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  Yo, so if I ain’t made it clear already, ex-mercenary is now a semi-dual muse blog! I will switch between the perspective of Guts or the Beast depending on the thread but Guts is the main and default for interactions (since Beastie is pretty one-track minded) unless Beastie is requested or I jus feel like throwing him at whoever’s muse is unlucky enough to deal with his bullshit. I’ll add this to my rules or something eventually so people don’t get it all confused.

   There’s a few threads from the old blog I am considering moving over to this one, so stay tuned. Do let me know if you would rather we get started with a new thread tho. Also, this will remain a low activity blog. Activity will be sporadic without me making those repetitive updates about it so in advance I appreciate your patience with me and assure my own back at you!

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          Hey what’s up? Finally made up my mind what to do here.

   I wanna detach myself from some crap that’s attached to this blog’s past so I’ve decided I’m gonna make a whole new fresh blog for Guts. I’ll likely stick with the same URL and archive this one so the better memories are still around. I hope some’ve you will follow me over there once I flash it here but if not, no hard feelins; may the rest of your RP career be a good one.

    I got a good chunk of time off coming up, so I’ll try to get the new blog up and running a little more closer to Christmas time yo. Hopefully see you soon, strugglers.

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          Just random blog considerations .  .  . 

   I’m thinkin’ of rebooting Guts slightly, whether this is with an entirely fresh new blog for a fresh slate or not is something I’m still considering, but I don’t think I got the heart to part with established interactions, such as what he has with characters like Freya, Noah or Jeremiah. I cherish that shit too much. I wanna reboot his actual story but not the interactions in them, if that makes sense. Duality was originally just part of an arc of his main story, but I think having the whole Beast and Guts struggle take center stage this time is the way I wanna go.

   I gotta think on it more, but it’ll be fun to have Guts start off more vicious and unhinged this time around and see how interactions with others’ muses shape him again. The Beast itself will of course become a permanent muse alongside Guts, but despite having separate bodies their minds will still remain two sides of the same coin. What one of them experiences in a thread will have an effect on the other, etc etc. It’s hard to explain simply, but once I get this stuff going it’ll hopefully make more sense further down the line. Shit’s exciting :3

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   May bring Guts back soon. That’s a big maybe. Not sure how well I will fare juggling two RP blogs since that’s never been my forte, but it’ll be interesting to try out at least! If I do, I’ll be dropping most of my threads but also contacting the muns about getting some fresh stuff going as I think that’s what I need here. We’ll see. Hope you guys have been keeping well.

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                    “ I ain’t saying I’m the best, but I should be in the top ten;                                           give me a list of names, I’ma top them          I’M JUST PLAYIN WITH YA ; I DON’T CARE WHERE THE TOP IS! ”

                               THE HATED BOSS. / PO’S LAW / MAIN.                                                   written by shaggy.                                                                      art cred.

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   So I’m slowly finishin up the blog for a new muse rn, one guess as to whom. I think this big bad and angry trash lord is gonna be the fresh air I need from this blog for the time being yo. 

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                                                                                    @a-literal-dog | continued from --- [x]

   Now that his vision begins to adjust, Guts takes note of its sleek coat and the lack of any visible wounds, nothing to indicate infection. A stray, huh? Those were few in numbers these days---too often harvested by the open maws of all the beasts that now poison this place. 

   Though his gaze doesn’t leave its face, the way its paws inch closer doesn’t go unnoticed by the struggler. Guts pouts. It’s looking back at him with the eyes of a puppy-dog and a tail with all the waggishness of one. Is this thing messing with him? “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

   He grabs a nearby stick and throws it to draw the animal away. “Beat it!”

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Mama raised him right. He says fuck only on the RIGHT times.

   “Guess I learned somethin’ new about mom’s bedroom habits today. Great.”

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   Guts prefers never to associate with those he meets underground. It’s always been that way. Bust a few heads, crack a few teeth, break a few bones, and that's the only small talk he’d deign to share with the twilights whose asses he’d pulped. His new guest is an exception.

   He’s the first to seek Guts out, and that’s worthy enough to riddle the mutt’s attention from the tyre he was pumping. Guts rather enjoyed their bloody brawl, and wears wounds of his own to prove it. His use of sign explains the lack of any words exchanged last night, but Guts simply shrugs. Why the hell would he know it? Better yet, how the hell’d this bastard find him?

