SORROWSICK;

a mutuals only multimuse rp blog featuring original characters! written by elliot :)

[sorrowsick-a]

MOVED TO @SORROWSICK

[sorrowsick-a]

ok i am actually gonna archive this blog and move over... in my defence it has been like 3 years on this one but find me over here

[sorrowsick-a]

ok i am actually gonna archive this blog and move over... in my defence it has been like 3 years on this one but find me over here

[sorrowsick-a]

ok i am actually gonna archive this blog and move over... in my defence it has been like 3 years on this one but find me over here

[soulmissed]

@sorrowsick: here, let me do that. / from cross!

memes, accepting

the brown paper bags ripple in auggie’s grip. he stares, distant, silent. hardly responds while cross takes groceries and positions them delicately on a wobbling table. (going shopping had been a very stressful task for him. the convenience store was a couple blocks from their hotel.)

and ain’t it ironic? to live a cruel game of cat and mouse – but somehow remain nervous before numbers, money, social cues.

“ i got yelled at. ” august murmurs, reaching toward his eyes. “ the cashier was a mean old witch. ”

[sorrowsick-a]

"she was." cross is agitated, filled with nervous energy, quite clearly worked up by their little ordeal— and it does seem to be an ordeal more often than it should. they go to start unpacking the paper bags, but lift out only a single item before getting distracted. "i don't know what she was talking about!"

it's bad enough that cross has deviated from her usual monotone, voice rising to a frustrated high.

rather than unpacking anything more, they begin tearing bits off the paper bag and dropping them onto the table. "we should never go there again."

[ofspvrta]

It wasn't about the gods for Kassandra, it was about the art, the culture. The... better parts of the culture. She could leave some of it, especially some of Sparta's beliefs. But the art... oh she missed how beautiful it all could be. And it was truly beautiful.

"My reputation did get ahead of me, I'm afraid. Thus the demigod accusations. It didn't help that my half-brother was clinging to that notion." Most people didn't know the Eagle Bearer and Deimos were two sides of the same coin, even if they both cut through armies as if they were nothing. The fact both were so fearsome made the rumors persist. "There isn't much respect that should be afforded to them in the first place."

As far as she knew, none of the gods were actually gods. Advanced beings, precursors, but not real gods. Though they probably wouldn't have been opposed to such beliefs. They viewed themselves well above humanity.

Kassandra looked down at her lap, a bit of a frown on her face as she chewed another bite of cake. "I kind of like having small hips, means men's armor fits me better. I don't have to get as many things custom-made." There were many advantages to her build. Unfortunately, her height often worked against her when it came to some ready-to-wear armor.

She thought tales like that were Christian myths borne of a need to create some greater villain in the narrative. "A demon. An actual demon?" Something she's been accused of being many times, but never something she's believed in. "I had no idea they actually existed. And you were unable to save her, I take it." A mother's lament, she supposes.

[sorrowsick-a]

It is not hard to imagine, for Zahrosa, how one could look at Kassandra and see more than a normal woman. But if one went around applying that to every statuesque woman with a commanding presence one would quickly be in a great deal of trouble. A little more critical thinking than that is necessary.

"They deserve very little." She shakes her head; this line of thinking leads into a whole torrent of angry ranting from Zahrosa if she is not careful. It's not something she feels like visiting right now, despite the temptation, so she lets it slip past without further thought. For the most part. All this talk of Gods and demons raise questions of providence, of reality, of what one person might consider a devil. Rosie's perspective is well-informed in her own area, but she certainly doesn't know anything of what Kassandra has experienced.

The flick of her fingers comes again, dismissive. "Demon, devil, fiend. A thing from another place. Notably not one of the spirits native to our plane of existence." And there were plenty of those even in Ukrainian folklore. Many of them are different names for things that exist across many countries, but they are, as far as Rosie sees it, things that belong here. "It granted him power from Outside, and in return... yes." A failure that still stings. Perhaps things could have been different if she had simply been better.

"I fought. It was not enough." Zahrosa's gaze is downcast as she picks at the last crumbs on her plate. "My strength was severely compromised. I did not wake for a long while."

Nevermind that it was her husband who had kept her in that state against her will, and the struggle to escape had been long and difficult. "Our second daughter had been born by the time I did. I could not stay. I spent a great deal of time searching for Mahine. The Hells are vast and strange." Rosie catches a crumb on the tip of her finger, brings it up to lick the last morsel up, the tip of her tongue split by another old scar. "I found her, indeed."

