elicoorian-blog

[elicoorian-blog]

atonings:

—✕ █ ▌Something in him comes hand in hand with COOL logic, a need to refute the other’s words lest he goes mad. He enjoys stimulation of an intellectual sort, likes to hear what others say, for one cannot know the identities of potential enemies if one does not seek how they work. Not a TEAM PLAYER, this one. Loghain would most like have to abandon him if it came down to combat. Yet, what he doesn’t lack is honesty.

❝What makes a man foolish and what does not? Are you so alone as to not find any worth whatsoever in the lives of others? Even someone who BEHAVES too rashly bears some worth; it simply takes a clever mind to find it.❞ The words he speaks almost sound cunning, as if he’d DARE to use others as his pawns. He cringes at that thought. ❝To tackle on all of humanity that has wronged you is quite the feat — if you want to rid your presence of those you deem foolish, you cannot take them on ALL AT ONCE.❞

Albel is silent, for a moment at least. To not find any worth in the lives of others? Though he is expressionless outwardly - the quiet the only sign the words have given him reason to think - he finds it rather ironic that actually it’s not that he hates others or sees no worth in them. The issue is himself; it always has been, always will be. He feels some mild relief that the conversation didn’t halt long enough there that he be forced to speak his mind, and instead he laughs at what’s said next.

“Oh? Is that a challenge? I’d love to take on every fool at once.” Though it is true (he’s not stupid enough to believe otherwise) that the feat wouldn’t easily be accomplished, nor end in his victory. But it would be fun. Almost like a coliseum battle, or maybe like that one dungeon. Chaos, to say the least. However undoubtedly a true test of skill. “Would you not take the chance to fight so many at once?” 

[elicoorian-blog]

mrcyril:

“We’re having a lover’s spat already? And we haven’t even been properly reunited; as I’ve said, tragic.” Cyril’s thriving as a miscreant; his toothy grin expanding; exposing all his whites, as if the lack of imperfection therein may excuse the vileness of his necessity to overstay. He’s something that doesn’t lose its ghastliness over time.

He isn’t ill-natured from stupidity; he knows Albel is irritated by all this incessant babble; he knows that he is a mass of befouling filth, to him; and he can’t get enough of it.

Cyril inches closer, purposely colliding shoulders with Albel; and he doesn’t shiver when it’s armor, just as frigid as its owner, that he comes in contact with. He means this as a taunt, ever the tantalizer.

“I dreamt that you kissed me, y'know. Sparing ya’ the details, ‘cause it might’ve ended on an explicit note; but that’s my desperation for you, isn’t it?” It was a pleasure to burn, to be singed and driven back by flame; and he’s certain that his interlocutor is bound to incinerate him.

Albel resists the desire to punch him with an armoured fist - it wouldn’t end well. Not that he wasn’t a confident combatant; he could hold his own, but it would get neither of them anywhere to bother. Besides, he’s almost certain Cyril is just waiting for the day he finally snaps - screw giving him that satisfaction. 

One thing Albel likes the most is his space. Even when travelling with that lot he kept his distance any time he could. When Cyril was around, however, the limits of personal space were often broken in provocation and taunting - there were no boundaries. Both physical and verbal. And some things that would leave this man’s mouth, Albel wishes he could unhear.

“What makes you think I’m interested in hearing about your dreams? Keep them to yourself.” If the soldier was any lesser of a man he might have shivered at the mere disgusting implications that entire mouthful of crap had. “I don’t care how desperate you are, it doesn’t mean I have to indulge you in anything, you imbecile.” He purposely takes a step, or five, away, in whatever direction will create the biggest space between them. He doesn’t need an excuse to do so. He despises how normal this is.

[elicoorian-blog]

SEND FOR AN AESTHETIC OR MOOD COLLAGE OF OUR MUSES. ↳ cyril & albel nox.

❝ we’re pals, chums, mates; and, if you ever come to your senses, we can be more, @elicoorian. ❞

[elicoorian-blog]

mrcyril:

He’s made his way to Albel’s bed, its sheets mussed as he sits on top of it; sure in his observing, Cyril’s noted that he tends to his linen. It’s unblemished, free of creases, when he, the cloven-footed one, is absent.

He wonders if Albel sleeps soundly at all.

“Y'know, darling,” and he’s buoyed by a feral joy, but it’s far from its exactest (there are periorbital dark circles around his eyes; he’s plain exhausted), “I can tell ya’ right now that you like my company; and that you miss me when I’m gone.”

