#warphotoss

[devourcr]

"What...did you just do to that man..?"

armand looks up, the distance in his gaze quickly retracting back to the moment, focusing in on stefano, eyes meeting his. he breathes a sound, too close to a laugh, nothing like a vampire caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

white teeth flash in a warm, reassuring smile and he steps forward to clasp a hand on the other's shoulder.

❝ don't worry about him, he'll be fine. ❞

[hostiae]

( @warphotoss asked: "Ah.. an audience? Such an honor.." [wesker] )

the village had drawn wesker's attention for some time. it seemed for the better portion of the last decade, he'd been able to stay in the shadow, to persist as he had before, a puppet master, a powerful player that most had thought died in kijuju. perhaps it was his own curiosity, for the black god, that brought him finally to the village. the idea that it's the programmed connection to oswell spencer still haunting his mind would have set his teeth on edge. leaving the pathetic god in a pool of his own blood hadn't been enough to sever the connection or soothe wesker's rage.

he'd thought his presence near undetectable as he explored the lord's home. each one seemed to favor an aesthetic and while wesker can appreciate the extravagance of victorian decor, he's more interested in the sculptures. he'd ducked in at just the right moment, enough to see the artist at work.

what he doesn't expect is to be addressed.

pride doesn't allow him to make a quick escape or to deny his presence. fear isn't what made him trespass in quiet. he'd simply collect more data in secrecy, without interference. so much for that plan. as with all plans, there are always fallbacks. he steps forward, stride confident, eyes watching behind dark lenses.

❝ i suppose you don't receive many guests. ❞

[hallucineugenics-a]

@warphotoss​ sent: ❀

Put A  ❀ In My Inbox And I’ll Give Your Muse An Unpleasant Trip From Donna’s Garden // Accepting!

Pristine loafers trudged through slushy undergrowth, tracing a peculiar art piece that had caught the photographer’s eye. Dolls, exquisite in the craft, hanged from twine from the overarching branches above the winter path. Though they were speckled with a dusting of snow, they lacked the crusting of dirt to show that they were neglected on this lonely path. Someone, or perhaps, something, had been tending to their flock.

Stefano snapped a picture with practiced ease and could not help but slink his way deeper into Beneviento territory. Trees yawned with the groans of their ancient wood and stooped over like old men, leaves long shrivelled by autumn chills. Their twigs fingerlike in their reaching for the earth. Stefano could appreciate the stark beauty of their hibernation and crouched to snap more pictures of the twisted foliage. A sickly floral fragrance brushed against his nose as he swivelled to take another picture, a sudden flash of light to his right making the photographer stumble to one knee. He cursed under his breath, lamenting the darkening grass stain that marred his suit.

Cautiously, Stefano rose and brought his camera slowly to the right, wielding it like a weapon, and click. FLASH. The mirrored ping of light near blinded his good eye. He grunted and brought his arm up, expecting a stab of pain that never came. Something was in these decrepit woods. It was hunting him. Involuntary panic tightened at his throat and he rose to his feet and braced against a fallen log. Great explosions in the distance boomed with artillery force. BANG. BANG. BANG. Birds whose song never touched his ears fled from toppling trees. The smell was spent shells. The taste was blood drenched mud. The sight was flash, flash, flash of muzzles exploding with deadly efficiency. This was impossible. He was in peaceful rural Romania. Not. Not a warzone. 

Stefano was screaming now though the high pitched whine in his ears dimmed all sound to ringing. Biting. Scratching. Clawing. Anything to stop it. Anything to get away. An explosion mere yards away buried him beneath an avalanche of mud and snow. 

His pounding heart slowed as he could only assume the cold embrace of death was taking him. The singular eye rolled into half lidded unconsciousness. Stefano could never have noticed the twin shuffling of feet as a figure leaned over his prone form. Hm. Curious. The intruder would be dragged back to the Beneviento estate for examination. If only to turn his clothing into future reference for sewing patterns. 

[shireentheunburnt]

Painting her face was a challenge. The unique texture and features she held was different from anything he had painted. And it was a gorgeous thing to him. "Tell me young one. How is it that I got so lucky to capture your beauty on canvas, mm?" He asked. His hair hiding his eye as he occasionally looked back over to her. Translating her image onto the canvas perfectly. A sharp smile crossing the noble painter's lips as he spoke in a unique accent.

