#umbrclflame

“I know you’re hiding there.” He glances over his shoulder to the rocky landscape. Jay can feel the piercing gaze of whomever was watching him, and watching him with such intent-- though whether malicious or not he couldn’t tell. 

Radahn: Sister? 👀(dw I shrunk him so he's ONLY 10')

“Ah..“ It seems her consorts did little to halt his advance. She’d barely been able to stack up an additional foot before his arrival. Even at this size, he threatens her ceiling.

Lucette cannot believe the levels of stupidity she was willing to sink to! What in Spiral possessed her to try out a hidden spell she found in an old dusty book?! And the book hadn’t even been hers!

“Let that be the last time I go digging through Maria’s things.” She mumbled, mentally kicking herself as she dusted off dirt from her training attire. Now poor Maria was probably panicking and having a heart attack somewhere. And where was she? Lost in the middle of....somewhere!

The environment around her appeared normal but something felt....off. Lucette knew for certain that this was not Valencia nor any world she had traveled to in the past. Which meant the spell must’ve teleported her somewhere beyond the Spiral.

“Damn. What do I do now? Uncle is going to be furious with me!” Lucette paced back and forth, lost.

‘I leave you alone for a few minutes and already you’ve gotten yourself into trouble! Where did you bring us to this time, girl?’

And of course, She makes an appearance.

“Nowhere that seems to be hostile, thank you very much. Just had a little mishap.” Lucette snapped back before looking around. Her instincts rebelled against doing this but, she needs to check.

A soft chuff leaves Salem, a sound that marks contentment and affection. His head shifts against the pillows— soft and huge. He reaches out, searching for another, but his hands find the bed cold and empty beyond his side. 

He grumbles, silver eyes cracking open, a faint glow in the dark room. 

from Send ✏ and I will draw your muse [slooowly accepting~]

@umbrclflame BIRD SQUAD

“That is their prerogative.”  In the man’s shadow it was colder still, the absence of Horace keenly felt.  Cautiously, as though to look alone might cut her, Anri’s gaze traced the hard edges of his armour, his steel.  In every corner of this miserable world lurked the promise of violence.   Expressive eyes, framed by the narrow slit of her helm, tried to find some trace of his own features – as if her naivety would allow her to gauge his integrity with any accuracy. 

      The expression on his face is not a pout, although it may as well come across as one, one side of his face smushed by how he rested his chin on his palm. One leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent so that his arm could lean on it, he sat on the floor as he idly watched the eternal flame with some passing interest, dark eyes lazily glancing in his current company's direction only when spoken to.

       "... Kind of?" Because he was thinking of Kenshi, but he wasn't... but he was, and that's what frustrated him. "But in the abstract sense -- I don't hate him anymore, this is less about him and more... about my relation to him?" He did not mean to phrase it as a question, but with the tricky issue of trying to convey feelings to another person, Takeda couldn't help it, a brief frown shadowing his expression.

           :･ﾟ 🔥┇ The Netherrealm. Crimson peaks and inky shadows drape the lands; there is a noise, constant, in the distance, close, all around: prayers that sink and bleed into one another, incantations and sacred gibberish — perhaps they are illusion, or perhaps they are echoes of souls that once were, now shattered. The sea of blood breaks at the jagged edged shores, another sound like white noise to add to the voices.

            And near the shore, looking into the endless bloody ocean, a familiar shape, tall and robust — the frame of a man dressed in yellow garments, katana and tanto blade firmly holstered at his side. His back turned, the bun of his hair seems a slight disheveled, with a few ebony strands following the oven hot breeze. Despite this disposition, his shoulders, even from afar, seem tense. Too square. His fingers, at his sides, crisped like claws.

             The call of his name seems to stir the man from his stupor or reverie — he turns, slowly, feet shifting in the wet, red clay — and here he stands: Hanzo Hasashi… yet what stares back is heavy with leaden anger, with something somber and dark despite the whites of his eyes; like pearls glistening in the receding light of the sky. His complexion, once a rich bronze, now holds a verdant hue as though moss has built beneath his skin. As he takes in the one who called him by name, as he stares at Kuai Liang, his lips part to utter a single word: 

                                                      ❝— You...❞