#heroesprosper

[problemakers]

@heroesprosper the second cap and chief see each other in hope county pvp is engaged

[problamsolverarch]

          “ you got somethin’ t’ say, captain thudfuck ?   I mean, you’ve got first hand knowledge ‘bout these fuckin’ rabbits. ”   a fist is brought to his shoulder, knocking him firmly.   her piercing gaze is set on his own, brows raised  -  challenging.   despite the captain having chosen his side with the highwaymen, he’s yet to prove himself.   it could all be a ploy; mickey’s not dumb and lou’s certainly beyond cynical.   “ feel free t’ chime in, give us some useful information.   after all, we ain’t big fuckin’ fans’a silence around here. ”   /  @heroesprosper​  /  sc.

[panamastayed]

@heroesprosper––––––STARTER CALL ( accepting ! )

“YOU never cease to confuse, that much is certain.”

HE REMAINS vigilant, FOLLOWING after the chief for a moment, THE PICTURE of John he’d been offered by the chief still tucked carefully into his JACKET BREAST POCKET as he glances about their surroundings with a heavy sigh.

“What exactly do you expect to ascertain by venturing this far into dangerous territory? No doubt those surly little monsters will seeking you out.”

[iscariotsdeputy]

💬

[walriding]

@heroesprosper​

     There’s a vested interest in Chief that cannot be explained away by simple eldritch curiosity. He’s just another blip on a vast and nebulous radar -- even with his power, there shouldn’t be anything nearly so compelling about him. He might have been granted the gifts of a veritable god, but he’s still a human. 

     Therefore it’s the human side of the creature that finds himself looking after the boy. His story is a familiar one in a way Miles has almost forgotten about by now. But it wasn’t so long ago that he was in the same position. Possessed of something he couldn’t name, couldn’t define. Something granted to him that he never really asked for. And it was scary and life changing and it made him afraid, deep down to his core, to live with it. Worst of all he couldn’t save everyone, couldn’t protect even the measly list of people he cared about. People he loved. Chief lost someone, too. Someone important -- he’s felt the grief and heard the stories about Prosperity’s would-be savior dying at the hands of the Highwaymen. 

     Sympathy is strong. Empathy even more so. Perhaps the choice to appear, now, as more of a man than a monster is one based on stirring up a fright. Or maybe it’s something else. Chief has really only seen them as something inhuman, but the figure watching him now is far more tangible. Dark hair streaked with gray to match the beard. Impossibly tired eyes -- strange, dark eyes, with undefined gray-black irises. Hands shoved into pockets of a leather jacket, even though the missing fingers are no longer missing and there’s nothing to hide.

     He’s just seen Chief take down one of the Highwaymen, a homemade blade shattering through the glass of their helmet to lodge and twist in their skull. The violence doesn’t perturb him, the gore doesn’t make his stomach churn like it once might have. He just watches, waits. It’s when the boy straightens off, blood on his hands, that he speaks. There’s something still off in his voice, but there’s a level of inflection that’s usually entirely absent.

     “And you accuse us of mangling corpses.”

[thefcther-blog1]

Hope County never lacked for sun. Its warm rays often allowed him to work in the comfort of his homespun pants with little else. Hands and feet had grown calloused and hard through toiling on the land. Years of hardship, however, of constant sacrifice, had not hardened the heart of Joseph Seed. He’d become wary, certainly. One had to in order to survive in this world plagued by the Highwaymen. But he always found time and opportunity to praise God and cherish the sun, flower, and food on his table.

Having moved away from New Eden, entrusting them to the Judge’s careful guiding hand, Joseph now lived alone. A hermit, perhaps. It was safer for the others, he believed. Safer for himself, too. Anyone who drew too near to him always found themselves sacrificed. God had given him a gift in being able to see certain aspects of the future . . . but it had come at a great cost. 

Since he had told little of his new dwellings, whenever he had a visitor, Joseph was quite surprised. He was happy to host them, of course. After all, he needed social interaction just as any other human to feel entirely whole. So, when he heard the measured steps on the dirt as he knelt in his garden, his eyes lift curiously. 

Age has touched him. Wrinkles now set in his skin--no doubt made worse by his toiling under the sun. His body is thin from eating mostly vegetation rather than meat. But he is strong and his mind is clear. The face which approaches him is one he has not met . . .but one he knows.

“It’s you,” he murmurs, slowly sitting up on his knees. Joseph runs his intent gaze over his form. “The one I saw in my dream.” Purposes seizes his heart, though he is unsure of what part he plays--if he plays any at all. “What’s your name, my son?”

@heroesprosper

[illusiione]

“Well dang it sure is a good thing that I am thirty years of age. I just collect dads. No biggie.”

     Uh sorry my ‘fake father / mentor figure’ acting energy quota is just about used up right now. My fake kid has a train to catch though and then he’ll be out of my hair – try calling again after that!

/ @heroesprosper

[deputysaint]

      @heroesprosper  //  hey so who ordered the angry deacon

   deacon saint hasn’t been a very aggressive man in nearly thirty years. he hasn’t been angry in a way that was this raw in nearly twenty. but the fucking minute he hears about where chief was spending time, that piece of him that never really died, that little piece of  his much younger self, all anger and hurt and afraid of loss, rises to the surface.

   he’s concerned, and that’s where a lot of the anger comes from. exhausted fear that eats away at his sensibility. he’s tired of losing people to their own vices, he’s tired of people thinking that they’re immortal and pulling stupid shit. he’s just fucking tired of death touching everything and everyone around him.

   his hands are moving, angrily, this sharp movements that start to go into one explanation, one scolding and then quickly move into another. he’s not making any sense, and it’s not fair, and he knows all this and more, but shit he can’t think enough to get it together.

   when irwin asks a question, there’s a moment where that fragile thread of sanity he still has almost snaps, stretched too tight with worry and fear and red hot with anger, and he almost takes a step towards him, shoulders almost lurching forward as his foot lifts from the ground.

   and then chief snaps at him for him, vocalizes his annoyance and dismissal and he goes, and he breathes in deep, angrily, head turning, mask following the man as he goes to ensure he’s really gone.

   there’s no doubt in his mind that he could take irwin if he needed to. and there’s almost a piece of him that wants to. because something about his time with joseph had soothed his grief, but also given him something new and angry and far too protective, and more than just a little bit insane. almost like he had given deacon all his instability in return for his newfound peaceful demeanor.

   mouth working beneath his mask, deacon whips his head back around to look at chief, to really look at him and shit, he’s not sure which of them is more stupid in this moment.

   ( he knows it’s him, but that age old sin of pride won’t have him admitting it. )

   he takes a deep breath as he’s told to calm down, and even though he knows chief is playing dumb from the fucking look in his eye, he forces himself to cool off, tension rolling off of him as he shifts his shoulders and looks away, towards what he can see of the bombs destruction on the horizon.

   breathe, my child. joseph’s voice is in his head, and he pushes it away with a quick shake of his head. he will not allow his anger to be dismissed. not like this.

   a raspy noise is the only clue that he’s starting again, but this time the motions are calmer, timed well so he’s understood. 

   that place. he points to the makeshift pit the highwaymen have made, ignoring the sounds coming from it. forbidden. you will die if you go back there. that man is not to be trusted.