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mklegends-smokescreen · 5 months

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Requiem Mirror; Chapter 7: Midnight stroll

10 p.m., Billie sits near the bar at the Black Dragon fight club, sipping a drink while still shaken up after the event that took place a week or so ago. Soon enough, Kano comes in to check on his daughter. He pulls up a folding chair and sits by the dragoness.

Kano: Hey, you good, girl? Still shaken up about what happened in that arena?

Billie: Huh? Oh uh, yeah, thanks. I'm fine, don't worry.

Kano: Ya know, I went through something simmilar in my day.

Billie: When did ya become a gandpa?

Kano: (chuckles) I'm serious though. But hey, there's a reason I gave you that knife for keepsakes.

Billie: Thanks for lookin' out, pop.

Kano: It's aight. Now go to sleep, you need to rest.

She heads to her room and waits for a couple hours for it to be completely silent. She looked at her phone to see a message by the caped crusader that reads „Meet me @ the bridge near that fast food when u can“ she responded with an „OMW“ and climbed out of her window and went to the place they're ment to meet up. Sometime around midnight, Nico is leaning on the side of the bridge and notices Billie walking down and waving him hi.

Nico: Maybe you could have came over before the police hour?

Billie: Maybe I would've made it sooner if I didn't have to get here from 2 miles away.

Robin: Alright, sorry, no need to get your green steamed.

Billie: So, why'dya called me here for?

Robin: I, don't really know. Guess I want to know the other side a bit better. Plus, you didn't tell me everything.

Billie: Sure.

They walked down the street, with the city lights glimmering bellow them. The two spitball questions like „how's it going?“ and such, and it was like this for the fifteen minutes, but then bird man started asking more in-depth things.

Robin: So, is there something you didn't tell me the first time we talked properly?

Billie: I'm not getting into this scar on my neck. Not in a thousand years, ya bird-fucker.

Robin: Alright, playing hard to get i see... Hey how 'bout this? I tell you my story that i've never told anyone ever, and in exchange, you can consider telling me about that scar. Deal?

Billie seemed anoyed, but intereseted where this could go. She shrugged and responded.

Billie: Sure, shoot.

Robin: I, never really had someone to rely on. As a kid, my folks and I lived as slaves under Shao Kahn's iron fist. I managed to escape, but when i came back with these blades (tugs his jacket, revealing his two daggers), I was too late. They were killed and, my spirit was broken, and I slain every living man in that outpost. I've got my revenge, but at what cost?

Billie's eyes grew wider, as she didn't know this tragic story of her new found friend.

Nico: I started hunting and killing one or two crimminals, like a hyper-violant web slinger that I almost completely am.

Billie: Jesus Christ... I'm, sorry I didn't...

Robin: Hey, don't worry about it. I let my almost childish nature take over, it dulls the stress. And helps me cope with how thing are currently.

Billie was shocked, as she didn't know someone like Robin could have such a dark past.

Billie: I... Never really gave much though to other's stories. I guess I've been blinded by my own demons that I didn't know how some people can be so scarred.

Robin: There's nothing wrong with not knowing those around you. It's wrong to judge by purely first impression. Or not asking without knowing someone in the first place. That was bassically our first meeting a year back.

Billie: Oh yeah, I forgot 'bout that whole fiasco. And uh, sorry I tried to kill you durring the whole other-world tournament thing.

Nico: Hey, i'm sorry you had to almost relive through the neck cutting thing, speaking of which...?

Nico said, as he gestured toward the scar on the dragonesses neck.

Billie: Alright... my pops, mum and I were on a mission, and during an intervention arc bullshit, was done by some Reiko bastard.

Robin: General Reiko? He's just a menace through and through, huh?

Billie: Don't worry about it. Decapitated him afterwards.

Robin: You?

Billie: Yep.

Robin: Killed Reiko?

Billie: Yeeep.

Robin: By decapitation.

Billie: With a spear I made up from blood magic.

Nico: I'm impressed. Even i didn't dare stand up to the likes of Shao and Reiko.

Billie: They really need to learn to stop jobbing.

Robin: Absolutely, they needed some new hobbies.

They lived and laughed as the snow started to fall down and the lights bellow shimmered. They even grabbed a coffee on the way back. Robin even explained Siris why Tremor and Kabal left the B.D.

Billie: so, what you're saying is: Tremor left because Smoke convinced him that he doesn't belong to me dad, and uncle Carlos dipped all those years back because he got fed up with doing crime and shit. Right?

Robin: Where theres Smoke, theres drama, and now they're both retired. Tremor went to find some place called „the Dream realm“ and Kabal has retired permanently. Who knows? Maybe be got married with the woman of his dreams and is living happily. But thats just a theory.

Billie: Kabal married? That's a mental image I never thought I needed.

Robin: May even sound dumber if he were married to a demon woman and got a puppy.

Billie: (laughing hysterically) I don't Know what's funnier, the fact you just said that, or the fact that i imagined him living in a highly weaponized mansion while monologuing...

The crusader laughed along, as he held onto the steel railing of the bridge. They exchange insults, as they deside to call it a night and say their goodbyes.

