[m] all the flaws that you made famous

POSTED: Fri Apr 01, 2016 3:05 pm

WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.
(1500) Tagging this mature because we get up to some strange things, friend-o.
Set April 2nd, early evening in Amherst.

Her father went to collect his huddled masses and reassure them; her mother did the same, but with horses and sheep and chickens. Nergüi tucked the children into a protective nest of curated furs and soft fabric, muttering words that were clearly meant to be comforting.

Wide-eyed, the children were peering toward the door when all the howling began, warning of more to come. The shaking resumed, and while the slavewoman flattened herself against the floor near the two young princessa's, Indra leapt from the pallet of furs, driven by instinct more than genuine fear. Something in her bones told her to leave, beckoned her to the wilds, implored her feet to move as quickly as they good.

Surging out the door like the tidal wave itself, she found purchase in the dark soil while the trees swayed unsteadily. The mongol called her back over and over, but the Bambino simply couldn't shake the feeling that nothing was safe anymore.

When she came to her senses she was standing in the frizzy, half-dead grassland that abutted Amherst. Without knowing exactly what that meant or where she was in relation to home, having zigged and zagged the whole way here, she heaved a heavy sigh. Aware only that her entire body felt leaden and tired, Indra walked slowly—every step ached and her feet felt burned—toward the ruined city, looking about wildly for any signs of life.

It wasn't long before signs of life became apparent; even a star plummeting to earth could not turn back the tide of time, and life was harder in the city. Beady eyes looked up at her; rats, mice, raccoons, and other such scavengers looked at her questioningly, hungrily.

Further and further she went, reluctant to sleep, reluctant to even lay down.

When the sky opened up and it began to drizzle, she found shelter under the burned out husk of a car and stayed there, stock still like a miniature Gargoyle. Singular drops of rain collected on the metal and ran down the jagged hunks of charred steel, creating a dark splotch on the ground.

Not long after the rain abated, a clanking sound came nearer. Pulling a small wooden cart full of shiny nicknacks was a sorrel gray woman. At first glance she was unremarkable, but looking again, Indra realized that she must have been considered pretty, once. A long time ago, thought Indra.

She smelled like stale beer and tobacco, but her head shook almost imperceptibly, constantly, when she stood still. Not knowing what Kuru disease was, she took this as a symptom of old age and came out willingly enough when food was offered. Dragging the slightly smelly piece of almost-rancid meat back under her temporary shelter, the woman toddled off.

A moment later, she was back, and peering under the car.

Lost? She rasped; Indra shook her head.

We all get lost sometimes, ain't a bad thing. The old woman shrugged and pushed her face closer.

They talked a little in this way; questions being asked, Indra refusing to answer, and an offer made. If she helped the woman find shiny trinkets, she'd help her get back home. Debating this internally, eventually there was a reluctant nod of acquiescence.

The haggard old woman extended a bony hand in her direction and then waved emphatically, indicating that she should follow; not only this, but that she should be quick about it.

Her name was Grýla.

While they walked, she talked a lot—on and on, really—about nothing in particular. Droning on about her misspent youth without actually caring whether the young hybrid at her side was listening... Indra quickly learned how to send the woman's voice backward in own her thoughts, creating a white noise to keep track of the passing time with.

Sometimes Grýla would let her sit in the cart, but then she would start complaining that it was too heavy.

Here and there they would pause for a moment and the predominantly coyote woman would settle her bony ass down into the dirt. The girl with mismatched eyes disliked these times the most, because it meant that suddenly the conversation evaporated and her unlikely protector would suddenly start caressing her head, raking her claws through the thin fur behind her ears.

She tolerated this... barely.

And the tremors kept coming, setting her teeth on edge.

When they resumed walking, the old lady would pick up on whatever her most recent story was. More often than not it featured some nefarious Pied Piper, but Indra was too focused on eyeing the alleyways to really listen.

