Strung Short

Decided to dig out a couple of old posts and stick them together. Dragon Age 'verse. A spot more Fi, because that is what this blog needs.

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The Brecilian Forest was not, nor had it ever been, a haunt of Fianna’s. It was not her territory, and tracking its inhabitants was certainly not her forte, but she knew that if she fancied the chance to begin replacing her pathetic excuse for an arsenal - much less eat for the next couple of weeks - she would have to make it her forte very quickly.

After investing the last decade of her life in travelling the world, Fianna had discovered that part of the thrill of the open road stemmed from the undeniable satisfaction of a job well done; doing things herself and occasionally reaping the rewards, but there was a particular sense of dread about traversing the Brecilian that previous woodland expeditions lacked. She, like many of the children of West Hills, had listened to the warnings of travellers who had braved the wood’s trials and lived to tell the tale.

When prompted, the unlucky ones were forced to recall how they lost their companions amidst the trees that now surrounded her from all ends and sides. Those who were more averse to the whining of children chose to frighten the youngsters who mobbed them with rumours of werewolves hiding in the mist, preying on the unsuspecting folk who wandered too close to their home. But even the tallest of tales clung to one particular truth: the Brecilian Forest did not take kindly to guests.

It was with that thought fresh in her mind that Fianna tugged the hood from her cold face, and reflected on her status as a lone and poorly armed messenger. She did not do so fondly.

Common sense dictated the methods she had abided by. Following only the routes broad and safe enough to accommodate the landships the Dalish pulled gave her a higher chance of discovering a campsite, a better chance to find her mark, or so she assumed. More importantly, it lowered her odds of stumbling into wildlife that would sooner kill her than look at her twice. It was a relief to learn that she had been right on both counts, and that relief was promptly snatched away from her when she realised that the campsite she had discovered was completely barren of life.

Lukewarm afternoon light shone into the glade, illuminating a dozen signs that something was amiss. She hitched her pack further up her shoulder whilst the falsettos of dainty song birds accompanied her into a domain to which she did not belong. The ashes of the last fire lit by the settling clan had been blown out of their pit by a gust of wind; the wagons had been abandoned alongside the caravans, their thick skins punctured by blades and lashed with what she assumed was stale, blood. The clues sat, ravaged by time, but all of them pointed to a conclusion that turned her stomach. She was not standing in a camp, she was standing on a battleground.

Her fingers drummed themselves across the scabbard that housed what was left of her sword as she ventured deeper into the encampment. In the bracken that had begun to grow around one of several caravans, Fianna felt her foot strike a rock, only to hear an unsettling clang upon impact. Her curiosity got the better of her, and from out of the grass, she carefully retrieved the rusted remains of a steel helm, designed to cover as much of the head as possible, save for a single horizontal opening for vision. She had seen plenty of them in her travels. Many were found in, or around, chantries.

The penny dropped, and her expression soured with it. The cries of a nearby blackbird sounded a lot like laughter from where she stood.

“... ah, hell.”

Unfortunately for her, Fianna’s life was on its way to becoming far more difficult than she had previously anticipated. Any niggling thoughts of turning her back on the Circle’s chore and returning it to them untouched were slaughtered by a cry. The wanderer flinched at the sound, as if it had struck her upside the head. It was only a matter of time before she was found. There was no reliable way for a behemoth such as herself to slink into the dark and away from her problems. It was not a solution she was very well acquainted with.

Fianna deflated, tossing the helm back to the earth with a meek and unsatisfying clatter. Someone, somewhere along the line had failed to mention that the matter she had been charged with was tied, somehow, with an atrocity that looked a great deal like mass murder from where she stood. In a matter of moments, what she knew as an unsafe little errand had become nothing short of utterly life threatening, and she was left stuck in the heart of another person’s bloody mess. Alone. All for a couple of sovereigns.

Starving, she concluded, would have been preferable, but it was too little reflection far, far too late.

Her signal had not gone unnoticed, and in the time it took for the waif of a girl to discover her location, Fianna had attempted to make all six-foot-five of her look as harmless as possible. In her hand was not a blade or a bow, but her pack, and strapped to its front was a pathetic excuse for a steel buckler, pocked with so many dents that it strongly resembled the surface of the moon. It was not much of a plan, but it was the best the wanderer could scrape together in under a minute. A particularly cruel blackbird threw a mocking call into the air from its nearby perch.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?"

Fianna didn’t have to think too hard about her reply. Were she to spend too long manufacturing a response, it would have been deemed a lie, and lying had gotten her into this mess in the first place; that, and a good helping of desperation. She instead fell back on the one thing that had helped her through life considerably: honesty.

“Getting lost, Miss.”

She tipped her fair head in the direction of the discarded helm, her jaw clenched at the mere thought of the Tower she’d be returning to, provided she made her way out of the forest alive. “I take it you are as keen on Andraste’s knights as I am right about now?” She asked, but the frustration bound in her face found itself diminishing for every second her eyes spent wandering over the remains of the encampment. She was in no place to be asking questions, but the words slipped out before she could catch them between her teeth.

“Who in their right mind would allow all this?”

Enmadaiou Ojirowashi

I still have this terrible habit of putting my all into my applications, which burns me out and leaves me fairly bitter about being useless. I sit and spend weeks on something that other people can knock out in a matter of days, and it infuriates me. After investing all this time into putting these guys and girls together, more than half of them never make it to the forums that inspired them. It's not all misery and pessimism, however! I'm always grateful for the practice (at some point in the process, at least).

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It is an undeniable fact that there is a lot of Enmadaiou Ojirowashi for people to take in. Standing at six feet and three inches in height, Washi is a man who appears difficult to break; more than tall enough to make the majority of folks feel safe in his presence, and with one-hundred-and-ninety-one pounds built onto his frame, engineered in such a way that he could effortlessly body slam most people to the ground, were he the sort of man to relish violence. His uniform, practically rectangular torso may not be as pleasing to the eye to some as those with gym-built triangular chests, but the fact that his core’s muscles were built up over the years to protect his spinal cord and vital organs makes him legitimately stronger than the likes of those who spend all their free time haunting gymnasiums. It is clear that Washi eats well, exercises regularly, and has no intention of changing his ways.

