dragovasile-blog

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DRAGO VASILE ; fantomă.

aesthetic [ 1 / ? ]

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                                  there is no ѕσυℓ left                                     inside me to save;

                                  the ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴍᴀɴ is gone                               and in  ｈｉｓ   ｇｒａｖｅ.

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How can I sleep at night? There’s a war inside my head.

Hollywood Undead (via igaveyouwonderful)

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Sebastian Stan  HUGO BOSS. Collection SS18

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send me a word and i’ll make/tell a headcanon I have about my character involving that word.

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Slow your breath; unclench your fist. Even in sleep you are ready for war.

The Golden Wing (via bookofendings)

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( && the saint. )

location: between Luhansk and Donetsk, Ukraine time: sundown, about three and a half years ago      ( @dragovasile )

There was a sniper, outside Donetsk. Lurking between small towns in the wasteland.

At least, that’s what the rumors had said. Whispers, in the sparse encampments near Luhansk, where Darya had left the rest of the Days. A scouting mission, they had said. A week there, a week back, and if they were lucky, they would come back to their people with a sniper good enough to start talk.

The group was still small, small enough that they rarely ran out of food but also small enough that an ambush of walkers the likes of which Darya was hoping to take on would overwhelm them too easily for comfort. They had guns, they had bullets. They needed people. They needed snipers, like Xenia, who they could rely on not to waste ammunition or time when the walkers came for them – and come the walkers would, and when they didn’t the Days would come to them. 

It was a vision in the making, still, a young idea, a seed in the soil of Darya’s heart. It would be possible, they knew it would, they believed��it would – God would not have given them an impossible mission, not when the rest of the world was already impossible enough. With faith, and persistence, they would succeed.

And so they walked to Donetsk, asking every Russians-speaking soul they met along their path for news of the sniper, for his last whereabouts, for the place the wraith was said to be found. And now, as they drew close to the wooded area from which an older woman had insisted she’d heard gunfire just the night before, Darya drew quiet, footsteps falling silently under them so as not to crack any sticks hidden beneath the mossy peat that covered the ground along their path.

They closed their eyes as they walked, trusting their faith to guide them along the winding path, opening their other senses to searching for the sniper likely camped in the trees somewhere above them. Listening for breath, or the telltale click of a rifle being readied, the groan of a branch beneath weight. Breathing in the air for anything human. He would be silent, they were sure: a good sniper always was. He would be hard to detect and harder to engage, and they needed to be prepared for a warning shot – or, more likely, for the lack of one. 

But faith would carry them through the mission. They had been called here, after all, called to him. And faith would ensure they saw their mission to its end.

The specimen which stalks him is comprised of humanoid bone, flesh yet acidic, ligaments intact. He finds that worse -- perhaps they plan to flay epidermis like deli meat and use tendons for condiments. Unbridled speculation of forming factions had become a widespread contagion, its virus a plague of false hope or warring destiny. Those who cared little for senseless sermons -- like him -- forged gaping distance between tainted civilization and self-preservation. What fools were signing petitions now, to generate a new era of disposition amidst Tartarus?

The government has been ravaged, and he doesn’t plan to be a part of the next tyrannical rule. His strategy is to outlast in isolation, allow the freshly self-proclaimed kings to scorch their kingdoms with striking matches. What could possible be left to set ablaze?

On the outskirts of lumbered remnants Drago had located a manmade clearing -- the carcass of jet wreckage, skeletal fractals still strapped into deteriorated seats. His peripheral snatches a coral blanket; the only blushing pigment for stark miles. There’s minuscule digits fixed to its fraying edge, and at closer proximity, an infant’s concaved brainpan shrined atop moss-covered steel. His life's entirety has been the process of desensitization; the sight sparks nothing from apathetic lineage. Petra’s nose looses the expired newborn’s skull from its marshy lodge. Fanged jaws part and then enclose -- is it morbid to play fetch with the departed innocent?

A serrated knife slashes dual belts from passengers no longer in need. If he attempts to slumber in elevation, something is going to strap him to questionably sturdy limbs. Altitude is a sniper’s preferred spouse, until that spouse gives way several plus feet. Fatal divorce.

The haze of dusk settles by the time he reaches his advertent shelter. The decision to cease traversing resides among the pathways of roaming walkers and abysmal nightfall. Alien moans have escalated like airborne pyrotechnics before the detonating boom, and survival defines holing up over flirting with luck. Petra rests easy around muscled shoulders, her weight even slighter than when residing within their now perished unit. He recalls deploying choppers with her strapped to his camouflaged chest ( preferred to now, as he scales a battle-worn tree with her secured to him ); days which had been curses that would now be surefire blessings.

Rivets of his spine bite into a bark-less trunk, and the plane’s recycled seatbelts slip beneath occupied limb and knot around his thighs. Petra lies on his outstretched legs, a belt slipped through a loop of her military vest and latched to a branch above. The miracle of prolonged exhaustion begins to overcome him. Hands gripping rifle begin to slacken, but Petra lifts her head, ears pricked, and it’s enough for him to entertain an adversary.

He has the high ground, the triumphant hand of cards. They’re either intelligent or bluntly ignorant. Their approach is passive over tactical -- this is the stalker he can’t shake. The inky shepherd’s lips curl back to reveal bared canines, but she remains hushed, trained like her master. The Dragunov’s suppressor is screwed into place -- he’s seen men commit homicide in this world for the item that obscures weaponized sound. His palm caresses a tally-etched barrel. The target’s eyes scour upward, hinting at experience. He pinpoints their heartbeat, jugular, vital cerebrum. His index hovers fatefully above the trigger, then executes an entirely different breed of prey. The silenced bullet crumples a sprinting immortal, iron embedding between white irises. It twitches against dulled, virulent earth. In his sights, unsanctioned company replaces the felled beast. His voice, tarnished by disuse, cascades: “Вы должны пересмотреть свой интерес.”