And in that, there is something very sour.

[miidnighters-a]

No, it doesn't. But Callisto doesn't want to insist it does, because that would be lying, and she doesn't want to agree, because that would be admitting to all the guilt and shame that lives in her broken chest.

The weight of his solid hand at her side is a comfort, much as he probably thinks it's not, and finally Callisto relaxes her somewhat rigid posture to lean into his side.

"I wanted you to tell me you wanted to come back." That Taron wanted to choose her, to the best of his ability. Is she crying, now? Her face feels wet, but Callisto doesn't raise a hand to wipe away the quiet tears slipping down her face. "I figured out pretty quickly that she never had me because she wanted me. Just did it because she was supposed to, to have someone next in line to hand the store off to." A pause. Her eyes fall closed in shame, as if she can't bear to look at him, or anyone when she voices this last thought, almost a whisper. "Sometimes I wish it had been her and I hate myself for it."

[sorrowsick-a]

Taron feels her relax, and that's something. He adjusts his arm around her, trying to make her feel... to let her know that he appreciates it. Her talking to him. Even if it makes him nervous and strange. and he trips over his words.

"It isn't just you," he says softly, and then frowns. "Not to... that doesn't make it any less hard. I just mean that— of course you feel... bad." Taron winces, hating the sound of his own voice in this moment. He's saying everything wrong, he thinks. But he's trying. "I think—" Taron turns his head toward her a little, lips resting at her temple. He almost says it. Says this thing that feels like giving away a secret, some part of the awful truth that lurks at the center of him. That he thinks those things all the time. That he thinks such horribly, unfair, awful things all the time. But he doesn't. Not quite. "I know you, Callie. You're a good person. There's nothing wrong with you. It's normal to wish that things were different."

[miidnighters-a]

"Good."

Bella notices that Rosie doesn't exactly answer the question about taking it easy, but then she'd not really expected her to - mostly Rosie had simply confirmed her initial suspicions.

"You've got a good egg in that one." Bella notes, thinking about the few times she'd met Barty. Thinking about how lucky Rosie was to have found someone who understood her, and loved her, after all this time. Not, of course, that she says any of that out loud. Instead, she stirs the pot she has on the stove and sets a lid on top of it. "That needs to stew for a bit." Rounding the table, she presses a soft kiss to the top of the feeding baby's head, before pressing one to Zahrosa's cheek and pulling away to drop into one of the dining chairs.

[sorrowsick-a]

Rosie tips her head just slightly into the affectionate kiss Bella bestows upon her, a small sign that it is appreciated— in her way, of course. She follows Bella's form with her gaze as the vampire retreats, perhaps the smallest little smile lingering at the edges of her mouth.

"He is... unusual." In general, yes, but also for her in particular. Her significant relationships have not been many, but those there have been are not with men like Barty. Not usually. "Perhaps that is what I enjoy about him." That time the smile is definite, albeit tinged with something almost sardonic. She looks down, making sure Amser is definitely done before she moves, holding the baby against her shoulder and rubbing her back.

It's a simple, reassuring routine. It is very, very dear to her.

[sorrowsick-a]

i do have like five more replies to come outta the queue on here but whatever. you guys are smart youll understand

[sorrowsick-a]

ok i am actually gonna archive this blog and move over... in my defence it has been like 3 years on this one but find me over here

[lncarnon]

A rumbling sound of thought rolls through the dragon's throat, the grand beast slowly lowering herself down into the dirt and grass upon her stomach. "The mind can be quite a tumultuous thing, can't it?"

Siveth understands perfectly that hers is an intimidating figure, more so towards those who have yet to meet her. People acted unwise when faced with the unknown, and fear, and though there is little she can do to ease that feeling she hopes this is enough.

"For oneself, and others," she comments while looking him over. "You appear to be afflicted with something, is that the cause for your straying into the dark?"

[sorrowsick-a]

Say what you like about the obviousness of it or how foolish it might be to feel this way, Siveth laying down does help to ease Taron's nerves a bit. It's a matter of intent, maybe. If she intends peace and he intends peace, then they're pretty much fine, right? Taron works to even out his breaths, take them slow and deep until he can stop thinking about it entirely.

"In a way," he answers, shifting a little uncomfortably to think he's being watched. It's fine, really. Being watched by the person you're having a conversation with is very much to be expected. "I have an, um. A duty. To get involved in these things."

He puts himself in the dark, literally and metaphorically, for the sake of this duty. Because the other choice is dying.

