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@thewhitesaint
“If the account given in Genesis is really true, ought we not, after all, to thank this serpent? He was the first schoolmaster, the first advocate of learning, the first enemy of ignorance, the first to whisper in human ears the sacred word liberty, the creator of ambition, the author of modesty, of inquiry, of doubt, of investigation, of progress and of civilization.”
~ Robert Green Ingersoll
x nature blog x
thewhitesaint:
“Keep saying that and ya won’t get there.”
His composure breaks like the ice under his boots.
“People out here don’t like disrespect.”
“ – I get it. ‘Racist’ is trigger for you. Does ‘Black-Adjacent American’ work better?” Ambrose scoffed with a roll of his mismatching eyes, already hoofing his feet in the direction of town.
He waits until the kid’s footfalls in the snow die away.
“Prick,” he growls to no one in particular, and goes for the walkie-talkie tucked into his robe. “Need a guy out here on the interstate. Got a broken down car we need searched. Kid’s gonna be at the auto shops in South Vale in—hour—“
thewhitesaint:
“Gonna be a long walk. Yer a good forty minutes from town.”
He doesn’t dignify the last part with a response. Through the perfectly round holes in his mask he regards the cigarette, good eye narrowing.
“Welp.” He sighed, turning his back to the stranger in order to grab an old backpack from the passenger seat.
“Ain’t my car anyway. Town gonna be burning crosses when I get there, or –”
“Keep saying that and ya won’t get there.”
His composure breaks like the ice under his boots.
“People out here don’t like disrespect.”
thewhitesaint:
His laugh’s short, shocked, nasty.
“Ya want me to shoot out your other tires?”
“Shit.” He groaned, rifling through his pockets for a cigarette he was sure was still stuffed somewhere. “You got a tire discount place around here, David Duke?” Finding a broken cigarette in the pocket of his hoodie, Ambrose tossed it in the snow with more defeat on his features towards it than his flat tire.
“Gonna be a long walk. Yer a good forty minutes from town.”
He doesn’t dignify the last part with a response. Through the perfectly round holes in his mask he regards the cigarette, good eye narrowing.
thewhitesaint:
“Wouldn’t drive on that,” Rosten observes, melting out of the forest. He’s white as the snow, all in linen, his mask serene. “Yer gonna have to walk.”
Ambrose jumped at the intrusion – some vampire, and took to his feet, soaking in the vision of some random snowman coming to life out from the woods.
“Ah, fuck. This isn’t Klan territory, is it?”
His laugh’s short, shocked, nasty.
“Ya want me to shoot out your other tires?”
Open ~
The tire was shredded. Was it barbed wire? Ambrose could smell the hint of something not quite right in the air, but pushed the sensation aside as he he knelt down by the side of the stolen car, noticing just how much barbed wire was wrapped around his tire. This had to have been a trap hidden away in the snow. Rural areas seemed to embolden the hunters. “Fuck.” The vampire muttered, mismatched eyes looking up and around his surroundings, catching nothing but road and trees for as far as the eye could see. Despite his preternatural bloodline, Ambrose wasn’t a fighter. If this were a trap, the odds weren’t in his favor.
“Wouldn’t drive on that,” Rosten observes, melting out of the forest. He’s white as the snow, all in linen, his mask serene. “Yer gonna have to walk.”
✏ - thewhitesaint
Send ✏ and I will draw your muse to the best of my abilities!
@thewhitesaint
thewhitesaint:
@hell–descended
For all the white in his hair, he moves like a hail of bullets. Dust mushrooms from the punching bag under Rosten’s fists.
He dances back, fists raised, his grin vicious.
“Want to join, kid? I’ll go easy on ya.”
Just the nature of that smug offer burns him.
No way to refuse without looking like a coward. And while he didn’t much care about looking like a coward, he did care about looking weak. Even if, on more than one level, he was.
He preferred knives and bullets to fist fights nowadays, but he was still trained. Muscle memory didn’t give in, not when it was beaten into you noon after noon, year after year. And Rosten has that look on him. An old white bastard who might just find himself humbled sans a few teeth. Here’s to hoping he’s not as maniacal as Stone.
“Hand me some gloves. Or at least some hand wraps.”
He shrugs off his shirt. Beneath he’s sinew wrapped in keloids, a puckered scar running across his mangled pectorals and a Y-shaped incision snaking up his belly and chest. Though the gym’s sweltering, though beads of sweat glisten in his red chest hair, he’s barely flushed at all.
From a nearby locker Rosten produces a set of dingy hand wraps. “Catch.”
He stretches, joints popping, muscles gleaming in the thin stream of light through the window. Rosten squares his shoulders. Smirks.
“Try and hit me, Shepherd.”
deviloutofhell:
“Like hell. You was gonna get your head stomped, Cottonmouth.”
He brings his heel down. Through the pain he chokes out a laugh.
“Son of a gun was gonna wear you like a belt.”
“It didn’t turn into a slapfest until you started gettin’ mouthy.” He was feeling heated – taking things far more seriously than Jimmy.
He hated eyes on him on a visceral level, and his flight instincts were buzzing.
“Easy, James.”
He puts a warning hand on James’s meaty thigh.
“Ya gonna pick fights with everyone to prove ya can?”
@hell--descended
For all the white in his hair, he moves like a hail of bullets. Dust mushrooms from the punching bag under Rosten’s fists.
He dances back, fists raised, his grin vicious.
“Want to join, kid? I’ll go easy on ya.”
@cxttonteethviolence
“Got yerself into a hell of a mess—“
Half Rosten’s face screws up as he picks gravel out of Stone’s side, his fingertips raking brisk over bruised flesh.
“Tell him he’s an ass, Wyatt. And he oughtta learn little guys move quicker.”
@paraphiliapet
“Sorry there’s no meat.”
He glances up from his newspaper, through the haze of steam. He’s scarcely touched his own soup.
“Can barely keep—keep—kids fed and clothed.”
He snorts, glancing back to the baseball scores. “Know I don’t have to. Ya look pale. Need iron.”
Absently he laces and unlaces his fingers.
“Only get one body. Gotta think hard about how ya use it.”
“Well, legally, I have committed many crimes, but morally, I feel good about my standing.”
The weight upon your chest is not a burden; It is a mission.
@paraphiliapet
“Sorry there’s no meat.”
He glances up from his newspaper, through the haze of steam. He’s scarcely touched his own soup.
“Can barely keep—keep—kids fed and clothed.”