The musculature he has received from carrying such a heavy torso around day in, day out has defined both his thighs and calves over the past decade. The skin that dresses what was once a pair of unmarred shins is now the home to a fistful of cosmetic divots, bumps, scrapes and bruises, products of every clumsy stumble into various pieces of furniture which remain visible through the fine hair that swathes his limbs, most visibly from knee to ankle and wrist to his elbow. His large feet, approximately a size thirteen, keep him anchored to the floor without fail, but with little in the way of grace.

By no means structurally comparable to a sack of walnuts, the definition of each key muscle in his arms is enough to indicate that heavy lifting plays a vital part in his day-to-day life, often in the form of various errands and favours for his tutors. The hands that attach to his broad wrists are, quite rightfully, larger than most of his classmates’. A single chocolate-coloured freckle can be found on the heel of his right hand, the only real curiosity to be found on both appendages. Long, but by no means elegant, fingers are his most valuable assets, their warm touch attributed to the man’s stellar circulation system. He can often be caught in the middle of dragging his fingertips across walls and shutters almost whimsically, or attempting to follow the brushstrokes in the varnish of his desk. To the uneducated outsider, the man simply cannot keep his hands, or his eyes, to himself.

His aversion to eye contact and the habitual wringing of his nodachi between his hands are often hand waved by many as symptoms of anxiety, a reasonable assumption to make, but one that is completely wrong. With so much musculature to see before one’s eyes climb their way up to his face, it is possible for acquaintances to remain unaware, for a long while, of the fact that Enmadaiou is completely blind.

With several years of first-hand experience behind him, Washi has reached the conclusion that no matter what he does with his eyes – whether he holds them shut or moves them around, for he has tried both - people will be unsettled. He makes no effort to hide the problem, nor does he go to any great lengths to draw attention to his plight. His unseeing eyes sit bare at all times, their blue-green irises surprisingly vivid and expressive, in some people’s opinions, for a blind man. Considering the cause of this defect was no more than an unlucky accident, it is understandable that eye movement remains as a part of his body’s repertoire that he has not yet shirked.

The face his faulty optics call home is a curiosity all on its own. Surprisingly boyish at times for a man well into his late twenties, a quality that is no doubt amplified by an occasional mop of deep brown hair and bright, but ultimately oblivious, oval-shaped eyes, but one that is never intentional on his part; not to mention a betrayal of the personality that controls every muscle. A broad forehead cloaked by a tousled fringe (depending on the month) slopes down to introduce his slightly angled, subtly shaped and dark brows. The helixes of his ears tend to hide beneath his lightly waved, short hair, although even without their cover they are, thankfully, not particularly outstanding and lay relatively flat on either side of his face.

His skin tone lingers towards the paler side of the Caucasian spectrum, though the thin film of flesh beneath his eyes regularly hosts dark, sickly purple circles born of fatigue, a tell-tale symptom of Washi’s unenviable state of excessive daytime sleepiness, almost as fixed to his face as his mouth and the reason behind the man’s penchant for regular naps under the watchful eye of a particular tree found on the academy campus. His cheekbones, though lofty, remain smooth, whilst the inward curve of his nose rounds into a tip and leads the wandering eye down to his full lips, their contours challenged by what some know as his default expression, a minute frown that hides two rows of ivory-coloured teeth. Much like his gaze, his subtle scowl addresses no one in particular – easily knocked out of place with the start of a conversation, anything to take his mind off of his predicament. Should a passing comment strike the right chord and coax a smile out of him, it becomes apparent that his canines are quite prominent in his mouth, set in a slightly odd, but not too unsightly, alignment.

Several fleeting years of vision taught Washi a number of valuable things, but one of the more fickle lessons concerned personal grooming. A mane any longer than his chin, he learnt, looked utterly ridiculous upon him. With this knowledge committed to memory, every four months or so his shaggy, dark chestnut hair is cropped shorter before it can even think of tickling his jaw, often taking his cue when he begins to receive a certain number of comments from his classmates. Simple and easily maintained with a single palm haphazardly run through the unkempt mass every few hours, his hair sees about as much attention as his jaw line. The beginnings of the natural waves sewn into his genetics make it a challenge to truly tame, one that Washi can seldom be bothered to accept. His aforementioned square jaw - and the pale skin above his upper lip, for that matter - is often home to a field of short stubble, for there is not enough patience in Washi to maintain a full-fledged beard, nor a completely smooth chin. He has settled into the routine of swapping between being clean shaven and a shadow of stubble every week.

Many things make a man. His flaws, his experiences; his aspirations and his mistakes, but not, contrary to popular belief, his clothes. Clothes hold no power over Washi in this life. They tell little and they prove even less. The man’s distaste for keepsakes speaks volumes compared to the robes he is forced to don within the academy. Not a single memento can be found on the man’s person, not one ring on any of his fingers, nor a lone pendant around his neck, or a string of beads lashed around one of his thick wrists. It is not a lack of knowledge that renders him bare. He knows the meaning behind such things well, for he is no fool. Mementos; lockets, rings, tattoos, are no more than sentimental tokens, tied to people or monumental memories their owner is desperate to remember. Washi wishes to remember nothing, not one face, or a single name of his second life. In truth, the only item that bares even the slightest resemblance to an accessory is ten times more practical than a bracelet.

