אֶמֶת

« there’s a crack in everything — that’s how the light gets in. »

selective roleplay blog for an indie fandomless oc drawing from themes of jewish mysticism, folklore, horror, and leonard cohen lyrics. written by scout.

home  has  ever  been  a  complicated  concept ;   she  has  called  many  a  dwelling  as much  over  the  years ,  though  none  ever  managed  to  stir  up  the  feelings  attached  to  such  a  title .  truth  be  told ,  the  closest  she’s  ever  come  to  feeling  at  home  has  been  with  emet  —  whether  here ,  in  this  little  patch  of  wood ,  or  across  the  world  in  dingy  lodgings .  he  has  been  home  for  quite  some  time ,  something  warm  &  familiar ,  comfortable .  a constant  in  her  life  …  even  more  so  than  that  unattainable  ideal  existing  in  her  memory .  the  home  of  her  childhood  was  never  going  to  last ,  but  him ,  the  two  of  them ,  together  …  [  she’s  terrified  ]   

her  eyes  are  soft  when  they  meet  his ,   though  it’s  only  a  brief  flash  of  contact  before  her  chin  ducks  down ,  away .   &  she  does  linger ,  but  only  for  a  moment  ‘til  hesitant  steps  draw  her  further  in .    

❝     shalom .     ❞     she  feels  like  she’s  coming  out  of  her  skin .   unable  to  look  at  him ,  unable  to  sit  down  (  she  doesn’t  want  to ,  it’s  easier  to  leave  if  you’re  already  up  ) .  her  fingers  trace  the  edge  of  the  table ,  making  a  line  through  dust ,  &  whatever  words  she  means  to  push  out  die  with  the  kettle’s  scream .   somehow  she  tenses  even  more  /  a  closed  fist .     ❝     i’ll  just  —  i’ll  wait  here ,  while  you  …  i’ll ,  uh ,  yeah .     ❞    

               HE BAREHANDS THE KETTLE HANDLE, tipping the contents into two waiting mugs.   The heat releases a cloud of mint-laden steam that would bring a flush to any normal man’s cheeks.   But like the kettle, Emet remains unaffected, disparate to the reality that enfolds him.   He loops the handles of the mugs around two long fingers, one hand left free to dig into the cupboard for a tin of kolaczki cookies.   Store-bought, but better than nothing.   The human ties between love and food are something he’s studied in rapt fascination, and in moments like these he returns to the well-worn euphemism of reaching one’s heart through their stomach.

               They meet on opposite sides of the round table, no hard angles to cut one off from the other.   Emet carefully sets down the tin of cookies and the two mugs, sliding the one without a chip in the ceramic towards Evelyn.

        RESOLUTE AT THE FORMIDABLE prospect of violence,  they do not so much as flinch as the creature raises an offending hand /  ( how many had seen such a sight before ruination? )  However, the subtle shake of his head – that palpable acknowledgement of understanding – is enough to prompt the newcomer to cant his skull slightly to the side:  a gesture of which could be translated as surprise upon an otherwise eerily unwavering visage.   The truth of his visitation thusly remains unspoken – for now. The impulse to bring harm upon his personhood could be forgiven under the justification of self-defense. Much as the deer fled upon instinct, or the wolf would stop to raise his hackles, the natural reactions of this life were not so much categorized as much as individualized: for so too could the stag turn its horns upon an intruder, or the wolf flee if found without his companions. The question was: which was he? 

❝ I do not understand why therefore you would come. ❞  The words are spoken coldly, plainly, but there is no doubt that they are honest. Eyes beset by long lashes linger momentarily upon the raised fist, then drift over Emet’s shoulder towards the town that mourns.  Indeed he would stand between this being and the souls farther down the hill if need be. While Anaar himself had not the privilege of encountering the likes of this wanderer before, his brothers had, and as a story-weaver himself,  he could not ignore the potential way this could spiral.  His gaze refocuses, sharper.  ❝ You are death-bringer –  yet you tell me there are none here deserving of such a fate. Why, then, have you come? If they are undeserving, then you should not be here. Does that not go against your purpose ?  ❞  

               EMET’S FIST MAKES A slow crawl back to his side, still tightly clenched as he undergoes examination.   The man’s expressions are mask-like, painted onto cool indifference.   His head tilts, brows pulling together in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes. Emet recognizes himself in the gesture, but this is practiced mimicry, nothing like the crude facsimiles he sometimes practices in the mirror.

