#sangrantc

WHAT A DAY,    WHAT A DAY.          what a terrible thing it was to call a prince with a  crown - heavy  head your friend ;     but what a wonderful thing it was too.     the trouble had begun in the early hours of that day,   as per their usual,    and it hadn’t ceased until he had cried out in pain and she had screamed his name in naked  fear.     his name hadn’t rolled off her tongue with grace at the time and its echoes had clattered loudly across marble floors.     it clattered just as loudly within the confines of her cranium now.

who would’ve thought that a house so grand,   so newly refurbished,    and so often host to magnificent galas could also be home to such  terrors ?     well     -     perhaps the landlord had known ;     it was him,    after all,    who had hired the unfortunate pair to investigate.     there’s to be a big,   big party next month,    you see.     and the lady cannot afford to have any nonsense ruining the ambience.     it had seemed like an ordinary job,    a  treat  even     -     for how often did they have the chance to spend their days and nights in beautiful places?     three days passed without incident     /     without even a shred of damning evidence,   and the landlord   (  although reluctant and disappointed  )    agreed to sign their paycheques in advanced     -     but on one condition :     you stay one more night.

charlotte couldn’t sleep that night which meant that she wouldn’t let próspero sleep that night either.     she sat at the foot of the bed the landlord had provided for him while the prince lay drowsily ‘pon a high stack of pillows.     the lights were dimmed   (  they weren’t so cruel as to scare away the quiet nighttime  )    .     a large volume on  etiquettes and prim social behaviours  lay open on charlotte’s lap and she traced the sentences with the tip of her forefinger as she read,    muttering questions to the sleepy prince.     his advice,   no matter how distilled or condescending,   and whether  he  knew or not,    was taken quite seriously.     she’d sooner  believe in him  than any master text she could find.     and that was why when he suddenly sat upright and told her about the  spectre  that had passed outside the bedroom door,    she believed him.

then,   when he had lead the way down the dark corridor and down the grand staircase,    she had followed him.     when the lights went out and they could scarcely hear the creak of floorboards over the wail of wind outside,    she looked to  him  for assurance and strength.     when the moonlight speared through a mass of clouds and shone on the terrifying silhouette that screamed at them from the top of the stairs,   she grabbed his arm and tried to pull him behind her     -     just as he attempted to do the same for her.     when the shadows deepened and split the house in the two,    locking doors and twisting hallways,    effectively  separating  them,    she worried and panicked     -     thinking of  reunion  rather than escape,    for freedom meant little to her if it meant he was left behind.     and finally,    when the house had stopped spinning and she heard his cry,    she screamed back and ran towards the anguished sound,   a solitary thought pounding in her mind :     no,    please,    not today.

but that had been hours ago.     the blood had long dried and the skin around his stitches had faded to a healthy pink.     charlotte couldn’t sleep and watched the sunset through the hospital room’s window.     a box sat on her lap,    wrapped in gold paper and adorned with a clump of ribbons.     the paycheques lay on the bedside table,   signed,    but there was a worry that they would not go through ;     the landlord had  vanished  and charlotte hadn’t been able to find him anywhere save for a picture of his likeness which sat ‘pon a  gravestone  in the estate cemetery.

she turned her head when próspero began to stir,    sleep having worn out its charms.     her solemn smile told him that  they had come too close this time .     but what came out of her mouth was sardonic in the way only  relief and love  could be :     ❝   you’ll do anything to catch up on your beauty sleep,    won’t you?   not like any of it helps.   ❞     but then she scooted to the edge of her seat and laid her hand gently on his forearm.     ❝   docs say that you lost a lot of blood,    but the stitches will heal with minimal scarring.    and the scars will fade too.   ❞

still holding the present with one hand,   charlotte reached with the other to move a glass of flat water closer and offered it to him.     the room grew darker and finally,    to that dull grey that happened once twilight reached its end.     with the sun  safely  below the horizon once more,    charlotte breathed easy ;     he had looked too pale in the sunlight,   and the blood had practically  glittered  under the sun - rays.     things were easier to bear in the night,    as horrifying as the night might be.     she gave his arm a slight squeeze and then placed the present on his lap.     it was harder to see the wrinkles and scratches on the wrapping paper in the low light.     ❝   and before  either  of us forget :     happy birthday,    pretty boy.   ❞     inside the rectangular,   flat box lay a  pricey  although not excessively luxurious sweater ;     to replace the one she had ruined some months ago during a moment of great  confusion  and  violent  tendencies.     she raised a half - empty can of apple juice and tapped it against the lip of his glass of water.     ❝   here’s to you not dying on fucking birthday.   ❞

Próspero Ii de Montalbán y Llorente (set within Assassin’s Creed: Brotherhood):

“Foolish is that man who thinks we were all made out of the very same flesh. I believe in my own ideas, and I am convinced that everything i do helps this world to progress.”

