#♞ ┇ ❝ thread

[astarab1aze]

"Yer such an ass'ole, Azar. Why cain't ya give me an 'eart transplant? Could use a new one. I swear, this shit's broken or somethin'. Gabs said m' 'air looked funny an' I ain't felt nothin'. Girly coulda ripped m' 'eart out fer free an' sure, I'd be dead, buh I wouldn've felt it. Is it a money thing? 'ow much I gotta pay? Azar, Azar, Az, Azzy, Azarrrrrr matey, bruh. AZAR--"

@malafxde

[incandescentia]

“…You. Stop looking at that picture. Give it back to me.”

[bloodxhound]

During his years as a vigilante, Ray adopts numerous fake identities. Some of which are single-use only, discarded as soon as he fulfills his objective. Others are identities he maintains for longer, to build up reputation and status within specific parts of the criminal underworld he intends to infiltrate and uproot. The pseudonym he originally went by was Charles Markwardt, a combination of the name his mother would’ve given him if his father hadn’t decided on Raymond, and his mother’s maiden name. Though subsequent aliases differ ( Clive Moore, Chester Mathews, Clifford Mercer, Cailean Maignet, Colin Marsh, etc. ), they all share the same initials, C.M. It serves as an identifier to trusted sources, and as a reminder to himself. It’s one of the very few remnants of his former life he allows himself to keep, the one connection he’d never sever, his mother.

[unsevered]

@daxned

A SEA OF CORPSES pool at his ankles, their blood running like the tide beneath his feet. a steady drip... drip... drip murmurs into the silence, beads of red rolling off the edge of his blade, and onto the dirt. the earth swallows it hungrily, as it soaks into the roots of its flora, their snow-white petals stained by the carnage. he stands in the wreckage of what was once a ravenous pack of goblins, remnants of their flesh strewn through the grass. their greed bettered their judgement, and they paid sorely for it.

the eerie glow in his eye wanes like a dying flame, and he lowers his gaze to examine a gash across his side, shredding through his waistcoat and tunic. it... doesn't seem to be mending itself, as most of his other wounds do, he notes, wrinkling his nose. glancing around, he nudges one of their broken weapons with the toe of his boot: just a crudely fashioned knife, comprised of wood and a metal he can't quite place. nevertheless, he pulls his bandana back over his nose decisively--- it would be wise to move on, lest the blood attract something worse.

SNAP!

the crunch of a breaking twig shatters his thoughts, and the hunter rounds on the sound. unfurling his whip, he lashes it out, ignoring the sting of his wound, and it reaches for whomsoever approached--- only to halt mere inches from the eye of what appears to be young girl. it remains suspended there however, as though drawn to her, beckoned by a living soul; a lingering threat. child or not, he wasn't about to take that risk.

[longdeadblonde]

@sortilegum cont. from here.

Akephalos smirked back at the face before him. "What astounding awareness you must have." While this one wasn't the first to be able to see him for what he was, that was something very few had managed. He didn't dislike it. It meant there was no need to pretend for this person. This demon appeared and spoke as a modern man would, and while some would stop and stare at his deliberately sculpted beauty, they were hardly ever the wiser.

The veneer was just that. A veneer. This one had recognized that with impressive speed. "It pays to be in tune with the silent chorus. Good for you. And how unfortunate for our friend here."

"You think so? I think I came right on time." Crouching down beside the body, he stuck a finger in one of the wounds with a satisfied grin. Akephalos looked back up at the stranger and asked: "Who was he?"

[wyvern-flames]

The Codex expands with @steed-of-waloed's Harbard

His heart sunk again seeing the ashen-haired take a blow that almost seemed like it would take him out. After taking care of the enemy that had tried to best the Commander, Clive rushed back to him without a thought. Once again, he was decided to heal him up.

Why, though? He asked himself that repeatedly, but there was no real answer... Not one he thought would be logical. So, he just follows his heart without trying to explain it yet.

"You've been quite reckless, as of late." He answers, shaking his head at the next comment of gossip. It didn't really matter, did it? Who would dare speak of the Constant Knight? Surely only fools would try to.

"It's... a little more serious than that. Allow me to give you a hand with it. If not applying ointment, then at least wrapping it up. So, hold still, if you would."

