#◈ rp threads

[gcldfanged]

Love-Style Pawsona Quiz Tagged By: @stupidiinspades [OH, YOU...]

The Endless softly gasps, placing a hand against their chest in complete breathless 'shock' that when paired with their most creative intermediary (one single-serving John Constantine), the couple made for the most pleasantly chaotic of... partnerships?

Oh, if only some creative malaise-struck, soggy-eyed human poet could adequately capture the depth and complexity of their dynamic in a single paltry word.

"Admittedly, I was quite skeptical of the outcome, but color me surprised- The internet truly does know so much! But how could this be, John? I am quite 'off the grid', if that's the appropriate term... Have you spent an inordinate amount of time sorting through fond little moments you've since committed to memory? Is there a form of social media that boasts a library of countless videos where you sigh and fling yourself bodily across your threadbare sofa, cursing various pantheons and entities at work, for steering you in my direction? I have some catching up to do, if that's the case-"

Of course, leaving would be no fun at all. True to themselves as ever, Deceit proceeds to get nice and comfortable- By being entirely sprawled across the mage's lap.

They adjust themselves vigorously, wiggling their hips to and fro, as they use their own crossed arms as a pillow beneath the elegant curve of their neck.

"Or you could just regale me with your emotional struggles right now, you may just get a juicy tidbit of sound advice straight from the source- A RARE privilege, indeed."

[mutasharid]

@sunderedoldfriends requested a starter for Estinien:

For a gravely wounded man, the Warrior of Light was making quite a ruckus at the Barber's. The more sensible of the Healers had left, but one or two stubborn souls reminded behind to try and talk sense into the mage.

"I don't need to be attended to like some... invalid!" Vali raged while looking, if possible, even more angry than he had before he began to cough up specks of blood. He'd bellowed enough to strain his throat hoarse, held together with ruddy bandages that needed replacing, yet Arrzaneth had decided this was a feat he could manage on his own.

A roll of bandages was carefully gripped in his right hand, trying and failing to wrap it snug against the mangled remains oh his once dominant opposite. It had taken two weeks of sedation keeping him immobile, grafting the raw wound to a flap of skin on his lower abdomen above his hip. Once rooted, new skin began to form enough to remove it once more, at the cost of some bone and tissue remaining from the dregs of his necrotic middle digit. The remaining ring and pinky finger could barely move, trauma to the adjoining muscles and tissue having atrophied any dexterity he could perform.

An ugly line of stitches and stapling started a little below his sternum, the imperial viceroy's blade having caught him at a diagonal, carving into his chest to the shoulder.

Now that he was awake, all he could think about was the massacre that had unfolded at the Reach. How foolish he had been to think the empire was blind to their schemes and movements. He'd barely cobbled together some untrained young villagers to take up arms, convinced more sons and daughters of simple laborers to enlist and aid the Resistance. With those who remained with Commander Kemp after Baelsar's Wall, they barely had any numbers to rival that of an experienced legion.

The former Azure Dragoon's presence went barely noticed as Vali pulled at the bandages between his teeth, trying to knot the material and failing spectacularly. Growling out a frustrated noise of disgust, he curled his right hand into a fist and slammed it down on the wooden frame of the sick bed.

[gcldfanged]

[Continued from HERE.]

He's always a bit lethargic after a meal, not even from the amount of food consumed- But due to the sheer amount of organization, time management, concentration, and labor needed to prepare a custom menu. He wasn't bellowing orders at the pass or throwing badly plated dishes at his line cooks (this time, anyway), but the weariness was evident in the way the crime lord's shoulders sagged a touch lower and the flirtatious quality to his voice and gestures had quieted down into something much more thoughtful and subdued.

Swirling the remnants of some disgustingly pricey luxury champagne within a fluted crystal glass, Yoon crosses one long leg over the other with a soft exhale. Business was going well, as to be expected- However, his 'pet project' in sponsoring a up and coming yakuza heir had proved to be a decision that had sent ripples of confusion and unease through his subordinates. While they didn't spurn all dealings with the yakuza brotherhoods stationed overseas, direct business with any who remained rooted to the island proper was obviously quite rare.

