dauðra

Hi! This is a sideblog off @amanmolded for my fandomless necromancer oc, Rabbit. I have been writing a version of her since 2008, although she’s changed quite a bit since the days of free form roleplay in the forums for Giant In The Playground.

My rules for Ethan are pretty much the same as they are here, but Rabbit has some specific rules for herself here, including the fact that if you have an undead muse and Rabbit kisses them, she now has control of them so like... avoid that if you’re not down.

Here’s her about, still a work in progress.

If you have any sensitivities to depictions of skulls or skeletons, this isn’t the blog for you.

She did mean it like that

And she did intend to make you feel stupid and small

  “I kno’ I’m no’ perfect, but whut th’ fuck happened t’ you?      How heartless are yeh? Am I no’ allowed t’ ‘ave feelings?”

Frank really didn’t care about Rabbit’s plans, or Cabal’s plans, or really much at all unless there was something particularly spicy on the telly. He was dead. He hadn’t been much of a man while he’d been alive, and though he had his regrets, he didn’t want to continue making the same mistakes that had damned him in the first place.

He stared at Rabbit, uncomprehending of her cruelty.

   “I don’t give a toss about your skinny goth hate-fuck, or your grand fuckin’ plans.         Yah, I’m lazy and a piece o’ shit, but I kno’ evil when I see it an lettin’ that girl die–

         —-that’s evil.”

Lips twitch, hardly held back from the mania that burns in her swamp green eyes as she drags deep of the smoke, cigarette she’d hand rolled nearly smoked down to its filter, ash drifting down to the otherwise nearly pristine linoleum floor. 

“Francis,”

Rabbit reaches for his face, long black nails set to poke and dimple his ‘skin’.

“I do not have it in me to give a fuck about her, or your pathetic little feelings.         She is already dying, darlin’, and ain’t nothin’ Cabal or some Norse fuck can do, much less you, incorporeal and incompetent as you are, to stop it.”

With her hand still on him, she lifts her other to her lips and sucks down the last of her cigarette, smoke exhaled from her nostrils before she drops it to the floor and crushes it beneath her Prada pump.

“So you go. And you witness.           And when I’m curious to see where the bastard’s at, I’ll call for you.          And you will come, because you’ve no choice but to come when I call.”

With a finality, she pats his cheek, like someone might with a child, before she releases him entirely.

“Don’t go crying too much when she dies, sweetheart.           Nothin’ annoys me more than the sound of cryin’.”

   “You’re one t’ talk about drama.”

He mutters, looking down at his shoes– or rather, where his shoes would be if he still had the energy to manifest his legs. The overall effect is of a petulant child; hands in his pockets.

   “Th’ fuck you care if I go back for her?     Stop me, wipe me arse off this miserable Earth if it pleases yeh–       —but know that yer fightin’ someone who doesn’t give a single shit about fightin’ you!”

Frank raised his hands– throwing them down again in a gesture of disgust.

    “Yer so busy fuckin fightin these people,        yeh can’t see the real bad fucker sneakin’ up behind wit’ the knife! Fer fucks sake!”

Slowly, carefully, she lifts her cigarette back up from it’s resting place, gently flicking the end so that the short column of ash crumbled into the ceremonial bowl. Rabbit takes a long drag, looking at Frank as he throws his fit, black lipstick staining the filter.

“And why do you care to go back for her?          You left her unconscious on her living room floor.                You forced yourself on her as she cried and begged you not to.”

Rabbit moves unlike Darcy; the latter was clumsy and awkward, even thirty years in to life, but Rabbit is muscular and practiced, each movement precise. The kind of fluid motion that comes naturally to someone raised by assassins.

One moment she is relaxed, lounging as she stares at him, and the next she is standing, close, near enough that her breath stirs the nothingness of him.

“Do you intend to pull from her to help her?”

A grin spreads across her lips, cruel and unkind.

“Sip away at her until she’s nothing, in the name of saving her?               And how do you think her boyfriend--”

A sneer.

“-- Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”

But the thought tingled at the back of her mind, the possibilities endlessly satisfying. Something wiping out Cabal and the little group of immortals he’d been collected in to, against the will of nearly everyone involved?

Delicious. Simple. A hands-free way of ridding herself of him that didn’t indicate her own fault at all.

---a pitiful thing, flickering weakly in the deepest shadows.

At first, there is little sound, nothing more than a moan of the wind.

"Bad G-d. Coming. Here."

She blows a slow stream of smoke from her mouth in his direction, placing her cigarette into the crystal bowl meant for ceremonial herbs and other such things. Within her breath is the smallest part of her magic; it hits against the nothingness of Frank and is enough to make him visible to her, to solidify his presence in hers only.

His form becomes more solid against the dark shadows of her office kitchen space, and Rabbit leans in against her empty hand, propped by her elbow on the table.

"Special occasion?"

It is easy to get overwhelmed with Horst, although not necessarily in an unpleasant way. Despite herself, red flushes into her cheeks; it's times like this she misses being nearly a lich, and how easy it had been to control such reactions.

YELLS