Billie: Hope to see ya again, ya red fuckwit!

Robin: You too, blood-bitch. Whoops, recycled jokes!

They wave goodbye and head back to their factions base's. Billie, not awakening anyone, heads back to bed. Robin, almost perfectly quietly sneaks back to the bedrooms through the lounge, but was eventually caught by Sonya.

Robin: (whispering) Do you ever go to sleep?

Sonya: (whispering back) Do you ever stop sneaking around? What were you doing out there?

Robin: (smirking) Just taking in the night air. You should try it sometime.

Sonya: (raising an eyebrow) You're up to something.

Robin: Just enjoying the peace and quiet. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got beauty sleep to catch up on--

Sonya: You're terrible at lying.

Robin: What do you mean?

Sonya: I've known you long enough to see when you're hiding something.

Robin: I've worked here for less than 5 months, the fuck you mean?

Sonya: You've got that look, like there's more going on in that head of yours than you let on.

Robin: (giggling) Maybe I'm just a mysterious guy.

Sonya: (rolling her eyes) Mysterious, my ass. Don't get into any trouble, or you answer to me.

Robin: (jokingly) Kinda doing that right now, and I'm losing minutes of sleep because of it.

Sonya: (unimpressed) You're always finding a way to test my patience, aren't you?

Robin: Part of my charm, captain of zero f's.

Robin went back to his room. Johnny eventually wakes up to this commotion, holding his pre-heated mug of coffee, looking higher than a kite.

Johnny: (yawning) What's going on? Did I miss something?

Sonya: Oh, nothing much. Just your protégé sneaking back in past curfew. You know, the usual.

Johnny: Which one, Cassie, Takeda or Robin?

Sonya: The outworld one.

Johnny, taking a sip of his coffee, raises an eyebrow.

Johnny: Oh, the new kid? What he do?

Sonya: He keeps sneaking out without anyone's permission, like some teen in a phase...

Johnny: Hey, reelaaax, hun. I'll talk to him when I can, you just go to sleep.

Sonya seems sceptical, but does trust her husband. She goes to sleep and Johnny finishes his coffee, as he heads to Robin's room.

Johnny knocks on Robin's door.

Johnny: Hey, Red! Mind if I come in?

Nico: Yeah?

there was a small pause, followed by light chuckles.

Nico: Sure, Mr. A-list, come on in.

Johnny walks in, looks around a bit before setting his gaze on Red Robin.

Johnny: So, the mysterious night wanderer, huh? What's the deal? I thought Sonya was the only one pulling late-night stunts around here.

Nico: Yeah, about that...

Nico looked around, making sure Sonya wasn't around, closing the door.

Nico: Mr. Cage, you've got to promise me you won't tell this to anyone.

Johnny, at first confused but interested, nodded.

Johnny: Sure, wassup?

Nico: Well, I might've had a little rendezvous with someone from the Black Dragon. You know, just an informal chat on a bridge.

Johnny raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

Johnny: Black Dragon, huh? What were you doing chatting with the enemy?

Nico: Relax, relax, it's not what you think. We just had a casual exchange of stories. You know, the typical hero and villain bonding over a juice kind of thing.

Johnny: Hero and villain bonding? Never thought I'd hear that one.

Nico smirks.

Nico: Yeah, well, sometimes the lines between hero and villain get a bit blurry.

Johnny chuckles.

Johnny: You're telling me, kid. So, what's the story? Bonding with the enemy?

Nico starts sharing the details of his conversation with Billie, including the exchange of personal stories and the deal about revealing secrets. Johnny listens, nodding at times.

Johnny: Well, well, well. You're playing the diplomat, huh? Just don't let Sonya catch you fraternizing with the enemy. You know how she is about protocol.

Nico: Trust me, I'm already on thin ice with her. I don't need more reasons for her to chew me out.

Johnny laughs.

Johnny: Good luck with that, Nico. Just be careful, okay? Not everyone in the Black Dragon is as friendly as the one you met on that bridge.

Nico: Thanks, Mr. Cage. I'll keep that in mind.

Johnny pats Nico on the shoulder.

Johnny: Alright, now get some sleep. We've got a world to save or something like that, right?

Nico grins.

Nico: Right, Mr. Cage. World-saving duty calls.

Johnny leaves the room, shaking his head with a smile, while Nico gets ready for some well-deserved rest.

Johnny, walking back to his room, he passes by Hsu Hao's cell. (Hey, remember that guy!?)

Hsu Hao: Hey, Cage.

Johnny: Hey, Hao.

Hsu Hao: You know, it's been ages since anyone acknowledged my existence. What's the occasion?

Johnny: Just doing my nightly stroll, you know, keeping an eye on things. How's the cell treating you?

Hsu Hao: Oh, you know, the usual. Cold, lonely, and the view sucks.

Johnny: Can't say I feel sorry for you, considering the stuff you pulled back in the day.

Hsu Hao: Fair enough. So, what's the gossip around here?

Johnny: Well, we've got a mysterious artifact causing chaos, and we're teaming up with the Black Dragon to sort it out. You'd love the drama.

