#lunarruled

@lunarruled

Location: Outskirts of Boston, Massachusetts

The Boston asphalt was a harsh contrast to the moss-covered earth of Wilderness Ireland, but the ache in Niccola’s muscles felt exactly the same. Behind her, the dense treeline hummed with the fading, static residue of the spiritual threat she’d just laid to rest. Ahead, the highway stretched out under the encroaching twilight, headlights from passing cars occasionally cutting through the gloom and casting long shadows across her path.

She adjusted her grip on her weapon of choice: the ornate, carved Elder staff. At its peak, the Moon-blessed Opal throbbed with a faint, iridescent violet light, slowly settling down after channeling the pure elemental forces required to banish the entity. She let out a heavy breath, her light Irish lilt softening the sigh as she muttered to herself, "Right then. That's sorted." She worked hard to tame her thick accent over the years, ensuring the American locals could actually understand her, but exhaustion always brought the rolling hills of her childhood right back to her tongue.

Pulling her blue, tweed-woven Belstaff coat tighter around her curvy, plus-size full figure, she tucked her chin into her black knitted scarf to shield against the biting New England wind. Beneath the heavy coat, her form-fitting tunic of bone and satin was smudged with supernatural ash, and the leather pants hugging her legs were splattered with mud. By sheer habit, her hand drifted down to check the set of throwing daggers strapped snugly to her left thigh. Intact. Ready. She was proficient in close combat, but it never hurt to have options.

As another car sped past, kicking up a gust of grit, she adjusted her leather gloves. Even through the material, the world felt distant. The Asgardian curse was a constant anchor; a foolish love promise made in her youth that stripped away the simple joy of physical touch, leaving her entirely numb to anything unless it came from true love.

Still, she was Winter Moon, Mani’s daughter, the Protector of the Isle. Her amethyst eyes scanned the dark roadside. Standing at just five feet, with a mane of wavy raven black hair escaping her scarf and cascading over her caramel complexion, she knew she looked striking and out of place walking the highway shoulder. But a High Moon Priestess didn't wait for a ride. With the moon rising to feed her strength, Niccola kept walking.

So I'm bringing back the appreciation post. Fuck it.

@savagecuhnt , @reevezs , @emmaxmeyer , @abysmxls , @lunarruled , @twdgdeadmanwalking , @lostxones , @thatwritingjuju , @renegadetulis , @ruinedsoulsrp , @waveofstars , @huntrcssqueen , @cupxofxstars , @townshaped , @lithiumwolff

@lunarruled sent: "And they tried to warn me about you." (for Jonathan Byers)

Jonathan's gaze flicking to her with a mix of caution and curiosity. He shrugged as if to say he didn’t care, but as he looked away, his eyes told a different story. ❝Yeah, well, people say a lot of things.❞ He murmured, his voice low. ❝Most of it’s probably wrong.❞

There was a mix of hurt, mistrust, but yet there was a stubborn spark that refused to disappear. ❝But … ❞ His voice dropped, a little quieter now, almost a confession. ❝I like being on my own. Not everyone’s cut out for the circus out there.❞

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@lunarruled asked: "Admit it, you're having fun!"

Strange Angel Sentences.

Between walls that were stacked high and shelved with books, the comfortable fullness of a stomach fattened by beer and greasy tavern fries, the betrayal of a smile dared to undo the Hitman, a fault of his own person. Born from the corners, a soft, subtle pink on his cheeks, novels and literature collections carried in his hands, a bundle. Selections of his own choosing, decisions that Kyleigh both wanted and yet wasn't sure of, genres that ranged from fantasy to crime. Leatherbound, paperback, and hardcover cradled in Bret's embrace, the bends of his elbows, for the sole purpose that Kyleigh might be able to search better. Perched upon a ladder and scanning covers, authors; the smallest bookstore in the smallest town in the whole United States victim to the Hitman and her. A date, an adventure between friends, two people who hadn't meant to become so close yet did. Goodness bloomed from the bleakness of the WWF - an uncontrolled circus, an arena that would've better fit the ages of old, gladiators and colosseums - the days that Bret couldn't stand to endure. A hero lost, he hadn't found happiness in so long. It was akin to the loss of his own heart.

But amongst the sounds of gentle melodies played through speakers, the crease of pages being turned, Kyleigh's laughter and excitement, some bit of happiness did come back. A flutter, discovered in the smiles he tried to hide, the crinkle of lines around his brown eyes, the swiftness of trying to look toward another direction. Paid for dinner, didn't mind to make purchase on their stock, looked up to the woman on the ladder as fondly as he would've a member of his family. So small, Bret hoped that the feelings would last forever. A wonderful, bright memory, to numb the bitterness of having his head cracked open, a foe's fists bashed down onto his nose. Much more pleasant than Sid or the Undertaker, to be held within his heart until the end. Kyleigh had made Bret feel alive.

Awoken from his bliss by the warmth of her teasing, the Hitman gained command of his features, the boyishness, the innocence. Pulled the smile, darkened the eyes, tried to appear as disgruntled, as disinterested, as he could. A mock expression of boredom, clenched the horde of books to his chest in pretend annoyance, side-glanced Kyleigh who gazed down from her higher standing. Rolled his eyes, for the hope of her amusement, Bret's cute efforts at casual play, to tease her back.

"Yeah. Lots." Bret joked sarcastically, a toothless grin daring to ruin his whole performance, his feet shuffled.

"Y'know, Kyleigh, someone's gonna see me carrying around these girly romance books and start to get ideas about me. I don't even like pirates."

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