a curious little girl @voidartixt - Tumblr Blog

murderer-of-an-empress:

It has been a strange day anyway. A soft rain, all natural to Dunwall and Gristol, had enveloped the Capital and tinged the City into a grey haze. Those weathers always made him restless. It was like the lines of city and land blurred. As if the sea called out to him. So he had taken off, taking a more casual guise and wandered through the district. A few hours later, he felt some of that sharp longing dulled. But then he had noticed that girl.

It had surprised him. The district was indeed home to the most unfortunate, but those seemed to become even more like the rats inhabiting these streets by the thousands. Hiding, fighting for survival in an almost feral way. “Helen.”, he repeated slowly. Something about her gave him shudders in an odd way. She did not look at him like a normal person would. Daud has seen blind people. The way the looked past one. But she seemed to look into him. It made his skin crawl.

“I know.” He is not even sure why he knows. It is more than just being probably twice her size and weight. An understanding between them in some deeper level. “But this is still not a place for you.” His voice turned hard again. He was not soft. That is not who he is anymore. His loyalties lie with himself and his group alone. But still the thought of leaving her alone would be just a waste. “This is home to disease, cutthroats and rats. What on earth are you doing here?”.

There is something in the way he speaks, in the pattern of his voice, that says to her that he will not hurt her if she does not provoke him. Though not assured of it entirely, it is enough to draw the immediate tension out of her limbs. Reckless abandon and undue fear have equally small place here. The slope of her shoulders returns to the weightlessness it held when she spoke in amused commentary.

She runs a hand through her hair, it dripping as much as his, and shakes the droplets from her hand. They scatter and fall into tiny puddles on the rooftop. Her gaze catches and holds on them, briefly, then flickers back up to him.

Her purpose here is innocent enough, but an innocent reason for coming here is suspicious. She knows this. Her gaze flicks to the rooftops beside him, then back to the crags of his face. “You didn’t give your name, sir. Fair’s fair.” There is nothing obstinate or flippant in her voice, her hands remain steady at her side and do not cross over her chest in defiance. She is only politeness and meekness.

#{threads;}#murdererofanempress #murdererofanempress1.1

@murderer-of-an-empress: [cont. from here]

voidartixt:

‘ you’re dripping like a saturated sunrise. ‘

“Well that is one way to put it.”, he replied carefully. “But who might you be?”. He crossed his arms, giving the girl a hard stare. This was no place for kids to wander around. And how did she get in here anyway?

He sent her senses into high alert, this man, and left a feeling of a threat lingering behind her face (an odd place to feel fear, an ache between her nostrils and her eyes). The waters of the Flooded District spread below them, murky and disgusting, their scent clogging her nostrils and disguising his. Did he know of it? Was it intentional?

He himself was wrapped in fog. When she clenched her small left fist and called for her deeper senses to aid her, they showed nothing, only impenetrable fog that covered his form and hid him from her. Only what was on the surface could touch her, and her blindness drew the feeling of fear between her eyes to spill and trickle down, over her chest and pool into her stomach (a more normal place for it to live).

Her eyes are opened wide in reflection of the aching waterfall, her arms hug tight to her sides. Small gestures. But her eyes do not leave his face, her chin does not dip (nor her spine slouch) and there is something more like curiosity in the way her eyelids pry away from the whites of her eyes.

She knows this: he is more than her.

“Helen,” she names herself quietly, “I don’t mean no ‘arm.” Her voice adopts the cadence and slurred shape of the accents of poor people, though it is spoken with the same measured slowness that never leaves her. The trails of soot over her face and the plain, worn look of her clothes wove the illusion over her, and in this modern era it might even be believable that her skin would linger in its ghost-pale state.

#{threads;}#murdererofanempress #murdererofanempress1.1 #( dropping hints is hard lmao. daud's probably smart enough to sense something off about her. )

religiousshitbaby:

Well, he wasn’t even sure that was entirely accurate, he had no idea what he could be getting himself into. However, that wasn’t unusual for him.

The Pot began to whistle at last and he set about to steeping the tea.

“I know you’ve met my…my father before so I’m s-s-sure you know what he is.” He placed the pot on the table. “I have been…working out t–theorizes on how to recreate some of his experiments. One of which being his ritual to capture life.”

Olivia’s head canted slightly. His father. She didn’t remember being introduced, no, but she did remember…

“Is he the one who looks like nothing, like you do?”

She frowned, remembering that not everyone would or could understand what she meant by nothing

“That is: the one who is hidden from me in the same way you are hidden from me.”