[darkmissionary]

@vialacteus [♞]:

Meteor's weapons rest upon the rack that is set up at the foot of his bed, although his eyes gaze down at it occasionally, and his eyes gaze up towards the window and the stars that seem painfully bright in his eyes, and he finally draws the curtains and douses the room in dark.

For some reason, he doesn't really feel afraid, or nervous, when he feels someone touch him. He feels a touch upon his back, towards the nape of his neck, and finds a touch upon the tattoo he has -- his brand, granted to him by the Twelve.

There is a couple of scars of shrapnel from Dalamud, but they have begun to heal over lately. A scar from Zenos upon his neck. Some marks on his face from intermittent fighting. Part of him remembers something, someone checking to see if he was sleeping, and him pretending he was... The hand that touches his face is cold, it causes him to clench his jaw, and squeeze his eyes shut, before finally opening his eyes.

"Mom?" Meteor asks without thinking.

Silence.

His heart beats. He sees nothing. Faint light between the curtains from the wide and imposing moon.

"Sorry." He murmurs without thinking. "This is your body too, now. You can look if you like."

It was a deal he agreed to after all. Meteor took his sleep shirt off, tossing it on the floor. It was cold tonight but he didn't care, not being able to sleep was common enough for him.

"Did you not like something you saw?" He asked quietly to the air.

He sits up at night, listless, wondering if there will be an answer.

He should have been able to feel it too, that quiet fettering of desire.

Yet Esteem fades into the peripheries when called out to, like the whistling of a distant train barely picked up upon by the ears. The offer emboldens the shade, a threadbare mattress creaking with a phantom shift in weight. Perhaps it was a lingering trick of the mind, perhaps not.

The nature of aether so well understood by scholars and sages, yet the element still continued to surprise those learned minds with rather unexpected results.

Meteor had accepted him in his entirety and while Esteem was familiar with those discolored scars, in both pallid and darker shades than his natural skintone, there was a reverence to the featherlight touches that dragged across flesh.

“Your body is a map that I am most familiar with,” the voice begins, a terse silence following as the clawed finger armor of Esteem’s gauntlet drags over a small divot near the corner of Meteor’s lips, where the bite of a straight razor had sliced into the sensitive skin there some days ago. Facial hair the color of ripe chestnuts had already reclaimed the shorn areas in an even growth, darkening the areas around his mouth and the cleft of his chin.

“There are certain marks that yet freshly ache with the weight of our memories.”

The sound of leather creasing and the gentle weight of a gloved thumb tracing along the edge of Meteor’s right cheekbone, a gesture of quiet affection while the opposite hand remains a ghostly chill along Meteor’s shoulders, the bony landmarks sharp and stark like living blades. It slides and shifts, trailing down the slow rise and fall of a bare chest, ‘till it rests over his heartbeat.

Their heartbeat.

[brightblessed-aa]

𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄  [ ... ]   𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄,

fights honourably / fights dirty.

prefers close - quarters / prefers range.

chats during / goes silent.

low pain tolerance / high pain tolerance.

attacks in bursts / attacks steadily.

goes for the kill / aims to disarm / fights defensively / strikes first.

is provoked easily / provokes their opponent / teases.

gets visibly frustrated / shouts while attacking.

uses strategy / focuses on the battle / experiences conflicting thoughts during battle.

rushes in recklessly / tries to read their opponent before engaging.

fights wildly / fights calmly / fights apathetically / fights with anger / fights with excitement.

fights because they have to / fights because they want to.

fights without regard to wounds / runs away when wounded / hides wounds / takes a blow to protect another.

prefers a blade /  prefers a gun / prefers hand to hand combat / prefers a bow / prefers a shield / prefers a personalized weapon  /  prefers magic / prefers alchemy or spells.

their greatest weakness is physical / their greatest weakness is mental / their greatest weakness is emotional.

transforms for battle / fights as they appear.

relies on strength / doubts their strength / relies on speed.

uses everything they have / proceeds with caution / hides their full potential.

exhausts quickly / has high stamina.

behaves arrogantly / brags after landing a hit / belittles their abilities.

uses psychological tactics / uses brute strength.

avoids civilians / strikes down civilians.

damages surroundings / avoids damaging surroundings.

signature fighting style / makes it up as they go.

