#kenneld

[hnting]

SEPARATION CAN BE A TERRIFYING THING: jess black & beraiah saad

@kenneld went trick-or-treating 👻🎃🦇

SOURCES

1: This tiktok / Cake by Roger McGough / Alien Covenant: The Official Movie Novelisation by Alan Dean Foster 2: Crazy by Jessie Reyez / In the Pines by Alice Notley / Normal People by @ratsandlillies.art 3: Occupation by Derold Ernest Sligh / Two Children In A Motel by Ethel Cain / @beetlejuices / A Fortune for Your Disaster by Hanif Abdurraqib / Kingdom of the Wicked by Kerri Maniscalco / Dante Émile 4: In Flames by u/ratsandlilies 5: How We Fight for Our Lives: A Memoir by Saeed Jones / Excision (2012) dir. Richard Bates Jr. / Slaughterhouse by Yves Olade 6: Wildcard by Marie Lu / PENNSYLVANIA FURNACE by Lingua Ignota / Hannibal (2013–2015); S03E06, Dolce / James Joyce, from a letter to Nora Barnacle 7: Hungry Like the Wolf by Duran Duran / The Element Trilogy by Donna Galanti / An Ideal Husband by Oscar Wilde 8: Rabbi Yochanan Zweig / Captive Gray Wolves Eating by Layne Kennedy

[espritdecorpo]

starter for @kenneld​ 

Ah, shit - here that one comes again. Her eyes, coated in the blue overlay of a holo-call’s user interface, peered over her interlocked hands which rested firmly beneath her nose – screening any view of the lower half of her countenance. The white sleeves of a, presumably, Jinguji Oxford were rolled up; leaving visible a litany of tattoos on her left forearm. Objects and artifacts of days passed that ranged from the obvious crosses and flowers to the more arcane geometric shapes and unknown numerical references. Piecing it all together would have been like trying to solve a mathematical equation without a formula. Perhaps, just as nonsensical and confounding as to why a person like her had taken such a liking to Rancho Coronado. Which begs the question, what does “ a person like her ” even mean ? Very few even had an understanding of Cross on a personal level beyond the well-dressed figure at the local watering hole who moved product, dealt out jobs, and nearly smoked the general store on 8th Street out of house and home.

‘ I’m hanging up now. ’ The closest thing in her lexicon to ‘ goodbye, talk to you later – drive safe ! ’  With that her posture relaxed, a sigh of relief ( or exasperation ? ) followed soon after.

‘ Well, well, well – ’ Her tone lightened as she noticed Beraiah on approach, not surprising as this was far from the first time he’d approached her makeshift office-corner of the bar. There were a handful of them, local-ish ‘ mercs ’ ( and she’d use that term sparingly, mentally they were more like ganger-adjacent to her ) who often dropped by to pester Cross for a job. After talking her ear off about how they were special or on the come up or some such pre-rehearsed pitch she’d relent and send them off to go do some menial task. In truth it wasn’t a bad racket, she could outsource the small shit and take a cut without them even knowing. Some might call her a fixer but honest to god she felt more like a babysitter sometimes with how green these solos turned out to be.

However, this one was a little different. She could trust him for something a little more advanced, nothing crazy -- yet , but a cut above the usually crowd; who were more in the league of the mercenary equivalent of watching paint dry. Nevertheless, she felt for Ber. I mean what the fuck else was there to do in Rancho ?

Besides, he did have some pretty solid local connections. And he wasn’t tied up in the usual shit mercs are, what with past gang affiliations or ex-corporate backgrounds. Huh, now that she was thinking, he might be an adequate piece in a little puzzle she’d found herself in. But nah, he was probably looking for something quick and easy. Couldn’t blame him, everyone’s got bills to pay !

