DEVIL FORGEMASTER

* CONTINUED ASK / @putrefactie !

THIS WAS NOT PRECISELY THE SORT OF GREETING HE HAD EXPECTED. He thought… He thought of the times when all had been unlike the way it was then, when the world had not yet had its chance to change them. Those times, it seemed, had long ago ended. Both Cahir and Hector were no longer boys, but war-weathered men. Not long was his joy meant to last when Hector agreed to his request as a spell came forth, which knocked the former Knight to the ground. 

Stubborn as ever, Cahir did not remain on the ground, but slowly stood to his feet, raising bare hands to Hector’s sight. “Wait,” he whimpered, “I’m not armed!” Of course he was armed, by the Great Sun! He was always armed. The knives in his boots, for one, were always with him, his truest friends and companions in times of need. He had only discarded his sword so as to emphasize his intent to Hector, namely that he meant no harm. He grew to tire of fighting. 

“I’m merely here for a drink.” A truth. “It has been, forgive my wording, a fucking terrible year.” An understatement. Evading his captors had drained him of his strength, and Cahir was lost, so lost. All he had ever known was a lie. All of it! What was he to believe now? Was he even to believe ever again? “All I want is to sit down, grab the biggest pint of ale they have, and possibly drown in it. You can come with me or you can simply let me be, Hector. I have no wish to fight you.”

VINES READY TO HOLD HIM DOWN, they wither and dust they become once more. His spell dies as his determination to draw blood also fades away. The strangest form of plea saving the knight from the wrath of a wild sorcerer, surprise also was part of his salvation ( Hector remembers a proud and devoted soldier, a man so eager to accomplish his duty : but today, a stranger stands before him ). CURIOSITY DRAWS HIM CLOSER TO THE DESERTER, like a curious beast trying to understand what stands before him. So alike, and yet still full of mysteries, Cahir was a good liar - but as far as the mage remembered, he was also a good man, an honest one. Could be it be that, at last, he grew tired of the war and its horrors ?

                 The noise of sudden company falls sharp upon his ears long before the sight of them ever comes into view, long before so much as a footstep intrudes on the crypt’s sepulchral quiet. He hears them far above the earth, feels the moving of stone overhead like thunder in his bones–everything so vast, so intense, so beyond human sensation he vaguely remembers from so many years ago. Uncertainty sways his heart, not quite teetering into dread, nor lone curiosity as his head turns at once to where he can feel the weight of a soul, hear the hammering of a frightened heart. Someone is here–someone is coming. 

                  Apprehension moves his hand to the sword reclaimed from where it had slept so many years by his side, belted again to his hip and humming with old magic under his fingertips, suddenly, strangely, acutely aware of every whispered spell woven into the steel, every drop of power flashing lightning sharp–but the paladin does not yet shift from his shelter among statues and shadows. Not when he sees a flash of pale hair and wild eyes and dark clothes–not until the scrape of his sword in its sheath summons the stranger’s voice.

                  “…I am no enemy of yours, if you appear to me as no enemy of mine.” It is strange to speak again. It is strange to hear another voice but his. The words are hoarse with silence, but careful, gentle even as the patriarch steps slow and cautious from beneath the veil of the dark. The man is armed, no doubt with the first thing that came to hand from among Leon’s many buried treasures, and Leon is unblinking as the pale frost of his eyes roam the stranger’s image from head to foot. “I am as surprised as you to find myself in another’s company here. This has been a lonely grave for many years–for as long as I have been awake…” A pause. He daren’t tread closer. Not for fear of swallowing the end of the other man’s blade (laughable–even death is nothing he can fear any longer) so much as some old, familiar compassion; the man is afraid, animal, heartbeat humming like the frightened beat of bird’s wings in his skull. And already, the soldier pities.

                “Leon. My name is Leon.” A quiet offering, hand still poised ready and cautious at the hilt of his sword as he regards the stranger from across the stone floor. “Will you tell me yours, stranger?”