The bad blood that stemmed from a long history of incredibly hostile foreign occupation was a blisteringly raw wound that refused to scab over, only to be further exacerbated by the resurgence of strong neo-imperialist sentiment within Japan's political climate. And while Jae-hyo himself could admit that he entertained contacts with origins from Japan, they both knew (but never put words to) the basic rule enforced, ever passed down from generational trauma: You can engage with them at large, even call some of them your friends, but you never forget.

Miyoko was vastly unexpected, the direct offspring said to inherit their father's criminal empire and yet they did not glide across the floor radiating some modern and wordless echo to yamato nadeshiko with an ever graceful economy of subtle and subdued movements. They marched like someone who'd just returned from a stint of career military service, had that sharp-eyed predator's awareness of their surroundings at all times, their body an extremely deadly and more than effective weapon hewn from shattered bones that only grew back thicker and stronger for it, scarred flesh touched by little more than cruelty for the sake of flaunting power, and a personality that more brief flashes of keenly-honed edges and layered barbed wire keeping others at a firmly enforced distance.

They could exercise politeness when needed, but beneath that calm and neutral mask lied something that Yoon recognized very quickly- a learned state of passive acceptance. It wasn't innate, it wasn't some intrinsic yellowed streak that hid beneath the chiton of one's backbone when introduced to increasing pressure.

It was the kind of dead-eyed lack of personhood that he saw staring down at the drain of a public bathroom sink, like the centrifugal force of the ruddy water might drag his body down into the blackness along with it. His mirrored-self's jaundiced and bruised flesh: all manner of painful lessons burned, beaten, strangled, and subdued by anything from knives, to ropes, to chains and the control of much larger stronger hands. There was nothing human there, no 'soul'- Only an ever spiraling void that continued to consume everything leveraged against it, yet was never truly complete. A sieve through which any sense of freedom, expression, or even opinions that differed from that of their master fell straight through the gaping mouth punched through it's foundation.

He should be disgusted by the knowledge, the ability to recognize that shared hollowness that is forever carved through their being- A yawning abyss that did nothing more than gnash it's broken teeth and futilely gnaw at it's own belly, stripping fur and skin until they punctured innards.

He should hate them, for being so weak- As he hated his old self, the coward who did nothing but cry endlessly and snivel into her twin's skirts at the overwhelming hopelessness of their situation. The helpless little girl who had said nothing, not even dared to breathe, even as her only remaining source of unconditional love and selfless protection was so cruelly dragged away- All the while struggling just to lock eyes and deliver a reassuring smile to her other half that was birthed from the same womb.

It's going to be okay, J꙲꙲i꙲꙲-꙲꙲h꙲꙲o꙲꙲.꙲꙲"꙲꙲

Jae-hyo's dominant arm lashes out like a snake, to close steely leather-encased fingers around Miyoko's wrist and pull. Keeps pulling until the guidance and torque results in the yakuza heir sitting astride his hips and thighs. His gimlet-eyed stare is little more than two pools of spilled oil spreading across the encrusted rime of a gelid pond. He doesn't move to grasp at familiar curves or the hard planes of muscle, doesn't lift a solitary finger to coax, cajole, or otherwise lure them into a false sense of comfort. His expression isn't warm or bright, it's not reassuring kindness and closed-lipped smiles. Jae is content to merely study his would-be 'prize', taking mental notes of dark pupils that expand- pushing out the equally rich hue of their irises into thin limbal halos. How they jump from the sharp ridges of his clavicles up the slender column of his neck draped in delicately interwoven gold chains and Cortez pearls in a spectrum of peacock blue-green, lush aubergine, and rose.

On any other person, they might have been garish and over the top- Sneered at for being ostentatious trappings meant for an overly-spoilt trophy wife hanging from the arm of an actual made-man. Yoon wasn’t confident in the sense that he wore what he did because he had convinced even himself that it was stylish, he chose specific accessories and fabrics to artfully drape himself in because he liked the way they looked on his androgynous frame- Limber and all tightly-coiled braids of wiry muscle slumbering against sharper, bony landmarks that could cut through glass.