Three lengths of silken cord, each one a darker shade of teal than the last, braided together and threaded through a pair of bronze rings sewn to either end of the back sheathe tailor made for his field sword. Strangely enough, the sheathe itself appears to have been sewn from a bolt of two-tone taffeta, a fusion of teal and regal purple lined with an equally lavish burgundy fabric that Washi thinks is silk. A lot of effort went into something that he seldom uses, a lot of emphasis placed on beauty for an owner who cannot properly admire the finished article. The entire affair is worn over one shoulder, but lies empty upon his back more often than not.

Washi will be the first to tell you how he cannot stand the attire found in the afterlife. The rigid, inhumane robes, the brutal straw sandals that scratch relentlessly against one’s skin should they opt for shunning the standard and equally awkward tabi. He may not have been fond of his first life, but Washi is a modern man who has been thrown backwards into an era he never cared for. The hakama he can just about tolerate, the remainder of the period attire, however, not so much. Whilst he jokes about being tempted to commit murder for a simple dress shirt – or even a t-shirt if that were all he could get his hands on – Washi lacks the necessary friends found in higher places whose strings he could pull so that he might find himself in possession of more contemporary, practical fashions direct from the living world.

With only period attire to choose from, Washi regularly chooses to go without when time permits it, shrugging the top half of his uniform or yukata off of his broad shoulders; the feudal equivalent of a businessman sliding the knot in his tie away from his throat. The sensation of the sun warming his skin is often preferred to the feeling that he is being baked inside his robes. If his ivory and iris coloured uniform, embroidered with the Shinō Academy’s own crest, is not required of him, Washi’s personal dress sense is best described as dull. He sees no point in paying extra for elaborate patterns he cannot see, opting for block colours, neutral shades, nothing that anyone in their right mind could consider garish. A distinct lack of texture is present in his current wardrobe, one of his few joys now that his vision have parted ways, and one that the modern world could probably remedy with a helping of flocked prints and deconstructed fabrics.

A meme I can actually do

1. Lyle

2. Neoseire

3. Fianna

4. Cullen

5. Garrett

6. Florian

7. Malphezra

8. Ace of Spades

9. Illarion

10. Kaioki

Four [Cullen] invites Three [Fianna] and Eight [Spades] to dinner at their house. What happens?

A rudimentary lesson in table manners for Spades’ benefit. A little friendly chatter between Cullen and Fi, which they would try to bring Spades into, but he would not have much to share. If Spades knew what a third wheel was, he’d probably feel like one.

You need to stay at a friend's house for the night. Who do you choose, One [Lyle] or Six [Florian]?
Lyle. He is the anthropomorphic personification of nerdery, compared to Florian, who is the personification of treachery, mistrust, and wrath. The man has range, to say the least. I’d much rather play games all night than sit in awkward silence with Florian until he turned in for the night.

Two [Neoseire] and Seven [Malphezra] are making out. Ten [Kaioki] walks in. What is their reaction?
“Are you being assaulted… by a statue?”

“Erk!”

“… and what on earth is the blindfold fo-“

“Out. Now.”

“Fine! Fine.”

Three [Fianna] falls in love with Six [Florian]. Eight [Spades] is jealous. What happens?

Rivers run with blood and hellfire rains down from a sky choked with charcoal-black clouds.

Four [Cullen] jumps you in a dark alleyway. Who comes to your rescue, Ten [Kaioki], Two [Neoseire] or Seven [Malphezra]?

Kaioki, for he is the only one of the three who would be physically capable of apprehending the offender. Neoseire’s a pretty weed, but a weed all the same, while Malphezra has this terrible habit of freezing the moment a person so much as looks at him.

One [Lyle] decides to start a cooking show. Fifteen minutes later, what is happening?

The stage has been abandoned for the company of a Professor Layton and a bottle of vodka in the green room.

Three [Fianna] has to marry either Eight [Spades], Four [Cullen] or Nine [Illarion]. Who do they choose?
Of the three, Fi would get on with Cullen the best. Illarion is far too anti-social and self-centered, whereas love, let alone marriage, are among the many concepts that Spades knows nothing of. Cullen Crewe is an average chap with no terrible secrets. He enjoys rugby, playing Halo with his old university friends of a night time, and he is the perfect balance between muscle and squish, although she’d never say this to his face. It’s not much to go on, but it’s enough for starters, far more than she’d have with her other two choices.

Seven [Malphezra] kidnaps Two [Neoseire] and demands something from Five [Garrett] for Two's [Neoseire's] release. What is it?

A delicious steak. Unfortunately for Ezra, all it would take to get his hostage back would be a bit of eye contact at just the right moment, and Neoseire would be running for safety in no time at all. No steak for you, quantum-locked-lad.

Everyone gangs up on Three [Fianna], does Three [Fianna] have a chance in hell?
You’re damned right she does. She’d plough through about seven of them with ease. The toughest challenges would be Malphezra, who has no combat experience, but does have the element of surprise on his side; Florian, who is the only person who fights dirtier than Fi, but lacks the sheer strength she can pack into a punch, and Kaioki, whom she'd try to convince to step down, because she wouldn’t want to throw a single punch at him, being a bloke she has devoted much attention to.

Everyone is invited to Two [Neoseire] and Ten's [Kaioki's] wedding, except for Eight [Spades]. How do they react?
Like a duck would react to water sliding off of its back. Then the curiosity would bubble up to the surface. Whatis a wedding?

Why is Six [Florian] afraid of Seven [Malphezra]?
Because seven ate nine—er…

Because even Florian needs to crack a joke now and then.

One [Lyle] arrives late for Two [Neoseire] and Ten's [Kaioki's] wedding. What happens and why were they late?

The blame would lie with a mixture made from equal parts hangover, and sleeping in after a tiring stag night. He would arrive with a wonky bow tie, and his waistcoat would be buttoned up all wrong.

Five [Garrett] and Nine [Illarion] get roaring drunk and end up at your house. What happens?
I lock myself in my room with a flask of juice and my laptop, and I have no intention of coming out before sun up.

