#❛ rp ━━ when choices made had forged the blade.

[peoplcshope]

He smiles as he returned to this timeline. It must have been..possibly a year or two since he’s last been here after the Zamasu incident. Though, this was the first time he’s actually come here on a rather casual occasion so he was indeed quite nervous as he slowly approached his mother. “Umm, hello mother.” He was a little bashful..after all, it had been AGES for him since he’s spoken to any incarnation of his mother. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

liked for a starter / @age733

[rphelperblog]

An Enchantment of Ravens Book Quote Rp Meme

by Margaret Rogerson- feel free to edot or change pronouns for rp service

“Why do we desire, above all other things, that which has the greatest power to destroy us?”

“Ah, but you were not a pawn. All along, you have been the queen.” 

“The ability to feel is a strength, not a weakness.” 

“Walking along a blade’s edge was only fun until the blade stopped being a metaphor.”

“If you must stare at something for hours on end, I’d prefer it to be me alone.” 

listen. The teapot is of no consequence. I can defeat anyone, at any time.”

“An extra twenty-four hours was nothing. Yet, it was everything. I might live more tomorrow then I did all the years of the rest of my life combined.” 

“When the world failed me, I could always lose myself in my work.” 

“Yes—I am in love—here’s the proof!” or was it always caught up in a wretched tangle of ifs and buts and maybes?” 

“I was alive in a way I never had been before, in a world that no longer felt stale but instead crackled with breathless promise.” 

"That's the worst declaration of love I've ever heard!” 

“One raven for uncertain peril. Six for danger sure to arrive. A dozen for death, if not avoided. The enchantment is sealed.” 

"Yes, you're the loveliest bird."

“Soft and sharp at once, an aching tenderness edged with sorrow, naked proof of a heart already broken.” 

“They looked like a pair of cupids who had decided they liked shooting people with real arrows better. They were horrible. I loved them so much.” 

“You are empty,and cruel.”

“Didn't they realize their lives were worth more than the dubious affection of one silly man?” 

“I couldn’t decide whether the idea owed itself to vanity, a depressing lack of creativity, or both.” 

“But isn’t absurdity part of being human? We aren’t ageless creatures who watch centuries pass from afar. Our worlds are small, our lives are short, and we can only bleed a little before we fall.” 

"Is that so terrible? You say it as though it's the most awful thing you can imagine. It isn't as though I've done it on purpose. Somehow I've even grown fond of your - your irritating questions, and your short legs, and your accidental attempts to kill me." 

“And we wouldn't live happily ever after, because I don't believe in such nonsense, but we both had a long, bold adventure ahead of us, and a great deal to look forward to at last.”

“Ah, I see. In that case, well-behaved ravens. They will mind their manners.” 

“What must it be like? To meet someone, to forge a connection, all in the span of one golden afternoon—only to find out that for her, each passing minute was a year. Each second, an hour. She would be dead before the sun rose the next day. A keen, quiet pain twisted my heart.” 

“This wasn't like me. So many years of being cautious, and in a matter of minutes I'd started slipping up.”

“Yet no matter what they were doing, everyone in the forest waited with an indrawn breath, waiting for the taste of autumn, the smell of change, the first news of a king and queen unlike any the world had known before.” 

“But that was the problem with the old me, I was coming to realize. She'd accepted that behaving correctly meant not being happy, because that was the way the world worked. She hadn't asked enough - of life, or of herself.” 

“Perfect subjects make for less interesting work.” 

“Fair folk are impossible.” 

“That’s irregular, coming from a human who can’t even eat a raw hare.” 

“Oh, you cannot imagine the power your kind holds over us. How very much we envy you. There is more life in your littlest fingernail than in everyone in my court combined.” 

"do you ever wonder what it would be like to be something other than what we are?” 

“We need to talk about what you said last night.” 

“I hate it when people tell me that.It’s never good.” 

“I wondered if my head and heart would ever reconcile, or whether I'd just cursed myself to relive this moment for the rest of my years, half assured I'd made the only choice available to me, half always whispering if only, the whole of me filled with bitter regret.” 

“Once, a Whimsical poet died of despair after finding himself unequal to the task of capturing a fair one's beauty in simile. I think it more likely he died of arsenic poisoning, but so the story goes.” 

“The thought of seeing judgment - or worse, disappointment - on her face when she looked at me next made me want to curl in on myself and never face the world again. I had no way to prove that the love him and I felt for each other was real and that we deserved every desperate, foolhardy inch of it, and I was already tired, so tired, of bearing its weight as a failure. A crime.” 

“This was a look that would make time stop, if it could. Soft and sharp at once, an aching tenderness edged with sorrow, naked proof of a heart already broken. Here I stood in a dragonfly dress, holding his arm, and he knew our time was almost over.” 

"You are like a living rose among wax flowers. We may last forever, but you bloom brighter and smell sweeter, and draw blood with your thorns.”

I love you wholly. I love you eternally. I love you so dearly it frightens me. I fear I could not live without you. I could see your face every morning upon waking for a thousand years and still look forward to the next as though it were the first.”  

“You mean the connection’s never occurred to you before? Do you have any critical thinking skills at all?”

“I’d always scoffed at stories in which maidens pine for their absent suitors, boys they’ve hardly known a week and have no business falling for. Didn’t they realize their lives were worth more than the dubious affection of one silly young man? That there were things to do in a world that didn’t revolve solely around their heartbreak? Then it happens to you, and you understand you aren’t any different from those girls after all. Oh, they still seem just as absurd—you’ve simply joined them, in quite a humbling way. But isn’t absurdity part of being human?” 

“He was astonishingly vain even by fair folk standards, which was like saying a pond is unusually wet, or a bear surprisingly hairy.” 

“If an unfamiliar dog follows you at night, don't stop to look at it. If you wake up to find a cat you don't recognize sitting in your yard, watching your house, don't open the door. And most of all, if you see a beautiful horse near a lake or the edge of the forest, never, ever try to ride it.”

[scholar-thief]

[ RP LOG ]

Momori meets Cheche Dotharl. They collect clay. @cheche-dotharl

Momori can be seen leaving her tent, her arms full with a large sack that bulged in awkward places. She could scarcely see over her luggage, but despite that, she still strode on with a brisk pace.

Cheche is standing in place, though there's a pause as she hears someone approach. Her hands stop from her work, carving some sort of bone, as her gold eyes shift downwards as if to follow Momori's trajectory. She doesn't move out of the way for now, however, head head curiously tilted.

Momori collides into the au ra! The bag hits the floor, and several curious objects roll out from it. A small spade, several apples, and countless glass vials. Momori lies dazed on the floor, and looks up. Another expeditioner? And...what a way to make an introduction. She mumbles a few curses under her breath.

