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@yuanwang
MEDICAL UPDATE! <3
i'm sorry the blog is still on hiatus and will be for the near future, i am always lurking on site or on discord though so feel free to reach out either here or there! <3 i love u all i hope to be back soon
more info below, tw; medical stuff & scary/unknown diagnosis
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AMIHAN @yuanwang ACTIVITY HAS BEEN DETECTED
intruder alert!!!! blue egofang in the inbox!!
happy resident evil day !! <3
@fenheral: "am i now to be the tricky, clever, deceptive type in your stories?"
there is something all too familiar about standing before a mage that drowns the people around them in the blood of that weeping heart that seems to exist in just about every single damned one of them. varric’s own myocardium is a sturdy cacophony, a deafening sound aside the threat solas strikes in posture alone. “ chuckles, if there’s a right way to describe you— ” he can’t tell anymore, or more accurately he doesn't want to, not yet. there’s a fragile line between hope and reality, the same width of a page, and he's accustomed to pulling it as taut as a bowstring — willing to cash out all that good for just one more opportunity to prove himself right. a habit he’s been unable to kick since kirkwall — just another thing that’ll be buried with him. solas’ wants to save the world, that’s real ambition, a real story, something that's greater than himself. to destroy what you love, for what you love. varric’s not that ambitious, unwilling to take the shot for the greater good, for a decade the cavity in his chest was home to stone walls and dingy taverns, serving comeuppance to the simoniac and the cruel, not ... “ —i’m still working on it. ” even now his heart isn’t quite that big, there’s no room for whatever paradise is beyond, just the tall elf that covets it. “ why don't you help me out? ”
@isrya: ❝ remind me again how you convinced me playing a game of wicked grace would be good for me. ❞ adam drawls with a smirk, a brow lazily raised in question. sitting slouched in a chair by his bedside in the infirmary, he shuffles the worn cards for them both before they start. ❝ not that i’ll go easy on you. just because you’re recovering and therefore lighthouse bound doesn’t mean you’re senile. ❞
“ who said this was for you? gotta keep my wits about me in here — what better way to do that than having you talk my ear off? ” hard to write a book when he’s been benched in the prologue, isra’s more than his eyes and ears now. might as well be his pen, too. the mage doesn’t strike him as a religious sort, even in the most dire of circumstances, but he’d be smart to pray that varric doesn’t get his hands on the angel of death card first. there's no telling when the sun sets — if it sets, in this damned fade — but that card'll be cozy in his hand 'til the birds sing. “ yeah, yeah. you're lucky you're in here for wicked grace and not to sponge me. ”
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@yuanwang ☆ : “ why should i tell you? ” his hands wrap around the ceramic, still warm from leftover broth, and lifts the rest of his meal to his lips━ decidedly sticking to his stance on the topic. he joined valorant for the resources, the free range to travel wherever under the pretense of a sanctioned mission, not for one of their senior members to follow him around like a lost chick. phoenix had called him before meeting in person, either not deterred by the ignored phone call or happily ignorant to its implications. yoru couldn’t care less, he’s there when the mission starts, that's all that should matter. he’s not here for anyone else. “ i’m here for my own reasons, i don’t investigate whatever lost dog brim’s found to tag. ” unprompted.
the morning had been plagued by chaos; sirens, shouts and gunshots splitting the skies. as good an alarm as any other, phoenix reasons, ceramic in hand as coffee traverses southward down throat. it’s a bitter burn that settles in his stomach. almost reminiscent of the man he turns toward once he parts that barbed mouth in wry askance.
gaze shifts, directs itself upon present company’s mien instead, pupils locked onto something cimmerian, arrogant in the disinterest reflected within depths of irises bathed umbra. a frown━ perhaps a pout, weighs heavily upon phoenix’s pinched lips as yoru continues on; ravaged by the torrents of conviction. he doesn’t mean to dim his demeanor━ bright and enflamed, although he finds it much easier to mask the heat crawling up his nape with a dissatisfied expression.
