bludstaine

[bludstaine]

something  about  this  place.  she  supposes  that  she  should  feel  fearful,  but  what  is  there  to  be  afraid  of  any  longer?  aoife  had  once  been  scared  of  her  father  and  the  ways  in  which  he  didn't  care  that  their  life  was  something  cold  and  miserable  ;  and  then  she  had  found  love,  been  afraid  of  losing  such  precious  understanding  in  the  arms  of  a  beautiful  woman  —  how  lost  it  became,  anyway.  she  almost  welcomes  this  cold  bite  of  wind  nipping  at  her  cheeks,  a  sense  of  danger  lurking  around  the  edges  of  the  bonfire,  past  it  and  into  the  shadows  of  the  darkness  which  her  gaze  cannot  penetrate.  there  are  so  many  things  to  fear,  but  aoife  feels  nothing  of  the  anxieties  krovograd  should  give  to  her. 

and  what  is  her  concern,  then?  these  people  dancing,  laughing,  and  watching  her  with  great  mistrust  are  what  she  should  care  for.  there  is  a  mission  before  her,  the  sweet  satisfaction  of  a  tasks  upon  a  checklist,  tick  tick  and  tick.  she  thrives  in  this  sort  of  environment,  quiet  and  alone  as  she  might  seem,  aoife  is  kept  company  by  purpose. 

her  eyes  flutter  shut,  eyelashes  brushing  the  pink  of  her  cold  cheeks  as  she  listens  to  the  music,  reels  through  her  mind  for  all  that  she  read  of  krovograd,  pulling  forth  tidbits  and  matching  them  to  the  traditions  unraveling  before  her.  it's  interesting,  she  thinks,  to  watch  their  dances,  how  they  laugh  despite  all  that  is  coming  for  them  —  she  shuts  that  thought  away  swiftly,  a  morbid  idea  that  this  mission  might  fail,  that  this  thing  will  not  be  contained,  that  perhaps  she  could  be  at  fault.  she  doesn't  always  trust  herself,  stubborn  as  a  mule  but  equally  insecure  unless  she  falls  into  the  mindless  ease  of  treating  a  human  being,  guiding  them  back  to  health  with  her  small,  pale  hands.  and  does  she  kill,  too?  as  she  must,  as  they  all  must  in  this  line  of  work.  this  is  where  her  mind  switches  off,  where  she  allows  herself  to  pretend  none  of  it  is  real. 

her  eyes  open  again,  pale  and  blinking  against  the  light  of  the  bonfire.  there  is  jacqueline,  who  she  holds  herself  far  away  from.  how  close  they  should  be,  for  she  recalls  how  it  feels  to  hold  her  hand  over  hers  in  an  endless  pool  of  blood,  to  try  to  put  a  person  back  together  as  they  bled  out  between  them.  what  is  more  intimate  than  the  act  of  saving  a  human  being  side  by  side  in  the  mess  of  this  job?  it  is  easy  enough  to  stand  next  to  her  in  tense  silence,  a  mistrust  even  if  they  are  on  the  same  team.  she  was  never  any  good  at  this,  she  never  stood  a  chance  in  the  grand  scheme  of  joining  a  team. 

words  within  the  air,  mingling  with  the  sparks  flying  from  the  fire  before  them.  she  is  a  patient  creature,  and  aoife  thinks  she  might  have  stood  there  in  quiet  rather  peacefully  had  jacqueline  not  broken  it.  how  many  times  have  they  attempted  to  know  one  another?  it  has  been  a  year  now,  a  year  of  their  hands  stained  with  blood,  of  winning  and  losing  side  by  side  —  the  losing  is  the  hardest  part,  and  should  she  not  take  comfort  in  the  only  one  who  understands  what  it  feels  like?  still,  she  doesn't.  maybe  she  is  at  fault  for  this  tension  between  them,  or  maybe  it's  the  both  of  them,  maybe  they're  too  different  as  equally  as  they  are  too  alike. 

