#magushunter

[phantomlakes]

Application for Emiya Kiritsugu from the Fate/ franchise. Will probably be working on the abilities+items sections over the next few days. Maybe.

Welcome to Phantom Lakes, Kiritsugu!

- Mod Osprey

[fonrainherutsu]

Love-lies-bleeding: Has your character ever done something even though they didn’t want to?

          //To gain better information on the amount of the Elder Thirteen, a group of upper-class Blood Breeds known to be far more dangerous, Libra had to use Leonardo’s All-Seeing Eyes of the Gods to see these Blood Breeds in a dangerous location. Klaus was of course worried for Leonardo’s eyes and safety in general. But if this info was to protect their city and their whole world, it needed to be done. Sacrifices must be made as head of an organization.

[fonrainherutsu]

💛

💛- A memory that makes them feel angry

“William Macbeth. What have you done with him?”

Amongst all the scattered hovering rubble, a rather large boulder flies right for Klaus. Once making contact, the dust reveals him with a rather bright cross shielding him from the rubble, his right hand having brought the cross behind him, just over his shoulder. After the cross dissipates, things start to go silent again as he’s towering just above a blonde young man sitting on the ground, shrouded in a blue overcoat and hair slicked messily back. Yet the eyes of this boy do not belong to him: piercing red, lined with white light, emitting a dastardly energy.

This is the King of Despair.

“Heroes like you always rush in to save the day... But you’re never as prepared as you thought you were. It kind of makes me think of that old movie, the one about the kid plagued with psychic powers? You know, The Shining. Spoiler alert if you haven’t seen it, but it doesn’t exactly go well for the hero.”

The fingers upon the boulder twitch. His head lifts to stare directly at the god. Anger wells up inside of him, a true burning sensation he rarely lets himself feel. Ever so slowly, taking a lot of effort and even grunting on his part, Klaus’s hand leaves the surface of the rock behind him, and instead reaches for the blonde. Fingers easing around his neck, the chief picks up the other off of the ground, holding him above with his digits applying pressure against his throat.

Yet, all the while, the King of Despair watches with a sickening grin. His voice is raspy as he’s being strangled, wincing with one eye closed as he looks at Klaus without fear.

“What... you don’t like games, hero? Well too bad... The challenge is you have to protect me from myself...”

As the enemy’s head tilts down more, both eyes widen as his grin strains sickeningly so.

“Good thing you’ve got a surplus of hope...”

[fonrainherutsu]

♜ - A time when my muse felt weak.

          //In fighting his greatest foe so far, the King of Despair, Klaus was quick to be defeated. But it was not his loss that made him feel weak. The King of Despair’s host body was an innocent young man of whom Klaus could not harm, on account of knowing him and being Leonardo’s friend. He knew that this boy’s sacrifice could save the whole city, yet he could not bring himself to end him when he had the chance. Killing an innocent is something he seems to be incapable of.

[thebostondevilatgeocitiesdo-blog]

Oak leaves: Describe a victory your character is proud of. // Umbrella sage: Where does your character consider home?

Oak leaves: Describe a victory your character is proud of.

Here they were again. 

She had found her way back in his dorm, one more time perched on the windowsill, very much like a cat, and not at all like a study addled college kid. Tony, in his ratty old Nirvana t-shirt and pajamas, very much a study addled college kid, not at all a living ‘fuck you’ to physics, came to an important realization as he saw her — Melissa just wasn’t very good at this whole ‘keeping a secret’ thing.

They must have skipped that part of the brainwashing that year. Budget cuts? Tsk, tsk.

Not trying to kill him this time, at least. Thank Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, she’d stopped pouncing through the window weeks ago. ‘Wasn’t worth it’, she told him, ‘Total waste of her time.’

And yet, here she was. On his windowsill. Wasting her time. 

He looked at her.

She looked at him. 

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

Christ, didn’t they teach hunters how to hold a damn conversation? Or did they cut that part out too? With a heavy sigh, Tony raised his hands, helplessly. “…What, y’need a cup of sugar? Bowl of milk, maybe?”

Melissa didn’t utter a word — but her face twisted, a fissure of pain, cracked across her stone cold stare.

He almost couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Scared, if he was honest, of what happened next.

But she needed him.

Cautiously, Tony dropped his hands and stepped a little closer, his voice softer, a little less cynical —a little less trying. “…What?”

Melissa looked down, frowning at the floor, then slumped to the floor, legs firsg a very human moment. From down there, her voice was so quiet, so weak, even he had to strain to listen. 

“…You’re right. You were always right. They’re lying.”

And then he heard something he’d never thought he’d hear from a trained killer.

He heard her sniffle.

He dropped down to the floor with her without a second thought.  