Cheche 's lips part very slightly, eyes blinking. Oh. "-- sorry. Are you all right?" She reaches, then looks a little surprised. Then keeps reaching. Keeps reaching and... ah. There she is. Momori is picked up and set on her feet and dusted before the xaela bends down, patting the ground as if to search for the various things she heard fall to the ground.

Momori lifts a finger to her neck, and nods at Cheche. “Hearts still pounding, so I should be good. Can’t say the same about my ego, though…You’re Cheche, right?” Momori shakes a vial from out of her sleeve, and begins to unceremoniously shove the bag’s contents back in with her foot.

Cheche is gentle in comparison, picking up as much as she could before offering the items one at a time. An apple here, a vial there... "Ah, then my apologies again about the ego. Yes, I am Cheche. And whom may I be speaking to...?"

Momori: “Momori. Charmed.” She brandishes the small gardening spade as though wielding a dagger, and tosses it gracefully in the air, catching it behind her back...then shoves it into the bag with a sigh. “Was about to go collect some clay samples from Voor Sian Siran, but…” She looks at the hulking mess of a bag. “...don’t suppose you have some free time to help out a weak and pitiful lalafell?”

Cheche nods. "-- a pleasure," she agrees easily. She offers a smile then, shaking her head. "I would not mind doing so, though I am still somewhat unfamiliar with this area. Too big with too many cliffs. If you lead the way, you have my hands at your disposal."

Momori gratefully hands the bag over to Cheche. “As long as you carry that, I’d be happy to lead on. Your very own seeing eye lalafell, heehee!” Momori’s face, usually stoic, shows Cheche a mischievous grin. Somehow, /somewhere/ she finds the situation humorous. “Let’s be off then! Suns dropping low, wouldn’t want to get caught out in the dark. You know what happens...in the dark.”

Cheche holds out her hand, accepting the bag offered. As everything, she carefully slings it over her shoulder to carry it, crossed over to the other side of her existent bag. "What does happen in the dark?" Her question is genuine, eyes upon Momori as if to follow her movements.

Momori: “Oh, just some tall tales I’ve heard from the locals. There’s a rotund, spirit, oh so jolly, decked in red and white. And, well....Let’s just hope you haven’t been up to anything naughty recently.” Momori gives Cheche an ominous look, her gaze steely and cold. Then proceeds to continue hiking towards their destination.

Cheche looks thoughtful to that, steps slow but keeping up easily with the shorter lalafell. "-- no, I have not heard of such a spirit," she muses. "Where does it hail from? What defines what is naughty? What happens to those that are?" Her questions are entirely honest, a rhythmic twitch of her tail as if she's paying attention.

Momori: “A land far, far separated from our own. From a place known only as...the North pole.” Momori leads the two of them around some gastronis, giving the wildlife a wide berth, just in case. “Naughty, well, like telling lies, or pulling pranks. Is that the sort of stuff you get into, Cheche?”

Cheche looks thoughtful again, her eyes picking up briefly to stare skywards. "-- no, I have not heard of such a place. What brings such a spirit so far away from home? It is rare for them to stray so far from where they hail." Her tail twitches again before she looks down back to Momori, shaking her head. "I do not think so. Do you?"

Momori: “An insatiable appetite for naughty souls, of course. Under the cover of darkness, unfortunate victims are simply whisked away, with but a lump of coal left at where they once stood…” Momori pauses for dramatic effect, and glances back at Cheche. “If not for your sake, then for mine, we should avoid the night.” She cracks a smile, not directly answering the au ra’s question, nor giving away any indication that she had made up the entire tale on the spot.

Cheche seems to take Momori's story very seriously, fingers gently drumming upon her lips. "-- well, if we find ourselves under the threat of such a spirit, I will do what I can to keep you safe. But you are right-- it best be that we do not venture late at night then. Or at least, if there is no choice, not to do so alone."

Cheche: "I forgot to ask," she belatedly mentions. "-- what do you need clay samples for?"

Momori nods, a little amused at how seriously Cheche is taking her story. She wonders if this is how all tall tales start.

Momori: “Oh, it’s for a project I’ve been working on. Ancient Sil’dih pottery that’s been shattered to near a thousand pieces. There’s a very particular clay around here that’s a good glue and stabilizing agent. That is, if we can find it, whilst avoiding the feisty wildlife.”

Cheche hums, thoughtful again. "-- shattered pottery. I am sorry to hear that. You are trying to fix it?" She doesn't seem to mind venturing into the water, it coming up to her ankles. "Would you rather I keep an eye out for the wildlife? Or... if there is a way to know how to recognize the right clay, I could help you seek it out."

Momori looks around, observing the shell-like patterns submerged underneath the water...which, by the way, nearly came all the way up to her waist. “Yep. There could be a pattern, or paintings on the outside of the pot. Worth studying, or at least conserving so later generations can enjoy it.” She then turns to Cheche and pokes the bag.

Momori: “The clay we’re looking for is almost pitch black, but we’ll have to dig around for it. I brought a bunch of apples to tame the wildlife, so let's start by tossing them places away from our digsite?”

Cheche shows a mild smile to that. "Of course. It is a noble effort." To Momori's description there's a brief 'ah', though she nods soon enough to her directions. "I have a knife. Would it be better for us to cut pieces and throw them, or put them away whole?"

Momori nods. “Cut it up, so we can have a few slices of our own. As nutritious as slop is, I haven’t had something sweet in a long time..I heard there were honey cakes, but by the time I dropped by, there weren’t even crumbs left.”

Cheche looks apologetic to that. "Ah, yes. They disappeared quite quickly, yes..." She looks for a little hunting knife, clearly hand-crafted from some sort of bone rather than metal forged. One of the apples are cut, and with each peace she'd lower it down to Momori's hands before pulling off another one.

Momori is quite pleased. Gear, carried. Apples, cut. This au ra was very helpful to have around! She chomped on her slice and eyed the strange knife that Cheche held in her hands. “Curious little blade you got there. Hand carved?”

Cheche nods, cutting up the rest of the apples to place around. "Ah, yes. Where I hail from, everything we own is made by our own hands. It is our way of life, after all." There's a pause. "Would you like another piece?"

Momori nods, and grabs another piece of apple. She then gives Cheche her best impression of puppy dog eyes, though when merged with her resting bitch face, Momori just looks kind of....strange. “Could I take a look at the blade?”

Cheche 's expression doesn't quite change, still staring towards Momori as if to regard her. "Ah, yes. Of course." She offers the blade, making sure as not to point the sharper end towards the lalafell. "Would you like me to set the apples out while you do?"

Momori is already deeply engrossed in observing the blade. Her eyes light up in a way that they haven't before. She snaps back to attention. “Huh? Oh, yes. Toss the apples around.”

Cheche does that indeed. Momori would find that she's not accurate AT ALL, but at least it doesn't matter as much as long as they're scattered. The blade is simple but seems to do its job, mostly half of it flattened and sharpened at one side. The hilt is decorated, carved with foreign patterns that likely have worn down with time.