               The questions turn to the town behind him, and Emet quickly feels the anger seep back into him — like water into soil.   This man    ( if he is a man at all )   assumes and categorizes, seeking the easiest possible answer without all the facts.   If they were truly alike, the stranger would not call him by that name. He would know what title suits him best.

               It’s in moments like these he wonders what it would feel like to cry.

[ ??? ] | @golemn·

       BORNE UPON THE SUSURRATION of early-autumn leaves, a stranger arrives upon the hill, a sun-kissed face turning downward to better observe the wanderer in his motion. For weeks had he followed the creature, unravelling the pattern of carnage – of righteous retribution –  scattered from one town to the next.  Is this the man who strew blood in his wake? Venturing now towards a village it seemed, whose standing buildings teetered on the edge of collapse and whose fallen counterparts lay in heaps of rubble. Golden eyes flick upwards, over the retreating back of his target, and focus momentarily toward the settlement. Whispers of conversation carry upon a breeze, lingering laments of loss and pain, but also of hope, aspirations to sculpt a future from what remains. He hums lightly, as if in some way this satisfies his being, and then takes a step forward through the long grass. 

Distance scrounged upon the faint flutter of many wings, he lands once more behind the creature, more pronounced in his arrival. Were the creature to turn now, he would see a young man smaller than himself standing higher ‘pon the hill, adorned in dark linens which tapered at the waist with knotted black cord. Upon his shoulders rests a long wool coat, a mild barrier against the frigid bite of the morning air and the dew tickling their ankles. When he speaks to the other’s back, his voice is like honey, sweet and youthful: 

  ❝ Does another one hide here ?  Is that why you come ?  ❞

                VILLAINS MADE VICTIMS, HE teaches predators to cower.   Their lives are not sacred, souls forfeited in their evil;   all dying to the same tune  :   begging for their lives.   He is not built for cruelty, meant to be a vessel immune to emotion, yet this anger feels like the only thing he knows.    Unrighteous and earthly, he enacts human vindication, too brutal to be the hand of G-d.   So far removed from the celestial, he knows heaven doesn’t await him.    There’s no afterlife for murder to deprive him of.

               But in the quiet moments between the rage, he remembers what could have been, and returns to what was.   Emet’s walked this road many times before and almost always alone, so visitors are rarely welcome.    The flutter of wings is too fast to react to.   He hears the voice before he has time to turn and face it, shoulders climbing high with sudden tension.   He would have heard the man approach had he appeared from anywhere but thin air.

               He spins to face the intruder, fist raised aloft and loaded with the power of a double-barrel shotgun.   The man looks out of place in the ruinous landscape, a polished cut-out overlaid onto reality.    The stranger has the youth of the eternal, an ageless curiosity that unnerves him.    It’s not the clinical dissection he experienced with the Nazis, yet the dissimilarity brings him little comfort.   He knows when he is being analyzed.

@golemn​

he feels the crunch before he hears it, telltale bones collapsing in on the hollow cavern of a cheek. warm, wet, red splashes over his knuckles; hot over his gloves. a splatter peppers his cheek. 

bucky blinks, cocks his arm back, hips twisted, momentum building… his teeth bare, molars clenched like a nocked arrow ready to fire when he catches a familiar shadow in the corner of his eye. 

❛ – it’s you.  ❜  he swings his arm down at the man in front of him one more time, elbow ricocheting back before it comes to rest at his side. he turns, fully looks. ❛ i’ll be damned, it’s actually you this time. ❜ 

               HE'S BEEN BEATEN TO the punch, quite literally, and by a stranger who seems to recognize him.   More often associated with violence, Emet's not usually a positive fixture in one's memory.  But perhaps, given the circumstances, that's more welcome now than in the norm.

               A skinhead hangs from the neck of his t-shirt, tightly clenched in one fist while the other is held aloft; an ongoing threat.   His gaze tracks from bloody knuckles to broken nose.   Simple addition : the mathematics of pain.    Brow pinched in confusion, his head tilts left as if to say   do I know you?