‘ You know, normally most people call ahead but no, go ahead, take a seat. ’ Her sarcastic tone was a sign of sort of esprit de corps, an honor among thieves' type of thing. ‘ Now, to what do I owe this unannounced pleasure ? ’

[austerulous]

◈   @kenneld​​ sent ❂ to get a moodboard for our muses

[feralseed]

leaves crunched under tiny boots as the child rushed to keep pace with her ‘ big brother. ’ though ber was of no true biological relation, lark saw the way her father treated him. the favor given to the chosen. . . though no one had tried to tell her different, there was no convincing lark that the man who she was frantically trying to keep up with was anything other than family. “ see anything? ” her tiny voice piped up, a little over a whisper in the silent woods. it was her first time on patrol with a chosen -- and she was not about to let ber down. the six year-old, despite being out here as a part of her training, took her duties as seriously as any solider, “ ‘s quiet. . . ”

@kenneld​ / sc !!

[prvtocol]

@kenneld ( Beraiah ) | continued from x

It is not her job to manage employee behavior. Their work’s adherence to corp protocol, yes, but patrolling the halls as if she’s some secondary school superintendent, no. This is not the first time Beraiah caused incident, or in this case, almost. The young security guard garnered attention in evaluations; those demerits are pending. This could have ended similar if not for a matter of timing where the least Brianne could do was intervene. 

High heel strut hastens its pace, perhaps to help the towering giant manage his long stride beside her. Not until the point blank question does she halt, turning his way and folding her hands at her front; pin straight posture unfailing The dim lit hallway is empty; better if no one can listen in on the advice she intends to give. 

With lifted chin, kind eyes keep on his heavily chromed face. So young for so much chrome, she thinks, but then everyone has their reasons. Security does hold certain expectations. Aesthetic, however, follows more so in Arasaka Security dress code. No doubt his sleek suit still feels stiff. 

“They do because no one can stop them. Not even you.” Firm tone is unwavering, but it is not without care. Brianne does not want to see anyone fail, especially someone so young. “You know the rules. Security does not intervene unless it is to protect those under their charge. To protect the corp. Your reticence is expected until you are bid to speak.” Aggressive bravado fairs well in the field, not so much in these halls. Besides, a guard is to be unobtrusively seen and not heard. “That means you need to grow thicker skin. You’re a tough lad, I think it’s possible for you to let words slide.”

[mslangermann-a]

@kenneld��

                                                           “Stop - Stop it!”

    Her protest is quickly swallowed by a fit of giggles as her husband continues to bury his face in the crook of her neck, kissing playfully along sensitive skin. Lynn is all smiles, blissfully unaware of anything outside of this moment. She grips the back of Blake’s shirt, giving a weak and noncommittal pull to the fabric. 

    Against her neck, she feels him grin and he whispers something there, distant and fuzzy. Far away. 

    The laughter dies away. Silence hums in the space between them. His hands are around her throat. Squeezing. Lynn’s joy is quickly replaced by terror, her skin paling against his grip. This isn’t right, she thinks as milky eyes stare down at her. This isn’t Blake. His grip tightens and her fingers curl around his wrists in protest, attempting to pry him off. Lynn gasps for what little air she has, her vision darkening and head pounding. Legs kick out from under Blake, but her fighting does not phase him. 

                                               Those eyes. Gone. This isn’t right.

                                                                  Blake.

    Lynn awoke with a start, a gasp caught in the back of her throat. No one stirred, the dark barracks unbothered by her sudden panic. Shifting bodies in their sleep is the only sound that pierced through the ringing in her ears. She sat up in the cot, head held in her hands. A nightmare. No, a memory. Memories sewn together in horrific patchwork. A hand dropped and she brushed two fingers against her neck. His hands had been there, wrapped so firmly around her throat, set on killing her. That wasn’t Blake. It couldn’t be. This place, these people broke him, stripped him away until nothing but a senseless shell remained.

                                     And they were intent on doing the same to her.

   Survive or die, a lesson ground into her every time she entered a trial, every time she was forced through unspeakable horror and bloodshed. At first, Lynn was content to meet her fate and become nothing more than a memory, but the moment she saw the gun’s barrel pointed at her, something else came over her. It burned in her chest, hollowed her vision. She was an animal backed into a corner, knowing only to survive - whatever the cost. And by the skin of her teeth, she did. She pulled herself out of each and every trial, her body heavy and beaten, but alive.

    An alarm sounded over the PA and Lynn jumped, its bell harsh enough to make her sick. It signaled for the camp to awaken, to begin their daily training. On command, she rose and began readying herself. Shirt tucked in, boots secure, hair tied back - like a good soldier.