Nine [Illarion] murders Two's [Neoseire's] best friend. What does Two [Neoseire] do to get back at them?
Give him a very heartfelt, furious talking to. It’s not as though he could do much else, and even if he had the strength to exact revenge, he simply isn’t the sort to believe it would eliminate the tragedy of the matter.

Six [Florian] and One [Lyle] are in mortal danger, only one of them can survive. Does Six [Florian] save himself, or One [Lyle]?

What on earth do you think, ladies? If you’re thinking that Florian would drag Lyle away from safety to secure it for himself, you would be thinking along the right lines! Pat yourselves on the back. I am so proud.

Two [Neoseire] and Three [Fianna] go camping. For some reason, they forget to bring any food. What do they do?
Fianna would assume the role of the hunter gatherer whilst Neoseire guarded the campsite, to keep both the camp and himself out of danger. Neoseire is a city mouse, his home is definitely not in the embrace of nature. With literally zero experience about nature, he is the sort of unfortunate, inept camper who would startle an animal before he could consider killing and eating it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one in charge of the food, and consequently, the one who misplaced (or outright forgot) it, perhaps to cut the camping trip short.

Five [Garrett] is in a car crash and is critically injured. What does Nine [Illarion] do?

Give not a single, solitary fuck for the passing a person he didn’t know existed? Sounds about right. Illarion has never claimed to be a kind soul, at least not without marinating the claim in a great deal of sarcasm beforehand.

Birds of a Feather

Post from a Dragon Age roleplay. TL;DR - A blood mage, disguised as a bard, is tripping on mana potions - which have very harmful effects to the embiber if used in the long term - and finds himself atop the church roof, thinking he's an eagle. Hilarity ensues. More than anything, this was an exercise in dialogue and describing character interactions, as opposed to the scenery.

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She had seen many a peculiar thing on her travels across Thedas. A man living amongst a pack of wolves in Antiva; impractical shoes spawned by Orlesian couture, complete with soles that elevated their wearers far above the dirt of the street, provided the wearer didn’t snap her ankles trying to walk in them first. But never in her whole life had Fianna seen anything quite like the display of lunacy that had perched atop the Chantry roof.

Flanked by a pair of The Maker’s finest, she stood at the foot of the steeple, her mouth hanging slightly ajar in what was best described as an expression of amazement. Whoever stood atop the roof, shrieking at the top of his lungs, had managed to turn drunken mischief into an art form. All but the most obvious of words failed her.

“Aye, boys... that’s definitely a bard on your roof.” Her eyes squinted in defiance of the morning light, and sure enough, Fianna regained some semblance of mental clarity, but only after she invested a few more moments in watching the silhouette of a man gnawing upon his own shoulder. “How did he get up there, anyway?”

“I-I’m... sorry?” Stuttered the red-haired templar to her left, the kind of man who knew that the sky was blue, but daren’t say so out loud.

“Well, contrary to what he is probably thinking right now, he certainly didn’t fly all the way up there, so how on earth did he manage it?” She flicked a gloved hand to the steeple, and their eyes followed its skyward path like a pair of dogs following the arc of a well-thrown stick.

“He climbed, Ma’am.”

“He climbed?”

“Yes, ma’am. Up the front of the building.” He answered, tracing the drunk’s path up the house of The Maker with an armoured finger, which Fianna followed with great interest.

She took one long look at the pair of them, a gentle sort of inspection that neither knight knew what to think of. The redhead shrank away from her scrutiny the moment it fell upon him. It was as sweet as was amusing. “You boys wouldn’t happen to have a ladder lying around, would you? For fixing the roof and the like?”

“That we do, ma’am.”

Her tongue absently picked at a dry flake of skin at the corner of her mouth. There was only one way to scale the outside of the building safely, and the rungs of any self-respecting ladder would splinter at the thought of supporting a Chantry knight and their portable fortress. A small smile cracked itself across her lips. “Well then.”

There was a pause, which would have evolved into an awkward silence if not for a screech from above. The sound of the penny dropping never arrived.

“... pardon, ma’am?”

“The ladder, if you’d be so kind, Ser. I’m sure you were stationed here to do more than stand around looking pretty.” She watched the blush bleeding across his freckled cheeks before he turned away. It was as though he suffered from an allergic reaction to compliments.

“Y-yes ma’am. Right away.”

The brown-haired bookend to her right continued to stare at the silhouette of the drunkard, a disaster that he simply could not tear his eyes away from. A disaster that left him blind to the pack that was swung with care at his chest and nudged against his breastplate with a dull and unexpected clang. By the time he figured out what he was holding to his chest, and turned to regard the lady who threw it at him, she was well on the way to turning him into a pack mule. She gently draped her cloak over his shoulder before a single syllable of protest could leave his lips, without so much as a second glance at him.

As she set to work unfastening the many buckles that held her cuirass to her chest, Fianna eyed the zenith of the steeple like a mountaineer would eye the Frostbacks. She had arrived in Lothering on the back of a wagon, with a view to renting out a room in the tavern. Instead, she took one look at the outskirts; at the rows of tents and bedrolls, and realised that she would be lucky to find a patch on the floor that had not been claimed by another traveller.

But it wasn’t all bad luck, she thought. There would - at the very least - be a story to make out of the day that she could share over a few pints, and for that she was grateful.

The story about the bear raiding her tent was getting stale.

Born is Born is Born is Sound A

Shameless copypasta from another forum because this blog was in dire need of an update.

‘Shy!’, I hear you cry. ‘When are you going to stop digging out old posts from dead Bleach role plays? You don’t even like the series anymore!’ To this query, I replay thusly: SHUTYERFACE. in the most affectionate way possible, mind you. You do know that, right?

I can’t abide Bleach nowadays, but I’m not going to deny that I learnt a lot about role playing after joining so many forums dedicated to it. Because I sunk so much of my time into several forums, I actually threw out posts I liked, and because I am approximately one-sixteenth human, I am sort of bitter that many of these boards died before I could finish all the threads I invested a lot of time into.

