Non-private, Independent RP blog for COD (CastleVania: Curse of Darkness video game) Hector. Game and manga centered, see rules and about for link to which manga I prefer.

This blog follows back from @notte-la-lagna

“You have my forgiveness. Perhaps by now that should be a given.” As Trevor has forgiven and forgiven again for one too many sins Hector declares himself possessor of; whether rightfully or otherwise. A smile curls lightly to the corners of the Belmont’s lips as he rubs the silvery line of his scar, chasing sleep–what little remains–away from his person. “Living as a Belmont, you become wont to stir at the littlest of noises that are above the ordinary. For all my acceptance of you and your gifts, this is, by most rights, above the ordinary for me. But no matter. I am awake now. Why don’t you show me what you are working at?”

“Blessed so, Trevor...” nevertheless does his heart soar for the confirmation. Lightheartedly-swept into chuckling with that all too tall tell bashful nature in tilting his head, staring off. Focusing on cleaning a larger sum of dirt off his own hands.

“I thought you understood we were beyond the need for secrecy by now where matters as this were concerned. I have said it before; I repeat it for you now. It is the wielder, not the weapon, where power is rightly judged.” Where Hector flushes pink with embarrassment, Trevor’s face is sun-warm with stern sincerity. “You should know my judgement of you by now, too.”

I should like at the very least that you try…

Wondering what all the commotion is about…

          & .˚      the  expanse  prompts.

           @devilsworn asked:

   “   as long as we’re living and breathing, there’s more we can do.  we just have to be strong enough.   ”

          “Is that what Witchers are taught, or belief hopeful spurned on by being one?” Though the tip is no longer sharp or even, the sword makes for an excellent fire poker. Hector moves some logs two and fro, inspecting them in his unblinking way. The fresh-caught fish sizzles, doused in seasonings which, to this day, tickle the necromancer’s nose. It is good to use excess. More importantly, it is good to at last have reason for it.

          “Believe not that I disagree; though I have never once the privilege of speaking with one of yours, one on one. I have heard a many tale, but, ever only earshot; eaves-dopped conversations brooding between hens and leisure-men who speak much too loudly for their own good. First hand accounts... is a rare delicacy, like seasoned fish.” And bread to boot, Hector remembers, turning where he sits atop his sleeping rug to rifle through his bags.

“Uh-huh…” One with a mouth full of riddles, it appears–the company of such fellows is far from unfamiliar in this quaint and curious business, at least, and nothing that Nero pays too much mind. There are more pressing things than words to worried about, after all–the still-shivering hum of his medallion upon his chest, the strangeness of the still night air, the face of a man that looks more mirage than matter; Nero’s lupine eyes narrow with quiet suspicion as he dusts down the front of his garb as his footsteps tread silent and practised over the night-damp earth. “Witchers are sure tough, but that doesn’t mean we’re made of steel, y’know. Maybe you’ve just been buying into a few too many fairytales in your time. Hard to really set the record straight when people flee the streets we walk far and wide. Nobody wants to listen to what we have to say, ‘less it concerns the head of something we’re dragging in for coin…”

A certain caution is returned returned to all eyes suddenly upon him from the dark as the blood clinging black in the moonlight to his cheek begins to dry under the wind and their scrutiny alike. And for true, his wounds however trifling seem of great and baffling concern to this stranger enough that Nero sneers for it under his breath–with a second sure, dismissive wave of his gloved hand as the other pats down the flank of his mare.

“Just a couple scratches. You’re getting yourself all in a twist over nothing. Nothing unusual–happens sometimes. Battle invites that kind of thing, unless you’re invincible. Witcher’s aint. Hope you didn’t buy that story from all the commonfolk especially.” A pause catches in Nero’s voice, fingers combing the black of the creature’s mane loose from dust and tangle alike.

“Why the interest, anyway?”