[ezerkenegdc]

@kenneld​   +     sc

     “     have you seen my brother today , beraiah ?     ”

[spentfaith]

“ 𝐢𝐟… 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐢’𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮❟ 𝐢 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰… 𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝❟ 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠❟ 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐞 ?   𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐛𝐞𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭. 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮. ”  @kenneld

She heard the words, took them into her mind and soul and spirit. Her bones and blood. Quinn’s mouth grew dry as the weight of his words fully started to process throughout all of those parts of her body. How those damn words seemed to have lulled her into a false sense of security at the mention of that word. Of love. That he loved her. Always loved her. Always will. Her chest expanded and then contracted, something hitting her heart like a damn dagger as the words failed to bloom, as they dug in their claws and threatened to rip her heart from her chest. He was leaving. This was goodbye. This was bullshit. 

“No.” Quinn forced the words out as though they would be her saving grace. A choked, desperate sound. “No. You don’t get to fucking do this to me, Beraiah.” Anger welled inside of her, threatening to bubble over and exit her body in some way or another. Perhaps through the tears she could feel threatening to well in the corner of her eyes, or perhaps through the fists that hard started to curl and clench at her sides. Nothing but pure hurt and anger swirled within her eyes, her mouth drawn tight as she rooted her feet in place and refused to move. Both out of the way and move on from this topic. 

“Someone — ” Cut short at the lump in her throat, the barrier between what she’d always known but refused to say from fear of losing him finally starting to slip and break. “Someone who loves someone would never put them through the hell you’ve put me through.” Her jaw set tight, she wished the words had come out with more venom, wished that she could have tackled this like she did every fight she’d ever been in. But no. That would have been too easy. Instead they dribbled out like water along the top of a flooding lake. Quinn was the lake. 

“You don’t fucking love me, you love the convenience of me.” There came the venom, just a hint of it, a little bite to the end of her sentence. Quinn was tiptoeing along the breakwall. One side would have her fall into a heap, crumple into herself and let loose years of tears she’d refused to let fall. The other? Quinn feared what she’d find there. “You always have.” 

[mtnsedge]

(   PROMPT.   )   @kenneld​​​ said,  ❝ I did what was necessary, ❞

“Mm.”

The wind cuts between the trees, spindled limbs stiff and dry from the Autumn chill. It muffles the acknowledgement that drifts from his ruined lungs; the bellows of his chest heave silently against the crisp gale that skirts the eastern face of the mountain, and he is content to let its shrill howl swallow the rumble of his voice. 

The grunt is a perfunctory gesture, a rasp against his throat — he’s being too generous with it, perhaps. Recognition is not the goal. Praise begets vanity, and vanity lends itself to pride. There are moments where it still stings, the needle of John’s tattoo gun against his shoulder; his little brother had ensured that he would never again forget his arrogance, that greatest of pitfalls. 

“ Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. “ 

Joseph’s voice rings in his ears like the bells in the stepple of the chapel on their humble island. Hollow and made of tarnished brass, but echoing out the most beautiful melody each morning. We can hear it from across the river — d’you know that, Joe? It carries through the mist and some mornings I think I could swim across the Henbane just to hear it better. Just to hear you better.

Jacob has been called to something higher, to keep those under his tutelage on the same path the Father has laid out for them. Soldiers do not give into temptation, nor to impulse. He does not think of himself when he looks down upon the boy, smoke coiling from a rifle nearly as long as he is tall. He thinks of his brothers — of Joseph at his pulpit, and John on his podium. He thinks of the countless faces that Joseph preaches to, thinks of the hope in their eyes. He thinks of the tears that flow freely when John pulls the contrite from the Henbane, hands clasped against their damp faces, congratulating them for bowing down before the will of a higher power.

He does not know if he believes in any sort of god — but Jacob Seed does believe in his brothers.

"That you did.”

It is rare, for him to grant such an open acknowledgement. Approval is a scarcity, a commodity more precious, perhaps, than gold. This is not the point, of course — but even he cannot help but to notice the way steel turns to silver in the boy’s eyes when his good deed is acknowledged.

