#inmemoratus

[woebringer-blog]

*Tosses url/Robin's url*

/ oh, let me tell you about this person right here man.

tori is probably one of the most talented writers that i’ve ever seen here in this community. i don’t even know how they can chug out such long and beautiful replies on both their wander and their robin blogs and still do that primarily. man i am blown every time i try to match it. their voice is so clear when you read it, like? the imagery is so clear in the replies tori makes and it’s such a beauty to behold.

and thank god tori’s so patient because i reply at the speed of molasses i’m always so sorry –

but let me gush about their m!robin for one sec because i think their robin is one of the first fe:a blogs that i’ve ever followed. (i think it was around when i just started pyrrha’s blog idk exactly but it was a long while ago) i love tori’s robin, the snarky bastard. he’s so rough around the edges but he has that reliable quality that the avatar’s known to have in the actual story. tori has these unique ideas and qualities going on with robin that makes him unique from the other mu’s out there, and he’s so fun to watch because of it. like we’ve had one thread that’s been going on forever but i always look forward to it because it’s so fun! and it also helps that robin is so dynamic in it i’m trying to keep up here.

basically without getting too mushy and incoherent tori is gr8 and their robin and wander are gr8 10/10 would recommend both

send a url for a positivity meme!

[aestuavis]

▸ inmemoratus​ liked this post for a starter with Yuki

|| 雪 || :: A GROWL, one resembled the canine that she is erupted from her throat after she took down the monster raging at her. It didn’t look anything like human, and the fox was left on guards as to where she found herself in. The sounds of footsteps and her sense alerted her of another presence. Upon her head turning back, her FANGS bared at the stranger. White hair caught her off-guard, for it was the same color as her mother, though her caution towards the person was clear. What is with this overwhelming power?

                           “D-Don’t-- come near me !! Who are you !?”

[petaleisms-blog]

( ✿ ) ;: inmemoratus

     “Robin? Are you done with all those books? I have some more you might be interested in if you have a minute.” Their styles did not always match, in fact they often seemed to clash, but Sumia took it in stride. It was joyous to have someone who shared such a passion for reading as she did, no matter their differences. She attempted to tailor her recommendations to suit Robin’s preferences though she remained genuine in offering things she might find interesting herself so they could converse and grow closer. 

     “The last town we stopped in was having an incredible sale so I budgeted myself and bought a few new things we could share.”

[anamnesxs-blog]

♛ Confident

[Haha, this is a tough one!

I’ve always pictured Voldo as a character that’s more bark than bite. He’ll put on a brave face and endure the worst situations for his master’s sake, but in truth, he’s somewhat of a pessimist and a coward: timid, despondent, and superstitious.

In battle, he loses momentum very quickly, and he will flee at the first sign of trouble. He only perseveres because of his love for his master, though after the man’s death, that “confidence” has been steadily waning. 

Now, Voldo pretty much knows that he’s stuck in a hopeless situation, and the only time when he is truly confident in himself is when he is absolutely certain that he can succeed (ex. in a fight against ordinary thieves that invade his master’s Money Pit.) Otherwise, he’ll always have a little voice in he back of his head saying: “you’re not good enough; you’re going to die.”

If he ever finds himself trapped in an inescapable situation, he finds some comfort in reminding himself that everything he does is for Master Vercci. While his master’s memory doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in him, it does give him faith, and it forces him to try his best, no matter how bleak the situation appears. 

For a character like Voldo, that’s the closest to confident he’ll ever get.]

[anamnesxs-blog]

inmemoratus

It was a simple job, truly: moving a rather unremarkable weapon shipment through Ylisse's winding mountain trails. And yet, his master had requested extra troops to guard their caravan, as if Voldo alone was incapable to defending it. His temper flared beneath his usual calm and stoic mask. Every so often, he would cast a forlorn glance at his master, the venerable "Merchant of Death," who sat across from him in the carriage. Throughout their entire trip, Vercci had poured over his books and scribbled in his records, completely absorbed by his work. Either the man was oblivious to Voldo's irritation or, perhaps more likely, he simply didn't care. After all, Voldo was the servant and Vercci was the master; the former's complaints meant little in the long run. 