And so, we need context! A rather scaly stranger by the name of Lance (property of Aba) cropped up in Mine’s workplace, which features a splendid little garden to hang about in during breaks and what have you (this was all explained in another post, which is terrible and you don’t get to see it ever). It’s just a small slice-of-life sort of affair, but I’m proud of the waffle-to-content ratio.

Read the title backwards if it makes no sense. <3

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Only two steps into resuming her stroll, and the sensation of a hurried wing clipping the shell of her ear put a stop to Mine’s wander. A flurry of blinks mimicked the delicate appendages, fluttering over a pair of eyes intent on tracing the swallow’s pronged tail feathers as they followed the swift, winding path sliced into the air by frantic wings. It was with a touch of curiosity that her own feet crossed stepping stone after stone, pursuing the creature and its passionate - if not terrified - twittering along the garden path until its tiny form escaped her gaze, tail feathers lost to the lush canopy of yet another, far taller, tree top. For but a handful of moments she could only imagine what had inspired such a sudden shock fear in that miniature heart, then her curiosity waned, her pondering wavered, and before long Mine could hear the footfalls of the culprit. Her intrigue sparked once more, like a cigarette lighter low on fuel.

Turning upon her heel to face the guilty party was all the movement required for an answer. Skin substituted for a film of emerald scales, fulvous eyes laid under rows of darker plates, an illusion of furrowed brows. It was a wonder that the poor creature had remained capable of escape, for keeling off of its perch after succumbing to a coronary seemed far more likely. Mine was many things – a warrior, a poet, and an aficionado of progressive rock – but she was no fragile bird, the concept of fear, felt by her fleeting companion, was a no more than a stranger locked out of her mind, unable to find where she hid the key. Not even the continued approach of this reaper provided fear with an ajar window to clamber through. Slender fingertips encased in charcoal black gloves meshed together and made their home upon her stomach, a demure stance free from terror and adopted out of choice, for the apparel donned by the being signified him as an ally, not a foe.

The subtle widening of her unsuspecting eyes became her only indication of surprise, the sort of look she would have given to the stranger had he been sporting a striking scarlet Mohawk and not the anatomy of an anthropomorphic reptile.

"Good morning, Miss."

“And to you, Sir.” A greeting combined with an equally courteous bow. Initial surprise fell into the pitfall cunningly covered by her magnificent curiosity, confusion completely concealed behind a smile as serene as it was unfaltering. What, exactly this guest’s reasons were for crossing into the eighth’s domain she could only wonder – but whatever his business, she knew for a fact that she had no place in it. Common sense, as always, directed her to the fact that the majority of business often fell to her commander.

Whether he participated in it, however, was his decision alone. ”I’m afraid that Captain Kyōraku is elsewhere at the moment.” Which, she had learnt within her first week as his subordinate, was a creative way of saying he was currently dodging paperwork, or having a drink. Perhaps accomplishing the former by sneaking off to enjoy the latter. ”...and I could not tell you when he will be returning. You may have to pay us another visit later.”

We're Not Going To Fall & Forget

Bleach 'verse roleplay. Didn't want to waste all that effort only for the board to go and get deleted.

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With naught but the echo of her scabbed knuckles rapping upon wood to keep her company, Fianna's eyes soon began to lose their interest in the door standing between her and the man she had resigned to death.

While her chapped lips held onto a minute smile and refused any other expression the permission to manifest upon her beaten features, a sense of amazement led her gaze down a hallway only she occupied. It was not the same hallway she recalled bolting through just several weeks earlier. It was not even the same building, for the academy that once stood for centuries had been the victim of war’s savage flames. Her final memory of it manifested as a tower of charcoal smoke crawling towards the sun. Once the flames starved themselves into oblivion and the last billows of smoke climbed into the atmosphere, it became apparent to all that restoration was nothing short of wishful thinking. Nothing could be salvaged, save for the fragile charred bones of the bodies scattered amongst the rubble. Their identities had scaled the tower of inky smoke, much like their uniforms and their cold, lifeless flesh, and escaped into the air.

The building she spent the past five minutes admiring from the inside had reached completion in little over a month, its presence so fresh to the world that the scent of the newly laid pine floorboards was singlehandedly the most overpowering fragrance to be found within the halls. Even so, the reaper occupied but one fraction of the academy’s upcoming campus - yet for all the sturdiness that the walls boasted, Fianna’s amazement soon made an acquaintance out of her uncertainty. The act of trusting a building so hastily constructed was a challenge she could not accept, and with nothing better to do as she waited the warrior pondered if others would share the same sentiment as her, all whilst her hands, unnecessary in the thinking process, busied themselves with the task of unravelling the coils of pearlescent hair crowning her collarbone, tugging one loop after the other until the tresses spilled over a single shoulder, left to hang just inches above the floor.

Her mind was well on the way to considering how tragic it would be if the life of the reaper she waited for were to end at the hands of a collapsing building after his miraculous survival, but before she could nurture the macabre thought, the door that barred her from progressing began to open. Her train of thought was promptly abandoned, and her eyes deserted the immaculate walls to follow the door as it stirred within its frame and exposed the familiar figure behind it. Pale and wan, he was not the lively figure filled with verve she was accustomed to associating with the name that had signed her invitation, but the man standing in the threshold was an improvement from the unconscious, brutalized form she had left in the hands of the medics. So drastic was the improvement that her lips parted to form an insignificant grin in a matter of seconds. There existed in her mind no words that could pin down the relief which dropped into her ribcage upon seeing his sickly countenance, for in the few days consciousness was once again her own, she had convinced herself that she would not see his face again. She was overjoyed to know that she had been mistaken.