“Go on.” Jacob rises from the underbrush, a rifle slung over his own shoulder as a fallen doe pitches and bleats further up the ridge, bleeding into the frozen Montana soil. Truth be told, he couldn’t care less about the animal, about the pain it cries against as it kicks its clumsy hooves through briar and scrub. He cares only for what the child beside him does next. 

“Put the thing out of its misery.” 

Don’t make me tell you again.

[nomadical]

@kenneld​ || another extremely specific prompts list || accepting!

2) for receiver to show up at sender’s house to confront them about something only to find sender is recovering from serious injuries.

There’s been whispers building. Echoes of rumors that haven’t missed Paul’s ears. No matter how much he keeps to himself these days. Busy building up his shop and supplying an ever growing populace with as many medicines and herbs that they need while trying to have a little time to himself. Visits to the Eagle have kept him in some company. Enough to hear that the Seed Family are getting the wrong kind of attention. Well. Wrong if it isn’t true. And from the visits he’s had from John? Pleasant and kind and welcoming? He hopes they’re not. 

It takes the police showing up twice, asking questions about some of the herbs he’s been selling from the Seed farms, before Paul starts looking into going there and finding out WHY.

By the time booted feet hit the sloshy mud surrounding Jacob’s compound, there’s a twisting in his gut that won’t stop. It’s worse than what he’s heard. Dry mouthed and clutching the bag that’s gotten him past several guards who he knows--there’s nothing but confusion etched on his sharp features and pale eyes. He doesn’t make it to the door. Barely past a rusted, rotten piece of sheet metal near a barn. A hand grabs his wrist. Some feral looking man who all but drags him past the main house towards a dilapidated house on the property. Paul doesn’t resist. Figures from what he’s seen on his way in? From what he didn’t turn back from? Doing that--would mean he might never leave. At least alive. So, he goes. Steeling himself by clenching his back teeth together. Ready with his hands to defend himself if needed. 

He swears he can smell blood before he sees it. Wrappings around Beraiah’s wounds that catch his attention as soon as he lays eyes on him. His gaze flares wide. A dozen questions he’d had written on his tongue for Jacob fade to nothing as he looks Beraiah over and has to grip the bag tight to keep from dropping it. A rushed whisper. Cracked and raw. Now he knows why they let him in this far. This is why. Isn’t it? “---What happened to you?”

[hnting]

RANDOM LYRIC STARTER CALL // @kenneld

"Maybe you're me and I am you."

[cultfought]

“ you know. . . you could think about comin’ into fall’s end every once in a while. must get lonely up here in the mountains. ”

@kenneld​​ / sc !!

[austerulous]

◈   @kenneld​

Death was not weightless.  The spirit might fly, but the bones would remain.  Life – brittle and grey though it was – played out somewhere far above, in sight of the fading sun.  Suffocated by the weight of a dying world, in these tombs there was no greater vivacity than the ill-omened deathwatch beetles, busy making cathedrals of coffins.  Incessantly they burrowed, jaws clicking in the dark, foretelling of the doom that had already met the legions of corpses that festered in these ossuaries.  Eyeless sockets stared at Anri wherever she went, pocketing the walls like the ugly perforations of lotus pods.

Above ground, cathedrals and their spires towered skyward, reaching for the heavens, while the catacombs plunged deep into the earth’s putrefying gut.  This root system was the truth that lay behind gilt-edges and promises of transcendence.  Decay.  A slow return to dust.  Ashen as she was, Anri knew something of death, could see something of herself in the groaning towers of bones.

This was no time to die and stay dead.  For now, she walked, wading through air that was impossibly still.  Time had no meaning in the dark, where it passed in an endless slide of hours and days.  There was no need to eat, no need to sleep, no need to rest unless the hairline fractures in her heart and mind yawned into widening fissures, forcing her to pause, to gather the fraying threads of her sanity.  Grit and bones crunched beneath her feet, silt settled for aeons stirring and swirling around her boots as she trespassed through the house of innumerable dead, her laboured breathing muffled by her helm.

Horace, where are you?

