CHAOTIC

[tflatte]

Monsters are born of pain and grief and loss and anger.

Jim Butcher, The Dresden Files (via tflatte)

[edrord-archive-deactivated20160]

naiivehero , ferend , schweetsided , vaesanus

[edrord-archive-deactivated20160]

  「 ⚔ 」—

                         “Hey, you dropped th—…                          …Uh, what is this thing, anyways?” 

[vaesanus-blog]

eyes blink, mouth opening and closing as he ponders what e x a c t l y to tell the other.    hand reaches and head shakes, the    free one, the b u r n e d one, pointing    to himself                            a n d his sword.           he's not getting an explanation.

[evilsupplyco]

If you are a monster, by choice or birth or curse

If you are a monster, by choice or birth or curse, unleash your poison breath and razor claws.

If you are a monster, by choice or birth or curse, your name is a promise of a fell fate for all your enemies.

If you are a monster, by choice or birth or curse, you will survive the ice, you will build the fire, your wounds will heal, your muscles will grow, your plans will tighten, and you will thrive.

This world is made for monsters.

[noquietrevolution-deactivated20]

divinity will stain your fingers and mouth like a pomegranate. it will swallow you whole and spit you out, wine-dark and wanting. you will reach for it again and again, greedy human fingers clutching at everything you can reach. the divine will curl its way through your veins and take you over, and it will not leave you quietly. i feel divinity in my bones like aching; like fire.

[nergalism-archive-deactivated20]

Meet The Muse

[vaesanus-blog]

Hover over the links for a brief description!

|| The Basics ||

Name: corvo Nickname(s): lord protector Age: 39 Species: human. 

|| Personal ||

Morality: Lawful / Neutral / Chaotic / Good / Gray / Evil Religious Belief: devout to the outsider Sins: Lust / Greed / Gluttony / Sloth / Pride / Envy / Wrath Virtues: Chastity / Charity / Diligence / Humility / Kindness / Patience / Justice Primary Goals In Life: before, to serve the empress to his fullest. later, to care and protect both jessamine and emily. now, to serve revenge to all those who had wronged himself, and the two people he cared for most in the world. Languages Known: the standard/common language, serkonan things. Secrets: nightmares, his devotion/shrine to the outsider, his love affair with the empress. Quirks: grunts and various other noises when he grows comfortable with someone. eyes dart when around others ( a sign of his paranoia ). paces a lot to remind himself he's no longer in a cell. Savvies: corvo is incredibly adept at speed, stealth, and combat, due to his training during his youth. reading people, while less of an easy task, is a required attribute for his position, therefore an important known trick.

|| Physical ||

Build: Slender/ Scrawny / Bony/ Fit / Athletic / Herculean / Babyfat / Pudgy / Obese / Other Height: 6’2”. Weight: 165 lbs.  Scars/Birthmarks: various small scars from various missions including his youth in serkonos. large burn scars across torso and back, while his wrists are ragged due to his attempts to escape during torture. lastly, the mark on the back of his left hand as a gift from the outsider. Abilities/Powers: magical abilities, thanks to the outsider, plus his natural born skills with sword, pistol, and fatigue. Restrictions: memories of his past, equally as skilled enemies, limited mana and the outsider leaving him alone.

|| Favorites ||

Favourite Food: apples Favourite Drink: a certain, near impossible to find, serkonan wine. Favourite Pizza Topping: Favourite Color: dark blue Favourite Music Genre: classical, though after jessamine's death, he can't sit through a piece without having an attack. Favourite Book Genre: history Favourite Movie Genre: Favourite Season: summer Favourite Butt Type: Favourite Swear Word:  Favourite Scent: oak and must from parchment. Favourite Quote: "Revenge is a kind of wild justice, which the more a man's nature runs to, the more ought law to weed it out." - Francis Bacon

|| Fun Stuff ||

"Boss" Theme Music: Bottom or Top: versatile. mainly top, as to avoid panic attacks. Loud Burper Or Soft Burper:  Sings In The Shower: Yes / No  Likes Bad Puns: loves them. LOVES.

Their Opinion On The Mun:

Tag 3 People!: deityism, haeredis, yourbetrayer

[whales-and-witchcraft]

Some Corvos I doodled on planes/in coffee shops

[aseaofquotes]

W.S. Merwin, “To the Present Tense”

[onefinal-blog]

           the ground, the air, time itself ;             all seems to bend, pliable under            experienced boots && breath falling            from mouths once spilling the most dark            & salacious of lies. not an eye has missed            looking upon them, at least for a moment.             the facade of their meeting being the first            has so indelicately been thrown to the             wind, the crowd.  this is more than a             single dance –– ; for men of actions,             it is a speech, coercions made by            the accompaniment of all too            tenacious steps & notes. 