“ c’mon, don’t you think it’d be an advantage getting to know your fellow comrades? build some trust, maybe━ then brim wouldn’t have to request one of us keep an eye on you. ” he speaks with candor, a quiet attempt at lighthearted reassurance. clears the ashy exhaustion from his throat with a peal of laughter. “ maybe he’ll have to get you microchipped if you keep avoiding my calls. who’s the lost dog now? ”
he stomped his foot over the fire burning the olive branch, extinguished it as much as he could before the embers ignited themselves into a full-fledged flame once more, an infinite light. phoenix is as insistent as he’d figured—no surprise there—still annoying though. the polished paint of the ceramic decoration takes his interest more than the other man beside him, settling it down on the counter with a faint clunk.
“ so, what? i’m supposed to take advice from someone on babysitting duty? maybe you should give this spiel to brimstone. ” trust is a two way street, yoru’s not keen on building that bridge himself; certainly not seeing any reason to give it a second thought when brimstone’s opted to give him a tail. dark brow twitches when the laughter hits his ears, taunting has never been foreign to him, not when he indulges in it so relentlessly. no, there’s some remnant of irritation reserved for the blazing man beside him at his lack of awareness. “ what’s worse, being the dog or being ordered to find it? ”
yoru doesn't bother to check if his mug of coffee is empty—his bowl is and that’s all there is to take note of before he starts to slide his phone off the counter, clearly done with the lackluster atmosphere of the restaurant. his destination is undecided, his psyche agitated while maintaining the facts of all the moving parts. departure is casual, an opposition to keep the company unwarranted. for now.
𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐓 ! @yuanwang : “ … cowboys—vaqueros—originated in mexico, and were initially hired by ranchers to tend to their livestock with their superior roping, riding, and herding skills. when the railroads were built eight to twelve cowboys would move three-thousand head of cattle along the cattle drives, bringing along a trail boss and cook with them—the least they deserved is a proper meal with their outings, wouldn’t you say? after all, they worked around fifteen hours a day under rough and grueling environments … ” she turns then, staring through the orange visor of someone that works under similar conditions, “ maybe we should get you an old fashion cowboy hat. ”
𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖𝙣 𝙤𝙛𝙛 𝙛𝙚𝙬 𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙖. 