burnen

[burnen]

ok is there anyone y'all wanna see in the new and improved roster tho . . . that's the real question.

[burnen]

pulchral -> burnen.

[burnen]

ah. the chatter, the back and forth, the jovial laughter echoing through the booth— kinda reminds him of highschool, and honestly? it wasn’t necessarily the best sort of memory to bring back when asking for approval from… well, youngsters. there’s a twitch to his brow that’s very hard to ignore, and a quick downturn of his lips, from overecstatic smile, all the way down to droopy frown. not good!     “yeah, me.”     it’s almost cartoonishly big— the frown only grows as the laughter increases. in his head, at least, it sounded like it. there’s a snap, hidden somewhere deep within adrian’s chest, and before long, he straightens out his shoulders, and grips at the cart in front of him with the intent of simply… just, rolling it away. but could he really do that? could he really simply just walk away from that? from that insult? that’s when it pops into his head.

#WWPMBFFD. what’s that stand for, you might ask? obviously, what would peacemaker’s best friend forever do? a mantra, much like any other hero’s. a motto. a slogan. he could already see it, plastered along the side of a stanley cup, or a the rolled up pant leg of some hipster drinking starbucks. inspirational.

right. fuck them up. easy as pie.     “if i couldn’t tell already from the soccer mom haircut and the neckbeard tracksuit combo you got going on there, i’d imagine you brady bunch breakfast club hunky dory merry band of dipfucks were the hottest soon-to-be failures vought ever shot out its industrial womb— so you’re lame. you’re fucking lame. and i think vigilante would beat the brakes off of homelander. AND ESPECIALLY YOU, BOWL CUT.”

and it’s only then, after being on fire for what felt like an eternity, that adrian chase seemingly poofs down, his flame quelled on its own, leaving the group to reassess, and possibly reevaluate their lives, after an encounter with what was perhaps the world’s weirdest busboy.

the booth's occupants consists of cate, andre, luke, and jordan. just another day in their lives. (and to be fair, they've dealt with their fair-share of weirdos before. especially luke being golden boy.) this guy, though? the one who looks like he's one of the smosh guys? @pulchral might've just taken the fucking cake. jordan stifles a laugh, their eyes darting downward to the table before tilting their head a few times. as if they were mulling the words over in their head. they weren't. when eye contact is finally made again, jordan's sardonic words speak for themselves. “you, attending god-u? whatever you've been smoking, can you bring some over to the table?” a few chuckles echo around the booth in response. jordan's feminine form does raise an eyebrow at the question, though. vigilante? who the fuck asks about vigilante? “i mean, he's alright, i guess? goes viral a few times a year— good for him. kinda lame through the rest of the year, though.” it's more viral than jordan has ever gone.

[burnen]

@kudakenai said: you wanna know what your problem is?

“i don’t have a problem,”     words fall one by one, shot out like pebbles from a slingshot— and each of them hit their mark. jimmy hopkins was a kid of a few words, even less when it came down to the nitty gritty of things, to the less practical and more emotional side. being confronted, one on one, no fists involved, like this… well, it felt less like a friendly discussion, and more like a personal dispute that needed to be settled, right then and there. it’s written in the furrow of his brow and in the way his lips squeezed together in a permanent scowl, a slash across his face like a bleeding wound. freckled features wrinkle, as he takes a step towards the other.     “i have headaches, and a lot of them. got faces n’ names.”

a shrug of his shoulders is quickly followed by a huff, as the troublemaker proceeded to stuff his bruised and bandaged hands in the oversized pockets of his overpriced and overly stiff (Bullworth™ Line) cargo pants. which, while we’re on the topic, were absolutely not worth the money they costed.     “but please, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong with me, too.”

[burnen]

                            WHICH WILL YOU PLAY?

independent multimuses featuring an array of video game characters from various franchises. written by gabi and sarge!    found at @enstored + @pulchral.

