#thronelessking

[crimsontroupe]

you are just gonna scroll by... without saying... yeehaw...

[aaternum]

❝ belonging is the very best thing there is. ❞ - from aislin!

Ryu coils her arms around the logs she’d gathered for fire, pressing them tight to her chest as she walks back over to the tree they’d marked as an improvised campsite. The wood tumbles unceremoniously from her hands and onto the clearing. While an inn’s warmth would be far more ideal, the fleeting hours of daylight was a race against time towards the nearest town. A recipe for trouble after an already extended day of travel. Opting for a night beneath the stars seemed a reasonable alternative, the skies were clear and it wasn’t terribly cold. Nothing a cozy fire couldn’t remedy. And as she worked alongside Aislin to make things as comfortable as possible, she’d found comfort in Aislin’s company and words.. Really, she had spent a good amount of time spewing up every thought that crossed her head unsystematically. But his words give her pause, crouched with the flint in her palm. 

“   It is, huh? People do a lot of crazy things just to feel like they belong. I know I have. ”

A lopsided grin curves at her lips as she presses the stone into his hand, shrugging sheepishly as she gathers the tinder, a few scraps of cloth, to catch the fire. “  I mean, if I had somewhere else to belong, I don’t think I’d be out in the woodlands .” She laughs tenderly, “ Or maybe I would. Maybe this is where I belong. Maybe we’re just .. two people who belong with all the others who didn’t belong somewhere else. ” With a thoughtful hum, she scrunches her nose, handing him one of the fragments. " ...`Least until we find another place to make a home of. 'Till then you're kinda stuck with me. " Another toothy beam lifts her features, teasing lilt to her tone.

@thronelessking

[laplacemail]

How has Violette adjusted to being a Hellknight? How did he manage the training? What are his feelings on being selected for the position of Lictor? And just for fun, when do you think he took his exam/what level was he and who/what devil do you think he fought?

Ok I will answer these in no specific answer. We both know that the minimum level for the Hellknight Test if at 5. We also both know that you just fight that thing to the death. I feel like Violette while Eager to start the moment he could - by following on Octavio's footsteps - waited a little bit. So of course, he outgrew the regular devils that are summoned. So what is around level 7--- Levalochs.

Which I personally feel is a fun comparison to Violette himself. The personification of discipline and obedience, but ruthless pursuit of these ends due to being part automaton. Violette as a Hellknight has always been ruthless and relentless in his missions, especially when he has found someone to point that towards. It is less about feeling righteous about what he does and more -- to him, that is everything. He does not let emotion come and muddle his feelings, but there is definitely some extent of 'I am doing this to cope with so many of my unresolved issues and putting it all in a box and shoving it away as I should do does not work for me'.

He did not get special treatment in any way, training with other armigers most of the time. The difference is that when you are young and a bit reckless and discipline has not been entirely beaten into you, you are obviously going to challenge your superiors to sparring matches. And you are going to get your ass kicked. And when you are young you do not see that as 'well, I should probably get to their level first'. You take that as a challenge. Violette has fought Octavio more times than he could count or probably recall, and with each battle he made sure that he left it learning something new. He's really good at tracking people down and making sure that his prey does not escape him. Which. Funnily enough, makes him a perfect fit for the Torrent.

Initially the 'adjusting' was really "I have no other choice", but he is now fiercely protective of his job and his men. You could definitely point at his feelings about the organization as a whole (and he will respectfully not say a peep about Cheliax because. uh. Yeah! MOVING ON), though he has individuals he trusts within different Orders. His allegiance is definitely more to the Torrent than the entire Organization---

--- which is so funny when you consider what happens/happened huh! That he had to reluctantly accept and understand that he might lead them, not through his own strength and eventually rising to the position of Lictor - which I feel like they all know he is well on his way to, and does not accept it because he feels Octavio is a better fit - but due to betrayal and corruption. And that he has to stay away from all of it, because logic dictates he would be the next person to get pointed at and executed. His feelings are: I would be cool with it normally but everything here sucks and I hate it. Glad this gets resolved in a way that is not disastrous for both sides. He still has some room to become more mature and have his head more in a leading position. So I feel that eventually he will Accept who and what he should eventually become, without losing his humanity in the process. Mostly because his friends will not allow him that.

Also I hate devils fuck this thing in particular to be honest. Good job Violette, no clue how you did it because I would just start trying to bite this thing. Thumbs up

[crimsontroupe]

@thronelessking in response to this [x]

At the back of his mind, a sense of euphoria: a sense of dread and a blanket of longing. For what, the nobleman cannot tell. But he understands that euphoria: it is the thrill of the hunt, it is the knowledge that he is being watched. When younger, Cornelius reveled in it. Thievery is simply one of the many means to an end, and after some time the soul dulls. The blade is sharp, but there is no tug. Nothing.