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙩𝙚 [ what he would call ineffeciency ] ᵈⁱᵈ ʰⁱˢ ᶠʳⁱᵉⁿᵈ ᵒᶠᶠᵉʳ ʰⁱᵐ ᵃ ʷᵉᵃˡᵗʰ ᵏⁿᵒʷˡᵉᵈᵍᵉ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵍˢ ʰᵉ ᶠᵒᵘⁿᵈ ᵘⁿⁿᵉᶜᶜᵉˢᵃʳʸ ⁻ ˢᵒᵐᵉʷʰᵃᵗ ᵘⁿᵉˢˢᵃʳʸ. ⁱᶠ ⁱᵗ ᵉⁿᵗʰᵘˢᵉᵈ ʰᵉʳ, ʰᵉ ˡⁱˢᵗᵉⁿᵉᵈ. ᵃⁿᵈ ˡⁱˢᵗᵉⁿ ʷᵃˢ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵃˢᵗᵉʳ ᶜʰⁱᵉᶠ ᵈⁱᵈ ʷᵉˡˡ ʷʰᵉⁿ ⁱᵗ ᶜᵃᵐᵉ ᵗᵒ ᵃˡˡ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜᵘʳⁱᵒˢⁱᵗⁱᵉˢ ᶜᵒʳᵗᵃⁿᵃ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ʷᵃⁿᵗ ᵗᵒ ˢʰᵒʷ ʰⁱᵐ. ʰᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ’ᵗ ᵐⁱⁿᵈ ⁱⁿᵈᵘˡᵍⁱⁿᵍ ʰᵉʳ ⁱⁿqᵘⁱˢⁱᵗⁱᵛᵉ ⁿᵃᵗᵘʳᵉ, ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ᵒⁿ ᵐⁱˢˢⁱᵒⁿˢ. ᵃ ˢᵉʳⁱᵉˢ ᵒᶠ ᵗᵉˣᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁱᵐᵃᵍᵉˢ ˢᵖʳᵘⁿᵍ ᵒᵛᵉʳ ʰⁱˢ ᵛⁱˢᵒʳ. ᶜᵒʷᵇᵒʸˢ… 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐬 [ never seen one of those ], 𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐬 ( as well ), 𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙝,w̲i̲d̲e̲ ̲p̲l̲a̲i̲n̲s̲ ̲a̲n̲d̲ ̲a̲r̲c̲h̲a̲i̲c̲ ̲g̲u̲n̲s̲ ̲c̲a̲l̲l̲e̲d̲ ̲r̲e̲v̲o̲l̲v̲e̲r̲s̲. ᶜʰⁱᵉᶠ ʰᵃˢ ˢᵉᵉⁿ ᵐᵃⁿʸ ᵒˡᵈ ʳᵉˡⁱᶜˢ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵉˢᵗ ⁻ ᶠᵃʳ ᵖʳᵉᵈᵃᵗⁱⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵉˢᵉ ᵈᵃᵗᵉˢ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜᵒʷᵇᵒʸˢ ᶜᵒʳᵗᵃⁿᵃ ʷᵃˢ ᵖʳᵉˢᵉⁿᵗⁱⁿᵍ ʰⁱᵐ. ʸᵉᵗ ᵗʰᵉˢᵉ ˢᵉᵉᵐᵉᵈ ᶠᵃʳ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ᵃʳᶜʰᵃⁱᶜ ᵗʰᵉⁿ ᵃⁿʸ ᵗʰᵒᵘˢᵃⁿᵈˢ ᵒᶠ ʸᵉᵃʳ ᵒˡᵈ ᶠᵒʳᵉʳᵘⁿⁿᵉʳ ᵃʳᵗⁱᶠᵃᶜᵗ ʰᵉ ʰᵃˢ ᵉᵛᵉʳ ˢᵉᵉⁿ. ᵍᵘⁿˢ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ˢʰᵒᵒᵗ ᵒⁿᵉ ᵇᵘˡˡᵉᵗ ᵃᵗ ᵃ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ. ʷᵃᵍᵒⁿˢ ᵖᵘˡˡᵉᵈ ᵇʸ ᵃⁿⁱᵐᵃˡˢ. t̳a̳k̳i̳n̳g̳ ̳3̳ ̳m̳o̳n̳t̳h̳s̳ ̳t̳o̳ ̳g̳e̳t̳ ̳a̳ ̳f̳e̳w̳ ̳h̳u̳n̳d̳r̳e̳d̳ ̳m̳i̳l̳e̳s̳ ̳a̳w̳a̳y̳ ̳o̳n̳ ̳h̳o̳r̳s̳e̳ ̳b̳a̳c̳k̳.̳ ̳b̳i̳z̳a̳r̳r̳e̳. ʰᵒʷ ᶜᵒᵘˡᵈ ᶠᵒʳᵉʳᵘⁿⁿᵉʳˢ ᵉˣⁱˢᵗ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ ʷᵉᵃˡᵗʰ ᵒᶠ ᵏⁿᵒʷˡᵉᵈᵍᵉ ᵗʰᵒᵘˢᵃⁿᵈˢ ᵒᶠ ʸᵉᵃʳˢ ᵖʳⁱᵒʳ ᵗᵒ ᶜᵒʷᵇᵒʸˢ ʷʰᵒ ˡⁱᵛᵉᵈ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰⁱˢ ᵐᵃⁿⁿᵉʳ ? 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘬 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 300.
𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵. 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮 … ˢᵒᵐᵉᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ ᶜʰᵉᵉᵏʸ. ᵃˡʷᵃʸˢ. ᵗʰᵃᵗˢ ʰᵒʷ ˢʰᵉ ᵃˡʷᵃʸˢ ʷᵃˢ. ᵃⁿᵈ ⁱᵗ ᵒⁿˡʸ ʷᵃˢ ʷⁱᵗʰ ʰᵉʳ ᵈⁱᵈ ʰᵉ ᶠⁱⁿᵈ ʰⁱˢ ˢᵖᵉᵉᶜʰ ᵉᵃˢⁱᵉʳ ᵗᵒ ᵛᵒᶜᵃˡⁱᶻᵉ. ʰᵉ ᵃᵈᵐⁱᵗˢ ⁱᵗ - he̳ ̳l̳i̳k̳e̳d̳ ̳t̳a̳l̳k̳i̳n̳g̳ ̳o̳n̳l̳y̳ ̳w̳i̳t̳h̳ ̳h̳e̳r̳.̳ ̳a̳b̳o̳u̳t̳ ̳f̳r̳i̳v̳i̳l̳o̳u̳s̳ ̳t̳h̳i̳n̳g̳s̳ ̳a̳s̳ ̳w̳e̳l̳l̳.̳ ̳i̳t̳ ̳w̳a̳s̳ ̳f̳u̳n̳.̳
❝ oh, really. want to see me on one of those horses too ? ❞
“ well, aren’t you eager? don’t feel the need to hide behind indulging me, chief. we’ll get you that horse. ” it’s casual, the way her visuals ceaselessly pop up one after another to represent her words throughout the conversation; despite her ramblings it is very much still a conversation. it only turns comical when she’s stitched a clunky animation of her heavily-armored friend atop a horse—sized up, of course. a lasso animation may overdo it, but she submits anyway—it’s less about selling him on the idea and more to pass the time. to tease and cut loose; feeding into the imaginary western tune. something (perhaps the endless algorithms and knowledge at her disposal) tells her the horses accompanying those of the older times wouldn’t be as well acquainted with the usual spartan physique. or chief’s personal fashion sense. she wouldn’t want to push the poor animals either, so it’s best to keep this fantasy purely hypothetical.