Momori: “These patterns...I can’t say I know much of Othgardian culture. Do they symbolize something? Tell a story, or picture a god?” Momori stares at Cheche with a bright intensity. The lalafell demeanor has shifted, dramatically. Her once flat gaze is now lit up with passion that is almost overwhelming.

Cheche looks back to Momori, the tip of her tail rising slightly with attention. "Ah. Well. They all mean different things, yes." She lowers herself by bending her knees, more of her longer tail submerged in the water. Her hand carefully touches Momori's arm, searching its way to the dagger to locate the hilt. She points to each pattern with her finger, explaining the different animals that they represent.

Momori eagerly listens to Cheche’s explanation, gobbling up the information with increased fervor. It wasn’t often she could learn about such a foreign culture, straight from the source. Only the feeling of water in her boots snapped her out of the trance - that’s right, the clay! Momori forced herself to peel her attention away from the dagger. “I would love to have you tell me more. But! My feet are starting to feel pruned, and the clay isn’t going to dig itself out.”

Cheche chuckles a litttle to that, straightening up. "Of course. Clay." She accepts the dagger back, plucking it up carefully before returning it to its leather sheathe. It's placed back to her belongings. "So, how does one go about collecting such? Do I simply... dig?"

Momori: “Dig, dig, dig! With this, though.” Momori pulls the gardening spade from the bag. She then looks down at the water, and her brow furrows. “Ugh, it’s going to be messy digging with water slooshing everywhere. I didn’t think of that.”

Cheche accepts the spade, examining it with her hands. She feels it carefully, looking confused for a moment. "-- ah. Is this a dagger?" Her head tilts to Momori, then looks downwards. "If you do not wish to, I could do it."

Momori: “Unless you were trying to kill someone slowly and inefficiently, I wouldn’t use that as a dagger. Though, it is an interesting idea...could have some use during...hmm...” Momori thinks to herself, seriously considering the idea of using a gardening spade in a clearly terrible way. “Anyway, please, go ahead! Just stab the soft ground with it and start making a hole. Meanwhile, I’ll try to figure out a way to drain the water.”

Cheche does just that, squatting down proper to poke at the ground. She does so quite literally, stabbing and stabbing and stabbing and... not getting anywhere. At least she's got the spirit, her expression firm with concentration.

(Momori) HMM (Momori) is. is she just. stabbing??! the same spot?!? (Cheche) yes (Momori) PLES..... im cry (Cheche) the ground got what it deserved (Momori) 911 id like to report a murder (Cheche) GOT WHAT IT DESERVED!!!!!!

Momori wanders off and eyes a large limpet, attached to stone that peeked up from the water. Using her dagger, she slices around it and forces it off. With the mollusk’s flesh discarded, its shell made a decent enough container to lug water in. She comes back to find Cheche just. Stabbing! Stabbing away. There’a blossom of brown dirt in the water at where this is happening.

Momori: “..............How’s the hole coming along?”

Cheche just... keeps stabbing. The mud is really getting what it had coming for it. "-- ah. I am unsure if it is... working?" Her head tilts. "I could try using my hands. Or am I wielding it incorrectly?"

Momori doesn’t know what to say at first. It’s kind of entertaining to watch Cheche stab the dirt like a crazed murderer, but on the other hand, she needed clay! Letting this continue would probably just result in a mud hole. “Try pushing the spade towards yourself, and then scooping the dirt away. And if that doesn’t work, yes, use your hands.”

Cheche stares with newfound focus, trying as she's told. She's... somewhat successful! Her tail flicks upwards with her newfound knowledge, likely sending some water flying behind her. "-- ah, I see. You called this object a spade?" She tries a few more times, tail plopping to the water with a mild splash before flicking from side to side.

Momori blinks. Does Cheche not know what a spade is? Momori bends over, using her limpet bucket to scoop some water away from the hole that is steadily being dug. “Spade. It’s used for digging, gardening…” Momori can’t help herself. A tell-tale grin spreads on her lips. “...and for eating. Yes. A useful tool to have around!”

Cheche hums. "I see. A tool that is used in a multitude of ways..." She seems to believe Momori, clearly fascinated at the object. "I can see how it would be helpful, yes. It is very effective. Do you often use such a tool?"

Momori: “All the time. Perhaps when we’re back at camp, I can show you it’s other uses.” Momori pours away some brown water, and then peers into the hole. Something black, and markedly more dense, lies underneath a few ilms of dirt. “Hm! I think we’ve found what we’re looking for.”

Cheche 's expression brightens, or has it? Compared to before, maybe. "You would? Ah, of course." She turns her attention back, digging a little quicker. They have clay to obtain!!

(Momori) hehe the two of them using....g...gardening spades at dinner time (Cheche) truly a romantic dinner (Cheche) wine involved (Momori) such fancy (Cheche) thank god (Momori) wine, gruel, and spades (Cheche) THANK GOD (Momori) FINALLY...some good food (Cheche) scoops the clay up to eat (Momori) HUFFS (Momori) NO!! (Momori) the forbidden sauce (Cheche) delicious (Momori) bloody good eating

Momori grabs a glass vial and fills it to the brim with the black clay, and a bit of water. There’s plenty of clay being dug out by Cheche, in mounds all around the original hole. By visiting these piles, Momori quickly fills all the vials. Messy, but a job well done! She looks to the camera, deadpan. “Nice.”

Cheche straightens up at the confirmation, having to stretch a little from spending so long squatted down. She's entirely COVERED with clay and mud, but it doesn't seem to bother her. "Did you manage to get what you needed?"

Momori stares at Cheche and laughs. “Hah! Thal’s balls...do you know where Cheche is? All I see is a mudman in front of me.”

Cheche chuckles, brushing some of the mud off to wash off with the water. "Never seen her. But if you do, please let me know." She nods to Momori. "Did you need anything else?"

Momori: “That’s all for today. You’ve been a big help, I should take you along for all my work…” She gives Cheche a thumbs up. Off in the distance, a gross slorping noise can be heard, as the local water slugs gorge themselves on the apple slices. The sun is just beginning to dip beneath the horizon. “We should get moving, while the fauna are still distracted by our bait. And before, well, the spirit comes around to harvest my soul.”

Cheche smiles. "Gotten into much mischief, then? I would be eager to get washed, myself. It has been a pleasure working with you, Momori." She nods again. "There is little for me to offer, but if you have the need of my assistance, you only need ask." After a brisk motion, she sets out to follow the lalafell back to camp... likely to learn of the "correct" use of spades and who knows what else.

[dxus-vult]

This Love was Like a Meteor

Hi! This is a new thing I’m trying out where I post fic samples to form a sort of “portfolio” for future rp partners to look at, while also serving as a series of character studies and backstory. 

Tw: gore

“Come closer,” Lucifer beckoned. 