And then elation. Ecstasy. A brief respite in the void. The shapeless take form for only a split second, and that is when the sharp edge of a dagger makes contact with skin. All of it comes swirling back, typhoon of malice. Nowadays his steps are measured, the strings are pulled meticulously. The curtain pulled enough that things fall where he wants them to fall. A large hand obscures it, the shifting of pawns into place.

"You have made yourself known, and you have made yourself clear." It is acceptance.

It is reverence. It is madness, it is everything and it is nothing. It is the greed, the way a parched man will dirty his own clothes for the idea of clean water. But his shell shows nothing. Nothing of the static, the jolt of electricity running through his veins.

Ah, worship is still the same as it has always been. And worship is now much more private, it is something Cornelius can almost touch. He could, if he wanted. He lifts the cup and lets the warm liquid touch his lips - watches silently as delicate hibiscus almost taints impeccable skin. For a moment. Unblinking.

Not the gaze of a nobleman who lets not a thing slip through him, but a predator stalking prey. So close he could sink his teeth in. And perhaps He would not mind. Perhaps They would not mind. Starved and hollow, hollow, hollow.

What is it that he wants?

Is a reward necessary? Is worship a reward in itself? Is acknowledgement a reward?

'No', a small voice inside him calls out. 'It will never be enough', he agrees with himself. A man who is never satisfied, a man with no soul and no shape. A shapeshifting receptacle, every day something new. His eyes narrow, and he does not give his answer. Cornelius Wesker finishes his tea as if the request was as simple as crossing the streets of the Gilded City and acquiring the most mundane items on the markets. An infinitesimally small request.

'It will appease me' is enough. For now. But he will come back with demands, he will come back with ravenous hunger and unhinged maw. And he will swallow this country whole. He will set it all on fire, his God needs simply ask. It is a twisted sort of love, but he will have it no other way. Cornelius ends the conversation as abruptly as it started, moving like a man possessed. Like a man under the effects of enchantment magic, yet he moves willingly.

Important men are used to keeping other important men close. And while their deaths would suffice - and it would fulfill what is requested of him - Cornelius needs to go deeper. To a time where filth and blood were permanently under his nails, where coin spoke louder and above all things. He exits soundlessly and enters without notice, his face now covered in the flesh of another. It twists and warps his face, it is something hideous to the point it goes over neat blonde hair.

An old haunting ground, a savior and a friend. You do not sell out fellow guildmates, but they are aware of treachery. Aware that one bleeds into four, and the bloodletting will eventually turn into one above all. The soft chime of the door opening, but nothing goes through it. A ghost, a haunt. Deathly apparition, Cornelius can almost smell blood. The small shop that acts as a front for something sinister, rogues that he grew up with. His mark is the only one taking care of the shop today, one of the oldest ones. A strange man that took the blond child as his small brother. Cornelius never felt the same, or understood it. He understood the reservations this man had even less when he left the tutelage of the cult, when stealing was not enough.

How worthless it is, then. The specter of the past nicks his face, almost tears the horrendous flesh mask that Cornelius dons on his face off. He acts quicker - Cornelius always did - and sinks both blades into throat. A pleased smile as in their last moments, his victim understands who came for his life. Who took it. Electricity courses through his veins, and he knows his time is now ticking down quickly.

He sets to work. Gruesome, grueling work. The precision of a well-practiced doctor, he strips this man of his clothing. His belongings, he neatly folds and sets them on the ground. There is something better here. The skin. Dark robes are stained with red, as his nails dig into flesh and peel it off unceremoniously.

"To my God", the dried blood reads out "from my brother, his soul." Above it, the most gruesome altar. The skin is stretched out with hooks Cornelius brought in a small bag, painting a scene disturbed born out of love. Not desperation, but adoration. Idolization.

"This I offer you," the blood text continues "An offering overdue. To the greedy, to the Father. To you, my brother. To you, everything."

As a sentimental token, he leaves the knife on the desecrated corpse. Cornelius knows who will come retrieve it, his worship a request more than necessity. That dagger will return to him in a different way, he knows and accepts. Into the shadows the fleshwarp melts once more, leaving no trace of his visit but the crime scene. His fellow men will understand and say nothing.

His fellow men at least understand the meaning of a direct request.

When he returns to the manor, Cornelius' impeccable black shoes have acquired a curious tinge of red. Crimson, blood red. The only hint he leaves behind, the only trophy he takes home. What to ask of a man who desires nothing, what to ask of a man who wants it all?

[crimsontroupe]

[crimsontroupe]

❝ life is a lot more fragile than we think. ❞ @thronelessking

They do not reply, busy hands and busy mind. At least not at first. Dirt digs under nails, and they continue to dig. Wordlessly, not because words are meaningless but because his mind is occupied. Okishur should know: small prayers to the Mother, a safe ride of passage. Xartsa'aga digs, armor uncomfortable as he kneels and sinks slightly into soil.