A FACE AS PALE AS THE MARBLE OF A GRAVE, he walks from the shadows like an apparition, the ghost of a haunting past. But as hideous his very nature might be, he wear the mask of empathy, peace and patience. Truth be told, he looks almost surreal - a dreamlike hallucination, Virgil guiding another poet through the abyss. BUT SO OFTEN ARE WOLVES DRESSED IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING, an angelic figure hardly being the promise of a good character. As knightly as this one may appear, by his own words, he must be ancient ( it's the one that are from a bygone time that he fears the most, for his former master was as strong as he was antique ).

            k a s s a n d r a ( ᶠˡᵃᵐᵃˡᵇᵃ ) “ HAS SPOKEN             ❝ PRINCESS BRIDE | @culthcnt | ACCEPTING !❞

Ô LONG MONOLOGUE OF MAGICAL NONSENCE, interrupted so soon ( or not soon enough, depending on one's point of view ) ! Cerulean eyes watch back at her with storms rolling over his irides - bothered, but just for a minute, a stern expression adorns the necromancer's features. —— Really ? “ His voice underline his vexation and bitterness, cold as a Romanian Winter...

               E M H Y R ( ᶠˡᵃᵐᵃˡᵇᵃ ) “ HAS SPOKEN             ❝ PRINCESS BRIDE | @flamalba | ACCEPTING !❞

THEY SAY RULERS SHOULD BE WISE AND KIND, the crown adorning their head being made from the very gold that they heart has been sculpted from - but looking at this man, even with all those lies the mage feeds to himself, he can hardly see a glimmer of kindness in those eyes. Why is it, then, that he reveres him so ? Fear, perhaps, is what makes him so servile. For King and Imperors have powers over one soul : a farmer they offer lands to still owes his head to his sovereign ( surely, it must be the same for a witch ).FOR A SECOND ONLY, icy blue eyes betray the terror that Emhyr's wisdom allows to bloom in one's mind. So quickly he bows, hiding weakness with ceremonies, heart pouding in the cage of his ribs muffled by rich fabrics. He cannot feel safe within the palace walls ( and yet, it is the only place where he was made to belong )

              L U C Y ( ˢᵗˡᵘᶜʸ ) “ HAS SPOKEN             ❝ PRINCESS BRIDE | @stlucy | ACCEPTING !❞

ALABASTER FINGERS RUN THROUGH THE BLACKEST FUR, making for a contrast that could be made into poetry. Under the woman's tender care, the small creature yelps and barks, showing gratitude in his frenzy as his only eye looks at her with the adoration reserved for saints. Little Cezar, so glad to have made a friend gifted in the art of stroking, keeps sweeping his gaze back and forth at the lady with hair like a flame and his master whose worry seem to slowly be lifted, as if to say : look ! This one does not run away.SHE EVEN JESTS ABOUT THE SORRY STATE OF SUCH A PET, death only apparent where bones and flesh are bared ( if it was not for the missing half of his face, this pup would be loved like it truly deserved to be ! ). It brings a smile to the forgemaster's lips, too timid to dare to laugh - nonetheless, despite his silent character, he still appreciated the kindness of her soul, something that not many humans risk to show.

            A L U C A R D ( ᵖᵃᵗʳᶤᶜᵘʳˢᵉᵈ ) “ HAS SPOKEN             ❝ PRINCESS BRIDE | @patricursed | ACCEPTING !❞

LIKE A GARGOYLE, he stands guards of the main room, cerulean eyes looking at the most peculiar foe ( a greek tragedy fleshed into life ! Ô modern hero, will you fall or be driven mad by your vengence ? ). Determination boiling in his blood, he knows he hardly stands a chance against the son of such a noble line - and yet, his loyalty tells him not to move, like the Golem of Yehudah-Leib, he can only be undone once his duty is done ( or if he ever dies trying to please his mentor and creator ). AND SO, DETERMINATION FACES STUBBORNESS, the righteous son of the moon and the sun being ô so patient in his haste ( is it compassion ? ). Yet, his words ring truer to his character, severe and cold - they still betray his humanity, showing kindness to an ennemy that is so willing to sacrifice you. But the forgemaster stays silent, hardly moved by the pity one so mighty shows toward him. If he dies, then so be it !