There were many different types of hidden. The Whalers looked, felt, smelled like fog. Thick, grey, choking. The Brigmore Witches had been coated in a shimmering, humming sheen, glimmering with meaningless colors that dazzled if you looked too long, and the only scent they ever smelled like were their flowers. That scent overpowered all else. Granny Rags, she remembered Granny Rags well. She was milky white, looking at her was like trying to see through cataracts. She reeked of rats and stale perfume—but mostly rats.

But Carl—and his father, if she guessed right—were hidden in a different way. With them, it was as if a thick black shadow obscured everything she might see, and she only saw that when she really looked. They mostly just looked empty. Like corpses. Mindless.

“I know he is magic, and powerful. Little else. We were never introduced.” The soft way she says it mimics the way she might speak about someone at a ball, almost apologetic for her failure to be introduced to someone.

#{threads;}#religiousshitbaby #religiousshitbaby1.1

religiousshitbaby:

“I m-may be…If I need to.” He remembers everything he writes, every words he sees stays with him. It was one of the small talents he’d been able to grow over his life and he was quite proud of it.

“But…it wasn’t really part of the p-plan.” He had used a considerable amount of the Abbey’s resources on a project to be used at least once.

“Truth is, I only really planed to use it once. It was always a p-possibility that I’d have to use it in d-defense before I p-p-planned but so far I’ve been lucky.”

Oh, the words that slip from his mouth (unintentionally? she can only guess—she does not think he would tell her the whole truth without resistance. but then, she has many times over discovered the power of a pair of wide, listening eyes and the assumed promise of silence) practically beg for the question to be asked. Still, she is slow to ask it, sitting quiet for several seconds after he finishes speaking, digesting his words and their implications. When she speaks, it is soft. Inquiring too deeply is a sin. “Only once?”

#religiousshitbaby #religiousshitbaby1.1 #dishonored 2 verse tbt

luthienne

Airless, humid dark. Leaf-noise. The stirrings of a garden before rain. A hint of storm behind the risen moon. We are what we have chosen. Did I choose to?—

Eavan Boland, from New Collected Poems (via luthienne)

#{musings;}#{maelstrom;}

religiousshitbaby:

“I doubt that.” He placed a kettle on the stove to boil. “It’s s–smaller and weaker then the t–traditions music boxes. They’re meant to kill this one will only be to slow down j-just enough to-…” Well he wasn’t sure for what yet, but he was ure he’d know when he’d have no choice to use it.

“Besides I’m only m-making one. F-f-for me.” He turned back around setting two cups on the table. “It’ll be easy enough to s–stage an break in here. The plans and work will go m-missing and I’ll instead be tasked by the Senior Brothers to improve security and this ‘pet project’ of mine will be s–swept aside.”

“Ah. Personal.” Her lips curve again as she settles herself onto a chair, crossing her ankles neatly and folding her hands in her lap. “I see.”

Her gaze drifts to the faint trails of steam rising from the kettle, not yet strong enough to whistle through the pinhole in it. It is her habit—no, her nature to contemplate before speaking. “If it disables magic, it should be enough. The worst ones… rely on it.” She herself relies on it. She supposes that makes her a hypocrite, but her reliance is different. Maybe worse. Does that make her worse? It’s an idle question, answered with the certainty of magic is not inherently evil. To her, magic is almost as much as a necessity as food and drink, something used and brushed against every moment, as naturally as breathing. She wonders how she might endure if deprived of magic for an extended period of time, entertains briefly the idea of an experiment to the purpose, and dismisses it, all in a fraction of a second.

An error in his plan occurs to her in the midst of this (oh-so-typical) maelstrom of thought. “Will you be able to improve the design afterwards?”

#religiousshitbaby #religiousshitbaby1.1 #dishonored 2 verse tbt

religiousshitbaby:

His first instinct was to lie to her.To the Void with Strictures, its not as though he followed them anymore to begin with. This was Olivia though, she wasn’t his enemy, and he hoped speaking the truth wouldn’t make her think he was.

“A m-modification of the music boxes. Smaller, able to be disguised as a pocket watch.”

She blinks, several times, rapidly, looks at him a moment, and blinks again. It’s as much as surprise has ever shown on her face. As much as politeness reigns over her speech and comments, here, in the shop with Carl and only Carl, there is no fear pressing at the back of her neck to hold her face in perfect stillness against all emotions. It’s as much the nature of the project as the fact he told her of it that surprises her.

“Oh.”

