#mourn.intro

❛ if there is a light i am going to swallow it. if there is a god i'm going to make them cry. ❜

THE BRUISER. 28. SHE/ HER.  𓆸 PENNED BY MAI 

❝ i am not a maiden anymore, and i am glad to be done with that sorry state. i washed it off in blood and ocean. ❞

25 | she/her | grisha healer

Bio . Details . Skeleton . 

                                                 ━━ ❛ 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐀𝐑. 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐒𝐈𝐗. 𝐇𝐄 / 𝐇𝐈𝐌.                                                                      written by abby. ( 23 , she & they , est )

he’ll say it was the light in the street that woke him, though sleep had not yet come to the shoebox room above the tavern. he’ll say it was for the shouts and pleading that he descended with his rifle, though it was in his hand before any noise had reached the window. he will have a dozen excuses for himself and the body at the end of his barrel. the truth of the matter is that matthias has war in his veins and he is tired of running.

❝ 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍. 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐥, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟: 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐫, 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫, 𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞. ❞

↳ Fides | 26 yrs | he/him | portrayed by dev patel

written by ishmael. 21, they/them pronouns, est.

–––––––––––   INTRO   ||   LIGHT MODE INTRO   ||    PINTEREST

𝐘𝐎𝐔  𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄  𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐃  𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄.  waist  deep  in  a  fresh  grave,  you  learned  to  hold  your  breath  whilst  choking  on  a  mouthful  of  dirt.  to  reach  solid  ground,  you’d  have  to  traverse  the  blackholes  of  ketterdam  and  take  what  you  want  —  the  deal  is  the  deal  until  it  suits  you  otherwise  (  as  the  turncoat  now  knows  ).  a  natural  villain,  you’ve  never  been  concerned  with  washing  the  blood  from  your  hands.  if  you  know  your  next  move,  it’s  never  lonely  at  the  top.  content  in  the  cataclysm  once  reaped  by  your  own  gang,  it  was  a  cutthroat  heist  that  derailed  an  expanse  of  achievements.  head  to  head  with  the  bastard  of  the  barrel,  you  beat  each  other  bloody;  a  brawl  which  should  have  put  one  six  feet  under  but  ended  in  brothers  sporting  deranged  grins.  you  could  have  cut  your  losses  and  ran,  yet  ascended  to  the  crow’s  second  in  command,  a  staggering  sense  of  fealty  causing  you  to  shake  kaz  brekker’s  gloved  hand.  but  a  voice  whispers  that  the  dregs  could  be  your  own,  and  like  a  bad  dog,  you  get  mean  when  you’re  nervous,  plotting  to  take  the  throne.

ABOUT THE WRITER –––––––––––  hello everybody! henry jude here, from gmt+8, happy to present jozef laurens de ridder, resident lieutenant, local mess, and all-around sus crewmate. 

THE BROKER. VALDIS ZUIDERDUYN. SHE/HER. TWENTY-NINE. SQUALLER.  written by iris (she/her), 26, gmt+1

IF THERE WAS A GOD HERE, they’d have raised a hand by now. so who do you serve? your own costly mistake made you an indenture as penance for ghezen, and another’s very nearly got you killed, sliced open in search of your power. you’ve never been one for morals. your family didn’t raise you on them, nor did you adopt them. you only know when you’ve been wronged, and you have become kerch enough to keep a ledger for that sort of thing: sow wind, reap storm. after you got back from foreign shores, you brought the hurricane right into ketterdam, until the wrong was righted. your debt afterwards did not bother you; you, at least, knew the value of some contracts, of honoring bargains struck, and the calm it had bought you. you have served your sentence, but threading water in the barrel does not give you desire to take flight.