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@artisankiller liked for a silly Briar
" Oh watch this!! Look what I can do!! " Sticking out her tongue, she wrapped it around a 20lb weight and lifted it up with just her abnormally long tongue before throwing it through a nearby window. Giggling happily at the shriek that came from inside. " Oops. "
@artisankiller // short thing starter
"I must ask, why only four?" It seemed to be a specific number to stop at, when engaged in what he had assumed to be some sort of brawl. But then again, he wasn't from this place, a wanderer, merely passing through, Observing, rather than lift a single clawed finger to help or intervene.
"There's more than that still left alive, Ionian. Doesn't that concern you?" This, too, he aimed in the same direction, targeting a masked, and seemingly well-equipped stranger, who had effortlessly brought the local riffraff to firm heel rather quickly.
"I have no quarrel with you." Realising he should've led with that, Miguel fixed the assassin with an unwavering glare, shielded somewhat by tufts of brown locks that poked out from beneath the cover of his tattered hood. Dressed in a pilgrims' robes, it was testing to dismiss the putrid one's Acolyte as no-one of consequence, but that was inaccurate.
For he had happened to get his own claws on a fleeing fifth gang member, overlooked by the Ionian, but not missed by the Piltovian. Especially not when starved for a human soul to devour.
"All that I wish to do is point out that others may hunt you down, if you choose to remain here any longer."
@artisankiller | liked for a starter
How long has it been, he wonders, since the wind stilled so silent he'd swear he could hear the echoes of his once-beating heart? Yet here. amidst roiling clouds and mountaintops, the wind stills. The birds still too and he'd swear he heard his breath, if only his lungs still breathed.
But his hand does not ache for the spirit-blade. There is no name upon the wind.
"How curious. Do you hide yourself because you fear me, or because you wish to remain an engima?"
@artisankiller "marry me" jhin said in another life (and where hubby doesn't kill him KXSKKSKKDKSKD)
"... What is wrong with you... Are you into blood and corpses or something like that?"
@artisankiller said ;
Ivory mask currently rests at the tall mans waist; dangling like a charm as he smiles; feeling the flames on his cheek, like a little hot breath 'pon his otherwise cold face. The crisp air envelops him the second he realizes the fire is gone- and now seems to have dissipated- at least for the time being.
"Cute," Jhin cannot hide the smile on his weary face; dark brown eyes meeting amber ones. Ahri had the kind of eyes he could stare into forever. The kind that reminded him of when he had last felt alive- when he had fallen for his only muse.
"Is there something you need?" He knows of the vixen; of the woman with a beautiful face- though much like the roses he adores, she had thorns, and even so, he wished to be closer; to see if the same red fell from wounds like his cheek does from a little nick of fire.
Still, he craves touch- craves to be known and admired, if not by her then... Who?
A question he fears the answer to.
"Do you... want to join me?" He murmurs this question hesitantly; as he pats a patch of grass besides him.
Ionia was beautiful, but so was she.
the word 'beauty' never suited her; no matter how hard she's tried to mask it, ultimately leaving her with her true nature ▬▬ raw, feral, wild. despite all of her brutality, the way he stares into pools of honey, with his rich, earthen hues... for the first time, in a long time, it seems that something has stirred within the vixen. how vexing, she thinks, the cold air nipping at her cheeks. the rush of crimson was a long reminiscent feeling of ages old ▬▬ & so, she decides to humor him.
❝ join you? ❞ she repeats, her iron-stained lips parting into a smile. only fools would be enticed by her ▬▬ she was what myths were made of, after all. the heart-eater, the mistress of the woods, the witch of love, these were only a few of the epithets she's gained over the years. his query was hesitant, but calculated. as if he knew she would not bare her claws & fangs at him.
slinking down from her perch, she hesitantly sits across from him. honeyed hues drink in his appearance without his mask. in many ways... they were similar. ❝ either you're a fool & have a death wish, ❞ she begins, stifling back a chuckle behind clawed hand. ❝ or you truly wish to have my company, despite what you may or may not have heard. ❞
@artisankiller
The moth is confused, but happy, but confused.