She falls silent for a moment, considering the scattered objects. Music boxes were only used against real magic, genuine magic, the destructive kind, not against bone charms that did no harm to anyone. It wasn’t like she had any particular fondness for other wielders of magic, and as for herself, she had no fear. Her magic was too quiet to draw the Overseers’ attention.

She smiled at him, as genuinely as she could, though it was little more than a curve to her lips. “That will be useful to your brothers, against bad magic. Overseer Fabela will love it.”

#religiousshitbaby #religiousshitbaby1.1 #dishonored 2 verse tbt

religiousshitbaby:

His workspace would be considered neat by any other standards, but to Carl it felt very cluttered. The main work bench was covered with bits of metal, small cogs and bolts looking like they were meant for a watch then anything deserving of The Abbey. Designs were pinned up all along the walls with notes written in his own personal code. On the far far there is a black safe whose dial had no markings on it and in all the windows lush red plants grew. Near the door sperating Carl’s workspace from The High Artificer’s main office was a small table, also covered with plans and small prototypes that Carl moved out of the way.

“You’re not interrupting anything i-inportant. Its more a p-p-personal project anyways.”

A brief pang of lost potential struck at her, and she winced at the keenness of the feeling. A moment later she had reigned it in, tamed it, and laid it aside in the heap of emotions in her head that were not allowed to be felt.

She traced the curling lines of embroidery that covered her gloves, stealing glances at the items as he moved them. “What were you working on?” she asked, restraining her curiosity to disinterested politeness.

#{threads;}#religiousshitbaby #religiousshitbaby1.1 #dishonored 2 verse tbt

Olivia is hypervigilant about personal hygiene. Body odor in other people she tolerates as a fact of life, some people even have interesting natural smells (non-emotional ones) that she doesn't mind smelling. But her own scent somehow brews aversion in her. She bathes twice daily when she can manage it, never less than once daily, with strong soaps that have as little scent to them as she can find. She dislikes wearing perfume, but when venturing into places where one might find dogs trained to recognize the smell of Void magic, she dons gloves soaked in flower oils. Her clothes she has less control over keeping clean, as laundry is such an arduous task, so she instead practices underlinen in addition to doing what she can to ensure her clothes are washed weekly. She has more underclothes than Lea, and sometimes changes them several times a day during summer.

In her disguises, scent also plays a factor, as being “too clean” might give her away. So her disguise clothes get washed only when necessary. However, she still wears clean underlinen, so the scent is less than it might have been.

#{about;}

religiousshitbaby:

The hounds did not like the appearance of the charms. One, the largest beast with a shiny black coat, nearly jumped in the counter and yelped at it only to have Carl nudge him off. “Thank you, I’ll d-deal with it.” Picking it up, he felt a weight on his cheeks not unlike his mask. Shaking that feeling off he put the charm in his pocket. “Come sit.” He headed towards a less cluttered area of the office, “I can f-find a chair somewhere in here…”

Olivia watched the dogs silently, grateful that their noses couldn’t, or hadn’t, picked up the slight scent of Void she carried on her hand. The perfumes and oils that infused her gloves assaulted her nose, but it was better that than to risk the anger of Carl’s dogs.

She didn’t blame them for their reaction to the charm. Hers had been much the same, when she first stumbled across the charm, left in the bathroom of one of Elenore’s acquaintances. Mesmerizers brought a sticky, bitter taste to the back of her throat. Cruel things, driving their bearer to madness and obsession. Had it been left there by the owners, or by their enemies? Elenore, of course, did not, could not know, or else they would be acquaintances no longer. And Olivia hadn’t asked.

But this was a social visit, wasn’t it? No need to bring up her condition more than necessary, or worry about strangers. Their condition couldn’t grow to be a concern in a matter of a few days, could it?

“Thank you,” she murmured, trailing after him, her gaze flickering around the office. Her curiosity, never dulled, flared at all the strange devices and pieces lying on the various workbenches. Questions hovered on her tongue, but she asked none. Restraint had completed her in the years of playing beautiful little flower and her endless questions went unasked. Politeness superseded.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your work,” she added, “But I couldn’t think of another way to see you without dealing with two dozen Overseers on the way.” She offered him a small, apologetic smile.

#{threads;}#religiousshitbaby #religiousshitbaby1.1 #dishonored 2 verse tbt

bold what your muse CAN do ———— REPOST , don’t reblog.

Olivia Cromwell

TAGGED BY: @fatedsoldier TAGGING: the buck stops here unless you wanna take it

* — if yoga was a thing in Dunwall she would definitely be able to do it. She is bendy.