      “What an unfortunate youth...” this sentiment - at war with the rest of him - stills Hector’s movement to little more than shallow breathing. A Witcher with an honest-born tongue is new, albeit unknown. Though, though, of course, it could merely be a ruse. It could not. Or it could. Hede presents herself as none responsive to him for the most part; lifting her pallor-head to the wind and tastes the breeze, but the serpent does little else. Casualty - a casualty not present amongst most Witchers.          The Necromancer takes a few steps forward, revealing himself as more man than shadow, garbed with night’s cloak to match layers of layers of scrap-stitched things. “This you say, Sir, though I’ve known no Witcher willing to loiter long enough to tell a tale other than ferocity in character. Littler still willing to make friendly with my sort.” Poor, however the mare which steps softly to follow suit of her handler is garbed in a myriad of strange things to suggest otherwise: A lantern illuminates gently, suddenly - attached to a rapier on the mare’s flank. Armor which is out of use to any kingdom or state, rusted at the hinges which cling. Her spine dipping with the weight of some chest of drawers or other, each of which bolted shut. She, herself, like backdrop painting against the very much living, lively twinkle of Hector’s own eyes in the moon’s glow.

                        & .˚      the  expanse  prompts.  

                                nightslain asked:

“   we did not choose this, but this is our fight now.  ” 

       “That isn’t true,” gentle, albeit insistent from where he stands some steps parted from his Master. Any number of things could be stirring therein that troubled, strong mind. A number too many that Hector dares consider, choosing in lieu a lit of truth to stand besides the tides of whatever has brought itself to clash in Leon’s mind. Hector does not move from his current position, nor place down the large tome he were inscribing his magic unto, wanting to convey that air of casualty, assurance which burns softly, steadily inside his heart. He only hopes the intensity, diluted, is understood as being for Leon’s sake.

          “That isn’t true; I chose this,” so that voice carries on, “I chose this the moment I found your tomb, your living corpse sitting beside it. The moment I shuddered to taste the gravity which bound you yet to this corporeal plane. Trevor, my closest and loved companion, too, understood the righteous indignation I felt when I confided in him the terrible, undeniable pull of service to this greater cause. A calling of fate... I were once told by a man who claimed to be a time traveler that I ought to walk the destiny which is right for me...” the tome is placed down upon its shelf, left to dry its newfound inks into permanent sigils. This place ever warmer for the presence.

“I suppose that he were once but a man. That his heart might burn just as a man’s would does not much suprise me. Even the most monstrous, even the most animal among us still grieve.” A certain finality hangs on the edges of Trevor’s words, agreeing perhaps that the topic is well and good to end here. Hector does not elbaorate, nor does Trevor ask him to; watching instead for the tell-tale echoes of struggle and despair chasing themselves over the other man’s firelit face. At war with himself, or perhaps at war with memory. Again, Trevor does not ask (knows Hector will tell if his heart grows too heavy to hide.) Though there is…change to his sorrow that betrays just as much when Hector is taken into grasp, smoothed over, comforted. The absence of expression faltered only by his widening eyes and shortness of breath, the change in him that Trevor feels like a shift in the earth. As though something of the forger’s soul sparks underhand, tangible and sudden. It feels almost a sin to have let him go at all, to have left him alone on the shores of whatever great epiphany has washed through him like the tide. A sin. A pity. But all the same, something speaks to Trevor of the man’s need for quiet, for thought. A moment perhaps is plenty. He steps aside from the forgemaster still sat looking so peculiarly small in the throw of the fireplace, taking refuge in the valley of his own palm–Trevor watches from over one shoulder, hesitating, sympathetic.

Smiling too, when the other man’s laughter sears away just enough of his doubts to drive him on, the sound of his name sweet on the other man’s lips enough that Trevor’s heart may grow once again warm.

“I pray that this stays true. I do what I may. And I will say it always that you are welcome, Hector.” A brush to the elder’s shoulder makes for as good a farewell as any as he treads out of the living room and upon the halls to elsewhere (though not without having glanced back.) The home is full of peace at this hour, silent with night between every wall and over every floor–the short journey down to the kitchen plenty quiet, for better or for worse. Trevor’s thoughts after all are entirely too loud, even if busying his hands between boiling water in the kitchen fire and musing over this ingredient or the other keeps him just occupied enough. The night outside is still chill with late spring, well suited for hot tea soon steeped, stirred and strained into two cups that Trevor takes carefully into hand to carry out and away.