The smite of the atmosphere’s final sliver of light will accompany the rest of a lulling horde ( clockwork he’s timed ) lurking through dense brush, and they’re going to swallow this tracker whole. Unless, of course, they deserve a sniper’s sanctuary.

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REST IN PEACE / NOW GET UP AND GO TO WAR.

(via thewolveswillcome-again)

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( && the saint. )

location: the roof of an abandoned building, in a small town outside of Oryol time: early evening      ( open )

It was a small miracle that this building was still structurally sound. Four stories, one of the tallest they’d come across outside of a city proper. They’d taken several hours inspecting the structure, ensuring that no part of its foundation would collapse, and had been pleasantly surprised when that was the case: from the outside, it looked a wreck; windows cracked; pieces of the stone walls missing from what looked like tiny explosions on the ground and first floors; leaking pipes dripping tainted water. 

But the foundation had been sturdy, the staircase climbable. A sign, Darya though, when one of the scouts told them. Surely, this was a sign that they’d been right, that they were meant to come here. 

Most of the Days were camped out in the top floor, resting or eating or keeping a look out for walkers out the cracked windows. A few of them had moved back down to the lower floors to scavenge through desk drawers and cabinets to see if there was anything worth salvaging. Some were working towards blocking off the staircases with larger pieces of furniture to ensure no one unwelcome would make their way up to the top floor during the night. Each had their own duty to secure the location they’d be staying in for a while. But Darya had found a ladder that led up to the roof, and they had made their way to the edge of the building, and sat down cross-legged, looking out over the abandoned town. 

It was half meditation, half reconnaissance – from up here, they’d spot walkers or other survivors over the tops of the other buildings from farther off than anyone looking from the top floor, could call down an alert or grab their own rifle before anyone else knew there was trouble nearby. The advantage wouldn’t last long, once the sky grew dark, but it was nice to have it while it was there. 

But it also gave them space to think, space to breathe. Space, for a moment, to pray alone, as the cold breezes came and went. They’d made the right decision, making their way to this town; Darya believed that with all their heart already, though it had only been the better part of the afternoon since they arrived. Their heart was still, for the moment, a quiet contentment that allowed their aching body to rest and let them turn their thoughts to higher things as they looked out over the town below.

Slick iron adheres to worn soles, its syrupy texture generating a resounding squelch when trudged through. He nearly slips on sludgy entrails, spoiled viscera spread vastly across tarnished flooring. The butt of his rifle obliterates charred bone, grinding smoky wisps into mortal dust. The scent of scorching rot is stifling. To his left, a seared limb still blazes, embers disintegrating into ash while his K9 sentinel scrutinizes its annihilation. The vile creature had stalked him for miles, and the sniper's baited anatomy ensured the mangled beast’s demise. A bullet plugged a gnarled cranium, and a match had done the rest.

A black-clad arm sweeps remnants of a medical cache from their slanted shelf, tattered duffel receiving mediocre contents. Each capsule’s sooted label has lost its legible print -- it’ll take a medic to identify near-powered pills. The building is splintered, bulldozed by nuclear ruination. By its minuscule structure, he thinks it was a privately-owned vitamin shoppe, catering to westernized locals just outside a far more notarized town. When he makes his exit, its through a glassless doorframe, walls detached and devoid of plaster.

The skyline has forsaken its spectral of color. Evening only observes twilight, its archaic splash of primary pastels murdered by an envenomed atmosphere. Its canvas is murky; a swamp enveloped by the haze of atomic fallout. Perhaps the Black Sea of his genesis has been forged into tarred radiation. Petra pads dutifully beside her resolute master, maw agape as she expels soft pants from the day’s exertion. Slobbered beads cascade her periwinkle tongue as she scouts ahead, scarred head swiveling every several paces to ensure her company’s measured pace.

Shadows lick at Drago’s heels, threaten to engulf and swallow. Though he’s graced himself as the honorific predator, nightfall will grant him the title of sitting duck -- prey free of charge. Each stolen stride is a lurch toward a now decimated settlement. His rifle lifts as he encroaches. The mechanical remains of a vehicle are left upon a crypt of fragmented asphalt, and he uses it as makeshift cover. His knee presses against dented earth, and the stand of his rifle is balanced upon a rusted hood. Left eye shuts and right eye focuses, sapphiric iris peering through crystalline scope.

The corner of his mouth quirks, a faint smirk etching fleetingly into weary features. Familiarized figures line somewhat sturdy roofs. Though camaraderie has ceased to exist, the Days have become partially sanctioned fellowship. Shattering the automobile’s rearview mirror, a gloved fist encloses a shard and flashes it toward the nearest opposing scope. Dwindling rays of dulled light glint against its surface. He relays: Eu te vad. Then rises, gait acquiring newfound purpose as he nears the faction leader’s elevated position.

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‘MERCY!’                        they cried,                                                ‘PLEASE — HAVE MERCY!’

‘SORRY,’                       you sneered,                                    ‘—I’M ALL OUT OF MERCY.’

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Deep in the ocean, dead and cast away, Where innocences burned, in flames, A million miles from home, I’m walking ahead I’m frozen to the bones