when   had   death   touched   william?   maybe   it   was   harsh   and   fierce,   a   wolf’s   bite,   a   scratch   that   exposed   his   maimed   soul,   infectating   and   shattering   him.   dirty   he   felt,   as   if   he   were   swimming   through   pools   of   mud.   it   was   probably   his   own   blood   —   mudblood,   mudblood,   they   said,   an   apocalyptic   symphony.         ❛      how   many   deaths   can   one   die?      ❜         his   mother   thinks   he   is   dead.   his   father   thinks   he   is   dead   [are   they   alive,   anyways?].   there   wright   was.   key   in   hand,   he   wanted   to   open   the   door   —   his   memories,   his   family,   his   old   days.   the   old   days   of   a   muggle   boy   who   had   been   gone   for   such   a   long   time…   the   door   no   longer   exists.   he   wanted   to   throw   himself   into   the   water   of   the   sea,   he   wants   to   drown   —   but   the   sea   has   dried.   death   had   become   a   banalized   commodity   for   william   warren   wright.   the   forgotten   boy,   the   wonder   boy,   the   lawful   man   and   the   chaotic   wolf.   he   kept   maiming   himself,   killing   himself…   only   to   be   reborn   again,   and   again,   and   again.   a   painful   repetition.         ❛      i’m   afraid   i’ve   died   enough.      ❜        

confusing,   like   his   life.   his   deaths   intertwined   each   other   into   a   powerful   choir   —   voices   weren’t   disguisable,   all   he   could   hear   was   some   noise.   it   was   reminiscent   of   him,   after   all   —   william   didn’t   know   who   he   was.   he   still   doesn’t.

“  and  miss  seeing  you  get  dragged  to  hell?       no  way.  ”     she  scoffed  and  tossed  him  one  of  the  two  flashlights  they  had  brought.     “  come  on,   it’s the moment you’ve been waiting for   ------  time  to  die,  pretty  boy.  ”

nonverbal starters. prompts featuring nonverbal scenarios. /  @sangrantc: no shaking their head in disagreement. 

Character Solidifying / @sangrantcalways accepting !

21. What are your character’s manners like? What is their type of hero? Whom do they hate?

    Bandit!Armistice exists in a permanent state of ‘will you treat you as you treat me’, I like to think her mother was good respectable proper lady of her time. Would even go so far as for Armistice to have memories of blue dresses and Sunday church. So Armistice is definitely the sort to be AWARE that yes, manners exist, yes she should be a little nicer. But she’s always constantly one sort of answer to that voice in her head and it’s always; why? She gets alright with people over time, and she doesn’t go looking so much for trouble anymore like she did when she was a teen. If you leave her alone, chances are she’ll leave you alone. (she’s too busy hunting that list of names she got collecting to even care). 

      As for Sheriff Deputy Armistice, she has definite manners. To the point of pure selflessness. It’s from this narrative, that I think Armistice genuine selflessness of her own safety comes through in the reveries that are uploaded into her code.

     As for her type of hero, to Armistice it’s someone who would be able to look beneath the mask, and pull it off to make her face it and in that way comfort it. But what she really needs is someone who will swat the back of her head every time she self sacrifices, and tell her to take care of her self.

     What she hates? Is judgement. THAT is her tick, because she’s spent so much time at the butt of so many jokes for not living the proper way, but at the same time- if someone comes to her with a judgmental attitude, that just presumes she is the way they think by a single glance? Not gonna fly with her. Be it judgement of her self, or people she cares about. There’s also cannibalistic cults, and humans who have the disregard for the basics of respect for living things.

34. Does your character feel self-righteous? Revengeful? Contemptuous?

    Looking at her right way, the world presumes that Armistice is contemptuous 24/7, all week, every year. But it’s largely due to her silence. But in all ways, Armistice is a completely vengeful soul. Just looking at how hard she loves the people she loves, and dedicates her life to fulfilling the honor that was lost toward the death of her mother? That all speaks for itself. But when someone starts talking to her without the intent of antagonizing, they find that Armistice isn’t actually THAT rude, or THAT mean, and actually likes to have fun.

    One would assume she’s rude, being considered the scum of society, but Armistice will never hurt someone who doesn’t deserve it.

50. What are the prevailing facial expressions? Sour? Cheerful? Dominating?

    On two occasions we are allowed to see Armistice settled in her ‘prevailing’ status where she is simply sitting and waiting.  And she’s got a frown on, sour sure, eyes are always lowered to the ground, and she’s doing something. She can never sit still, and on both occasions she was doing something with her hands. Breaking up leaves, cutting up fuses of dynamite, but her eyes. HER EYES. It’s all there in those baby blues because every time she is left idle, she is left to think. And she does a lot of thinking. Exact example below: