#ofthegun

[polupenthes]

@ofthegun:

Kit Johns, already with his hackles raised after a less-than-pleasant debate with his excuse of a brother, finds Williamson sitting by the campfire and sizes him up, eyes burning. "And what kinda clown are you?"

He doesn’t like gunslingers no more than he likes lawmen or covenant men or barons. He’s met a few of the first, too many of the second and third, and never one of the latter. 

Sitting beside him, Sean MacGuire snorts half a laugh he answers with a kick. Even Bill knows that the joke Kit Johns has just made was not made to be laughed at by the likes of them.

“The one who don’t take too kindly to being heckled by a stranger in his own camp. Sir.”

[imbricare]

@dcschain / cont.

Under the rim of his hat, in the dusk and the cold, he flashed his teeth in a smile; and he held up his hands, a right parody of a gesture of deference. “Dirt ‘n bones, and damn it all. I been reborn in the West, brother – and ain’t that a daisy?” 

He had taken to their way of speech, too: it was a rare and stumbling thing now, to conjure the Tongue – if he could do so at all. Fourteen summers a whining of its elegy; fourteen summers under the spires, behind his mother’s skirts, in the sand of the training pits. And then the bondsman’s mettle untouched, unbroken. Not the same to be said about Arthur Morgan’s pride. Arthur Johns-that-was. 

It had all been so long ago.

He watched the boy pull himself up to his full height––damn, was the kid tall––and stalk off, silent as a hawk and obedient to the core, no doubt. Deschain’s boy through and through. If Arthur’s grin returned to bleed into a chuckle, he couldn’t have helped it if he tried.

“That why you here – beratin me for a thing in the past?” He had to laugh, as he passed the gunslinger who bore his father’s name and his father’s irons, and clapped him on the shoulder. It was not a friendly grip; nor was it an aggression. It just was: like them. A book with blank pages was still a book. “Well, I’ll be damned. Take your pity and choke on it, Christopher.” 

[gcnenineteen-blog]

     In the end, Vannay reflected, the essence of prophecy was standing upon the parapet of a tower that has already fallen, and by virtue of one’s fixed place in time being forced to pretend it is still there. Prophecy was looking out upon a city that has already crumbled, upon a people who have already died, and knowing that you must live among them, and never tell them how little their lives, their dreams, or their plans mattered. Buying pipeweed from the merchant by the dock every week, and smiling as though his child has not already died in the womb. Watching the farmer slave in the orchard as though disease has not already taken the trees. Fastening a collar of mourning that one has already been wearing for decades. Prophecy, in the end, was not wisdom, but despair. 

     For prophecy was not knowing what could be, but what must be. The appeal of foresight was the delusion that, if one knew the future, one might be able to change it to suit one’s fancy, and it was only the prophets who knew their gift for what it was: the act of burning alive years before it will happen, and either opening one’s arms wide to the comfort of madness, or living on with one’s skin aflame. 

     “Hile, Dinh-Gilead.” He would turn, had turned, was turning - past, present, and future converged, meeting blue bombardier’s eyes as he had been meeting them every moment for twenty-five years, long before this man had been a man, much less a king. Long even before he had known his name. And there too was the nature of prophecy: to have conversations one was already having, had already had, as if anything in this world could be new - as if it were possible to be human outside of time. “Long days and pleasant nights.”

[uthaale-blog]

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[makerbound]

——————— ROLEPLAYING HISTORY !

the rules are simple ! post ten characters you’d like to role play as , have role played as , and might bring back . then tag ten people to do the same ( if you can’t think of ten characters , just write down however many you can and tag the same amount of people ) . aside from that , please repost instead of reblogging !

CURRENTLY PLAYING !

·       cuthbert allgood    //    the dark tower   //   @cllgood​​

·       various characters & OCs    //   the dark tower   //  @ofthegun​ & @ofthebarony​

·       cassandra pentaghast    //    dragon age  //   @makerbound​  (hiatus / semi-active)

·       dwalin fundinul    //    tolkien legendarium  //   @fundinson​​  (hiatus / semi-active)

·       asunn asviul    //    tolkien legendarium   //   @ursinh​​  (hiatus / semi-active)​

HAVE PLAYED !

·       nyreen kandros    //    mass effect    //    @venatrixturiana​  (inactive)

·       king thráin II  //    tolkien legendarium    //  @thrainsonofthror​​  (inactive)

·       glaw-y-nos  //    tolkien legendarium    // @bearskinned​​​  (inactive)

·       clotaire bonchance  //    dragon age    // @wineandgildedarms​​​​  (inactive)

WANT TO BRING BACK !

·       thráin perhaps maybe like really kinda low-key. right now though i barely have the time to keep my active blogs going.

WANT TO WRITE !

·       ooooof. As said I barely have the time to dedicate as much time as I would like to to the blogs I have, but theoretically speaking: more OCs always everywhere in every fandom.

TAGGED BY: @chevaliersreach (ty dear!) TAGGING:  @curufinwefeanaro, @brightflight, @tofindthesun​, @makhlun​, @breniatham​, @defenestratio​

[westpromised]

i knew you had heart. [from bob to hosea]

“You knew that, didn’t you?” Hosea’s grin was all ease and suave, all a successful actor’s encore once he jumped off the boards of the stage. Then again, the Bard did say that all the world’s a stage, so there’s that. 

“Are you,” he eyed the tall feller with the charming smile up and down and up again, “a connoisseur of the fine arts, or mayhap a practitioner yourself? The name must be Allgood, of course.” Even if he hadn’t been alerted to the presence of the high and mighty at today’s performance, it would’ve been impossible to miss him. What gave him away? Apart from the height, the guns on his hips, his own body weight in golden jewelry? Or the fact that they played in Gilead and the gunslingers with their entourage were wont to show up? The man was stinking rich, of course, and looked it. And therefore a promising fish to hook, after a performance.

He was also, of course, Master of Dances. Hosea smacked his lips, closed his eyes. “Ah. Yes. Forgive me, sai, it slipped my mind. You’re all too familiar with the stage of course.”

[mercysought]

@dcschain​​​ . @ofthegun​​​ : For people like us, power in this place is most effective when it is least perceived. [from rose to maxima, but while they're undercover somewhere?] from black sails season 2 ( accepting )

The bottom edge of the empty shot glass makes its second round over the table. Maxima’s legs are crossed under the table; heels replaced by worn travelling boots, the long flowing dress replaced by a worn deep red coat that kept her body warm, thick. Warm and filled with bad memories like the streets themselves; fitting. The heavily scented cherry smoke left slowly through her nostrils, green eyes are not on the woman sitting opposite to her but beyond her. Shadows dance in the thin space between the wooden floor and the warped door from behind the counter. The cigarette is kept between her indicator and middle finger, away from her body and away from the table, not unlike many of others within that parlour. She and Rosalie were but a few in the sea of many. The many that just became a sea of brown tattered clothes and dust. 

Oh, and how this was familiar. 

The hand keeps holding the cup, turning it once again. The long red nails are gone, clipped and bare. Red lips are gone, hidden behind a curtain of smoke. Dust, smoke and dirt; how was it to be back home around your own kind? Far away from the eyes of the court, from the smooth conversations, from the unspoken rules. It felt like being held bare behind an empty stage with an empty audience. The only eyes there, the only opinion, the only judgement her own.

   “For people like us, power in this place is most effective when it is least perceived.” her voice is audible beneath the murmurs that swiftly became roars in their own right. Enough to be heard, enough to be drowned by the offkey piano in the background. Green eyes move from the thin line of light to land on Rosalie’s.

A LOT OF SOULS HAVE GOTTA DIE TO KEEP THE RUST BELL ROLLING. How many do you think would dare to come up to me and put out my cigarette? To claim that it was unbecoming; it might be a word and a belief that rang loudly in their minds, but in a land where men and women held so little possessions or chances to enjoy such small pleasures, a sort of empathy was born from it. Do not take a cigarette from one’s hands unless you want a fight. Do not wake someone unless you want to die. 

Maxima and Rosalie’s eyes are not so different than the others. Tired and heavy, though their backs were far less bent. Maxima pauses the rolling of the cup and lets it rest against the surface of the grimy table. Even against the thick material of her coat, she could feel how it stuck to the harsher parts of the fabric.

Us. A sharp smile forms behind the cloud of smoke.

A LOT OF SPIRITS GOTTA BREAK TO MAKE THE UNDERWORLD GO ‘ROUND. The word keeps rolling and spinning and it has for days and now Maxima has heard it coming from Rosalie’s mouth she can no longer taste its meaning. It does not resonate in the way that she feels it should and instead holds the twang of something that she had once loved to swallow completely and yet didn’t hold water when compared to her memories. It felt sharp against the side of her tongue, even if she was not the one to have said it.

Maxima leans forward, legs uncrossing. The cigarette is snuffed out against the stained empty dish. Her hair is kept in a simple ponytail, the wavy hair wilder, left untamed and dull when against the light that poured from the outside. Those curls too, the way that they would lay against the top of her head in a halo, hidden beneath a brown rimmed hat.

   “Of course.” she pauses, waving the smoke away. As someone that had spent her whole life at court, she needed guidance. As someone that spent her whole life in luxury, within a safe little sphere, what did she know about these strange and dangerous people? My, the dangers that Rosalie James must be running with to take her to the field... Or perhaps she wasn’t quite so blind. Maxima’s eyes narrow as she smiles, leaning once again on the back of the chair. Perhaps she was. If the answer to such a question mattered, Maxima was still pondering over. Maxima winks “I will follow your lead.“

[touchcd-blog]

“ Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be. ” [christopher]

Dragon Age Inquisition | @ofthegun

     For a five year old listening to stories, war is barely more than a word. Something mysterious and maybe even desirable, for it seems to be involved in any greater one; a test for whatever hero this one was about. The idea of what it really was was a rather vague one in his head, and one that had quite little in common with reality. Just like death itself which seemed to lurk around in those stories was. A clearer concept, of course, but still something that seemed hard to imagine, and was no more than that after all. A concept. And all other things that came with it? Well, stories barely ever talk about fatigue or arsonists, about rape and despair; and even if they did, they wouldn’t capture it, and would even less get into a child’s head. Stories only ever talked about fighting, and honor, and all such things. Even though the ones coming from Christopher Johns’ lips were a little less black and white than the good night stories his mother would tell him, they left out the more gruesome parts. So far.

     (Not yet, anyway. That comes later, when the visions of a burning city haunt every night, when hung and skinned corpses become more frequent than landmarks, when blood drips over his own hands, and even before, when the wind drags the scent of burning flesh and screams far, so so far.)

     But to a boy, this is all far. To a boy resting on the floor with his head against his father’s seat (a position much preferred to taking a chair himself, with his mother giving up on trying to get him to sit proper) this is so far, eyes up bright at the one and true hero in a child’s eyes, and listening fascinated to whatever words coming from him, in that soft tone he uses only at home and that is so different from the man out on the streets, in the Great Hall, on the trail. (Another big word, that one. Another one woven into too many stories to count; and written in all big letters in his mind.)

     And the answer? Well, it is no thing he needs to think about, not consider. He might do if it was asked ten or five years later, actually consider what laid behind these words, but for now, the thirst to grow up and have his very own tales spun is still big and eager and does not know reality.

           "I want to be like you.“

     Prompt, and sincere. After all, this man is the only hero that could possibly, truly count for a young heart bursting with adoration and love.

[westpromised]

things happen…and we move on. [from one johns to another]

“Really? That’s mighty kind, comin from you. Why, I might just go buy myself a slice of forgiveness right here and now.” 

There’s something about Kit brings out the very worst in him: hackles raised and all. It’s him was named Arthur, that’s what he comes back to, over and over again: it’s him carries the name of the Eld, and a name like a word is a sigul. Blood is life but a name is power, and whatever blood he had to prove he proved a thousand times over to himself, here among the locusts and the coyotes, west of a land spoiled rotten with decadence. 

“Fuck you. Fuck your city. Fuck your father.” 

Your father like he ain’t the son of the same loins, like he doesn’t have the ghost of Johnny Johns sitting behind his eye like an evil waiting to be exorcised. Arthur thinks sometimes mayhap he’s gotten the brunt of him: what he’s done, what he’s been through, the grit of it all. Kit would never begin to understand. And here he sits, talking of moving on… Arthur spits to the side, hands to his knees, and comes to his feet. “I ain’t gotta move on to nowhere, I’m just fine where I am. And we both know you only move as far as your dinh calls. A dog’s always a dog soon as the whistle blows.” 