Mascara-coated lashes accentuated by rich crimson gel liner lower just the slightest increment, brushing feather light against the fullest slope of Miyoko’s right cheekbone- A brief moment of extremely fleeting contact that the heir-apparent craved.

Turning his wrist in a languid motion, he brings the heel of a gloved hand to his mouth and sinks his incisors into the softly treated leather. The protective coverings slip from what would have been long and elegant fingers- An artist’s tools, or the perfect living canvas to model rings. Instead, they reveal cratered and discolored remnants of wounds that went far deeper than surface level contact burns- Countless live embers carelessly stamped and ground into his naked skin when the cigarillo’s pleasant sear no longer mattered as a form of enjoyment.

It's with these disfigured hands that he gently brushes through gathered strands of hair falling in a defensive curtain away from his partner's visage, tucking the dark locks behind the curve of their ear.

[melancholicmoonlight]

It's been a few weeks since Jameson mauled Reid, hahaha. When he finally pulls himself out of the bed at Scarletts Inn, he finds himself much too tired and achy to do whatever sort've job she's going to ask of him today.

Jameson pulls his legs over the side of his bed and sits there a moment, his palms pressed over his eyes. After a few seconds like that, he finally stands and gets dressed, stomping into his boots and leaving the room.

He makes his way to the counter to look for Scarlett, rubbing his eye. He looks kind of haggard, and to be quite frank, he looks like he’s sick. “What was it you wanted me to do, again?”

[gcldfanged]

Jae glances down, but his narrow eyes are unfocused. He doesn’t have to look, because he is painfully aware in what ways he is lacking, as well as what traits he desired to rid himself of. The swell of too much fat bound tight against his visibly flattened chest, hips that were still too wide despite having little by the way of physical softness- Merely lean muscle and sharp juts of bony landmarks. The shots did enough to deepen his voice, causing a kind of second coming of adolescent changes that affected his body in various ways. Verdot had spared him going under the scalpel within a certain Department Chairman’s sterile labs, saw to certain details being edited in Yoon’s file so no one would be the wiser. It wasn’t that his own dysphoria was a source of weakness or revulsion so much as he simply understood, intrinsically, that his ascent up the ranks would be far easier if he had simply been born a certain way. But he also had to acknowledge that in some strange way, he did possess unusual qualities that might aid him on missions he hadn’t considered before.

“I think coming to terms with the fact that I couldn’t become him, not in the way I wanted, anyway… was the hardest. But I’m slowly realizing that I do have other strengths and specialities that I can use to my advantage, hone to perfection and utilize in ways that I wouldn’t have considered before. I wanted to be useful, to have a greater purpose, be the perfect sword sheathed to his side… But I’m just one of a great many tools he has to call on, but a necessary link he requires to retain control over a certain branch of intel. I need to focus more on what I can do with my own power, how to maintain it, how to expand its reach and grasp- It’s a path that only I have an intimate understanding of and I am granted a certain level of autonomy to act within its system of checks and balances.”

The youth stares down at the rough, leathery skin of his open palm, creased with calluses and broken blisters, the imprint of a thin knife’s handle forever branded to his darker flesh. 

“It wasn’t so much that I ‘gave up’- More so that it was realizing what I needed to adapt and change about the narrative I’d decided inside my own head. I was limiting myself without realizing it, closing off avenues and doorways that could have remained open and of use to my goals. But there’s still so much more to learn, to improve, to observe, to put into practice… I don’t have to become the Director’s shadow, or even some facsimile of his former partner, to prove that I wasn’t a mistake. Even if I was a mistake, or an afterthought, then that’s not what has to define me- or limit what I’m actually capable of.”

He despises speaking openly about himself this much, the weariness to his expression growing as he sighs and rolls his head to the side to crack his neck.

