Screams echoed in the halls.

Shrieks of pain, pleas for mercy, and between each one, a sharp CRACK.

The noises traveled far through the cold stone hallways, as if emanating from the walls themselves. The Bastille screams.

Down the chill halls and dark corridors, past cells of men long dead and hollows long forgotten, and behind bloodstained bars stood the black warden. Gentle moonlight shining through holes in ancient walls mingled with the harsh glow of the torch nearby. Flickering light shined across barbs of steel, a terrible mess of metal and blood. Before it, a man in chains struggled wildly, eyes wide and mouth open as he begged.

✔ : A plot you would love to play out with your character 

  Specific plot, I have none. But I wish to do something very emotional and fulfilling. Writing outwardly happy but secretly insecure, doubting, meager Feeva is always fun, but it is always what i seem to do. Something serious, and very intentionally sad, or dramatic would be fun.I do also want to plot where rather than being a mute, she is blind. This is something I have thought of many times as well.

☄: A doubt you have about your writing 

I worry that I cannot properly portray what Feeva needs me to. She has a difficult time getting her point across as it is, and i'm only interpreting it. Writing a character who can never speak is not easy, this i assure you. It is cause for worry within me.

❢: Your favorite icon of your muse's FC 

SEND ME “♛” AND I WILL POST A STARTER BASED OFF SONG I’M CURRENTLY LISTENING TO.

( You know I've always had a good ear For every little lie. Your eyes remind me of city lights They're bright but not alive.    )         -- Mindset Evolution - Burn It Down

seinnicht

   G o n e  were the days he often times fought to remember. Though just as easy, he let them slip from his fingers. To leave his mind in ignorance... blissfully anguishing ignorance. Where he knew nothing... was nothing. He lay in the cavern, the bodies that scattered the circumference of his shelter meant nothing to him. For this was bliss. This was the void.

   Something moved outside, the smallest sound that caused his fingers to twitch, and his head tot urn where he lay. A scowl, menaced by a scar that crossed pale lips. Nothing came, and so his arm inched away from the secondhand blade next to him. Where his armaments were, he did not know. Nor did he care, he had given up on their retrieval long ago.

   This place was of shadow, deep regret and squalor. He could hear them at times, outside. Pitiful prisoners of the curse. He never made a move to observe them, nor to intervene in their lives. He had cut his own path, to this cave where he lay among bodies that could not rot more than they already had. They dare not approach, they dare not bother. Nor do they wish to. It was a sort of... unspoken agreement.

   He wore white, outlining his figure clearly even in shadow. It was not pure, darkened and faded by it's surroundings. Very little of it was his own clothing, but he cared not for embellishment or ornate robes any longer.

      he was filth