Prism stones marked the route she had taken through labyrinthine passages, that vein-like lattice of winding corridors.  In her wake, the cheerful little pebbles glittered and glowed.  Beautiful, comforting, the only company she kept, until –

Silence strangled her as she halted, hesitating, eyes squinting in the gloom, blue irises coloured with disbelief.  Ahead was a knight of sorts, swathed in shadow.  Broad in the shoulder and back, build hinting at a height that could not be determined when he knelt, his head slung forward as though in dejection, defeat.  Anri watched, unblinking as a deer in the undergrowth, marking the rise and fall of his pauldrons, listening for the tell-tale rattle and hearing none.  Hollows breathed too, she knew, out of habit rather than necessity.  They wheezed and whined even as their lungs turned to sludge and mulch bubbled in their throats.

Curiosity had killed her more than once.  Edging closer, she skirted wide and wary.  The sword in her hand – that lucky blade – was unsheathed, its tip pointing to the bone-strewn floor.  A dismal scene presented itself, framed by the slit of her visor, that narrow window granting almost singular focus.  Before the knight lay a body, more recently dead than those that had been interred in this ancient tomb.  Blood stains had long dried black.  Gaunt and mottled, with mould flourishing at the corner of her mouth, the jelly of her eyes were desiccated and sunken.  Her hollowed body shrivelled beneath her dress.  Her dress.  What courage it must take to face the world with so little physical protection.  Here was the cost of such faith – a cleaved abdominal cavity, spewing rotten entrails, gluing her to the dusty floor.  This girl was one who would not come back, wheezing and with the taste of the grave thick on her tongue.  This girl was dead, and would remain so.  A mercy, in truth.

Heartstrings plucked raw, chest aching with second-hand sorrow and strange yearning, Anri’s attention shifted back to the silent sentinel.  A glimpse of her own fate, perhaps, should Horace have been met with harm.

“You aren’t hollow, are you?”

There came no response that she could discern, save perhaps a long, low, barely audible exhalation.  No inarticulate snarl, no mindless violence.  His hand did not fly to the Zweihander within his reach.  The dark pressed against her back, hungry, ready to swallow her from the sight of this buckled man.  Its chill stained her, drove her forwards, to the first unkindled she had seen in this godforsaken place.  Dead or undead, there were few corners of the world worse than this in which to spend eternity.  With that thought, Anri’s gaze drifted back to the maiden’s earthly remains.

[deputystakes-a2]

( @kenneld ) in the driver’s seat, ashley sits—one hand gripping the steering wheel, white-knuckled, as the other wrestles a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. this here’s whitetail territory—different than the desert skies, yet his state of mind’s no different. this, to ashley, was not about the faith, nor the resistance of the people. this was about men in power giving orders—this was about his sainthood and the worship it demanded; the sacrifice. cherry glow. puff of smoke.   “ all the good angels are mobbin’ us with warnings. ”

[prvtocol]

if the world didn’t rely on money, what would their dream occupation be?

THE REAL IMPORTANT CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT QUESTIONS

A mother.

[sylkshe-a]

✧˚ ˖  @kenneld​     —     ❝      ✐      ❞     /     𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 !

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐓 ,  a feeling which , in other circumstances would have been familiar  &  welcoming.  But it's cold in a way that makes her uneasy.  She holds her seal pelt tightly to her ,  &  she won't deny there is relief there.  Despite the fact that it's already been within her possession for a while now , she's here at the ocean's edge with it , standing in front of the one who took it in the first place.

She can't look at him.  It's too painful , because she doesn't want to leave.  She's missed the sea quite terribly—& yet. 

&  yet.

What would a few more weeks away be ?  Despite all of the bickering they'd done the past few weeks , there was something else that had blossomed in between it all. Aniela had grown to enjoy Ber's company ,  &  she’d had a feeling that he had come to feel the same. Or rather, she’d hoped he did, otherwise she was going to sound like an utter fool. She gulps down a few breaths , quick , an attempt at keeping herself regulated. She’s shaking. ❝ 𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑝 𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠. ❞

Finally, she pulls her gaze from counting individual grains of sand at her feet. She looks up at him , craning her neck in order to do so , but she doesn’t mind. 

❝ I’ve found that I enjoy spending time with you. I enjoy keeping you company…and I enjoy your company. ❞