Michael looked at her quizzingly. Lucifer only tilted her head, expecting Michael to act. 

Very well. And so Michael did.

“Closer.”

A kiss, then. Really now, starlight. Michael shook her head and inched closer. Lucifer frowned in response and rotated her cheek, inching closer as well, but angling too far to deliver any kisses.

“Closer.”

Curious, Michael did so again.

“Closer.”

Michael could feel Lucifer’s hot breath, so much like that of a dragon’s, upon her ear.

And in the smallest whisper, light as a feather, Lucifer told Michael:

“Fuck off.”

THWACK!

Lucifer’s head flew across the grass field like a football as a trail of black ichor jetted out. Her torso collapsed onto the long, tufted grass, their blades spoilt by the black spillage from the neck.

A silver talon erupted out of the ground, and Lucifer huffed in fury as she clawed her way onto the surface.

“God DAMMIT Michael! You made me use my lousy corporation!”

Just as Michael was about to reply, Lucifer stuck out her talon, performing a miracle strong enough to siphon gusts of wind into the palm.

They had swords forged as a symbol of their sorority, once upon a time. The metal had been smelted from the heart of a star and then folded into a marbled blade. Michael had taught Lucifer how to weld it. Her training was tested as their blades clashed with each other during the War in Heaven, and Michael remembered how the head of Lucifer’s snapped off when she delivered a particularly powerful swing. Lucifer’s sword now rested inside a glass case in Heaven’s museum, a symbol of a bygone era. It would take a very determined miracle in order to retrieve it.

The hilt of Lucifer’s sword apparated into her hand, then glowed alight with her signature blue Hellfire. Loud sparks flared and popped as the Hellfire flared up the blade. Heaven’s swords were never meant to withstand Hellfire, after all.

“Come on, snake. Let’s rattle.”

Michael summoned its intact twin and blocked Lucifer’s attack. And so they sparred, Lucifer using her sword as if it was not falling apart at all. Yes, well, desperation usually causes these situations.

Lucifer batted Michael’s sword away, and finally, her broken sword crumbled into dust. Michael did not have time to react as Lucifer punched Michael in the nose. Golden ichor dripped down Michael’s lips as she fell onto her back, and just before Michael could reach for her sword, Lucifer’s sharp talons closed around her throat.

Can’t blame Michael if Lucifer forced her to this choice, after all.

“You’re better than this, starlight,” Michael whispered, a sorrowful frown upon her brow. Lucifer’s grip loosened, and a surge of victory swelled within Michael. “Don’t you accept me? Don’t you care for me?”

A pensive expression bloomed across her face, and Lucifer let go. Then she hopped off and stuck out her talon.

There we go. Lucifer at heart had always been too philanthropic to fight. And so Michael sat up to grab it.

Lucifer reached for Michael’s sword instead.

A blank frown was on Lucifer’s face as she held Michael’s sword by its hilt. And then Michael watched in horror as blue Hellfire climbed up the steel, crackling the surface like mud under a hot sun. Lucifer’s draconic eyes were on Michael’s, judging her every expression. 

Michael’s sword crumbled into dust and drifted onto the ground. Lucifer turned her head and politely blew it off her silver talons, though still, those reptilian, diamond pupils remained on Michael.

Lucifer dragged her discorporated body away, her head under her arm, as Michael stared at what remained of her ruined sword.

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, CAS! You’ve been accepted for the role of TYBALT. Admin Minnie: I HAVE WAITED A MILLION YEARS FOR EXACTLY YOU, CAS. Please do not think that I am, for one second, exaggerating. You expect every Tiberius application to have a force of will and dynamic quality behind it, but you gave us nuance. You gave us depth. Reading your application left me feeling like I was walking on a tightrope, in the very best way possible, with danger and urgency and FUN. I have no doubt that you will keep all of us on the edge of our seats with our heart in our throats with your Tiberius! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias |  Cas.

Age |  Twenty-two.

Preferred Pronouns |  She/her.

Activity Level |  I’m finishing up my MLit, but I tend to work in the day and then write in the night, so I don’t think it would affect my activity much. Lockdown means that I’m pretty much always around, always have access to a laptop and, therefore, will probably alwaysbe writing. To give it a numerical scale, I’d give it 8/9.

Timezone | GMT.

How did you find the rp? |  Honestly? I’ve been following this roleplay since it opened, more or less. I kinda forgot about it for a while, but I was writing a paper on Shakespeare and that reminded me I should take another look.

IN CHARACTER

Character |  Tybalt, Tiberius Capulet.

What drew you to this character? |  While I was reading the open bios, I was pulled between a few different characters. I actually started writing up an application for Hero, but honestly, when I read Tiberius’ bio? I was totally enthralled. I’m used to playing sharp, wily, morally ambiguous characters, so Tiberius is new ground for me. He’s a gun with a mouth, a bomb always teetering on the edge of explosion, he’s a blade, he’s a weapon, and he builds a shrine to himself. He is unapologetically the villain of his own story, and nobody can take that away from him. He’s the sort of person who makes you utter his name out in full: Tiberius Capulet. He likes the sound of that. It’s harsh and guttural; it sticks to the roof of your mouth and chokes you. You don’t forget a name like that — and anyway, he doesn’t let you. Tiberius is a god made flesh, and he makes sure you know it. But he’s hungry, ravenous, really, and nothing sates that appetite. There’s a quote by Ruth Awad which I think puts what I’m trying to say quite nicely: ‘God who ate everything, did this world feed you?’ What really draws me towards Tiberius is the fact that he seems to vacillate between two extremes: he is at once cavernous and filled with every damask feeling in the world. He feels nothing and he feels everything; he looks at the world with two brutal, voracious eyes and decides he’ll devour it someday, he’ll eat it raw. That much is owed to him. If the god Ares lives among them, he lives in Tiberius: he is an ancient storm bated beneath skin. If he is given a choice between love and fear, he chooses fear, every time, until he burns so bright the world ends.

And yet, that’s only a slice of him. After all, how do you burn without a fire? Tiberius casts himself as the antagonist, but layered beneath that surface are chapters upon chapters of unfinished stories, untold tales, a whole mythology just sitting there, boiling under the skin. He’s brutal, but he’s not without feeling; quite the opposite, he feels things more deeply than most. Sure, he’s not a man of many attachments, but those he has, he holds onto for dear life. He is at once the beast and the man; the villain and the anti-villain. I think what drew me to Tiberius more than anything is the opportunity to unfurl all this rage, all this villainy in him, and to really determine where it comes from. He covets the crown of Verona, but he is first and last a Capulet — that is something that both propels him into greatness and holds him back. He will set this city ablaze and simultaneously shield his cousins from the fires of his own making. They’re a name, they’re a dynasty, and, sure, he wants the crown, but he’ll stop at nothing to preserve that. He loves them, in his own savage, infernal way. Their strategies will never be the same—Juliet is the Heart, Rafaella the Brain, Tiberius the Brute Force—but they forge a formidable trifecta. So, I suppose what makes Tiberius most interesting as a character is this oscillation between morality and amorality: he wants to feel the weight of the world in his hands and have them bruised by it, but what is he willing to sacrifice to achieve that? He is a mere prince, not a king, and while he knows that power is wielded by those who carve it out in stone and not those who are simply born into it, at night he dreams of sitting on a throne, ruling high above them all.

