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[ashesxofxsin]

It took everything he had not to whimper. Vittorio bit his lower lip and leaned against David, his breath trembling with each step. No sounds followed them as they moved to a corner, Vittorio shifting his weight to the crumbling wall.

"Thank you..." He said softly, looking at the other male. "Pretty sure he would have let me bleed out." His jeans were torn, barely held together and barely on his body. His shirt was just as bad.

Vittorio reached out and placed a hand on David's shoulder, shaking his head and pulling David into the shadows. He knew that the killer was there...and that he had been there but something told Vittorio that they were safe. "He's been standing there since I stumbled into this room." He said softly, "I'm sure we can leave." Vittorio shifted so his weight was against David's knowing the other could support him. "He got what he wanted."

David's body was warm and while Vittorio didn't trust anyone and hadn't since he had misplaced his trust years ago, he had to trust that David could get them out of here. Vittorio was in no condition to fight, let alone run.

[ashesxofxsin]

You can only reblog this today.

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Vittorio reached out and placed a hand on David's shoulder, shaking his head and pulling David into the shadows. He knew that the killer was there...and that he had been there but something told Vittorio that they were safe. "He's been standing there since I stumbled into this room." He said softly, "I'm sure we can leave." Vittorio shifted so his weight was against David's knowing the other could support him. "He got what he wanted."

David's body was warm and while Vittorio didn't trust anyone and hadn't since he had misplaced his trust years ago, he had to trust that David could get them out of here. Vittorio was in no condition to fight, let alone run.

The Hunt in the Shadows

Location: The Forsaken Archive

The Forsaken Archive was a graveyard of forgotten knowledge, its towering stone walls suffocating in their enormity. The air hung heavy with damp and decay, every breath thick with the scent of mildew and old ink. The faint whisper of wind wound through the shattered stained glass windows, carrying with it a distant, almost imperceptible sound—like a low, mournful sigh.

Vittorio Toscano stumbled through the labyrinth of collapsing bookshelves, one hand clutching his side where blood seeped through his torn jacket. His fingers trembled, sticky with warmth, as he pressed against the wound. Pain lanced through his ribs with every step, sharp and unrelenting, but he couldn’t stop moving. To stop was to die.

The beam of his flashlight flickered, the light struggling to pierce the oppressive darkness that surrounded him. Shadows danced on the edges of his vision, threatening to close in if he lingered too long. He knew this place was alive, not in the way of a creature with breath and bone, but in the way of something ancient and malevolent, watching, waiting.

The sound of his ragged breathing echoed in the vast chamber, too loud in the oppressive silence. Every step he took sent faint ripples through the dust-covered floor, disturbing the stillness that seemed eager to swallow him whole. Vittorio’s eyes darted toward the carved stone pillars that loomed like sentinels in the dark, their surfaces etched with cryptic symbols worn smooth by time. He didn’t trust them. He didn’t trust anything here.

He leaned against one of the shelves for a moment, trying to steady himself. The wood groaned under his weight, brittle and dry, threatening to collapse. A faint, coppery taste filled his mouth as he exhaled, fighting the wave of nausea that threatened to pull him under.

Then, the sound came—soft, deliberate footsteps, far too close.

Vittorio froze, his grip tightening on the flashlight. He doused the beam with a trembling thumb, plunging himself into near-total darkness. His heart thundered in his chest as he forced himself to listen, his ears straining to separate the sound from his own labored breaths. The footsteps were measured, unhurried, and growing louder.

Through the oppressive gloom, a faint silhouette began to take shape, moving steadily toward him. Vittorio’s breath caught, his pulse quickening as his eyes fixed on the figure. He couldn’t make out the details, but the broad frame and confident stride told him enough—it wasn’t the Entity’s spawn, but it wasn’t safety either.

He pressed himself deeper into the shadows, his mind racing. Friend or foe? Another survivor, or someone who had already succumbed to the madness of this place?

The figure stopped, illuminated briefly by a sliver of moonlight spilling through a broken window. Vittorio’s sharp gaze locked onto them, his body tense despite the searing pain in his side. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, as the stranger’s eyes scanned the darkness.

Vittorio’s grip on his flashlight tightened. He had no weapons, no strength to fight if it came to that. But he would not go quietly.