Hsu Hao: Teaming up with the Black Dragon? Now that's a plot twist. What's the catch?

Johnny: You sound like my wife. Anyway, long story short, our kids got dragged into some interdimensional mess, and we're all trying to clean it up.

Hsu Hao: Intergenerational drama, huh? Classic Cage.

Johnny: You know it. Anyway, don't get too comfortable in there. I'm sure Sonya will find some mission for you sooner or later.

Hsu Hao: Oh, joy. Can't wait for that.

The night continues, Johnny goes to bed, and Hsu Hao looks up at the ceiling, falling asleep.

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vvanessaives · 2 years

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i was tagged by @nuclearstorms @morvaris and @arklay to do this quiz for some of my ocs, thank you so much everyone!! i’m giving all of you a kiss

not sure who did this already so feel free to ignore it! i’m tagging: @cultistbase @ianeiras @aelyosos @montliyets @faarkas @reaperkiller @keevan @swordcoasts @steelport @camelliagwerm @avallachs @jacobseed @denerims @shadowglens and whoever else wants to do this!

WHAT GOD ARE YOU?

– VESPER MOXLEY: Mirror God

You are a reflected God, trapped by a curse. Changing form as interesting things pass your little window into the world. You emulate the beautiful faces you see as they get made up and powdered before airing on television. You emulate the quaint little farms that run on commercials for cranberries. You copy these bits and pieces of media, these TV people, these ideals, into an identity. You know you are something quite different.. but do not remember what you were or what you liked before becoming a reflection. You know one day you will leave this mirror and you will not look the way you wish to, it scares you. Why does it scare you?

(+ i took it twice for vesper because i was so hmmmm about the result and now the two combined are making me sob)

Void Ghost

You have not yet been born into belief. Why don’t you believe in yourself? It's very critical to existing at this stage. You're floating around, for now, looking for your place in the new and rapidly changing world of humans.

– FENIX HAYES: God of the Unused Fireplace

You are a very powerful fire demon (you think so anyway). Since this house was built in 2008 with an electric heater, the occupants have never called upon you. You wonder what you would do if they lit you up (burn the place down probably). You want to roar ferociously and combust into a fire the size of the sun! For now, you lay in the hearth invisibly next to unlightable decorative candles and wait.

– DANIEL MOXLEY: Gust God

You were born free! As free as the grass grows! You could go in so many directions right now you might pull yourself apart trying. There are kites to fly and wheat to whip through and birds to knock around and- Oh no, you’ve tornadoed an old woman’s garage sale sign away. Go pick that up!

– VIOLANTE WAESPHINE: Void Ghost

– ZEFYR: Force of Flood

It’s torture. You feel every blade of grass, every kitchen tile, every little set of running feet as you consume the land. You don’t mean to! You’re so angry! Why do they treat you this way!? You were an ocean spirit once, calmly sending waves and rains inland. The people were happy, you were pristine. Now every summer they have only built more, dumped more, stole more from you, WHY COULDN'T THEY BE HAPPY WITH THE RAINS AND GRASSES? "I WILL WASH AWAY YOUR ROADS! I WILL SOONER WIPE YOU FROM THE EARTH THAN SUCCUMB TO YOUR SLOW POISONING!", you bellow from roiling brown flood plains.

#tag games #for now i put the ocs banners on timeout bc i don't like them anymore but i have no time to do them but i also wanted to this so yea <3 #i will proceed to scream now. like we all do.#VESPER RESULTS HAVE ME SOBBING TEARS. but also Thinking u know? i'm like. this makes sense if you think of the whole johnny problem slowly #killing her and erasing her. so THROWS UP. but in general i feel like ves sometimes is so focused on OTHERS that sometimes she forgets she's #a person on her own too and mmmh urghhh i gotta think of this. fenix result is sooo good. just let me say that this man could be way more #unhinged than what he shows. i think that if he Snapped for good smth terrible would happen. let's leave him to chill really..#daniel well..he's free. he really is but the tempest he brings with his freedom can be scary and bring disaster and like ok funky little man #we enjoy to see you end up in trouble but what if one day your actions will bring consequences to your loved ones? ever thought of that?#violante being void ghost...won't go into here bc i might cry. she never had a place where to belong i'm uGH WE WILL NOT TALK. and zefyr..oh #zefyr my beloved...they are just a complete vulcano of rage and death and this is already too long but i sooo see this with their background #and just I SEE THIS PERFECTLY. YOU GO FUNKY LITTLE TIEFLING MAKE EVERYONE SUCCUMB!!#also was i the only one to get void ghost for my ocs?? DID I FUCK THEM UP THAT BAD THAT THEY ARE VOID GHOSTS?? HELLO????#oc: vesper #oc: fenix #oc: daniel #oc: violante #oc: zefyr