❛ patch . help my muse patch up a wound . ❛ wink . wink at my muse . ❛ tousle . mess playfully with my muse’s hair . ❛ gun . wield a gun at my muse .
for talon <3 choose wisely >;)
.loud & deafening silence | @artisankiller | accepting
❛ gun . wield a gun at my muse .
Click.
And he looks down the dark barrel of the gun; gazes into darkness and abyss and does not flinch, though he knows what lies beyond. Slowly, his gaze wanders, from the barrel to the finger and its trigger, and the mask that gazes back, serene in alabaster apathy.
No pain would it betray were the trigger pulled. Nor would his own, he thinks. Though not because he is a blade (that, he is too; forged for the slaughter) - but because he doubts; or perhaps knows - there would be no pain in the going.
And the impassive, alabaster face would gaze upon him then. Serene, as though there were art before it - not in spite of the blood and viscera spilt; but perhaps, because of it. And perhaps there would be flowers; and perhaps there would be words spoken then, as though he were beautiful.
As though he were not a blade.
And though warmth glows deep within him, he cannot pinpoint where. Like a firefly's light, though he might the the gossamer wings upon which it sets the night aflame. The ashes which into the sky ascend to nestle amidst the stars.
His hand is steady upon the gun when he leans forward; presses it above his heart.
His gaze is steady too as he looks into a gaze which betrays nothing .
And the air is cold as his breath may grow.
And he closes his eyes.
.cont | @artisankiller
"What a pretty look of bliss," Jhin comments once he sees the elegant, oh so lovely way the man points the gun to his own heart. It speaks volumes- while at the same time, leaving so much mystery in between blank spaces. "Make that expression again. With my name at your lips, call out: Jhin, pretty boy." Jhin would make this an ongoing symphony if he could- the way the others breath shudders almost out of relief at the recognition of his impending doom. The way he simply doesn't react, nor push the gun away... Instead, inviting his pistol closer- directly over his heart. He adored the way the shadowy figure exhales, even beyond his weary prying eyes- and puts the gun down; settles Whisper at his hip with a chiding 'tsk' and click of his tongue... How disappointing, but more-so depressing as it was pitiful to judge the man than to offer hospitality.
"Why not fight? Too afraid of what happens after..?" Jhin might just laugh, if not for the fact that he's curious about his own ending, too. But the virtuoso would never say this- could never. Afterall, he must commit to the part- and right now, he feels like his mask serves no purpose to a man who wouldn't fight even with his own life on the line. "Tell me, what troubles you? Other than I, of course." Jhin stares, eyeing the man suspiciously at his stiffened body; his attire.
"You look lovely, but I think you'd look better with these off." He drags fingertips along hood, hands trailing down to his cape, and then his shirt. "Maybe I can touch you up with some Ionian attire. I think it'd suit you well, Noxian."
"Jhin..?"
The bleary world slowly returns to focus as the gun is pulled away and a whine catches in his throat as the devastation of a death taken from him settles somewhere between his bones and his soul.
Shame burns bright upon his cheeks as he straightens then, and eyes avert from the gaze he feels dissecting him; devouring him piece by piece until there is nothing for the taking. Still, his breath is easily captured by fingers trailing down his chest; as though hopeful, perhaps, despite the gun no longer pressed against his chest and despite the blades hidden upon him; yet not held there before him, wicked glint promising something more.
There is something chilling in the returning; in the seeing the masked man, not as a promise but as merely a man. And there is something chilling, too, in the casual tone of voice with which he questions - probes, as though Talon were not an assassin; not a blade; but a man before him.
"I do not fear death," he says, rather than entertain his more unconventional of observations; the questions which he, himself, does not know answers to. "I have killed enough to know what it looks like. And I know that I will serve my purpose before then."
Yes, because he is a blade and there is no death for one such as he - not until the General himself lays him to rest; at last spent; at last dulled.
"And I don't fear you, if you're suggesting I should be a pretty plaything for you."