@brokenbutunyielding

[ashesxofxsin]

The Hunt in the Shadows

Location: The Forsaken Archive

The Forsaken Archive was a graveyard of forgotten knowledge, its towering stone walls suffocating in their enormity. The air hung heavy with damp and decay, every breath thick with the scent of mildew and old ink. The faint whisper of wind wound through the shattered stained glass windows, carrying with it a distant, almost imperceptible sound—like a low, mournful sigh.

Vittorio Toscano stumbled through the labyrinth of collapsing bookshelves, one hand clutching his side where blood seeped through his torn jacket. His fingers trembled, sticky with warmth, as he pressed against the wound. Pain lanced through his ribs with every step, sharp and unrelenting, but he couldn’t stop moving. To stop was to die.

The beam of his flashlight flickered, the light struggling to pierce the oppressive darkness that surrounded him. Shadows danced on the edges of his vision, threatening to close in if he lingered too long. He knew this place was alive, not in the way of a creature with breath and bone, but in the way of something ancient and malevolent, watching, waiting.

The sound of his ragged breathing echoed in the vast chamber, too loud in the oppressive silence. Every step he took sent faint ripples through the dust-covered floor, disturbing the stillness that seemed eager to swallow him whole. Vittorio’s eyes darted toward the carved stone pillars that loomed like sentinels in the dark, their surfaces etched with cryptic symbols worn smooth by time. He didn’t trust them. He didn’t trust anything here.

He leaned against one of the shelves for a moment, trying to steady himself. The wood groaned under his weight, brittle and dry, threatening to collapse. A faint, coppery taste filled his mouth as he exhaled, fighting the wave of nausea that threatened to pull him under.

Then, the sound came—soft, deliberate footsteps, far too close.

Vittorio froze, his grip tightening on the flashlight. He doused the beam with a trembling thumb, plunging himself into near-total darkness. His heart thundered in his chest as he forced himself to listen, his ears straining to separate the sound from his own labored breaths. The footsteps were measured, unhurried, and growing louder.

Through the oppressive gloom, a faint silhouette began to take shape, moving steadily toward him. Vittorio’s breath caught, his pulse quickening as his eyes fixed on the figure. He couldn’t make out the details, but the broad frame and confident stride told him enough—it wasn’t the Entity’s spawn, but it wasn’t safety either.

He pressed himself deeper into the shadows, his mind racing. Friend or foe? Another survivor, or someone who had already succumbed to the madness of this place?

The figure stopped, illuminated briefly by a sliver of moonlight spilling through a broken window. Vittorio’s sharp gaze locked onto them, his body tense despite the searing pain in his side. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, as the stranger’s eyes scanned the darkness.

Vittorio’s grip on his flashlight tightened. He had no weapons, no strength to fight if it came to that. But he would not go quietly.

@brokenbutunyielding

[ashesxofxsin]

The sound of laughter—a hollow, distant echo—drifted through the cold night air. A chilling breeze stirred the tattered flags that lined the entrance of the Carnival of Shadows. Beneath the towering, grotesque tent, the faint flicker of candlelight reflected off the silver pocket watch that swung from Alistair's neck, its hands ticking backwards as if mocking the passage of time.

Alistair Vexley stood at the center of it all, his violet eyes gleaming with a cruel, almost mournful light. His pale lips curled into a smile that never quite reached his eyes, as he watched the guests of his carnival, drawn to the allure of what they could never truly grasp. His crimson tailcoat billowed behind him like a bloodstained promise, the weight of centuries upon his gaunt shoulders.

"Ah, dear souls," he murmured, his voice both melodic and haunting, as he surveyed the lost and broken who wandered into his domain. "You've come for escape, haven't you? For a taste of joy, a fleeting moment of bliss in a world that has long forgotten how to offer such things." His gaze flicked over the crowd, noting each person with the keen eye of a predator, each one a potential puppet in the grand performance that was his life.

"But beware," he continued, his smile widening as he stepped closer to the entrance of the tent, his presence magnetic. "The path to freedom here is but a mirage. And those who chase it..." He paused, voice darkening. "Will find themselves entangled in a web of their own making."

He gave a theatrical bow, the rustle of his coat filling the silence. "Welcome, my darlings, to the Carnival of Shadows. Your final act awaits."

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//I AM OPEN!!!!!!!! YAY!!!!!! The Blog is done!!!!!!!!

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something blue

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//This blog is going through an update. Please be aware that I will be limited on interactions. This update includes adding new characters, updating a couple of faces to current characters, a new way to find my characters, and a rules and requirements page.

Know that I will NOT, under any circumstances allow for my characters to be abused. Just because you don’t like the face claim or how I portray them does not give you a free pass to abuse them.