“Hey, hey, c’mere, it’ll be alright, okay? It’s gonna be alright.”

[thebostondevilatgeocitiesdo-blog]

♚ - Something that makes my muse feel unimportant.

Seven dead. Seven dead, that he knew. How many more had been left face down in the gutter, no wounds, no trace of blood, one second alive, walking across the street, maybe getting a donut from the bakery next door, the next —gone. 

How many?

More than seven, he felt that, deep down in his gut. In Boston alone, more than seven. That’s why the department wanted her, wasn’t it? Discretion. The most discreet marshal in the entire state of Alaska. 

He’d never know. She could keep secrets to her grave — isn’t that what he always teased her with?

They could never explain it, Kippman explained. People die all the time of unknown causes. Heart attacks, stress, anuyerisms, any number of fatal diseases. Not murder. The only way they could be murders would be… an act of God. 

There was no case.

As for her, she was a persona non grata, a ghost, a shadow. She certainly made it easy, didn’t she?

If he couldn’t keep that secret, carry that burden, the door was always open. The badge was a responsibility, not an obligation. Kippman wouldn’t blame him. 

The rest took bets. They all knew he’d crack some day. Delusional fuck. Seeing murders in heart attacks. Must’ve cheated the psych eval.

Seven families. Seven families who knew it was murder — knew there was more that one way to skin a cat. He had the resolve to at least tell them the truth. He could do that much now.

They wept in his arms. They wept because they knew, somewhere, she’d do it again. Someone else would have a son, a sister, a wife, a friend taken away from them, face down in the gutter, killed by an act of God — an act of judgement.

He wept, too. 

He could do it. He could go after her now. Nothing was stopping him now. No more burdens, now. 

He…

[compassiontouched]

♖ - A time when my muse survived something.

Look at me.

A knife that glints in the dark, curved blade, old steel. So sharp. A way out. An escape, he thinks, no– he knows. He can save them. He can help.

See me.

She gasps, mouth agape, eyes wide. Pulsing, bright, red hot; a spot between the ribs, he doesn’t know how to make it quick yet, but he tries, he tries. He holds her hand. Holds her gaze. He wants her to be free but not yet. Not yet. She can see. He holds his breath, twisting. Twisting. Another puncture. The blood’s on his hands.

Please.

Are the words his? Hers? He can’t tell; does it matter? whispers something in the back of his head, a voice he’d rather be quiet, a voice he’d rather didn’t exist. She’s slipping. Light extinguishing. Flames that flicker. Not yet, he pleads, wordlessly. Not yet. His grip stronger, white-knuckled as he holds her hand. She thanks him, with the last of her left, the last of the little flame snuffed out with the two words.

Not yet, please–

A frightening memory. The revelations that came with time, with realizations, with conversations about who– about what he was. Compassion that nearly turned to Despair. The line, so, so thin. So fine. Spirit, demon; he didn’t know the difference back then, how easily he could’ve become… something else. Something that craved the pain, the hurt; not to heal it, but to perpetuate it--But he survived. He’d never go back. He’d never slip again.

[compassiontouched]

@magushunter

For the past few days, Cole had been struggling. Not for his life. Nor for some great freedom, for some ultimate purpose, like he had back at home. No, here he'd simply been struggling to get the smell right.

He knew what tobacco was. He'd overheard countless conversations, real and imagined, playful and stressed, about the flavor; the taste; the addiction. It calmed them down, though they came to need it, crave it,-- Cole didn't like that part, but he understood. That was just the way of things sometimes-- and this particular man seemed no different. He knew what it was. But he didn't know how to get the smell right.

For the past few days, Cole had been littering cups of coffee around the hotel. Always in pairs, always in white mugs; along with can he could only presume were different types of tobacco. Cigarettes. It was hard to tell them apart from each other, but some were bitterer. Some, fresher. None were right, though.

Still. He felt no real difference in the man's disposition-- the man he'd been trying to offer some sense of comfort. Some sense of home. So many had been displaced, misplaced, himself included; and yet this /one/ man seemed to have wounds that ran... deeper. Scars in his heart, this wasn't the first time, nor the second; ripped from his home, again and again and again. He thought with each time it would get easier, but it never did.

... So Cole resorted to putting his offering of sorts outside the man's door. Four mugs of coffee, two and two. The spirit sat crouched just outside, his back against the opposite wall in the narrow hallway, fumbling for the matches in one of his pockets. This time, he was sure he had it right-- at least, he hoped so. They smelt bittersweet, even before he'd lit them, and the smell only grew; unmistakably the stench of tobacco. Again, not right. But, closer? Gingerly, he put two of them in the ashtray propped up against the back of the mugs, and.

Waited. The man was bound to wake up soon, though the sun was still down, and far from rising.