#stoneveig

Rps and such, doing this since notifications is so effed up. Lmk if you want to drop, or change the plot up! Or plot! I know what I owe on due to my thread tracker telling me, but if it messed up and I missed any replies let me know here as well!

Note: Most recent reply is also linked for your easy rp pleasure

Also note: I know I owe at least 8 replies atm

Giant teeth revealed themselves in a wicked smile as the Overlord shivered. Solveig’s presence alone was enough to bring in a chill so arctic that the ghost forgot that it was summer. The way their jetblack hair and porcelain skin refused said summer’s light was also enough to draw Casper in, his heart chained by a seductive call from their presence. It was rare indeed that he EVER felt this way for a human, however...

“Youuuuu’re not human, are you?”

How could he be? He looked as beautiful as a doll and had the eyes of Satan himself. There was no way this abomination was like any “trainer” he’s met, but that’s what he adored.

Something new and fresh-- another feast for his dark ambitions that hungered far more than any Guzzlord in the 9th dimension.

“C’mon, baby! Spit it out! I wanna know what you REALLY are! SURELY you’re none too shy to let ol’ Caspy-Waspy know if you’re brave enough to romp about LIKE a human!”

“Experience, hm… your statement is true, to some level.”

All this said with a sideways smile befitting of a complex character such as them - frightening, beguiling, and above all impossible to read to the average mortal. They bring their fingers - bony, a bit too long and thin to be considered human - to their chin, and stroke it thoughtfully.

“But experience also allows men to steer clear of dangers unbeknownst to them before, now clear as day. Take, for example, the man who attempts to save his companion tied to the train tracks. He finds out, later, that this companion of his was unfaithful in every sense of the word - he thinks that, perhaps, he shouldn’t save her the next time.”

A pause, as they balance all their weight on the tip of their foot.

“And fortunately for his sanity, in this hypothetical situation, when she is met with the promise of death again, he does not save her. His experience taught him, therefore, that the life of someone who does make a mistake is inferior to that of his tarnished feelings. However, many people might argue that this is, in fact, a morally right decision.”

“Who knows, then? It is all subjective after all. Mortals are not so boring, I assure you of that.”

     He stood straight, brows furrowed slightly in thought as he crossed his arms over his chest. While his companion spoke, he tapped a finger against his arm lightly, letting the words sink in. Experience was something an old soldier relied on to keep him alive on the battlefield. Experience was something that separated the young from the old; it was what children and young adults looked to in their elders------a level of aspiration they one day hoped to have under their belts. With experience came stories, both terrible and wonderful... Yet it was all too often used as a blanket term to lessen the effects of one’s shortcomings. Failures? No, it was experience. Something to never do again. 

     “Perhaps so, but it is also more common that by the time they realise these dangers, it is far too late.” Such was the way for many he worked with. “And in many cases, these dangers are exponential; they will affect more than the person in question.” 

     He paused for a moment.

     “But you also operate under the assumption that they will learn the dangers in every scenario and make an attempt to avoid repeating it again later. It may be the case that they fail to grasp exactly what has gone wrong and so they repeat it.”

     Humans were a strange species---contradictory, emotional, occasionally impossible to predict---yet if there was one thing that resonated with him, it was the fact that they were not boring. 

“Unusual.”

It is the first word to leave his mouth at the stranger before him. Pale, silver eyes glance down at his aura reader again, and Dulse presses the button on the side once again.

It beeps, a low klaxon of protest at being commanded to scan the stranger once again. Why?

There was no aura about them. None. No light of the Blinding One, and, based on the way the device crooned its distress when he tried to order it to scan once again, no aura discernible by his technology period.

What was wrong?

“My apologies. I did not mean to intrude. My reader is... acting up.” Dulse said, with a frown of discontent.

ABCs of your OCs

1. what are your oc’s natural abilities, things they’ve been doing since young?

Antoinette, being supernatural in blood, has always had some enhanced abilities. She could certainly lift more than the average child, heal faster,  and still see in complete darkness,  but other abilities were cultivated later on. Other than the supernatural, she’s always had a knack for art, drawing, painting, and the like. 