               C A H I R ( ᶜᵉᵃˡᵃᶜʰ ) “ HAS SPOKEN             ❝ PRINCESS BRIDE | @cealach | ACCEPTING !❞

SHELTERED BY NATURE WITHIN THE DARKEST WOODS, hidden by the Winters of the northern lands, he never thought he'd see the black of a Nilfgaardian armor ever again - and yet, deception was his only reward in this life, it seems ( though he did deserve it, for all the wrongs that he never tried to right ). At least, all measures of precaution could be dropped for once and silence lifted from his existence : there was no need to hide when an Empire's hound was around, they were far too trained for failure.NO HESITATION HOLDS HIM AS HIS BLADE GUIDES THE WAY, for if it was Death his sword would lead him to, he would have embraced this fate. Finally, away from the shadows and his own cowardise, his hypothetical final moment felt like the purest form of freedom.

              S Y P H A ( ᵛᵉʳᶰᵃᵈᵉˢ ) “ HAS SPOKEN          ❝ PRINCESS BRIDE | @vernades | ACCEPTING !❞

DARKNESS TAKES, demanding and vicious, it slithers in the back of your mind and eats your soul whole ! Black magic and blood sacrifice make your morals fester, spirits from beyond whispering even when you sleep ( and what terrible song they sing ! Kill. Kill. Kill. They never stay quiet ).HIS SWORD DRENCHED IN BLOOD, red constelations stain his bronze skin. Blue eyes search for a familiar face, meeting the pale gaze of his magician friend - and here comes shame, washing upon the shore of his heart. Realisation creeps slowly above confusion, making reality so bitter and cold.

      Walking in the lush woods that her dear friend met up with her         in was something Kassandra always was fond of. Their first meeting         had started out awkward, but they seemed to click as soon as the         two were familiar with each others accent. Both were Greek, but he         does not know who she truly is.         Making her way towards the man, she gave a small smile and knelt         down by Hector’s side. Her gaze drifts towards the tablets on the ground         and paused. Where did he find these? She remembers those days like it         was yesterday. The wars she been in- the sweat, the blood, the gore. She         remembers it all. Swallowing thickly, she nodded.                  ❝… He was.❞        Was all she could really say, settling down by a large tree and leaning her        back against it.  She looks back at him and arches a scarred eyebrow.                   ❝Where did you get those, anyways?❞

HE REACTION WAS NOT REALLY EXPECTED, as some kind of Winter wind blows over their conversation. He who had always remembered the fondness of his people for myths and heroes sees her lack of passion as odd and intriguing. A smile adorning her features, Kassandra was not the kind to sulk, nor be so timidly quiet when he presented to her another one of his obsessions. A SWIFT GAZE TRIES TO DECRYPT HER EXPRESSION, worry swimming at the bottom of his cerulean eyes. Will he dare to ask the right question ? And if so, what is it ? Doubt swallows him whole, trying to understand the tireness that seems to posses his friend ( and that confidence in her answer, how strange it was ! ) . —— Well, The castle's library is full of treasures. I just borrowed those for the day. In that sea of books and relics, they will not be missed. At least not for a while. “

▸     IS    YOUR    MUSE    TALL    /    SHORT    /    AVERAGE ? 5'10, his height is average.

▸      ARE    THEY    OKAY    WITH    THEIR    HEIGHT ? He doesn’t really care. His height never has really been a problem for him or anyone.

▸      WHAT’S    THEIR    HAIR    LIKE ? Greyish blond and curly, he got this kind of meditarenean hair that is quite hard to tame. Made to endure the salty winds of sea, it gets more puffy with humidity and straighter in dryer atmospheres. But when properly taken care of, or went wet, his locks get softer to the touch.

▸     DO    THEY    SPEND    A    LOT    OF    TIME    ON    THEIR    HAIR     /    GROOMING ? He does not. Being a practical man, he does not tend to take care of himself or his general appearance. He’s usually too absorbed in his study to even bother and tie them up in the most lazy fashion when it gets in the way. Eventually, he chops it once in a while ( and most of the time, it’s a disaster ).

▸      DOES   YOUR   MUSE   CARE   ABOUT   THEIR   APPEARANCE   /   WHAT    OTHERS    THINK ? Definitely not. He cares more about what people think of him and his morals rather than what he looks like. It does not even occur to him if he’s seen as pretty or not - what matters is what he can accomplish.

—    PREFERENCES.