“it's  the  wind.  it  won't  allow  the  heat  to  reach  us.”  a  quiet  voice,  almost  peaceful  in  its  monotone.  aoife  is  no  good  at  small  talk,  and  wouldn't  jacqueline  of  all  people  know  that?  she  doesn't  pretend,  not  to  herself  and  not  to  anyone  else,  that  she  is  capable  of  being  like  the  rest  of  them.  sometimes,  she  sees  flashing  of  understanding  in  jacqueline,  for  isn't  there  something  about  all  of  them  that  is  different? 

she's  right,  though.  the  cold  seeps  under  aoife's  bones  and  lays  itself  down  in  her  blood  pumping  sluggishly  in  this  weather.  she  pulls  her  beanie  down  lower,  stretches  her  gloved  fingers  and  prays  for  some  goddamned  circulation  to  return  to  her  limbs. 

head  turning,  jacqueline  surprises  her,  and  aoife  cannot  help  but  examine  the  woman  by  her  side.  she  has  often  admired  her  eyes,  large  and  doe  like,  sharper  than  the  harsh  snap  of  bone  which  she  is  all  too  familiar  with.  they  are  the  type  of  eyes  that  might  warm  a  person  through  and  through,  but  something  about  her  makes  aoife  shiver.  “i  don't  believe  in  goddesses,  jacqueline.”  she  can't  deny  a  small,  amused  smirk,  her  head  shaking.  she  possesses  a  scientific  mind,  no  coming  around  to  the  folklore  of  this  place,  though  she  respects  the  tradition  of  it  all. 

“my  mother  brought  me  to  mass  every  sunday  for  my  entire  adolescence.  i  enjoyed  the  stories,  but  i'll  never  understand  this  blind  faith  in  something  so  intangible.”  a  shrug  of  petite  shoulders  hidden  away  under  her  coat,  bundled  up  and  small,  she  fears  the  cold  could  wrap  its  fingers  around  her  and  pull  her  away  into  the  dark.  “and  what  do  you  think?  is  krovograd  being  punished  with  this  winter?  it  feels  like  punishment,  at  least.”

𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓’𝒔 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒑, 𝒔𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈’𝒔 𝒈𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕.

Arriving at 𝙲𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙻   𝙺𝚁𝙾𝚅𝙾𝙶𝚁𝙰𝙳  ⟳ ˚ — 8PM. ╱ written for @bludstaine !

𝗝𝗔𝗖𝗤𝗨𝗘𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗘 𝗗𝗜𝗗𝗡'𝗧 𝗕𝗘𝗟𝗜𝗘𝗩𝗘 𝗜𝗡 𝗚𝗢𝗗𝗦,  but  she  understood  why  people  did.

There  is  something  soothing  about  the  idea  that  suffering  meant  something,  that  it  wasn’t  just  the  slow  EROSION  of  bone  and  spirit  beneath  an  indifferent  sky.  That  if  you  prayed  hard  enough,  lit  enough  fires,  sang  loud  enough  into  the  night,  someone  might  answer.  That  the  frost  wasn’t  just  the  way  of  the  world,  but  a  test.  A  punishment.  A  thing  that  could  be  undone.

But  Jacqueline  had  seen  too  much  to  believe  in  such  comforts.  She  had  stood  in  places  where  the  air  smelled  like  burning  meat,  where  prayers  drowned  in  blood,  where  DEATH  did  not  come  with  the  solemnity  of  an  old  story  but  with  the  quick,  thoughtless  efficiency  of  a  machine.  She  has  peeled  back  flesh,  reached  into  the  open  cavities  of  dying  men,  and  found  nothing  divine  beneath  the  ribs.  Only  tissue,  only  organs,  only  the  fragile,  temporary  miracle  of  function. Yet,  here  in  Krovograd,  the  people  still  sang.  The  fires  burning  high,  the  air  thick  with  the  scent  of  old  wax  and  charred  wood,  the  last  scraps  of  what  little  they  have  left  sacrificed  in  the  name  of  something  unseen.  Figures  in  bright  greens  and  golds  spun  in  the  firelight,  their  movements  half-mad  with  either  faith  or  desperation.  Drunken  voices  lifted  in  song,  thick  with  the  slur  of  honey-wine  and  starvation,  calling  for  a  goddess  who  had  not  come  in  years.

Jacqueline  stands  at  the  edge  of  it  all,  her  presence  an  intrusion,  an  infection  beneath  the  skin  of  this  city.  She  can  feel  the  weight  of  the  stares,  the  ones  that  LINGER  too  long,  the  ones  that  held  resentment  like  a  stone  beneath  the  tongue.  The  BSAA  are not  saviors  here.  The  people  don't  trust  them.   And  she  can't  blame  them.  When  had  soldiers  ever  come  without  a  cost?