“But I’m sure you didn’t make me come all the way here to listen to me yammer on like that, so- What’s the punishment? Fifty lashes, cleaning the SOLDIER floor bathrooms with a worn toothbrush? Writing a twelve page apology letter addressed to you personally?”

absurdly polite response was precisely what sephiroth expected. for a man who was almost entirely surrounded by either callously soulless or practiced , very mechanical , he recognized when people were being truthful and when people were presenting the best part of themselves. sephiroth was both infamous and famous , a man of tremendous power , thus nervous or overly polite interactions were normal. genesis and angeal had broken the mold , and , perhaps , sephiroth had expected something similar not only from a turk but such a fiesty youngster. sephiroth wanted the truth.

he wanted a little honesty even if someone were to tell him he was hideous or evil , or they preferred to watch movies over reading books. sephiroth heard certain things which were uttered behind his back and knew how greatly it contradicted the lies said to his face when a 3rd class wanted to gain favour with his general. sephiroth had not intended his question to be a test. in the end , mayhaps all his interactions boiled down to micro tests. thinking about it and how he was judging the young turk made him tense.

it did not show except in micro expression ; the narrowest closure of eyes crinkling the skin around his eyes. the book was shut completely and placed on top of the table facing the large sofa quietly and with only the most necessary of movements. when the young turk followed-up with the reply to sephiroth's second question , there was nothing micro or subtle about the SOLDIER's expression. his silver eyebrows jumped upwards on his forehead as he made his surprise known for just two seconds. he too appeared to visibly shift in order to sit on the edge of the sofa.

the glowing wonder of inhuman eyes were curiously fixed on jae-hyo. he saw the truth , he admired the truth , but for a moment sephiroth believed the two of them shared something in common. him — who is him? sephiroth was projecting. professor hojo's cruel face immediately surfaced in his mind , then he wondered what jae-hyo's father looked like. there was truth that sephiroth knew everything that there was to know about SHINRA. the history was truly interesting. president SHINRA's life was relatively interesting.

everything else was just facts either on paper or things he witnessed first hand. he was made to be the company's weapon , but his heart did not love the company nor did he occupy his spare time dissecting a single employee's life. dissecting someone's life would only arise if and only if necessary for work. however he did know jae-hyo was a ward , of sorts , under the leader of the turks , yet that relationship seemed beneficial for both parties. sephiroth's curiosity rid upon the car of a gold saucer ride — it had its highs and . . its lows.

by the end of it , he gained some admiration for the youngster's response while feeling the odd twinge of disappointment. he rarely experienced that emotion. his posture retracted and sank. eyes ceased staring with a predatory and serpentine fashion as was normal of him , instead shifting to really examine jae-hyo. the leather of the sofa and of sephiroth's outfit creaked as he rose to his full height. he shook off any look of deflation. it was refreshing to hear reverence in someone's voice which was not directed at sephiroth. he ceased his explorative , deeply inquisitive gaze and attempted to appear more casual.

❛ did you achieve your goal? are you him? or did you give up this aspiration? ❜

it was a silly question no doubt , but he was genuinely curious how jae-hyo would respond.

[lieutenantozar]

Hills turning to mountains

|| @cyberghost-scout beginning operation—

Vallium twelve had been as warm as it usually was. Scorching temperatures and even worse humidity plaguing those who took refugee there, but something the locals were accustomed to, something that those sheltering there or working vaguely took in with envy. The shade barely keeping most cooled for the work and time with the sun raised in the sky. The wind barely keeping most standing and smaller annoyances away.

So to have someone wondering around and rushing about with a long, heavy, and dark, trench-coat was something to gaze upon. The movements not being slowed by the heat or its rays of the raging sun. Barely putting a dent into the rhythm the lieutenant kept up as he moved boxes and supplies to different points. The few lucky enough to be just as unbothered hadn’t adored any clothing close to what he had worn. And those who choose to do so now regretting such motives as they were recovering from the sickness now plaguing them. Though even than their work was picked up by the seemingly unbothered few.

