#icecreamnutshell

[pyrhass]

"Well now, tall, bronzed and beautiful. You look a little lost in this Fog, Darling. You also look rather pale, like you saw a...Monster." The girl gives a soft laugh, before eyes fall on the wounded arm. "Tut tut, look at that nasty wound. It would be ever so improper of me to allow that to go untreated Darling. Why don't you come alone and let me treat you."

What an awful feeling.

Truly she feels uneasy being around this person. Although she might prosper in height and her overall build is more athletic there is something about this girl that keeps her on alert. Perhaps it is the way she interacts with her, words so dulce, as if they were acquaintances in the past. Blarneying to earn trust,  to assimilate this act with both body language and speech. Cheap smiles would have worked on a younger huntress but not her. 

Past wounds have made her wary, more skepticals of others. 

Current wounds keep her at bay.

There is a chance that pyrrha is misjudging and that this stranger truly meant for kindness to follow through. Unfortunately Pyrrha has been burned before by someone whom she considered a comrade, she won’t allow that mistake to repeat a second time. 

“Thank you for your concern but I am well enough on my own.” Pyrrha grips above the site of her wound, doing so minimizes blood flow to the area. Less blood permeates her sleeve and she takes a step back. “I’ll take care of it.”

[pyrhass]

I L U

I LOVE YOU.   does your muse find ‘i love you’ easy or hard to say?

It is easier for her to express her love through actions rather than words. Speaking is difficult and she is often limited when it comes to saying what she feels. Either in fear that she’d say something wrong or it is taken the wrong way. It’s not so much the fear of rejection, but more or less her burdening the other person with her feelings.

LOVE.   who does your muse love?

Pyrrha has a lot of love to give. In fair essence, one could say that she loves nearly anyone whom she considers friends and or family. 

 UNREQUITED.   has your muse had their heart broken?

Yes, but this is something she did to herself. She held feelings for Jaune, and for a moment, thought she was in love with him, but it was only an infatuation. One in which she acted upon and forced upon him a kiss. Her own feelings convoluted, she was certain that she would not return from her fight with Cinder. It was a selfish act. She placed him in that predicament without asking for his consent, without even knowing how he felt, and then, she didn’t see him again after that. Her actions hang above her head like the cloudy skies. It’s all very vague, but either way, it wasn’t the right thing for her to do. Now looking back at it, she regrets it. It doesn’t matter if he loves her now, she doesn’t hold that same type of love towards him anymore. She grew out of her infatuation and focused on recovery.

[exfang]

@ice-cream-nutshell​ said : The sky was dark, and a deep fog seemed to lurk on the air. The streets of the city seemed all but empty. But Silence was broken at the sound of a woman calling for help up the road. Desperate screams, as if they were in trouble, being attacked in the dark fog. Gun shots were heard soon, and the sound continues, before fading. Someone was indeed in danger..

It was past curfew for Blake as she rushed down the narrow streets of Vale. She internally groaned, knowing how much trouble the monitors would give her for returning late to her dormitory. Ambered eyes were glued to the ground, silently admiring the reflection of the moon in in the small puddles gathered between the cracks of the cobblestoned ground. 

A cry for help, though, stole her attention as the faunus stopped in her tracks, ears beneath her bow twitching towards the cry’s direction. Blake gasped, hearing the gunshots echo down the alleyway. 

A moment later she was running towards the danger, Gambol already unsheathed. Heeled boots emitted a faint clacking as Blake edged nearer towards the corner.

[pyrhass]

It is a small cut white marble headstone. It sits in an empty field far outside the once known Kingdom of Vale. painstakingly carved by hand. The font is painted black to stand out. And a clearing is made in the long straw that stretches around for a few miles. One would never even see it till they stumbled upon it and smell the candles. The many flowers around the grave states the visitor comes often, and shows their love for the deceased. The stone reads. "In loving Memory: Roman Torchwick"

     In loving memory: Roman Torchwick.

She’s heard of him, though, she never has met him face to face. The things she’s heard were not pleasant. Rumors led her to believe that he is not a man of justice, but instead, a man of injustice. As team RWBY declares, he made his gamble with the wrong side and paid for it with his life. Death comes to collect from all those whom were indebted by him. Mr. Torchwick’s demise came early because of all that he’s taken. Many lives were lost during the Fall of Beacon, and he too played a part. 

He deserves this. 

She would not go as far as to defile his grave, that in itself would be an act to anger the gods. The dead are to be remembered, and in some cases, revered. But she will do no such thing to a man who does not deserve it. He no longer exists in this realm and for good reason. 

Emerald hues intake the color variations of the flora upon his grave site. They are not wilted, meaning that someone must visit him, still holds him dear to their hearts. “At least someone remembers you.” She whispers to no one. No one but a ghost. 

[pyrhass]

The sky was dark, and yet the stars seemed to to glitter high up, the air warm, making it a wonderful evening for a walk. And yet, one should always be weary of where they walk in the dark. A loud clatter heard, followed by several gunshots, and a man screaming for help down an darkened alleyway, before his voice turns into a horrific scream, ending in loud, messy squelches and splatters, as if the poor soul had been ripped to shreds. The wet feeding all that is heard now..

Under the streetlight she crouches, right above a growing multitude of weeds, and amongst them, a dazzling dandelion between the cracks of the cement. The brittling light dusting upon her golden plating. With index and thumb she pinches the stem. It is a rare sight to see this in city life, to have what cultivates in the soil rupture human made sediment. It is poetic in a way.  And her attention is so basic, that she finds herself drawn to poetry and pretty things. Thus explaining her current circumstance.

With her other hand she pinches the base, or at least, what piece is closest to the cement and plucks it from between the cracks. She then brings the frothy dandelion to her lips and pushes the air out. Her warmth exits her lungs and causes the bits to spread in a flurry of white, dancing away with the unseen particles of wind. With the scream the echoed distantly, the dandelion seemed to be carried at a faster pace still. 

As if the horror pushes it away from her. 

Whoever screamed is in need of help. She thinks she can pinpoint it to their presence being a couple of blocks away. The remaining stem falls from her hand and in turn she reaches for her shield. The maiden runs to a direction where the screaming leads her away from the light. The night envelops her as she walks into the alleyways.

What she finds is up to fate to decide.