Sitting still, rather confused even now as to her mother's thinking in regards to this. Was Selyse... doing this to reassure her? It was strange to not see shame in her mother's eyes for her when the girl looked into them, and she wished she could take the pain in them away as well... The princess had, therefore, not argued when Selyse had told her that she had commissioned a painting of her, and dutifully slipped on her finest dress for the occasion...

The child's eyes widened at the artist's words, a small blush rising to her pale cheeks. "Thank you, good ser, but... but I am not... I am quite ugly, truly. Mother... She wanted a portrait of me, and I didn't wish to refuse her something that might bring her happiness..."

@warphotoss

[fallesto]

[trace]+reverse

[[Hallo ;)]]

IN DEATH THERE IS GLORY. IN DEATH THERE IS PEACE, IN DEATH YOU BELONG TO MOTHER MIRANDA, YET DEATH IS AN ART FORM AND THIS BEING IS THE PAINTER OF DEATH.

Had it not been for her most favored daughter, she would have not known about this manthing. Yet again the most favored has proven her worth. Her keen eye and taste in arts has brought this gift. His imagery means little to her. His expressionism is pointless. Death is not eternal. Death is not absolute. Death has been conquered by her hand, yet to capture death as he does, to display and present it - such talents should not be. He should not be. She senses no infection. The mold has no hold on her, the Cadou has not been gifted to him. One of Spencers creations, hardly. Too clean, too intelligent, too human - to be one of her students failed creations.

“You have traveled far to come to find sanctuary, my daughter informs me that you are a man worthy of my time.” Her hand was raised, fingers brushing strands of darkened hair from his face. Gently, ever so - she would touch the scar that he hides. His shame concealed from the world. Such a mark to hold, yet not one to feel ashamed off, to hold pity. A thumb gently brushed the side of his cheek, as fingers trail down the markings that plague his face. A virus? A parasite? Or something hidden from her, something even she is yet to discover for herself.

“My village can be your canvas, my flock your paint - you only need to show me your - gift.” A mystery, one that would not remain such, not from her. Her daughter was well informed. It was a story as old as herself. Of men trying to replicate what she has achieved here. There wealth put to the test, to create what only she can, to play there hands at fate, to act like gods instead of the children they are. He was an offspring of such men, like clay he had yet to take shape. He lacked direction, he lacked purpose, he lacked leadership. An artiest without a muse, is such a sad thing indeed. He was a lost child in need of a mothers love.

“What are you child --”

[hallucineugenics-a]

@warphotoss​ sent:  "there have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall."

* QUOTES ABOUT DESPAIR PROMPTS , Accepting!!

Donna wanted to believe his words. Believe that there was justice in this world. Life had taught her otherwise and it stung like alcohol over a papercut. It was an impossible conundrum when the tyrants and murderers he spoke of sat within Donna’s own mind. She sighed deeply and shook her veiled head, singular eye glued to a crack in the wallpaper. 

“No.” She said simply. “It is a lie.”

[malumxsubest]

@warphotoss  asked : "Eyes like yours belongs on display, mio Angelo."

the entity regarded her new killer with cool indifference saved for a biting smile. her incorporeal form glided over towards him, head canted to one side. " your compliments will get you nowhere, love. although, i shall accept it this time for your trials have been proven fruitful. "

[viralcure]

cont. ｡° ⸻ @warphotoss.

Rebecca knew her faults well. They seemed to shine the brightest when she was faced with someone so far gone, ideals that bordered insanity, delusionalism. What a bleeding heart, though. All Rebecca wanted to do was help. At the very least, to know she tried to help. Did her best to help. That never excluded the ones causing the pain, either. She'd always try. Stupid naivety, maybe, but it's what Rebecca felt kept her human. Kept her apart and far distant from those same delusions, from playing God like too many before her. Her expression is pinched together, worry and haunt dancing together in hazel hues as they watch him pick up another arm, setting it at carelessly as one would a toy in a pile of like limbs. She swallows, head shaking.

       ❝ All this does is hurt people...   -You're killing innocent people... ❞   One last plea to see any amount of reason. To understand what his art was really doing. This self expression. Why didn't it terrify him? Her chest tightens and suddenly the weight of her pistol becomes very prevalent in it's holster at her hip. Another shake of her head, slow and small.   ❝ Stefano. Please. ❞