Assuredness swells within his chest; he knows Albel could startle him into immobility with the right scare tactics (and if he’s in a vulnerable state, a rarity); could sock him in the belly or worse; but he hasn’t.

“Admit that it’s boring without me.”

His scowl grows even more when he sees the walking filth seat himself on his bed. It’s typical, but right after he’s changed the sheets? Disgusting. But then it speaks - it speaks and it has such a stupid thing to say that Albel can’t even retort immediately. Well, until that last part. 

“As if!” he responds, spinning on his heels to turn away, ready to storm off in some direction that meant he didn’t have to deal with nonsense. However he stops short after a few paces and stands still, hand resting at his waist. Not that he misses him when he’s gone - that is still a fact utterly preposterous - but if Cyril were to stop visiting at all, or very-obviously-not-accidentally running into him, he probably would be about ready to murder someone or something for the dullness of this place.

“Well,” he hesitates as he begins to speak, and then shrugs. If Cyril has called him out thus far, he’s not stupid - not that Albel ever thought he was. “I suppose with you around it’s a little less boring.” But that doesn’t mean he likes it, absolutely not. He would love to make the man squirm and suffer like the pest of a worm that he is - but Albel isn’t blind to ability either. A fist fight, he thinks he’s more likely to lose than win against this abhorrent thing (as distasteful as it feels to have to admit it to himself).  

[elicoorian-blog]

@mrcyril

Is that a knife in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? 

Honestly, for a while, Albel contemplated surprising Cyril with that merely for the entertainment of how he might react. However there were three fatal flaws in the entire notion.

This is Cyril, it probably is a knife.

Knife or no, he probably is happy to see him.

This could lead to a real messy future; if Albel plays along once, it’ll likely be expected of him again.

So, after staring at Cyril for a few moments longer than necessary, he abandons his plan without any further thought. And finally manages to shift his somewhat pensive expression into a scowl.

“Must you always just let yourself in?”

[elicoorian-blog]

fckegoodguy:

“A waste? Funny like your very being-ah, thats right.” He knocks a fist to his head lightly, as if remembering something. I’m suppose to be a good guy, that means not fighting with civilians.” Well its been a  month at most, he should have his cellphone in his secret compartment on his armour , but he’s not showing that.

“Than again you just admitted to readily murder for something so petty. So… your a villain or some goth phase anti-hero?“

“What business is it of yours what I am?” Albel wouldn’t label himself anything, in truth. He’s taken actions of villainy, he’s taken actions of heroism, but he wouldn’t class himself as either. He takes action on what he believes in and what he wants to do, without the influence of others, that’s all. “When you have lived as a soldier as long as I have, you quickly learn mercy towards enemies only leads to your own demise. I won’t put myself in such foolish positions. Those who want to oppose me can prove their strength. If they can’t win, they aren’t worth their words.”

[elicoorian-blog]

atonings:

@elicoorian - Some people don’t understand anything.      ↪ meme || accepting

—✕ █ ▌❝Won’t go THAT FAR.❞ Everyone has to understand something, and despite the other’s statement being more a hyperbole than a fact, Loghain finds it within him to respond with an argument in mind. He pushes himself off from against a wall, arms crossing and then uncrossing over his chest again and again until the rest, planted upon his hips. He’s cheeky when he tilts his head to one side, still having it in him to be SARCASTIC. ❝Everyone understands SOMETHING,❞ but he knows what the other means ( though something in him says that the man with two toned hair isn’t much of a team player ), lips quickly turning into an obvious frown. ❝What is it that’s BOTHERING you? Just making a general statement, or is someone out there pissing you off?❞

Albel could almost cringe at the logical response, of course everyone understands something, but it’s hardly ever (to him) the right things. The things that, to him, are common sense. But maybe that’s just because of the type of person he is: His logic differs from others, and the things he believes and actions he has taken because of them are exactly what have earned him his somewhat fearsome title. Perhaps his statement would have been better off phrased as some people just don’t know their place. But, he said what he said, and it doesn’t change his agitation over the matter. He shrugs his shoulders.

“Both.” he answers plainly. “A general statement about foolish people.” If he even bothers to call them people. Worms. Maggots. Anything puny probably fits them better. 