[mercysought]

@dcschain​ . @ofthegun​ : If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t considered killing you in months. [from rose] / black sails season 4 [ selectively accepting ]

For perhaps the first time, Maxima’s cup filled at the half with dark liquid is left atop her table. Forgotten, perhaps, but untouched all the same.

The conversation had been easier than in months, which was saying something when their conversations often bordered on the terse to the tense. At times landing right in the middle of both. Truth be told, the games that Maxima had enjoyed for years, the games that she still, theoretically, enjoyed had brought as much joy as before. More often than not she felt herself back as a small young girl in a word where nothing but dust rises, nothing but dust is allowed to grow. She felt it. Clammy, even dressed in finery, beneath the beating sun with dust all around her and a roaring stomach. Her stomach was now silent, having moved on from the hunger filled days to one of quiet anxiety and unease. 

Maxima knew how to read the signs though. Like a palm-reader reads the lines on one’s skin she can read the world around her and know: her stomach would know hunger again, and the sun that she had enjoyed on her face wasn’t so much as a caress as it was it staring at her from outside. A quiet warning, a quiet threat that the day would come where no roof would cover her head again. 

Years had passed since she had hid food beneath her floorboards. The same way that she had moved to far loftier places to rest her head upon, so did her food. From empty floorboards to some drawers where some bread could be better kept. Grapes atop her bedside table. Fruit and freshly baked bread on baskets that were swiftly kept in far more appropriate places. Now Maxima felt the need once again, the call: the same way that her food didn’t want to return to such humbles starts, she felt that they must.

What else will it be sacrificed before it all ends?

   “If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t considered killing you in months.“

Maxima’s playing absently with a single small marble in the shape of an eye. Carved into the deep green gem. It had been a gift, one of many but the only one that she truly carried around with her. A small grin forms over her lips as her eyes move from the gem to Rosalie, watching her for a moment before her attention returns to the small object.

   “I am unsure what should worry me more:” her head tilts and the marble comes to a stop between her fingers as she finds its carved iris “the fact that you seem to be attempting to console me, or the fact that you seem to think that I’m in need of consolation.” 

Both were alarming in their own right though she felt that one was more of a positive change than the other. Positive, however, didn’t mean good. No, she was not playing the same games as before and because the eyes of the powers that be were now on her some questions would raise from it. Many would assume it was simple heartbreak but she doubted that Rosalie would consider it that. Maxima Aurum didn’t have much of a heart to speak of, much less one to break. Perhaps one could call the anger towards oneself but a symptom of it: either the breaking of a heart or the growing of one.

Maxima’s eyes are on the gem with the same smile.

If she was to leave her opinion on such matters she would say that it was likely closer to the killing of a small babe in its crib. If she was to be a romantic about it. She wasn’t, and as it stood she took it for what it was: a mistake, one that could have cost her life and livelihood if it hadn’t been for her past self good decision making. It was a mistake and she was alive to learn from it. She would not waste it.

Not thinking about what should have been, should have done, should have said. Not focusing on her anger — her own, towards Cuthbert, Rosalie. All of them. Green eyes rise to look into Rosalie’s. 

The whole lot.

How easily they toyed with the lives of the others. Her life. No time to focus on the sun, the hunger and the dust as it looms closer.   

   “What will I do now without the fear of death at your hands, I wonder?” her brows arch with a grin. The hand with the gem falls to the side of her chair “My life might just truly be devoid of all meaning now!”

[gcnenineteen-blog]

@ofthegun found Steven and Kit chilling outside Tucson Metro.

[gcnenineteen-blog]

tagged by: @cllgood for Don and I

tagging: I don’t know who’s already been tagged, but the usual crew: @ofthebarony and @ofthegun pick and choose, @eritvita

four similarities between mun and muse

🤠 we both struggle with anxiety and depression, due in large part to past traumas

🤠 we both tend to feel the urge to flee when shit gets too personal

🤠 we both use sarcasm and cynicism as defense mechanisms

🤠 we’re both getting better and becoming happier, stronger people, even though at one point we thought we never could

four differences between mun and muse

🤠 he’s religious, I’m not.

🤠 he's old af, I just feel like I am sometimes. 

🤠 his politics are fairly conservative, although growing more moderate with time - mine have always been very liberal. 

🤠 I’ve thankfully never had to struggle with addiction.