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[ It's not the first time he's ended up in a place without knowing how he got there, and the worst part of it is he's genuinely used to it. But it still takes Fox a moment to regain his focus and take stock of his surroundings, try to figure out exactly where here is. Definitely a pub, and certainly not one his father would approve of. As far as these situations go, it's not a bad one; he's got a table to himself in the corner and half a pint sitting in front of him.

And a journal - no, scraps of paper; records? Begged off the bartender, apparently, and he's been writing on the back. After a quick glance around to make sure he's not likely to be mugged in the near future, he takes a drink and turns his attention to his handiwork - though it doesn't take long for his curious expression to drop.

It's poetry, and it's awful. ]

This is terrible.

indirection

[The face that greets you is inquisitive, friendly, and distinctly red-eyed. Once he's relatively sure that everything is in order, Wrathion smiles toothily into the camera.]

My, what fascinating technology this is! I can honestly say that I've never seen anything quite like it. Am I really broadcasting to an entire network of people? Amazing.

[He pauses for a moment; clears his throat. Introductions are necessary.]

My name is Wrathion, last of Azeroth's black dragonflight, and it seems I've been pulled right from one dire conflict to another.

[The ingratiating smile widens. His teeth really are quite sharp.]

Back home, I was doing my best to find an expedient and decisive solution to the war at hand. I hope I can make myself useful here, as well. To that end, I'm eager to meet all of you--whether over this device, or, more preferably, in person.

I'm sure we'll all get along splendidly.

totallytrustworthy

( They say it's what you make, I say it's up to fate. It's woven in my soul; I need to let you go )

alittlesweptup

The intention behind taking a train had been a good one. Theoretically, it could have been less cramped than a plane - certainly less so than the tiny puddle jumper they'd taken back from Syria when his leg had been in a massive cast and he'd been choking down enough pain killers to knock out an elephant. A shame then that the reality of travel by train isn't nearly so roomy as the idea of it; not even an hour out of London and Charlie can feel his leg starting to cramp up in the narrow space between his seat and the row in front of them.

His bag is in the overhead storage. He has spent the last twenty minutes mentally going through the steps to get to his duffel, or more specifically in the end pocket where he packed a bottle of prescription percocet. It goes like this: he will get his cane under him, grab hold of the seat in front of him and lever himself to his feet (apologizing profusely to the elderly woman sitting in front of him), then brace himself off both the cane and a hand hold on the edge of the overhead-- It's a slowly tipping scale between the pain in his leg and the effort it would take to get his medication, one that right now doesn't seem worth the effort. Not yet.

And sure he could lean over, touch Chloe's arm and ask her to just pull down the bag for him. It would take her half a minute to haul the damn thing down. But that isn't how he wants to start this trip, so to hell with it.

bloodspeaker

[Adrasteius strides through Murder Row, glaring balefully at anyone he happens to see. It's early evening, autumnal and warm as always, with a fresh breeze that creates a susurrus among the trees and covered archways of the dark street. People are loitering in the Row, also as usual; they exchange glances and stand closer together as Adrasteius passes, their already low voices dropping to an even more hushed register.

He just sneers. Dealing in bloodthistle, most likely, or arranging something even more depraved--the Row was known for its dark corners, and for the wretched scenes that played out inside of them. Adra does not like to walk through here, but it's the fastest way to the Court of the Sun, and he's already late for a magisterial meeting. If he's delayed too long, the doors will shut and lock, and he has another very important, very impassioned speech to deliver to those miserable bastards.

He is not yet a magister himself, unfortunately, and he is the council's least favorite petitioner, besides. It's very likely that those simpering tyrants would love an excuse to silence him, however flimsy.

Adrasteius quickens his pace, looking straight ahead, doing his best to ignore the sly, predatory gazes on his back.]

totallytrustworthy

The Order isn't always active, in truth, they rarely ever have to be. Marlowe's sharp enough to keep the gears turning cleanly-- so much so that barely anyone else has to lift a finger unless she tells them to. While a lack of pressure in any other workplace might lead to laziness, the cult is far from it, and even the dullest of days are dedicated to study or training (which often is far worse than the usual mission or odd job) particularly when it comes to her personal projects: Talbot and Chloe.