[burnen]

@7hell said: close your eyes and hold out your hands.

it’s an incredibly arduous task, denying a child’s request. especially when they looked up at you like that, bright-eyed and full of wonder— as if the simple prospect of interaction was enough to overjoy them. a simple task, a simple exchange of trust. close your eyes, and hold out your hands. it takes kiryu by surprise, even though the scowl on his mug was ever-present, and the arch of his brow was ever-furrowed.     “...?”     head tilts, elbow slides off the bar counter with a resounding thud.     “... a game?”     he mused, before straightening his jacket, and turning around fully on his stool to face the shorter one.

it takes a little for him to actually comply, and all things considered, kiryu did look mighty uncomfortable, but that was besides the point… his eyes fluttered closed, and his hand extended towards yuuta, in a non-confrontational manner… simply just… waiting, for whatever it was coming for him. be it a sweet treat, or something less jovial and more in line with his lifestyle, so to speak.     “... hm.”     focus, kiryu. focus…

[burnen]

@7hell said: here, take this. you’ll catch a cold.

“i’m not cold,”     words that fall from her tongue, weighed down by the rasp of her tone and the heft of her voice. vi looks back, over her bare shoulder, muscles tensed up and aching, knuckles bloodied and bruised after the altercation that had previously taken place in the tavern about an earshot away from the alley they were currently stuck in.     “been through worse.”     a silent admission of guilt— was she cold? yes. was she going to deprive kinu of the jacket she was offering? no. she needed it more than vi.

“thanks for the help,”     she mutters softly, before turning around, still nursing the wound on her forearm, crimson bleeding into the damp bandages wrapped tightly around her fist. a fighter, through and through, vi felt the need not to display the ache, or the discomfort she was feeling, instead opting for a more reassuring sight: sitting up, she finds herself quickly pacing towards the other, and with a swift movement, wrapping the cloth around kinu’s shoulders.     “but you’re going to be shivering a hell of a lot harder than that, if you don’t cover up.”     pad of her thumb moves to rub some dirt off her cheek.     “and uh, sorry about the scuffle. i guess.”

[burnen]

@atreideir said: why are you talking like we’ll never see each other again?

it is not in the duke’s mind to fill his boy’s free time with idle chit-chat and mind-numbing back and forths about the whats and the ifs of the known universe— leto knew, perhaps more than most, that his son, his paul had grown into a fine man, a clever man with a mind much better than his own.     “ah, what is it? worried about me, are you?”     a sly smile threatens to crack the stoic, hawk-like façade of the red duke, before he quickly recomposes himself, piece by piece, tugging at the corners of his mouth.     “the more you grow, the more i see myself in you, paul.”     a gloved hand comes down, perches itself upon the young man’s shoulder, before a gentle, yet firm pat is swiftly delivered between his shoulder blades.

“don’t let the fear of the unknown halt you, my son. embrace it. make it your own. and if it makes you feel more at ease, remember…   i will always be by your side.”     as long as there is air in my lungs, and life in my heart. it’s during those moments that leto atreides looked as if he was larger than life itself, larger than both paul and the fortress they stood in, a bastion of hope that left a gleam in his son’s eye— that’s what every father is supposed to convey, no? safety, security, stability. the hand stays there, pressed against his back, as if making sure he couldn’t stumble, or fall.     “stand tall, now.”     there is warmth in his words as they’re spoken, despite his gaze being directed towards the unending desert that set the stage before them.

between the sandy dunes of arrakis, a father tends a helping hand to his son. between turmoil and unrest, an unknowing martyr imparts his last teachings to a false prophet. a terrible purpose. to stand tall is to stand alone. to stand alone is to walk a desolate path towards ruin.

[burnen]

it’s clear to see that they’re not from here.

they came from nowhere, and when their self-imposed ‘task’ is done, they will probably simply float on somewhere they find more interesting.   caledon bears no real name, no real identification, and the moniker assigned to their persona is simply correlating to the location where she was first sighted:  caledon, canada.   unblinking and unfazed at the sight of the weapons pointed towards them, they simply warped out of existence, and reappeared weeks later, miles away from the coast of miami, florida.   colloquially and wrongfully dubbed ‘the pale girl’ by the cryptid hunting community, callie’s life, from the moment she blinked into existence, consisted of trying to find someone who didn’t shout at them.   and now, every time she tries to make friends, she can’t! [ + INFO & VERSES UNDER THE CUT. ]

their origins are unknown, and they’re more than just reserved in their mannerisms, rarely ever speaking to humans or interacting with those that flock to her whenever she appears, preferring the peace and quiet of animals, after a myriad of encounters with people…   the flashes of cameras, and the constant clicking of phones have annoyed and hurt her enough, to the point where they feel the need to hide, and select those they feel might be more inclined to be nice.   meeting callie one-on-one is then, to be considered, quite the treat.   it means you’ve been hand-picked, studied, and appreciated.   the parameters of their choice aren’t public knowledge, but one might be able to guess that a calm and somewhat positive personality are what they seek in a ‘friend,’ or what she deems to be one.   very few have met her, but those who did say they speak in perfect english, if with a very heavy accent…   with his vocabulary being described as “simplistic and full of emotion.”