a projection of herself sprouts upward, decorated in blue buckskin and tassels, leaned up against a beaten barrel. just to set the mood. “ we’d have to get one specially made just for you. ” various breeds of horses begin to display in a list, a handful that were fundamentally ill-suited for him disappear without a second to register by anyone beside cortana, as others climb up the ladder to fill the vacancies. she’s tweaked the numbers and even still there's not many options they’d realistically be able to choose from. sturdy draft horses are almost all that remain consistently at the top. a moment passes before an identical list appears, though it’s clearly more generous in its consideration of the horses, relying more on aesthetics than genuine possibility of riding one. “ and if you get one, i should get one. ”
@cosmikal, diana: you have quite a reputation for causing problems.
“ i could say the same about you. ” sure, from her point of view (all high and mighty and righteous) selina can see where the wonder woman might get her perspective. a greedy alley cat getting her kicks out of rattling the silver spoon lodged in illustrious throats. the truth is a bit more nuanced than these self-proclaimed do-gooders care to admit and when they're wasting more time pulling her tail than anything else, that much becomes rather obvious. there's a cause for this crime. bad reputations are born in this city, its living essence something unexplainable and inevitable—shoving its people to choose between drowning in its filth or using each other as springboards, a final gasp of air before the city pulls them under completely. people living lofty enough to avoid such a truth are the ones perpetuating it, growing territorial toward what's not even theirs. and when you're someone who stands out from gotham's shadows, well, that's as much of a tell as anything. “ —guess we run in different circles. ”
@enfaith, phoenix: quiet works for me.
“ good. ” a curt, defining word that succinctly swallows them in silence. the mission had been messy but successful nonetheless—a triumph that isn't really a victory but rather a different kind of impasse. they’ve stalled another week or two, a month tops. at first yoru was here to use the protocol’s resources, he had his target and they had theirs, but he supposes it’s not a surprise kingdom had its hands everywhere it could. secrets were yanked out of their shadows while goals began to align with others and staying where brimstone can see him turned out to be convenient more often than not. his eyes shut then, feeling the swell of a bruise on his cheek from the butt of a guardian. it’s been getting more disorientating shifting dimensions, maybe he’s overdoing it—but before he can think too much on of his own issues it shifts to phoenix, wondering if the flames feel the same way. the thoughts sink him further back, to the dry air of rabat and the shots ringing loud through the corridors. a blaze of a person disappearing into nothing, a figure of momentary invincibility and the next time yoru sees him he’s half carried by breach with his clothes covered in sand and blood.
a team is a constant trust fall, relying on them to watch what you can’t see. respond to what you can’t hear. the unforgiving earth isn’t meant to be felt with a team, which makes the drop twice as brutal when they inevitably fall through. the door to the med-bay swings open to allow killjoy through, leaving them alone but no longer in silence with the quick words that shoot out of his mouth. “ don’t ask anyone to watch you again. i’ll do it. ”
@yuanwang / sanguinet said: sometimes i’ll start a sentence and i don’t even know where it’s going. i just hope i find it along the way.