-ˏˋ * ✡  @golemn​  /  𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐝  𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 .

there’s  something  sour  in  her  stomach ,  churning  &  knotting  with  an  ever - growing  intensity  —  it  feels  like  dread .   it  has  bubbled  in  her  stomach  since  the  moment  she  received  that  message ,   but  the  root  of  all  this  has  been  persistently  shoved  down  by  her ,  deeper  &  deeper  over  impossible  spans  of  time  (  HOW  LONG  HAS  THIS  LIVED  INSIDE  YOU ?  HOW  LONG  HAVE  YOU  KNOWN  HIM ?  ) .   mixed  in  all  this  is  the  urge  to  turn  around  /  to  run .  it  is  there  &  it  is strong  despite  evelyn  only  drawing  nearer  to  that  point ,  the  line  that ,  once - crossed ,  they  can  never  return  from  (  no  matter  the  outcome  ) .   she  doesn’t  feel  ready  for  it .   but  she  is  not  one  for  running .  

it’s  the  kind  of  revelation  that  sinks  rather  than  settles ;  she  is  scared .   emet  is  the  only  one  who  can  make  her  feel  this  way ,   with  the  grip  he  has  on  her  heart  [  i  think  you  are  allowed  to  love  ] .   the  door  pushes  open ,   creaks  on  its  hinges ,  &  she  crosses  that  line .     ❝—  emet ?   …     ❞

               HE WAITS FOR HER like a dog on a chain; pacing battered hardwood with such regularity he might just wear a groove underfoot.   Emet has never been the restless type.   His anxiety usually translates to the watchful stillness of a cornered animal, rather than the frenetic uptick of energy he's felt since their last conversation.  He spends the two days it takes for her to travel whittling nothing but tinder.   His hands do not shake, but they are clumsy — numb-fingered with anticipation.   He's so aware of her imminent arrival that the lack of warning preceding her entrance doesn't even startle. 

               She calls his name and he nearly knocks a table full of wood shavings to its side when he stands to greet her.   Emet half-expects her to linger at the door.   Full of rage and war, she thinks herself the enemy.   Crazed and kamikaze, like the parts of her willing to love are set to a fuse.   He thought similarly not too long ago,   but he has been learning softness.   The kind that doesn’t just extend to others, but to himself as well.

rules: bold which applies to your muse, and italicthose they might exhibit.

𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬. arms crossed on chest, crossing legs, fist-like gestures, pointing index finger, karate chops, stiffening of shoulders, tense posture, curling of lip, baring of teeth.

𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞.   hand-to-face gestures, head tilted, stroking chin, peering over glasses, taking glasses off - cleaning, putting earpiece of glasses in mouth, pipe smoker gestures, putting hand to bridge of nose, pursed lips, knitted brows.

𝐬𝐮𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐧. arms crossed, sideways glance, touching or rubbing nose, rubbing eyes, hands resting on weapon, brows raising, lips pressing into a thin line, strict and unwavering eye contact, wrinkling of nose.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞.  hands behind back, hands on lapels of coat, steepled hands, baring teeth in a grin, rolling shoulders, tipping head back but maintaining eye contact, chest puffed up, shoulders back, arms folded just above navel, wide eyes, standing akimbo.

𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐱𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐲.   chewing pen or pencil, rubbing thumb over opposite thumb, biting fingernails, hands in pockets, elbow bent, closed gestures, clearing throat, “ whew ” sound, picking or pinching flesh, fidgeting in chair, hand covering mouth whilst speaking, poor eye contact, tugging at pants whilst seated, jingling money in pockets, tugging at ear, perspiring hands, playing with hair, swaying, playing with pointer, marker or cane, smacking lips, sighing, rocking on balls of feet, flexing or cracking fingers sporadically.

𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.   short breaths, “ tsk ” sounds, tightly-clenched hands, fist-like gestures, pointing index finger, rubbing hand through hair, rubbing back of neck, snarling, revealing teeth, grimacing, sharp-eyed glowers with notable tension in brow, shoulders back, head up - defensive posturing, clenching of jaw, grinding teeth, nostrils flaring, heavy exhales.

       𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙸𝚂 𝙲𝚁𝚄𝙴𝙻 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙴𝙻-𝙶𝚁𝙰𝚈．it’s been coming and going as a pale setting sun peeks behind a leaden veil of whirling clouds. for five years the world’s been gray and leaden, with a small sun peeking, only to quickly disappear behind black shirts, voices at the radio, insisting propaganda. like a round little bait. only now people are starting to believe the sun again. the light in the underground gallery sometimes buzzes vivaciously, but it’s a cool artificial light that can do no harm. it’s a friend of the darkness. giulio moves sinuously among the epigraphs, at leisure, eyeing the stones and the dead gazes of characters frozen mid-history. it feels exquisite,  like being followed, but only turns or lingers near some of them. even old and turned to stone, a past is a fanged, dangerous thing. there is work to do. the archeological fever of the ‘30s resumed once the last corpse was extracted from the smoking debris and the last house rebuilt, and now there are new discoveries every day, though new might be a matter of perspective. 

      by the time he’s finished his stroll, the last trace of a weak daylight must have been wiped. [ a warm winter means a cold summer, he’s heard a visitor laugh knowingly the other day, but no one seems to complain about that. ]  of all the night hours, the darkness of an early dusk is without doubts giulio’s favorite. it’s intimate and cold like a betrayal, like a grave, and it makes no promises it cannot keep. a hour of solitude. the gallery is desert, save for one man. giulio side-eyes him contemplating his surroundings, and the more he focuses, the less he knows. the human body has clear mechanics, loud to a fine listener, and none has a finer hearing than a predator always aware. the vampire smells the air discreetly, but it gives away nothing. not a trace of biology, only absence. he raises an eyebrow, inquisitively. 

       when the stranger becomes aware of his presence, giulio takes it as a chance to come forward. his sick-pale skin has a golden tinge in the dim lamplight, his eyes a shiny black. it’s clear by the other’s shaky italian that he’s a foreigner, though his accent is hard to pinpoint.  ‘ may i help you? ’ giulio drawls in a sure, though heavily accented english. he looks up at the visitor’s face, his dark eyes razor-sharp and looking for a hint, but he finds none. only a faint smell of the earth’s finest dust. 

               HE’S COME TO RECOGNIZE the facets of humanity through his training.   How to spot a lie in the making, or identify the silhouette of a concealed gun.   Anything that makes him more lethal, better equipped for carrying out the Ministry’s orders;   but nothing that would help him blend in among them, except for in a crowd.   He is to be a liability only to himself, a weapon easily returned to the hands of his wielder with every attempted escape.  The Soviets cannot afford to lose any advantage in this silent war.

               Emet’s no spy or assassin.    He’s meant to be a target, a distraction.   The cannon up their sleeve.    He’s used to drawing eyes whether in or out of cover. But something about this stranger unnerves him.    His eyes catch the light like an animal’s, reflective, while Emet’s seem to deflect light completely.    Shadows cling heavily beneath his frowning brow, his gaze drawn to the stillness in the other man’s posture.    Another thing he was taught to look out for   :   what a tiger looks like when it’s about to pounce.    He’s fought far too many predators not to recognize one on instinct alone.

               The stranger steps close, a proximity he’s come to associate with pain.   There’s no flinch in his stance, but he does begin counting exit routes.   All the other visitors must have emptied out while he was in recollection, trapped in his memories like maze.    It’s difficult to live in the present when you don’t have a future.   The past is of little comfort, but there are moments he cherishes in the midst of all his struggles.

               Emet drags a finger over the photograph, tapping twice to steal James' attention away from the mug of coffee that's gone cold between his hands. They both have a tendency to check out mid-conversation, minds wandering to some remnant of the past. It's both their jobs to keep them on track. The mission may be simple, but that doesn’t make it easy.

               « You know this place? »   He signs, carefully avoiding eye contact with the woman behind the counter who's just a little too interested in what they’re doing.

               The bar's been closed for more than an hour, so he doesn't expect to turn and see a young woman standing where there just used to be shadow; detatched from the darkness like a wayward drop of ink. His shoulders raise in a half-aborted gesture of startlement, eyes wide and searching. He should have heard her approach. 

               ❝ Przepraszam, jesteśmy zamknięci. ❞   He tries Polish first, unable to garner her native language from looks alone.