#marytbt

[eclipsecrowned]

and from earlier convos this week, killer ocs + their chase music.

for the raven i think maybe low creaking at first, the turning of brush or similar. the idea that maybe it's nothing. not that something is stalking you. then the low beat of your heart, thrumming, or is it drums. something steady and ominous as it picks up the pace. your hindbrain knows something you don't. it's not sharing. once she sees you, though -- it is drums. out of beat with your fruitless steps, and strings screaming as sharply as your lungs. some strange, high woodwind that is like the keening of a bird, or a wounded animal, or you as the spear pierces your flesh --

to the rose, why, the whisper of an old guitar, a friendly gathering, folk gathered round to drink and be merry. you're in gilead, sai, and all are welcome under the dinh -- but the place is under new management, ain't it? the beat picks up, staccato. a dancing tune. you're out of step. graceless, fumbling in the dust and dirt that remains. ash in the air you move too slow to dodge. there's a crimson-colored headache blossoming at the center of your brain. the tone shifts, deeper, darker -- it sees you. it knows you. and she is not just eyes alone, sai, she's a whole body, a cunning hand, a keen set of teeth. the rose incarnate, fallen saint, hallowed be her blood, forgotten be the face of her father, stretched thin across her own bones. no balm in gilead, no hope in hell, no shelter beneath her thorns. the wind kicks up. there's a lonesome keening on the air. the guitar plays its mad and powerful beat. run as far as you can, child. you can no more escape her than you can your own death -- and by the man jesus, in gilead, there's no difference between she and the reaper.

[eclipsecrowned]

thinking about the bread by baylight squad and that new killer. introductions. coming face to face with the horror.

a late night in gilead. the rose is out on the steps smoking her pipe, hears something. looks out into the darkness. readies her casting. 'show yourself.' silence. she studies down the main street for anything, anything at all. she stands, the hair at the back of her neck standing up. she makes her power visible, a dark clot of magic that will surely be a killing blow. the night calls back at her with all the wild panic she uses in a trial, STEVEN! the sound of a wounded animal, a mad woman. her own pain mirrored back at her. raising the question of how long it has been observing her -- how close has it gotten -- and why can't she find it?

max putting up a new dwightcrow wiping the sweat from his brow then hears a rustling in the corn. he turns towards nothing. crows, maybe, he tells himself that while trying to act brave. then the same shifting of the corn from his left. it's circling -- behind him. he zigzags back up to the house. stares out from the porch. holding vigil, unblinking. get out here, varmint-- it's almost out of the field before he thinks to look down. and that's when makes the decision towards a tactical retreat. not worth it. nope it can have the realm. fuck this. he's coming back with reinforcements, but especially with caleb's gun.

charlotte hearing victor. he went out scouting, but he's back early. she keeps trying to find him, but he's moving. his little breaths, the hitches, the low growls of phantom pain. why does it seem like he's running from her? she hasn't registered yet she's being led into a corner. and then she hears it. 'que fais-tu?' turns to face -- victor. in the dooway of the shack. holding a little snack from the rcpd. she looks back towards the basement. victor's noises in the basement turn strange. she scoops up her brother and walks away from the shack. 'rien. je pensais avoir entendu quelque chose.'

the quiet is nothing new to lea. it's only ever the crashing of waves, and the rustling of wind in the boughs. she knows that peace. and whatever moves among the roots of her world-tree disrupts that stillness despite its best attempts. she doesn't think it's breathing. but it murmurs soft to itself as it twines around the base of the old tree, seeking the way up. it crawls, and she climbs, and she stands her ground against the firmest branch, spear in hand. it uses her brother's voice. the rough-hewn language of the south, croaking out lea, leaaaaa... come and see... and she won't have it. she throws down her spear, meaning to skewer this imitation of flesh. there will be no peace in her realm this day. there is only the hunt.

anna is much the same. something comes, unlike any beast this forest has known. she smiles to herself. its twisted flesh is fat, downright excessive. it could feed her well all winter long. it calls to her, but it doesn't understand her. she will see it long before it sees her -- and before it can expose its bag of tricks, she will loose a hatchet. the hunt is on. she is delighted with this new comer, with its wily ways. the voices of humanity are only background noise to her, possessing no meaning or reason. but the chance to prove herself, to take home a new trophy, is addictive. she can fashion a fine new apron from its hide.