[elicoorian-blog]

I am faithful to you, darling. ;)

Albel knows better than to trust a single word that forms from this man’s mouth by now. They’re both men of motive, though Cyril’s generally remain entirely ulterior to utterly anything he says. Certainly though, if Albel thought to suggest an ounce of mischief take place, Cyril would not hesitate to assist in creating it. But Albel (strongly) doubts he would be so loyal as to not turn his knife around onto him someday - Albel would definitely like another attempt at stabbing him, just with something sharper than this accursed wooden blade this time. 

Frankly, however, Albel is more than glad that is the case. He has no interest in any kind of mutual gain from loyalty - risks and sacrifice that come with it aren’t worth the benefit. Fayt and his motley crew of fools was another matter; common enemies, Woltar’s instruction, and the fact Albel had to deign to admit that Fayt was stronger than himself played a factor in his co-operation. Well, not that it was all bad. But he’s not about to go calling a single one of them his friend.

And that goes for this imbecile, too.

“So?” he looks at the other with apparent scrutiny, “what do you want from me this time?” And Creators forbid he mentions another kiss, or maybe the wooden splinters of his current ‘sword’ really will make it right through his little body this time. Well, perhaps not - what’s ineffective is still going to be ineffective, but one day he will return the frustration tenfold with violence.

[elicoorian-blog]

RICHARD SIKEN / WAR OF THE FOXES Change pronouns as necessary and tweak sentences as appropriate!

I am faithful to you, darling.

When you bang on the wall you have to remember you’re on both sides of it but go ahead, yell at yourself.

Some people don’t understand anything.

He’s easy to desire since there’s not much to him.

No one wants to know what’s in his head.

To make something beautiful should be enough. It isn’t. It should be.

You’d break your heart to make it bigger.

Will you defend yourself? From me, I mean.

Let’s kill something.

I prefer to blame others, it’s easier.

All these ghosts come streaming down and I wish I had something else.

We all move forward anyway. Ripples in all directions.

What is a ghost? Something dead that seems to be alive. Something dead that doesn’t know it’s dead.

All thoughts finish themselves eventually.

Can we love nature for what it really is: predatory?

When you have nothing to say, set something on fire.

I wanted to explain myself to myself in an understandable way.

Something’s not right about what I’m doing but I’m still doing it.

The enormity of my desire disgusts me.

Look away but I’m still there.

Want something to chase you? Run.

Take only what you need.

Never finish a war without starting another.

I’ve seen your true face: the back of your head. If you were walking away, keep walking.

The fear: that nothing survives. The greater fear: that something does.

All these things and what to do with them. We carve up the world all the time.

I like dead things. They cannot hurt me.

We like things related to our survival: soup, arrows - they expand the range of the species.

My body is a graveyard.

People like to think war means something.

Let’s admit, without apology, what we do to each other. We know who our enemies are. We know.

There are many loves but only one war.

You will need to comfort him, or we will never be finished with this.

You cannot have an opponent if you keep saying yes.

Its roots in the ground and its branches in the air, a tree is pulled in two directions.

The boy is a bird, bad bird. He falls out of trees.

You cannot get in the way of anyone’s path to God. You can, but it does no good.

Some say God is where we put our sorrow.

In the wrong light anyone can look like a darkness.

What can you know about a person?

Difficult thing, to be scrutinized so long.

Even when I look away I am still looking.

Everyone secretly wants to collaborate with the enemy, to construct a truer version of the self.

How much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it’s some kind of murder?

Why build a room you can live in? Why build a shed for your fears?

There wasn’t much left but it felt like him, wild and scared.

The best part of spirituality is reverence. There are other parts. Some people like to hear the sound of their own voice.

If you don’t believe in God, then who are you talking to?

But truth doesn’t count in law, only proof.

Was I discovered or invented? Feels like I’ve always been here.

Measure yourself against the truth and not the other way around.

Perfect and completely dead.

People don’t learn anything unless they are afraid of being left behind.

Logic is boring because it works. Being unreasonable is exciting.

I am your arrival, there is no refusal, we are here, you see, together, we are already here.

This is also part of the story: how the story changes. This is something I forgot to tell you.

You might like it here. I think that you might like it here.

I tell you these things because I love you.

It’s nothing like I thought it would be and closer to what I meant.

Maybe we will wake up to the silence of shoes at the foot of the bed not going anywhere.

It reminds me of where I was going without you.

You know what it’s like to be alone: gimlets and vermicide. You know what it’s like to be alive, so forgiveness.

You asked me once, What are we made of? Well, these are the things we’re made of.

I turned my ears in all directions. I’ll live alone or in between.

Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else.

Your body told me in a dream it’s never been afraid of anything.

I live in big spaces, so I’m left alone in big spaces.

We made ourselves cold. We made ourselves snow. We smuggled ourselves into ourselves. Haunted by each other’s knowledge.

To hide somewhere is not surrender, it is trickery.

I try to guess your trajectory and end up telling my own story.

I surrender my desire to be healed.

Take it or leave it, and for the most part you take it.

Shame comes from vanity. Shame means you’re guilty, like the rest of us, but you think you’re better than we are. Maybe you are.

There is no new me, there is no old me, there’s just me, the same me, the whole time.

Don’t try to make a stronger wind, you’ll wear yourself out. Build a better sail.

You want to solve something? Get out of your own way.

What’s the difference between me and the world? Compartmentalisation.

I hope it’s love. I’m trying really hard to make it love.

I clawed my way into the light but the light is just as scary.

I’d rather quit. I’d rather be sad. It’s too much work.

I mean, maybe it’s better if my opponent wins.

What happens when I no longer want to meet you?

Nothing lasts forever: we know this.

Longing and suffering? Of course, of course. You want it to mean something.

You can disconnect it or you can try to glue it all together.

We could pull it apart, spend our whole lives pulling it apart and have no time left to do anything smart with the pieces.

The sooner you embrace it, the sooner it will leave you.

You are what you cover up.

Noise and more noise. Noise up to heaven.

One wonders why a story like this exists.

I want to give you more but not everything. You don’t need everything.

Someone has to leave first.

He was pointing at the moon but I was looking at his hand.

All this was prepared for me. All this was set in motion long ago.

I stayed as long as I could. Now look at the moon.

What does all this love amount to?

[elicoorian-blog]

fckegoodguy:

 Well look like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. Not that Ricardo would care. 

 “If your strong, you get to what whatever you want. I don’t see anyone complaining about your pull and fuck me up bangs pinned to your face.”  Of course the armour hid much more than skin ,it was a disguise of course that he had forgotten about for a long time.  “And so what if there are? is that a problem? Talk about close minded…”

“That’s because the people who think to complain directly to me about anything get to see the point a the end of my sword. And usually they don’t live.” It’s his lack of mercy that’s gotten him the title of the Wicked. Fayt may be the only person who has lived through his complaints - but that is because Albel has accepted him as being stronger. Albel will still have him on his knees one day, however. Or at least, he would have if he hadn’t somehow ended up back here. That brat’s probably freaking out over his disappearance again. “I didn’t say it was a problem, you fool. It’s a waste. Even if it is custom.”  

[elicoorian-blog]

fckegoodguy:

Many people unfamiliar with wrestling had the same question, but few would dare actually ask that. When your almost seven feet and made from pure muscle, people get scared of asking the embarrassing questions. Of course, Ricardo is rather open to new people, considering that the entire wrestling federation expanded to the whole universe and beyond. 

 “What? This old thing? Its a helmet of course. Safety is always important.” Says the guy wearing his battle undies, chestplate armour and a helmet, and not much else. He looks more fan service than anything really. “Its a custom to wear this helmet my whole life.” Like he literally had this helmet since he was a baby. 

He ceases his pointing as he receives a response. Eyes casting lower as he thinks about what is said for a moment. 

“Safety?” He snorts, or at least makes a sound very familiar to it. “If you’re strong, you don’t need such armour.” Albel’s gauntlet up his arm is something of another matter, hiding atrocities beneath it, but he himself (in all) doesn’t look much the sort prepared for battle. At least, not one on the defensive side. “But, a custom, you say? Then there are more of people like you?” 

[elicoorian-blog]

mrcyril:

Cyril is cunning when he’s addling the brains of his unwilling company (and for added effect, he often puts his hand to his brow, as though he’s a man in mental perplexity); and, so unlike an uneducated hireling, additional mentions of philosophical thought; fabricated, commendable deeds that he’s surely affected sourly; are tossed about like fair play. Therein lies his depravity: where most have to aim; with all the junk wrapped around his chest where the heart hides.

And, upon reintroduction with the paragon of beauty, his face is eloquent of physical suffering; in fact, it’s sudden when his expression changes marvelously (a toothy grin on display: teeth that could shear; words sharp on the tongue). There’s no mistaking the profound glee in his steps as he approaches Albel. Mayhaps the seed of repulsion he’s sown has germinated him, but an injection of fear is absent when he knows he’s dealing with a more barbaric version of Mr. Gabriel.

