#heroicks

meme | accepting / poetry starters.

15. How has rp changed you personally? | also asked by @hopewrought

i’ve been rping on and off since i was about eleven so... it’s hard to say, really? it’s something i’ve grown up with and a hobby that’s apart of who i am as p much anything. looking back i got into it around about the time i got too old to play pretend games, but still kind of wanted the creative energy that comes with writing collaboratively. i’ve never been into writing fanfic b/c rping was always just more fun for me, and most of my attempts didn’t get past a chapter or so.

i guess if it has changed me it’s probably improved my ability to work with people and collaborate. as well as improve my communication skills, which still aren’t the best, but would probably be absolutely miserable w/o rp.

                “Aside from the darkness of the deepest levels of your soul?” Pike looks over her shoulder, grinning at her own joke. It takes her a beat to notice the seriousness in his tone, the doubt, and once she does she shuffles closer. Eyebrows furrowed, determined. “Okay, okay, okay, okay, do you want a real and serious answer? The very same thing I’ve seen since the first time I met you– a lot of mischief, a lot of strength, and a lot of heart. Now please tell me you’re not worried you’re different now because…” Because of the Raven Queen and their deal. She sighs, resting a hand over Vax’s and smiling. “Nothing in you has changed, trust me.”

｡○✧☽  /  accepting  /  @heroicks

     Molly’s chest heaves, the strain of the finally ended fight weighing heavy on his shoulders as he takes a staggering step forward. his sword slides from his grasp, clattering to the ground in front of him as he barely manages to keep his footing. The dead bodies of their defeated enemies lay motionless on the ground, but Mollymauk’s eyes fixate on the one that stood out among the rest, tattered clothes, the victim, the one caught in the crossfire.

     “We didn’t save him,” the tiefling just manages to wheeze out, the weight of that hitting him on top of the exhaustion to cause him to crumple to his knees. “He’s…”

     Dead.

     Mollymauk can feel the bruises formed in various places across his lavender skin, and the blood seeping out from equally various cuts and bites, but none of the injuries stung harsher than the unfortunate realization that the fight had taken a life that was completely not involved. He almost didn’t know what to do.

𝐀  𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊  𝐂𝐎𝐀𝐓,  𝐀  𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍  𝐎𝐅  𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐒;  in  an  odd  turn  of  Vax’ildan  finds  these  traits  far  more  distracting  than  the  striking  lavender  hue  of  the  tiefling’s  form.   Eye-catching,  to say  the  very  least. (  he,  on  the  other  hand,  lives  in  shadows,  thrives  by  the  corner  of  someone’s  peripheral,   one  moment  glimpsed  and  gone  again;   a  knife  in  the  gut ). He  was  made  to  be  subtle.

❝  I  suppose  it  would  depend  just  on  what  that  someone  created.  ❞  The  rogue  mulls  over  his  own  ideas  carefully,  digit  coming  to  a  curled  rest  upon  the  end  of  his  chin.

 ❝  And,  have  you?  Do  you  believe  you’ve  made  something  beautiful?  ❞ Is  it  enough?

     A sort of chuckle, maybe more of a scoff, lulls out of the tiefling. He sits back, comfortable, his legs straight out off of his chair for him to be able to recline within the seat. It nearly looks awkward, but he neither seems to notice nor care. Mollymauk lifts his arms, carefully crossing them behind his neck to rest against them like a pillow.

     “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Molly replies very matter of factly, though the faint light of something, uncertainty perhaps, in his ruby eyes perhaps tell the story of something different. “Creation is godly, creation is life and love and living- we all will commit acts of such things, and that is what makes us... us.”

     He pauses for a moment and then smiles over at the rogue. “My life is a canvas, my deeds and decisions are the brush strokes. And what I leave behind when I die will be beautiful.”

   { ☩ }—; Damn, what a fucking cool little guy. There was an itch to gently stoke that beak as a means of thanks but hey, there he went. Off to neverland. Or his Master. 

   The Otherworldly Fighter isn’t one to shy away from kind gestures (or romantic ones, a slide of glacial eyes to the book of two lovers she just sat down) but she had her suspicions. This wasn’t the green man, nor the fae, no witch or warlock; a mystery all the same.

                       But the flower...

    She twirls it ‘tween slender pale fingers, chipped black nail polish stark in the light of the evening sun. Hmm, hmm. Her knowledge of flowers could only go so far save for the ones about poison or healing from the Green Ward in The Legion. Whatthefuckdoesthismean.