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christophe76460 · 2 years

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En vérité je vous le dis : Toutes les organisations religieuses chrétiennes sont infiltrées et contrôlées par les demons. Jésus-Christ n'a rien à voir avec les clergés des différentes sectes chrétiennes, qui sont en réalité dirigées par des faux prophètes, envoyés du diable. Actes 20v29-30. Parlons par exemple de la secte romaine qu'est le catholicisme. Le catholicisme romain est née au quatrième siècle de notre ère. Son fondateur est l'empereur romain Constantin, qui était un païen, adorateur de faux dieux. Cette secte satanique prétend servir le Christ. Et pourtant, l'histoire, les actions et les doctrines de cette religion prouvent en réalité que c'est un démon qui dirige cette église. Jésus-Christ à dit qu' on reconnaît les faux prophètes par leurs fruits. Mathieu 7v15-20. Quels sont les fruits de l'église catholique ? En effet, le Pape est un fils du diable. Les titres même que portent les responsables catholiques sont condamnés par Jésus-Christ. Mathieu23v1-12. Cette secte romaine fait la promotion de l'idolâtrie en adorant ouvertement les statues, ils adorent les morts qu'ils prétendent être vivants, ce qui est un mensonge. Exode20v1-5. Le célibat des prêtres est une doctrine de démons selon le texte 1timothee4 v1-3. Les prêtes sont des pédophiles et des sodomites qui couchent avec les enfants; ils font des soeurs catholiques des prostituées. Ainsi donc les séminaires catholiques les couvents sont en réalité des bordels. L'usage de l'encens, du crucifix, du chapelet, des bougies, et tout le rituel qui entoure la messe viennent des religions païennes mystiques de l'antiquité. La doctrine catholique de l'immortalité de l'âme et de l'enfer de feu où les hommes sont éternellement torturés est satanique. Eclesiaste 9v5-6,10. Cette secte s'immisce dans les affaires politiques du monde, violant les recommandations claires de Jésus-Christ à ses disciples sur ce sujet. Jean17v16. Jean 18v36. Elle contribue de par sa manipulation, son hypocrisie et sa soif du pouvoir et de la richesse, à répandre le sang des innocents sur la terre. Elle est complice de la traite des noirs, de l'oppression des peuples, de l'impérialisme des puissances européennes et elle a soutenu la colonisation du monde. D'ailleurs, elle a eu à massacrer des dizaines de milliers d'authentiques chrétiens qui se sont opposés à elle. Jean 16v1-3. L'église catholique les à torturés, emprisonnés, décapités et brûlé vifs. Tout ceci mène à une seule conclusion : le dieu des catholiques est lucifer. Lu4v8-9. Que celui qui peut entendre entende. Amen.

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bishopofstdiesis · 1 year

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The Saturnine Duke, circa 1899 the 2nd

I’ve tried to post this four times & it keeps being eaten. So, short story shorter (tired of retyping):

I think the first (very top) is what my brain thinks of as closest. His mask is brighter, different hair (or some for of a hat to better disguise himself). The others? Perhaps Neath visitors paying tribute? Or joining the revels & just looking dapper. One, once again, is the Merry Gentleman passing through. You can choose which. As for the unmasked fellow in red? Anytime I tried to unmask The Duke, he looked a bit like that (which I know means I only found his decoy).

Enjoy!

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lenin-it-to-win-it · 5 years

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no plot, no story just two strange little girls

#i generally dont draw characters unless i have some idea of a story for them but in this case #seriously nothing #theyre in uniforms so i guess they go to school?#demon school?#i dont know #why does violante have a wagon full of bones? whatmst the fuck is in thomasins satchel of doom?#who knows bc i sure dont

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dinawrites · 3 years

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INTRODUCING THE STUDENTS OF WESTWOOD

Ottoline Brassard, The Survivor

Born to Everett and Winona Brassard, Ottoline is the last surviving Witch of the Castemont line, and thus carries with her, in her very blood, the key to Atticus' tomb. Sent to Westwood Academy by the Eldritch Council for not only her protection but the safety of others following a volatile display of raw, untrained magic, Otto feels very much out of place among the teachers and the students, all of whom are members of Recondite Citizenry – an intricate and clandestine community of mystical beings Otto had never even known about let alone ever considered she'd be a part of. Having been raised by her (for lack of a better word) Muggle father, Otto had been constantly moved around as a child with little to no explanation as to why. Westwood Academy – although slow to warmly receive – was her first stable home since her mother died. And she'd be damned if she let anyone or anything take it from her, even if it was a centuries old blood curse and a deadly race of magicians all clawing to be the one to release their fiendish lord from his bonds.

Ulric Baranov, The Faithless

Ulric Baranov was a cold boy, with a cold smile – if you were ever so lucky to have caught a glimpse of it before it so easily vanished. His attention was as elusive as a glimmer of warmth in glacial eyes, and yet, against all odds, Ottoline Brassard caught the former, and would later prove to be a master at conjuring the latter. At first, she'd been an annoyance: too many questions, too quick to smile, too much wide-eyed awe and bewildered confusion. He never knew when it became endearing to him. He supposed, being born into all this, he never took a moment to ponder how truly magical it really was. He'd been a ward at Westwood ever since he was a young boy, when his family were all slaughtered, leaving him with a mutilated leg and a desolate bitterness. He never dared venture off campus, for he feared those who had attempted the extermination of the Dumont line would attempt it again, and finally succeed. So he stayed, locked in the safety of Westwood's halls, practicing, learning. Learning to protect himself against those who would claim his head.