The  cold  pressed  against  her,  sliding  between  the  cracks  of  her  uniform,  but  she  didn't  shiver.  She  had  spent  her  life  ACCLIMATING  to  worse  things.  Still,  she  shifted  her  stance,  rolling  tension  from  her  shoulders,  adjusting  the  strap  of  her  rifle  with  the  idle  precision  of  someone  who  needs  to  do  something  with  her  hands.  It  isn’t  the  cold  that  unsettles  her.  It's  the  waiting.  The  feeling  of  something  just  beyond  the  edges  of  perception,  watching.

And  then,  of  course,  there  is  Aoife  Valentine.

A  year.  A  year  of  FIGHTING  alongside  her,  of  patching  the  same  wounds,  of  breathing  the  same  blood-stale  air  in  the  aftermath  of  something  terrible.  And  still,  the  space  between  them  remained  taut,  stretched  thin  by  something  unnamed  but  unmistakable.  Jacqueline  could  play  the  game  well — pleasant,  professional,  adaptable.  But  with  Aoife,  the  mask  felt  thinner.  The  seams  of  it  strained,  just  a  little.  She  didn't  like  being  left  with  her. She's  not  entirely  sure  why. Maybe  it  was  the  way  Aoife  carried  herself,  sharp-edged  but  distant,  a  woman  who  took  up  space  but  never  fully  occupied  it.  Maybe  it  was  the  way  she  watched  people,  like  she  was  cataloging  them,   not  unlike  how  Jacqueline  herself  observed  the  human  body — coldly  fascinated,  assessing,   measuring  what  lay  beneath  the  skin.  Maybe  it  was  just  that  they  were  too  alike  in  ways  neither  of  them  cared  to  name.

Jacqueline  let  the  silence  stretch  between  them,  watching  the  fire’s  glow  flicker  over  the  cracked  cobblestones,  the  carved  faces  of  wooden  idols  staring  blankly  into  the  night. ❛   You’d  think  all  this  fire  would  bring  some fuckin' warmth,   ❜  she  starts,  voice  light,  almost  CARELESS,  though  she  knew  Aoife  would  hear  the  thread  of  something  sharper  beneath  it.  ❛   But  it’s  a  stubborn  thing,  isn���t  it?  The  cold.   ❜

The  festival  raged  on,  but  the  frost  did  not  retreat.  It  clung  to  the  eaves,  to  the  bones  of  the  city,  to  the  ribs  of  the  people  who  still  begged  for  spring.

Jacqueline  turned  her  head  slightly,  just  enough  to  catch  Aoife’s  profile  against  the  flames.  The  firelight  DIDN'T  soften  her.

❛   Tell  me,   Valentine,   ❜  she  said,  tone  measured,  curiosity  carved  into  something  almost  delicate,  almost  indulgent.  ❛   You  think  the  goddess  has  forsaken  them?  Or  is  she  just  late?   ❜ She  smiled,  slow,  almost  absent,  a  mere  ghost  of  expression.  A  question  meant  to  fill  the  space,  to  STRETCH  the  seconds  into  something  tolerable.   But  she  listens,  because  she  always  does for what's hidden underneath.  And  beneath  the  laughter,  beneath  the  crackle  of  burning  wood  and  the  rhythm  of  boots  against  frozen  earth,  she  listens  for  something  else.

For  the  sound  of  something  moving  in  the  dark.

[bludstaine]

[bludstaine]