But now it was his break.

Ozar had been moving his little courting gift as he had some brief time to spare before picking up another load. Though was now attempting to fight through a few of the heavier framed soldiers he oversaw for his neatly boxed gift. Currently tossing one over his left shoulder and ducking under another few. Clearly annoyed at their little antics as he began to rush at his right-hand man. Not that he could have helped with his relationship with his courtie hidden for much longer. He already knew time was coming short, including with the next steps for courtship. Though he had hoped that it was on better terms and more sensible terms.

[melancholicmoonlight]

Jamie finds himself traveling towards the edge of town to a more rural, densely populated neighborhood. It's the middle of the day, but still somehow seems dark as the looming apartment buildings block out any sunlight.

He sees his destination up ahead, a smaller two story apartment that seems to be haphazardly stuck to the side of the larger building. The red painted brick, though dull, still somehow manages to be an eyesore against the grey walls surrounding the street. The first floor, a storefront, has the blinds drawn, but the hand painted sign hanging from the glass door says "open."

Jamie comes here at least every month for tuneups, or on the rare occasion he gets damaged, and today was no different. He glances at the sign and walks inside, looking around for Harper or Sydney.

[gcldfanged]

Yoon is nothing, if not thoroughly invested- Allowing his line of sight to practically crawl its way over each inch of bare skin, silently studying the variety of arcane seals and sigils both familiar and less so, committing each to memory for later perusal and time blocks he consciously devoted to scholarly research.

The crime lord is more than passingly aware of human anatomy, especially in all of its forms of death. Common weak points, major arteries, how much pressure it takes to crush an adult trachea beneath his thumbs- How many layers deep to cut in order to remove fingerprints, how to extract teeth without splintering the enamel into tiny, troublesome shards.

This is far less clinical in observation, there is an undercurrent of occult-aligned interest and a subdued appreciation for the more... carnal shapes and organic forms on casual display. He chooses to pointedly ignore the impressive radius of pure smug bleeding and seeping from Constantine as he pads across the carpet like his flat is an open nudist sanctuary accepting curious guests.

Jae-hyo bounces his leg idly, the three-inch heeled and polished Italian leather shoes positively gleaming in what natural light filled the apartment, sparkling like jeweled-fruit decorating a classic French tart.

"They still don't, thanks to my efforts- You're welcome, by the way- The problem is that your sticky fucking white man paws decided to accept a gift from both a powerful and powerfully stupid dokkaebi."

He allows that revelation some time to sink in, tap-tap-tapping the manicured curve of a polished fingernail against the leftmost gold stud sitting beneath the cushion of his lower lip.

"Oh- Don't even give me that look: John 'I love collecting culturally specific ritual tools like some kleptomania-stricken dragon' Constantine. Use that big impressive organ of yours- The one occupying your thick skull for once, rather than what's dangling between your furry legs."

" Stop fuckin objectifyin' me. " Heatless demand on a crooked grin holds absolutely no intent, as made evident by the fact the Brit does absolutely fuckall to cover his 'dangly bits'. If Jae was keen on home invasion, he gets to deal with the visions that lay (stand) within.

Though the walking cinderblock could be at least a little delicate in how he sniffed around his kitchens. " Oi- keep yer hands off th'full english- I don' feed random moving freight! "

" Mind, I suppose th'main question is-- why is it I need protection from yer outfit anyway? Though' those boys y'said were off-limits didn' know fuckall about me. "

Jae-hyo was a Shaman of no small talent, it was true. One of those whose culture and power idolised PAIN. Or... sommat like that. John was only a masochist insofar as the bedroom, so he's still a bit lost about the entire thing beyond theory.

Not that such prevented the Universe from pounding him in the taint more oft' than not.

" ...Don' tell me I pissed off yet another daemon o'yers. Bloody chatty wankers... I did everything I was supposed to during that ritual- "

[gcldfanged]

@umbral-dominant

Blackthorne's forge was noticeably empty, save for one lanky looking woman. She was not cleaning, nor taking account for stock of supplies nearby, instead single mindedly focused on the slow push and pull of her blade against a damp whetstone.