VERSES AVAILABLE: apex legends, cyberpunk 2077, any fantasy / modern fantasy setting, fallout, mass effect, overwatch, dc / marvel, star wars. [ AND MORE ON REQUEST! ]

[burnen]

@thefixer said: we won’t make it anywhere like this. not for a while anyway.

it’s almost comical, the way ezio’s mouth opens, just to close again, back against the wall—   sliding all the way down, slumping to the floor.     “ah.”     hands come together, palm against palm, eyes looking up at the woman still standing upright mere feet away from him.   ezio’d grown used to this sort of…   rhythm, by now, yet in the past, all of his perils and tribulations as an assassin had been faced…   alone.   never had he ever thought he was going to be moving to rome, and having to fight side by side with others like him, rallying under the same coat of arms, or in their case, a similiar objective.   mia had been somewhat of a stroke of lightning in his life, a spark that left him speechless, most of the time.   how crazy was that—   him, speechless.   he couldn’t believe it himself.     “lady luck smiles upon us, however, amica mia.”     a smile curls at the corners of his mouth as he lifts himself back up to his feet, dusts his garbs off, and locks the last open window of the barracks they were currently barricaded inside of.   guardsmen might’ve been still looking for them, but they were safe for the time being…   the only obstacle in their way was, well, conversation with one another.

“we have all this room, and about three or four hours of daylight still, before we can leave…”     leaning against one of the many tables scattered across the place, ezio allows himself to slip onto one of the rickety wooden chairs, leaning back.     “so, please, sit.   rest.   i will keep watch.”     with the blood of ser de grassi still fresh upon the cobblestone, all they could do was sit and wait for the right time to slip out, and make their way back towards a safe haven.     “allow me to repay you for the skill you have displayed earlier—   truly, i was, and still am amazed.”     he nods, pulling back his hood.     “you are one in a million, mia di salvo.”

[burnen]

@libertycities / sienna said: oh, i’m no innocent. but evil? you tell me.

“you want the god-honest truth?”     in a world such as theirs, honesty had become a privilege, a luxury that few could afford…   and even then, rick grimes made sure that he could say it how he meant it, without a hitch, and without any sort of smokescreen hiding the true intent of his words.   there was no need to lie, not about this, not when the outcome was hardly going to be favorable.   sienna was a wild-card, at least to him, so, weighing his words, rick shifts his weight from one foot to the other, resting his palm atop the gun holstered at his side.     “i think yer’ not here to be best pals with noone, especially someone like me…   hell, from the look n’ your eyes, y’probably hate me on principle.”     brows furrow, head tilts to one side, upper lip quivers in an attempt at biting back the poison that was threatening to spill from his lips.

“but i don’t care.   i don’t.   ‘s long as you respect the boundaries we set, i’ll give you my word that i’ll make sure my group respects yours.”     good, evil, these were all things that had lost meaning a long time ago…   survival had taken ahold of morality, skewered it to a point of no return.   men like him and her returned to the basic instinctual need to survive against all odds, to thrive where nothing blossomed.   even if it meant forming shaky alliances, such as this one.     “now, are you with us?”

[burnen]

large hand swats at the board on the table, as if he could somehow smack a hologram away, taking the ‘quit the game’ thing a little too literally, but hey—   like momma always said, better be dumb but safe, than smart but dead.     “ittu, tash, what’re we gonna d- urk!”     sliding out of his seat, and stumbling behind her, bogo wastes not a single second in flipping on his survival mode, and, disregarding what she said, or was going to say, he turns the situation around, and taking ahold of her wrist, he proceeds to run full steam ahead towards the closest thing that resembled an emergency exit.     “…!”     and without a hitch, he busted right through the exit with little to no flair, little to no theatrics, no.   they were no jedi. at least, not him.     “where’re we goin’ now?!”     the commotion certainly gave up their position, but at least, now they weren’t stuck in a corner…     “s-steal something?   put on wigs?   appeal to their sense of mercy?   break out into song?   ahhhh, tee, we’re gonna  d i e !”