her  head  hurts,  and  aoife  is  no  good  for  celebrations  like  this.  she  isn't  a  massively  social  creature,  so  it  helps  to  remind  herself  that  she  is  here  in  a  professional  manner  as  she  stands  with  her  chin  tilted  above  the  crowd.  still,  she  has  a  curious  mind  and  finds  herself  interested  in  krovograd's  customs,  pale  eyes  chasing  the  masked  dancers  before  her,  the  bonfire  licking  her  cheeks  with  its  almost  comforting  warmth.  spring  celebrations,  and  here  she  is  with  gloved  hands,  a  black  beanie  clamped  over  unruly  silver  curls  as  she  shivers  in  the  dusk.  there  is  laughter,  but  something  also  feels  —  off.  aoife  can't  deny  the  tension  rippling  over  the  celebrations,  but  she  can't  entirely  blame  the  locals  for  their  mistrust,  either.  it's  nothing  new  to  her,  longterm  missions  in  foreign  places  and  the  eyes  which  follow  her  in  equal  parts  dislike  and  curiosity.  understandable,  but  irritating  when  it  comes  time  to  do  her  job. she  moves  away,  eager  to  get  a  hot  coffee  into  her  hands  when  she  hears  a  voice  calling  out  nearby,  aoife's  head  turning  sharply  in  his  direction.  she  recognises  him,  knows  it  is  in  her  best  interest  to  make  him  trust  her  ;  but  her  primary  concern  is  for  that  of  the  girl  in  his  arms  to  whom  aoife  hurries,  her  kit  strapped  to  her  back  since  a  trip  back  to  the  fort  just  to  treat  this  girl  doesn't  feel  like  the  best  course  of  action.  nodding,  she  pulls  a  rolled  up  mat  from  her  bag  and  sets  it  on  the  ground.  “set  her  down,  please.”  her  voice  is  a  soft  thing,  only  raised  in  the  middle  of  conflict,  when  her  tendencies  towards  urgency  suit  her  well.  she  hovers  over  the  girl  when  she's  laid  out,  a  small  torch  pulled  from  her  kit  as  she  opens  her  eyes  and  checks  her  pupils,  her  priority  being  to  ensure  she  isn't  infected.  “dasha?  can  you  hear  me?”  she  speaks  more  clearly  now,  her  body  inhabited  by  the  aoife  who  is  confident  in  her  abilities,  whose  hands  almost  act  independently  of  her  mind.  “she  just  fell?  did  she  show  any  symptoms  beforehand?”  she  asks  him,  eyes  flickering  upwards  to  meet  his  briefly  before  she  returns  to  her  examination  of  the  girl  and  finding  a  couple  of  burns  on  her  arm.  exhaling,  aoife  gently  cuts  the  sleeve  of  the  girl's  jacket  away,  roots  through  her  pack  for  a  burn  salve  and  begins  cleaning,  treating,  and  dressing  the  wounds.  “it's  nothing  too  deep,  she'll  be  alright  if  she  keeps  taking  this,”  unthinkingly  she  hands  the  cream  over  to  him  before  she  finishes  the  bandages.  “but  if  this  is  something  —  more…  i  know  i'm  not  exactly  welcome  here,  but  she'll  need  to  come  right  to  me.  you  understand?”  she  pauses  and  moves  to  brush  the  hair  from  the  girl's  forehead,  all  of  her  warmth  goes  to  her  patients,  as  it  has  always  been.  “i  can  stay.  until  she  wakes  up…  i'll  need  to  examine  her  again.  sorry  —  i'm  aoife.”  she  nods  in  his  direction,  wanting  to  be  trusted  by  these  people  but  incapable  of  being  the  kind  of  person  who  makes  acquaintances,  let  alone  friends,  easily. 

WHO: Leon Silva & Aoife Valentine (@bludstaine) WHERE: Vesna Night, near the bonfire

THOUGH THE NIGHT WAS MEANT FOR CELEBRATION, LEON FELT NOTHING BUT A SENSE OF EERINESS. Perhaps it was because outsiders were in the middle of his town's celebrations, placing themselves where they didn't believe once again. Or perhaps it was because he knew that a night like this was the calm before the storm, and he was simply waiting for the shoe to drop. Who would disappear under his nose next? What answers would evade him once again?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a cry. Worried eyes darted towards the sound, a frown forming on his lips at the sight of a young girl collapsed near the fire. She must've just tripped, he thought, surely she's not one of the infected. Though a doubtfulness lingered in his mind, he didn't wait too long before he came to her side and picked her up in his arms. Carrying her away from the action, he looked for Zoya but spotted a familiar silver-haired individual instead.

"Medic." He called, arms tightening around the girl as she squirmed in his arms. "Dasha fell near the fire. I need you to make sure she doesn't have any burns." He knew approaching her for help was a rarity, but she was around and the girl was clearly in need of care. If he had a choice, he would've chosen one of the local doctors to help with the case. Sadly, he knew to abandon his pride in favor of his people.

[bludstaine]

Jill Valentine in Resident Evil 5

[bludstaine]

suffer     does     the     wolf     —     crawling     to     thee     .  