mastered skill - set / learning their skill - set.

fancy footwork / sloppy footwork.

messy fighter / elegant fighter.

accepts defeat / refuses defeat / begs for mercy.

compliments their opponent  /  insults their opponent.

uses unnecessary movements / moves efficiently / barely moves.

prefers to dodge / prefers to block.

defends their blindside / has no blindside   / leaves blindsides vulnerable.

uses all available advantages / strictly uses one main method.

plays around / holds back / fights ruthlessly / shows mercy.

waits for an opponent to be ready / strikes when opponent isn’t ready.

fears death / fears pain / fears killing.

has ptsd / avoids fighting.

has lost a fight / has won a fight.

has killed / refuses to kill.

wants to die standing / would succumb slowly.

[astarab1aze]

continued from here / @vicariousphotographer

He felt like he was losing his grip, known to happen from time to time when the seals in his brain loosened, though the symptoms were primarily memory-related - not that it mattered here, because he was floundering, eyes caught then on a shadows distilled and far away, writhing somewhere far off in, visions retracting like elastic bound to break. Instantaneous, no no, it was the fog of his mind, a terrible daydream where false dark came upon him and whispered the name of a man who was no more. Rewind, fast-forward, and everything's normal. People going about their day, a man in front of him - bewildered, concerned.

And worse still was his own state, anxiously palming now at clammy skin and mussed hair, wildly and unceremoniously smoothing out fabric that felt a little too much like something else. Light flickers, flashes of his face, a world decaying around him- His breathing remained laboured, but he'd realized in truth where he was, situated in some space between, acosting the man, yes. Oh, and how terribly sorry he was with what little congruence he could manage then.

"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled quickly, sloppily- willing his stress away and failing miserably, hands shaking, shoulders trembling, and that damned shadow, the rust, the paint chips- Ashari would not have panicked, he would've adapted, kept calm, breathed. Illusions could flicker and ripple against reality all they liked, one was real and the other wasn't - he just had to figure out which.

Away he stepped, wringing his hands; For the first time, in a long time, unable to articulate much else, wary and conscious that which aimed to swallow him whole. What had he wandered into this time? He wondered if the bile in his throat would ever settle.

[demon-prosecuted]

i have to work (again) today, but have a proper written statement that i'm not finished with spirit of justice yet!! i'm about halfway through the 2nd trial in the 5th episode, and i plan on finishing it tonight, and maybe starting the dlc episode if time allows.

but i've played through everything else (sans chronicles)

[bloodxhound]

@lovlorne :  why do you hurt me

for funsies ofc •ᴗ• !

[regisela]

TAG⠀ARCHIVE.

[generalzelgius]

@heartwilled, continued from here:

         Oh, if only remorse was enough to bring about forgiveness, he would've been alleviated long ago from his suffering. Zelgius never excused his actions, nor did he entirely regret them either, but remorse ? He felt that in his weathered, weary bones. He had wished things could've played out differently, but in the same breath, he would've done it all again if it meant meeting Sephiran, if it meant curing his everlasting loneliness, if it meant he could feel wanted, no, needed. Every man needed a purpose to live and his was serving Sephiran, no matter what the outcome would be. Perhaps, that was both his greatest strength and weakness.

         Leanne's words carried the pureness of her heart and it was a nice sentiment, certainly, but was it realistic ? ❛ Do you truly believe things can get better for me, after all I have done ? You may want to forgive and move forward, but others find it much more difficult. I would not even know where to begin, to make amends. What could I possibly do to earn back trust ?   ❜ And did he even deserve it ?  ❛ You waste your time, princess.... not all wounds can be healed.   ❜ He would know. But perhaps, he too, was being stubborn. Did his own master not finally achieve his own personal peace ? But Zelgius was not even half the man he was. Such low self-esteem, he had.

         But he didn't want to be rude. Leanne was only trying to help. ❛ I thank you though, for your kind words. It.... does mean a lot to me that you would even care for... someone like me.   ❜ A monster, a demon, a nightmare, a lost, lonely soul, a broken man, the hated, the used, the abandoned.

