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hi there mods! without prior reserve, i'd like to reapp chat noir from granblue fantasy. his application can be found under /app
Welcome back!
You’ll be staying in HOUSE 143!
You’ll retain everything from your previous stay!
Enjoy!
--Mod Lyra
forewarnedfate liked your post “Like this for a starter. Its capped at 3! People who know Ro is exempt...”
“‘Ey, you want some coffee?” Romanus hadn’t expected anyone to be awake at this time of the morning. The sun was barley peeking out to greet the world and the only things that were up were probably the birds, and maybe some other early birds out there. Romanus couldn’t stay awake and so he chose to do exactly this. Getting up, going downstairs, and fixing himself a cup of hot coffee.
“Couldn’t sleep in?”
graceless
@forewarnedfate
A while after the return of his wings, Lucifer had been granted another pleasant surprise: a gift from Chat Noir.
He didn’t know what to make of it at first. The gift in question was a pair of laced boots, adorned with wings at the ankles and a single blade lining the center of the soles. Lucifer’s first thought, of course, was how unorthodox a weapon they would serve while flying from the air, before being informed that they were not, in fact, meant for deadly force. No, these “ice skates” were worn by mortals who enjoyed gliding along frozen lakes, and while Lucifer had been made aware of the pastime through his past observations, he failed to make the connection between Chat Noir’s gift and what he was intending to do with them.
That is, teach Lucifer how to skate.
And if he had been apprehensive about that before, that was nothing on how he felt while actually on the ice. His wings tense and feathers bristled, he held onto both of Chat Noir’s hands as a child would and still he wobbled like a newborn fawn on the ice. It was clear that the former supreme primarch...was completely out of his element.
“...Chat Noir. Are you certain you want to continue with this? I fear I may bring you down...”
@forewarnedfate
it’s freezing.
she’s loathe to say she misses albion for any reason, really, but it was never this cold. snow seldom stayed on the ground at the academy -- even the rare holiday storm was gentle, soft, like it was plucked straight from the pages of a storybook.
time got away from her, easily -- in the days rarely spent outside, winter crept up and caught her by surprise, the chill winds blowing in snow and ice to blanket cotes.
from the window of a warmed townhouse, it is picturesque, trees bare of leaves now shouldering the burden of glittering white.
from street-level -- from the stairs to the front door, specifically -- it is decidedly miserable. the wind seems to creep under her coat and send the cold directly to her skin; she wraps her arms about herself with a shiver, and even the memories of temperate auguste or calm port breeze conjured into her mind by luminiera do nothing to warm her bones.
what they do accomplish, however, is rather more... ungraceful.
a shout rips from her lips as her boot slides off the final step, near-invisible ice removing any and all amount of traction she could have possibly had. without thought, in a moment of pure panic, she reaches out to grasp the railing, trying to curl gloved fingers around it -- she doesn’t tumble, then, but instead lands hard on her tailbone and feels her arm wrench painfully from the sudden strain.
staring at the concrete, she takes slow breaths. she comes back to herself, settles into her normal demeanor, as her companion worries over her incessantly -- she dismisses luminiera with a thought, before lifting her gaze to look out upon the surrounding area.
as fortune would have it, the only person around to witness her fall was the one man she privately willed wouldn’t be here.
but what would a phantom thief be, if not supernaturally aware of how to arrive at the very worst times? -- that would undoubtedly be his response.
if he could stop laughing, that is.
“ i’m not used to the cold, ” she mumbles, and only after the words pass her lips does she realize how uncharacteristic it is for her to immediately admit lack of experience, even in something as inconsequential as weather.
the gift hasn’t worn off, she figures. she’s gotten used to it somewhat, maybe, but it hasn’t gone. it’s as if there is a third luminiera, yet another blanket of external emotions to temper her own original thoughts. to soften her. she lets go of the railing, falling into a more comfortable position with arms crossed around her knees, head resting atop them.
“ what a phantom thief, stalking my front steps like a shadow, nefariously waiting for me to make the critical mistake of stepping outside.
to what do i owe the holiday company? perhaps a cryptic present? i must confess to being ill-prepared for visitors, and i’ve received enough boxed riddles for the day. ”
forewarnedfate replied to your post: press f to pay respects for Gawain
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F
That’s the spirit!
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STOP BEING MEAN TO ME
We didn’t order an eclipse, but if you’re nice, I’ll keep you shielded until it passes.
@forewarnedfate | starter call
Their first thought was that the perfume reeked.
Their second was, how did Émile leave this garish, smelly note outside of their accommodations with such annoying accuracy? Perhaps that was one of the many secrets kept by the bard-slash-thaumaturge-slash-conjurer, and they’ve leaned not to question his strange habits. (It was better for the state of their temples, you see.)
They flicked the envelope open, wondering how they missed the other’s less-than-subtle presence.
Meet me at Golden Ward’s Pearl Street. ☆
❧ Émile.
...They sighed. They could ignore the summons and tear up the paper right then and there, but they supposed the last they met, the other had been of help. Somewhat. And so, for lack of anything to do and lack of better companions (because they certainly weren’t going to be prancing around with anyone from the Holy See), they decided to humor him, if only because they were curious as to how he fared after the sudden monster invasion.
According to their map, it was a hells of a walk to the Golden Ward in the summer heat (Fancy that! They didn’t think they’d ever hear that term again in their meager lifespan!), so it was time the armor came off. Not in its entirety, but enough to leave only the black leather underneath. It felt strange to leave the barbut and heavy pauldroncoat behind, but it was better than outright baking in the island’s heat, they thought as they braved the formerly ruined streets.
Several navigational errors later, they finally arrived at Pearl Street, picking out Émile’s damnably punchable face in the growing crowd. “Oi, you left your shite outside of my door.” They presented the ornate letter to him, eager to to get it out of their hands. “This perfume better not stick to me; I’d rather not smell like a bloody bouquet of flowers.”
Just beyond the grove of bamboo, a few minute’s walk from any sign of civilization (so easy to get lost, though Haise is not one who is quick to lose his sense of direction), lays the remains of a dilapidated shrine. Like a hidden treasure, it looks to be undisturbed for some time as moss peeks over the stones and crumbling rock sits still at its base in unmoving rest. In a way, the ruin is quite idyllic, beyond the questions of how or why is lay abandoned.
Overcome with a rush of impulse, he bows to the torii, washes his hands, and rings the bell before giving a full bow—traditional praying ceremony.
Haise has never been religious. With so much to focus on and help in the real world, he often thought the ritual of prayer was needless; but here, with nearly everything yanked from under his feet, the appearance of a shrine could not be more telling. All he is, is a slave to fate, after all. Just follow the steps, Haise.
In the corner of his vision, after the prayer is concluded, he swears he sees the figure of another loitering nearby. Though, with so many shadows from the bamboo, he cannot tell for sure.
“Hello?” he calls out, for good measure. || @forewarnedfate
@forewarnedfate
Scouting missions were easier when avoiding the droves of recent arrivals, confusion plaguing their features, as they milled around housing districts. His optical camouflage rendered him invisible for ten minutes. More than enough time to get around the crowd. More than enough time to gathering information on the crowd, and slink between townhouses as he came back into view, busying himself with whatever was behind his visor.
“Good readings still.” He murmured to himself, “Whatever they did to my regalia hasn’t hindered much in the way of versatility.” Leaning against the house, he typed at the keyboard on his arm, not paying attention to any pesky passersby.