   When the other man finally speaks, Guts has to question just how many teeth he’d knocked out. Many thought the same of his name, and it’s fine by him. Makes it easier to keep a low profile. Regardless, he’s still not one for idle chat. “This is my day job, and you don’t look like you’re payin’,” his own words are muffled by the unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. Helps his symptoms; probably doesn’t help the other man to read his lips, so Guts removes it. 

   “Whatever you want with me, you know when the next fight is. Save it.”

@ex-mercenary bitch are you ready

“I thought I might find you here.” he signed.

That much was a lie to save face. Worick had tracked down the subject of Nic’s intrigue, at his request, while he’d been under Doctor Theo’s thumb today getting his jaw re-set and his latest ceramic tooth put back right. Perfect memory had assisted in finding the man who had caused such an injury last night at the underground fighting ring. Turns out the twilight who’d socked him so hard owned an auto-shop.

It takes him a minute to remember that the man might not be able to understand him. That fighting ring had been one of Nicolas’ old haunts (and how he’d so rapidly attained his A/0 rank…) and so the officials there knew him, and were able to translate.

“You didn’ say ‘Guts’ was your rea’ name.” comes his deaf English. He’d thought it was a stage name.

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Let Guts say fuck

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The wounded dog is still kicking. Find any good scraps recently?

   “Tch, yeah, funnily enough–I did,” he says, eyeing the assassin up and down to prove a point. Even Guts finds smug satisfaction knowing Silat had walked himself right into that one.

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   Another rough night of slaying beasts and avoiding death by the Brand, and Guts doesn’t know where it’s brought him. Everything looks the same, and he feels as though he’s walked the endless maze for a time he has long lost touch with. All he seeks is shelter, food, perhaps a place he can wash off the grit and gore from the night that he’s thankful is not his own.

   The blood is a stench he can never truly seem to cleanse from his body, and the unwelcome attention it often brings boosts his paranoia whenever he treads foreign territory such as this. Guts feels his fingers itch to reach for his only assurance in the form of the Dragon Slayer as his single eye scans the leafy sanctuary. It’s far too quiet. He's unsure what lurks this abode. Uncertainty is something he can’t afford to get in the way of his journey however, so after a glimpse over his shoulder toward the tallest trees, he continues on with vigilance held high.

Beginnings || + ex-mercenary

Daylight hours where seemingly the only safe time to sleep, despite how much she longed for the night. The sun on her back and the cool breeze rustling the leaves above her head where pleasant however, but even in sleep she was acutely aware of the forest around her. Mercy buried her about down against her front paws, curling up as tightly as possible. Ears pushed back and blue eyes closed, it was hours before something stirred her.

Beneath the hollow tree she denned in, one blue eye opened and scanned what she could see. Her senses where telling her to wake, to be on guard. Feeling a presence before the rest of her body caught up from waking. Someone, or something was walking close by.

@ex-mercenary

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Every time Casca looks at him, his tail thumps against the floor, only stopping when she looks back toward the black box with the tiny humans inside. When she looks at him again, Puck peers quickly at the wall--conveniently where his leash hangs--then back at her. Another thump. He gives her a whistle and a whine as he stretches out and rubs his muzzle against the floor. He may be a massive hound but he's never forgotten how to use the eyes of a puppy to get what he wants.

Nothing surpassed the comfort of lounging enclosed by the four walls of her home while the elements went to war. The rain of a picture-perfect early autumn day drummed against the windows, sharp wind whistling and joining in on its song, and it had Casca bound to the couch since noon. A situation tremendously downgraded by the absence of her mate, whose co-worker’s drinking habits left Guts no choice but to help out at the Mine instead of spending it tangled between the sheets with her. To make a point of her steadily increasing boredom, Casca folded a leg over the back of the sofa and caved to a hearty sigh. Only her fingers kept busy as they zapped through every existing channel, a frequent repeat of the same old procedure whilst hoping for a higher force to hear her plea and change the program. So much for ‘Netflix and Chill’. 