if there was a definition for what they were, it would be screwed. tighter than a gear on a delta-7 starfighter. her irises watch as bogo's demeanor changes noting the commotion at the cantina's entrance. through a window, she notes three stormtroopers enclosing around the perimeter— blaster rifles toted in hands. “ yeah, i think it means you gotta quit the game! ” without a second thought, tasha's grabbing the rodian's arm and tugging him from the chair he'd been sitting on. beneath her beige poncho, her yellow lightsaber is holstered and easy enough to retrieve. not that she would like matters to come to that. she would like the total opposite, truthfully. “ there should be another door somewhere— the senate passed a law years ago about fire safety. a building has to have a fire exit... i think. ”

[burnen]

@libertycities / lamar said: what? okay, relax. relax! what did i do?

despite his gaudy, and perhaps over-the-top outward appearance, anyone who knew johnny gat could say he possessed quite the composed personality.   so it was odd, and even out of place, to see him so riled up, his usual laidback smirk turned stormy and blackened by the encroaching clouds of the wrath bubbling at the back of his stomach.   like a volcano, readying itself to explode.     “you wanna tell me truth now, lamar?”     his pacing was feverish, back and forth, in front of his desk, before it all came to a halt…   johnny quit his nervous walking, and sat down atop the mahogany counter, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“my people told me there’s been an issue, with your people. they ain't happy- he's not happy.”     those clouds were quick to dissipate, but his somewhat stern expression didn’t seem like it was going to leave his features any time soon.     “somethin’ ‘bout a shipment, or a drop-off, or somethin’ like that.   your guys didn’t deliver.   you know julius doesn’t fuck with sneaky shit like that.”     his gaze draws and fires an arrow at the seat right in front of his, pushing the chair away from the desk with his shoe, in an irritated attempt at getting him to sit down.     “i trust you.   now you’re gonna sit the fuck down, n’ you’re gonna tell me what’s going on.”

[burnen]

[ 4:37AM, MIAMI.   ]

there’s a certain discomfort brought forth by his decision, that night.   a night that perhaps should’ve ended differently, an evening that was coated in mercy, rather than the cold and calculating nature of the blessings imparted upon his very being by the phone call received that very same afternoon.   a fateful evening that brought a visitor to his home—   a guest, that suddenly, made his safehouse feel…   unsafe.

the pacing grows to a feverish halt when his thoughts quit whirring in his head, and his vision clears once more when water hits it.   the eyes looking back at him are not his own, he does not recognize them.   that’s when it happens, and the man’s bandaged hands reach for the object at his side, gently sliding it over his features…   inhale, exhale.   he could finally breathe again.   think again.   exist again.   first order of business;   checking on her vitals, seeing if she could stand, and settle some ground rules for her stay, be it short, or prolonged.   organization was the key to a stable mind.

his shaking stops.

the doorknob twists, and he makes his presence known with an almost uncharacteristically shy wave of his hand.   he doesn’t speak, and doesn’t produce any noise as he makes his way into the room, carefully approaching the bedside with both of his palms splayed, by his chest, in a clear show of good intentions.     “  … ?  ”     from his pocket, jacket produces a small water bottle, which he settles right atop the bedside cabinet, and then, with the same rhythm, pointed at himself, and made a thumbs up.   one could be left wondering as to what that might’ve meant, but, most likely it was simply supposed to be a show of good will.   he was there to help, after all, even though he still had his doubts…   his shaking had stopped, but his mind wondered. will it start again, when the phone rings?

     how  long  has  she  been  sleeping  ?  heather  drifts  in  and  out  of  consciousness  as  the  hours  pass,  briefly  waking  up  when  her  body  decides  it  wants  to  empty  the  contents  of  her  stomach  in  the  bucket  right  beside  her,  eliciting  a  visceral  discomfort,  but  after  each  time  she  slowly  begins  to  feel  better,  and  sleep  overtakes  her  again  .

when  her  eyes  flutter  open  once  more,  there's  no  longer  a  sick  feeling  in  her  abdomen,  but  her  head  still  feels  like  it's  going  to  split  open,  and  she  hardly  has  any  strength  to  stand  .    instead,  choosing  to  carefully  sit  up  and  pull  the  blanket  closer  to  her  form,  grip  tight  on  the  cover  .    vision  slightly  clouded,  but  she  can  tell  this  isn't  that  place  anymore  .

a  relieved  sigh  parted  from  her  lips  at  the  tranquility  within  the  apartment,  but  this  solace  was  short-lived,  abruptly  interrupted  by  the  creaking  of  the  door  .    tension  grips  her,  compelling  her  to  back  up  against  the  comforting  contours  of  the  couch,  gaze  fixed  on  the  entrance  to  see  who's  arrived  .    your  hands  are  shaking  again  .