“ think that just means you’re kinda dumb, sanger, ” shoresy’s tone does not change, even when he shifts his focus towards his coach, speaking about as matter-of-factly as he possibly could, lumber still in hand, bucket held under his arm. “ ’s not a bad thing though, bud, swear. pretty sure jj still has trouble countin’ to seven, and fuck, michaels couldn't tell a puck from a double-stuffed shower waffle. ” he continues on, relentless in his verbal assault, same cadence, no actual impact to any of his words, despite the bite being more than obvious, before a cheeky smirk seemingly finds its way upon his features, quickly leaning across the bench. “ so t’me, yer still kinda the banting of the whole operation— doesn’t mean much, but it sure as shit counts for somethin’! ”
sanguinet pivots his attention from the general company of the team to just shoresy in the same amount of time it takes the captain to pull his arm back, aim, and toss a narrow needle into the dead-red center of the figurative dartboard of his character. in quick succession he does the same to whoever leaves themselves open: jj and michaels ultimately make the easiest targets and sanguinet can’t really find the fault in that. his head inclines back at the onrush of shoresy's words, experienced with it enough to hear him out and make room for a point at the end of his chirping, it's delayed but he's rewarded all the same with the way his pride swells— just a tad. his feet shuffle in a stance wider than it was, and the mouth he's had slacked open curves slowly to reveal his front row teeth. “ yeah? hey, thanks a lot, my man. ” his hand leaves his side to pat on shoresy's shoulder pads, quick and thankful. “ couldn’t do it without ya, y'know? ”
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@greatfailure, jason todd ; ❝ you know, for all the sense of dread and horror seeping through this place, i really feel quite at home here. ❞
“ that's being gotham-born for you. ” with those words she still hesitates to step forward, lunging a boot over a rotten piece of wood that’d surely sink her into god knows what that's resting beneath the floorboards. call it trepidation, but it’s more accurate to call it familiarity. zatanna’s been down this road plenty—well, hallway—and there’s more of a chance the ground will eat you up at the first opportunity and spit you out in a place where the skies the ocean than maintain its menial purpose of being a place to walk. knowing to be on her toes proves her point though: this is home. not in a warm, comforting way despite the haunting atmosphere like shadowcrest. but a belonging, cognizant way. this is where she’s supposed to be, diving head first in what she hopes (but evidently does not believe) to be an innocent, excessively long hallway after her lead. “ say the word and i'll have you pull some extra weight in the supernatural more often. ”
@gonchayas, konstantin akhmetov ; you have your anger, and i have mine.
“ yet it’s only one of our rages that's bleeding out on the floor. ” and for a moment they return to their usual silence, accompanied by half-lidden staring. whether on purpose or not, alucard’s peculiarity of staring instead of speaking may come off as a pass of judgment to most around him (which, in most cases, was the point). hence the hounds previous words, surely. if he were a few thousand years younger there’d be pity offered too, though it’d be of better use to the—now—corpse on the floor. whatever excuses, pleas, or bribes they planned to weep in exchange for their life was drowned out by the sound of gargled blood while they tried to keep the remaining flesh of their neck intact. all which proved futile in the end. even if alucard was not present he’s sure the encounter would end much the same. which may be what irks him the most... it’s not as if the son of dracula appears to the land of the living once more to simply stretch his legs, there’d been enough reason to travel here and it was hardly humored. “ you do know what a lead is, don’t you? ”
@yuanwang / dina said: want to take me out to dinner?
“of course,” what slips past the girl’s lips is said matter-of-factly, perhaps spoken without prior consideration of what such a blatant admission of truth might sound like to dina, who, all things considered, was nothing other than just another friend amongst the many. ellie bites her tongue, however, and with a harsh intake of breath, she mentally chastises herself for the blunder. [if a thought bubble could somehow manifest itself above her head, it would say something along the lines of: fuck, i’m such an idiot.] “i mean, it’s what we’re out here to do, right?” her obviously awkward reply drips with a ham-fisted attempt at sarcasm, a haphazard remedy and diversion of the main topic of her question.
her hands mess with the frayed knot on the strings of her hoodie, as a way to keep her mind occupied with something other than thinking about how she was going to royally screw this up as well. “dim lights, me and you, the moss on the wall… hell, if it wasn’t for how damp this place is, i’d say we were just about to get seated.” she laughs an awkward little chuckle, nudging her partner, and looking ahead. seattle’s gloomy weather was bringing them down— emotionally, and physically. dina was right, canvas shoes fucking sucked in situations like these. “table four, my laaaady.” a mocking french (or at least what she thought sounded french) accent, and an overdramatic wave of her hand soon followed, leading her through another muck-filled room of the complex they were trying to traverse.