There is a strange relief finding Hector just as he left him when his steps carry him back toward the hearth, bending to his knees at the forger’s side as one cup is gently nudged into the other man’s palm.

“Here…” A soft chuckle rises, his own drink warmed between both broad hands as it is lifted, tasted, savoured. A noise of content loosens from the Belmont’s chest as he settles once more before the purr of the fireplace. A smile brightens his face, half hidden behind the lip of his cup as a glance is passed over the other man’s features. Running from hairline to throat hollow, settling soon after with the winter of his companion’s eyes as Trevor drawls quietly on. “Barley, honey and chamomile. It should be of some comfort to you, if nothing else.”

      He needn’t pray, though belief with that strikes Hector, too. Parting words which for all their warmth therein reassurance cannot themselves quiet the echos of retreating steps. An overwhelming sensation of insatiability turns Hector’s head, overlooking his shoulder and past, unto shadows and dark corners and places where Trevor is not. It is not the first time desire ushered him to follow, but it is the first time Hector wills himself quiet with the intention. Hope is strange to relish, yet here with it does the Forgemaster bid himself to sit, gradual to turn himself back towards the hearth though no less dispirited for the loss of a greater warmth. No. Enriched, if anything. A tender, pacifying tranquility that nullifies (or perhaps turns him blind towards) a great many and terrible aches. Even on his sick bed, gravely wounded, Trevor were always someone whose lightheartedness brought an air of indulgent hope, of intoxicating peace which commanded a sense of finality to worrisome terrors. Even when those terrors sought to spite his very face, when panic rose to the surface which refuted logic, which required tonics to grow silent - not once had he seem an unreliable source.

      Perhaps he could fathom the depth in some portion now, of a love ever lasting. While his heart feels foolish - celebratory in itself over mere notion - the indulgence feels healing. There are memories of Rosaly having much the same insistence, as a matter of fact. A kind of determination that his heart possesses these things, as assured and believed as the sun’s rise and fall each and every day. Along the other side of despair, Hector brushes a hand over his flushed cheek, mimicking the act of just a few moments prior.

       Though there is an effort to feign otherwise, pretending to have been rubbing at his own shoulder when realizing the approaching steps were Trevor’s. Hector’s face betraying that all too telling shade of weighted rouge. Responding, itself, a comical tell too when the man flutters his gaze in that unconscious way. Unwilling, for those few seconds, to cast them away and parted from Trevor’s own. But of course Hector needn’t insistence for this - his callous hands are comfortably numbed around the large, hot mug.         It is genuinely difficult to take in the taste. Not for lacking in recipe, but lacking in comparison to what memory serves as a far greater spice to indulge. A spice that can be enjoyed even now, if Hector allows himself. Amid the steam and rim of his mug, where his eyes wander from shoulder to shadow, to the lightened shimmer in deeply-colored hair to the becoming mark along his cheek - that spice belonging to Trevor. That same scent which often lead him right to him in the Castle, that same scent has become a comfort.

            Misc Quote Meme, part four!

 @lovesake asked:

“ i couldn’t stop missing you if i tried. ”

         Strange to hear it.          Though portions of his heart grows numbed for it, relieving an ache which lurked without notice. Hector laughs. Partially from disbelief, partially for it feeling familiar in delinquent ways. Oh, nostalgic. Nostalgia for the run away nights - for late mornings eating fruit on lone pavilions whilst fishers busy themselves elsewhere, or late evenings in the marketplaces, playing at something of normalcy that were as precious as they were secret. But the man saying this before him now is not the boy of his memories. His features are sharper, matured. His eyes as beautiful as they are feminine in the moon’s cycle. It almost seems a pity, to graze his cheek with cool, calloused touches of his thumb and fingertips. A sentiment which has never truly made leave of Hector’s thoughts.

         “War has not tarnished that glow in you. The same I had looked forward to seeing, if honesty may be a shared voice right now.” He must smile nonetheless. No, all the more; clothing himself in that very relief to broaden the laughter to something truer, something abandoning his disbelief as long, long curls of hair is tucked behind the endearing pointed curve of his ear. “To think my life spent there meant something to someone...”