Still, they've picked up a few new souls as of late, and the heart of the London Underground is a little less quiet than usual, full of recruits getting their bearings after qualifying for the correct clearance. It's not a nuisance by normal standards, but to Chloe-- currently jotting down notes on Babylonian constellations from a few tablet fragments, hoping to unearth just a bit more on the divination techniques they'd used-- the chatter and scuffing of shoes on stone is nails against a chalkboard. She inhales a deep, steady breath, presses her lips into a thin line and puts her pen down against the paper for another go. Patience without losing her temper is a technique Marlowe's still attempting to pass on. Particularly when dealing with people she'd consider less than important. Particularly when she's busy.

shekhinah

[By the time noon rolls around in the middle of Old Sana'a the city's residents are out and about in full force, managing their daily affairs at the market, or sitting down at a hotel cafe for lunch. It doesnt matter where you are, the noise of so many people chatting away reaches even the most secluded alleyways and rooftops. The warm midday sun paints the old city's streets in a rich, golden hue, while potted flowers and carefully woven tapestries add life and color to nearly every building in sight. There are also, of course, numerous signs posted warning against the use of weapons. Whatever your business here might be, whether or not you decide to follow the law remains to be seen...]

deadelfwalking

[Koltira hasn't been to his birthplace in years. Even though he identifies as a blood elf, he died with blue eyes, not green. The alienation is therefore twofold, because his people are very different now than when he last left them, and he has been completely transformed, as well. He's not sure what place, if any, he has among the sin'dorei anymore; not sure if they would even tolerate someone--something--like him walking the streets.

Other death knights have told him stories of their efforts to walk in their home cities, of the rotten fruit and spit thrown at them, the threats of hanging. Frightened screams, hateful curses, all of these seemed likely to expect. Some time has passed since the Lich King's fall and the introduction of death knights into the Horde and Alliance ranks, but this doesn't soothe Koltira in the least. In fact, he thinks it makes distrust even more likely: Arthas is gone. What reason do the living have now to tolerate these particular undead?

Even so, he feels a need to visit the city, at least once, now that his task is done. Perhaps it will help him sort out what to do next. Perhaps someone in the city will get the rope, and decide for him. He's not sure he would mind that, either.

He rides up the avenue to the city's gates apprehensively, fully armored, Byfrost secured to his back. He jumps off of Bloodmist, and the horse whinnies in an unearthly wail. Setting a hand on the deathcharger's muzzle, he stares back at Silvermoon's entrance, steeling himself. Now, if ever, was the time to go forward.]

growling

[ A very nondescript young man, aside from the fact that he's managing to look awkward, desperate and frustrated all in one. He runs a hand anxiously through his hair, and it's clear from the not remotely cool disheveled look of it that it's not for the first time. ]

Hello. Hi? Anyone out there? [ cue a genuinely cringe-inducing English accent ] Can anybody heeaaar me? Is anyone alive out theeere? [ like in Titanic, get it? No? Okay, he regrets that anyway, as is obvious from the slight grimace that follows it. ]

Okay, pretend that didn't happen. But really, is anyone listening? Maybe? ...please?

deadelfwalking

-- SELECT CHARACTER
-- WRITE PROMPT [may be as simple as 'x approaches y and shouts, 'Hey, fuckface!', idc]
-- RP OCCURS
-- MY MANS, for reference

hardbody

Character List

Active
	Koltira Deathweaver WORLD OF WARCRAFT deadelfwalking \| exsilium	Adrasteius Bloodspeaker WORLD OF WARCRAFT (OC) bloodspeaker \| exsilium
	Wrathion WORLD OF WARCRAFT indirection \| exsilium
	Quorra TRON lastisocorn \| ataraxion

Museboxes/memes/etc.
	Jaina Proudmoore WORLD OF WARCRAFT quickstudy	Eulalia Goldthorn WORLD OF WARCRAFT (OC) unlettered
	Mordecai ORIGINAL earthblood	Lucrecia Crescent FFVII: DIRGE OF CERBERUS apologiste
	Zelgadis Greywords SLAYERS hardbody	Derek Hale TEEN WOLF behindyou
	Loki Laufeyson THOR/AVENGERS frostblooded	Aurelius Bloodspeaker WORLD OF WARCRAFT (OC) stoneandlight

+ a bunch of random other OCs that literally no one cares about except

avali

coded by

tookthestars

deadelfwalking

[Koltira stalks the streets with purpose, fully armored, runeblade in hand. Most people give him a wide berth, if they don't outright turn and run. The citizens are used to the unusual, the disturbing, even the frightening, but this guy's aura is positively murderous.

His expression is twisted in obvious pain; he grits his teeth, he perspires, his eyes are narrowed with some kind of barely restrained rage. He stops at every alleyway, staring down into the darkness as if hoping to see something there. After waiting for a few moments, he moves on to the next. It's only a matter of time, he thinks.]

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THE FORGE OF SOULS; a musebox

February 2013

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Page generated Jun. 22nd, 2025 05:04 pm

the forge of souls;

a musebox

Recent Entries

EY LYN EY insert deep song lyrics here ok

(no subject)

So they dug your grave and the masquerade will come calling out at the mess you made...

France

murder row.

AU: Queens Over Nines

Yemen

silvermoon city; directly following the fall of the lich king

video

open rp;

character list;

[C&C continuity: a late night in the City]

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February 2013

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