Little did she know that an angel with a personal mission was long assigned to her, trotting his way into her life on a total of four paws, and all four of them at least the size of her fists. With the occasional allowance for privacy whenever she went to the loo, Puck didn’t leave Casca’s side if it could be avoided. Today, Casca couldn’t help but feel sorry for him (and herself, too). His muzzle didn’t leave the cushion of his furry forelegs since she had first stolen a peek. But, Puck was a dog - and dogs found delight in the little blessings life offered. And because he was a large hound, too, bred for hunting prey in challenging climates, it didn’t take much for him to grow utterly fed up of sharing Casca’s attention with a bunch of box-trapped puppies when so much fun could be had outside. 

Ten minutes into ‘The wonderful world of puppies’ and he gave her that look. 

Granted, Casca didn’t initially see much of that look. All paired with persuasive, ‘please look at me because you didn’t pay attention to me in the last minute’-eyes, Puck kept his intentions well concealed - after all, it was part of his new game. The first time she separated from the on-screen pups, Puck still looked like he hadn’t moved an inch in the last hour. Thud, thud, thud. His tail drummed rhythmically, swished across dull carpet floor. Forth, back, up and down until his human mum went back to the show. Blissfully ignorant, just as he had hoped. For now. 

Five minutes later, and thanks to the irritation of feeling closely observed, Puck enjoyed Casca’s undivided gaze once more. She eyes him suspiciously, but his attempts to keep up the oblivious act were award-winning nonetheless. “Don’t act like you can’t see me”; her melodic cooing results in another excited tail-thumping. Dogs loved to play games, yes they did, but trying to feign control when hearing their favourite humans voice? Impossible! His delight was far too great.

Casca followed his gaze until it met - oh, what a surprise - the corridor with his leash dangling from a coat hanger. Seems like Puck and her had shared the very same idea of passing some time together, even if it still rained like mad. This dog didn’t care about the weather. Casca cared, but she was bored out of her own skin - enough to think about donning a rain coat and go for a quick run with Guts’ best buddy. When Puck whined very much in the manner of the television puppies, his persuasive eyes were but a final means to an already won point. Just in case Casca changed her mind. Not that anyone would, face to face with the deepest, brownest, most loyal pair of dog eyes they had ever seen. Only a very cruel and heartless, perhaps even sociopathic monster would reject the plead of a dog in need; a dog who loved this human just as much as he loved his master. And Casca was neither a monster, nor was she a sociopath. She loved this four-legged angel as much as she would love her closest family.

When she sat up, the hound jumped to his enormous paws too. His plan had worked, yes? It must have done so, because the next thing he saw was the leash in Casca’s hands! Lucky for his colour-blind eyes, he didn’t have to see the ridiculous pink of her coat; but, even if he did, his love was unconditional. Her fingers felt so nice in his coat. Casca loved the softness of it, despite its brittle look. Well, what time was there left to waste? 

Pink or not, rain or not, the two of em were going on an adventure. 

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I-i-is that a Berserk reference?!?!?!? Experimenting not being so opaque all the time. Enjoyed the design process quite a bit. Let me know what you think! :D https://www.artstation.com/aragah https://www.instagram.com/aragah/ http://aragah.tumblr.com/

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               ☓ – ·              The victor is known already. Wrapped around the other man’s throat, Guts’ arm tightens up, muscles bulging and intending to choke. His blood-wrapped fist slams ruthlessly against stomach and cheek until the man either taps out or falls cold. When Guts feels the repetitive slap of a palm struggle against his thigh, his contender was fortunate to choose the former because Guts didn’t know if anything else could make him stop. Breaking his strangle hold to allow another body to hit the floor, the champion fighter steps away. 

   Guts paces the inner circle of the ring like an anxious dog. He shakes the stiffness, the pins and needles from his fingers, stretches his aching wrists and rolls away the tension from his massive shoulders, but it never changes. Never enough to dull his fever or make it go away. 

   Fingers burrowing into the cage chain-link, Guts rests his head there and spits out his mouth guard. His forehead crowned with blood and sweat just as thick, he stares long into the crowd before him. They pulse and writhe like adrenaline-fuelled maggots, howling his name. His chest staggers as he begs in breath, steam filtering through his teeth. This night was his reason for living. A night to release his magma before it erupted against the many. Not even Godo’s wide-eyed stare through a fog of white smoke sobers up the brawler from his zone.

                         At least, until her.