soft surprise paints dina’s features, overshadowed by an even stronger display of admiration at the other girl's quick response to her wittiness, rather than simply turning away with an incredulous shake of her head. but, before she can fully appreciate the clear light that shines green, ellie’s eyes seem to dull once more, disappearing again to somewhere she can't really see. dina’s not one to feel entitled to people's thoughts, despite her probing, so she lets ellie retreat in whatever way she wants to while she herself aimlessly checks the faded posters and advertisements on the wall. jesse always seemed to say she's got this energy that makes it easy for people to tell her things, but now she's sure he was just pulling compliments out his ass to have her share of taffy. go figure.
“ the deal breaker is the dampness? ” she jokes, second nature, and goes to find ellie’s eyes again as if it's her first, “ you know a lot about what it takes to set the mood. you take just about anyone here? ” there’s a smugness that never seems to leave her, contrary to her words of faux insecurity, and it’s shown even more at the overt display of upscale mannerisms from the other. after all, dina knows how to play the part of the lavish and beautiful exceptionally well, “ i hope you don’t expect me to split the bill. ” with a curtsy that's missing half its essentials she moves forward, promptly deciding to sit atop the nearest counter to allow ellie the brunt of scavenging for their fine dining. surely chivalry won't die here, in the filth and grime...
@almadael, trevor belmont ; ❝ oh no. you’re going to talk your wild nonsense again. ❞
the book in her hands, small in size compared to the vast quantity of other scripts scattered about, was immeasurable in the contents. if the untidy cacography was anything to go by. who would scrawl out their words and theories so hurriedly if they weren’t ensuring this sensitive material reached its appropriate audience? once again she questions the practicality of her ancestors… leather and pages were the only thing separating the two faces from meeting as she relied on his own eyes to do the work of discerning the cover. which, obviously, would lead to him connecting the dots of their self prescribed errand. one would only hope. how ridiculous it was to expect anything but snark out of a belmont's brain. her mistake.
“ as opposed to drunken nonsense? or maybe we'd rather hear your drool hit the floor when you find out there are no drawings to keep your attention? ” annoyance displays itself in a single brow and routinely quirked lip, shoving the book downwards to her side as she barks back. oh, how long has it been since they started their journey? how long until all the screws in her head lose their fitting and fall out? prolonged exposure to a belmont is detrimental to one’s healthy mind; noted. perhaps it warrants slapping a warning on his forehead lest anyone else’s patience thins to a point where the wind carries it.
“ ...this seems to hold much more than 'fanciful tales and theories'. ” she thumbs the pages open, finding a spot in the middle that shows she’s already indulged far more than one would need to in order to correctly identify the book. “ i don’t see the harm in reading before we return it. ”
@yuanwang / starter call.
calm. the sort of calm that could have thrown a monk into utter unease. the calm right before the storm— brewing within the man’s chest, clattering at his ribcage, and despite his apparently calm surface, deep within laid a turmoil very few could withstand. it is only then that he is approached by a friend, confidant, and ally. “yuna.” jin speaks, and his voice is soft, soothing: a ruse to hide the tempest that was gathering in his soul. with an attack on the horizon, the ghost needed the strength to face it, head on. for his country. for his people. to protect, and to do what he couldn’t have otherwise done as jin sakai. “coming to keep me company, or deliver more bad news?” an attempt at relieving himself of some of that weight, his mouth twitching into the semblance of a smile.
“come, sit.”
“ jin. ” she mirrors. a sense of security, a grounding of oneself inside the vowels of their names. akin to a flat stone skipped across the still water, the disruption a testimony to life and its perseverance. in the midst of war stillness has a new meaning. “ no. the people have settled. a few volunteers are watching from uphill, they will tell you the bad news when it comes. ” because it will. misfortune will rear its head again, inevitably. for now, though, she obliges. acquaints herself with the stillness of the man and his offerings. she studies his face brazenly, shifting a single knee upward when she’s finally sat. like many things in life, yuna never strikes head on, opting for a quieter approach in her detection.
“ because of you they can do things with less fear… perhaps if you ask nicely they’ll write a song about you. ”
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@yuanwang / josephine choi said: with all you've seen, do you ever get scared?