(  emilia clarke.  cis woman.  she/her  )  in  krovograd  ,  survival  is  a  test  of  both  skill  and  morality  —  will  AOIFE VALENTINE  withstand  the  horrors  ,  or  will  the  city  break  them  ?  over  the  comms  ,  their  voice  cuts  through  the  static  :  “I’M MORE WOLF THAN WOMAN, ANYWAY.”  our  records  confirm  they  are  a  THIRTY  year  old  ALPHA - 04  ,  assigned  to  GHOST HOUNDS  for  2  YEARS.  field  reports  describe  them  as  AMBITIOUS,  COMPASSIONATE  ,  though  firsthand  accounts  suggest  they  are  equally  MISTRUSTING,  IMPULSIVE  under  pressure.  there’s  something  about  them  —  something  in  the  way  they  move  ,  speak  ,  or  fight  —  that  brings  to  mind  STARBURSTER   (  FONTAINES DC  ).  maybe  it's  just  a  coincidence.  or  maybe  ,  it  says  everything.

𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘴

full name : aoife  ( ee - fah )  valentine age : thirty  gender / pronouns : cis  woman she  /  her orientation : bisexual  occupation : alpha  -  04  , assigned  to  ghost  hounds

𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭

eye  colour  :  blue hair  colour  :  silver build  :  petite,  muscular height  :  5′1″ piercings  :  ear  lobes,  tragus  and  helix tattoos  :  neck,  left  arm,  right  hand distinctive  features  :  white   hair   and   stern   eyes face  claim  :  emilia   clarke

𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥

disclaimer —  i  know  next  to  nothing  about  the  american  education  system  so  ignore  and  mistakes  in  my  google  research  below!

born in dublin, ireland to an american mother and an irish father, aoife valentine was faced with struggle from the beginning. inner city dublin in the 1980s was a mountain to climb rather than a life to live — and the valentine family climbed and climbed, even when the rocks fell out from under their ragged feet. a place titled the liberties, where the children ran dirty footed through the streets, where the spirits were high even through the poverty faced by the working class. aoife shared a brilliant mind from a young age, though there resources simply weren't there to nurture her through her schooling. it was suggested, sadly, that she could be brilliant should she attend a school better equipped to aid in her abilities. arguments broke out between a mother who felt there was a life to live across the ocean and a father who had checked out mentally a long time ago. no, he had said, had refused to give their family a chance at something more. resentment built, growing until there was nothing resembling what had once been love between aoife's parents, until her father grew mean and her mother grew angry — and so she left in the night with her eleven year old daughter tucked against her side. she had saved and saved for plane tickets, had put aside what she could for years until they found themselves fleeing to washington d.c. where her mother had some family that they could stay with.  in her schooling, aoife began to thrive, but it was socially that she fell back. she was younger, pushed up through her grades and bearing a thick dublin accent which the other kids made fun of. she kept her head down, studied; but she also had a mouth which got her into trouble, which got her bullied or teased. she hated going to school, but she loved the challenge of it, too. she loved that she was good at something, that things went quiet in her head when faced with a scientific equation, with theory regarding old english literature, with a new language to learn. her mother saw a bright future ahead of her, and so she encouraged a fifteen year old aoife to accept the offer from georgetown university to attend early.  she was twenty three when she graduated medical school, armed with an excellent education and dreams of becoming a surgeon, of helping others; her career took a hard swing when she found herself enlisting in the navy in order to follow the woman she had been in love with into the army. aoife had met carla in her final years of studies, had fallen deeply and irrevocably, and soon began to share in her ideals of joining the army. bioterrorism was everywhere since the raccoon city incident, people were scared, and she wanted to be a part of something big. she trained, she grew stronger physically than she ever had though she would be capable of. carla would later go missing in action, lost during a classified misison which even aoife knew nothing about. she fell down a rabbit hole of questions and theories, until she finally landed in the bsaa; desperate for answers and in way over her head.

[bludstaine]

you  poor  thing  —  sweet  mourning  lamb .      . ・゜゜・．#𝙱𝙻𝚄𝙳𝚂𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽𝙴  is  a  muse  blog  dependent  on  ops416  .  written  with  ugly  devotion  by  lo,  who  is  aged  thirty,  operates  from  the  gmt  timezone,  and  prefers  the  pronouns  of  she  and  her  .

i  .      aoife  valentine      if  there  is  a  light ,  i  am  going  to  swallow  it .  if  there  is  a  god ,  i  am  going  to  make  him  cry        ( pinterest )