Ushered in with a few words she glided into the doorway, but her curiosity refused to go ignored any longer. She carried herself humbly, an arch in her spine, a carefree flow in every stride whilst her gaze drifted off of her feet, bolted across the floor and began scaling the walls. A gloved palm strayed from her side and gently laid itself against the doorframe before she could pass into the room. It felt as sturdy as it had first appeared to be. The woman remained unconvinced, yet her smile persisted.

“I don’t think I could trust a building that went up so quickly.” Were unpredictable, perhaps inappropriate first words, and no more than a way in which for her to puncture the hypothetical ice that stood between herself and a comfortable conversation with the man who had taken a death blow on her behalf. In all of a second, she had cast him a sidelong glance, and in that same second the habitual curve of her mouth wavered, unable to maintain itself at the sight of him devoid of energy, now supported only by the door he had, most likely, struggled to reach under his own steam. He had survived, but he had not recovered. He had probably not been expecting an arm to slip under his own and gently coax him away from his makeshift crutch until he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his guest, and his weight was no longer his own burden to carry, but that was precisely what occurred.

All that was left for her to do now was to state the obvious.

“You are a truly lucky man, Officer.”

No One Runs Faster Than You Can

No one runs faster than you.

Fianna's legs unfurled at a tremendous rate to carry her across the rooftops in the cocoon of a blur, they hurdled her over urban chasms with the innate skill found in a wild deer, whilst those blue-green eyes of hers keenly smothered the alleys and paths beneath them in search of their elusive quarry.

Her eyes had begun to tire of vacant alleyways by the time she sped past a blotch of grey, soon to be obscured from view by the same building she had vaulted over. A leather-clad heel scraped down the terracotta roof tiles, her remaining empty hand clutched the chimney in passing, slaughtering her stride so that she might catch another glance of the entity.

A charcoal-coloured skeleton, its thin shoulders host to the sort of coat one would expect to find in a laboratory, a hoary wisp of hair settled between its shoulder blades, slivers of ivory white adorning what little she could see of its jaw. This lanky, skulking figure was, without a doubt a doubt in her mind, the source of the disturbance that had been so abruptly concealed minutes earlier. Whilst her lungs ate through air as though it was going out of fashion, the foundations of a plan for a pre-emptive strike began to settle neatly into place.

... and they were promptly dented by the skittering of dislodged roof tiles - then they were demolished entirely by the faint, horrifyingly sharp smash of terracotta shattering across the ground below. Beneath her pitifully minute smile, her jaw locked itself shut, her teeth grated against one another, a silent curse at the expense of her luck. That had not been a part of her plan.

Her once hasty breath stopped dead halfway down her windpipe, her sword arm choked her blade between its gloved fingers, and her eyes widened to obsess upon the back of the figure trudging through the alley below her. A series of fleet-footed steps and a single hasty bound carried her off of the offending slope and onto the flat roof belonging to its neighbour before more damage could be dealt to the structure and her freshly-killed plan could be desecrated further.

Keeps me awake, but I don't mind

Old post is old.

________________________________________________________________________

The interior of the coffee shop was warm, and the clientèle passive compared to the norm in New York. The treat of central heating, fused with the calm that a little peace and quiet brought was a much-awaited luxury to the courier, especially after he had spent the early hours of the dark morning riding through the city, delivering every package and confidential envelope he had been assigned the evening before. Griffith did not hate his job, in spite of the hours he kept for his wage, such a statement was far from the truth. He adored it, perhaps more than he had originally, after such a long stint off the road, thanks to the anonymous driver he had been forced to avoid. That one sharp turn had left him a wreck, but it was his first motorcycle, his late eighteenth birthday present, that came out the worst, everything battered, dented, and ultimately broken beyond all repair.

Psyches could repair themselves, in time; punctured and twisted metal, on the other hand, had no healing properties to speak of.

No, Griffith simply disliked the winter weather, and it was after staring out the large double-glazed window the shop front sported as he waited for the queue at the counter to dwindle, to observe the smattering of cars as they trundled up the road, that he really began to savour the warmth he had walked into when he stepped into the cafe and out of the cold dark street, the time just a little after five in the December afternoon.

And just minutes after that minor revelation, he was out in the cold once again, the only warmth that he received a gift from the rich yellow glow of electric light as it filtered through the window pane and washed over the ground before it. Not that the workers would complain about him, choosing to sit out in what could only be called a simple parking space in front of the building. He was a paying customer, after all – but he was a bizarre-looking one at that, his hair a myriad of sandy blonde and mocha brown streaks, pale cream-coloured face sporting dark pencil about almond shaped eyes, tapering tails curling up and around the crease of double eyelids, as opposed to simply halting once the general shape of the eyes had been traced. His body was dressed entirely in the leathers synonymous with motorcycle safety, the contours of the charcoal grey hide hugging his trim body – limbs and torso alike, the leather panels stitched together and bordered by fine Tyrian purple piping on both the jacket and the matching trousers – the padding on the shoulders of the jacket doing little to accentuate his dangerously slim figure.

He was not really the type of customer that they welcomed with open arms, but after he had paid, even going so far as to adding a little tip for the young lady behind the counter, they could not really deny him the right to simply sit alone in front of the shop, completely at home on the seat of his scarlet bike (which always won his undivided attention, even when rivalled by a warm seat in the window of a quiet little cafe), the kickstand providing enough support to allow him to lean back in his seat, thin muscles across his stomach stretching, a gentle rattle coming from one of his booted heels, his favourite spur chattering to itself as he perched his foot upon the proper hold, the gunmetal and purple coloured helmet that normally concealed his whole head sitting between his legs.

A light sigh left rounded and full lips in the form of a faint mist, a single leather-clad elbow settled itself against the locked and half-filled luggage box fixed behind the seat; a cardboard cup locked in the grip of a gloved hand, a map of the city crunching lightly in the grip of the other, as chocolate brown eyes traced one of many routes that led to his next drop-off point, the broad scarlet vein printed onto the repeatedly folded map easily picked out of the tangled web of lines thanks to the light from the shop window.