   He knows the sound; it drowns the rest of them out. The pit-pat of bare feet stepping in to challenge him. A woman. He’s never fought one of those before. He can’t measure just how fragile she’ll be, how many teeth will shatter against his bloody knuckles. Guts never cared for the outcry of his people; even less so for the money lining his pockets upon tasting victory. The thrill of the next fight is all that spurs him, and he has to admit that as his one eye meets her two, a different kind of rush courses through him. Despite his triumph, the path had not been easy. He’d seen her briefly, just as she’d seen him. What is it about this woman that's left her conquering beasts twice her size? As one who fits that profile, Guts thirsts to find out. 

   He tightens the bandage wraps binding his fists and cracks his neck one more time. Spits a mixture of blood and saliva while glaring her in the face. Says nothing; he doesn’t need to. The crowd already says it all. Break her pretty face. Bruise her up. Get your ass beat by a woman, you're no longer a man--this one enrages Guts particularly. Where they see nothing but a lost piece of meat, he sees a worthy opponent, and it doesn’t change how he’ll take her.

   His right shoulder cocks back. Guts doesn’t have a particular strategy, he just wants to see what she’ll do. He senses she’s nervous, questioning her chances, and he breathes in deeply. Him, he doesn’t know what to think. He just knows to strike, and that’s exactly what he’ll do. Guts doesn’t wait for her to make the first move. He kicks himself forward and charges her like a bull with its horns bowed, aiming to slam his shoulder into her midsection and thrust her back against the cage. He's gonna beat down on her before she even knows what’s hitting.

Casca took a whiff of the sweltering air. Though almost impossible to breathe in this stench of alcohol infused sweat, she felt intoxicated by the sheer ecstasy of what had just happened. Riding a high so forceful she stumbled backwards when the deafening howls and catcalls announced her victory. To her feet lied a stocky man in his late twenties, her fifth rival in a row, and while the contender had looked intimidatingly superior in strength before she took him on Casca’s strategy had clearly paid off: wear the big man out until his guard slips and kick him into submission. Whatever force her muscles lacked, the woman made up with agility and stamina. 

No time was wasted until the next fight commenced a few minutes later; everyone including Casca moved out of the way to clear space for yet another testosterone driven pair. With a crowd thirsting for blood as much as the fighters themselves did, even Casca nearly forgot about the price money teasing just in arms reach. She had owned her ground tonight. Tasted the very essence of fearlessness and empowerment first hand. Granted, maybe she felt a little too drunk on adrenaline too, but screw it. She wanted more. 

Unaware of her burning thirst until a pale blonde stranger offered a pint of beer, she downed the drink in three large sips and thanked her. While it didn’t exactly quench the pressure of wanting to jump back in the ring, it did some much needed cooling down of her overheated body. A darting tongue feasted on blood-mingled sweat, licking across the swelling of a nasty looking bruise. Come tomorrow Adon was going to give her hell for damaging her ‘pretty face’, but Casca couldn’t begin to think of the consequences now.

Before her very eyes unfolded a fight so enrapturing, Casca held her breath. 

And finally remembered the questionable stigma of underground tournaments: people were betting on men and women who went at each other with the deadly intention of rabid dogs. Their bared, snarling fangs and bleeding knuckles encouraged the crowd to cheer louder, rooting for one guy in particular.

She remembered him standing with the others who watched her fight before. Given his ridiculous height, even in the midst of beating the living shit out of someone it was hard to miss a tower like him.

Her ears rang with the repeated chanting of his name. Guts seemed to be an audience favourite and Casca needn’t watch twice to see why he lived up to his name. Though equally built, his rival broke like rice paper under the crushing weight of his fists. Ten minutes later and the poor bleeding sod crumbled, quickly replaced by another confident challenger who jumped in. Much to the heated audience’s entertainment, he lasted for five whole minutes. The itch within her knuckles grew. Guts’ careless poise pissed her off, enough to drive her feet forwards before Casca had an idea of what the fuck she was doing.

‘Am I tripping? There’s no way I’m a match for him.’ 

But, if she made it past Guts the money was as good as hers. Sooner or later they’d face each other anyway, she might as well make good use of the manic tenacity she felt in this moment. Guts was the perfect match to test her skills on. 

Ringed by a circle of people, Casca shivered under the static air and finally met his sole-eyed gaze. 

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