[eclipsecrowned]

do the debede squad wander out from their realms? (based on a post i saw on my dash)

anna: sort of? she might occasionally brave what's beyond the forest, but only just. she has no great desire to roam, staying to the trees and gloom that are so familiar to her. if you want her outside of trials, you have to actively seek her out. and even then, she's going to see you in the woods and have you tracked long before you see her.

charlotte & victor: there is not a cage invented that can hold the twins. they scavenge across the fog, whether in the deadlands between realms or within other killer's territory. victor especially loves to play scout far afield in the fog. they have a small collection of stolen items from all but a handful of heavily fortified realms.

lea (au hel): absolutely. she spent too long in one place in the 'real world,' and now wanders the fog freely. this is not her first rodeo, and she scavenges as well as the twins -- but with different motives. she means to build community and communication, whether among her fellow killers or among survivors. in turn, her realm is open to others.

mary: absolutely not. her consensus is that old gilead is for her, and she'll defend it like she couldn't as a child. she's also typically violent towards intruders, whether they be survivor or killer. when i said 'heavily fortified realms,' gilead was among them. yet in the course of moving between trials, she has been forced to let others in (namely meg and caleb.)

max: wobbly about the idea. he'd prefer to stay in familiar territory, among the corn and the old farmhouse, but... he's got people now. he doesn't stray very far, keeping to the realms of those he knows and trusts (caleb, philip, evan, lea, etc.), but it still stands that he gets out when he can. besides, his own realm has... unpleasant memories.

[eclipsecrowned]

fuck it. how my debede muses roll up to the masquerade function. just the muses that are mainverse to setting, may do my muses with AUs to setting later.

Steven: Gets to trade in his denim and madras for something a little silkier. It's a traditional late 19th-early 20th century suit for men, classic eveningwear all black jackets and accessories in a shade of blue that matches his eyes. It makes Steven look older, and he trades out the bow tie for a little bit of blue ribbon tied up elegantly. His golden curls are tamed and swept away from his face for once, as if gelled back. He's not wholly comfortably with realizing in the right clothes he can pass for a dinh's son, and seems uncharacteristically sheepish at the start of the event. However, he adjusts easily as the night wears on, and resumes his usual charming, devil-may-care demeanor quickly. His mask is that of the Muse of Comedy, noble and cheerful, though there is a pin of the Muse of Tragedy holding his ribbon together.

Charlotte: For one brief night, she gets to live in what should have been. The daughter of nobility and wealth in 17th century France, she's clad in the layers and frills of a highborn lady. Her puffed sleeves are lined with the finest lace, and though indigo might be the devil's color, it suits her fine. Pearls from the New World and rings from her grandmothers kiss what little exposed skin she has. She catches her mother's scent upon her when she moves, the heady scent of expensive perfume afforded only to the incredibly privileged. For this singular, ephemeral evening, she is the daughter of House Deshayes, and all the beauty that conveys. Honestly, she feels like she's tripping the entire evening, her stays a little too tight, her head swimming. This isn't her. She knows this isn't her. Her mask is half of a sharp-carved skull, carved of crystals that seem more like frost.

Victor: Victor never gets cosmetics. It is a truth universally acknowledged in the Fog that, at some point in your life, you will get attacked by a perpetually naked man with stunted development. But like Cendrillion in the old fairy tales, he has a loving patron -- or at least a fellow Killer who knows how to sew. Victor is in a surprisingly more modern ensemble than his sister, based solely on Bubba being a more modern seamstress. He's in a little suit jacket with tuxedo pants, made of a thick but soft fabric. Unfortunately, nothing could be found for a shirt, so he's just bare-chested under the jacket and fine with it. He's having a grand time at the function. He does, however, have a mask, and it is as ever the twin to his sisters, like two halves of a whole.

Bonus! Ferret has dealt me critical damage by saying 'Masquerade Event Makes Twins As They Could Have Been! Entity mocks their existence by sealing Charlotte's wound and making her 'normal' where Victor for one evening reflects what he would have been had he developed separate of Charlotte: A real boy!'

Max: He feels like he could be walking right into the Daily Planet in this suit. The lapels are pointy, the wool is soft, and the color is so vibrant. He doesn't have to run around in his grimy old clothes. He's somebody in this, like Clark Kent or the boy on TV's dad. The fabric is the color of happiness, of sunflowers, of something important. It makes him feel as warm and happy as he can be. The clothes make the man, and in this case, Max at least makes an effort to socialize more than usual, to try being something more tonight. It's not always easy, but it feels like he's in another secret identity. Maybe that's silly. Maybe he'll feel dumb in the morning, when he wakes up alone in the old farmhouse. But for tonight, he feels wonderful, and he wants to spread the sentiment around. God knows it's rare to find in this place. He's wearing a simple half-mask that beautifully complements his suit, cut so that everyone can see his smile.