Anyway, sorry, I rambled — but! Essentially, I’m drawn to Tiberius not merely because he’s a wildfire as much as he is flesh and blood, but also because he has this impossible task of navigating and determining his own loyalties. He has one goal, plain and simple: Tiberius wants to rule. He has felt a strange magnetic pull to the throne ever since he was born; it has been calling his name for as long as he can remember. And he doesn’t care for much, but for those who make the cut, he’ll do anything, stop at nothing; he would pulverise this city into dust if it meant the Capulets emerged from the rubble on top. If feeling deeply makes you a monster, well, then, is the man a monster?

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character?

‘I, too, wanted to set Rome on fire, but never became an emperor due to unforeseen circumstances.’  Anonymous.

He’s a non-playable character, I know, but I’d love to explore Tiberius’ relationship with Cosimo a little more. I can’t help but feel that from the moment the boy know what power was, felt the weight of it in his bones, Tiberius has made himself accessible, always, to the man he hopes to replace. He was raised in the boss’ household, at all times hemmed in with wealth and warfare but always tempered by that culture of respect Cosimo has cultivated, and all he has ever known is bloodshed, scheming and the ruthless folklore of the Montague/Capulet feud. It’s not really a war anymore. More a lifestyle; simply how things are. Every single thing he knows about the world has been callously seized from the pages of history this mighty house has rewritten, and everything he can see, everything the dark touches, has Cosimo at the helm of it all. For two years, it was him, only him, before Juliana came along. That’s something I’d like to explore down the line: the scorn of his parentage which he finds so unfortunate, coalesced with his rearing, those years gleaning from Cosimo’s words lessons of war and honour, and the way in which Juliana’s birth cut through that blissful acrimony. Like a fine blade cutting through cardinal silk. What were those first two years like for him? Tiberius wears irascible warfare like a second skin — Juliana does not. And that is what makes one a worthy General, no? I’d love to delve a little deeper into the upbringing of the two—Cosimo’s subtly different dealings with them both—and how they have each flourished as a consequence of that. After all, it all goes hand-in-hand with his status as a Captain. Juliana the Heiress, Rafaella the Advisor — but him? Tiberius is a Capulet, but he is severed from the same power, prestige and influence afforded to his cousins; he is relegated and forced to run with the wolves, avid and hungry, with no history or name to bolster them. He may not be Cosimo’s son, but he is Capulet by name and by nature — ought he not dwell amongst other Capulets? It’s an insult, plain and true, and I’d love to explore how that affects Tiberius’ relationship with the other Captains. He views himself above them, their superior in all but status; but how do they view him?

‘Hades is relentless and untamed; so mortals hate him most of all the gods.’  Homer, from The Iliad.

Every action is purposeful, every swing of the blade with a goal in mind. He is no haphazard architect of chaos; the chaos is marked, always deliberate. More than anything, I would love to see Tiberius achieve everything he’s ever dreamed of. To become, once and for all, emperor; the General. But for that to happen, he has to cast Juliana and Rafaella aside. Juliana should be easy enough, he thinks, she has too much heart and too much soul to resort to artillery, blood, firepower—complacency is cowardice—but Rafaella is a more arduous obstacle. She smart enough for the crown, Tiberius is certain of it. Rafaella is not a Capulet by blood, but she is a Capulet by nature, and her wit is a force to be reckoned with. She is Tiberius’ real competition, primogeniture be damned, and, one day, he will have to fight her for the crown. The Capulets are a powerful little triad, to be sure: what with the empathy of Juliana, the sharp gumption of Rafaella, and the brute strength of Tiberius, they are unstoppable, impregnable. They yield to no-one, and that is the beauty of it all. But Tiberius is a dangerous sort of beast; he is blinded by rage and, for as long as he can remember, he has seen all things in red. I’d love to see a plot where Tiberius is at last granted everything he’s ever wanted—the heiress is cast aside as well as the polymath—and Verona suffers for it. After all, history has had its say on bloody men: Herod, Caligula, where are they now? They are dead. Their hands are marred with executions, with the blood of innocents. War is easy, isn’t it? But ruling is harder. Tiberius would not be a good ruler. Not now, not without identifying the seat of all that anger in him; not without Juliana and Rafaella at his side. There’s too much rage in him, too much cruelty. He lacks the heart and wit of his cousins. He is a man of war, a harbinger of violence and blood; what man like that knows the first thing about politics? He was born savage and he will die savage, plain and simple. Tiberius’ rule is not one, I don’t think, that Verona would take to easily. It’s this strange cesspool of moral degradation which thrives in duplicity: Verona is much too familiar with that thin, gauzy film it casts over people’s eyes. And when the body politic suffers, people tend to do something about it.

+  Equally, he might come to terms with the idea that Juliana, Rafaella and Tiberius need each other to rule. Not merely does Tiberius need them, but they need him. He’s prepared to get his hands dirty — in fact, he revels in it. As I mentioned, there is something in each of them which is necessary for ruling. Tiberius may groan at the softness of Juliana’s heart and he might resent the wit which permits Rafaella to rule over him, but he needs them both. If the Capulets want to rule, they must learn to do it together. They are a coin with three faces, and together, they engender a divinity for the modern age.

‘I’ve exhausted all my cruelty. I’ve arrived at myself again.’  Jenny George, from The Dream of Reason.

For most people, cruelty is a fickle thing: it comes and goes when necessity demands of it. Tiberius is not like most people. Through his eyes, the world crumbles to dust, and he stands, menacing and cruel, high above the wreckage. He has always expected that of himself and, as a result, so have those around him. He’s no Machiavelli, but the harshness of his heart strikes fear into his soldiers, his enemies, his underlings. But what happens when that brutality is exhausted? What happens when you take and take and take from that pot of callousness, of inhumanity, and the next time you reach your hand down into it, it comes up empty? A body can only contain so much: it is only a vessel. I would love to see Tiberius come to the end of his thread, to exhaust all the cruelty in him, and for the first time be forced to confront who he really is beneath all that anger. Identify where it all comes from. There’s a line in Tiberius’ bio I love: ‘He would never be satisfied—not until he drew his last breath, and probably not even then.’ He is relentless, utterly relentless, but every man has a breaking point. Nothing is enough for him, nothing sates him, and that is enough to break him. Tiberius is always being pulled between family pride and power; the Capulet name and the Capulet crown. He has always been decisive but, here, he falters. It bends him out of shape. I want to see him question absolutely everything he has ever known: his ambition, his hubris, his selfhood. Who is he, beyond the anger? Beyond the rage? There’s a quote from Antony and Cleopatra just before Antony’s death which I love: ‘Here I am Antony, / Yet I cannot hold this visible shape.’ I want to see that happen to Tiberius. I want to see him question absolutely everything he knows himself, everything he thinks he wants, and completely re-evaluate it. Maybe it makes him vulnerable — or maybe it makes him weak.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? |  Oh, for sure.

