#timeshatterer

Give me an Url and I will say the thing I like best about that blog.

[[ahh i don’t really know them to be honest ;; but i did look up their blogs and oh man they seem to be such a sweetheart. very quality writing too!!]]

   Red eyes glowed a faint spell on the boy of time, another creature she has come to admire with all of her heart. Carefully, Elise lowered her body and legs as quiet as a mouse before she tip-towed closer and closer behind the child.

   His white hair as tall as a chicken’s mane bobbed and inched with each turn of his head. How cute-- ( appetizing. ) 

   She just couldn’t help herself... a leap and her arms were suddenly wrapped around his shoulder. Her cheek digging into the side of his head as breasts cushioned his back. Tight she held him; there was no way she was going to let go.

send me any and all headcanons

     … I’m sure @goldenmovement and I could sort it out …

     Realistically, though?

     There’d be jabs, quips, perhaps some threats; if either one was feeling particularly annoyed, then it would come to blows.

     Somewhere in the stalemate, there’d be a huff, then a begruding admission.

ask me any and all headcanons

     …

     Regrettably –

     – yes. He has. Jhin takes pride in each and every performance, be they nothing more of a tale shared between killer and victim, or a grand stage of many personalities and audiences – they are each unique, and carry his artistic touch. What, then, when all of those plans fall apart? What, then, when the victim bites back harder than he could have ever imagined?

     Frankly, it amounts to a bit more than a small irritation. He owns his sense of control – and when it’s tested, he does not react in kindness. The failures – no half-victories, no half-finished performances – are few and far inbetween.

     He remembers each and every one of them.

     Some, he got ahead of himself (a lasting barb from his earlier years, unfortunately); others, he simply waited too long. (Alas, dear father.) Regardless of the reason Jhin refuses to speak of them, and for a particular few, being reminded of them elicits seething anger to this day.

send me any and all headcanons

     In the mouth of the public, it would be known as the Blood Moon Massacre.

     In the mouth of Jhin, it would be known as his magnum opus.

     Everything was perfect. Everyone was in attendance – the Eye, the shadow, perhaps the disenfranchised spirit of Kusho himself – and Jhin had verified the actors, the script, the horrific (and marvelous!) turn of events no less than four times.

     For a time, nothing was unordinary about that play. The curtains pulled up, masked faces drew out their legs and arms in wonderful pantomime, as is tradition, and their performances began. He would say performances even for but a single actor; they had the performance they rehearsed, and more importantly, the one they did not. He is a stalwart believer that the most passionate performances are the ones that come straight from the heart.

     Or, as the case may be, the stomach. How could have anyone known that the actors, sharing a banquet with each other before the play, had their feast tainted? How could anyone have known that the actors were dead, unrealized yet, the moment they assembled on the stage?

     Only one knew – and he would not spoil the surprise.

     The actors – his actors – would notice something partway into the second act. A rumbling in their gut, perhaps. Disembodied pain that pined their fingers and settled hazily on their knees, potentially. Though odd, they would persevere. The crowd was thick and the audience esteemed. They could not afford to fumble this performance.

     Neither could he.

     Then, in the third act, something bizarre happened. The actors stopped the pantomime, and broke the symbolic silence.

     They began to sing.

     It was not a lovely singing, as their voices were unfortunately untrained. It was a gravelly singing, one of sharp edges and unknowing angles. The actors, behind their masks, could not stop this singing if they tried. Their throats were not theirs anymore. Their voices were reliquished to him.

     Whispers flocked to the audience. An unsettled stir blanketed the air.

     He was smiling. How beautiful it was to see an audience brought to the edge of their seats –

     – and how more beautiful it would be to see their terrified faces.

     Proudly among the chorus of the singing, he strode in, turning up at the center of the stage. His get-up was not unlike the actor’s, with one exception: their masks were tangled with whites and reds.

     His – was pure gold.

     The singing quieted. He tapped a leg on the smooth wood of the stage, and announced the fourth and final act of the play would now commence. A surprise, he said, would also be in play: the audience was invited to the performance.

     Then.

     All hell broke loose.

     The actors screamed one after another, their cries a symphony of the finest despair. Clutching at their stomachs, their wails and yells were punctuated by the blossoming of flowers across their skin. They burned and they writhed, they gurgled and they died.

     And for the audience that ever so preciously gorged themselves on the complimentary food at the stage before the play, they too would see the beauty. The perfection.

     And him? He could see the looks. The faces. The death.

     He bowed.

send me any and all headcanons

     DEMON. sigh

     Jhin’s weapons are of their own craft; it would be difficult to be the Golden Demon without weapons worth remembering. Partial to swordsmanship, taking away from his father’s style and adding a breadth of uniqueness due to the unfamiliar blade shape in Ionia, Jhin dual wields scimitars. They are steel, double edged and indescribably sharp. The curve is much softer than a Shuriman scimitar, and more deliberate – the curve begins at the middle of the blade rather than at its beginning.

     Of course, where would he be if he did not add his artistic flair? The hilt separator for both weapons is pure ivory, with the hilt meticulously gold-leafed over a wrapping of gauze-like material. At the hilt’s end there is a sizeable rose-colored jewel crowned into the ivory, cut as if it were a blooming flower.

Your character has just discovered my character’s journal/diary.

Leave a  ☱ in my askbox for an entry that’s about you ACCEPTING

</ OPEN LOG // PERSONNEL // Ekko

</BEGIN LOG

I can count on one hand how many good things have come out of Zaun. And they all stayed out, for good reason. Can’t pin all them as the vile scum, but the amount of arms smuggling, chemical warfare and black market exportation really makes it difficult to see the best.

More so this kid I’ve been tracking for a bit. Name’s Ekko, typical slum rat. Except that device he’s packing- Ability to rewind time? Even magic can’t explain that, wouldn’t understand it even if someone tried. 

Regardless, he’s not the genocidal or insane type. Which is all the better, considering the former, and he acts to reform Zaun much like the Gale, Janna. Still, what is there to reform? Place has gone to hell and brought it back. 

That’ll take years- Not seconds.

</BEGIN AUXILIARY LOG

sonofabitch

I knew it. He’s who Ani was hiding. All this time, he was right there, right goddamn there. I’ll have a talk with her, then I need to find this boy.

She claims he’s not like the rest? She’s young and I can’t simply take her word for it. If he checks out, I’ll make sure he knows I’ll be watching him.