Thomasin Rothchild, The Scion

Thomasin knew David Rothchild never wanted children – never saw himself as much of the parental type, he'd used to say – but there was never any doubt in her mind that he loved her as if she were his own. There hadn't been even a hint of hesitation when he accepted guardianship of his niece, and she'd been admitted to Westwood to join the Rothchild Pack. The line from which Rothchilds come had been known to produce incredibly powerful Alphas, and with that came enemies. Rival packs and rogue wolves who held the belief that to best one in combat would bring good fortune and status. Vampire covens who had centuries worth of bad blood against the family. Fickle Fae who had made and broken deals for the enjoyment, but had come to regret and swear vengeance when retribution was exacted. It had been a betrayal that had slaughtered her father – of that, Thomasin was certain. And although she was old enough to depart from her uncle's side – had been for a few years by then – she remained at Westwood, until she deemed herself strong enough to Alpha her own pack and reclaim what was rightfully hers. What should've gone to her the moment Warren Rothchild's Beta turned on him and clamped his vicious maw around his neck.

Eliseo Santos, The Condemned

Born a Witch in Spanish Inquisition infested Navarre in the year 1587, Eliseo's family was burned at the stake for heresy during the Basque witch trials. Prior to their execution, Teresa sold Eliseo to the Vampire, Violante Santos, in hopes of him avoiding the same fate. What came would be what Eliseo would argue to be a fate worse than death, for Violante Turned him after he attempted to join his family in death. This would serve to be the first of many families Eliseo would come to lose. But at Westwood, he found another; and if he had anything to say about it, the last. At Westwood he found home after centuries of searching; and he refused to lose it again. Because at Westwood, he found Thomasin Rothchild.

Matías Vilades, The Protector

The wolf had cornered him during a midnight hike at summer camp, but when the bite came, he did not scream. If Matías Vilades could liken the experience to anything, it would be pure destiny. And it was like the wolf knew it too, like it had chosen him for that very reason, intelligence aglow in amber eyes. Matías took to lycanthropy like second nature, but unfortunately, that nature was still a wild one, and in the eyes of the Eldritch Council, wild dogs without packs were either put down or domesticated. Matías understandably elected for the latter, and was promptly enrolled at Westwood Academy, where he was taken under the wing of the Rothchilds. Under the tutelage of the Recondite Citizenry's finest, Matías grew to be strong, powerful. And so it was no surprise when the new girl – a Witch with a bounty on her head – arrived, Matías was the number one choice to be her personal guardian. Her protector.

Lucille Burke, The Deceiver

Lucille would argue that every drop of blood she'd spilled was necessary, and had she been born of a different time, she'd be as pure as the undriven snow. Most of the Council would agree. She was a victim of her circumstances; all she ever wanted was freedom. And she'd wanted it so desperately, she'd signed her soul away for it. Born in an age where the word "property" could be used to refer to your fellow man, Lucille Burke had lived many lives. And although she enjoyed the benefits of being Warlocked the first hundred years or so, she came to despise the newfound gifts she had been given. For they had enslaved her as much as her indenture had years prior, and she was now bound to a demon every bit as evil as the man that had claimed ownership of her before. She had not been the one to propose the exorcism of Atticus Aimes, but she had been the one to lure him into the trap the First Families had constructed. They had been bound by the same demon, Atticus and her, the same fiend, and she had believed she was helping Atticus then. She wasn't so sure now. For they'd locked both Atticus and The Fiend away, banished them to a prison unknown. She vanished shortly after to escape a pending trial by the Eldritch, and later resurfaced, seeking refuge at the Vanderbilt Castle – the first iteration of the Westwood Academy. The Vanderbilts thought an ally of her, but were mistaken. She betrayed them to the Eldritch Council, and in their inferring gaze, Lucille Burke had earned her redemption. But there was still a penalty to be paid, and Lucille still had a sentence to serve for her prior violations. She would serve it at Westwood, praying every day that The Fiend would not return, for she knew that she would never be prepared for his wrath. She knew God could not hear her; he'd forsaken her long before she'd bargained herself away.

Tristan Daughtler, The Beguiled

Not much was known about Tristan Daughtler, and he preferred it kept that way. His year and country of origin, the circumstances of his Turning. All of these were things only Tristan knew, for everyone who even had a chance of knowing were long dead. What was known about Tristan Daughtler was that he was ruthless, remorseless, and as close to the devil as one would meet without being dragged to the fiery depths of hell. He hadn't always been like this; that was what Eliseo Santos had thought, and what Eliseo Santos had hoped. For they had been friends once. Tristan Daughtler, too, had been Sired by Violante Santos, and when Eliseo was taken in, Tristan accepted him with open arms. They became brothers, for a time. Neither wished to speak of what caused them to part so viciously — all that is known is that they were all that remained of the Santos Coven, and Eliseo is the only one who still mourns. Tristan's sentencing to Westwood by the Eldritch Council had been a futile attempt at subduing the savage, for how could one ever hope to rehabilitate a being more monster than man? And then he saw her. The little anomaly, the Witch. Ottoline Brassard, his saviour, his enchantress. His beguiler. He decided she was his that day. And seldom things could dissuade Tristan Daughtler.