[sorrowsick-a]

allergic to talking about his feelings. if that isn't taron to a tee.

<- this guy? this one here? yeah :/

[miidnighters-a]

"Oh, well. Thankyou." For the compliment on the coffee, he means. Barty makes a note, then, that if Taron ever comes back in, he's not paying for coffee then.

They stand there a second, Jason settled on Barty's hip, before he lets out a laugh at the other's assessment.

"You can say that again. Gymnastics is the flavour of the week to try and get some of that energy out." Part of it, Barty knows, is his own fault, needing to keep Jason cooped up here in the Cafe rather than affording him the opportunity to run around properly.

Jason wiggles to be let down, and Barty realises they're still standing. "Were you staying a while? Feel free to sit and I'll bring your coffee over. I promise," Attention switches to Jason briefly. "there will be no more gymnastics in this cafe today."

[sorrowsick-a]

Well, it does seem like it's getting energy out. Unfortunately most of that energy seems to be being directed at solid objects, which is less good. And then Barty makes him remember he's just standing there aimlessly and he dips his head, cheeks flushing slightly as he does.

(And that reaches right up to the discoloured band of skin across his eyes but no further, a small detail he remains self-conscious of even so long later.)

"Would you? Thank you." Taron goes to sit back down, but does give Jason a friendly smile. What are you supposed to say to a kid you just yanked out of a possibly-disastrous indoor gymnastics debacle, anyway? There's no rules for that. "Just, um. No rush. Don't have anywhere else to be."

[corpsegirlrots]

she’s a 10 but she’s a little too into wanting to see your organs

[sorrowsick-a]

hmmmhmhmgmgmmgn im really so. feelings. about attraction and beauty and the thrill of making yourself deliberately undesirable as a reaction to that. thats a big ol rosie thing but also possibly (unnamed prospective oc) and this has me thinking about the veilguard + cyberpunk facial scars options that are clearly deliberate scarification etc etc. bodily control thru the marking of it. owning something. rosie is shaking and screaming and digging a grave as therapy

[miidnighters-a]

Barty's patient while Taron works himself through, and then hums sympathetically when he finally decides on what he wants to say.

Everyone is dead.

"Everyone but you." It's hard, being the last one remaining. Building connections just for them to be pulled out from under you. Or not wanting to build them at all, for fear of the fact.

Barty understands. All too well.

"Are you lonely because they leave you, or lonely because you don't try?"

There's no judgement in the question. To Barty's mind, both are completely reasonable paths, but result in different types of pain.

[sorrowsick-a]

Gods. Barty really ought to warn him before saying things like that. There's a lump in his throat all of a sudden, too much to swallow, too real of a thing. Taron keeps a hand pressed over his face, words half-muffled.

"The work," he explains, "I always have to leave anyway. It doesn't matter."

It's just harder if he tries. If he tries, he has to leave something he actually cares about. Not that he doesn't find himself in that position here and there, just the beginnings of it, but...

He leaves. Easy as that.

"So I just spend time with dead people. People who are about to be dead. They're not bad to talk to."

[lncarnon]

Her question brings him to a momentary pause, eyes still on the expression of the corpse's face. Count. For what? For a lack of control? Rindul had stopped feeding when he had realized just how inebriated his food had been, and though the hunger continues to pang through his entire diseased self, it is something that he is quite accustomed to. He is always hungry, this is no different- well, other than the annoying gnat that continues to poke at him.

"I fail to see how one life amounts to any loss of control," he replies while wiping the blade clean on the body's shirt and taking the head in both hands. There is indeed a dull buzz through his own mind on account of the alcohol, but he has no intention of allowing it to go any further.

"What would there be to enjoy? Unlike most, I find no particular joy in slaughtering intelligent life so I may feed."

[sorrowsick-a]

His reticence pulls another deep sigh from Zahrosa, who stares him down for a long, disgruntled moment.

"Intelligent is relative," she grumbles, gaze drifting back down to the body. In her experience, most of them are not worth the time of day. And even if they are, they're only going to be so for another few moments, relatively speaking. They would be just as cruel as anything Zahrosa has done in her long years.

Maybe it's just that it bothers her to see him hungry. Perhaps they are the same that way; always hungry, endlessly ravenous. Is that why it niggles so? Either way, she's all antsy and irritated now, and he's taken the shine off her good mood something wicked. Zahrosa's dark-stained fingers tap against her opposite elbow, impatient as she considers what she desires.

"I require pastry. Leave your dead fool here."