Belladonna had a few abilities at birth. One being faster healing, and other mist and water manipulation, which grew stronger as she aged. She also had higher than normal empathy. Even as a small child, she couldn’t quite allow herself to fully hate those who hated her. She was too aware of their feelings, and reasoning behind it. The main one usually being fear.

2. what activities have they participated in?

Antoinette ’s father has always pushed more “aristocratic” activities on to her. So, fencing, painting, ballroom dancing, piano and violin playing were all something she was expected to pick up on and learn, as well as many others over the years depending on the fads and culture of the time. 

Besides adventuring, tracking, wildlife, and reading up on ancient societies, Belladonna’s interests have always geared towards medicine. So, she has watched and participated in autopsies, shadowed doctors of every century she has lived in, learned about poisons and medicines, attended lectures when she could manage, experiment on herself and others,  and so forth. Basically, anything to get better at practicing her profession.

3. what abilities do they have that they’ve worked for?

Antoinette planned on following in her father’s footsteps, so anything dealing with sailing was necessary to learn, and she certainly wasn’t always good at it. Learning to navigate took time, as well as, cartography, knot tying, ship repair, and even swimming. 

   —𝑻𝑯𝑬 world had changed. Whatever magic he conjured, however long    he spent in his own lair with his own spell-addled servants of warriors as    company, the fact remained that Chase lived on in an era that had seen    his every human peer live and die a meager, fragile lifetime—a longer one,    for those with the luck to have passed one Revolution or another, but only    marginally so when measured against his own time. Their work moved    without them, passed down in fragments tweaked and disassembled and    reassembled once again backwards into some new invention every few    decades: the electric light, the automobile, the internet. It moved and it    spread, one lifetime after another, building on and over until he could no    longer discern the structure below. The world he had walked as a human    once existed only in dwindling temples and remembered spells.

   And so, Chase Young left his citadel to buy the month’s magazines. He    couldn’t very well ask for them to be delivered to the menacing cave    carved into a volcano, after all.

   It was simple enough to veil his armor, slimming its appearance to    something better suited to the decade. The exact illusion had seen    more changes than he cared to keep track of, one definition of casual    or another presented to the human or magically-uninclined in just    enough to allow him to browse the bookstore shelves in peace. One    could only read ancient texts so many times.

   He would have thought, if approached by any being of inscrutable,    horrible power and origin, that it would be while reading one of said    ancient texts, but there they were, at the end of the aisle, catching his    eye through the dark lenses of his shades (his eyes refused all attempts    at glamour) as he skimmed the editor’s note of a genuinely thought-    provoking gardening magazine. A glance alone instilled the cold, sick    inkling of something very wrong, or more than an inkling, if he looked for    longer at the gleam in their eyes or the breadth of their smile. His scalp    prickled with the energy in the air, a kind of slight and subtle that meant    enough power to hide its own extent. For minutes longer, he stood,    flipping from page to page and retaining maybe a word of each, before    taking the magazine in one hand and moving to the next down the aisle.

Joker had left Gotham with one goal in mind: to find someone,  no, SOMETHING. There were tales older than him, tales of the DEVIL HIMSELF walking the Earth and striking deals with mortals, the same boring shtick, but enough of them had gone back to him and rattled his mind late at night, just WHAT IF? What If these tales were true. Maybe he could get an answer or two of his true nature, or perhaps a deeper dive into the negative zone that was his warped SANITY. It sent Joker all across Europe for months until he found the “lair of the beast” as the locals called it. It was in a thick, murky forest, the kinds where every single tale of horror had taken place, even the air itself had a gothic overtone; Bats would CREAM his tights if he were here. Despite it being noon on the dot, the deeper Joker traipsed into the brush, the darker the sky grew until it could very well be late DUSK, but none of this deterred him. Once Joker had reached a point where something in his mind told him to stop, he cried out into the trees. “Come on out you BIG RED ASS ! Come out to plaaaayyy!” Joker felt no fear in mocking forces far greater than himself, after all, he was to a degree a force himself.