#{games;}#{about;}

religiousshitbaby:

The hounds noticed her approach long before Carl did. Ear perking up and noses twitching while the Overseers stayed buried in his work. The door opened a closed, but it wasn’t until Olivia spoke that Carl was roused from his work.

With a yelp, he jumped up, the small pair of pliers flew from his hand, landing on the floor to the distress of the Hounds.

Catching his breath, he turned his attention to the woman who just entered. “I’m s–s-sorry ma’am but this area is off lim-..” He caught himself, letting his memories catch up with him. “Olivia? What are you doing h-here?”

Olivia glanced at the set of pliers, surprised by the trajectory of motion. It took her mind a moment to catch up what happened, but she stepped forward, careful to use only her gloved right hand to pick them up and return them to him. Her left hand remained buried in the fabric of her coat. “Here.” She laid the pliers down on his workbench, and retreated a few steps from him, her dark eyes flickering over his face, gauging how “ok” he seemed. With the veil over him, it was difficult to tell precisely, but he seemed not too greatly shocked by her appearance.

“And, here.” She slipped her hand into one of the pockets on the inside of her jacket, and moved over to a side workbench to lay down a small bone charm. It chinked, softly, and settled into its bizarre hum. To her ears, it sounded far too like a siren call, drawing listeners in, promising infinity and promising and promising. “A mesmerizer,” she explained, her voice soft. “Be careful with it. Nasty things.” Her nostrils flared with her distaste, and she turned back to him, linking her hands in front of her. “But mostly just to visit. It’s been a while.”

#{threads;}#religiousshitbaby #religiousshitbaby1.1 #dishonored 2 verse tbt

@religiousshitbaby

Dunwall, 1850.

The summer season came, and with it came the lords, their ladies, their servants, all to see and be seen by other lords, ladies, and servants. Miss Cromwell, unmarried daughter of Lord and Lady Cromwell, avoided the crowds, choosing instead to walk alone, dressed plainly.

Holger’s Square was quiet in the early afternoons, after morning service had dispensed and afternoon service began. The disparity between her kind and their kind had never bothered her, hardly even occurred to her, and she refused to let it stop her now. In her own eyes, she belonged to herself and her family, and only them. The mark was merely an occasionally useful tool.

It was easy enough to spot him, even through the walls of the compound. For one, she knew to look near the High Artificer’s offices, and two, he was an eclipse in her senses, a thin ring of life-light, with all color obscured and dulled.

He had never told her why. At this point, she had stopped asking.

Her mark warmed under her glove as she passed silently through the edges of the compound. The Abbey was less vigilant in its watch over the compound, secure in their alliance with Empress Emily. But that was no reason to lower her guard. Perhaps if someone looked, they might spot her, but a casual glance would overlook her.

She dropped the veil the moment the door closed behind her in the High Artificer’s office. It was impolite to use it in here.

“Artificer?” To her own ears, her voice sounded small and hollow in the spartan chamber.

#{threads;}#religiousshitbaby #religiousshitbaby1.1 #dishonored 2 verse tbt #( sighs at my shitty writing brain. )

heck yeah we're doing this painting thing RIGHT this time. prepare for trouble.

#{ooc;}#( gotta get me some psds and frames and proper portrait pictures of people's fc and then we'll ROCK. )

renovating this character (again) because inky doesn't know how to write. whoops.

#{ooc;}

voidartixt

Yet From One Spark

nothing-really-to-see-here

“You’d like to think so, but that ain’t the case with this shit. It must have additives or some such.”

“And I wasn’t aware alcohol go stronger as it aged? I thought only distillation did any of that.” Edith added. “After the ethanol concentration was high enough to kill the yeast, that is. Then distillation is the only way, I thought?”

Williams groaned.

“Forgive our Edith. She took chemistry. Loves it.”

“Actually no. I’m right. Alcohol can age in barrels and get stronger as water can evaporate through the wood - but never in a bottle unless it contains live yeast, which no bottled alcohol will. I also took a brewing course once.”

“Whatever. What do we do now? Wait here for a few days with this terrible gin and only eachother for company? Then what?” Emma asked the big question.

“Well at some point we need to kill Casper.”

“Agreed.” Pretty much everyone said.

voidartixt

Olivia shrugged. She only knew hearsay and chatter about how alcohol worked and it was brewed. Her chemistry courses never mentioned distilling. It didn’t matter. She had tossed the conversation in a different direction, and that was enough. She slouched slightly, staring at the corner, trying to run through possibilities like she had been taught. What she wanted, or more specifically, who she wanted to do what.