TAGLIST: @hughstheforcelou @lost-in-the-shelves @akabluekat @lokitrasho @anna-phora @kazinejghafa @perfectlystiles @villanele

#westwood #cast #ottoline brassard #ulric baranov #thomasin rothchild #eliseo santos #matias vilades #lucille burke #tristan daughtler #atticus aimes #violente santos #david rothchild #the eldritch council

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thunder-threnodies · 3 months

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🌹 you know the deal

* cracks knuckles* oh boy here we go!

You find Francis exactly where you'd expect to find them: at your usual table at the Singing Mandrake, the same the two of you reserved for the last 30 years. And as they always did in the last 30 years, they're drinking whiskey, from 1860 or something.

They wave lazily as they smile at you and gestures for you to join them. No need for that; you're already making your way to the table without needing to actually look at where you're going: nothing has really changed in the disposition of the tables.

"Hiram, love, I was starting to suspect you'd leave me all alone!" they say with a soft, low voice bearing all the years of zalty air in their lungs and on their breath.

"Of course you wouldn't my dear! But having me long for you at the Feast of the Rose? Tsk tsk tsk..."

The bartender brings you your favourite drink without you needing to make a single move: you're much more than a regular here.

As you chat and have dinner (as usual Morgan is having raw meat and fishes) the surrounding tables get booked and left vacant now and again for quite a while.

Right after the desserts have been eaten, Morgan takes out a small pocket watch and rises an eyebrow, smiling. "Perfectly on time. It shoud begin in a short while. Shall we go?"

They make their way down a very familiar road, one you've walked many, many times: you're headed to Mahogany Hall.

Tonight's play is dedicated to the Feast and you notice someone you know well in the first row: a faint Apocyanic glow and the brass shimmer give way to their identity. It's gonna be heart breaking and you're all in for it.

As the symphonies begin, glasses of blood red wine are distribuited around as a welcome and by the smell of it you can tell it has been heavily aromatised with Honey. The vivid illusions, a masterful incision through Parabola's very fabric, bleeds dreams of the Traviata on the audience. Mirrors cleverly hidden serve as gateway, in and out, so that the Parabolan creatures seem to leap around like an aquatic play.

The show was absolutely amazing and this rendition, supervised by none other than that Giorgione gave it a wonderful twist and you suspect, no you're certainof that, that the Francis had something to do with all those mirrors...

"Amazing, wasn't it?" they smile as you stroll along Ms. Plenty's Carnival, throught the Docks and back to Veilgarden.

There's a hidden Garden in a dark corner of Ladybones Road, where a number of Bohemien, Devils and general bon vivant are slowly waltzing amongst some of the most astounding flowers and plant the Neath has to offer.

Each dancer dons a Rose mask and somehow there aren't two of the same. Morgan is handing you a beautiful and ephimeral mask, a red velvet rose that frames your left eye and intricate spiny stem with plenty of emerald green leaves that runs up to your right eyebrow and comes down the same side cheek in an intricate game of spines and leaves, creating a beautiful contrast with your Violant eyes.

Morgan themselves are wearing a matching one but mirrored, the Peligin heart of their rose givin to the mask a melancholy and, if possible, an even more fragile and temporary appearance.

Honeyed Laudanum and Honey frosted delicacies are served through the night and slowly everyone transforms and transmogrifies into something more, something less, something different.

Devils as endless, golden bee-people dance with all sorts of monsters but amongst the green and gold, the Violant Demon and the Peligin Drownie dance as their lives depend on it, a dangerous and feral merry-go-round framed in living, singing roses.

Laughing, you sit heavily on a chaise lounge as a familiar Deviless approaches: for a fleeting moment, two roses entwined, one with a Violant heart, the other in delicate shades of Peligin, stand in the middle of the bedlam, perfectly framed in green and gold. A single, radiant bee lovingly tending to the exhasusted Demon.

You don't remember when, or how you got back home.

All you know is that in your brest poket there's a Rose, Violant with a Peligin heart, filled with golden pollen, slowly bleeding Red Honey and you know this won't hurt you. This will hurt you.

But it'll hurt so good.

#fallen london #thunder threnodies #oc:captain francis dargor #oc: hiram hargrave #ask game #Gods help me with the typos

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the-masterless-press · 5 months

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Mask and mistake for Betty

Ask game from here

mask: Does your OC wear a mask, literally or figuratively? What goes on beneath it? Is there anyone in their life who gets to see who they are under the mask?

I mean, she does. She has the Violant Demon. It's kind of her brand. She likes it because it's the opposite to what she'd done to herself- instead of making herself forget, she strives to remember and stay memorable.