[incandescentia]

[ cú, for h.sr killian ] Once all the monsters were defeated, Cú Chulainn swung his spear once to clean the blood off it, his posture finally relaxing. A wide grin adorned his features when he turned to glance at his ally in the fight, thrilled to see that they were uninjured as well. He forgot to count how many enemies he took down, but he’ll make sure to count so they can compare and decide who ‘wins’ next time. “You were able to keep up with me! I can’t remember the last time that happened,” the young man laughed, excitement as clear as water in his ruby-like eyes. In a way, it made sense. Determination and the path of the Hunt aren’t the only things that make a Galaxy Ranger, after all.

The pair of warriors were in no state to enter a bar or restaurant, but Cú still said: “Let me buy you something to drink once we return to the city. I bet you’ve as many interesting stories to share as I.” It was the first time he crossed paths with another Galaxy Ranger, so could anyone blame him for getting excited?

“Really? …It wasn’t all that difficult for me.”

The former knight replied at his comrade’s remarks with cool detachment as remnants of levin sparks crackle over the tip of his weapon. It was an aftereffect of the fatal hit directed at one of the monsters who attempted to maul him from close distance. Fortunately, his well-trained reflexes allowed him to counter the movement almost effortlessly — blast of lightning-aspected mana cartridge fired from the gunblade shocked && burned ‘til its corpse blackened. Likewise, he was lost enough in the thrill of the battle to count how many enemies that he had personally defeated. Being somewhat distracted over splats of a monster’s blood that he had caught on his newly acquired expensive leather boots may had factored into it too — as he simply stomped with enough force over his victim's poor body to pulverize it to death, but sullied his brand new shoes with blood in return.

Similarly his now disordered appearance made him in no state to properly enter any bars for a celebratory drink, yet the blue-haired youth who fought alongside him was cordial enough to make an offer; one that he couldn’t find any reason to refuse. “Hm. I don’t mind.” In a rather fascinating twist of fate, this man was also one of the many Galaxy Rangers spread across the cosmos. How curious.

Sitting the blunt edge of his gunblade across his shoulder, he made his steps forward first to head back over the nearest settlement area. Looking back briefly, he gestured towards the youth with a flick of his head to follow his lead. “Come along then if you wish to keep up with my pace, or do you rather wish to race me to the town?” With his ever-enduring stamina still robust enough to perform a consistent sprint, he'd accept any speed endurance challenge with his own knightly pride at stake.

@caemthe

[longdeadblonde]

@twyred cont. from here.

Ruben sighed, rubbing his face with a pale hand. The same hand he'd ripped the poor dead fool's guts apart with. Perhaps he'd gotten a big too. . .excited with his process. A bad habit that he never could seem to kick. "They've got a whole seven or more meters of the damn stuff. Is it really that much of an issue?"

Looking down at the corpse, chest and belly agape, then looked back up at Vasil. Sharp green eyes honing in on his tired face, he briefly felt an ugly urge rise up in his belly, before forcing himself to drop it. He didn't like feeling that his sloppiness was being pointed out, even if he was sloppy. Scoffing, "Sure. I'll do my best to pamper the poor things to their flight to the great operating table in the sky."

". . .What did you intend to do with it, anyways?" He couldn't help wondering what his hard work was contributing to.

[wyvern-flames]

The Codex expands with @phoenix-flamed 's Elwin

He thought him dead. By the flames, he thought his father dead and yet, he stood here and stared back at him as if he were someone completely different. Could his father be blamed, though? Hatred, that darkened desire for vengeance had tainted his soul completely, engulfed it in the darkest night... This was not the First Shield, not the child he raised...

Yet, when meeting with his father, his eyes softened, they watered quietly... Father is right here, in front of me. And yet, the darkness still lingers.

He'd give anything for his father to see a better man, the light that used to cover him. Instead, that fate they had mentioned existing so long ago only brought more misfortune to the Archduke... or ex-Archduke.

"There is nothing to forgive." The words come out heavy, but earnest. He stares over his father, head slightly leaning over to the warm touch of his hand against his cheek. For a second, he forgot he had been branded. And desiring that release once more, Clive has to clench his fists just to prevent himself from crumbling and pulling his father in for a desperate hug. He cannot, he should not... So, he stands like a statue, one that shed gentle tears.

"You're here... You're not a dreaded phantom here to haunt me along with--... It truly is you, is it not, my lord? You... You are alive?"