She knew also what her family’s goal would be. Get her out of the city, as fast as possible, and into a place where she could have a suitable alibi for not being in the city, thus supporting Lea’s claim. But that would cut her out of achieving her goal.

“Where will you go?” she asked, softly, glancing around, careful to look at everyone in the group.

#( in which something never before mentioned is revealed. suddenly. dogs. )#the darker we get #thedarkerweget1 #{v; little pianist}

voidartixt

Yet From One Spark

nothing-really-to-see-here

“The food is fine. It’s the gin.” He came back into the room, looking disdainfully at a plain bottle of what would have appeared to be water, were it not for the label.

“Gin”

He opened it, and poured some into the cap to taste it.

The moment it touched his tongue his face screwed up in disgust.

“Fuck me, this is the worst stuff I’ve ever tasted, and gin isn’t even meant to taste good.”

“Hamish, seriously, are you drinking?”

“You can have some if you like, Williams. I doubt even you could get off on this.” He held out the bottle.

Williams sighed and tasted it.

“Oof. You’re right. I’m not even a drinker but this is terrible.”

He glanced up at Hamish.

“Kind of like you.”

Hamish narrowed his eyes at his former student.

“What was that, boy?”

“Look at yourself, man! You’re a shell of what you used to be. The man who taught me would’ve said thank you to that Rem fellow, not tried to break him when he was helping us! And even if he had, the real Hamish Thames would have succeeded!”

“And you think you’re better? I might be outdated, but it’s a wonder you haven’t been supplanted as leader of the reliables yet, considering how weak willed we both know you are. Dear Emma is probably the only thing keeping you in that seat, isn’t she?”

“Now look here, Thames-” Emma began.

“No, all of you assholes look here!” Edith shouted suddenly. “All three of you are disgracing the profession, with your bickering and childish insults! Thames, you’re on your way out and we can all see it, but you can still deal the damage we’re used to seeing you deal. Williams, Emma, you might not be on the downfall yet but I can already see that if you don’t buck the fuck up you’ll end up exactly the way you’re criticising him for being!”

Hamish opened his mouth to speak, but Edith never let him.

“You shut your bitch mouth this instant, detective! Most of us are now dead because of a series of events you started, and anyone who survived it is now either wanted or undergoing interrogation right now! We may have volunteered ourselves, but it remains that we have our lives for you, and you have shown nothing in return to honour the sacrifices made.”

She gestured to Livvy.

“She is seriously the most reasonable person here, and that’s just because she hasn’t said anything yet.”

voidartixt

Livvy blinked, stared openly at the bickering four. The prospect that any of these ancient friends would teeter on the edge of fighting had never occurred to her. She had accepted that Hamish would be forever allied with Williams and that they would never break their tie. Nor had it ever occurred to her that Hamish's brilliance which he had once had as an officer might be faded with time.

Words filtered back through time; Arius’s deep voice, soft and backed by the weeping of violins. All things fade with time.

Even you? her own sweeter voice whispered back.

The notes of the first violin rose above the cello’s mourn, singing, holding the orchestra together as the aging conductor waved his hands.

Even me.

But I thought you wanted to be king forever?

Arius smiled, a breath of a chuckle passing through his nostrils. Not forever. Someday your sister will be greater than I, and then she will be queen.

How will you know that?

I will know. Arius gazed down at the brightly-lit stage. His eyes were softer than they usually were, thoughtful. Olivia’s nostrils flared. She could taste his unease, faint and far-off, but it left her with a faint sense of dread. She focused harder on the music and the movement of the first violin’s hands, trying to drown out the doubt.

Livvy snapped back to the present. So Hamish was fading and a rift was just beginning to appear between the four.

A plan began to form in her mind. She stared into space, her mind distracted. It would have to be done carefully. More carefully than she had moved before.

Events that he started? How did he start all of this? It was her doing, clearly. She had cited him as a relative and started everything.

But he didn't have to respond. He chose to. He could have left her there. It hardly would have changed anything, Clarke would have been there a moment later. She'd just...

Her throat went tight.

Edith was gesturing to her, saying something. She was expected to react, to say something, to prove her sensibility. She looked up, hovering, frozen between memory and input. At last she shrugged. She had no intention of contributing anything useful to the conversation. "He can’t be the drink. Alcohol gets stronger as it ages."

#the darker we get #thedarkerweget1 #{threads;}#{v; little pianist}

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

a curious little girl