#hellscourges

[lordsrot]

It was suffocating, that aura of need, bloody justice and revenge served raw. He feed into it, sensing potential in her relentlessness. This warrior could be lead. So the Lord encouraged her, offering the very palms of his dark hands for her to dine from. And she did. Fervently so. And it took so little effort.

@hellscourges ❝your true face… what kind of face is it? i wonder… the face under the mask… is that your true face?❞

"One thou shall not lay eyes upon." He is swift to snuff out Nevyrine's curiosity with a curt response. Such a day was unlikely to come to pass. The Lord of Rot was unsightly. In his own wicked gaze and the frightful gaze of others, the fear of unknowing. Thus he will remain the looming figure of mystery and renown draped in robes and jewels that pool 'pon the floor at his feet. Left as an deathly idol that shouldn't be unmasked, unhelmed.

Gently clawed finger tips close about her face, holding her gaze to stare into the dance of flames in his own. His tone softens, "Thou shall be left to wonder, Nevyrine. Doth my true image affect the manner in which you serve?"

[lordsrot]

@hellscourges has done not but answer to him. Time and time against showing her utter devotion to whatever cause he pursues. No matter how tame, wicked, nor bloody it would turn out to be. She fought viciously. Yet remained ever loyal. Agravaine admired such character. It was a rarity--- one he would cherish. He has shown his appreciation in varying manners. Physical touch, an uttering of praise beneath his breath, invaluable things such as gold and tokens. Though there was more he could do. So he did. Crafting a most exquisite piece.

"Nevyrine." The looming figure beckoned. Clawed fingers curling to call the warrior over to his side within his personal study. "I've something for thee."

It's wrapped in cloth. Small in his own large hands. There was little concealing what his gift was. And upon unraveling prickly stings and fabric would reveal a marvelous sword. Blade obsidian black, a deep crimson shine when the light hit it just right, as though it was forged of blood. The hilt and guard a pale gold, forged in a unique manner of design. Inlayed with precious stones from his lands. Much like the ones found in his own jews. "With this blade, thou can wield me."

[lordsrot]

@hellscourges ♡ ft samyria Send ♡ to see what my muse thinks of yours

●●●○○ | ATTRACTION ○○○○○ | AFFECTION ●●●○○ | INTEREST ●○○○○ | LOYALTY ●○○○○ | TRUST

LOW | ●●●●● | HIGH

[t4mpered]

@hellscourges says: how long has it been since you’ve slept ? | soft post house angst :( from ana

seconds. minutes. hours. days. it's hard to keep track of time when everything feels like a long blur. a brushstroke of paint dragged across an unending stretch of paper and it just keeps going despite the color disappearing, despite the image distorting, despite the purpose being lost. he feels scraped thin and hardly in the mood for any sort of conversation, but for ana, he tries. there's comfort to be found in the presence of someone who knows about all the unspoken weight and the heaviness in the air without it having to be explained. some days are better. the nights are usually worse.

five hours ago, he'd happened to doze off in his chair. that fitful sort of nap that couldn't possibly be restful anyway, but he'd never know because as soon as he drifted off, the nightmares started. they always start dark. the oozing sort of blackness the stretches out and swallows everything in its path. then the chime of bones. the screams. he hears voices. their friends voices. sometimes they're begging for help. sometimes they're just screaming. he can't ever find anyone in the dark.

they all die. sometimes the order changes, but they all die.

it's always the slam of a chainsaw down on his face that wakes him up.

they saved him for last.

he'd slept maybe forty-five minutes. a record in the last week.

"i dunno," he answers after a second, nails scratching idly through the scruff on his chin and cheek. he needs to clean up. that's a pretty good measure of time, he figures. "why, are my eye bags givin' me away?"

his question isn't sharp despite the obvious sarcasm. it sounds as worn out as he feels. danny's weight shifts as he plucks a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and fishes for a lighter in the jacket draped over his shoulders. a second is spent in the timeframe he lights up to his exhale where he watches ana carefully. "you don't gotta ask how i'm doin' if you wanna just dive in with tellin' me what's on your mind."

[t4mpered]

@hellscourges: starter call. ) danny knows when to pick his battles. he knows when the fight isn't worth the consequence in the end. a funny acknowledgment considering his history, but he's capable of holding his tongue. he just often chooses not to. it's been about five minutes, maybe more, give or take a few seconds, and ana's offered nothing but an exceedingly cold shoulder. it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why. arms folded casually in front of him, danny leans back in the seat he occupies.

he doesn't mind the silence, he could probably out last it and see how long they ended up in some sort of cold war. he could, but he opts to say something instead.

"you realize he's a big boy that can fight his own battles, right?" leland mckinney, he means. it only takes one wrong word and people get up in arms about this guy and maybe that's just a factor that makes him less palatable to gaines. "c'mon, flores. just let it out. tell me i'm an asshole so we can just move on here."