“scared?” it’s a question that had never truly crossed his mind. it comes as a surprise, to august, especially coming from someone like miss choi. what she passed off as nothing more than a snide comment translates into real concern— he reads it between the lines, the crooked edges of her lips curling downwards into a twitchy frown for what feels like a split second, a moment, fleeting enough to have anyone else unaccustomed to her features miss it. it earns her a smile of his own, a small one twisting at his visage, as his eyes scanned the road ahead. it wasn’t going to be long until they reached their destination. “scared of what, exactly?”
the muted sound of the rain hitting his truck’s windshield is soothing, a smooth leitmotif to their car ride. outside, a gray visual overture played, composed of rural homes and vast, deserted plots of land. grim, bleak, and overall, nothing worth remembering. the perfect getaway from what waited for him in places one could consider more… civilized. “death? you might have to be a little more specific there.” he knew what she meant. and no, fear wasn’t part of his vocabulary, not as far back as he remembered. extracted from his very being, to avoid any sort of failure, and shave away any possibility of hesitation from his part. killers like him had no need to be afraid. only dead men shook when faced with the inevitable. “or you can do me a favor, and lean back. sleep. you’ve been awake for two days already.”
“ don’t give me that. ” she squints, eyes him from her peripheral. she’s displeased. he’s sparing her the reminder he’s not like her, not like most people. she understands that as much as she can. elbow propped up on the passenger door she tries to take in the dull lifestyle of the land in the lapses of her stare into the side mirror. the rain was soft in its intensity, gently pelting downward despite its want to drown everything out. not wishing harm, just consumption. “ i’m not the type of person to sleep in cars... ”
it’s still worth it to both of them to respond reticently with each other. even now when it’s alarmingly clear, with her allowing him to drive her miles out to an agrestic corner of the world, that there's something deeply ingrained between them that's too obstinate to be yanked out now. its yearning is quiet but not any less ferocious, flares up when it’s most needed. like… when he approached her for the first time since the burn notice. or after the ringing finally clears from her ears. or…
“ of anything? ” she circles back. josephine’s scared of the violence. more of what comes from it. what ends it. before, josephine could never abide being near so much of it, then she walked herself neck-deep in it, sinking. stayed despite herself. she discovered something warmer there, too. gentle despite itself. “ ...i don’t like worms. ”
“ catch. ” the bag is thrown directly at his head with little preamble or warning, uncaring of whether or not it startles him. there’s an edge in their voice and a stiffness in their shoulders when they approach, all tell-tale signs of irritation, but they do well in making sure it doesn’t bleed into their expression. last thing they need is something to be pissed off about all evening.
“ took the liberty of getting you new picks since mine have been going missing. wonder who it could’ve been. ” he throws his jacket over his shoulders and lets his mask hang loosely in his grasp, free hand resting at his hip. eyes flicker to the plastic bag in his lap, then back to the other’s gaze. “ that being said, be mindful of what you throw away. my bass picks aren’t yours to co-opt. ”
FOR @YUANWANG’S SODO. FROM STARTER CALL, STILL ACCEPTING.
there’s a sudden recoil backwards at the knowing signs of a winding arm in his peripheral, and the ghoul swiftly abandons the table he's been idly carving to dodge whatever the hell it was this time. the bag still stumbles on his shoulder, tumbling unceremoniously into his lap; the sound of little plastic parts rustling tells the ghoul everything he needs to know: he's been caught red-handed. yet— “ …s’definitely a mystery. ” that doesn’t mean he has to admit to anything, not right away at least, “ maybe the walls have eyes and mouths. ” wouldn’t that be neat? and also wildly convenient.
the water ghoul seems sure of himself already, almost as much as they seem wound up, bringing the blaze no satisfaction of twisting the narrative. especially since he was right on the money ( fire'll spread to another button, then ). he has been swiping, but surely providing for the needy was expected here, no? his hands maneuver the soft rope that ties the bag closed, cramming his index and middle fingers to snag a pick that seems to resemble both rain's generosity and their lack thereof. he subjects the guitar pick to his scrutiny, peers at it for any impurities he can criticize, but alas, it's just a pick, as the rest of them were. it’s cheap and in abundance, definitely not worth the fuss. “ don’t be so stingy. you could learn a thing or two about sharing. or is it just because it’s me? ”
