#circumscribedvoid

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url: don’t get it | not bad | nice | good job | love it omg | who did you kill i'm so happy i know what a url means

theme: not my type | ehh | decent | I like it | pretty amazing | I’m stealing it its just not my taste

icon: don’t get it | not bad | nice | pretty | flawless omg | brb killing myself i really like that icon omg don't look at me

posts: not my type | not bad | nice job | love | perfection | give me your password ilu

roleplay: ehh | it’s p nice | well blow me down | love | gimme your brain | please write with me sobs ur so gr8 lbr

death | my character's reaction to your character dying.

               The Outsider only appears human; no                end, no beginning, as far as Corvo is                concerned. He never paid much attention                to the Abbey's teachings or religious                history of any kind. It wasn't ever immediately                important to him.

                              Now, he wishes that maybe he had listened.

               There is so much blood covering his hands                as he presses them to the Outsider's stomach,                on wounds that appear from nowhere, slices                that mirror the ones cut into whales over and over,                methodically and without care. Corvo is helplessly                watching the red pool deeper, the purple curtains                of the shrine stain dark, and the Outsider's eyes are                as glittering black as ever, pain written on his face                but gaze showing centuries. 

                              It is such an alien thing, to see pain there in                               the god's expression. Corvo is transfixed, hands                               pressed atop the Outsider's coat, brows drawn                               together. 

               The red is slowing down, but Corvo feels a pulse                somewhere deep in the black guts he is keeping                inside the god's body by virtue of sheer willpower.                The beats from the pulse slow, too, until they are faint                enough again to not be felt. Warm blood covers Corvo's                knees, the bottom of his own coat, his shoes -- he is                sticky with it, and the Outsider blinks -- 

                              -- briefly, his eyes are that of a human's, brilliant                               blue like the sea and the sky merged into one, and                               it is gone again when his eyes close finally --

...for my character's reaction to your character running their fingers through my character's hair.

               The Void is a blanket that covers like the                air is damp, always; there is no real                temperature to it that Corvo can feel, the                only discerning show of heat (or lack thereof)                being the mark on the back of his hand; he                has never questioned it, nor thought much of it.                Fingers like a ghost's climb through his hair as                he opens weary eyes to the not-world around                him, and he sinks back into the touch, brows lax                for once. He is comfortable, though he does not               really realize this.

               It is the first time in a dreadfully long time that he                has no room set aside in his mind for the way his                muscles quirk painfully at certain angles or the ache                of particular old wounds acting up again.

     Honestly one could hardly go ten feet in Dunwall without encountering a shrine of sorts to the mysterious being known only at the Outsider. The Empress was indifferent towards any religion, as she found herself to be a strong enforcer of the separation of church and state. While the Abbey influenced the political system more heavily than she would like, it was unavoidable in the end.

     She would have been more impressed to find the glow of purple lanterns near the back of the kitchens, considering the aforementioned influence, if it not be for the sudden worry that struck her. The individual who put this here was sure to be found out. Jessamine had no desire deal with the Abbey and their inevitable accusations. For a moment, she considered taking it down herself. Though to be caught with such items meant for the worship of an infamous figure would be political suicide. Or actual suicide, depending.