It was a small dagger, barely enough weight or heft to feel intimidating by itself, but the angle of the swedge and shape of the knife's sweep indicated it was made for precision- Whether that be precision cutting or piercing. Often the simplest of weapons were the nastiest, whittled down to it's base components through repeated use and time. The function isn't visual appeal, strength, nor endurance, but to sever a nerve, muscle or tendon fibers- or blood vessel to disable and kill the adversary via exsanguination.

Her long, scarred fingers handled it with the casual ease of someone accustomed to bloodshed- There was a intimate familiarity to the way her hands worked with rather than against it's construction, but also a comfortable amount of confidence, bringing the dagger to eye level to examine the edge for any burrs or a noticeably drastic difference in angle.

"Blackthorne's not back yet," she explained aloud, not sparing even a once over to the man who stood at the threshold between the anvil and smithing table.

"Charon called him away, but he should return soon. I have some business with him, so whatever it is you need will have to wait until I'm done with the old bear."

Ji-ho merely wanted to establish that she had since been patiently waiting before this stranger entered the smithy's. No reason to let some newcomer try and muscle his way in front of her position of priority.

The wraps of colored silk and short cotton crossed over her torso were reminiscent of a courtesan's attire, though any gaudy baubles and jewelry she may have once donned had long been sold off for coin. There was no bearer mark upon the steep angle of her visible cheekbone, but her arms and shoulders bore countless scars: semi-circular divots of flesh were entirely missing in places, puckered scar tissue forming shallow craters from where fine cigarillos had been repeatedly extinguished into her bare skin. Thin and meandering lacerations snaked around bony elbows in idle, nonsense patterns- Almost creating a mockery of constellations between the beauty marks and moles standing out against her honeyed-olive complexion.

The tall and taciturn male standing there looked almost passingly familiar. Maybe she had seen him in parting while leaving Cid's solar? It wasn't immediately clear just how the woman had recognized his grim countenance, there were so many refugees and Cursebreakers joining the cause that it was hard to keep track of every single soul who resided within the Hideaway.

[alburnusgecko]

@dr-octayve @mr-rey-of-sunshine @intern-ko

*gecko knocks on the daycare door* hello? Is anyone here? Me and Dr Octayve figured out how to reverse the de-aging gun!

[gfthe-fearsome-foursome]

*magic anon time! Stan and Ford are wearing their old man outfits from Canon*

"Haha! This ain't so bad!"

"Huh?? Where did these clothes even come from???"

[gcldfanged]

There's a breathy little exhale of a chuckle that rasps like sandpaper from the depths of his throat, already fox-like eyes sliding that much thinner in amusement- That is what he is, at present, very amused by Brekker's suspicion and distrust. Once the other male's rapier-like tongue is done scourging its unnecessary lesson into his perceived lack of business integrity, Jae's easy mask of neutrality slides back into place as though it had never once pivoted the slightest increment.

If I wanted to give you a verbal rimjob, then you and I would be more than aware that's exactly what was happening and making it a point to drive home with all the ham-fisted brutality of a young poet spoon-feeding his themes and symbols to an unwilling audience-

Jae-hyo smartly holds his tongue, holds back the ever growing urge to just roll his eyes so hard, they may just spill right out of his skull and return to the peninsula of his origin. There is a honed edge that turns to catch the lamplight in the depths of his umber stare, a fleeting glimmer of something dangerous and poised before it fades back into placid acuity. The state of being present, like a dog set to heel, not overeager to please but more than aware that it has it's needed role to fulfill.

And fulfill this order, he would. Thoroughly.

"Details?" he replies easily, not contesting the demand of his time, it was free to begin with and even if that had not been the case- Dockets could be moved around. Duties shifted, responsible parties traded, tight lips and fisted hands softened and plied.

