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[archivesofmylife]

#NewBring #EDC #SmartWallet #Pocket #Wallet #Card Holder #CreditCard (en Mexico City, Mexico) https://www.instagram.com/p/BuM7u7RFpJ0/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=wmuyxjsxea2b

[corinthbayrpg]

NAME. Armando Salavieja Roa AGE & BIRTH DATE. 447 & November 4th,  1574 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Genderfluid & He/They SPECIES. Cubi OCCUPATION. Artist & Bartender at Ambrosia FACE CLAIM. Pedro Pascal

BIOGRAPHY

( tw: violence, gore, suicide, the sex ) Colonial Chile, 1617

The stench of gunpowder and gore clogged the air, as thick and suffocating as the mud the conquistador’s knees sunk into. Through the tears and the muck caked into his lashes, Armando stared into the blurry heap of red, swimming matter he struggled to cradle in his arms. Seconds ago it was the most beautiful composition of human features the heavens had designed, lips that relished the taste of sweet figs and Armando’s name; treacherous dark eyes that softened when they landed on his companion, unscathed and victorious, only seconds ago. Seconds. Now it was all running together, slipping through Armando’s pleading grip to join the muck of the battlefield. He retched until his ears were ringing and his lungs burned, his body sapped from this heady business of war and grief. 

He was left with a musket, a single snuff of powder and bullet, and a war-battered horse that was more fit for meat than a mount. Altogether it was a great show of generosity, considering the depravity of his sin. It was impossible to know how long he stayed there, slumped in the gore, until he was wrought of emotion.

Months ago, watching women and children succumb to cutlass and rifle and rotting fever, Armando had come to the conclusion that their God had not crossed to these uncharted lands with them. Even if he had, he knew there would be no negotiating for his tainted soul. So, with the long barrel pressed precariously beneath his chin, he shut his eyes and pleaded to any deity that would listen. 

“Perdoname,” Armando spit through clenched teeth, “Que mi mayor pecado fue amar.” With a final, shuddering breath, he pulled the trigger.

Only... there was no crack of white-hot pain or blinding light, no smell of burnt gunpowder on the air. The woodlands went still. Blood drummed like a battalion in his skull. A sudden chill tore down his spine, alerting Armando that was no longer alone. He’d prayed, and someone… something had listened. It was bristling and primal, something much more ancient than the God he knew. Before he could speak, it had wrapped him in a warm, spiced plume of smoke, much how a mother swaddled her child. She sealed his wounds between the veils of time, his taker-in of wayward things, and offered respite from his sorrow.

Armando, with nothing but his immortal soul left to lose, signed it away.

The deed fulfilled, the indiscernible shadow was gone in a litter of silken white feathers, the smoke dissipating behind. The woodland life resumed its chatter. The grief was gone, now replaced by an equally-encompassing numbness and… and hunger. He was ravenous, though no food would satiate him, only pleasures of living, giving flesh.

The newbred incubus found relief within a small encampment of Spanish settlers, and wrapped them tightly in his coils. In a week, he’d wasted the camp of its souls, each of them enraptured by him until their dying breath, which Armando was delighted to find always tasted the sweetest. The high of consuming a human life was unlike anything he’d felt before, but the euphoria plummeted fast and hard, leaving pangs and more lustful hunger in its wake. He was a new creature entirely, propelled through the world by lust and yearning and instinct, and the unbending anguish he’d felt not even a week prior was now a lifetime away.

Until, when he’d had his fill, his dead lover appeared at the husk of a homestead he’d created. Armando’s heart would’ve stopped, had it been beating. It was as if the shape had separated from the fog itself, a mirage cast of perfectly-cast light and shadow. There was no mistaking him though, albeit his strong features were gaunt and sapped of color. An expansive, purplish scar flayed like lightning across his face, tangled high into the roots of his hair. 

“Estabas muerto,” Armando stammered and reached to trace a finger along the frayed skin. “Te abracé, te enterré. Como estas vivo?”

He flinched when a cold hand caught his wrist before it could reach his blackened lips. “No estoy vivo ni muerto,” The shadow replied.

‘Pastor’ was the closest word he could find for it, a shepherd of sorts, called to herd the souls of the settlers onward before Armando beat him to it. He was an unbound soul, a taker-in of wayward things, without a sturdy enough vessel to withstand Armando’s newfound hunger. Even a single night would be enough for the cubi to consume the reaper’s flickering soul entirely.

And so, the star-crossed lovers were bound, never to consummate their eternal binding of spirit. The decades began to run together, Armando’s eternal pining drowned in hedonism of every shape and flavor. Pirate ports, private palaces, military outposts - anywhere there was a lascivious craving, he could be found entertaining it, leaving only sourness and death behind. His lover visited intermittently through the channel of dreams, though this illusion of intimacy could never be enough to satiate them fully. In time, the rift grew wider between them.

Decades stretched into centuries, and each turn of the clock came with a new vice to entertain. The incubus took up painting portraiture along the way, an art he found to be incredibly intimate in its nature, with the bonus of allowing for the disarmament of willing models through his prominence and charm. With his hunger qualmed, his victims’ living image was forever captured in oil-cast splendor. Armando found it all quite poetic and generous of himself to provide such a flattering life beyond life. A recurring motif throughout his art was a scar-ridden face with striking features, one that would be the quizzical discussion of many European parlor rooms into the early 19th century. 

When painting portraiture fell out of fashion, he took up the camera. Armando found photography to be a flattened bastardization of the world, wholly devoid of life. His portraiture, by contrast, restored life through tactful illusion, while the photograph only staled it. Still, the medium allowed for new cliente, each earnest visitor leaving a bit less whole by the end. Armando’s series gained him renowned acclaim, particularly a series following several subjects over what appeared to be decades of hard living. Few knew the truth of his subjects’ cause for wasting away, but the artist fled San Francisco before anyone could wise up to it.

With the Americas still spent and breathing hard, Greece beckoned, and Armando, a creature driven by basest impulse and desire, followed. 

PERSONALITY

+ self-assured, vivacious, perceptive - arrogant, compulsive, self-indulgent

PLAYED BY THEO. PST. She/They.

[newwaveswimbuoy]

Credit to @jasonkadingtri : What’s up y’all. Took a few days off. Body was tired and just needed to be fresh. Tomorrow is RACE day! Time to get it done. Pre-race layout complete. It’s going to be a cold start to the morning tomorrow. High of 47. Nothing like jumping in the water early in the freezing morning. Most likely I will not race in my wetsuit since I haven’t trained that way but I’ll pack it just in case. By the time I cross the finish line it should be a high of 48 lol. Ready to get the season started! Bib 49! Keep TRI’in y’all. 🏊🚴🏻♂🏃 posted on Instagram - https://newaveswim.com/2UXZs2f

[blogdoityourself]

needs some working

[webutopiantech]

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[alpaca1]

ミニマルな暮らしに。鍵や現金をスッキリ収納できる「New-Bring多機能キーケース」

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[hymart]

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[fulviomeloni]

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