▸     INDOORS    OR    OUTDOORS ? ▸     RAIN    OR    SUNSHINE ? ▸     FOREST    AND    BEACH ? ▸     PRECIOUS    METALS  OR    GEMS ? ▸     FLOWERS    OR    PERFUMES ? ▸     PERSONALITY    OR    APPEARANCE ? ▸     BEING    ALONE    OR    BEING    IN    A    CROWD ? ▸     ORDER    OR    ANARCHY ? ▸     PAINFUL    TRUTHS    OR   WHITE    LIES ? ▸     SCIENCE    AND    MAGIC ? ▸     PEACE    OR    CONFLICT ? ▸     NIGHT    OR    DAY ? ▸     DUSK    OR    DAWN ? ▸     WARMTH    OR    COLD ? ▸     MANY   ACQUAINTANCES    OR    A    FEW    CLOSE    FRIENDS ? ▸     READING    OR    PLAYING    A    GAME ?

—    QUESTIONNAIRE.

▸      WHAT    ARE    SOME    OF    YOUR    MUSE’S    BAD    HABITS ? Hector often forgets to eat or drink, too busy to even realise he’s working with an empty stomach and has an habit of being too frank for his own good. 

▸      HAS    YOUR    MUSE    LOST    ANYONE    CLOSE    TO    THEM ?      HOW    HAS    IT    AFFECTED    THEM ? The Lord knows he’s lost so many souls, precious or not to his heart. Should it be his parents, his mentor or his one true love, loss has taken its toll on his mind since a very young age. As a reasult, he distances himself from the rest of his world, trying to turn his heart into stone as the years pass by. Halas, he has too much love to give to manage to achieve his goal -  And so, he goes from one heartache to another. In the end, he makes his peace with grief. 

▸      WHAT    ARE    SOME    FOND    MEMORIES    YOUR    MUSE    HAS ?   He remember most fondly the view he had from his childhood bedroom : in the horizon, the sea would glimmer like a mirror when the sun went down. He also loved to get lost in the wilderness and to discuss with animals he mets there. 

Later, the simple farming life he shared with his spouse, Rosaly, turned to be his favorite and fondest memories. Just being by her side was the light and only joy of his life, helping her in her everyday chores. Sheparding sheeps then falling asleep in the middle of fields, in the warmth of her embrace, is something he’ll always remember and cling to.

▸     IS    IT    EASY    FOR    YOUR    MUSE    TO    KILL ? Not really. Of course, if it is a necessity, he will go with murder - but regrets and remorse always haunts him in the end. 

▸      WHAT’S    IT    LIKE    WHEN    YOUR    MUSE    BREAKS    DOWN ? He’s not afraid to cry, so usually tears and sobs is his usual answer to frustration and sorrow. But anger and violence can also be his reaction toward injustice, driven mad  by the only thought of it. Breaking things or chopping wood while internalising it all is also something he does once in a while.

▸      IS    YOUR    MUSE    CAPABLE    OF    TRUSTING    SOMEONE    WITH    THEIR    LIFE ?

No just anyone. It takes a bit of time for someone to get this level of trust from Hector, and the proofs of their good intentions and loyalty have to be legions.

▸      WHAT’S    YOUR    MUSE    LIKE    WHEN    THEY’RE    IN    LOVE ?

He becomes akward, clumsy and timid, but so very soft and kind. He’s not really used to that king of feeling and doesn’t really know how to reciprocate it or even demonstrate it ( but he really tries ). Words come easier to him than tender gestures, so declarations are something he often go with to shower his better half with affection. 

               N A D I A ( ᵍˡᵃᵐᵒʳʷᶤᵗᶜʰ ) “ HAS SPOKEN          ❝ THE SONG OF ACHILLES | @glamorwitch | ACCEPTING !❞

FIRE SPAT IN THE FORM OF WORDS, her anger is righteous : her soul carved from freedom itself and she will not let common folk dictate her life. Customs and manners are thrown away, but her noble nature and her great moral do not need the approval of a court to be what they are ( rules are not what makes a Man good. It is kindness and determination that shows the true valor of someone ).HE WATCHES HER WALK FROM ONE END OF THE ROOM TO THE OTHER, frustration giving her an hellish pace. And though he shares her disgust for what fate her people have decided for her, calmness is the weapon he will wields in those trying time. His anger he will reserve for those who deserve it - she needs peace, reassurance ( only like this will they triumph from adversity : a well shaped plan and reciprocated support are the synonym of victory ).

that person just loves pointless edge and suffering and drama and tbh that’s not exactly good writing, in my opinion :/