Yoon, firstly, is respectful. To a degree that hasn’t yet settled with Kaz, as the way the foreigner bows to him is all too reminiscent of a younger version of himself who’d had to coddle and nurture the pride of his seniors merely for the sake of getting ahead: all honeyed words and saccharine smiles barely concealing the threads of sarcasm stitching together his face. He handles the display with care, harboring no doubt of Yoon’s sincerity big enough to set off alarms, but equally nothing convincing enough to put him wholly at ease. And, indeed, when the other apologizes for his misstep and proceeds to announce that shared slope of mistrust in the business—how those of their ilk are so prone to being more cautious than most—he just manages to press flat the upward twitch at a corner of his mouth.

Good.

Yoon remains fully cognizant of the position he’s in, as much his strengths in his foreign nature as his weaknesses. Such self-awareness is not often common—pride goeth before the fall—and Kaz confirms as an explanation smoothly rides out those lips that he’s not acquired too big of a head. (Or too bold, perhaps.)

He listens, a respect earned and therefore returned, utterly silent with all traces of emotion well-trained off his face. When Yoon moves closer, Kaz keeps still, even as that hand perches itself right there atop his desk. The proximity to his own fingers—sharing that space, now—is noted, a troublesome buzzing at the back of his head, but his attention doesn’t flicker. He pulls that hand away. He leans more heavily into his cane. And he takes a look at the numbers himself.

(He’d never trusted anyone else with them before, so why should he trust this one?)

His thoughts are then expertly divided, one side cross-checking what’s written in Yoon’s notebook against that of his own records (fresh on the mind, given the very purpose of this meeting), the other attentive to what more Yoon continued to expound. “Careful what you preach,” Kaz murmurs idly, his eyes not yet leaving the pages. “Lay it on too thick, and your loyalties start to sound like fabricated fantasies. I don’t need your word; I care more about your actions. Those are always louder—isn’t that the phrase?” 

Satisfied, he closes the book, handing it back at the same time as his gaze steadies on that watching him just as closely. Now, Kaz allows that trace of a smile. “It’s not a bad idea. Luckily for you, everything tracks. As long as that remains the case, the only thing to worry about—” He hesitates, breath hitching there quietly in his throat. Because it hits again, like deja vu, before he can finish what might’ve easily been —is you doing this behind my back.

It sounds too much like Per Haskell, like that senior Kaz had needed to cozy up to, the leader he’d on so many occasions defied and only gotten away with it through the end result adding mountains of coin to the old man’s coffers.

—and Yoon here being that talented youth with ambitions so very similar.

Did Kaz want to dissuade those ambitions . . . ? (No. No, he’s not here to step on talent that is being properly put to use.)

He clears his throat, corrects his course. “Keep those numbers up-to-date. I want them checked regularly against the club’s so I know nothing is slipping through the cracks. Oh, and while you’re here”—Kaz turns back around, moves to one of his desk drawers—“you’re booked tomorrow night. I need you for a job.”

[melancholicmoonlight]

Jameson and Reid, now alone with only their horses and whatever money they've got, have been scouring the larger towns and cities they come across for any information on werewolves they can find. Nothing has been helpful, of course.

But now, they're hiking their horses through a snowy countryside, Reid in the front with a lit lantern in their hand as they trudge on.

Jameson had been trailing behind Reid, moping, but after a while he makes his way next to them, clearing his throat. “We should probably find somewhere to stop, it’s getting late.”

[cyberghost-scout]

A little mead with a plea

@lieutenantozar

(>:3)

Four were perched in a little seating inside a busy bar. There was a multitude of species and merriment. Some were getting drinks, and some were watching the people get drunk with games and all. While the youngest to drink were just hanging out and having snacks.

"Remind me again, why were we here again?" Phantasma drawled, her mouth puffing away the strand of hair as she leaned forward at the table. Of course, the group decided to try to lay low, haloforms. but smartly in travel gear to cover some suspicion.

"Because I miss being in a bar once in a while...missing those idiots," Fedelis answered, the largest and only old man as he fixed his covering after placing his beverage down. "You could have waited, Fed." The golden femme said, before leaning back in her seat, craning her neck to her little sister and Flow. Ghostwire cooly accepted her simple drink and paid while the seeker got an item that was innocently looking by the scent of juice covering its high alcohol contents.