As the caravan pulled over for a quick break, Voldo exited the carriage and stood silently, like a guard dog, in front of the door. Nobody would move past him: not any foolish bandits, nor curious townspeople, nor the rather untrustworthy mercenaries that his master deigned to hire. Though his expression remained relatively neutral, he glared daggers at the men. If looks could kill, they would have been torn to ribbons for the hundredth time that afternoon. Without a word, he strengthened his grip on his twin katars, Manas & Ayus; the sheer effort of it all drained the blood from his knuckles, turning them stark white. Those men, selling their swords for nothing but a handful of coin, were no better than whores, wandering through the red light district. In the end, what were they doing but selling their bodies to the highest bidder? Absolutely pathetic.

Voldo didn't bother to repress the look of sheer disgust that cracked his expressionless mask. No honor, no loyalty, no pride- those mercenaries deserved nothing short of a death sentence. How dare they serve his master- his master- on a mere whim? None of them actually cared for Vercci, he was sure of that. Perhaps they would sell him out for just one more bag of gold. Voldo slid his blades against each other as he glanced over each and every man, one by one. The man closest to him, a white haired cretin, became the latest target of his scorn. Apparently, he was one of the best- a war hero, or so the rumors told. It was all inconsequential. The only man Voldo took interest in sat safe and sound, nestled in the carriage behind him.

"...Betray my master, and you will regret it." His voice never rose about a quiet mumble, and perhaps the boy didn't hear. Either way, it hardly mattered. Voldo had already made his opinions known to whatever gods were watching.

[woebringer-blog]

/Yeah she is!

She's precious in any age but Child!Pyrrha is especially precious

[woebringer-blog]

— 〆 for a childhood story

Send me a 〆 for a childhood story

Her new family was a family of potters.

There were many bowls and vases that filled the cupboards and drawers. Each morning, her new father rounded up the complete set of ceramics in his wagon and went to the neighboring towns to sell their work. And he would return home at dusk. The mother was always cleaning up the area so that there wouldn't be any wet clay at the dinner table, but otherwise, she would be tending to her garden at the back of the house. If she grew an abundance of fruit and vegetables, she would then ask her husband to take the spares that she couldn't preserve to the market so that they wouldn't be There was only one other person that Pyrrha could remotely call a 'sibling figure', and he was already a man grown. He was the one that was a painter, and was often at his studio in the main town. He was rarely home.

Pyrrha herself was nine years old. And she had already had been passed around from family to family at that point. She had missed her home by the riverside with the old couple dearly, which by the length of three years was her longest stay by far. Already she was feeling the sting of grief, and compared to them, this family felt... distant to her. But there were some things that made her smile. The arts were a beautiful thing to behold, and since she was surrounded by beautiful vases and pots, maybe she should try her hand at it.

She took up space at a clear spot, small pieces of clay in hand. She decided to make her first clay piece by hand, since making things by the wheel confused her greatly. Carefully, she broke apart the small pieces and stuck them together in different spots. Already, her hands were greasy by the touch, so she dabbed her hands in water on occasion. That made her clay even more slippery by comparison. The cycle continued to a point where she made a lopsided cup. Her hands were gray with the clay and wet with both the clay and the water. It was a mess.

The mother, who entered the house after tending to her garden, noticed the mess from the trail of wet clay leading to the little girl in the corner. Looking down, she noticed that she made... something.

"What is that supposed to be?" she asked her.

"...a teacup." Pyrrha answered.

[warmonk]

inmemoratus

     The air that night is heavy. The march is listless, reluctant but unavoidable.The troops cannot stay there; they will not stay there. Anguish is known in every movement, in tandem with the pang of the fatigue that follows battle. Libra's own legs have numbed themselves. When they stop at some point along the countryside, the preparations for camp are carried out without joy. Though they may be grateful for the reprieve, they cannot escape the repercussions of their last mission.

                     The Exalt Emmeryn is dead.

     An insurmountable disbelief threatens to render Libra immobile as he wanders among the other troops, lending his aid wherever necessary. His knuckles are white as he grips his staff; his arms protest at the weight of his ax. His thoughts reduced to nothing more than inarticulate despair and fearful thoughts, he shoves them away to be faced at a later time. Leaden limbs and careful countenance instead carry him.

     In that moment, purposeless and numb, he approaches another man -- their tactician, he thinks -- for once not immediately attending to the concerns of another. It occurs to Libra that he could be making a nuisance of himself, but to speak with someone was more important than decorum.

     "Robin--?"