Figuratively, she used to mask before an "accident" (heavy quotes here.) Her persona was that of a charmingly eccentric philanderer thirty years ago. Betty was incredibly lonely at that time, mourning a break up and trying to not dwell on it much by focusing her attentions to politics, art, and women. Only a few people ever got to see her actual pain and self-sabotage.

mistake: What's the worst mistake your OC ever made? What led to them making it? Have they been able to fix it? How have they moved on?

Funny you ask that!

Betty's biggest mistake was visiting the Cave of the Nadir. It was during that very horny period that she decided to purge herself of the part that never moved on from Griz. She overdid it and caused herself to completely forget who Griz was and why she fell in love in the first place.

Initially, Betty had to get over her amnesia in the months following the act, recovering past strengths and sleights and remembering friendships.

This experience put some things into perspective for her, making her realise how hopelessly she hoped for someone to come back even if there was resentment present before the break up.

Physically, the experience left Betty with specks of irrigo in her eyes and a peculiar art quirk:

But nearly thirty years later, she is living a mostly normal life.

Safe to say going back to the Nadir was not pleasant because she had to face that part of herself in person.

#fl #fl ocs #oc: betty #doodle tag #ask game

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schleierkauz · 4 years

Text

The Color of Revenge: Chapter 10

Surprise! :3

For some reason (I have to assume as a birthday gift, for me, specifically,-) two chapters were uploaded last friday! Sooo here’s the second one! Enjoy!!

Shoutouts go to @bluejayfiredancer and their art textbook and @firejugglinghobo who both make my life much easier by Speaking English

Chapter 10: Death has the Color of Ash

The last book the Great Balbulus worked on had been commissioned by Violante of Ombra for her 32nd birthday. It was meant to celebrate the natural wonders of Ombra in words and vision. The nymphs in the river, the fire-elves in the nearby woods, the giants in the mountains that could be seen from the highest tower of the castle when the weather was clear, and the unicorns in the holly oak groves east of Ombra.

The writers had delivered the pages with the finished text to Balbulus the evening prior. He was, as always, less than thrilled with the ink quality and the arrangement of words, but he had given up on trying to convince Violante to hire new writers. She would just give him the same answer over and over again:

“Balbulus, these men have families to feed.“

So what? Did that excuse that they might be tainting his posthumous fame with carelessly placed letters and ink that was too pale? Art didn’t care about a few hungry brats. Great art demanded sacrifices to be made!

He used a few color pigments that were left over from the other book.

The other book…

He was glad that the filthy troubadour with the sly smile would take it away soon. Ombra was filled with dark rumors and lamentations. The Bluejay had disappeared, alongside his family. And it wasn’t just him. Where was the Inkweaver? Where was the bookworm woman Loredan? Where was the beautiful Roxane?

It was said that the Fire-Dancer had gone all the way to the White Women to ask about her.

He would not find her.

Balbulus hurried to take his brush off the parchment. His fingers were shaking. He thought he could hear them all from between the pages since the book had come back from the new bookbinder, who really couldn’t compare to the Bluejay.

Finished books were always sent to Balbulus first, in case he needed to make any last corrections. But this one? To hell with it! He had wrapped it in a brocade bag and put it in the chest where he kept used parchment and his linseed oil.

When the screaming in the streets had started, he hadn’t been able to resist the temptation of opening it and looking at the faces of those who had disappeared. How they had looked at him… Thanks to his mastery it seemed as if they were breathing on the pages, and maybe they were. Anything was possible when it came to magic.

With shaking hands he had pushed the book back into the bag and wrapped it tightly before putting it in the chest again. It was made of oak wood and the lid was so heavy that he could barely open it. But still, he thought he could hear them screaming between the cover, between the pages of parchment he had trapped them on.

What had he done?

Stop it! You practiced your art, Balbulus! That’s it!

He clenched his fist to stop his fingers from shaking. Dusk was beginning to fall outside and the troubadour, if that unsavory character deserved to be called that, would take the book and everyone trapped within it away. Yes.

Forget it and focus on the work, Balbulus.

How could he have known that he would be made into a tool for such demonic magic? He dipped the brush into the silver which he used to make the nymph’s scales glow. They lived in the river which flowed through Ombra and Violante loved to watch them from the castle’s crenellations. There were rumors that she regularly left them cakes and grapes at the river bank because she believed that the nymphs brought good luck to the city.

Superstition!

Balbulus cleaned the brush and dipped it into the dark green he had mixed for the nymph’s hair. He painted a wisp of hair, floating on the water. Exquisite! Yes. No one could match his brushstroke.

Balbulus looked up and out of the window. Outside, the day was dying.

… Maybe he should throw the bewitched paints away. He stood and stepped to the shelf where he had put the glasses in which he had filled them. They really were one of a kind. He had never seen such brilliancy before. No.

No, he would keep them and use them for Violante’s birthday book. It would spread the word of Balbulus’ mastery all the way to Venetia. No, he had to think bigger – people would talk about him in Lutici, in Nuremberg, Metachirta, yes, even in Constantinople, where the great Bihzad was illuminating the sultan’s manuscripts so wonderfully that they allegedly spawned golden camels and birds of paradise.