Anna: No sarafan and kokoshnik for this lady. Kosovorotka, leggings, and an elegant kaftan in all the hues of the forest. She cuts an imposing but gorgeous figure, like autumn's king come down to preside over the masquerade. The image of her axes repeats along patterns at the edges of her clothes, along with a crowned hare to continue the motif of her power and regality at the event. Rich brown, soft golds, and rich deep reds truly make her look like something that crawled out of the forest instead of hell. Not the most social attendee, she keeps to the edges and the refreshments, still humming to herself and nodding firmly at hose who come upon her. Her mask is a more ornate, fierce-looking iteration of her girlhood rabbit mask.

Mary: For once, Gilead's last serving daughter gets to appear as she prefers. Stripped of the feminine, she has settled comfortably into an old black suit, a bolo around her neck clasped with a fine fat ruby. Her shirt is pristine white, lined with subtle rose patterns that are only visible from the right angles in the proper lighting. Her long jacket and slim-fit trousers are the same silky black, though of much firmer material. She keeps her long hair braided back in a single tight plait, almost as severe as her mouth. Yet she's not displeased to be at the Masquerade. In fact, it reminds her of finer evenings in her father's house, when palavering and politicking was surely necessary. The nostalgia doesn't hurt her. Her mask is largely the abdomen of a spider, with 8 fine chains clasping the golden mask securely to her face. The cephalothorax of the gilded spider is a free-hanging accessory that kisses down to her chest, easily disturbed by her breath or words and letting out a metallic whisper in answer.

[eclipsecrowned]

you've heard of 'mary launches the black thirteen at survivor's heads like a projectile' and 'victor scuttling in the knight's helm then launching himself at survivors like a missile' now get ready for

dbd au danae launching her 800 dollar original model louboutins at the killers with intent to maim--

[eclipsecrowned]

thinking about how left to her own devices, mary is a butch. the hair stays long for sentimental value, but everything from her wardrobe to her lifestyle skews hard into butch territory. and yet the entity really put her in a pretty new dress and unbound her hair and made her look like female sin post-eden.

and frankly, why wouldn't it? mary was handed over to it like a child receiving a new doll -- or more accurately, a wife being given a new pet from her most devoted. her identity now is whatever pleases that otherworldly master best. it already has a toy or hound like her, something old world and worn down by dust and a life on the road, in caleb. why not have something soft and inviting, an oasis in the desert wastes, a young woman reflecting what she might have been had her people lived? there are enough crones in stories like these. a bright young witch such as herself should have a white-hot spotlight on whatever passes for her beauty.

[eclipsecrowned]

rose match interface screw: playing as steven instead plays only the wailing of his sister -- crying out like the child she was the night the two of them ran. she's looking for him but doesn't see him. thinks the man he is stole the boy in the nursery from her.

[eclipsecrowned]

[ UNBUTTON ] : due to heat or stress or other reasons, sender unbuttons the top of their shirt to reveal their neckline. meg and mary tho, just consider it~ // @teardownheaven

This was never meant to be a punishment.

No, unlike the rest of these bastards, she's still got the thread. This Realm didn't choose her. She was fed into it, still breathing, still capable, by the myriad hands of the King in Red.

She was a gift. This whole experience was a gift. Men can only show their love in ruin, she's decided. If not of themself or their ladies, then certainly of those around them. Love's a kind of madness, sets you frothing and shaking like a rabid bumbler all out of control.

Or maybe that's what they call lust.

Either way, there's a bliss in this. The season is not true, but a dream of summer has come crashing down upon Old Gilead. In her girlhood, Ma might have loaded the family up, ridden out to Soroni. But there's no lake on the horizon now, and no distraction from the heat, save the flesh the pretty filly offers up.

A bead of sweat rolls slow and steady down to the dip between flesh. It disappears against the fabric that holds such offerings in place,yet Mary cannot say she minds. The outfits of other worlds are a delight all their own. The women eagerly walk in trousers that show where leg becomes something sacred, and in shirts that have Mary muttering prayers under her breath.

One last drink, for the eyes, for the throat. She swallows down the water, swaggering up to fair maiden. Towering over Meg, she extends the canteen, temporarily thoughtful -- temporarily.