I am more than willing to plot but know that once you have failed to interact with my characters for more than a month and have not disclosed a hiatus or informed me that you need a break, I will assume that you have lost interest.

[ashesxofxsin]

@lovesdaya

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Georges Merle - The Sorceress (1887)

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“poetry is what happens when your mind stops working and for a moment, all you do is feel” - Atticus

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Devil's Favorite

Amidst the city's labyrinth of shadows, where the neon lights flicker like distant stars in a murky sky, there stalks a figure feared by many, whispered about in hushed tones, and only dared to be glimpsed in the deepest hours of the night. Daemon DeLaveaux, they call him – a spectral presence, a harbinger of darkness, a wraith haunting the city's veins. A demon who hungers for blood and doesn't care who he hurts.

Tall and imposing, Daemon moves with a predatory grace, his steps silent as the whispers of the wind. His dark hair hangs like a veil, obscuring his face, while his eyes, pools of abyssal blackness, seem to devour the light itself. In his late thirties, he bears the weight of years unseen, etched in the lines of his countenance – a visage twisted by the shadows that birthed him.

Muscles ripple beneath his sleek frame, honed not by vanity but by necessity, lending him a silent strength that speaks volumes of the dangers he has faced and the horrors he has witnessed. Standing at 6'5, he towers over the denizens of the night, a specter of intimidation cloaked in the guise of a man.

Clad entirely in black, Daemon moves through the city's arteries like a ghostly apparition. His presence is a palpable dread, a foreboding omen whispered among those who dare to venture into the heart of darkness. And as the night deepens, as the city sleeps and dreams, Daemon roams – searching for his next meal. He slips silently into a dark, dirty bar that's filled with smoke and barely covers the scent of those who have long given up.

He doesn't know who the next one would be...but he knows they are in this bar.

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The Devil Made Me

In the shadowed heart of the city, where the neon lights flicker like dying stars, Mika emerged from the inky abyss of the alley. The air was thick with the stench of decay, and the distant echoes of distant sirens only added to the macabre symphony that played in the dark.

The moon, obscured by ominous clouds, cast feeble rays upon Mika's ashen face. A twisted smile played on her lips, a malevolent dance between pleasure and pain. Her eyes, pools of obsidian with a glint of madness, betrayed a hunger that only the night could satiate.

Blood dripped from her fingers, glistening like rubies as she flexed her hand. The rusty scent of iron accompanied her every step, staining the pavement beneath her with a morbid trail. A dagger, serrated and stained, dangled from her fingertips. Mika's silhouette melded seamlessly with the shadows. The distant hum of a flickering streetlamp seemed to mock the lifelessness around her. Her laughter, a haunting melody, reverberated through the stillness, chilling the air like an icy breath.

As the clock struck midnight, Mika stood at the crossroads, under the dull, flickering streetlamp. She felt eyes on her back, and she looked across the street, a small smirk on her lips.

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Sometimes I just don’t know what to do. I wake up and the first thing that crosses my mind is Im not going to allow myself to wake up again. Maybe one day will go by where I have a feeling of peace like I’ll make it but then again and again, I’m reminded of how little I am and how much I just want to die and forget everyone and everything. It’s sad when you could care less about letting anyone down leaving life so early

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The Ancient Wolf Tavern pulsed with an otherworldly energy as Athena DeLaveaux moved through the dimly lit space, the soft glow of candles casting flickering shadows. Athena's eyes, a deep crimson that seemed to drink in the darkness, scanned the room with a predatory glance. Searching for someone who would occupy her time, her bed and her meal.

Seated at the bar, a lone figure nursing a glass of whiskey caught her attention. His eyes, a reflection of mundane desires, met hers for a fleeting moment before darting away. The challenge appealed to Athena; she could taste the anticipation in the air, a mingling of fear and fascination. A slow, sultry smile curled on her lips as she approached. The stranger's gaze flickered back to her, and she saw the spark of recognition, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes.

"Good evening," Athena purred, her voice a melody that resonated in the man's ears.

The stranger's throat tightened as he struggled to tear his gaze away from hers. It was as if an invisible thread tethered him to Athena, drawing him in with an irresistible force. The air between them crackled with an unspoken tension, a dance of predator and prey. Athena circled him, her movements a hypnotic cadence. "Tell me, what is it that you desire?" Her words were a seductive whisper, weaving a spell that tightened its grip on the man's senses.