneage industries.

the subject of the meeting caused the uproar. as a group they were careful, you had to be in white collar crime. and admittedly, kiran hadn't reached that expectation. he liked throwing his money at things, sometimes not even bothering to check if the money was clean.

they had taken a hard stance. kiran was to stop messing around. under threat of death was implied. so now, kiran sat silently, knee bouncing up and down. his eyes flicked up to the only other person still sitting there. haneul seon. finance. it was only so fitting that he'd be apart of the crusade to stop kiran's patronage of the arts.

"i suppose you're enjoying this." he said bitterly. "and here i thought we were meant to support the culture of the city we live in."

#* ₖᵢᵣₐₙ ﾉ script ‸#gildcdglory #this is actually really bad im so sorry bestie

the new york fine art gallery ⭑ * 13:00 hours ⸺ @dogbleed, for amara.

a small personal win: he wasn't involved. kiran considered this gleefully as he perused the rows of forgeries that crowded the displays. it had been amusing, then boring, then amusing again with the arrival of a half - dozen of new york's finest dressed in their finest.

undercovers are nearly imperceptible to the uninitiated. but there are two ways to spot them. if you run with bad folks long enough, you can see how they act. a cop is too stiff, too well - trained. the beating heart of their stained morality forced them to walk with a sort of undeserved pride. kiran was never good at this method, his own posture sculpted with marble and the sharp crack of his tutor's ruler.

the other method he excelled in. fed's didn't make enough. on the surface, sure, an out of season prada didn't stick out. but most stupidly wore their standard issue black shoes, scuffed at the heels. still, kiran didn't notice this one until she got close.

"big win for you boys tonight?" he drawled, tilting his head at the painting they both stood in front of. "this arcimbaldo might has well have been drawn in crayola, i wonder how they convinced anyone to sell." with his hands clasped behind his back, he tried to hold back his excitement.

"oh, where are my manners? MY NAME IS KIRAN. i didn't purchase anything, so no need to worry about me!" the lilt of his voice was edged, and he pointedly eyed a man standing on the opposite side, blissfully unaware that the suits are about to tell him he just spent seven figures on a fake.

#* ₖᵢᵣₐₙ ﾉ script ‸#dogbleed

the penthouse apartment of yamato ishino and aranya natharuetai ⭑ * 18:00 hours ⸺ @gravefed, for aranya.

he was assured the apartment would be empty for another few hours. yamato ishino cuts a presence into the cloth of the world where he stands, but his handler didn't account for his fiancée, the shadow that slinked so quietly into the apartment wittaya would not have noticed if not for the sound of the alarm disarming.

in all honesty, HE HADN'T BEEN THAT CAREFUL. he almost wanted to be caught here. to meet the terror of his so-called blood. a killer, a liar, the great serpent snaking around his veins. not a single memory of her was tender; only a cacophony of shouting, neglect, and betrayal.

his hand went to his gun. the memory of a crowded lobby below was the only thing that gave him pause. this was reconnaissance. a commotion here would send shockwaves through the very heart of new york, making it recoil like a frightened animal. his blade, then. a deceptively small pocket knife, sharp and cruel, flashed in the artificial light of the room he was searching. he weighed the blade and his options in his hands as he side-stepped the foyer, his boots treading softly over carpet and hardwood.

when he noticed she had not yet moved, it was almost exciting to know he had been caught. at the very least, she knew someone was here. of course she did, a giddy swell of nerves in his chest reacted and he hugged closer to the wall. " thought i had the place to myself tonight. " he called, his voice a rough echo, cracked from disuse.