IN DEPTH

In-Character Para Sample: (Full disclaimer, this had a whole story but I ran out of time, so I had to end it randomly! Whoops.)

The man is a gun with a mouth. He is silent until the trigger is pulled, and then he revels in the onslaught.

He smooths his fingers over the dark wood of the pew, splicing them between the ridges as if they were born to them. But that’s blasphemy, no? He’s an unholy, godless thing, and as leather touches to stone, Tiberius swears that his feet are warmed by the flames beneath them. He has always found there to be something quite provoking about the Cathedral of Verona: the ostensible aspect of it, anyway, the guise it projects beyond itself. He watches the way that the crucified martyr glowers down at him from the cross, made definite by golds and rubies and gaudy display. As if he owes him something. Tiberius exhales, inaudible, and leans backwards. A tiger ensconced in wait. He rolls up his sleeve as if he’s wearing a watch. There’s no watch. But he knows Cassian is late.

He catches the words of the believers, pilgrims circling the effigy at the alter, caught up in an aerial whisper: I’ve never found a language to talk about the things that haunt me most, one of them purrs at the idol. He scoffs at that.

The Cathedral is just a history written over another history, Cosimo tells him once. History is always being written—written and unwritten—so, really, history is not history but hearsay, rumour, accepted gospel. Veronans have a short memory, don’t they? They simply accept the image before them without question, without hesitation: they look, but they do not see. They’ve always been like that, he thinks. Why? Why pant after history, he thinks, when we’re rewriting it every day, running rogues through with their own fucking swords and putting words to paper with their blood? But it is no use to justify yourself; no use in explaining. It is weak to be anecdotal. He remembers his Sunday mornings here, dressed up in the right garb, Juliana tugging at his sleeves. Devouts scurry each and every day to grovel at the feet of their God, as if the idol walks among them. He’s a believer, sure, but a profane one. What good Christian boy marches reverently from Sunday morning service straight into the footways of destruction and annihilation, slinging his cleaver over his shoulder? Him, apparently.

Gods walk among them, alright. New, shiny, pestilent gods, with bullets for mouths and their hearts in bronze fetters. God exists, but there are a thousand more to join him, and they’re all made in his image. They’re new stories, new divinities forged out of his own flesh and blood. History is so distracted by the endurances of the past, the days of beggary and hunger. But the Capulets build. Their power coasts along the half-light, savage moments seen in fragments. Tiberius works in the dark, in half-seen expressions and deeds. Light swathes itself around him only when it is too late to escape him. And then he cuts you down. The unknown is a frightening thing, people have decided, and so he opens up that gap and pours fear into it; always fear. Fear and blood, red as their crest.

Some of the rumours about him are true, some of them lies. Still, they are good stories to tell.

Tiberius is growing impatient. His soldiers know not to keep him waiting: when a forest fire burns it smoulders on, indiscriminate. He feels the air shift behind him, chilled, and he knows that Cassian has—at long fucking last—decided to grace him with his presence. He curls his neck over his shoulder, still perched on the pew as if in prayer, and watches Cassian approach him, the sloe of his eyes still and immovable. He doesn’t wait. He rises from the pew and makes towards the sacristy, the movement itself a beckoning to follow. He passes a group of worshippers and nods glassily at them — not worshippers, really, but eyes. Capulet eyes, which are always open.

Tiberius crosses the hall with his shadow lingering a few feet behind him, and when they climb the staircase he runs his fingers across the bannister’s veins of gold. He reaches the second floor and he shoulders himself through a door, slinging himself onto the leather of a sofa. He reposes himself low, all languorous, and a pulls a cigarette from his pockets, lighting it in the cup of his fingers. He does it effortlessly, with ease, like he’s done it a thousand times before — which, of course, he has. He pulls the cigarette to his mouth, inhales, exhales in smoke, resting his elbow on the arm of the sofa. ‘Well?’ he says, impatient.

Cassian is a man of words. Too fucking many words, Tiberius thinks. He prefers action. Still, he gets the job done, he supposes; there’s nothing squeamish about the man and he’s unscrupulous, damn it, and while he wouldn’t trust the man to catch him if he falls, he serves a purpose. He’s a steady little war-dog, always ready to do his bidding.

    ‘No show, apparently,’ he says, his eyes wandering. Buyers of the product who can’t pay up. Won’t, Tiberius had corrected him in their last discussion of the whole affair — won’t pay up. And there’s a price for that, isn’t there? Nobody makes a beggar out of the Capulets; nobody makes a beggar out of him, and lives to tell the tale. Fear’s a funny little thing, isn’t it? It lines one’s pockets with gold, somehow. Gives them the means to pay up, at last. Well, Tiberius is nothing if not efficient. ‘I’ll take care of it, boss.’

Tiberius says nothing. Merely inhales another puff of the cigarette, in, out, brings his elbow back down to the arm of leather and glowers. Same as fucking usual, he thinks. If it weren’t for the money, he’d simply fire his pistol, lodge the bullet squarely between the wastrel’s eyes. How’s that for efficiency? He watches the cogs turn behind Cassian’s eyes, marked, purposeful, full of intent — a thousand courses of actions slowly forging a path to escape him. But will Tiberius bite? Tonight, he decides, he’ll play nice. He flicks the cigarette carelessly into the ash tray and rises from the leather, his face still hard — but not heartless.

   ‘Bene,’ he decides upon, his expression still inflexible but apparently in the mood of charity tonight. Fine. ‘Get me a whiskey, then, won’t you? I’m parched.’

Extras: Just a Pinterest board I made for inspiration, which you can find here.I’ll direct you straight to this pin here because, well, is this Juliana talking about Tiberius? Yes. Yes it is.

[agent-yolk]

Tell me about your gaggle of bastards! 🦋 💎💕👑 for any of them?

I could do the world’s longest TED Talk if I do all of them and believe me, I know I’m forgetting a few. 

As for my gaggle of bastards uuhh...(pulls out random slips of paper) I shall do the Kawashimas, specifically the main trio I RPed with for a Persona group RP that wrapped up (and miss every day). It started off as one, then making up his parents on the spot for yet another rp, and in the Persona one my good friend asked if he could make a cousin of the fam and...it just exploded. Sure enough, everyone in the RP had a cousin/aunt/uncle. It was like Katamari but instead of cousins it’s Kawashimas. 

I’ll be using the main three that I used in the RP: Sho (Himbo, 20), Isao (Sho’s dad, 52), and Hime (Sho’s cousin, 19)

🦋 If your OC could change everything (or just something) about their life would they? What would they change? What do they think would happen if they did? What would their loved ones think?

Sho: I don’t think he would. He’s got a pretty good life for him. He’s got a loving family, his dog, his boyfriend, and a successful business he and his dad co-own. There’s not much to complain about here.

Isao: This man, however, has a lot he could change. He had a bad upbringing, made absolutely terrible choices, sorta kinda joined the yakuza as a bodyguard of all career choices, killed some people while being a sorta yakuza, and even after running away with his now-wife he’s still prone to get into fights with people half his age. I’m sure his siblings would understand if he wanted to change that. Isao did all that so everyone gets a hot meal and a roof on their heads until they were old enough to go out in the world and start their own life. 

Hime: I’m sure she would want Sho gone, but the moment he’s gone gone she’ll lowkey miss him. Her Cain instincts won’t go off anymore, and I’m sure everyone in the family would be upset if there’s no more Sho.

💎 Does your OC collect anything? Is there a reason? When did they start and is it beginning to turn into a little bit of a hoarding issue? What do they do with their collection?

Sho: He’s a straight weeb just like his creator. He’s an internet celeb so he’s going to town buying figures, DVDs, everything. He’s so proud of his collection, and even takes time to clean and maintain everything so nothing is left neglected. He’s even got rare straight to VHS/DVD/Laserdisc ones of anime that were downright terrible. He is, as the saying goes, a man of culture.

Isao: Tea sets! They’re just so nice to look at, so much so that he doesn’t want to use them to actually hold tea in sometimes. What? You think I was going to saying something along the lines of hoarding guns and knives and shit after that first paragraph?

Hime: This one, however, is a blade hoarder. Her other cousin, Keisuke, forges most blades that you can see everywhere in their mansion-castle. If she’s gotta stab a bitch, she’s gonna. The sharper the better.

💕 How is your OC like with physical affection? What are their boundaries? Do they enjoy being touched or is that a no-go? Is there any reason behind this?

Sho: Sho is 110% touch starved. He was a blushing, yearning mess when his boyfriend touches him physically. It’s not a sexual thing, I swear. He’s just a tender muscle boy full of love with no one to give to besides his parents and his baby cousin Yuka. Hugging him is like hugging a furnace on a cold day. Great, now I wanna hug him.

Isao: Where do you think his son got the touch starveness from? Unlike his son, he’s very reserved and cold. You’ll have to get him to warm up to you over time before you can even consider shaking hands. His wife, Atsuko, is a saint for having the willpower and patience to marry this man then have a kid. And boy, Isao is very affectionate to his wife. He’ll pull out all the stops for her. Need me a freak like that.

Hime: Like her uncle, cold but hot-headed at the same time. Only her family sans Sho (sometimes) can touch her. She’s brash and aggressive too and will fight any guy that looks at her or passing school kids funny. Sure her opponents will be touching her in fights, but not for long. 

👑 If your OC was made royal (or is royal) how would they use their power? Are they a good leader or bad? Do their subjects like them or is it ‘off with their head’? Do they enjoy being royal?

Sho: The people love him. He didn’t ask to be royal, but weird circumstances would that led him there say otherwise. He’ll try his best to make everyone happy and comfortable in his kingdom, even going out to the streets to talk to the civilians face to face and jotting down everything. To make sure any neighboring nations don’t do anything funny, he’ll send them loving gifts and necessary aid when natural or manmade disasters strike. Oh, to be a noble in his court.

Isao: He’s probably a bit harsher than his son. The people will have split opinions about this guy. If anything, I see him more as the head knight/royalty’s retainer than full-blown royalty. I’m sure he doesn’t enjoy it, but he’d want everything to be just the way it is without any bubbling conflicts happening. If someone in his own court tries to do something funny, Isao would not hesitate dealing with them with his blade.

Hime: Oh she would be a terrible ruler. Her people would talk shit about her behind her back. She’d start fights at councils or brew unneeded wars for the sole reason of conflict. Out of money, you say? Fuck it, she’ll fight for some. Can’t guarantee she’ll be on the throne long. 

[zeronexfenris]

Exposure.

It had been a long evening. One that involved more walking, and more dealing than he would have liked. An evening he thought would have been - simple and calm at best, was more mentally taxing than anything in some time.

He knew things, things he should not know. He was far too observant for his own good, that ping of pain, that sharp snap. He knew that feeling all too well. Elder Duskfeather had inadvertently shown him a glimpse into something, but Zeronex always knew more than he should. He always was in things deeper than people realized. He worked for the Flock tirelessly, though in the back - Out of sight which also means out of mind. Whispers come to him - How he dares not trust anyone in the Flock. How he sleeps around. Oh the irony - If they only knew. It was something he opened up to Elder Duskfeather about that very evening. He was alone. Even surrounded by kin. It was a feeling he expressed, something he never had issue doing when it came to her. He still viewed her as his friend. His best friend. Even with all her growth, her rising in ranks - That view never changed. Never faltered. Though it seemed such - Distance between the two. They certainly were not as close as they once were. Then again - Who actually was he close with at the very moment? For as bright as his Light can show. He was still invisible to many in the Flock. A mystery of sorts. He liked it this way. Attachments - Bonds. They all ended horrible for him. The loss of his Fiance - It proved that to him. Watching the betrayal of many within the Flock against one another. Many were right in their assumption that his trust in anyone was limited. Power - It’s what everyone thirsted for, and even for just a bit more - They were willing to betray anyone and everyone. Even if it was family, a lover.

This simply forced him to operate by himself. Reaching out here and there. Worrying more about ways he can further the Flock, further the message of the Father, while limiting the risks to himself. Or anyone around him. Ideas - Formulas - Experiments. All various things he began to work on. Still - Loneliness was a vortex that consumed him. He had been near three months without sleeping with anyone. Limiting his contact - He wished to shed the stigma of weakness to a woman’s flesh. It was something he knew would not fade easily, yet still the attempt - He was doing it. Though removing one self-destructive habit gave birth to a new one. In a family full of many - He managed to limit himself to only one. -Him- The irony. The very issue Father frowned down on him for. Not being around often enough. He now was doing it intentionally. To stave off any failure. To stave off attachment. Bonds. Love. To hide from feeling. To hide from -himself- a vision he began to loathe. Weak - Mindless - Unwilling.

He reflected - Alone - The cackling flames of the Forge. The soft howl of souls. They were calm, eerily calm. The glowing sharpened blades he ripped off the back of an Eredar Lord on Argus glimmered a small faint glow of Fel. Another reminder of a time long past. He puzzled over it, his change - A choice -he- made. One day he knew punishment would come. He gave up something the Father entrusted to him. Though his current project was a return to that. A gift to make amends for a failure he had yet to acknowledge. The other failure was sure to come.