Albel is sure to run red with carnage, and Cyril’s grin widens because of it.

“Incredible tragedy, us bein’ separated like that,” he chimes in, unwarranted (and sickly-sweet, his voice is), “Awful; just awful. Didn’t know you would break my heart, Pudding. I think I deserve a ‘welcome back kiss’ for all my suffering, yeah?”

Oh if only he could sever the head from the body it’s attached to and cast the whole lot into a pit of fire not unlike the flames of the air dragons. After all, he knows well the pain of a dragon’s fiery breath. His eyes, filled with an indignant hostility the moment he hears that voice, open to stare at the fool it comes from. Just as he remembers, a man nigh intolerable (that yet he somehow manages to tolerate without slitting his throat - though that may just be because he doesn’t have appropriate access to the necessary things to do it). 

Albel doesn’t agree that it was a tragedy, but it is a fact that things were rather boring without a thorn in one’s side to deal with. Peace had never been something appreciated by Albel, no matter how good it’s supposed to be. So although he is bitter, and wouldn’t hesitate in any other circumstance (armed, preferably) to take out this accursed maggot as though crushing one under the sole of a shoe, he’s actually quite pleased. 

“Dream on, fool.” he retorts with ease; this is normal, as much as he despises to admit it. “Take your desperation elsewhere. I’m sure there’s more willing victims you can waste the time of.”

[elicoorian-blog]

@fckegoodguy

Now, Albel’s seen his fair share of people, considering his travels with that particular bunch took him... well, around the entire solar system. And out into the 4D World, by technicality. Which still makes no fathomable or believable sense, fact as it might be when they took out the creator. But his eyes settle upon someone that looks inherently misplaced, once again. This isn’t some kind of coliseum.

“What, exactly” he points (rudely) toward the man and his helmet, “is the point of wearing that around here?”

[elicoorian-blog]

vulcanheritage:

“Let’s discuss preferred bath temperature. The only acceptable answer is boiling.” 

“Heat isn’t all that grand. Try freezing.”

[elicoorian-blog]

@mrcyril

Albel can’t decide if he’s surprised or not, that fate would hate him so much that he must once again encounter him of all people in this city. It was one thing when they were neighbors but this - this was abysmal. Atrocious. Entirely uncalled for. Those scientists are out to get him, clearly. And when he finds them, he’ll spare them no mercy. 

Already the back of his mind can hear the sound - the way Pudding rolls off this man’s tongue, and how he holds absolutely no fear in calling him that, all topped off with his rotten smile. 

Thus, futile though it may be, he entertains the thought that perhaps if he closes his eyes he might just disappear. Or maybe he’ll wake up, ready to be berated by Fayt for having disrupted his sleep once again. Because this is definitely a nightmare.

[elicoorian-blog]

hello everyone! i’m rinu, and your resident (angsty) asshole albel nox! i spend my time crying about fictional characters, working, and sleeping. i have a lot of rp blogs, but i look forward to writing with all of you here; it’s been a while since i’ve been in citta, and i’m glad to bring albel back once again! 

[elicoorian-blog]

Swordsman; he knows it’s something that refers to himself, but with his original katana missing and a meager wooden replacement at his side (which, he’s confirmed by testing out on a pest of a neighbour, is usleless for anything but show) he doesn’t really feel like one. He can itch for action all he likes, but with the claws of his gauntlet non-existent (leaving him with merely an armoured, worthless, prosthetic arm) and the lack of a durable and effective weapon, he can’t exactly get himself into fights with those he deems worthy enough.

He’s surprised a girl like this has the gall to approach him; not that he cares either way, but it’s always noticeable when people avoid ‘Albel the Wicked’ while uttering that name.

“This fake can taste nothing, but my real blade has tasted the blood of more people and monsters than you could count.”

@elicoorian

<<I’veseen decidedly few swordsmen, though I’d thought them to be quitecommon.>> She’s eyeing the weapon at his side, though she knows not whetherit is of wood or steel. It is true; she knows one other swordsman (or, rather,swordswoman) by name, and whether ornot that girl is here remains to be determined. The art of the sword has nevercaptured Yukari’s interest, no – there are far more elegant ways of fighting –but she could stand to meet one who is capable with such a weapon, should thereever be a need for such skills.

<<Pardonme for being overly curious, but is it simply just for show? Or has it tasted blood?>>