"I'm always amazed you can stomach that," Ghostwire muttered as she gave Flow and encreboules a look. The albino looked happy as can be to have it. "We all have our strengths, Ghosty~!" the seeker giggled.

[ourladyoftears]

It was a sunny day in the lively port city. Merchants shouting from their stalls, peddling their wares. Carts drawn by horses or donkeys. Children playing, but the noise of the city was replaced by shouting, confused cries, whispers, yelling, and at the center of all of this sudden shift in mood was a young woman.

Fair skin, Light auburn hair, thick and braided down her back, a simple veil over her head. A belt of pouches and flasks and a dagg, a pack full of scrolls on her back, and another bag around her shoulder. Her finger tips were stained with what could be henna.

A city guard, holding a decently sized toad, was chastising her, while she listened to him with an innocent expression.

Varyne had stopped in the city to gather supplies and rest before hitting the road again, and she decided to use today to scope the place out and find good hiding spots for when she'd need to feed at night. He kept to himself mostly, not wanting to draw attention to himself, though his menacing stature and the hood he wore to shield himself from the sun certainly don't help any. His worn greatsword rattled against his back as he strode across the square, looking at the ground.

And she continues minding her own business, until she hears the commotion happening nearby. She stalks over, almost completely silent, and looks between the two. They can spy a scar cascading down her cheek, and her one working eye seems to almost glow from under the hood. Then she speaks, her voice low and rough, and almost sounding commanding. “What seems to be the problem?”

[gcldfanged]

The B-Division Turk keeps his leather glove-encased fingers laced together over a crossed knee, appearing quite accustomed to the roughshod locomotion of the ground vehicle. Helicopters were nicer, but also far more expensive- So he could see the logic in the choice, even if it wasn't ideal.

"Comes with the nature of the job, but that doesn't make it easier when you manage to form a strong bond with another agent," he replies easily, the neutral and factual tone of voice perhaps conflicting with his choice of words.

It was strange, really. They were 'family' in that they remained loyal to each other and not Shinra- That is what the former Director had made abundantly clear. It was also clear that no one person was more important than the job, the needed task at hand.

And yet, they had sacrificed efficiency and even their own reputations to save one another- Even Verdot had once broken his own Golden Rule in order to rescue Tseng. Contradictions, exceptions to the usual- It all became wrapped up in their identities as Turks. No one was there because they wanted to be (aside from Jules/Nunchaku, but he was an outlier in more ways than one).

"I wasn't there when the Corel Incident happened, but one of my comrades had been assigned to the area. Got caught up in everything, fell into a coma. Not sure if she'll ever wake up," he admits quietly, staring down at his hands.

Jae-hyo offers the SOLDIER a rueful smile that doesn't quite reach his sharp, crimson-lined eyes.

"I do- Remember them, that is. Sometimes there's not even a body to recover, so the wake is merely... symbolic, in nature. We do always take the time to mourn the loss of one of our own, it's an important ritual to continue. We aren't like SOLDIERs. You get to be the faces of the company's military might, inspire others to enlist, you uphold a standard that must be presented."

Yoon leaves out the fact that it's pure propaganda, of course- It isn't his place to cast judgment or naysay what he also views as a necessary fabrication.

"No one will remember us, save for those who also serve in our department. Technically, none of us even exist. So we all have accepted that fact. That one day, not only will we die, but it could be far from home- Away from the comfort of fond faces and allies. The knowledge that others will carry on our work and spare a moment to honor us has to be enough."

@gcldfanged asked: “ I don’t miss the war, but I miss the people I fought it with. ”

"Lost some people huh?" His head falls back against the cold metal interior of the van as it bobs along the narrow road. Each bump sending a jolt through his skull that has his teeth grinding on impact. Not that he minds, the topic's painful where he can't reach. Good to get his mind off it.

"You remember 'em all?"