His involvement with the one called Monisha D’Angelo. The woman - A serpent, a snake. Opportunistic. Cunning. Deceptively Beautiful. Things Zeronex would have fallen for - Things Zeronex would have become weak to. Strange - Every advance was deflected. Every attempt at seduction was thwarted. It was a strange sense of empowerment. A sign that he had grown past his old ways. She was everything Zeronex desired in a woman. Dark skinned. Bountiful wavy hair. Seductive. The biggest glaring issue was her promiscuity - Then again - Another thing Zeronex for some reason would typically be drawn too. He groaned out replaying the evening. His first checking to see how the one called Leeloo was doing. Only to find himself protecting a woman he hardly knew as they walked to various meetings. These meetings exposing him to Nobles and Criminals alike. He held nobility, though never flaunted it - She on the other hand, flaunted it for him. A tinge of annoyance came to him. He utilized such a title only for aspects of business, land purchases. Small ones that would go unnoticed to many. He held the rights - Deed - Claim to Fenris Isle. Of course such land was in Horde Territory. Something that he could not utilize but for simple things. Though not under his control -now- it was still -his- and stirring of such was unwanted. He preferred not to draw attention to his title. He was now gaining exposure. All because of a few meetings he walked around as a bodyguard for. Coupled with the fact he was labeled as the woman's new “Toy.” Zeronex grit his teeth. Taking hold of the glass and throwing it against the wall. A flare of rage. He was no one’s toy. He had lived that life long enough - He would in no way become -THAT- again. The payment better be worth the headaches that were sure to come.

MENTIONS: ((@monishadangelo @the-house-of-crows @larkiniel @demetrius-devereaux))

((Thank you all for a wonderful night of RP))

[peoplcshope]

Lavender Town was quite..unique if there was a word to describe it, still Kanto was a rather exotic place compared to his home of Kalos..however, it seemed that Trunks had of course gotten himself lost again within the little town. That’s when he discovered someone who stood out from the crowd much like himself, a kindred spirit (probably due to their matching hair colors). “Hey there sir, I’m lost and was hoping you could help me out here.”

liked for a starter / @fxllen-rxse

[peoplcshope]

This timeline..it was unfamiliar and the anomaly wasn't found..at least not yet. But then he felt a rather overwhelming power..not his father..too powerful to be Goku. It wasn't until he saw the hulking silhouette of the man coming into view that Trunks finally utters the name from his lips in subtle fright. "B-Broly..what are YOU doing here?"

liked for a starter / @gazelessmenagerie

[peoplcshope]

GAH..she gave him one on the lips?!? Trunks isn’t a fool so he indulges for the moment, taking in the flavor she provided and his mind becomes lost in the pleasure of it all until he pulled away from her, The bashful look on his face was still pretty much present at this point. But he was rather brave and simply embraced his feelings, he knew how he felt ever since they had crossed paths with one another a few months back.

“That went so much better than I thought it would.” He spoke softly before he turned looking at her once more. Did he just overshared that he’s thought about kissing her? Dammit.

continue from here / @itmeanspeace

[peoplcshope]

"Hmm...well no sign of the demon.." Trunks spoke out, as his eyes continues to scan the area from the skies, and likewise he couldn't catch a ki-signature with mall intent either..which meant the fields were deserted. However, it never hurt to be thorough so his body continues to zip along the sky, looking and sensing but nothing..not a single thing and so Trunks' lands onto the ground. "Hmmm, I'm beginning to think this was all a prank considering it's almost time for this...halloween thing. He's saw some bits of it over television once or twice when he was younger but never did he imagine the entire celebration was real and since this IS a pumpkin field he felt that he might as well return to his mother's abode with a good one to carve. "Hmmm..this one looks good enough." Spoke Trunks under his breath and picks up the large piece of fruit before a familiar large magical energy fills the air and Beatrice was spotted before him. "Oh..Ms Beatrice..please don't tell me you're here to cause trouble with the people of the city."

liked for a halloween starter / @dearestgoldwitch

[peoplcshope]

“You!!! What are YOU doing here?!!” There was anger surging within Trunks’ entire being. Zeno had wiped his out of existence, the destroyer God had also destroyed him within an alternate reality..so why was THIS one here? What loophole did this worm find that would keep his life intact?

liked for a starter / @windsofredemption

[peoplcshope]

He traverses through the old lab of her family..if anything it reminded him so much of the state of one of Capsule Corp’s buildings within other towns that were reduced to nothing but ruins as there was no longer a Capsule corp to come and pick up the pieces..but he knew his mother was quite with the people rummaging through its interior for parts needed for the town’s reconstruction.

“A place to come and work in privacy, well I’m glad you’ve got something like that here.” A hand gently strokes the wall only to inspect how dusty it’s become over time. The verdict? Too dusty. “Having a place that’s safe is really heaven sent and if I’m completely honest with you I’m also a little jealous.” A smile appears on his face followed by a small bit of chuckles. 

“But I’m glad I found you because there’s a favor I wanted to ask you. Although, you’re more than willing to refuse me, because what I’m about to ask is..it’s really a lot.”

continue from here / @senzume

[peoplcshope]

It was a thought that had been pestering him for quite some time now…for many years Trunks had given his all for others, his fight for peace? It was so others would not have to suffer the same strife as he did, his time as a time patroller? To right the wrongs he’s done. Trunks was done with all of that, he understood his plan was damn near impossible..to infiltrate another universe AND search for the Super Dragon balls to bring back his lost timeline? This was definitely a selfish act and might even get him killed in the process. “Maiz.” He calls for her, no ‘darling’, no ‘honey’ or any of those affectionate names he would often try out to see which one would stick with her. “I’m going to do something crazy…my mother..and everyone else in my timeline…no the timeline itself..I’m going to get it back!” There was a fierceness in his voice, and a determination in his eyes.

liked for a starter / @acoldsovereign

[peoplcshope]

That tone of voice, for some reason he sensed she did NOT take him seriously..she of all people. "I don't need magic, I'll fly and deliver them myself. I already ran the numbers and calculated I can make a trip around the entire city in at least ten minutes."

continue? / @dearestgoldwitch

[peoplcshope]

Given his father’s past Trunks had foreseen a lot of audible resistance towards the reality that he is exactly Vegeta’s son. Hell when he mentioned his father would barely speak about his past he KNEW that was definitely his father, to know Vegeta would hardly talk about his past would suggest the person was close to him, there weren’t many saiyansif ANY at all that Vegeta would consider himself close to. “I’ve actually read about you from past archives.” He looked up at the saiyan before him. “Didn’t mention you being a giant though..so what do you do in..well here?”

continue from here / @dragvnsovl