                                  a hold on him is garnered by                                   the other - no, not a choking,                                    malicious touch ; but one he                                    finds has painted the ghost                                   of what might be considered                                   a smile to his face. one, two,                                   twist backward, tracing the lines of                                   corvo’s shoulder before swinging                                   around to face that mask once                                   more. were the ladies of the                                    house to see them now -                                    one might even say the                                    boyle’s spotlight had                                   been  s t o l e n . 

              there is a slowing of the feverish                tones that had echoed throughout               the party seconds before, an adagio                tactfully placed for those not quite so                strong as he or corvo to regain the               breath lost in the moment. he takes               it as an opportunity ––– an inhalation,                lips parting to reveal teeth & words               with a meaning dually edged. 

                  ❛ you’re an exceptional dancer. ❜ 

                           (  & e x c e p t i o n a l                                is understated ; but                               that  is,  of  course,                                the modus operandi                                of     an    assassin. ) 

                the burgeoning waltz is slow –––                 but patience & control are                  virtues he knows they                 both  p o s s e s s . 

[vaesanus-blog]

the c o m  p l i m e n t is unexpected, meanings of such a sentence clear in the midst of movement. eyes dart aside, a raspy chuckle leaving otherwise s i l e n t lips. bodies mix, a language both simple and complex. move in, move out. one, two, three. one, two, three. a beat of m o r e than the two of them, yet they continue to be the s i n g l e entity around. one point at the c e n t r e of nothing.           slowly does he tighten his hand,           mark s i n g i n g as it presses           against one so s i m i l a r.                   it's his way of saying                          same to you.  the music has d u l l e d in his ears, his senses, eyes  darting back to the other man. he can see p o t e n t i a l,  see the strength and charm he holds. their live, he sees,  could have been a chance of fate; two boys of same  blood. one on a path of p r o t e c t i o n, the other  on the ride for g l o r y. would it be daud who served  the empress? would it be he who watched as corvo  p l u n g e d his blade into her willing body? who  watched his smile grow, a proper laugh escaping  a mouth undamaged.  it would have been so e a s y for it all to change.          free hand, unmarked, travels,          lightly holding the man he so          easily could have been.         it's another one of his cues. yet,         the assassin believes it to be         a c o n s t a n t.                   i trust you.

[onefinal-blog]

                          ❛  I’D SAY I’M BEING PUNISHED,                             BUT THE WORLD DOESN’T PUNISH                                W I C K E D      P E O P L E .   ❜

                                   (   INDIE  && SELECTIVE                                    DAUD of DISHONORED.   )

[vaesanus-blog]

he knows the s t a r e s are there. the w h i s p e r s ever present on the tongues of those around him. they speak of his awful deeds, speak of the m o n s t e r in the mask of d e a t h. they speak of dark magic, of the evils he had consorted with. he knows this. he k n o w s this. it eats at him, claws away the barrier he had built to ease these rumours. blue glove, the same colour as his coat, covers his mark, a c r i m e if any were to be held. the days of wearing such a gift proudly have ended. now, he is forced to h i d e. to forget all he had done, had a c h i e v e d.        they speak lies but crave t r u t h.        he gives them what they d e s e r v e.

[onefinal-blog]

            music surrounds them, an orchestra of              his doubts & misgivings woven so well              to please the ears of & around the pair.              he wishes it would be so simple, to fall              into step with the only serkonan of this              age to be considered his rival –––– but              the thought keeps him stiff, mired in the             mental screams never to trust- not even              for a fatal second- that which you once              called an enemy. the string section has             a  conspiratorial  forte,  a  richening  of              the music ; & ––– he finds the warnings             of his mind    D  R  O  W  N  E  D     out. 

                               ( he has not danced in years –                                  the number of which, if he                                   bothered to count, would                                   carve lines on his face. ) 

                                the thought fractures the cordial,                                  practiced steps  –––––– & for all                                 his  subtlety,   all  his  vigilance,                                 daud finds himself dancing ; for                                  the true definition of the word                                  applied now more than ever.

              ( truly, a boyle party like no other. )

                            a spin here, a clap in time – it’s                             fluid,  reminiscent  of  the  water                             in  the  body  dunwall  was  built                             around, & into which it fell with                             the plague. it is a movement of                              history – - – & the two of them,                              however  i r o n i c a l l y,                              are at the CENTER.  