That Don't Play in Public Life

It was all too odd for words, really.

Here he was, sitting out in the cold, laughing jovially as though the chill was a figment of his imagination, telling a complete stranger that his thin shoulders were free for her to throw her burdens onto if she felt the need to sling them. Not his preferred icebreaker, he had to confess - but what was life without its little oddities? He never would have thought that this would have been how he would use his lunch break, watching his infectious twiddling spread to the closest victim, the sight of the woman toying with her own looped earrings nowhere near cathartic enough to make him want to stop.

He took the opportunity to steal another sip of hot chocolate from the corrugated cup in his hand as she strung a reply together for them both, the sweet liquid now that little bit cooler across his half-dead taste buds. He did not want to seem too overbearing. After all, it had only been a friendly offer - one that had slipped out before he could really mull over the idea and agree with it himself. He could understand why it may have thrown her - he was only an acquaintance of barely five minutes.

Which made him all the more thankful that the gesture had not been thrown back in his face with a look of horror, nor with an order that told him with the utmost precision exactly where he could insert it inside his person. He straightened himself up in his seat whilst he had the chance, his trim torso twisted, a cup-brandishing arm propped up on the half-filled luggage box fixed to the back of his bike, the other settled on the helmet held safely in place between his legs. The stance did not have a name - but if it did, it would have involved the phrase 'moderately uncomfortable but not too painful'.

'Mister Motorcycle Psychiatrist'...he could not suppress the urge to chuckle that cracked open his lips. A jangle of earrings accompanied a curious tip of his head, and he watched as she gestured at the grand city - one that made the regal and charming Cambridge look like a quaint little hamlet.

"Of course." He answered with a bob of his polite head. The quirky little title reminded him of one of those obscure foreign video games he had played with his nephew around Christmas - the central characters had been a trio of stalwart and loud cheerleaders who went out of their way to motivate people when morale was running low. They always seemed to be there at the right moment, anticipating the call they required before springing into action. Was this what it felt like, or was it something completely different? He was not too sure, himself.

Besides, he had been god-awful at that game.

Little Miss Worried was standing a lot closer, now - obviously venting was best done in close-quarters to stop the nosy from getting a free ticket into a private conversation. Now in his new found agony uncle stance, he listened intently to what felt like a rhetorical question. Deep brown eyes widened to urge her on like an accepting nod may have done, and she continued as though she had read his mind.

Small mistakes... lots of them, she told him. He certainly knew what that felt like.

Consider Whose Fault It Could Be

Even a cursory glance in the direction of Cullen Crewe is enough to yield the conclusion that he is not native to Japan. No, even if he wished for it, assimilation would be impossible for him to achieve; there is simply too much of a fuss for natives to make out of his obvious dissimilarities, and the man possesses many in comparison to his peers.

The majority can be found in the very foundations of his face, by far the most expressive element of his physical form. His skin tone remains relatively unmarred by his outrageously hectic life, and continues to hold onto a colour slightly darker - a touch tanned, perhaps - compared to the Caucasian norm. Despite this, the thin film of flesh beneath his eyes is as prone to dark circles - born of fatigue, the product of cutting into his sleeping hours for the sake of a few rounds of Halo with friends found overseas - as he is to dressing his bottom-heavy lips in a smile. Thirty-three long years of jesting and jokes have begun to take their toll upon what was once perfectly firm flesh. Whilst he has a good twenty years left before the effects of a long life begin to warp his entire visage, laughter lines have already begun to score the caramel-tinted skin in the corners of his chocolate-coloured eyes, one of many genetic gifts given to him by his father.

His forehead fails to follow the example of his lofty and smooth cheekbones, but hosts a handful of creases instead - what many may refer to as worry lines – which collaborate on a regular basis with his the maturing grooves that sit either side of his nose’s bridge. This collection of contours merely hints at the amount of character his face can host.

His is an extremely animated, honest countenance. Now well into adulthood, Cullen remains incapable of cloaking or biting back his emotions. When worry wrenches at his heart, his brow climbs up his forehead, and ivory-coloured teeth pinch at his lower lip before he can even consider hiding his anxiety behind a poker face; should anger dare to creep up his throat, his square jaw will set itself sternly with a view to keeping any smart remarks behind his teeth and out of earshot, and if mischief is the order of the day, no amount of attempted self-restraint will be capable of wiping the cheeky grin that indicates the Englishman is up to something off of his face. Subtlety is not a concept his countenance has managed to grasp, every expression capable of manifesting is but a few muscle movements away from an absolutely comical extreme, a trait of his that is not lost on acquaintances.

Like many students brandishing their hard-earned degrees, Cullen learnt shortly after graduation that no one wished to employ a shaggy-haired greenhorn; they wished to employ young professionals. After several years of boycotting the barber shop, Cullen was forced to crop the mop of shaggy light auburn-brown hair he had nurtured from the start of Fresher’s week into a far more manicured form. Simple, sensible, and easily maintained as part of his daily routine, his hair sees less attention than his jaw line, save for the fingers which comb their way through the front in the early hours of the morning, leaving what could barely pass as a fringe standing on end for the rest of the day. The aforementioned jaw is seldom free from a field of short, wiry stubble, an indication that the man possesses minimal and patience for the likes of shaving. Personal grooming, it seems, does not rank highly on the man’s list of priorities; it is a concept forgotten for the benefit of work.

The broad neck this head is found decorating attaches to a pair of equally broad and masculine shoulders. Standing at five feet and ten inches in height, Cullen is a man that appears difficult to break; tall enough to make the majority of folks feel safe in his presence. Unfortunately, the man’s musculature is not what it used to be. The work of almost a decade spent dashing around playing fields and tackling rugby players twice his size for the sake of a few points has come undone with just a couple of years’ worth of neglect. These days, the muscles that wrap across his broad chest and form his abdomen have lost a great deal of their original resolve. One particular friend refers to this balance as the ideal equilibrium between muscle and the phenomenon known as ‘squish’, making him an ideal candidate, allegedly, for embraces.

