fortunehunts

[fortunehunts]

kinda wanna make a new theme for sarah cause i made this one a long time ago when i didnt have any editing software to work with. i think i might. but sadly i dont write here often cause honestly i find sarah to hard writing with others cause of how Traumatized™ i write her. 

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can i get a witness cause i can hold a grudge like nobody’s business

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Tales of Runeterra: Bilgewater - “Double-Double Cross”

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HELLBENT / a miss fortune playlist. 

i. yellow flicker beat by lorde / ii. arsonist’s lullaby by hozier / iii. wrong black mare by brown bird / iv. broken bones by kaleo / v. beat the devil’s tattoo by black rebel motorcycle club / vi. devil devil by MILCK / vii. natural by imagine dragons / viii. hellfire by barns courtney / ix. horns by bryce fox / x. raise hell by dorothy / xi. money by ivy levan / xii. how to be a heartbreaker by marina & the diamonds / xiii. delilah by florence + the machine 

( listen ) 

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if i die, i die on my own terms

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I’m like porcelain ☰ Porcelain | Skott

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                Her hand was burning, the skin made bloody and raw by the hot metal of her pistol. Her hands were shaking and she felt like her soul had been seeped in tar, made heavy and worn, but there was no blood on her body. She didn’t want to let go of her gun, it was the only tether keeping her tied to the moment, it was the only thing keeping her alive and keeping her mind from reveling in a mad sorrow. A gun meant survival in this sin soaked town of demons and haunting. The gun in her hand meant she was alive, meant she would survive; it was as much as a need as food and drink. 

                If Sarah let go of her gun, she’s sure the spirits in the mist would come crawling back out to devour her soul from her aching body. She could still feel the faint memory of bony, rotting hands grappling with her arms and shoulders as they ripped at her clothes, trying to take her body and soul. The touch of the mist was as cold as death; her shoulders were still freezing while her hands burned from firing into the face of an undead, spectral body. She doesn’t know if silver really purges them or keeps them away, but she clings to the superstition to at least give her the vague impression of something to hold onto. Sarah doubts it really stops them, but she needs a reason to keep this gun in her hand, to keep this fire of desperation and survival alive in her core. 

                Tears begin to burn the corners of her eyes, forcing her to take one of her shaky hands stained with oil and gun powder up to her face. She rubs the back of her trembling palm against her eyes, trying to quickly force the tears away before the next hungry wave of the mist rolls like a fog through Bilgewater. She can’t force them to stop, though, her whole body begin to quake as her childhood grief comes back to haunt her. The sorrow she felt as a child quakes violently within her chest, making her heart twist and turn into something broken and sore. 

                She had seen a face from her nightmares reflected in the mist, in the ghost trying to take her. Sarah had seen her mother’s face, and suddenly all her nightmares came back like a raging storm to drown her where she stood. She had pointed her gun at the spirit’s face, her mother’s face, and watched it rupture and ripple into the air like smoke at the end of her barrel. She had stood in the same place as the man who took her mother from her, and she had mirrored him. All her fear and hurt made her feel sick.

                Sarah’s shoulders shook violently and she couldn’t fight the stream of salty tears streaming on her cheeks now. The tidal wave of rage and sorrow that crashed down onto her made her feel weak until she slumped against the wall, falling to her knees where she silently sobbed while clutching her pistol like it was some kind of lifeline ( and to her, it was ). She was reminded of how she felt when she was a little girl all those years ago, shoulder aching with a gun shot wound, and her parents dead around her— only now she felt all the grief of her girlhood as well as the haunting terror of becoming like the man that had killed her parents without a shred of remorse. 

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Mojayskoe on Flickr.

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I rise from my worst disasters, I turn, I change.

Virginia Woolf, The Waves (via la-femme-terrible)

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Bounty Hunter - Yilang Chen

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you reap what you sow, and you sowed the seed of sin in me 

i am justice, i am vengeance, i am the angel of death and i have come for you

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Mangersta, Isle of Lewis, 2016.

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@fxlgurkinesis

                She stuck out painfully among the people of Bilgewater. There was a rust in the blood of people who were born on this island of seawater, blood, and sin; she was entirely void of that. She looked bright, new, some kind of hopeful ray of light that shined through the storm clouds of Bilgewater. Sarah noticed it immediately, and she’s sure that others did too; there was a man on the pier watching her, there were two barmaids standing outside a tavern watching her while they gossiped. It seemed inevitable to Sarah that someone in this city of people who had to lie and cheat to survive would take advantage of that hopeful shine to her eyes, that kind way she thanked a fisherman for something as simple as pulling his nets out of her way. 

                Sarah pushes herself off the wall she was leaning against, sighing to herself before making her way to the young woman. The ghost that haunted the back of her thoughts refused to leave this woman stranded, so to speak, when she knew just what could happen to the young and innocent in Bilgewater. It was an almost carnal instinct in her to protect what was good in the world, so that it would be as marred and ruined as it had made her. 

                 “You’re a long way from home, miss,” she says when she stops next to her, a subtle coy smile spread over her lips to make a good impression. Bilgewater’s mistress of retribution extended her proverbial wing over the young woman when she came to stand next to her, smiling and speaking to her. Her mere presence was a sign of power in this city; it could be silently understood that she was under Fortune’s protection for the moment. The man on the pier grimaced then turned away, disappearing into the crowd. The barmaids that had been eyeing her put out their cigarettes and went back into the tavern. 

                “Where are you lookin’ to go, sweetheart? Maybe I can help ya’.” 

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Apparently “spite” is not an ‘appropriate answer’ to “What motivates you?”