A shift of the shoulder, a flick of the wrist. Meg is drenched by the time it's over, water pouring over red braids and soaking into the fabric of he shirt. For a moment, Mary grins lopsided down at her.

"Feel better, darlin'?"

[eclipsecrowned]

love all my killers being big bad freaklets who probably had their core appearance altered by the entity -- and then there's mary.

she's naturally that tall and lanky, kind of rangy, like a coyote midway through losing the thread. she's more handsome than she is pretty, but even if she's not to everyone's taste, she's definitely the most approachable of my killers in terms of appearance. she could be any western wear futch in a normal world, but instead, she's mary fuckin deschain. and the entity took the present her crimson husband gave her and wrapped her up in ribbons and a pretty dress instead of making her more monstrous. she's just content to make her a desolate little dollie on the shelf.

[eclipsecrowned]

“Care to dance?” Meg and Mary at the Masquerade~ // @teardownheaven

Well, of course she knows how to dance.

That was a staple of her girlhood, the understanding that she move with grace, with intent, across any revel in Gilead. The Dinh's daughter, come to conquer, the steps second nature to her so that her thoughts be better put to use conversing and manipulating. Well, that wasn't what Ma or Pa had told her, but it's certainly what she retained.

Besides, dancing was one of the few memories of those days that didn't hurt. Her bare feet on Pa's boots when she was small, her steps easy and fluid around a harvest dance when she grew taller, each warmed her like the summer sun on her back. There were even dances after Gilead, in spite of it all. How giddy those Barony girls would be, as Mary spun them around barns and town squares and fallow.

But dancing here, in the Fog? It still seemed an unpardonable offense. What did a one of them have to celebrate? All she found pleasing about the evening was the fine dark suit that clung to her body, a reflection of her preferred wardrobe.

That was all.

Or, that had been all. Before Meg.

The delicate octet of chains sang as Mary shifted, the decorative golden cephalothorax kissing kissing her chest. The fangs of her mask briefly tangle with the leather around her neck, but are extricated with a mere cant of the head. Even tonight, she's all wrapped up, rubies sparkling along the gilded hide of her arachnid mask.

Her blue eyes shone through, however, appraising the golden hind before her. They don't dress like that, where Mary's from. The Man-Jesus knew she'd have gotten nothing done if they did.

It's a sin, the way her smile can't be made out for the ornateness of her mask.

"I have this suspicion, Sai, that if I don't agree, you'll just tug me out on the floor by my bolo." She held up her hands languidly, a silent surrender. "And I do so hate to leave a lady wanting."

[eclipsecrowned]

realizing that without fcs y'all will not feel the impact of the deschain siblings.

steven? the best of both his parents. clear and cold blue eyes, thick golden curls, a glow to his skin from a life spent traveling. tall like his pa and just young enough that his too broad shoulders for his frame promise he'll fill out as he ages. has a boyishly handsome face with a fine symmetry and softness to his features. he's in the first spring of youth, looks like an old world angel, and lord, when the boy smiles--

mary? well, you know steven's her kin by the frigid eyes and the towering height, but the similarities end there. her hair's flat, black, and braided back into a single plait down her back. she has a hard, unkind face that greatly favors her father. in fact, all of her is too much her father, to the point she's a handsome woman rather than any denomination of her mother's great beauty. she has a rangy build and a half-wild way that calls to mind a coyote loping the property line.

you have to really look at steven and the rose to draw the connection, to be honest. a cursory glance is only going to reveal they're from the same weird west setting based on their attire.

[eclipsecrowned]

thinking about how ferret and i have stated outright that there are easter eggs to other king works/the larger d*rk tower setting in mary's level, the most pivotal of which is that the black thirteen is in mary's killer shack.

pov update gives the rose a new special attack where mary picks up the black thirteen and throws it at a survivor like a dodgeball. not even like the black thirteen does anything particularly fucked up or magical. it's just the realistic result of getting brained with a giant dense ball of glass:

OW.

[eclipsecrowned]

i make a lot of frankly disgusting jokes about like. 'mary charges super brain aneurism' or 'her favorite counterspell, your head asplode' but it occurs to me even as jokes they do reveal a bit of her character.

she's no frills, not using her magic to flex, she's using it to kill motherfucker kill. effective takedown with a single surge of magic. no way an enemy can fight back against it, no advertising what's happening until the magic hits. if you know what she's using, you're already on your way out.

and she's quite skilled at it, too -- per her backstory, she once clapped her hands and turned an entire village to ash. woman is terrifying, practical, and brutally efficient.