#am tryin

[katvantassel]

Hoping to have a lil treat out tomorrow so badly

[pixlokita]

Trying to keep a positive attitude to make the day go by faster but people keep pushing you towards murder at work

[neverlandent]

Everything’s Broken????

I cannot make HanBi’s Gold “mv” work. This is gonna be a struggle I can feel it in my s o u l so just heckin hold on, I’ll make it work.... I hope.... I might have to do a stupid thing which SUCKS & will look stupid and bad but it’ll work guys I’ll make something happen. in the meantime I might introduce a couple new trainees or somethin’ I can’t do nothing for twelve years while tryna work on HanBi 

[letmybloodspill]

It's okay. You're safe now.

Why you’re age regressin is no my business but if youre a teenietot I’m gonny protect ye an you lot are cute.

[notte-la-lagna-moved-blog]

“ I know you think I’m like the others before. "

                  Random Lyric Starters Part One

~Send a random number 1-86 or feel free look below and send a specific starter~Status: Still accepting 

            “Is that what I think, Leon?” Deftly, each step holds silent, fabrics bid themselves much the same in manner of movement; Mathias thoroughly engrossed with this training session’s outcome, though a lie it would be if he claimed to having little part in making it so. “What could have lead you to say such a thing at a time like this, much less say it at all?” This room in which they spar possesses a particular fancy to the Count’s tastes: that, when one is stationed precisely in the middle, sounds reverberate, as if enclosing and entirely surrounding. An amusing test of the mind, and one few withstand amidst the threatening shame of swift defeat. But, no - the Belmont isn’t quite as the others before, and right in his declaration. To mention this now of all times, to say this when he has lasted longer than others trained is certainly an exquisitely delightful display of both pomposity and callowness.               Mathias has begun drawing ever closer with his proximity. The sonorous of his voice deepening with that would-be laughter that never truly is given life. “Oh, Leon, Leon, Leon... the world has yet to show you it’s breadth of miseries and victorious things with happenings and people alike; uttering such a thing to your elder would be seen as grossly improper.” 

               A fraction of a second’s life between amusement displayed and austere’s reigning hold when expression shifts - lined perfectly with abrupt launching with one’s onslaught. While their swords are dulled entirely, the Lord moves with manner to kill. As if enemies on the field, leaving mercy far, far behind. Steps scarcely speak - from hand to hand a switch of position the sword moves about his person with swiftness rivaling a hummingbird’s flight. But it is precisely this that the Count finds himself so engrossed: Leon isn’t like the ones before. There presents no reason to ease him into things, or handle him with kinder hands. Time again, proving himself equal despite youth’s demand upon him. With every twist, every dodge, block, attack - pleasure encapsulates Mathias, for how enthralling is it that one may finally waltz with another unbridled.                He notes, however, a flaw; minor, yes, alas one he would not allow go unpunished. It seems Leon is not privy to this specific technique; then again, how may he? It is before his time. And while the Belmont is fully capable of dodging it, he is not capable of seeing yet the coming buildup of tactics, and it is this that Mathias decides must end it. When finally he has been drawn near enough to the arena’s faux landscape’s wall and obstacles, Mathias feigns cast to his sword, only to trip the younger Knight, driving the dull blade directly besides that pretty golden crown of his. 

               And all he sees pleases him. So close as to have been lethal, but - Mathias knew better than to think Leon incapable of salvaging his own head. “Is it still what I think?” The sword, ripped from it’s confines, is then placed beneath Leon’s chin, ushering that head upward. “Would I truly think that of a man that couldn’t preserve his own head?” The tapping made is gentle, coaxing, evening, before pressuring the apple of his throat.                Jests and torments aside, the blade is placed away, and a hand in it’s place is offered to bring up his comrade to his feet properly.