He was a rat catcher, rakľori, The tawny woman said, fumbling for a match. and he got rid of all dem rats, a'right, but when the townsfolk didn't give him what they promise, he starts takin' their lil' 'uns. Indra shot her a scathing look and the woman chuckled.

Am I lookin' like a liar? Yes, the girl with mismatched eyes thought, you are. Grýla shrugged, arms swinging while she walked.

He wears them patchwork clothes like a real balerin, little rakľori.

Ioan woke suddenly and with a smile. Pushing himself from the tarnished wood floor on the upper level of the nearly demolished inn, he smoothed the fur down over the scars on his chest and hips.

He was not, strictly speaking, an attractive man. His fur was the color of soot, a murky grey-brown that made him entirely unworthy of mentioning. Small scars nibbled away this facade—on his hands, arms, abdomen, and chest—but they were easy to cover up, easy to disguise. Crouching low to look at his face in the broken shards of mirror, his grin was trifold and his eyes multiplied like an ants.

Rising, he donned the patchwork cloak with thick stitches and squares of color—red, yellow, green, and blue—and descended the stairs two at a time with both hands on the banister. Plaster littered the floor, but whether or not it had been there before the earth had begun to shake was debatable. Trash rose in every corner like skyscrapers, and he ducked around them with a bright smile.

What have you brought me, Maică? Clapping with boyish glee as he said this, the mania came to life instantaneously.

As if to answer him, a little white-and-gold girlchild grimaced at him like she knew something about him, and his excitement wavered. For a staggering moment his charm wavered and the ugliness was revealed, but Grýla ignored this.

She got lost, Was all the explanation needed, and his smile returned, his mouth splitting into a grin that revealed yellow and brown teeth.

I'm going home now, Said the girl with such conviction that he began to laugh. Bracing his hands against his sunken stomach, Ioan rumbled on like a train. It looks and smells like a girl, but talks like a cocksure little boy. During a brief pause, he licked his lips and swished the mendicant's cloak around.

I think I will like you, little rakľori. Crouching down, he reached a hand out to pat her head affectionately.

Everything changed in an instant.

Tired of being touched, of being lied to, Indra darted forward like she had with the rabbits in Tantramar, sinking her teeth deep into the muscle around one of the dark man's knuckle bones. Squealing in fear and surprise, he tumbled backward to get away from the lecherous little girl, cradling his bleeding hand against his chest as he did so.

She was running again, running without purpose or any knowledge of where.

The inn had more than one level, but she feared being trapped on an upper floor and so ran into an adjacent room, knocking over a heap of bleached newspapers in the process. Behind her, Grýla was consoling her demented son, who had begun to howl like a spoiled child.

All the doors and windows were firmly shut except for one, which opened out into a small courtyard with bars. Here it became obvious that she was not the first; it had never been cleaned, and the overwhelming stench of shit, piss, and blood was nauseating. Hollow eyes peered at her from one far corner, another girl who was no longer a girl, but a young woman.

Beckoning her closer with a single, halfhearted twitch, Indra wondered if she was going to eat her, but moved forward all the same.

Her fears were maligned; death was coming swiftly for the girl—whose eyes were black as coal and luminous in the moments of defiance—and she no longer feared Ioan's uncreative but effective brutalities. Her thin arms wrapped around Indra's belly and heaved her upward. Pushing her ungently, rudely even, through the cast iron bars, the Bambino thought her head would explode.

And then she popped through, landing in the untended flower box beyond.

My name is Blanca, Said the dying woman with a kind smile. go now, away from this place.

Indra began to run again, further into the city.

The Tradesman (NPC)
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Luperci Milite The Stag is Reborn
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POSTED: Sun Apr 03, 2016 9:26 pm

vague post is vague

Uneasiness had set into his bones. Caligula had abandoned, and in turn been abandoned, by those he cared for most. It was an appropriate cycle, he supposed. Unbecoming, but nothing less than what he surely deserved. The once great imperator had turned lonely; but even without his crown, without his army, and without his greatest companions, he was still, at his core, a born king.