[vaesanus-blog]

     a smile grows in time with the beat, the tempo,      body moving in accordance. he finds his breath      catching as he watches, as he f e e l s daud      dance. he goes from stiff, alert, to melted, a      man of taste and music. it flows to him, calls      and urges such c o n t r o l to be let go.      the dance suddenly b r e a k s for the better,      its strict mold cracking beneath their serkonan      b l o o d. body rises with the fever of dance &      tune. he doesn't notice the stares, the gazes      of masked women and men alike locking on      as if this was for s h o w.                           no, this is not for you.                                this is for him.                          arm extends and fold, leaving the other               adrift in the sea of l i a r s and t h i e v e s.               of would be q u e e n s and k i n g s. drawing               him back, pressing closer before the waves               of a cresting crescendo force feet to step               back, to create a barrier that stands tall               against such a f o r c e.               only to crash and burn as eyes meet,               time slowing as the music in his ears               drives him forward, hands secure               around the man's ( not a murderer,               not a fiend, enemy, or rival ) form,               anchoring him now as the wind               settles, an echo of their true               d a n c e resounding through               the room, his h e a r t.                                it will not be their last.

[bewitchedluck-archived]

                                    call me a ѕιɴɴer                       call me a sᴀɪɴᴛ                                     tell me it’s σνєя and I’ll still ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜᴇ sᴀᴍᴇ                                     call me your ғαvorιтe           call me the ωσяѕт                                        { tell me it’s over I don’t want you to hurt }

[mimibunu]

                              Yᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ sᴀᴅ

                                       ʏᴏᴜ ᴏғ ᴀʟʟ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ

                                                 ᴀʀᴇ

                                             sᴜᴘᴘᴏsᴇᴅ

                                                  ᴛᴏ

                                                  ʙᴇ

                                               ̳̭ʜ̡̹ᴀ̣̩̩̠̖ᴘ̢̦͖̤͔͚̳̥ᴘ̡͎͔͓͔͓̭ʏ̖͢

[vaesanus-blog]

THIS CORVO PLAYLIST IS SO FUCKING GOOD I CANT

[onefinal-blog]

             a hand, sealed a twin to his own, is before him.              he has let the years carry him on rough tides of               betrayal, traps, & the undying seas of change ;               & he knows this is a choice, poision offered               so sweetly ––– –– - – undeniable & an utterly                exquisite way to drink in inevitable retribution.

                          ( & so gloves meets skin,                              joined marks splitting a                              discordant  note  within                             the fibers of worn flesh. ) 

                                  ❛ –––– we are serkonan. ❜

                                             there is a dispassionate tone to his                                               voice, but there is nothing to reflect                                              that in the foot that glides forward,                                               toe  to  toe as  the  waltz  renews.

[vaesanus-blog]

        it surprises him, eyes blinking in shock         beneath the mask he wore, as his hand         is taken, a c c e p t e d. there's a spark of         something down his spine; venom disguised         as something p l e a s a n t. the mark stings         against the man labeled as r i v a l, yet falls         silent as the dance begins.         smirk replaces shock, head bowing slightly         in return. we are serkonan, indeed. two of         the same. boys turned to men. men turned         to k i l l e r s.              one a murderer. the other, death itself.               the question: which one is b e t t e r?          all of your life is depending          on w h o and w h a t you're                      defending.          corvo moves easily, feet pressing          closer, then fading when the music          calls. soft movements, full of the          emotions he can n e v e r speak,          never s h o w.

                the dance is nice.                 the dance is right.                 head moves, free hand lifting his mask just enough,                 lips free to croak out the sounds he isn't sure daud                 can even understand.                                  there is no threat.                                       r e l a x.

[vaesanus-blog]

haeredis

   the papers in his grasp, weighed down with    t i m e and whispers of the sea, are filled to    the brim with m e m o r i e s he has, at last,    decided to face.    there are paintings of a sun-filled smile, words written in    ink, seemingly so s o l i d in their promises at the time.    there's notes, stolen s e c r e t s shared in the company    of two. and then, there are the drawings. sweet gifts given    to a man so d i f f e r e n t than he is now.             pages turn, until the very last memory             is upon him;                                her name is emily.            written on a single piece of parchment, the ink stained            from his hands, his tears. they mark his joy, his frustration.            they mark his s o r r o w.  there's suddenly footsteps, small and light, and corvo  closes the book, eyes stinging and throat constricting.  he expects no one else then the young girl who walks  so f e a r l e s s l y to his room. he greets her with a smile, hair falling to mask the emotion he can never truly hide.

[vaesanus-blog]

                                                                AND YOU, CORVO                                                 YOU COULD BE THE WORST OF US                                                                         indie high chaos corvo. 8+ of rp experience.                                              [ BEGIN ]          [ ARRIVE ]        [ INQUIRE ]