@pulchral  /  for  jacket

[burnen]

@libertycities / seth said: if i get caught, nothing can save me. nothing.

“dude, you inhaled secondhand smoke, you’re not going to jail.”

shifty-eyed and twitchy, evan stood at the corner of the street, looming over a slumped over seth in a bush, moaning and groaning nonsense about being caught by the…   what was it he said?     “stop saying ‘the popo’ man, that’s like, a bad omen.   you’re just trying to jinx it at this point. ‘s like saying bloody mary three times in the mirror.”     okay, okay, maybe evan had also inhaled a little bit of that secondhand smoke, and was feeling the effects…   or maybe he was just humoring him.   yeah, humoring him, of course.   extending a hand down towards his friend, evan urged him to get back on his feet with a very stern, and almost father-like scowl.     “get up— c’mon man, get up!   i think i hear someone coming…”

[burnen]

they called him “the best in the world.”

only problem being that his job was the worst kind, the kind that you do not choose for yourself.   brought into the lazarus project when he was only four years old, august walker, born ▇▇▇▇▇, was quickly introduced to what it meant to be a mutt.   a project meant to give those with no possibilities at a normal life a fighting chance, sending each and every one of those who stepped through its icy cold halls towards a violent end.   hitmen, informants, spies.   puppets of the government, with no other choice other than to obey.   this was their life, they owed it to their handlers, to their partners, to their brothers and sisters—   not august, though.   august was different. [ + INFO & VERSES UNDER THE CUT. ]

broad, wide-eyed, ready and capable from the very beginning.   his track record showed an incredible proficiency with an almost immense variety of weapons, both melee and ranged, with an astounding score of over 500 confirmed kills on the job, with no recorded failures, as of today’s date.   or, better said, as of his ex-communication.   due to reasons unknown to the common public, or the organization as a whole, august walker has defected the ranks of his section within the lazarus project, leaving the premises and eliminating about a dozen loyal members of the group on his way out.   he has since been flying under the radar, with his only recorded sighting being near bordeaux, france.   headquarters is speculating a possible meeting with a known informant, either évariste anouilh  [fka “the worm,”]  or ▇▇▇▇▇  [aka “▇▇▇.”]

the former top asset of the lazarus project is, de facto, a wanted fugitive, holding an enormous amount of confidential and harmful information, both to the organization itself, and those who work for it.   the rewards for his capture haven’t been disclosed, as of yet, but they’re presumed to be more than simply ludicrous—   generational riches could be earned from his capture, or, better yet, his untimely demise.   his escape has been ruled as treason of the highest caliber, and those who decide to follow him shall soon be met with the cold and calculating end that all traitors should endure.   death.

VERSES AVAILABLE: apex legends, assassin's creed, call of duty, cyberpunk 2077, fallout, gta, hotline miami, mass effect, payday, dc / marvel, bullet train, star wars. [ AND MORE ON REQUEST! ]

[burnen]

@7hell / hye said: yeah, but then what would you do?

“eh- what kinda stupid question is that?”     goro’s words come out one after the other, erratic and nigh-upset a the inquiry itself, lip tugged upwards like a mad dog baring his teeth, before a smile carves itself into his features, wide and haunting. if his other half was no more, then he would also be forced to give up; hang up his knife, and jacket, and retire somewhere far, far away.   it wasn’t something he liked to think about, or even consider, to be completely and utterly honest with himself, so when met with the concept, he lashed out, even if briefly, towards the other.     “nothin’ fun, and nothin’ that’d matter t’ you.”     after all, dancing by yourself is very rarely entertaining, and in his case, it wasn’t worth it.   no dog biting the dragon’s tail.   no kiryu, no majima.   simple as that.

“askin’ a lotta damn question…   you interested in me or somethin’?”     a clear yet skillfully executed attempt at diverting his own attention away from the topic, and slamming the ball back into hye’s court.     “yer’ real close too…   y’wanna take a picture, or what?”