Describing him as such to his face, however, has the same effect on his self-esteem as a sledgehammer has on a ripe watermelon.

He may not have the excessive definition of a body builder, but this means very little in the grand scheme of things. His uniform, practically rectangular torso may not be as pleasing to the eye to some as those with gym-built triangular chests, but the fact that his core’s muscles were built up over the years to protect his spinal cord and vital organs whilst engaging in the trials of full-contact rugby makes him legitimately stronger than the likes of those who work out in gyms and, occasionally, starve themselves in order to stretch their shrinking skin across their frames. His limbs follow the same trend.

By no means structurally comparable to a sack of walnuts, the present definition of key muscles in his arms is enough to indicate that heavy lifting is still part of his day-to-day life. Sitting beneath the flesh of his right bicep is a numerical figure. A pair of broad black outlines form the number eleven, the number on the Rugby shirt he proudly wore all those years ago as a university student, one of his team’s two second row forward players. His is but one tattoo out of seventeen designed in a similar vein, their owners - his former team mates - now scattered across the globe. The hands that attach to his wrists are, quite rightfully, larger than most of his colleagues’. A single, chocolate-colours freckle can be found on the heel of his hand, the only real curiosity to be found on both appendages. Long, but by no means elegant, fingers are often the victims of vicious little paper cuts, their warm touch attributed to the man’s stellar circulation system.

Muscle definition received from sprinting around the rugby pitch as a young man has, for the most part, fled his legs. Thankfully, his thighs and calves have recently found themselves regaining some semblance of their former shape, more likely than not attributed to the man’s penchant for an early morning run; a treat he now indulges in every other day before breakfast. The skin that dresses what was once a pair of unmarred shins is now the home to a fistful of cosmetic divots, bumps, scrapes and scores, which remain visible through the fine hair that swathes his limbs, most visibly from knee to ankle and his wrist to his elbow. In spite of being quite comfortable in his own skin, he does not yet appear to have settled into his new home just yet, evident in his usual fumbles as he attempts to dodge passersby who veer into his path.

He came out of the often cruel process of puberty with size fourteen feet, and a voice one octave lower upon graduating from high school. His accent is an unusual beast to trap and label, a Received Pronunciation accent with a few flaws found in the average Northerner - most noticeably the omission of the letter ‘t’ present in particular words.

The realm of fashion baffles Cullen more than the land of the rising sun could ever hope to. Whilst he openly admires some of his students’ audacity, having passed handfuls of them and their friends in the streets sporting apparel best left hidden until All Hallows Eve - in his opinion - than the common weekend, Cullen was raised by practical parents; taught to favour function over form. While he lacks what could be considered a strict uniform, unlike his students, the dress code imposed upon members of staff has managed to dominate his wardrobe. A slave to his day job, Mister Crewe can be found making the commute to and from the classroom in a button-up dress shirt and what seems to be the bottom half of a black dress suit, a simple ensemble that is finished with the presence of a black tie around his neck with a view to conforming to the rules.

A touch of his personality finds itself on display in spite of the oppressive dress code, but not in the obvious form of trinkets and accessories. No rings adorn his fingers, no piercings to thread steel bars and studs through, no necklaces decorate his neck; the only charm he ever cared to wear religiously came in the form of his father’s old watch. A smart, practical timepiece he had always admired as a young boy, a gift given to him on his twelfth birthday, promptly stolen in his first week as a university student. It is not in the form of jewellery, but in the form of his shirts, that Cullen stands out from his fellow tutors. A sharp-looking Bordeaux red shirt on a Monday, a poisonous deep purple for Wednesday - the arms often rolled up to his elbows out of habit – even with a practical upbringing ruling his taste in attire, Cullen appears to have an aversion to plain white shirts, something he attributes to his childhood, spent ruining every school shirt playing football with his classmates, although it may also be attributed to the fact that his tattoo – an element of himself he is forbidden to reveal to his students, cannot be seen through shirts of a darker colour.

A couple of waistcoats were employed on a daily basis when he first began teaching, but they were promptly shunned for fear of appearing ‘too British’. These days, the elusive waistcoats are donned only when Cullen feels he must push the proverbial boat out – special occasions such as birthdays or staff inspections, where they are often paired with cufflinks. On the handful of occasions where he has been invited to share the company of the teaching body for festivities, he has shown up in the exact same attire he dons for the classroom – one simply assumes that the man is stereotypically British in regards to fashion – an impression that is further strengthened when he slips a pair of thin-framed reading glasses onto the bridge of his nose whilst sifting through three classes’ worth of English tests.

The truth is that there are only two extremes Cullen accepts when clothes are the topic of conversation – garments worn for relaxation and those worn for work. There is no in between for him to acknowledge; if he is not wearing dress trousers, he is walking about his apartment wearing track suit bottoms or jeans, a dress shirt substituted for a plain t-shirt, or one of a handful of long-sleeved rugby shirts – including his team shirt from his university years, admittedly showing the tell-tale signs of a rough life in its old age. He firmly believes in comfortable clothing, particularly when he feels like tripe – and in tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt, he often looks the part.

Cullen possesses no desire to stand out more than he does simply by being a European in an Eastern country – an impression that is intensified by his affinity for walking with his eyes turned down to the pavement. He has no message he wishes to convey to the public. Shirts with slogans are for teens and rebels, and Cullen is well aware that he is not the rebellious sort. Eye-catching transfers and patterns are left for those younger than himself, convinced he is too old to be taken seriously in such youthful and modern attire. Footwear is, perhaps, the most ignored article – he owns the grand total of two pairs – sensible leather dress shoes for work and formal functions, and a single pair of black trainers for his leisure, the soles of which have recently begun to lose the their talent for resisting rain water.