So what? The pictures painted by the Great Balbulus would make the world with all its wonders pale in comparison and everyone who looked upon them would yearn to get lost in his landscapes. The blue of the sky would seem washed out compared to his own. His red would put the most beautiful rose in Violante’s garden to shame and his yellow would outshine the sun.

With a smile, Balbulus stepped back to his desk.

Magnificent Balbulus. Glorious Balbulus. Immortal Balbulus.

He reached for his finest brush and painted another strand of nymph hair onto the water when a noise made him flinch. Cursing, he dropped the brush and looked at the ruined page. How many times did he have to tell those idiot servants that no one was allowed to step into his workshop unannounced? He had even put up a sign which threatened to throw any unauthorized visitors into the dungeon.

“I will ask Violante to withhold your p-“

The words died on Balbulus‘ lips. The troubadour stood in the door. He pulled it closed behind him and gave the illuminator an oily smile. Balbulus always saw the color black when he was face to face with Baldassare. A worrying association. Black, and a poison-green yellow. Yes, those were the colors he would choose to portray Baldassare Renaldesci.

“I was visiting one of Violante’s maids. She would do anything for my verses, the stupid little thing, so I thought, Baldassare, do Balbulus a favor and go fetch the book now. He’s probably in his workshop.”

His dull eyes looked at Balbulus‘ possessions as if he were estimating which would be easiest to sell to Ombra’s fences. Baldassare Rendaldesci’s eyes were always dull, whether it was due to wine or elf dust, Balbulus couldn’t have said. He didn’t know much about the intoxicants that were popular in Ombra. His art was the only drug he was addicted to.

When he turned his back to his visitor, Baldassare locked the door to the workshop. The latch was slightly rusty but Balbulus was struggling to open the lid of the chest and didn’t hear anything.

“Here it is,“ he said, reaching for the bag with the book. Once again Balbulus thought he could hear the prisoners whisper inside. If only he had listened. Maybe they were whispering “Watch out!” or “Don’t turn your back to him, Balbulus!“

“This Walter von Vogelweide,“ he said with his glum voice for which he was just as known as for his art, “does he have a famous library?”

“I have no clue,“ Baldassare answered. “He’s not really the one who commissioned this book.”

Balbulus thought that was a very mysterious answer, but Baldassare didn’t give him time to solve the mystery. He plunged the dagger into Balbulus’ chest as soon as the other man turned around. Right into his heart, just deep enough that it stopped beating without spilling too much blood. Orpheus surely wouldn’t have liked splatters on the book.

Oh yes, Baldassare was a master as well, though not of the art of rhyming like he would have wished to be. He had a lot more talent for murder. Destruction is so much easier to learn than the creation of beauty.

Balbulus slumped down with a surprised expression on his face. Surprise, pain and a hint of indignation that his talent was being snuffed out so soon. Baldassare pulled the bag with the book from his weakening fingers and admired the shimmering brocade. The bag alone was probably worth more than everything he owned.

Oh, the treasures he could earn if he sold the book in Venetia or Mantova instead of leaving it in Violante’s library like Orpheus had ordered… He leaned down and pulled Balbulus’ rings off his lifeless fingers.

No, it probably wasn’t a good idea to steal from Orpheus. After all, he was allied with a witch, a devourer of children if the rumors were true, but maybe he would get rid of his glass man. Even just the thought of carrying him on his shoulder for days and listening to his chatter all over again… Not to mention that he would probably tell Orpheus all sorts of unflattering things about him.

Oh, what a disaster, a raven picked him off my shoulder…

Of course, the Shard Head had wanted to come with him to the castle, but Baldassare had told him in great detail what the maid’s cat liked to do to glass men. Baldassare smiled as he imagined feeding Ironstone to a few hungry rats. The glassy flesh wasn’t very tasty, but apparently those pipsqueaks had a delicious core that even human gourmets valued greatly. In Ombra it was unfortunately illegal to sell glass men for that purpose, so… that treat had to wait.

Baldassare stepped closer to Balbulus‘ desk and looked around, wondering where the sticks were that had served the illuminator as references. He eventually found them in a big casket, alongside a bag of gold coins, silver cutlery and a necklace that Balbulus liked to wear during official events and distinctions. Baldassare took all of it, even though the payment for this murder had been much better than he was used to. He looked at the parchment which his victim had worked on.

Not bad, no. Not at all.

For a moment he regretted that he hadn’t given Balbulus time to finish the page. After all, his death would make his work even more valuable. Well… Nothing could be done about it now. Even a master couldn’t think of everything. Baldassare stepped over Balbulus’ cooling body, a bloody red flower blooming on its chest, and unlocked the door.

Violante’s library was empty when he snuck inside. The maid has assured him that her mistress spent only her mornings in there. Then he left the castle the same way he had gotten in: Through the courts and corridors used by servants and maids. The guards who saw him simply nodded and let him pass. He had spent many evenings entertaining them with his songs and some of them had bought elf dust of excellent quality from him.

Balbulus‘ corpse wasn’t discovered until the next morning.

(Next chapter)

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