Carefully and gently he holds what he is burying with his left hand. A sparrow, small and malnourished. It probably fell from its nest, and it could not fend off for itself. Aeron takes his time digging a hole deep enough that the animal can be buried properly. It will not call the tempest raging in his heart, but it gives him time to think. Gives them time to think, their thoughts so divided and united.

"Should we not strive harder to protect what we can, then?" Comes their reply. Unwavering, as always. The strongest sword, the strongest shield, cracking at the edges and yet refusing to yield. "You two, who know about the fragility of life perhaps better than anyone."

The dead girl and the one who decides to drive the body forward. The stubborn soul and the opportunist. Aeron drags dirt back, covering the animal. Never once they take their eyes away from it, knowing Okishur would stay by their side until the end. "Should we not cry more? Because life is so fragile, because it ends and it comes back. But right now, they are dead.

And we cannot do anything about it." Xartsa'aga does not clarify who is talking about exactly. And they leave it at that. "As much as we wish we could. Because everything is so fragile, we had hoped that at least the things we set out to watch over... could be kept safe."

Death and rebirth, night and day. The gentle blanket of the stars hiding a beautiful dawn, the morning sun. The Moon cries so the Sun can continue walking forward. They close their eyes tightly and shake their head. Shakes thoughts away, the building anger and resentment that leads nowhere.

Right now these feelings do not help. Right now, he is focused on patting the dirt down. Tightly, safely. Another prayer. Another one. Another.

Never once a reply. But unlike what seems a lifetime ago, they do not expect any. But they pray just the same. Connected is better than disconnected.

"Do you think us a fool for it? You are still deciding to walk the same path, together with us. With not just me, but the rest of us. Would you - both or either of you - have done things differently? Life is fragile, and so are we. But I want to do better. I cannot turn back, but I -- but we... can keep doing what we have always done."

Burying with his own hands things. People. Animals. The stray sparrow and the strongest men and women they have ever met. This way he remembers, this way he honors them. If it is at the cost of his selves, Xartsa'aga just smiles at the idea. Smiles at his companion, always following him close.

"It might be fragile, but we are glad you are here. Sisters from a tribe not mine. Sisters from a tribe that is now mine."

[crimsontroupe]

❝ i had begun to fear for you. did you meet with trouble? ❞ - @thronelessking

"...Not anything that I did not expect." Equinox brushes off his wounds and the blood that runs through his arms and drips from the tips of his fingers, tainting pure green soil. His greatsword is also tainted, which he takes to tending before himself. They will close, and they will heal.

No matter how many times he was sent to certain death... he always came back. Stronger, more resilient. Bitter. Questioning things about himself, about his beliefs. So his weapon gets priority, knowing this was nothing. He will heal. He will return. He always does. Always, always does. Even when he wished he did not. "I'm fine. I just got rid of a couple of annoyances."

Easier to put it like that, this way he does not humanize monsters. Does not humanize the dead. He shoots the cleric a quick glance, almost curious. A weird feeling tugs at his heart. "Were you worried about me?"

Why would he? A walking corpse that refuses to die. A broken man, abandoned by faith. And here this man was, blessed. The way Equinox can see sometimes, long fingers wrapping around Arlas in an almost protective way. The black roses. And for some reason, that not fills him with rage.

... It is almost soothing. Weirdly so.

"I can fend off for myself, it will not be the first time." But it would be the first time somebody actually paid any attention to it. This he does not say. Instead, he turns his full attention to Arlas. "... And I have a feeling I have not seen you pull off all the tricks in your sleeve to ensure your own survival in times of trouble, either."

[crimsontroupe]

@thronelessking this was from a meme but whatever it's a starter now deal with it.

It watches many things at once: the closed-off space it calls home, the occasional coming and going of figures it cannot bother to remember their names. The creature moves, but it does not feel the need to talk. Nobody replies, so it decides to keep to itself. Reading books, a room that it claimed for itself.

This is not the first time the creature observes the woman leaving not their father's chambers, but the set of doors it is not allowed in. "Why do you keep returning?", it asks. Eyes finally abandoning the book it was so focused on: something stolen from the library, stolen from someplace else. The woman does not shine like the sun - something it learned from less academic books ripped and torn it would find on the outskirts of the town. Terrifying as the night, she was. Powerful.

Even a creature with no name can understand this much. This is the second time it reaches out; it cannot quite remember the first. She said something important. The vessel does not recall, the doll performs its task.

"What is offered to you?" Another question. It lacks any manners, because it does not need to learn. Behind her, a tall figure with sky-blue hair walks towards the opposite door. It is not him. It is something else. It pays no mind to it, and it also ignores the creature altogether. "Did you write this book?" Another sudden question. They lift the book they have been reading until now. It lacks an author, but whoever it was had careful and impeccable calligraphy.