That did not mean he didn't feel the absence still. And didn't feel unsettled in the weightlessness of anonymity. He suffered too, from normal things. Like an inability to forgive himself, and a violence he had difficult masking. There was the emptiness, too, that he felt most profound when he was without preferred company.

Presently the edges of his consciousness picked at the included absences of both his bird and horse.

Roche had been gone for at least two days now, and for who could guess how much longer. Bêlit, who was quite angry with him, had stolen away on Pharos, pettily taking most of his possessions -- and the rest of his company -- with her.

His clunky sword had absconded with the fleeing party, and he wouldn't miss it unless it became necessary. The buckknife was there though, sheathed neatly against the strip of leather that cinched his cloth pants at the waist.

His effectiveness in using such a weapon would be diminished however, and it was the reason behind this fact that commanded the bulk of his thoughts.

Caligula gazed at his bandaged hands in mild wonderment disguised as vehement apathy.

He couldn't remember digging his claws into his palms like that, but the pain was clear to him now; a consequence to an offense he couldn't recall committing. What was he supposed to learn from something like this?

The sound of fast pawsteps distracted him, and the wolf turned up his scarred face slowly to regard the alley. The back of his head rested against the stone wall at his back, and he listened for the approach from his seated position.

Four legs, too light for an adult anything, but drumming a desperate beat in the pavement. He eyed the street, scanning from gutter to storefront until the fleeing girl came into view.

Ears perking, the male sat forward eagerly, but didn't otherwise make or move for her or say anything. The path was riddled with smaller passages, mostly boarded up and too congested for a man his size to navigate through. She would see him, as she careened in his direction, but Caligula was painfully aware that if he suddenly got up, he was sure to frighten her into a direction he could not follow her in.


POSTED: Wed Apr 06, 2016 11:20 pm

(300) *fart noises*

In the wake of her great escape came the greasy flotsam of thoughts, rising through the fibrous membrane of her brain to give birth to wonder.

Why would Blanca tell her her name?

Where was home?

She focused on the latter until her limbs were positively weak from fatigue, having already spent much of the day running from the fiery falling star and the quakes in its midst. In the labyrinthian city—decrepit and full of those unfit for a pack—she found it was easy to simply wander, aimless as the meteor itself.

When she came at last to the runners wall, the little gargoyle suddenly felt made of stone, as if one more step would shatter her legs and she would be consigned to a life spent here in the ruins of a civilization from before. Faced with a dilemma unlike any other she had ever faced, she gave over to an ounce of conceit and continued in fear, wondering if her mother would consider it an emotion.

Debates had sprung up since her birth, in the quiet moments after her parents believed her to be asleep; Osrath believed her to be monstrous, incapable of feeling anything at all, while Lokr remained steadfast in his belief that she was simply young and didn't know any better. In the moments before a dreamless state would come to claim her, she often found herself pondering the merits of both.

In truth, it was self-preservation that sustained her, a firm belief that she must not linger here overlong.

Hurtling at last down a dark alley full of crannies in which she could hide, at least for the night, she became aware a moment later of a presence at its end, with gold eyes like twin suns and auburn hair. He was hunched forward as if engaged in a topic of conversation that truly intrigued him, but there was no one else but her, and therefore she deduced that the interesting thing was her.

Stopping all at once, she felt fire up her legs and pulled her ears back, snaked her tongue over her teeth in a mighty grimace; it was a parody, a mighty jest, for her head was still over-large and her stature small enough that she posed no threat, save perhaps for her sister. Nonetheless, the figure before her was a contretemps in her hap-dashed plan to find safety before the world was once more claimed by eventide.

Rumbling slightly, it sounded not a bit like brontide, but instead like the whisper of wind before a bitter winter.

The Tradesman (NPC)
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Luperci Milite The Stag is Reborn
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